Page 12 of Hostile Saint

“Do I sound like I’m in need of one more but from you?”

VP chuckled into the phone, responding to the caller’s question, “What’s happening?”

He winked at me. “Some potty training.” Then left the room.

I grumbled under my breath, “I’m not a damn dog.”

“Well,” replied Prez‚ even though I wasn’t asking his opinion, “you sure the hell ain’t no wolf yet.”

His meaning was completely lost on me at the time but would one day be clarified.

“So, how about it?” asked Prez.

“How about what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you want a new home or what?”

My ears went hot as my heart raced. I think all my blood was rushing to my brain, trying to convince it to make me reply yes, but I was too stunned to answer. I just laid there, stupefied and blinking.

Since I didn’t answer, Prez added, “I’m offering you, and your girl, a place with a family that would never let harm come to you again.”

Another ping to the heart stung me. Did my mom allow it? Did she know?

Prez carried on with, “We might be on the rough side, but all in my crew have hearts of gold. I swear it. A roof, a bed, a job. A place where you can keep her safe.”

My lips parted. He was speaking of a dream I never dared to dream.

With eyes welling, I gave the only reply I could manage; a curt nod.

I didn’t have the courage to speak out loud. I was afraid if I said the wrong thing, the dream would end.

CHAPTER THREE

Taking Steps

There were very few periods of time in my life where I had true peace in my heart. When my dad was alive, there was an abundance. He was tall and as playful as the wavy dirty blond hair he passed on to me. Even before I could walk, we played in the pool. We played in the yard. We played at the kitchen table. Once I was a toddler, I had his full attention. He adored everything about me.

He was kind and tried to include my brothers, but they refused. They stared at him as if he was an intruder to their lives.

When Dad would find my ball in the backyard, flat, he never suspected the guilty ones. When he found a toy of mine, shattered in the garage, he assumed he accidentally ran it over—

“It’s time to walk-n-talk, Nine Lives.” VP rolled my IV pole closer and helped me sit up on the table at the vet clinic, sure to arrange the collection of blankets to cover my naked parts. As I sat there, my feet dangling off the side, blinking in dismay, he asked, “Queasy?”

Boy was I. “And my stomach hurts.”

VP eyed all the bandages on my bare stomach, then lifted a brow with an expression that said, “No shit, kid.”

I laughed, which hurt. “No. I mean the inside of my actual stomach. Like, cramping.”

Prez came walking into the room with bags of McDonald’s and a tray of drinks. “It’s probably those pain meds on an empty stomach. You should know that with all your old injuries.”

Gazing at scars on my right arm and leg, I didn’t mention I was clueless to what he was talking about.

He stopped walking, his shoulders caving. “You were never given pain killers, were you?”

His disbelief had the ping-to-the-heart returning. His words had me realizing my mom hadn’t exactly taken proper care of me. None of which I wanted to think about. “It’s no big deal.” I confessed the only excuse I could tell myself and them, “She didn’t have the money.”

To break the awkward silence, VP finally said, “Hey, shit happens, right?”