Sinners & Saints (Sinners & Saints #1) (8 page)

           
“Yes,”
Ms. Eleanor dramatically sighs. “I met Santiago on my way to France. Poured my
sorrows onto him and in return he gave me culminating passion.” She pauses and
claps in excitement. “August!” I look up as she spreads out her arms waiting
for my brother who is walking nervously to her. She embraces him and he winces
then smiles. “So happy to have you home!”

“Thank you.” He runs to my side and
takes a seat. “Hi, Poppy. Hi, Cody. Hi, Jordana.” He waves to them, not making
eye contact. I’ve never seen my brother wave before. I wonder when he started
doing that. His mannerisms are always the same so I easily notice when they
change.

I pour him a glass of milk. It’s his
favorite drink in the world. Literally it’s all he will drink. We have to give
him ice cream so he can drink water. He leans in to me and whispers. “I met a
pretty girl.”

           
I
look at him as he places his napkin over his lap and prepares to dig into the
Belgian waffle I already cut up for him. Turning my head around, I see Juliet
standing, leaning against the wall, staring at us for a moment, at me before
coming to the table. She greets everyone before taking a seat and smiles as Ms.
Eleanor kisses her on the cheek.

Her shirt is a bit revealing as it
shows the black bra underneath on the sleeveless sides and cleavage area. Her
shirt reads ‘Foreigner”, very fitting and I don’t mean it because she’s British
either.

           
“Juliet,
my darling, did you sleep well?” Ms. Eleanor asks before taking a sip of her
Bloody Mary.

           
“Yes,
wonderful,” she smiles. A quick glance from her is thrown my way before pouring
herself orange juice.

           
“Have
you met August?” Ms. Eleanor asks, her hand extended towards my brother’s way.

           
“Yes.”
She looks at my brother, smiling and waving.

           
August
snickers and quickly waves back. I know where he got it from now.

           
“Hugo,”
my brother addresses me.

           
“Yes?”
I continue reading today’s news on my iPad. Another explosion in a foreign country,
crime rate is ten percent down, people still complaining about ObamaCare, and
another celebrity baby is born.

           
“Can
you rub my head?” August requests.

           
I
place my hand on top of his and begin combing my fingers through his hair,
massaging his scalp. There was only one person who did this and that was my
mother. Ever since she died, I have become the one to do it. He doesn’t let
anyone else, for fear of others hurting him. He’s scared of a lot of people.
Always been scared of Scarlett. Makes fun of Cody, adores Poppy, hesitant at
first but warmed up to Jordana, lets Ms. Eleanor dress him up in her old
attire, and me
—
well, I’m
his brother. I peak through my glasses to see Juliet as she drinks from her
glass. Ever since last night, I have imagined her in every sexual position
known to man. I am attracted to her. I want to fuck her, but especially after
last night, I’m not sure my Patriot should invade England.

           
“So
what’s on the agenda for today?” Cody asks.

           
“Daddy
gave me my allowance, so I’m going shopping.” Poppy twirls her strawberry
blonde hair and giggles with excitement.

           
“I
was supposed to have a private date, but I think I will cancel it,” Jordana
says.

“A private date with who?” Cody asks.

Jordana smiles mischievously. “With
Margaret Jacobs.”

           
“Margaret
Jacobs?” Cody’s mouth drops, but I don’t understand why. I thought we all knew
this already. “The racist and bigot daughter of Steven Jacobs?!”

           
“Wait,
I’ve heard of the Jacobs family,” Juliet says. “They come to my family’s
functions in London.

           
“Of
course you have,” I say. “Steven Jacobs is a Republican not afraid to voice his
opinion on the so called flaws of humanity and America.”

           
“He’s
a racist prick,” Cody spits out. “Then again, most of you are.”

           
“Cody,
as a woman who prefers women, I find that highly offensive,” Jordana points
out.

           
“First
day I came here, Hugo said, ‘Oh look, our very own token black boy.’”

           
“Doesn’t
mean I’m racist. You are the only black person of this house,” I defend myself.

           
“And
Poppy asked me if I met Jay Z,” Cody continues.

           
“You
have though. He performed at your thirteenth birthday party,” Jordana points
out. “So what, me too. He and Kanye work with my father all the time.”

           
“And
she always rubs my hair and skin,” Cody points to Poppy who laughs.

           
“That’s
only when I’m under the influence.”

           
“Which
is 99.9 % of the time,” I add.

           
“Exactly,”
Poppy joyfully agrees. “Juliet, you want to come shopping with us?”

           
“Uh,
sure, why not? I could use something new.”
 

           
Poppy
claps in excitement. “Yay! Girls’ day!”

           
“Oh
God,” Jordana moans, placing her Chanel sunglasses over her eyes and she stops
Thomas who is bringing Ms. Eleanor her third Bloody Mary. “Thomas, please bring
me a Crown and coke and make it a double.”

JULIET

           
After
breakfast I go into the living room and study the pictures over the white
colored fire place that catch my attention. They’re pictures from the years of
Ms. Eleanor’s life. She has photos of her in her younger days with several
handsome men and there’s one with my mormor. They look to be in their late
twenties. They look to be at the races, both wearing these huge funny looking
hats. My heart begins to brighten then ache just thinking about her and the
fact she’s gone. I miss her so much.

