Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  He’d been certain that after she’d received her heart’s desire, their daughter Isis, that blessing would squelch her cravings. She finally had the little girl she’d wanted from the very beginning. He wasn’t completely in error, for he knew what this was truly about. In fact, the birth of their third child had somewhat relieved her yearnings, but not when it came to other peoples’ children. The woman was insatiable. Her womb may have closed for business, but everyone elses’ became her playground. Who was he kidding? He actually found this attribute about her extremely beautiful. He didn’t mind playing second fiddle, for the woman couldn’t help it. She was maternal and nurturing, and shit, he found that fuckin’ sexy.

  “Um, I’ll take him.” Xenia cut through the silence like a heated knife through butter as she thrust her arms out, giving a few tense chuckles so as to soften her desperate appearance. No one was fooled.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Lawrence gingerly handed his son to Xenia and, in a nervous motion, shoved his fingers in his pockets, uncertain what to do with himself. He settled on folding his hands under his pits.

  “We’ll take good care of him,” Saint reassured. “No worries, man.”

  “No, I’ve heard of how you take care of the kids, Saint.” Lawrence grimaced, not hiding his sudden disapproval.

  Saint warmed with embarrassment and shot Xenia a threatening glare, but the woman was paying him no mind as she coddled and cooed, talking in baby language to the young boy.

  “I feel much better knowing that Xenia will be on the clock.” And the man kept a poker face as he added his extra zinger to the mix.

  “What?!” Saint threw his arms up, somewhat amused and properly pissed at the same time. It was more than obvious that Xenia had been running her mouth to Donna again, spilling out their personal business like free cookie samples at the mall. She’d no doubt shared the wall climbing story and the three-layered cake for breakfast fiasco. The woman was smearing his reputation, crushing him like rubble, making a fool of him, stomping him down into the dastardly dirt. Besmirching his good name. He wouldn’t have it.

  “I’ll have you know.” He stood a bit taller and pointed at Lawrence, his eyes narrowed on the man. “I take very good care of my children when Xenia isn’t around.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Lawrence said insincerely, and was saved when the front door swung completely open and Donna entered in a frazzle with a blue and sage paisley bag swinging wildly from her shoulder. She was dressed to the mothafuckin’ nines, number eight was looking on in awe and number seven stared in wonder. Saint slowly scanned her, pleased that the grating woman could put some shit together that showed that she in fact was female, and not a shell covering a heartless soul. A damn shame, actually. She was quite attractive, but her notorious bad attitude tripped her, got in the way. Her reputation was built on the bricks and mortar of being defensive… Simply put, Donna was known to be unsavory and brusque. Nevertheless, the past was the past, and he reached out to give her a loose yet neighborly hug.

  “Hello, Donna. I hope you and Lawrence have a good time tonight.”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” She stood there stiffly, as if she had been cut out of paper, starched and pressed.

  “Where are you two going?” Xenia asked, not taking her eyes off Tyler who was quiet as could be as he looked longingly into Xenia’s eyes. The little guy seemed to be taking it all in, unaware that his parents were about to run off into the setting sunset and leave him with strange people, one of which would barely allow him room to breathe.

  “Providence. I’ve been dying to try their Norwegian cod,” Donna explained.

  “It’s delicious!” Xenia nodded, knowing the full menu all too well. It was one of her favorite spots, and it seemed to make her even happier knowing that not only would the couple have a much needed night on the town, but they’d have great food, too. “You all are going to have a wonderful night and look, take your time.” Xenia waved her hand at them, as if to say, ‘Go on! Stay out forever!’

  No! Don’t take your time! I need y’all back here in two hours, you hear me? Two damn hours, two and a half, tops!

  Saint screamed at Lawrence telepathically. He would’ve stomped his foot at the end of the declaration, if he was certain it wouldn’t draw him undue attention.

  Lawrence glared back at him, a look of total revulsion and disenchantment etched on his face.

  Saint, you selfish prick. I know what this is about. You want to have sex! Well, I haven’t had sex in a while, either, so join the damn club! Your little romp in the hay will have to wait.

