Saint, p.6
Saint, page 6
“Oh yes! I love that. A woman should always stand behind her man. Not because she is lesser. Because she supports him. She elevates him in the same way he would for her. We submit to one another. Behind every man is a great woman. Remember that.”
Victoria placed the bouquet aside and planted her hand on my back. With my hands crossed in front of me, I assumed my stance. Though I couldn’t see her, I could feel her head resting on my back as the woman continued snapping photos. The movement prompted me to shift and gaze at her slightly. There was a moment there when she lifted her head to return my scrutiny, boring into me with those milky chocolate rounds.
“Th–thank you, ma’am.” Victoria signaled the end of our stare-off and photoshoot, collecting the phone from the woman.
“Call me Mrs. Shirley,” the woman insisted.
Before departing us, Mrs. Shirley held Victoria’s hand and summoned for mine as well. Before I understood it, she was praying for us. For our union, for prosperity, understanding, health, and even vitality. Only upon concluding the prayer with an amen did she leave us.
Alone again, Victoria moved to sit in the chair she was initially posing by. Her demeanor was noticeably different, as was mine. Mrs. Shirley’s prayer had infiltrated us both. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the weight of her words. Maybe it was both. We’d endeavored on a life-altering event void of all the preeminence and significance it was meant to hold.
Once positioned how she wanted, Victoria nodded in my direction, signaling me to capture the final images. I snapped a few of those, and then she finally freed me from my occupation as a photographer.
“Can you send them to my phone number?”
“You don’t have a phone, Victoria.”
“Yet. I don’t have a phone yet,” she reminded me of my promise to secure her a new device.
Without further hesitation, I opened my texting application and sent the photos to her number.
“I’m hungry, Saint. Let’s go to Butter & Sage,” she suggested, pushing against the chair for leverage to stand. Instinctively, I closed our distance and held my hand out for her to steady herself as she rose.
“What’s that?” I asked, having never heard of the place. Exhaustion was wearing on me, sequestering my limbs to shut down. Between scoping out Javier and his people and dealing with her, I needed a firm bed and soft pillows, not butter or sage.
“Seriously? Have you never been to Butter & Sage? They’re a new restaurant in town. They open for dinner soon and –”
“I don’t do crowds, Victoria,” I clipped, deflating her enthusiasm. Instantly, I felt like shit as I watched some of the excitement depart from her eyes. It had been a long forty-eight hours since we’d met for the both of us. She’d spent the majority of it somber and frightened. And then there was the unsettling fact that she had only smiled once since we’d crossed paths. Maybe I could make this one adjustment for her.
“Where is it?”
Victoria
“If I’m going to be your wife, shouldn’t we get to know each other?” I asked, toying with my napkin on the private table at Butter & Sage. Since Saint had mentioned being averse to crowds, I figured he’d appreciate a seating area away from the main dining room. Butter & Sage offered VIP chef’s table seating.
“What do you mean if?” He frowned.
“I mean, since I’m your wife,” I amended.
“I mean… what’s your favorite color? Who’s your favorite actor? What’s your favorite food? Do you drink? Smoke? What do you fear? Do you have a bucket list? I need to know you. Tell me about your family, your siblings…”
I could tell from reading his face that he’d grown overwhelmed with the multitude of questions I’d unleashed on him like word vomit. It was easy for me to start rambling once I got started, especially when something was heavy on my mind.
He was heavily on my mind for a host of different reasons. Some of them were bad, but more than that, most were good. I needed to know who I promised myself to, even if it was temporary. It just made sense to make the best of our situation as opposed to behaving like two people who couldn’t stand one another. There were enough real marriages facing those types of problems. We needn’t add our fake one to the slew of statistics.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“You already know my name. And when did you figure it out anyway?” He probed, scrunching his handsome face as if he’d really been pondering the answer to that one.
“You were talking to your brother while I was in the restroom when I overheard him address you as Saint instead of Ange. Why does he call you that anyway? That nickname. Where did it come from?”
He shrugged. “My siblings think I’m my parents’ favorite. Growing up, Angel was more fitting. They used to tease that I was God’s gift to my parents. Ange is short for Angel.”
I was intrigued. Truly. I loved learning all there was to know about a person. I knew how to keep a conversation engaging just by barreling out questions. I thought Saint would continue talking, but he didn’t, which was fine. I bookmarked that little comment about him being his parents’ favorite to return to at a later time.
“I have three siblings. A little sister. An older brother. And a younger brother.”
“So you’re kind of lodged in the middle? At least between your brothers?”
“I guess so,” he huffed, causing me to pause before I spoke again.
“Am I– am I boring you, Saint?”
He shrugged and raked his beard. Not in an it’s-whatever-kind-of-way, but more of an I-need-to-stimulate-myself-from-this-boring-ass-conversation kind of way.
“Keep ‘em coming,” he urged, surprising me. “It’s not lost on me that I married a social butterfly. If you think it’s important to know these things, by all means, let’s get through it.”
“If I think it’s important? Saint…” I took a deep breath before I spoke, careful not to sound as irate as I was beginning to feel. “These are standard things people are aware of when they marry someone. Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?”
