Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father (12 page)

“Okay, well,
whether it is a figment of your imagination or not, let’s make sure you have the skills you need to deal with all of it.” Just then, Jagger reappeared. He gripped the rope and pushed his body through with a new glimmer in his eye—refreshed. He pushed his gloved hands together and winked at Saint, then handed him a pair of gloves as well.

“Alright Saint…let’s do this! Round two!”

“Ahhh man!” Raphael slumped away and sat on a chair nearby as the two men once again faced each other and fought and cursed for many hours to come…

~***~

Several days later...

Saint
rubbed his right nostril and sniffed like a puppy that had been caught out in the rain. He flexed and unflexed his fingers; his wedding band, embedded with rows of diamonds, shined brightly under the posh restaurant’s receded ceiling lights. He checked his sterling, diamond and black onyx Rolex—one minute after noon on a dreary spring day on Rodeo drive in Los Angeles. For a moment, he sat like a statue at the prestigious Urasawa brasserie while catching his distorted, crimson reflection in his glass of red wine. He couldn’t wipe away the sneer from his face. Although he’d tried to honor Xenia’s wishes, he couldn’t in the end. As he made love to her, he could feel her tension. Something was going on at the set again that surpassed her initial confessions. He’d encouraged her to go back, take her power, and not allow anyone to steal her dream. In that moment, as her pussy clenched around his cock, he was working her stress away, but he had been well aware it would return the following morning as she dressed to enter a den of purgatory, ran by none other than her ex-boyfriend. He tried to be grown up about the shit, remaining calm as she told him all the things the man said to her, the way he touched her… She knew however her husband could only take so much, and the woman didn’t want him to turn into a brute in her honor. Xenia felt she had the shit under control, but felt it her duty to be open and honest as to what the mothafucka was doing.

She warned him, and he promised he wouldn’t deal with the fiend head on, but as he pushed inside of her
day after day, he didn’t miss how she was all twisted up, and he’d had enough. No one would make his baby feel like that...
no one.

He caught his image once again as torrid thoughts ransacked his brain.
His lips curled at one end, hanging on to a whisper of a smile even as his temper rose and surrounded his heart, making him crack his knuckles to try to keep the fight in him at bay.

He cleared his throat and leisurely opened up the all too familiar menu, perusing the items, knowing in advance he’d be ordering
a full entrée of bludgeon crab—that’s right, because he was itching to tear a certain someone from limb to limb, break them down to their original composites of nothing more than live matter. Tissue and blood, scrambling under a tight deadline to focus, get together, and make a zygote. The restaurant normally didn’t open until 6 PM, but he’d pulled some strings to get a private lunch time fare from the famous Chef who served the best Japanese upscale cuisine in the country, possibly the world. Regardless of his aristocratic surroundings, Saint was irritated. He hadn’t felt this thirsty for blood in a long while.

Once you sink your teeth into possession, into the tasty meat of revenge, you always want it
, hunt for it, seek it. He’d kept tabs on such things, and this time even more so, for things had gotten personal. He should’ve known it would be time to dine again soon...

Things had been calm,
but that was always when something jumped off. Peace came at a premium and he’d have to once again pay the hefty price. Despite all of that, he relished the tranquil moments, like those spent with his family.

Isis was a true pleasure, his new baby girl. He’d spent quite a bit of time playing hooky
from work, just to be alone with the gorgeous dumpling who sported her daddy’s eyes and her mother’s sultry lips. She was a firecracker, spirited, beautiful, fun and full of bubbly life. At twelve and a half months of age, she’d already tried her hand at walking and succeeded. She also seemed to relish naps, something the boys never cared for. Her giggle was his new default ringtone as well as his personal, pocket muse. He felt himself relax as he went through the photos of his children on his phone, and smiled at them, keeping them in mind for the meeting he’d scheduled this afternoon. Going on a tour of memory lane, he recalled the time he’d snapped each picture: Hassani throwing a basketball, Dakarai having a melt-down in his little white polar bear pajamas, and the birthday parties, holidays and everything in between. Soon he landed on one picture in particular, the one that made his heart stop—the beat then resumed, echoing deep within his soul then pulled him deep inside of himself, dragged him into a dark tunnel, love drunk and totally hung over every time he stared into her damn eyes...

