Saint And Sinners (75 page)

“Daddy! You have to!” the boy pleaded, his big dark eyes glistening with the prospect
of soon-to-fall tears.

“Hassani.” Saint grimaced. “Go to your room and finish getting dressed. Angel will
be over here for lunch any moment now. You’re wasting time.”

“I’mma get dressed, I will, but you might say somethin’, Daddy, to make it worse!
He still ain’t been talking to me. I don’t even know why I feel like dis! He ain’t
commin’ no way!” The boy was beside himself.

“Hassani, your language is becoming deplorable, first and foremost. I suppose you
are trying to fit in, make things easier for yourself, but dumbing yourself down is
not the answer.”

“Dumbing myself down?” the boy calmed enough to inquire, his eyebrow lifted in confusion.

“Yes, to dumb oneself down, Hassani, means that a person acts less intelligent than
they actually are because a person or group they wish to impress appears more receptive
to them if they pretend to be something they are not. And before you ask, deplorable
means terrible, by the way. Now look,” he said, pointing in the boy’s face. “I’m going
to need you to calm down. When I went up there yesterday to pick you up, and I pulled
him aside to ask him to come by for a Saturday afternoon meal, didn’t he say he’d
come?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing.

“I have this under control.”

“Like you did at the school when you beat ’im up?!”

Hassani’s bottom lip trembled, putting Saint in complete, utter shock that his son
had spoken back to him that way.

That fucking school is doing this shit to him… Welcome home, Saint. Goddamn it!

“Hassani, don’t play with me. Boy, who the hell do you think you’re talkin’ to? I’m
the
wrong
one to try that crap with. You’ve tested the waters; don’t make me prove to you that
you’ll drown.” Saint paused all movement as he stared at the boy, no doubt instilling
the fear of God within the tiny one’s soul. As predicted, Hassani immediately shrunk
away at his father’s words. “Watch your mouth. Just because I encourage you to speak
up and share your thoughts doesn’t give you the right to be disrespectful. You can’t
talk to me like you talk to your little friends…got me soundin’ like your mother now!
I already
told
you after we got home that I should not have handled it that way. I was man enough
to admit that, but I was angry, and I had a right to be! You were skipping school!”

Hassani hung his head and crossed his arms, pouting.

“Get out of here and get dressed, boy.”

Saint ran his hand affectionately over his son’s hair, patted him on his butt and
pushed him in the direction of his bedroom door. His son walked out, slumped shoulders
and all. Seconds later, Dakarai burst through the room, his orange and white Polo
shirt buttoned incorrectly. He wagged his tongue, all red from devouring a piece of
candy.

“Some boy downstairs!” he said loudly, as if yelling were necessary.

“Okay, thanks, Dakarai. Come here, let me fix your shirt.”

His son approached him, standing tall, his arms pressed firmly to his sides and his
chin held high, as if he were in the military. Saint smirked as he re-fastened the
boy’s buttons.

“Where’s your mother at?”

“Down there talkin’ to him. He look cool. Is that ’Sani friend?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to read his mind?”

“Absolutely not.” Saint didn’t make direct eye contact with the boy, but he knew the
little mischievous one was staring at him.

“I was just playin’, Daddy.” The boy smirked, showing a missing front tooth, recently
fallen out. Saint pinched his cheek.

“Yeah, go on downstairs and help your mother. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay!” Dakarai ran back out the door as fast as he’d come in.

Saint sat on the bed, thinking. He leaned forward, catching his reflection in the
vanity mirror. A part of him still didn’t want Angel around. He resented the little
street slick fucker. He was a damn thug! Who’d want that sort of influence around
their seed?! On the other hand, he could see in his eyes that he genuinely cared about
Hassani—the boy was already attached to him, and Bomb had made it loud and clear to
him how that happens and why. Angel simply couldn’t help himself, and just like he
had been completely enamored with Bomb, Hassani was reflecting his past right back
in his damn face. The past and present had connected, crossing over one another like
railroad tracks, replaying the tattered tapes of time.