 
My eyes wander to two family photos next
to each other on the right. One with Ms. Eleanor, three boys, one girl, and a
small boy. This is them. The original Sinful Saints along with August who looks
to be maybe ten or eleven. There’s a tall boy with brown hair and a bright
smile, a blonde who is very handsome but his eyes look dark and he has this
lazy grin. Then there is the boy who stands closely next to the platinum blonde
girl. He’s smiling and wearing sunglasses, the same as Hugo’s, but of course it
isn’t Hugo. This is their older brother. I wonder where he is now? I study the
blonde. She’s very beautiful. She’s the type of beauty from the forties or
fifties. Her blonde hair falls perfectly around her shoulders and her lips are
glowingly red. This must be Scarlett. They all look to be sixteen or seventeen.
I move on to the second picture and see Jordana, trying not to smile. Her
cinnamon hair was longer, Poppy with her bright, bubbly smile, Cody with no
hair, August, Scarlett again except older and more beautiful, and Hugo. Damn.
Hugo looks exactly like his brother, Gabriel, in the picture. The way he
stands, the way he’s dressed, and he even had on the bloody damn sunglasses.
Except, unlike his brother, Hugo wasn’t smiling in the picture. What else is
funny between the photos was that Scarlett was smiling brighter in the one with
Hugo than with his brother. That sort of bothers me. I don’t like any of her
smiles. It’s the kind of smile that laughs in your face telling you off. Maybe
I’m totally overthinking it again, but it seems to me she was happier with Hugo
because of his lack of smile.

           
“Ms.
Eleanor loves to take family photos.” I jump at the sound of Hugo behind me. I
turn around to see him staring at me through his shades and his hands in his
pockets.

           
“This
is your brother?” I point to the picture.

           
“It
is.”

           
“Where
is he now?”

           
“He’s
dead.” My heart drops for him and August.

           
“I’m
sorry to hear that.”

           
“It’s
alright.” He has no emotion when he says it. You would think his death had no
effect on him whatsoever.

           
“So,
do you have any other siblings?”

           
“No,
just August and I… you?”

           
“A
little brother, Gregor. He’s twelve. Your brother, August, he’s sweet.” I smile
just thinking about him.

           
“Yes,
he does have that sweet charm when he likes someone. Most people just feel
sorry for him.”

           
“I
don’t understand why,” I say, confused. “So what, he’s autistic. It doesn’t
define him and I like to see it that he’s in his own world. A world where he
knows everything and most likely he does. The people we deem fragile are
usually the ones who are brighter than we are.”

           
“You’re
an optimist.”

           
“No,”
I shake my head, smiling. “I’m truthful.”

           
“Everyone
has their own versions of the truth. A truth that meets their beliefs. A truth
that makes them happy. When my brother and I were five, I was speaking full sentences
and learning the difference between right and wrong… August was banging his
head on the table and throwing fine china everywhere. He couldn’t speak. All he
did was scream. He screamed when he was sad and angry, smiled when he was
happy. My mother was worried and begged to have my brother checked out. My
father told her that he was just a late bloomer. A child that bites his arm so
hard that he bleeds is a late bloomer. My dad saw the truth that he wanted to
see. We all do sometimes.”

           
“Well,
that was depressing.” He doesn’t say anything, probably shocked at my response.
“Must’ve been hard for you… all that weight on your shoulders.”

           
“I
managed along with the nannies and my older brother, Gabriel. My mother finally
got August tested and got him the best speech therapist, schooling, everything.
He finally spoke when we were eight. His first word was Gabriel. He first made
eye contact with me, and then my name and my mom’s name came after.”

           
“He
spoke the names of the people that didn’t give up on him.” I smile at him, but
he doesn’t react. He just stares my way, his lips pressed together in a tight,
firm line.

           
You
know the moment in a horror film where some unexpected noise occurs or a dark
cave, basement or whatever appears? Basically, it is a clear sign that you
should not follow the noise or the strange, pale child because it will lead you
to your abrupt end. But no, the nitwit on screen still follows that noise, pale
and creepy looking child, or decides to explore the dark cave, basement, spooky
house. They’re curious and unfortunately curiosity always kills the cat. In
this case, I am the nitwit in the horror film
—
the cat. The dark places, scary looking little shit, and
freaky as shit noise, curiosity… well that’s this guy right here.

“Hugo, you want to play a game, right
quick?” I ask out of the blue, digging in my back pocket for the silver dollar.
Yes, I sometimes keep a silver dollar in my back pocket.

           
“It
depends, is there a winner?”

           
“You
don’t like games where there isn’t a winner or loser?”

           
“Those
games are only for practice.”

           
“Okay,
well, there is a winner for this game.”

           
“And
what does the winner get?”

           
“Don’t
you want to know the game first?”

           
“I’m
sure it has something to do with that silver dollar in your hand.”

           
I
smile. “Perceptive, you are and it does. Actually, it’s a guessing game. I’m
going to put my hands behind my back and count to… let’s say five seconds and
bring them back out and your task is to guess which hand the silver dollar is
in.”

           
“How
original,” he deadpans.

           
I
roll my eyes. “Don’t you want to know what you get if you win?”

           
He
waits for my answer, sullen as usual.

           
“Me.”