Page 11

Saint

Saint watched the news with far more interest than he should’ve. A team had killed a dictator and all twelve heads of state within an hour, effectively ending the embargo on the war-torn country. They’d now be able to get oil out and supplies in, thanks to the “heroes.”

Saint knew that playbook a little too well.

He’d written it.

Now he sat in dive bars in the rainiest city on the continent and watched his old life on shitty TV screens. He drained his beer.

It was a bizarre place; uneven floors, kitschy shit on the walls, and an old jukebox in the corner that crooned about trucks and dogs and women. He’d thought he’d like it, but it was filled with yuppies pretending they belonged and construction workers still caked in drywall and paint, yelling like they owned the place.

“Another?” The bartender waddled over, cradling her swollen belly with one hand. She eyed him warily, keeping her distance.

Good instincts.

Saint smiled and softened his shoulders. He nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

She slid his beer down the bar, and he caught it, fog rising out of the dark opening.

Booths lined the back wall of the bar, close and dark. Off-key singing floated down a hallway. The main door opened and closed as civilians came and went. The pregnant bartender filled orders, and servers ferried them to different tables, dodging anyone who got too friendly with practiced ease. The bartender kept her eye on the construction workers, but even the loudest of them kept his hands to himself.

Saint watched the door and occupied himself with the hockey that’d replaced the news on the single screen over the bar. Every time someone scored, a rotary phone rang on the wall, fraying his attention.

Movement in the back corner caught his eye. A woman had her phone pressed to her ear, fingers trailing on the wall.

She looked like she’d just left one of the skyscrapers a few blocks over in the business district. Brunette, average height, filled out her slacks better than she probably realized. She wasn’t trying to attract attention.

He sighed and settled back on the bar stool. The hockey game was back on.

The beer was cold. Good enough. He watched the TV, back to the wall. The second period passed into the third, the score unchanged.

“Why do you care so much about this? It’s a job!”

Saint jerked his gaze to the back booth where the woman from the hallway yelled, nose to nose with another woman. She glanced around nervously and took a deep breath before sitting down. Her hair hung to her shoulders, around an upturned nose and round cheeks. Saint couldn’t see what colour her eyes were, but he was surprised to find he wanted to.

He didn’t remember the last time he’d cared.

Something about her was too soft, too clean for a place like this. She shouldn’t have had to be as careful as she was, putting it all away too neatly.

He breathed the tension out of his shoulders.

He watched her completely reorient herself, bury her anger and move her mouth into a polite smile.

It was a silent implosion.

She and her friend talked more, and she remained perfectly poised. Polite.

She sagged as her blonde friend stalked across the bar, asked for two glasses of water, and dared anyone to challenge her with her gaze.

The blonde was almost a threat, but she hadn’t tipped over that line just yet. She looked like she wanted to. Saint watched them both from the corner of the bar.

The brunette looked familiar. Her profile pulled at something he couldn’t quite place.

The rumble of motorcycles was loud as Ryan shoved the main door open and the buzz of the room stuttered. The club always travelled as a pack. Never less than three. The bartender’s eyes narrowed on Ryan, and she poured a beer from the tap without looking. Ryan nodded to her and she returned it, no nonsense.

Saint stood and grabbed his jacket. He walked over to Ryan and waited for the conversation in the bar to resume.

Ryan jerked his chin up in greeting. “You look stressed, man, take a load off.” He kicked a chair out, and Saint caught it before it tipped over.