Page 72 of Hostile Saint

Like Dagger would whenever I answered too honestly, he winced, “Damn, son.”

My shoulders caved. “But I did good?”

Deep in thought, he lightly smacked his wooden spoon against his monstrous, jeaned thigh. “Yeah, their cruelty may be your gain, kid.” His head tilted for a minute, then he mumbled to himself, “Don’t force a lesson if discovering a hidden talent.”

“Huh?”

Still a little distracted, he explained, “Something good ol’ Torque taught me.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Being the Enforcer, my job is to protect. There is more than one way to do that. Not just by my fists. I need to make you stronger.”

Completely missing his point, I asked, “Is that how you got your road name? Your big fists?”

“No, by fists, I mean—” He took a stance, fist raised in front of him. Even with one fist holding a spoon, the way his upper body was expertly hunched, I didn’t need to be a boxing fanatic to instantly recognize this man was once a pro, or, at least, well on his way to being one.

After letting his fists fall in a manner that said there were some serious emotions attached to his once being a boxer, he repeated my question, “How did I get the name Vice?” He grinned. “That’s a whole other story.” He abandoned his boxer stance and widened his feet, then he tossed his spoon. “Let’s test Torque’s theory. Keep your weapon—” He chuckled when I held up my sorry excuse for a weapon. “Smart ass.” He pulled up on the material around his legs, then squatted again. “I’m going to try to get my hands on you. Don’t let me. Got it? Focus.”

“Focus,” I repeated as if my new mantra. “Focus. I am Saint.” Preparing to give him all I had, I felt it important to be as loose as possible, so I let a shake ripple throughout my whole body. I even had each of my legs wobble after up in the air, in front of and beside me.

Abandoning his attack, Vice suddenly stood up straight, his brows crunching. “What the hell are you doing?”

Letting another tremor flow through me, I grinned, trying to appear badass-ish. “Getting ready to take the big guy down.”

Apparently, I was far from a scary sight. The fucker grabbed his chest and stumbled backward, laughing his ass off.

“What?”

Just then, the sliding glass door opened. Lynx and Dagger waltzed out onto the porch, putting their boots almost eye level to Vice and me on the ground.

Lynx asked Vice, “What has Pup done now?”

Pfft! “What does that mean?”

Vice laughed his way back to me, wrapping a very heavy arm around my shoulders. “My brothers, you have got to see his, er,” he gazed down at me, “warm-up?”

Baffled to the hilarity of my actions, I replied, “Yes, me preparing for battle.” Then I grumbled, “It’s supposed to be intimidating.”

After a bahahahahahaha burst from Vice, I shoved at him, which had me falling to the side because the laughing brick house didn’t budge.

Amazed at his size, I asked, “Really, what the fuck are you made of?”

Backing away from me, he proudly tapped his expansive chest. “Not that shit milk Elle has you on.” Which, of course, got the fucking peanut gallery involved.

Lynx and Dagger both leaned elbows to the railing as VP suggested, “We should take Pup to that farm so he can suck straight from the source, that cow’s titty that’s not ‘pasteurized’.”

I didn’t even know what ‘pasteurized’ meant but didn’t dare ask because Lynx was too busy laughing at that image in his head. “Oh God, stop. I’m picturing it!”

Insulted, I peered up to them, curling my arms to impress the bystanders. “Oh yeah? Get a load of what that milk is doing for this strapping lad—” I snarled as they all started laughing harder. “Assholes.”

When Vice reached out to tap me on the top of my head as if I were merely a child, I quickly smacked his elbow with my spoon. Tap!

As my ‘instructor’ howled in pain, cursing about a ‘funny bone not being fucking funny’, the other two men stood up straight, taking notice of something. I didn’t have the time to figure it out, though. I was too busy now running from a King Kong who was out for revenge. Every time his huge hand tried to grab me, I spun, ducked, sprinted, but always ended up behind him. Tap! I was sure to let him know I just pretend-stabbed him in the back of his ribs again.

Even if Vice managed to get a hold of me, I would twist so fast that he would lose his grip. “Shit!” he griped.

Tap!

“Little fucker!”

Tap!