Page 23 of Property of Saint

Tempest tosses a glare at him to show annoyance at the interjection and then laughs. “Prospect may have a point.”

I’m almost proud of Pippa at that moment for the look she shoots at the sergeant-at-arms. While it doesn’t work on him, I suspect it would have most people cowering. Interested in her story, I probe, “What happened to you?”

Her look toward me is grateful, as if it’s broken the tension. “Dad didn’t die in the line of duty. He wasn’t military, so when their bodies were shipped back to the States, they were buried in the local cemetery. Local, that is, to the aunt who was going to look after me.” She pauses as if we can’t add two and twotogether. “In a small town near the border, that’s where I was visiting today.

“I was taken in by my aunt, who was my mom’s much older sister. She was married, but she and her husband had been adamant from the start that they didn’t want kids of their own. Not prepared for motherhood, she didn’t know how to cope with a two-year-old child and wasn’t much bothered about learning.” She glances up and looks around. “They weren’t bad people,” she states with emphasis. “They were both scientists and excelled in their fields, but just didn’t know much about child rearing. I wasn’t abused, but the only kindness I was shown was when I excelled at anything.” Breaking off, she bites her lips. “Of course, I didn’t know at the time, but now I’d say they were high-functioning autistics. I wasn’t made to feel unwanted, but I wasn’t loved. I longed for the praise when I did something they’d understand, like getting high grades. It wasn’t a home I could bring my friends home to, and I certainly didn’t learn social skills from my uncle or aunt. I spent most of my time studying.

“I got a four on my GPA when I was just sixteen, went to university early, where, again, I didn’t fit in. I’d decided by then to honour my dad by emulating his achievements, so I studied Criminal Justice. I got my degree and then continued with my masters.”

Paint seems very interested in this conversation. “You obviously got into the secret service. What does it take to join?”

“You thinking of a new career?” Freak quips, getting the whole table snorting, or outright belly laughing. Freak bends over and chokes. I slap his back just to be helpful. Okay, so maybe a little harder than necessary.

Pippa’s lips curve. “I don’t think you’d pass the security checks.”

“Never been in prison,” the tail gunner responds indignantly.

She laughs. “It’s more than that. It’s proving your background is squeaky clean, no political affiliations, no joining in protests, no consorting with criminals. It’s strict, but eventually I got the highest-level clearance.”

Tempest bangs his hand on the table. “Fuck, woman, it sounds like you’ve never had fun in your whole life.”

And ain’t that one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard? Leaning back on my chair, I consider how I was brought up. Dirt poor, but my friends and I knew how to enjoy ourselves. Sure, some of our antics flew close to the wind, and we were lucky none of us ever got locked up. Got a caution or two from the cops, a clip around the ear from my mom, a beating on my ass from my dad. I might have had an empty stomach at times, but my days were filled with jokes, laughter, and good times.

Even in the Army, I enjoyed the camaraderie. So much so that when I left, I found a bunch of men to call brothers. Pippa’s life seems to have been all studying and striving to be the best she could be. It makes me wonder what she’d be like if she could let her hair down.

Words clears his throat. I spin around to look at him. It’s not often he speaks. “However, your aunt and uncle brought you up. They’re going to be fuckin’ devastated to hear you’re ’dead’.” He uses air quotes. “Sorry about that, babe.” And damn it, he’s got a point. And he’s got up close and personal experience with grief and loss, due to his job in the mortuary.

Wondering whether he should have kept quiet, I twist my head back to the woman by my side, noticing she’s not looking as distressed as I’d anticipated.

Her explanation cuts me to the core. “My aunt got breast cancer. Didn’t bother to go to a doctor until it was far too late. She died five years ago. My uncle? Well, he only lasted a year without her before he put a gun to his head and ate a bullet.”

Silence stretches out, and it’s I who breaks it. “No other relatives?”

“None,” she confirms. Then huffs a mirthless laugh. “My funeral won’t be well attended.”

“No friends?” Freak blurts out.

Again, her shoulders rise and fall, and she answers self-deprecatingly, “I concentrated so hard on making good grades that I didn’t make friends in school.” She frowns, then adds, “I guess I never discovered how to connect with anyone on a deep personal level. Sure, I’ve acquaintances, but probably no one who’d miss me much.”

And how fucking sad is that?

CHAPTER TWELVE

PHILLIPA

“No boyfriends?” Rattler asks. “You a fuckin’ virgin?”

After rolling my eyes at his too personal question, I turn my head toward him and counter, “Are you?”

He rears back. “What the fuck you talking about?”

Again, shrugging, I fire back, “Takes one to know one.”

Looking a bit like a virgin who’s been approached by a rake, Rattler goes red in the face, then slams his hand down. “Of course I’m not.” He glances around. “Any man around this table would vouch for that.”

Quick as a flash, I snap back, “That’s fine with me. I’m not homophobic, I’ll be making no judgement.”

There’s a second of silence, then denials come from all around, and Rattler’s voice is clearest. “I ain’t into men.”

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