  Saint burst out laughing, causing the two women to look up at him in confusion. Saint caught Lawrence’s eye, and they held back bellyfuls of merriment; instead, they smirked at one another.

  …I was just kidding. Seriously, take all the time you need.

  Lawrence nodded in appreciation as Donna rattled off the details of Tyler’s care then handed Xenia ‘baby tips’ per a handwritten piece of pink paper. Xenia kindly accepted it, and laid it down on the table while Saint grimaced.

  She’s had a newborn before, Donna…

  But he kept his thoughts to himself.

  Regardless, Xenia was patient. She gave a ridiculously convincing star performance on taking Donna’s set of instructions seriously, peering over the baby’s head with a somber expression imprinted on her face. Xenia patted his tiny back as Donna picked up the paper and recited the damn thing, scanning it with the utmost scrutiny, as if she were reading verses from the Bible. Saint attempted to tune her out, but the woman continued to give step-by-step instructions as if Xenia were being left with a classified, top-secret aircraft and expected to fly it into the heavens. After a few tense moments, the couple was gone. The front door was closed and locked and by the time he’d turned back around, he realized he’d lost his damn wife and she would not be returning anytime soon.

  Xenia sank into the couch, tucking her feet beneath her as if about to read a book she’d been waiting weeks to dig into. Her lips curved into the goofiest of grins as she cupped the teeny baby’s head with the delicateness of a bee’s feet upon a flower petal. Tyler had a head full of straight black hair. He was the color of warmed honey and his fat cheeks reminded Saint of a cherub, something out of a beautifully spun fairytale. So Saint resolved to accept his fate, and gave the woman her space. Xenia was in love with the little guy and refused to be distracted. It became quite apparent that unless Saint was on fire, she would not take notice of anything he did or uttered and even then, she’d ask that he simply jump in the pool, and leave her be.

  Despite their limited time together, Tyler had taken an immediate liking to Xenia soon after he was born. He could be crying until he was reduced to a ball of red flesh, beyond the threshold of fussy, but whenever his wife held him, he’d calm right down as if her fingers and voice were some magical pacifier. He knew the feeling; she was able to do the same thing to him, too…

  “A baby, you need me to warm up some milk or anything?” Saint rubbed his hands together, not sure what to do with himself as he blew awkwardly in the wind of the moment.

  She didn’t look up at him, but simply answered, “No, honey. He just ate. Thanks though.”

  He nodded, accepted the situation once and for all, and made his way down to his man cave. Well, that was not entirely true. As he stomped down the steps, a wave of immature sulking rose within him. The woman clearly wanted to be alone with the precious angel, and he simply could not compete.

  Maybe if I put on a diaper and shoved her nipple in my mouth, she’d want to play with me, too?

  He giggled at the notion of his grown, hairy ass stuffed in a twin bed white sheet from one of the kid’s rooms wrapped around him like a cloth diaper. He even envisioned an oversized blue bonnet wrapped around his head while he sucked on his thumb. That strange thought led him right to memories of an old patient of his. The man’s name was Ulysses, and he hailed from Brooklyn. A hard working laborer, the big Irish guy had vibra
nt red hair and piercing blue eyes, and freckles sprinkled about the bridge of his upturned nose. He’d burst into Saint’s office with a problem, the sexual kind…

  Saint had him sit down, and the big goliath explained in explicit detail that he couldn’t get hard unless he was dressed like a motherfuckin’ baby. The actual diagnosis was paraphilic infantilism. Saint had heard of such things more than once in his line of work, but the imagery of big ass Ulysses wrapped in a Depends diaper, talking about he wanted a binky from his lover, almost sent him over the edge. At that moment, Saint realized his maturity and professionalism could have been compromised with the way he had choked back laughter, pretending to cough several times during the session. Ahhhh, New York, it brought out all kinds. Sure, California was chock full of strange oddities and cocoa puff crazies as well, but they had a polish to them, a showroom display of sensibilities. The Los Angeles lunatics didn’t feel, look, smell or taste as authentic. Their brand of insane in the membrane came from the limited luxury line, designer and dazzling with vocal-controlled suicide doors. No, New York brought him individuals that liked having wooden broomsticks rammed up their tight asses. They meant every damn word about it, and were barely ashamed. Matter of fact, they were only there because their fetish bothered someone else. He missed those fucked up bastards…

  Saint sat down, grabbed his remote and shoved his hand down the front of his pants, Al Bundy style, until he’d reached his silky pubic hair. He hitched his boredom on a ho-hum sigh until he found something mindless to watch.

