Page 62 of Hostile Saint

Still trying to catch up, I was surprised by how sad Justice sounded. “David Tate Young… who has recently passed.”

Every time I learned more about my past, I learned more about a family that was already gone. Slipping into a numb state was becoming a regular event for me.

I barely remember asking, “Is Elle there?”

“No,” replied Justice, with a sympathy I appreciated. “The shit’s getting too thick to involve her this round. Make sense, kid?”

It didn’t. At all. But I let trust in these people lead the way. “I understand.”

“Prez,” advised Justice, “get him some fresh air. I can call back.”

Lynx sat there, too, his mouth covered and eyes staring at me.

All I could manage was a shrug in response.

He wiped the hand down his chin, neck, then rested it on his chest, tapping his fingers there. Somewhat lost in thought, he agreed, “Yeah, air and a beer.”

After standing on the back porch for a few, and after grabbing some beers, we all sat back down at the table. Numbly, I held up my bottle and said, “To an uncle who I hope was a good man.”

Three bottles clicked with mine.

Then, Lynx tapped the phone.

It barely rang before Justice answered. “Hey. Alright, this ride gets a little bumpy. We all buckled in?”

All eyes fell to me.

Nodding, I took a swig of beer. What else could be said? What was done was done, and I needed to get on with more shitty news.

Justice continued with, “Apparently, Tate’s father had his brother draw up a Will. It plainly states—”

“States?” Lynx asked, “How the fuck do you have a copy of the Will?”

“Because I rock at my fucking job, you dimwit. Questions?”

Smirking, he took another sip of beer.

She continued, “The Will reads that if anything were to happen to Saint’s father, the house was to go into a Trust—overseen by Mr. Young, of course, then be put in Tate’s name when he came of age.”

My stomach twisted. I could feel bad news coming like a slow-rolling collection of poisonous clouds were closing in on me.

“Justice.” Lynx leaned into his hands on the tabletop to get closer to the phone. “His birthday isn’t for another two months.”

“Correct.”

It’s pitiful, but I was almost shocked my birthdate actually hadn’t been a lie. Nothing else was what it had once seemed.

With a little anger, Dagger asked, “Then how does an underage young man own a home?”

“Well, the answer is a doozy but might actually make your boy smile.” She inhaled. “Kansas state law permits underage citizens to own property by the age of sixteen if married.”

Blink. Blink.

Justice sounded somewhat pleased. “Tate, you are legally married to Pretty Girl.”

It wasn’t a manly moment, but I literally gasped, my back hitting the back of the chair. “B-But, we never—”

The phone pinged.