Page 48 of Saint's Sinner

Night wished he could communicate withhissiblings without words or hand signals but there had never been that kind of closeness between them.

Mark stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out the kind of piercing whistle that made outsiders alternately duck and look up at the sky, searching for incoming munitions.

“You guys pack this mess up and take it to the rec room,” Mark instructed. “I want to see at least three different ideas spelled out before the end of the night, so don’t you fucks get distracted playing pool in there.”

Chair legs scrapped across the floor as people jumped to do as he said. All the while Saint stared at Night, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle along his cheek, a little to the left of a particularly spectacular bruise. He was pretty sure it was a sneaker that had made that one. Saint was scowling though, which left Night tense and waiting to hear the fate the pair would bestow upon him. Then Saint looked away, his eyes seeking someone among the members gathered. Night just hoped it wasn’t the Sargent-at-arms with orders to put him out of his misery. He decided to chance it and look, following the line of Saint’s gaze to see Sinn standing in the doorway between the bar and the makeshift garage.

“Sinn…with me, please.”

He wouldn’t have thought he could feel tenser, but those words made the back of his neck ache from how tight the muscles were coiled, only….

“Breathe.”

Night tore his gaze off Saint to see Mark watching him, his look gentle and compassionate which made it easy to do as he said and inhale deeply while his scattered thoughts struggled to pull themselves together into something cohesive. They’d want to hear everything, and he owed them that.

“Take a seat at the bar,” Mark instructed, prompting Night to move. He was shocked when Sinn took the chair next to his, rather than across like Saint and Mark did. Mark produced four old-fashioned glasses from beneath the bar and Saint added ice. The bottle he produced next was nothing Night recognized. Must have been part of his private stock then.

Damn it burned.

Throat. Nose hairs, it was like the alcohol crept into every orifice as it slithered towards his gullet where it yanked at his soul until every inch of him was enflamed. He hoped it was blood loss that had him feeling lightheaded seconds after it settled in his stomach, not some crazy high octane more suited for running an engine then consumption.

“I swear they do that just so your brain melts and you give up all your secrets,” Sinn murmured, his voice like Tennessee whiskey, smooth with a hint of smoke. His arm was pressed against Night’s, shoulder to wrist in an almost seamless line. There was something comforting about that, and the pleasant feeling that chased away the burn, oozing through him as it helped relax some of the tension.

“I’ve had enough of secrets,” Night murmured, sipping his refill slowly now that the first wave of haziness was beginning to tug at him.

“Good,” Saint said. “Because we don’t like secrets that involve one of our brothers getting hurt.”

“But I’m only a….” Night protested and was immediately interrupted.

“You were the moment we let you keep coming back,” Mark told him. “Prospecting is tradition, it’s a test of your will and determination, but that doesn’t mean you have to wait for a vote to be a brother. Now, talk to us and tell us what the fuck this is all about.”

“A…a job.”

“Okay, that sounds like a good enough starting point,” Saint prompted. “Keep going.”

“That’s not what I went home for. I was done with that life. I wanted to be done with them, but…not going back would lead to them looking for me, and that wasn’t something I wanted to bring to your doors.”

“I wondered if there was something more than proof of death that had you so motivated to go back there, especially with how rattled you were when you told me you had to go.”

“I couldn’t say no.”

“I can appreciate that,” Saint admitted. “What I can’t is you not telling me about that part when you told me about the rest.”

“Wasn’t your problem, was mine and I….”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Mark said. “Before you say something I’m sick of hearing, especially from you young guys. “Whoever put the idea in your heads that having a problem and needing to talk to someone about it equates to being a problem, needs to be sent to me for some corrective therapy. Yes. You need to know how to handle shit when it pops off, whether you are alone or not, but you also need to know when you are in over your head and ask someone to throw you a lifeline.”

“Yes, sir…I, I’d hoped there wouldn’t be a problem, but I should have known nothing about going home would be easy.”

“Why?” Mark asked swirling the ice and liquid in the bottom of his glass.

“My folks and some of my other relatives have been in and out of prison most of my life,” Night muttered. “Mostly robberies and home invasions, some stolen vehicles and stick-up jobs. Shit like that. A few of my cousins, and my brothers and I were raised by our grandfather and aunt, who um, didn’t exactly appreciate getting stuck with us. Gramps used to say that if it wasn’t for dealing with the god damned cops, he wouldn’t have minded being in lock up if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the likes of us.”

“And was he a part of the criminal enterprise or just stuck with the fallout?” Saint asked.

“Most times it was one of his plans going sideways that landed our kinfolk behind bars,” Night admitted. “Not that he’d ever admit that there was anything wrong with his scheme. He always insisted that someone executing the idea had fouled the whole thing up.”

“So, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that legit work wasn’t something you grew up knowing much about.”

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