  Ahhhh, ‘Superfly’… Now, this could get interesting.

  He slumped further into the chair until he was practically molded to the black leather, blending in with the damn thing. The theater seating seemed suddenly overwhelming, huge, threatening to swallow him whole as he lazed about. The movie screen now brandished a suave, slick drug dealer, the notorious Ron O’Neil, also known as ‘Priest.’ What captivated Saint most of all were the streets the man’s platform shoes smacked against…mothafuckin’ New York. His concrete Mama was calling his name. The South Bronx choked him nearly to death with her bloodied and soiled apron strings.

  That ‘woman’ placed her gritty and tarnished ring-covered hands around his throat and attempted to snuff the life right out of his little, bad ass self. He sucked on shit tainted air and jumped in stagnant puddles filled with prostitute piss and used tampons, and yet…he yearned for that old bitch like a puppy trying to grasp its mother’s swollen bullet-shaped nipples. Saint ran his hand across his face, ever so slowly, his sight partially blocked as he peered through his fan-spread fingers. When he focused back on the screen, Priest was about to righteously fuck the beautiful Shiela Frazier in the damn bathtub. It was one of his favorite scenes hands down, and he made no bones about it as he rose from his slumped position, sat forward, and clasped his hands like a serious man in a heated debate. He focused solely on their slow-moving, wet bodies intertwined in a seductive water dance and covered in white, frothy bubbles. Saint ran his finger across his lower lip as if he were studying hard for an exam.

  The first time I saw this shit, I was with Raphael. Tee told us there was a fuck scene in it, and that’s all we needed to hear. The movie was old by then, I had to have been about nine or ten, but we didn’t care – the king of silver screen drug dealers was gettin’ it on with a woman I would’ve loved to have had a chance with, pluck her from the life she lived and claim her as my very own.

  He smirked at the notion. At the time, he thought it was highly probable. Most of Saint’s fantasies as a youth involved older women…the kind that rode around in the big fancy cars, the ones with flashy dresses, painted faces and slick vernacular. He didn’t want some young girl back then. No, he wanted a woman who could teach him a thing or two, take him between her thighs and show him how to please a Queen Bee. Matter of fact, he was certain that for a while, he had a cougar thing going on.

  They never called it that then; it was just ‘the old lady’ syndrome. Some who were in love with Freudian theories would attribute it to his lack of a mother during a pivotal time in his life. Others would say he just knew mature women were simply better fucks. Fact was, back in those days, Saint didn’t discriminate. If he found a woman attractive, it didn’t matter if she happened to be ten years his senior, or ten years younger, as long as she was legal, ready and able. The only requirements were that she be black, beautiful and stacked like a plate of pancakes for he planned to dismantle and keep going until he devoured his latest conquest’s creamy middle, pats of butter ’nd all.

  He continued to watch the movie, the lines so ingrained within him, he had the entire cinematic masterpiece memorized. After a while he took a glance at the clock. He was stirring, his energy mounting, and he had nowhere to park it and set it free. Getting to his feet, he made his way to his fully stocked minibar and removed a gleaming shot glass from the cherry wood cabinet.

  This should help.

  He poured the Scotch whisky into the glass, adding a bit of club soda and causing the wheat color of the liquor to bubble and fizz. He tipped it to his waiting lips and downed it like NyQuil, making a face as if it were similar to burning acid, but needed to go down the damn hatch to cure all that ailed him. He stood there, holding that tumbler and glaring at the screen from a short distance, his eyes glued to the details, his heart breaking from the misery of it all. He could hear Priest speaking clear as day…and he kept seeing that scene growing closer and closer to his heart. Those damned East village streets replayed in his relentlessly churning mind. Earnest feelings tiptoed through his body, soon turning hot and bothered.