Xenia, baby
...

He slicked his tongue over his bottom lip and tilted his head slightly to the side, shaking it as he daydreamed of her legs
in the air, practically by her damn head as he’d dicked her down nice and proper early that morning, making her utter his name and nearly carve it into his back with her fingernails...

Mmmm, Mmmm,
baby...I need to get a little more of that as soon as possible...but...you were so wound up. It took you a bit longer to warm up...I need to stop this bullshit on your behalf. He is fucking up my sex life. I can’t have that. I gotta hear that pussy purrrrr....

“
You must be Saint,” a husky voice called out, interrupting his wayward perversions.

Saint practically slammed his phone down on the white linen cloth and leisurely stood up as he eyeballed the man
approaching him. Approximately six foot one, the man had medium brown skin, full lips set around gleaming white teeth, and bright green eyes that were undoubtedly befitting of a snake. He buttoned his tan Armani suit jacket and as he reached him—yes, undoubtedly Armani. The devil dressed to kill extended his hand, wielding faux friendship on a silver platter. Saint fought the instinct to grab the damned extended limb and slam the man down to the ground, then kick him so hard and fast in the throat, his damn esophagus would crush and cave upon the blunt force. The lessons from Jagger had been painful but provoking. He now knew how to fuck someone up in half the time it took him previously, and he wouldn’t mind trying out his new skills on this slimy specimen. He played it out in his mind, in that split second, but instead, offered his own brand of a grin and gave a hearty handshake. He knew he shook it a bit too hard as the man’s dark eyebrows bunched ever so slightly when Saint put a dab of his strength around the daps he was giving.

Yeah, it hurt just a bit, didn’t it?
Gooooood....

S
atisfied with the callous gesture for the time being, Saint smirked. He felt the man’s energy in that touch and sucked in air, trying desperately to never feel that again... His intentions were clear.

You are exactly what I think you are
, man.

“
Sinclair Grayson, have a seat please.” Saint extended his hand toward the chair across from him and tried to sound chipper, friendly—he was certain he’d bombed.

“Well hello, we finally meet
,” the man said smoothly as he sat down comfortably, as if he belonged there like an intricate part of the upholstery or as if he were doing someone a favor out of the kindness of his little poisoned viper heart. “Xenia has told me so much about
you
.” The man’s smile was a bit too wide, the kind that invited Saint’s fist to run into his exposed teeth.

STRIKE!

...making them fall down like pins in a bowling alley lane.

“Yes, I’m sure she has...” Saint picked up his glass and took a thoughtful sip. “Great wine.
..” He looked aimlessly down at his menu again as he monitored his words.

“I don’t usually drink this early in the day
.” Grayson smiled pleasantly as he raked a hand over clean-cut, faded hair, an air of judgment in his tone.

And I usually don’t fuck someone up without
at least two sex sessions, a generous lunch break and a work-out in the gym but we do what we must. Sacrifices have to be made...

“But I may make an exception this one
time.” He kept eyeing Saint’s drink. “That looks nice...what kind is that?”

Saint’s eyes narrowed as he slowly squeezed his ba
lled up black linen napkin on the table. He clutched it, relaxed his fingers, and clutched it again and again, using it as a stress ball instead of seizing the man in his grip. The struggle to not do him bodily harm was growing harder and harder, but he knew if he did, Xenia’s wrath would come down upon him, and he wanted not one taste of that.

“It’s Caymus Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon...
one of a kind.”

Sinclair kept a poker face as he closed his menu
and offered Saint a manufactured grin. “Sounds just up my alley.”

So is a mothafuckin beatdown...

“Sinclair, so let me explain why you are here.” Saint lay back leisurely in his seat and crossed a leg over the other. A waiter approached with warm, moist hand towels. They both took one. Saint slowly went over each finger with the heated cloth, while meticulously surveying his cuticles. A testosterone cloud hovered above their table, threatening to pour rain. “First, let’s go over the basics, a little background if you will.” Saint paused, looked up at Sinclair and smirked, then winked. “I invited you here to speak man to man about a situation that has arisen that has made my wife, shall we say, a bit uncomfortable.”

