Page 13 of Penny for Your Saints

Behind Louise, I see Sébastien’s shoulders droop with relief—the conspicuously inconspicuous duffel bag Louise had entered the center with earlier in the morning slung across his chest.

Louise’s eyes, so vibrant cinnamon brown they’re almost red, like her hair—glare back at me with pure hatred as they glaze with the telltale haze of artificial slumber.

"Grab her before her head hits the floor!" I shout at Sébastien as she begins to lurch backward.

Caz lets out a strangled squeak, lunging to spot Sébastien as Louise begins to fall in earnest.

Between the two of them, they lift her dead weight ungracefully—hefting her rag doll limp body clumsily through the open fire escape door as Quentin howls into view on screaming rubber tires.

“Move it Q!” Caz shouts, hurrying the wounded Quentin out of the driver's seat as Seb and I negotiate the unconscious Louise into the back of the van—Caz hopping into the newly vacated driver’s seat as soon as he can.

“Alright boys—not the cleanest job, but let’s motor!” I bark, and Caz obliges, doing his best not to peel out of the lot as we make our escape.

Iwake to the sound of old steam heat radiators clanging loudly—their thunderous clatter dampened slightly by the dense clutter that crowds the small room I’m in.

My eyes, lids still heavy and vision clouded by the dregs of the heavy duty tranquilizer I was shot with earlier; struggle to adjust to the dim kaleidoscopic lights that paint the room.

I’ve been laid across a half-disintegrated sofa—a threadbare quilt tossed over me; my left wrist handcuffed to the feeder pipe of the radiator clunking angrily less than a foot away from my head. I flex my hand, my fingers stiff, but no pins-and-needles from lack of blood flow.

My tongue feels dry and dusty like a salt flat, my lips cracking painfully as I manage to open my mouth—which still feels as if it belongs to a stranger, my jaw not quite working in time with my brain’s commands.

Scanning the room, there’s simultaneously a great deal and nothing at all to see. Colorful overlapping rugs cover an ailing, ancient hardwood floor—bits of soundproofing foam, corrugated cardboard laden with decoupage, mismatchingposters ,and long empty record liners cover the walls. The large bank of windows on the far side of the room have almost all been papered over with yellowing newsprint; only a few panes here and there open to the night, letting the soft blue light filter in through the open panes.

Movement catches my eye. And my gaze falls to the hammock by the doorway; the fabric swaying as a body emerges from the taut fabric—the gunman from the hallwayI exchanged blows with earlier wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Good evening,Chère,”he yawns, nodding lazily in my direction before traipsing to the door and swinging it wide.

“Hey, boys. It looks like our Sleeping Beauty has awoken,” he calls to the others, lit in the greasy wedge of yellow light from the hall.

There’s a distant commotion, and the sound of footfalls as the rest of my captors make their way towards us.

Now that I can get a good look at him, I'm surprised that I was able to handle him in the hall. He's gotta be at least six foot three and built like a damn bear; with those ceiling beam arms, thighs, and a soft dad-bod tummy.

I see the bruise, deep blue and purple, high on his bronze cheekbone, and realize vaguely that I must have given him that earlier.

“So how was the nap?” he asks, not quite a taunt. His heavily tattooed hands with their matte black polish crawl over his zip up hoodie—moth eaten and full of holes—sleepily dipping into one of the half-unstitched pockets for a beaten-up pack of cigarettes and a plastic bic lighter.

It’s not easy to sit upright, but I manage it—left wrist dangling over the arm of the sofa so that I don’t put tension on the hand cuffs or myself. My throat struggles to work itself, no saliva to swallow down—my voice a shriveled husk of its normal tone as I force the sound through my parched vocal folds.

“Water,” I croak desperately. The feathered dry skin of my lips underlining my urgency.

“Hey, Cazzy—bring our guest some water, eh?” My recently woken captor leans backward out of the lit doorway to call down the hall, lounging against the door frame as he places a cigarette between his lips and spins the spark wheel backward with a faint rhythmic clicking—his glacial blue eyes still fixed on me.

“Did you sleep well?” he baits me, his full lips quirking in a cruel smirk.

I don’t say anything, just glare back at him for a dramatic beat before hazarding a glance out of one of the rare, unpapered panes of window.

Tracks of rainwater, bright colorful reflections of neon and LED signs dance in the disjointed squares of glass. We are no longer in the DC area… if I had to make a guess. I’m not sure how long I’ve been unconscious, but the hot water radiators and wintry rawness to the air make me think NYC is most likely.

“Goodness, she looks like death warmed over—you may need more than water to fix that.” The posh British accent snaps my attention back to the doorway. A man with well coiffed copper brown hair and vibrant chartreuse eyes leans on the door frame, the top of his head just barely grazing the lintel.

I recognize his hulking frame—even if the face and the hair have changed since our tangle in the massage suite. Vaguely, I remember seeing his face—prosthetic nose peeling away from his finely sculpted visage; the fine mesh of the lace-front coming unglued from his sweaty forehead as he threw the ‘Hans’ nametag out the window of a panel van.

Buzz-cut, absolutely-not-a-caterer, blond boy bursts through the two meatheads in the doorway—a chipped mug that reads “World’s #1 Poodle Mom” in flaking pink glitter paint clutched in his extended hand.

I snatch the cup greedily from his hands—forcing myself to take the sweet, cold water in small sips instead of gulping it down like I want to. Well, if there was any doubt, that shockingly refreshing swig of tap water sealed the deal—we’re somewhere in the Big Apple.

“Hoo boy Q, you really weren’t kidding—” that familiar accent, simultaneously comforting in its immediate feeling of home, and jarring in its Pavlovian association with me getting shot with a tranq gun earlier.

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