“No,” he sighed.
“No? As in… like never?” My face cringed involuntarily.
“I’ve never been involved with a woman like that. No.”
Wow.
Well, if that ever arose between us –lack of romance– I’d understand why. I didn’t think it would, but being in a beautiful home with this beautiful man for 365 days or something close to it and not being romantic seemed like a stretch. At least I’d understand why if it ever came to that.
“I don’t have a favorite color or food. But blue cereal. I like that.”
Okay.
“I like Denzel and every movie Denzel has ever played in. I like every movie by Spike Lee. The young guy from Snowfall is cool, too.
“I’m a veteran. I don’t have a bucket list since I’ve seen a good bit of the world already. I don’t drink or smoke.”
I nodded my head, appreciating how he’d answered all my questions despite my flushing them out almost incoherently.
“My name is Saint Miller. I’m twenty-eight.”
“What’s your middle name? Don’t tell me it’s Laurent.”
He cheesed, though I wasn’t sure if he’d gotten the joke or not.
“It’s Tyrone.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” I tittered.
“Saint Tyrone, baby,” he sang with a drawl before taking a sip of his water.
Baby. That made me melt. Just a little. Enough to force my thighs to press together in an attempt to halt any involuntary behavior from my lower half.
“Saint Tyrone Miller,” I repeated, arching a brow. It didn’t fit. He’d said that with a stern face, but in my brain it didn’t connect.
“Rafiq,” he said, causing me to bunch my features up.
“Rafiq? Is that the real middle name?”
“Yes. The gentle Saint,” he explained. “Saint Rafiq Miller. My father had this thing about giving his children strong names. Supreme Rafi. Saint Rafiq. Sincere Rahim. Serenity Rumi.
“Supreme is in the early stages of a real estate corporation, Serenity owns a gallery and is about to open a spa under her name, and Sin… He has a nightclub and produces music.”
“So all of you are just out here conquering the state thanks to that seed your parents sowed? They spoke all this power over you all. They must be some dynamic duo,” I gushed.
“You want to meet them?”
That was putting the cart before the wagon. I mean, yeah, we were technically married, and that was a bridge we’d soon need to cross, but meeting his folks when they knew nothing about me seemed far removed from the mountain of tasks I needed to tackle. Hell, I barely knew Saint.
“Um. Not yet,” I pushed out.
“Okay.”
Generic, controlled, and lifeless, every ‘okay’ response was heavily lacking. It dawned on me that ‘okay’ was likely his default response for everything—except when he’d called me baby. The pet name was made playfully. It shouldn’t have bothered me the way it did, but the flighty thought of being his baby restored life to my center.
“Would you fuck me?”
“Huh?” I dragged the expression, feeling the pulse he initiated below. My lips parted, protesting their connection. Unprepared for the nature of his query, I squeezed my thighs together. Up to now, I’d been doing all the talking. I damn sure didn’t expect him to posit a question of his own, much less that type of question.
“If I came to you in need, would you fuck me?” Raw and unfiltered, he clarified the basis of his question.
On this table.
In this dress.
In that beautiful ass house.
On the beach.
Yes.
Hell yes. Without a doubt.
“Um. Next question.”
Because I wasn’t admitting to that. I needed a few days in between all the events we’d recently experienced before I gave in and told that truth.
Saint’s expression remained neutral. That poker face seemed to be one of his strengths, but it was difficult to get a read on him because of it.
“Why can’t you answer my question?” he probed, still wearing that neutral expression.
“It’s too intimate.”
“Okay,” he breezed, focusing on the chef approaching our table.
Our appetizers arrived then, liberating me to be silent as I dug into a Caprese salad. I watched as Saint opened his rolled silverware and placed it alongside his plate of salad. When he was satisfied with the way it was all lined up, he lifted his fork before chancing a glance at me.
“Is it good?” he asked, staring as I greedily piled my mouth with tomato and mozzarella. Satisfied with my nod of appreciation, he shifted his gaze to his plate, where he dug into his food.
I didn’t hear him speak again until he’d cleared the plate–like really cleared it. Not a single drop of food remained.
“I had some more of your things brought over from your condo. There’s a new phone back at the house for you as well,” he announced.
“Thank you,” I stated my gratitude to yet more unacknowledged silence.
When we made it back to the house, I noticed my car in the garage. In the bedroom, I located my keys on the dresser, along with a brand-new phone. The closet was filled with at least half of my clothes. Immediately, I was grateful for that. At least I wouldn’t have to reconstruct my extensive wardrobe with clothes from Demure’s warehouse.
Fresh out of a shower, I distributed my frame across the bed and opened the new cell phone, setting it up with my information. There weren’t many notifications since I was technically still supposed to be on Komodo Island. I opened the first one I noticed from the unsaved number.
The message held two photos of me dressed in the white gown from earlier in the day. In the first picture, Saint had captured my artificial display of joy with proficiency. Though the circumstances weren’t ideal, I looked like a proper chic bride. My verdict on the second photo wasn’t as kind. There was a whisper of sadness tucked behind my expression. Though it wasn’t the look I intended, my true feelings about my current predicament managed to slip through the cracks of what should have been a demure pose.