It’s my pride…it’s my damn pride.

Saint ran his hand roughly over his face, his shoulders slumped. There was no room
for his ego in this equation. He wanted Hassani to come to him, and him alone, for
all of his needs, but it simply wasn’t possible. At the same time, he realized who
Angel was, and denying his child that opportunity would be selfish on his part. Not
only that, it could possibly have devastating effects. He had to extend the olive
branch, lay his cards out on the table. The boy was now fourteen but, in some ways,
going on sixty. Saint had been fascinated yet simultaneously perplexed by the young
man until his meeting with Bomb… Then it all became crystal clear…

History
was
repeating itself, only this time, he had to trust that the story would unfold in
a glorious manner, for though Angel had come aboard his ship helping steer the vessel,
Saint was running this shit. This was HIS child, no one else’s, and he was STILL in
charge and if you didn’t know, you better ask somebody…

*

“I’m so glad
you enjoyed it!” Xenia smiled proudly as she bounced Isis on her knee and stared
at the young man sitting across from her, laying it on thick.

“Yes, it was delicious, Mrs. Aknaten. You are the
best
cook!” Angel grinned even wider, twirling a toothpick out the side of his crooked
mouth while his hazel eyes gleamed like the ass on a lightning bug. Saint scratched
under his nose, leaned a bit to the side and propped his elbow on the table, keeping
his head up as he twisted his lips in disbelief. He was watching the choreographed
action unfold while Hassani’s gullible behind sat there starry eyed and awestruck,
offering Angel nervous giggles, obviously elated that the boy was really there, breaking
bread at their table.

“’Sani said you gotta tattoo. How you get uh tattoo?” Dakarai asked around a mouthful
of bread, his jaws stuffed like a chipmunk’s. “Mama said we gotta be eighteen tuh
get tattoos. You isn’t eighteen. How’d you do that?”

Saint shot Dakarai a glance, but the little trickster paid him no attention. Dakarai’s
latest obsession was tattoos, and he’d asked several times to receive one, stating
he didn’t even cry the last time he got a shot at the doctor office…as if this suddenly
made him eligible to be inked.

“Shut up, Day-Day!” Hassani hissed between gnashed teeth.

Angel kept quiet, simply offering the little boy a coy smirk as he gripped his toothpick
between his digits and twirled it around like a ballerina between his lips.

“And on that note,” Xenia interjected as she glared at Saint, “I think we will leave
Daddy, Hassani and Angel alone. Come on, Dakarai.” She rose from her seat, Isis in
tow.

“Awwww!” the boy protested, crossing his arms as if that would make him adhere to
the table, unable to be removed even by force. “Do I have to go, ’Sani?” Dakarai pleaded,
knowing if he got permission from his big brother, he’d be in like Flynn.

“Yup. Get out.”

“Awwww! Mama!” Dakarai objected, but it landed on deaf ears.

“Again, it was nice meeting you, Angel.” Xenia reached over the table and extended
her hand to the boy. Saint didn’t miss how the little hormonally imbalanced pervert
immediately took a gander at her breasts, nicely showcased in her teal colored dress.
The top was A-lined; cupping her tits like two scoops of caramel ice cream and it
was more than apparent, Angel rather enjoyed banana splits… Xenia couldn’t help that
she was well endowed and blessed in that area. She wasn’t dressed inappropriately,
the girls simply refused to be completely hidden, but Angel had gone too damn far—Thelma
and Louise existed for Saint’s eyes only.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said, rising to his feet and gripping her fingers
as if they were delicate rose petals—like he’d just been ripped from the pages of
Snow White.

He invaded Angel’s privacy and seeped into his thoughts…

Damn, Hassani’s mama is MILF. She look good as hell. If I was a bit older, I’d try
to get on that…

Saint was livid and amused all at the same time.

