Page 43 of Saint's Sinner

By then there was only groaning, the occasional curse, and harsh gasps from the kid, who stood doubled over, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Hey mister, you okay?” the kid rasped out in-between ragged inhales.

“Thanks to you,” Saint managed as he shoved the guy he’d choked off his legs and lay staring up at the sky.

“One of them took off towards your bike,” the kid said.

“Fuck!” Saint growled, shoving himself to his feet and shaking his head enough to clear it a little. It took a moment for him to orient himself, and spot his jacket, which he retrieved before he tore off as fast as he could manage. Had it not been for all the busted glass he’d have parked his machine closer, but at the time he’d been more worried about popping a tire than someone trying to make off with his bike.

The kid hadn’t been wrong. Saint spotted one of the guys a few feet away from his baby and quickened his pace, plowing into him and spearing him into the dirt. It took several shots to the face before he stopped moving and by then Saint was beyond furious. The moment he was back on his feet he drove his boot into the man’s side, then stomped his hand until the tread of his heel was imbedded in the man’s flesh.

A quick glance back at where he’d left the kid showed he was headed in the other direction and with Saint’s weapon too. For a moment, he considered calling out to him, then decided it was a small price to pay for the help he’d been given.

Too small, really. He’d have to drop in at the gas station one night soon and make things all the way right.

After one last kick, this time to the head of the unconscious man, Saint mounted his bike and roared away from factory row, his aching back and side throbbing with every jolt they took. The streets hadn’t been repaved in forever. What the fuck were they paying taxes for? The potholes were getting so deep you could almost fish for bluegills in them. Another year and they’d easily rival the town swimming pool. All the way back he fumed, slamming into the clubhouse when he arrived and heading directly for the bar.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mark asked, even as he plunked a couple glasses on the bar and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

“Buncha tweakers thought I’d make an easy target,” Saint grumbled, downing the whiskey Mark slid his way in one go before holding the glass out for a refill.

“How many?”

“Five.”

Mark let out a long, low whistle. “Lookin’ pretty good for those kinds of odds.”

“That’s ‘cause I had help.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Night shift kid from the gas station.”

“Blue hair or the blond.”

“Blond.”

“Ahh, the quiet one,” Mark said. “Never can get a read off him.”

“Well, he was clutch today, that’s for sure,” Saint replied. “Shit popped off so fast things could have easily gone south, especially after I lost my weapon. Kid’s got it now.”

“That’s not the only thing you lost,” Mark replied as he pointed to a spot on Saint’s jacket.

Glancing down, Saint noticed only the remnants of ragged threads where his VP patch used to be.

“Son of a bitch!”

Fuming, Saint slammed his glass on the bar before he ran his fingers over the threads, nose wrinkling into a snarl even as Mark refilled it.

“I’ve got half a mind to head back out there and issue a second beatdown.”

“Don’t bother,” Mark said. “The way your luck is goin’ you’ll come back without your head next.”

“Fuckoff you,” Saint grumbled.

“Patches can be replaced,” Mark said. “You can’t. That old antenna of yours has served you well for a lot of years now, hopefully it does the same for the kid.”

Saint knew his brother spoke the truth, even if he wasn’t in the mood to accept it. “Kid picked it up and waded in like it was an everyday thing.”

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