Saint And Sinners (23 page)

“Mmmm.” He shrugged. “Not sure. I could force it I suppose, maybe another ten or so
minutes. The burn is waning.” His voice became groggier and groggier with each word
uttered.

“How’d you do that? Command it?”

“I know you’ll…” he yawned loudly in her ear, causing her to grimace, “…think I’m
bullshittin’, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. I was just thinking about how you
like purple, and how I wanted you to see what you love. I just wanted to make you
happy because I know you’re worried. Didn’t know it would happen actually. I don’t
think they’ve ever been purple before.”

“I don’t think so either… You really should see this Saint, they are so gorgeous…and
they glow!”

He slowly sat up, released her from his chokehold, then got to his feet. With each
stumbling step he took, his butt muscles clenched, just like they did when he would
make love to her in a vigorous way. She loved his ass…

He approached the wall with the mirrors and turned his head from side to side, running
his hand over his angular jaw.

“Yeah, that’s something else.”

He smiled, but did not seem as impressed as she was with the whole display. She got
to her feet and joined him, stood on her tippy toes and wrapped her arms around his
shoulders. He smiled down at her, like she was his favorite treasure in the whole
world. She sure felt like it as he tenderly caressed her lower back. Reaching a bit
higher, she pressed her lips softly into his while cupping his cheeks with both hands.
The slight roughness of his face made her stomach jump. He had a bit of stubble, barely
visible but his hair grew so quickly, her hands grew accustomed to the occasional
roughness. And she liked it.

“I’m going to be okay, honey. We’ll be okay. It’s going to be good for you and us
as a family.”

“Xenia, don’t just go saying that because—”

“No, I’m serious. It’s time for a new chapter. Who can live their lives afraid of
taking risks? We’d get nowhere. We’d never grow, experience new things. That’s no
way to live. Besides, this wasn’t spur of the moment. I know you’ve felt this way
for a long time. I’m in the business of pushing you forward into the light. I would
never hold you back.”

His eyes lit up unbelievably brighter, giving her a purple extravaganza, a deific
spectacle, while she reveled in sweet relief when he gathered her tighter in his strong
arms.

…And besides, wherever Saint
was
,
went
and
would
be, that was home for Xenia…for the man had owned her heart from the moment he’d
claimed her as his own…

*

“D
o
you
, mothafucka.
I don’t want that shit!”

“What’s wrong with it?!” Jagger protested as he shoved the floppy, microwaved paper
plate full of food in Saint’s direction once more, offering it now for the second
time around.

“That’s a struggle plate.”

“A struggle
what
?” Jagger’s brows dipped and his mouth twisted to the side, as if he were hearing
gibberish.

Saint waved his hand at him and shook his head as he moved around his office among
taped up cardboard boxes and the smell of fresh cleaning that competed with the lingering
scent of Cuban cigars.

“You know.” He got down on his hands and knees, trying to find the pen that had rolled
away under his desk. “Some shit people throw together when there isn’t much in the
house. Like a fruit loop casserole or wieners chopped up over some damn rice with
shredded cheese. Whatever the fuck that is on that damn plate, I’d rather starve.
It looks like Isis’ play dough balls with little raisins stuck in it ’nd shit.”

“But you said you were hungry! Traci made this, it was my lunch.”

“What she call it?” Saint stood, clicked his favorite ink pen to ensure it was still
in working order, and smirked. “Upchuck surprise?”

“Shut up, Saint.” Jagger rolled his eyes. He cracked up laughing.

“I don’t know how you can stand it, man. You know I love Traci…just keep her non-cookin’
ass away from the stove. And she had the nerve to joke about me and
my
lack of culinary skills at my family and friends picnic last year!”

“The one where your mother-in-law told Xenia’s father that—”

“Yes!
That
one.” Saint cut him off at the pass, having no desire to relive the dreadful experience.
“Now isn’t this something? At least I
know
I can’t cook, her ass is in denial. What the hell is that anyway?” Saint was kinda
mad about this shit. He hadn’t had a chance to go out for lunch; Jagger said his wife
had thrown down and he could share and the bastard waltzed in with a plate of sautéed
Mr. Bill from Saturday Night Live.

OHHHHH NOOOOOO!

“It’s mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, creamed corn and grilled chicken.”

“Like hell it is! You better call an intervention, man. Everybody duck! Traci has
a skillet and she don’t know how to use it!” Saint cackled, causing Jagger to grimace
and roll his bright, blue eyes. “Hide ya kids, hide ya wives and ya husbands, ’cause
Traci food poisonin’ everybody out here! Antoine Dodson sponsored that promo I just
gave ya!”

“Look.” Jagger waved his hand in Saint’s direction as if he were about to throw a
football. “My wife can cook, alright!” Jagger defended, going down a road that Saint
was more than willing to travel right along with him, for it would render nothing
less than shits and giggles.

“Can she?” Saint taunted, his eyes growing small as he continued to chortle. “Make
sure
next
time Traci cooks, Jagger, that Hasbro sends her the well deserved royalty checks.
She out here feedin’ grown ass men clay ’nd shit!”

“It’s not clay, it’s
food
!”

This only made Saint laugh even harder—just the stress relief he needed.