This ain’t no fairytale, you measly punk. You ain’t no damn prince! Who the fuck does
he think he is? George Clooney? Ain’t this some shit. Yeah, go on, Xenia. I need to
talk to this little son of a bitch…

Soon, the room was clear, minus Hassani and Angel, who sat there quietly as if they’d
just arrived at church for a funeral.

“So…” Saint began. “Let’s have a man-to-man talk, Angel, now that you’ve been fed
well, and got to ogle my wife’s breasts. Did you enjoy the scenery?” He smirked.

“Daaaaad!” Hassani’s eyes grew to the size of tennis balls, looking as if they’d burst
right out of his head into the hands of Venus and Serena Williams.

Match! Set!

All this did was cause Angel to lean back in his seat, put his fist up to his mouth
and obnoxiously laugh in that all-too-familiar way teenagers do…

Saint grinned, then cracked up laughing, too. He casually slapped his thigh and sighed.

“Yeah, it’s funny right? Well.” He looked out the dining room towards the den, then
back at Angel. “It’s all pretty funny until someone gets hurt. Would you like to get
hurt, Angel?”

The laughter came to an abrupt end.

“Look, Angel,” Saint said calmly as he leaned forward and stared at him, not batting
an eye. “It’s just a matter of respect, okay? This is
my
house, my castle. I know you aren’t blind but you got caught slippin’.
Never
let a man catch you lookin’ at his woman’s assets. You aren’t as smooth as you
think
you are. You young boys don’t know how to handle your shit.”

Angel’s lips parted but nothing came out. He’d swallowed whatever smart comment he
wanted to come back with, yet Saint realized at that point he wasn’t as dumb as he
looked.

“Let me show you how to do this shit right, okay?” Saint got to his feet. He reached
over and plucked out two apples from a wooden bowl set in the middle of the long table.

“Huh?” Angel questioned, his brow arching in confusion. “Do
what
right?”

“Hassani, hold an apple in each hand, lift your arms up a bit and bring your palms
together.”

“Awww Dad! I don’t wanna do this!”

“Do it! You’re lucky I am not making you model the damn things. Now do as I said!”
Saint snapped, while Angel stifled a laugh. Hassani begrudgingly did as he was told,
looking as if he were wearing a bra made of the red, delicious fruit.

“Okay, now look at the apples the same way you were looking at my wife’s breasts.”

Angel gulped, suddenly turning red.

“What’s wrong? You didn’t mind doing it just a second ago. What’s changed? Go ’head
now, pretend they are a pair of breasts that belong to my wife,” Saint instructed
sharply, pointing at the damn things.

“Daddy, please stop talking about Mommy’s breasts!
Please
!” Hassani’s voice cracked with anxiety. The apples shook in his tiny hands while
he held them up as if in archery class, and though Saint found the whole damn thing
hilarious, for the sake of his child’s peace of mind, he backed off a bit.

“Okay. Angel, just pretend they are breasts on any pretty girl you may see.”

Angel gulped, and barely nodded in understanding as he looked at Hassani’s hands.

“See, you did it all wrong again. What you should have done is look into Hassani’s
eyes, then within a blink of your eyes, without moving your head, glanced down and
went right…back…up to his eyes! Like this, now watch.”

Saint looked at Hassani and began to talk in a real smooth voice. “How are you doing
today, Hassani?”

“All…alright,” Hassani said timidly, the apples still shaking in his trembling hands.

“…And now I’m done. My son didn’t even see me look down at those damn apples, but
I did—twice to be exact!” He pointed to Hassani. “It was so fast, so suave, no one
was the wiser. How can I trust you to look after my damn seed when you can’t even
check out some goddamn tits without getting busted?!”

Angel’s face morphed into something Saint had never seen before. If he had to guess,
it looked like a combination of anger and admiration.

“You tha mothafuckin’ man!” the boy finally blurted.

“Stop cursing in my goddamn house! I’m the only curser up in this mothafucka! Now
sit your narrow, street crawlin’, train hoppin’, ganja smokin’, young hoe in training
tappin’ ass down. We have business to discuss!”