He watched Sinclair closely, gauging him for any sly reactions. The man kept
a hold of his poker face. Saint wasn’t impressed—he could sense the strain fermenting between them.

“
Xenia’s agent, Kia Davis, and her business partner, Julia, who I know you are well familiar with, knew of a position here that had opened up regarding a co-host for a revamped show on NBC.”

There was a brief pause as the two men appeared to be mutually studying each other.

“I gave my full support and encouragement, urging her to go interview for it.” He looked down at his lap, shook his head and smiled. “I said”—he waved his hand in the air as if reenacting the scene—“‘Yes, baby, please do this. ‘The Morning Tea’ sounds perfect. You’re ready.’” Despite his present company, calmness came over him at the thought of Xenia and all she’d endured and worked for.

“
She is a magnificent talent. She has a way of pulling an audience in and making them hang on to her words. So it was no surprise to me that she got the position—was offered it right there on the spot. It starts in approximately two months. Her commute wouldn’t be far and our daughter would be over one year old by that point, so,” he shrugged his shoulders, “things were working out fine. I’d never do anything to hold my wife back, to interfere with her goals and aspirations as long as it isn’t a detriment to her or our family.” Saint paused and reflected as he looked briefly down at the table. He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth then casually handed his towel back to the waiter who paused in their presence, then dismissed him with a slight wave.

“
Then, she finds out that her new boss will be
you.
Her ex-boyfriend. What a conundrum how that all unfolded.” Saint shot him an all-knowing glance. He caught his bottom lip with his teeth and bit gently into the flesh…smiling. The man didn’t budge.

Playing it cool I see...

“No one told her that you were the producer of the show, Sinclair.” Saint narrowed his eyes on his companion, knowing full well the man was up to his eyeballs in bullshit. “I asked Julia about this. Though she knows you, she had no idea you and Xenia had dated at one point in time and that. well,” he said matter-of-factly, “it didn’t end, shall we say, on the best of notes. Nevertheless, Xenia was quite upset, Sinclair, when she found out that news.”

Grayson
smiled and rubbed his hands together like a fly about devour a plate of hot, steamy shit.

“Well,”
he said. “She has no reason to be. It’s all water under the bridge, Saint. I assure you of that. I’m glad she reconsidered leaving, especially on account of me. I have no hard feelings. I think Xenia would be a great fit and we needed someone like her on next year’s season of ‘The Morning Tea.’ It is a sleepy, early hour morning show that needed some vitality, and well,” he smirked, “Xenia has
plenty
of that...”

Xenia, I need to hit this mothafucka! Please! Just one damn time!

Saint cleared his throat and kept a calm masquerade. “Look,” he said, popping a soybean appetizer from the table in his mouth. “Xenia is
my
wife. We have a fulfilling life together, three children that make our world go ’round. Her career is at the highest point it has ever been, which I am sure you are fully aware of. She doesn’t
need
the show, and actually came home to tell me she was sending a letter to resign before she even got to officially start, considering this latest information. All this time, you all have been doing practice runs and she is there to observe how the show runs, get used to it, since television is not her forte. Of course, in my wife’s typical fashion, she was dedicated to learning the craft—she put both feet in. Now, fast forward, she has some sort of beef with you on the set. She came home quite angry a few weeks ago, determined to never go back. I talked her out of that. Do you know why, Sinclair?”

“Why?”
he asked, looking down at a piece of lint on his napkin, seemingly distracted or bored.

“Because I know
no one
would be as stupid as to say or do,” Saint’s lips dropped downward then turned into a slick smirk, “anything inappropriate to
my
wife...you know,
crawl
their way back into her life.” Saint moved his fingers on the table, as if they were walking. “Being the smart businessman that
you
are, I know, you’d
never
do something so foolish...” Saint leisurely picked up his wine glass and took a thoughtful sip as the threat wafted in the fragrant air. “Yeah, this is some really good shit...” He smacked his lips appreciatively.