Setting the phone aside, I fought against the will of tears that sought to make their presence known. My circumstances had been uncanny and imperfect, but I vowed to make the best of the situation. For the next 364 days, I’d be someone’s wife. It wasn’t ideal, but I was safe, he was kind, and at least he was something pleasant to look at.
With ease, I recollected the way Saint’s body hugged his black tux. His scent, like an orchestral harmony, as it sexually harassed me. His line up, sharp enough to slice into my helpless heart. His voice, smooth and suave as he prompted the rosebud between my legs to flourish. His goatee, like a flawless feather made especially for a position between my legs. Yeah… My husband was favored by the man upstairs.
Thoughts of him in such a manner wouldn’t benefit me. They’d only lead my feet to search the house in pursuit of the location of his bed. And being in his bed wouldn’t serve me. It would only lead to things being more confusing at the end of my year-long commitment. There were a million dollars on the line, and I couldn’t risk losing that for the sake of flighty feelings. I was getting that bag, feelings be damned. Tucking the temptation away, I returned my attention to my phone and responded to the girlfriend group chat.
I’m fine, y’all.
Within minutes, my phone vibrated with a response.
Good, because I was about
to send officers to Indonesia to do
a wellness check.
Dream
That Javi dick must be slangin’
Robyn
Idgaf how good it is, answer when
I call, heaux!
Luna
I laughed at Luna’s text. I wanted to tell my friends everything –save for Javier’s diminished existence and my elopement– but I was far too exhausted to get into it. It didn’t help that the bed underneath me felt like a pillow manufactured in heaven. The last time I’d slept was on the plane back to Paramour, and exhaustion was thick as it attempted to obtain control of my body. I typed out a text that I thought would satisfy the three of my friends, and then I placed my phone on the charger and drifted off to sleep.
The call of seagulls competing with the caress of waves stroking the shore woke me. Affixed to the bed, I refused to remove myself from its comfort. My bladder revealed my laziness, prompting the ache rising in my lower belly. Reluctantly, I rose and emptied the disgruntled organ.
After taking care of my morning rituals, I headed downstairs to find the house empty. Saint’s absence was unanticipated. There were eggs on the side of the stove in a container. Assuming they were left behind for me, I loaded them onto a plate and found a loaf of bread and a toaster stowed away in a cabinet. Once my breakfast was set up, I ate in silence, save for those petulant seagulls.
After minutes of fighting with the phone to restore the previous settings, I set it aside and glanced at the space that surrounded me. Though barren, a little TLC could assist me in getting used to it all. It was then that I noticed the door to the back patio open. Rising from where I was seated, I headed to the back door and peered out at the morning’s view.
My eyes blossomed, my lips parted, and I nearly lost my breath in the process. The view was absolutely stunning. Palm trees adorned a hot tub enclosed with a pool, but the amenities weren’t the vision that deprived me of my breath. It was the Nubian pharaoh plunging from the confines of said pool. Toned biceps –one with a tattoo– combed the length of his head as he tried to swipe away the wetness dripping from his frame.
My God. I see what you’ve done for me.
He sprang from the water, planting his hand on either side of the floor as he lifted himself. A trail of water rushed from his beard, trickling to toned abs and then further to his soaking swim trunks outlining the full, thick, juicy length of…
“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
It was only when he spoke that I realized my top teeth were digging into my bottom lip and likely looking absolutely pitiful. Saint, ignoring my lack of response, padded to one of the loungers outside. He grabbed a towel lying across the chair and proceeded to dry his face while I stole glances at the glorious third leg he housed.
“You wanted to know about Javier.”
I tore my gaze away from his groin, embarrassed that he’d caught me hawking at him like a piece of meat. Albeit, glorious meat. I mean, I was his wife. Technically, I had every right to enjoy the view, but he’d already clarified that we weren’t married in that way.
I did want to know about Javier.
He dried his legs, between his legs, his back… Oh God, I wished to be that towel. Then, he finally sat and I followed across from him.
“My family once controlled all the drugs that entered Paramour over the last ten years. Javier was being Godfathered in as the new distributor to take over the entire operation. My people wanted out, so they handed the reins over to him for a fee.”
Javier… selling drugs?
“No.” Rejecting his explanation, I shook my head. It seemed far too much of a stretch to be true. I’d been having far too much fun and ignoring everything I should have been paying attention to. The trafficking, yeah, there were signs, but selling and distributing drugs? I didn’t have the slightest clue about that type of carrying on.
“Javier told me he was in stocks,” I explained, earning me a thunderous chuckle.
“Stocks? Beauty, Javier dealt in the sale of women, young girls, and drugs,” Saint refuted me, drying his ears.
Drugs.
Now that I really considered it, I never witnessed Javier glued to his phone or any device on the stock application like most day traders were. I never saw him even look at the trending markets. Drug trafficking wasn’t much of a stretch, considering he’d been pegged as a sex trafficker.
He was always dressed lavishly with several chains around his neck. He always drove a nice car. He always had a team of security with him. I didn’t know what constituted a drug dealer, but Javier, as such, tracked.
