Saint And Sinners (57 page)

“I’m not certain, Saint. My guess is he may recall, but there is nothing he can do
about that. We cannot rewrite our past, only learn from it, so we can improve our
future.”

Saint nodded in understanding. “He helped me though, man.”

“That’s great news. It’s what I wanted for you.”

Saint grew suddenly quiet, loath to speak much anymore. He was emotionally exhausted.
The encounter left him feeling immensely drained, as if he’d just done a thousand
consecutive push-ups.

“Are you famished yet? I bet you are after such an ordeal. I believe dinner is ready.
Donna sent me a text message.” He chuckled as he held up his phone then nodded towards
the kitchen.

“I’m absolutely starving,” Saint said, smiling.

They both got to their feet. As they headed towards the kitchen, Lawrence suddenly
paused and turned to Saint. He grabbed his arm.

“We all have pain from our pasts. Some of us more than others. Use that pain to help
people who are hurting. You have a knack for that.”

Saint nodded, looked down at the ground then back up at Lawrence.

“Yes, I can see that. I found out something rather disturbing tonight, too. Something
that shows me how everyone around me seemed to know who I was, except me. I keep having
this happen, and the frustration never dissipates. Lawrence, I’ve had people trying
to kill me since I was a little boy… and now I know my child may experience the same
thing. For the first time in my life, I can see why my father didn’t want to risk
having a child like me. It’s like he might have even known what I would be, like maybe,
as fucked up as he was to me, he wanted to spare me that pain.”

Lawrence put his hand on his shoulder and smiled. “…But look at you now and all that
you’ve done and the love you’ve been blessed to experience. I don’t know your father’s
motivations, and it doesn’t matter. You’re here, you’re loved, and you’re appreciated…”

*

“I
’m sure it
is,” Traci grimaced as she clung to the phone, unintentionally forcing the receiver
into her ear. She twisted the chord so much, it would take pliers to unravel the thing.
Her new job as Director of Social Services at Light House International for the visually
handicapped was going rather well. Her pay practically doubled after the move to Manhattan,
but unfortunately, so did her gut. She rubbed the bubbling thing, fearful she had
a belly full of painful gas. She shrugged off the discomfort as possible ‘new job’
jitters, but there was one other issue…she was late.

She’d had it happen before, this was nothing unusual, but the thought it could be
something more remained persistent in her mind.

“Yes…I understand.”

She ran her fingers across her forehead, feeling the clamminess of her skin, more
evidence of her breaking out into a cold sweat, which paired quite wonderfully with
her throbbing headache. She gripped the thin, absinthe-hued fabric of her skirt, balling
it up in her fist as if it were all she had left to hold on to in the entire world.
Then she looked up at the ceiling, seeing two of everything.

Oh God…

“Uh huh… I tell you what, Mr. Davis. I will look into it and call you back within
the hour, okay?” Much to her surprise, the typically grumpy client agreed to her offer
so she was free to toss her cares aside and make a mad dash to the ladies room. She
burst into an open stall and fell to her knees, trying to understand why her skin
felt cold and searing at the same damn time. She gripped the egret bowl with both
hands, her knuckles tight as she struggled to ignore the amber splotches that dotted
the thing, no longer caring about the invisible germs she surely now had on her palms.

“Uhhh!” She grunted as her lunch of shrimp scampi came up her throat like a warm,
slow crawl of sludge and exited her mouth as if it had never been chewed or digested
in the first damn place. Traci wretched in pain, feeling yet another pang jump up
and down on her twisting intestines then intensify, focusing now on the center of
her tormented gut like the midpoint of a tornado. Sighing, she sluggishly swiped the
back of her hand across her lips while attempting to gulp air and breathe again. An
unfamiliar voice, soft and polite, came from right outside the locked stall.

“Not sure who is in there, but are you okay?”

Looking over her shoulder, using all the energy she could muster, she was met by a
pair of cranberry heels with small, rhinestone buckles. Traci hesitated, hardly able
to respond, then pulled herself together and stood on her high heels, bracing herself
against the chalk white wall, lest she tumble back onto the butterscotch floor.

“…I believe so, thank you. I think my lunch made me sick. I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Been there,” the stranger said, following her words with a slight chuckle upon entering
the adjoining stall.

