Page 2 of Soulless Saint

I crumpled it in my fist, deciding to give Minty exactly three seconds to explain before—

Nope.

I launched at him, the sweater abandoned in favor of the front of his t-shirt as I coiled my other arm back and swung, vision tinted red. Minty’s head knocked back, mouth slack, eyes wide and blinking as blood spurted from his shattered nose.

“When?”

He spluttered for a response, trying to pry my hand from his shirt as he came to.

“Minty?” the girl from the bedroom said groggily then screamed before I heard the door shut behind her. Smart bitch.

“When?” I repeated, hitting him again.

He gurgled, blood coating his tongue, mixing with the saliva to dribble down his stubbly chin. “Around three, man!” he managed after a good hard shake before lifting a trembling hand to his busted nose.

I released him and he doubled over, falling into the side of the sofa.

I stepped toward him, and he fell back on his ass. He knew what I wanted. He’d better start talking.

“He didn’t buy nothin’, okay?”

My chest vibrated with a growl.

“He didn’t. It’s why I said he wasn’t here. He came. Drunk as fuck. Hung out a while, talked some shit about getting high like old times. I-I told him you’d have my head if I sold to him. Bastard pulled his gun on me, but then he just laughed and said my shit wasn’t worth it. Took off on his bike.”

I swiped the sweater from the floor, deciding whether I believed this fucker after he just lied to me once.

“I will call you if he shows up again. You have my word, man.”

Because that shit’s worth so much?

I shook my head, staring at Minty as I walked past him right out the still-open front door, slamming it behind me so hard that the window to the right of the door shattered. The gratifying sound ringing in my ears all the way back to the Bronco.

As soon as I had the engine started, I lifted my phone, jamming Kaleb’s name on the recent calls list and putting it to my ear, pulling back out onto the street.

I needed to head back to the house, check and see if he was back.

The call rang eight times before hitting voicemail.

The robotic voice finished her spiel, and I let the voicemail record nothing but the sound of the wind as I sped back through Santa Clarita toward home.

Damien would lose it if he knew Kaleb was out alone, piss drunk in the night. There was a new player in town and our father had been grim as he’d explained how we were to keep a low profile, stick together, and never leave the house unarmed.

The Saints owned the city of LA with my father at the helm. My brother and I took care of Santa Clarita as part of that territory as soon as we turned eighteen. We’d ruled both without incident, side by side, for going on five years.

And I’d never seen him as on edge as he was right now.

Whispers in the matrix of smaller gangs my father allowed to operate in his territory said the new player was an Irishman. His gang known only as the Sons of O’Sullivan. The twist of the knife? Apparently this foreign implant had strong ties to the new senator.

If those ties were stronger than the ones we had, it could mean a whole goddamn shitstorm was headed our way and there was absolutely no fucking warning when it would make landfall.

The fact that the Sons of O’Sullivan hadn’t come to my father was a threat in and of itself. You didn’t move in on the king’s territory without first bending the knee, offering to pay tribute. Play by the rules.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder and I snatched it up, the wind eating up the sound of the voice on the other end of the call. I hit the brakes, forcing all traffic behind me to come to a grinding halt.

Tires screeched and a couple horns blared. Idiots who didn’t recognize my vehicle.

“Hardin?”

---