  The liquor loosened his inhibitions, and before he knew it, he’d left his coveted lair, his sheltered domain, and resurfaced into the living room only to find Xenia flipping through a glossy clothing catalog and Tyler fast asleep in a portable baby basket beside her, as if he were a picnic lunch prepared just for one. He stood cattycorner, gaining a viewable advantage then stopped in his tracks. She shot him a look from over her shoulder. Her large, dark eyes turned to glimmering slits as she placed her delicate index finger to her plush lips.

  “Shhhhh….”

  He nodded in understanding, then presented a different solution. Since he was not allowed in her space, she’d have to come to his. He raised his hand and beckoned, ushering her to come over. Her mouth drew tight, pursed, and a look of warning gleamed in her eyes as the hush from the nearby television, barely audible, played as a lullaby in the background.

  “No.” He shook his head vigorously as he whispered, careful with the volume pouring from between his lips. “I don’t want that…”

  Her look of disbelief as she placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side let him know there was no use in trying any scams, schemes or mischievous means.

  “Well, okay, I do, but that’s not why I’m up here, Xenia.” He placed his hands around his mouth, as if speaking through a megaphone, and continued to declare himself in a hushed tone, seemingly annoying her even further as he pleaded his case. “I need to talk to you. Can you give me a few minutes, please?” He quickly plastered on a dejected facade, the melancholy he expressed definitely real, albeit exaggerated to render his desired results. Xenia studied him for a few seconds, placed the baby on the floor in the basket and wrapped him a bit more snugly before leaving her post. Soon, she stood before him, her hair pulled back in a soft, curly Afro with a silk olive and gold paisley headband. As he looked down at the woman, he felt himself instantly float into sensual scenes inside the alcoves of his sordid mind. He reached for her, his fingertips slowly scanning her collarbone. Her perfume sent his dick a message, causing it to salute and lift its sleepy head in sudden awareness that delectable pussy was close.

  “Yes?” she whispered, breaking his thoughts, forcing him back on track.

  “Before I say this, do you, uh, know when the kids will be back?” He dipped low and kissed her ear as he cupped her around her neck.

  “Pretty soon, actually.” She
rolled her eyes, most likely annoyed that the man was clamoring all over her body after acting as if he had an urgent matter at hand. “Donna has been calling me every fifteen minutes,” she continued. Normally, any mention of that person would have murdered his hearty libido and tossed the carcass in a makeshift grave, but he was too wound up for that to do much damage. “That woman is going to cause her own death if she doesn’t relax. I remember days like that. The first time Mama watched Hassani for us, I kept doing the same thing to her, too. It’s hard.”

  That’s not the only thing that’s hard…

  Saint pushed the sexually deviant thoughts out of his mind and attempted to stay on track. He really did have a pressing matter to discuss. This wasn’t simply dick and lip service.

  “Yeah…look, I’ve been doing some thinking.” He peeped over her shoulder, as if the baby could overhear, comprehend and go and repeat the private details he wished to express. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and uh…” Suddenly, he realized how bad this may sound. He stopped short, second-guessing himself. He had liquid courage, had warmed himself up with the juices of the damned and emboldened by memories of the images he’d just seen on screen. Was he being selfish? He wasn’t sure, but he felt tired…so very tired. “Look, baby…”

  “What is it, Saint?” He could hear the concern in her voice now as she glared at him with those damn eyes. The eyes he couldn’t lie to, not one second longer.

  “I guess I’ll just say it, get right to it.” He clapped his hands together and briefly looked away.

  “Yes, please do. I need to get back to the baby.” She shifted her weight, growing annoyed with him yet again.

  “How do you feel about moving?” He pulled her towards him once more and held her a bit tighter, gathering the fabric from the back of her shirt in his grasp. It was a desperate move, one to simply hold her just in case she told him to fuck off.

  “…Moving?” Her dark, flawlessly arched eyebrow shot up as if pulled by a tiny, invisible string. “Moving where? You don’t like our house anymore?”