Traci tore off a piece of the one-ply toilet paper, dabbed at the sides of her mouth,
and exited the compartment. She stood at the sink and vigorously washed her hands
as she stared into her bloodshot eyes. She almost didn’t recognize herself. Had something
crawled inside of her body to steal all of her good looks, then tossed them somewhere
marked, ‘Whereabouts Unknown’?

“Oh God…” she murmured as she ripped off a brown paper towel, dried her fingers, and
tossed it in the trash receptacle.

She left the restroom and returned to her office, soaking in her vexing deliberations.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this…but…shit! I need to pick up a pregnancy test after
work. But we just moved here. Damn it. This can’t be happening… No, I’m just late
and not feeling well is all. It was the move, the new job, everything. That’s all.
No need to jump to conclusions.

She slammed her fist on the desk, not particularly comfortable with the notion she
could be…
No. It can’t be. But I eat that scampi all the time. I love it so much; I’ve had it
three times from that place now. Why would I get sick this time around?

Shaking her head, she got back to work, made a few business calls to take her mind
off of the whole ordeal. And feeling grateful that, at least for the time being, she
felt better.

If I am pregnant, how the hell is Jagger going to take this???

*

It had been
a while since Saint had been on L.A. soil. Actually, it hadn’t been that long at
all, but it felt like an eternity. The last couple of times he visited, it had been
for only one day. This time, he had to stay much longer, get some loose ends tied
up. Approximately forty percent of the men he’d offered a relocation package to had
accepted it. Now, a hiring process would commence, but cloaked under the highest level
of security. He was pleased with the notion of bringing in new blood. Such a thing
had a way of setting a robust flame to an already blazing fire. He pulled into his
old parking spot that no one dared to call dibs on in his absence. According to George,
it was still
his
spot and always would be, regardless. He walked into the place, elated to discover
not a damn thing had changed.

An important meeting on his agenda pertained to a case in Maine where a Rainbeau and
his wife were celebrating their tenth year anniversary, only to return home and find
it up in flames after several months of harassment from an extremist group. The Rainbeau
in question was high profile due to his public occupation, but wished for his private
life to remain just that—private. Thus, they were handling it with tender, confidential
care. After the meeting, Saint sat in his old office and barely recognized the place.
His shoulders dropped as he realized his earlier observations were incorrect. Things
had in fact changed, but it was just one space. His own. All of his décor had been
packed away and sent to New York; even the smell of the place seemed alien. Once filled
with the aromas of cigar smoke intermingled with incense, the space now felt sterile,
light and airy. Plain. Boring. So not his style. A desk sat there that he didn’t recognize.
He’d had his wooden afro maiden shipped to New York as well. No way could he have
parted ways with her.

He sat at the boring thing before him. Though made of lustrous cherry wood and deep
drawers, he eyed it like he was looking at a cheap knock-off. Granted, it was a well-put
together piece of furniture, created by a true craftsman no doubt, but there was no
comparison. Too bad, it would simply have to do.

He set to typing on his computer, when a thought suddenly hit him. The situation with
Koki was complicated, no easy task. He needed all the help he could muster. Additional
sets of eyes in all the right places had proved to not only be helpful in past ventures,
but could be lifesaving. He snatched his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled
through the contacts until he found the name he sought…

Officer Roman Elysio.

“Hello?” came a deep voice on the other end and the sounds of outside traffic in the
background.

“Hey, Roman. It’s Saint Aknaten. I hope you remember me. How are you doing?”

“How could I forget you?” The man laughed smoothly as the external noises subsided.
Saint assumed he’d stepped inside a building to get away from the ruckus. “How has
been New York been treatin’ you?”

“Pretty damn good, man…can’t complain. Look, uh, Roman, I didn’t call to make small
talk, so I’ll get right to it. Do you have time to converse? I’d like to speak to
you privately, but of course, you may be at work right now so—”

“I’ll be off in an hour. I take it you need to speak to me about something important?”

“Yes. Can you meet me at the Tiki-Ti Bar on Sunset Boulevard?” Saint glanced outside
his window and watched the traffic going past on the expressway.

“That’s one of my favorite places to get a great drink!” Roman laughed.

“Mine, too.” Saint’s lips curled in a mischievous smile. “I miss it…anyway, meet over
there if you don’t mind, and drinks are on me.”

“You’ve got it. See you in about an hour and a half, if that’s okay.”

“Perfect.”

Saint disconnected the call and snatched his suit jacket off the back of his chair.
He had important business to take care of, and if he had his way, his human arsenal
would increase…by one.

*