Page 45 of Penny for Your Saints

“I think leaving the kid behind was probably the worst part of being ousted from my old position,” he grunts, turning his face away from me—though his hands still rest on my shoulders. “I’m sure he got over it, though.” He turns back to me—hands gripping the round of my shoulders as his steely blues pierce me. “New partner and all.” He gives me a wink—a sparkle of violence twinkling back at me—a reflection of my own wild, dangerous nature.

Suddenly I’m reminded of a horrible, dark and cold night out on a stakeout with Dennis; his sea glass eyes hollow and far away as he mentioned the “worst” day of his young career. With nearly twenty-four hours of sitting in the same ratty sedan under our belt—we had dipped into the ‘sacred and unhinged’ portion of the field-partner-discussion-program. Crazy exes and fraught childhood traumas passed hours ago—we had begun to exchange the most gory and disturbing highlights and lowlights of our professional careers.

“I lost my mentor, my original career path, two of the best men I’d ever worked with—my,” he trailed off just before the tears had taken over his usually calm and steady voice. I had always wondered what would have come next: brother, partner, lover?

It hits me like a ton of bricks: one of those “best men I’d ever worked with”—perhaps even the mysterious one he would not name, couldn’t bring himself to even describe… was Francis Stone.

I shrug out of Frank’s grip, his scent; styrax, red cedar, and gunpowder scratching at the surface of my burning rage—not quite able to break through to the building desire, the desperation of the heat rising beneath, and snap the guns Frank has given me into the holsters, fastening the under bust strap so that the rig fits snugly against my body, easily disappearing beneath the black nylon cropped bomber jacket I yanked from one of the paper department store bags.

Q, who has changed into fresh clothes and armed himself; a black button down and slacks. His own black leather shoulder holster suspenders frame his chest in a way that distractingly reminds me of those popped plastic pearl buttons from earlier this morning…

I shake off the sudden rush of heat across my cheeks—my thighs pressing together involuntarily as I remember locking Quentin inside me only a few hours ago—my mind flashing images of myself in various states of amorous entanglement with all the members of the Saints.

Bracing myself against the back of the ratty sofa, I gulp down a breath of air and close my eyes, tilting my head back and focusing on the weight of the guns at my ribcage—the way the black denim hugs my body, the smell of the plastic wig fibers battling with the scents of the Saints; my mind not quite able to perform the mental math to trace my trajectory from my capture to this moment of unprecedented trust, of freedom. Frank himself has put the guns in my hand—and at this very moment I could put each one of these bad dogs down without a second thought.

All of us fall into a bustling silence as we finish our preparations: the zippering of bags, buckling of belts, tying of bootlaces; the only sounds filling the small apartment.

I pull a pair of mirrored, bug-eye sunglasses from one of the paper shopping bags and use the reflection to apply a bit of the tinted lip balm Q picked up from the pharmacy to put some color in my wan cheeks and to temper the bloodless pallor of my lips after a week of shitty sleep and lack of proper food and water.

Around me, the Saints are in motion; Caz squirting lighter fluid into the small metal trash bin as Quentin and Frank empty the rest of the paper shopping bags into their duffels—slinging straps over their shoulders as Seb balls up the empty paper bags and tosses them into the metal bin. No one seems to be paying much attention to me, allowing me to prepare myself in my own way—without additional instruction or criticism.

They really trust me to turn on everything I’ve ever known after seeing Susan’s confession—the loaded guns are proof enough of that. Not just the guns, putting their lives quite literally in my hands—but the prospect of our escape to the woods to endure Quentin and I’s rapidly approaching heats, seems far too intimate—far too close after the last few days of me being drugged and dragged in chains from one safehouse ‘prison’ to another.

I run a hand over my lips. The memory of Caz and Quentin’s mouths on mine; the anticipation of Frank and Sébastien… of their kiss, their touch, their knots. I stop just short of allowing myself the thought of a bite, a bond.

“We’ve got company!” Seb sing-songs—his head pressed against the windowpane as he looks down to the sidewalk.

“There’s no way down if they’re already breaching.” Frank grins, pulling a mentholated toothpick from the breast pocket of his leather jacket—biting down on it as he reaches for the piece at his lower back, a hand already on the doorknob. “So,we’re gonna go up—and cross to the brownstone three buildings down; an old lady leaves the roof entrance open to get to her wash line.” He grins manically, flicking the safety off with his thumb. “Car’s out front,” Frank adds—tossing the keys to the stolen station wagon to Caz.

Caz catches the keys in a death grip, his gun still tucked into his lower back holster beneath his billowing layers—hoodie and threadbare flannel—his buzzed head covered with a black beanie, eyes obscured by large aviators with tinted yellow lenses.

“Seb, you stay mid-pack with Cazzy—I’ve got point, Q will buffer after you, and Lucifer will bring up the rear,” Frank continues to instruct—Seb’s hand already trawling through the messenger bag slung over his shoulder; a host of homemade bombs ready for the tossing, no doubt.

“Devil take the hindmost,” Seb grumbles under his breath, and Frank shoots him a dirty glare.

“Speak up Sébastien—I can’t hear you!” Frank growls.

“What if she makes a break for it? Or she puts a bullet in our skulls while we try to make our exit?” Seb challenges. Despite all the sweetness he’s shown me, it seems he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven me for scalding him with hot tea before choking him out. While I’ve surely sent his gamma body chemistry for a loop—he’s the only member of the Saints I haven’t made cum. Perhaps his frustration has finally boiled over—at the worst of times.

A dizzy wave, something like vertigo, passes over me as I sink deeper into the realization—I’ve been a pawn in someone else’s game for far too long.

Apawn,ha.

With all this talk of the Windmill, white knights, and red bishops—I feel even less significant than the lowliest piece—simply one of the black or white squares the pieces trod upon in order to wage their own endless war.

“What makes you think I want to get to the bottom of this—to fuck up these assholes who lied to me, ruined my life, and killed my fucking parents any less than you do?” I boom from behind my mirrored sunglasses, baring my teeth at Seb to remind him that I’m not some sniveling little omega or beta girl he can order around. If I bark—it’ll be as bad as my bite.

Sébastien seems to find this satisfactory because he gives me a curt nod before adding, “Fine—you cover us. If anyone gets hurt—if Caz—” he starts, before cutting himself off; unwilling or embarrassed to say the words? I’m not sure.

“Don't you worry your pretty head.” I purse my lips in an air smooch in Seb’s direction. “We’re getting out of here. Now that my little Saints have provided me with the proper tools—” I cross my arms over my body to retrieve both of my guns.“We’re not just going to make it out alive, we’re going to do it in style.” There’s a distinct pair of clicks as I disengage the safeties.

“Oho!” Frank beams, that giddy rancor lighting his features like a Christmas tree. “Yourlittle Saints? Seems like our Lucifer is up for a bit of the old ultra-violence.” Frank actually licks his lips.

“There’s something freeing about finding out most of your life has been a lie and you’ve got two loaded guns in your hand,” I sigh, the heft of the metal in my palms bringing me a deep calm that I haven’t felt since before I left for the Diamond Center settling over me as Frank nods to each of us—confirming we’re ready to make a break for the roof.

“So, you’re ready then?” Frank shakes out the tension from his shoulders—all of us loaded, ready to spring.

“To get out of this shit-hole, wasting whoever gets in our way? Yeah, I’m ready,” I confirm at the back of the pack.

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