“She spun this shit on one of those wheels they make in pottery class, didn’t she
man?! She said shiiiiiit, let me go on ahead and make my man some food while I’m here
in class.” Saint’s knees about gave in, his legs limp from picturing Traci sitting
behind a pottery wheel and making dinner. “Wait, let me be fair, she made that shit
on an easy bake oven, didn’t she? Wait! Wait! I know!”

“That’s enough, Saint.” Jagger wasn’t amused.

“Don’t they have like those little fake pasta machines where you can make play dough
spaghetti ’nd shit?! Isis has one! That’s what the hell Traci did!” Saint couldn’t
stop laughing; it was just too damn funny for him to let the shit go.

“You fucker,” Jagger said under his breath as he drew closer and set the plate down
on the desk. Saint looked down at it, feeling again the urge to say something smart
about the shit now being on his wooden maiden, but resisted.

“Man, all jokes aside…” Saint looked at Jagger earnestly, his heart beating a bit
faster as gratitude made itself comfy in the blood-pumping vessel. “I
really
appreciate you makin’ this move with me. It means a lot.”

Jagger and Saint slapped hands.

“You know I’m there for you. I was just taken by surprise is all. I don’t like surprises.”
He smirked. “Anyway, I’ve got your back, Saint. This is what we’re about.” He rolled
his thick, muscular neck and cracked his knuckles.

“Yeah, that is what we’re about, and I’m glad you’re in my camp.”

“Your clique.” Jagger grinned. Saint had played Kanye West’s song, ‘Clique’ in honor
of him and Lawrence one evening when the three had an after work private meeting in
his office. Jagger stated he didn’t care for rap music too much, but that song really
got his head bobbing.

“Yeah,” Saint nodded. “My clique… I love you, man.”

“Yeah?” Jagger smirked. “Then try Traci’s food.”

“Awwww
hell
naw!” Saint looked down at the damn thing in disgust. “You’ll just have to take my
word for it!”

“I have a confession. She really wanted you to try it, and I need you to at least
taste it. Come on, Saint!” Jagger offered a taunting grin. He picked up the plate
and moved around the desk, forcing Saint into a corner.

“Get it away!” Saint screamed in a shrill voice, covering his face with both arms
as if he were under attack. “I need some crucifixes, some garlic and oregano, a stake,
some holy water ’nd shit for that damn struggle plate!” Both men burst out laughing.
“I rebuke your wife’s cookin’ in the name of Chef Boyardee!”

“You’re a lost cause.” Jagger laughed and let him go, returning to where he was standing
moments ago.

Saint took a look around the place. He wouldn’t be in L.A. much longer; New York demanded
he come home. When mamas called their adult children to the house after a long hiatus,
it was for one thing, and one thing only—someone important was sick. In this case,
he wasn’t sure what or who was ailing, but he knew he was expected to be the elixir.
Only problem was, he wasn’t that kind of doctor, but nevertheless, he’d be on call…

*

The entire situation
was rather surreal. Saint stood before the front door, in a fog. The hardwood floor
beneath his feet mirrored his stiff-muscled reflection as he watched walrus gray painter-suit
clad men from the moving company haul heavily draped items from their L.A. home, everything
swathed in layers of thick plastic and twisty ropes with latches. The guys carefully
navigated huge chairs and long imported sofas past him, through the foyer, then to
various rooms as directed. Xenia pranced around inside, dressed in a light blue jogging
suit and her hair in one of the most adorable kinky buns he’d ever seen her wear.
She’d wrapped a silk bandana snugly around the dark mass, and ringlets hung right
above her right eye as she bounced about, telling the movers where to put this and
that. Her voice echoed in the high-ceilinged, empty rooms—carried around like a bird
with a sweet tune.

Taking another swig from his glass bottle of chilled root beer, he breathed in the
fragrant air.

I’m really here… I’m home.

Getting off the front stoop, he grabbed his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He nodded
at a man passing him by, a big bear of a guy hugging one of Xenia’s beloved Tiffany
lamps, then took a seat out of the way near a stack of cardboard boxes with hand-written
stickers detailing their contents. Picking at one, he peeled the corner slowly from
one container and drifted into a myriad of daydreams, until the phone rang.

“Yo Jagger, what’s up, man?” He sank back in his seat and stared into space.

“At the juice bar, it’s breakfast break. How is the move going?”

“I miss those smoothies already, man. Damn.” Saint shook his head, resolving himself
to the title of ‘unsatisfied.’ “This root beer is kinda flat.” He set the bottle on
a nearby box with a look of disappointment, as if let down by a close friend. “Things
are pretty damn good, actually. I believe I found a place for you guys, for the Rainbeaus.”

“Oh really?” Jagger said, his tone piqued.

“Yeah, there is this nine story building over on Lexington Avenue that has come up
for purchase.” Saint leisurely scratched his ankle. The elastic from his sock was
leaving indentations, offending his sensitive skin. “It used to be a department store.
There is a rent option as well but we don’t want that, because then people could come
inside that we don’t approve first. The more private areas, would be too far out of
the way for you guys to get to, so this is a compromise. Like I said, the rules are
a bit different here, and there is a lack of complete seclusion. I found out that
if we were designed as a credit agency versus a bank, we’d be better off here. The
rules are more lax for the agency. The L.A. set up will stay as is, but this will
work well for the new location.”