A/N- Hey guys, I decided to update today for some reason I'm not really sure of. Anyway, the chapters for this story will probably be pretty short in comparison to my other one so I'll be updating it more quickly. Thank you for all your reviews first of all. BlackOutBlind and darkmoonvampire, thanks for your kind words :). ZorraVixen, no worries, their relationship will definitely take a while to build up. God Is Wearing Black, you caught my Johnny reference. Blazer44, I'm so thankful to have you as a fan. Reviews mean the world to me and thanks for at least trying my story out :D and just a heads up, this story will switch back and forth between the boss's and Matt's POVS, and this is the first chapter from the boss's pov. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Saints Row or any of its characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.
Chapter Three: A Queen's Title
"This has gotta be one of the weirdest fucking things I've ever done." I say through the headset. I hear the crackle of static as my statement is processed by my companions.
"Really?" Pierce answers, "We got shot at by motherfuckin' strippers in our own penthouse and you think this is weird?"
The helicopter sways dangerously before I can think of a comeback and I almost find myself hurtling through the sky. One of my foot soldiers grabs me by the elbow, preventing my plummet to the death, and drags me a bit further from open door. Gotta love those Saints. Across from us, the helicopter carrying the ho crate is just as steady as ever. Not everyone can be as good a flier as Pierce.
"Shit, baby, you need to practice aiming." Zimos pipes up in his autotuned voice, probably commenting on the fact that one out of three of our pursuers is still up in the air. I don't know why everyone always expects me to be the one to shoot down enemy choppers with a fucking rocket launcher.
"Shut it, Zimos," I snap, "And stop calling me 'baby'."
As I take another shot at one of the Decker helicopters, I hear someone tutting disapprovingly in my ear.
"Girl, you need to relax," it was Pierce, of course, "You been so touchy lately."
The rocket hits its target with a satisfying boom and I lower my firearm, weary of the heavy lifting. How can Pierce expect me to be anything other than touchy? I mean, Killbane blew up Johnny's funeral just over a week ago and I still haven't gotten any sort of revenge on him. I'm really not living up to my title as Queen of the Saints.
…the truth is I haven't felt like me in a long while. I have to keep it together for my boys, though. They need a leader.
My phone rings then, interrupting my reverie, but when I dig it out of my sweater pocket I see a number on it I don't remember along with a name that seems a little familiar. Matt Miller. Who's Matt Miller? And how the fuck is his name on my phone when I know I don't have him as a contact?
"You have something that belongs to me." a British accented voice drawls when I answer the call. I narrow my eyes and move further into the helicopter, sliding the door shut behind me.
"Who the fuck is this?" I shoot back, annoyed. This idiot should already know, the things I steal belong to me.
"It doesn't matter, just hear me out. If you take the…prostitutes back to the Morningstar I'll pay you top dollar a head."
Immediately my mind starts to list all the ways that this proposition could be a trap. Maybe the Deckers are waiting to ambush us at some rendezvous point. Maybe these hos are actually hired assassins like the ones who'd fucked up our last party. Is money really worth the risk?
"I need to think about it." I say at last. It's a neutral answer. I have to talk this over with Pierce and Zimos before I make any real decisions.
"Of course, my liege."
I hear a click as the stranger on the other end of the line hangs up. My liege? What the hell is a liege? I put the phone away and address Pierce through my headset.
"Pierce, what's a liege?"
"It's a dude who's got the loyalty of his people and shit, like a king." Pierce answers me instantly, "Why?"
I roll my eyes and decide not to answer my lieutenant. So that Matt guy was mocking me…maybe I'll just keep the hos for the Saints.
"Who was that on the phone?" Zimos asks after a few moments of silence. I respond to him faster than I usually would, feeling a tiny bit bad about being such a bitch to him earlier. But really only a tiny bit.
"Some guy wanted to buy the girls back. Sounded like a Decker."
"What does a Decker even sound like?" Pierce butts in. Through the window, I spot his helicopter making its decent. We're about to land.
"Like…British."
The Tornado bumps up against something hard, jostling me and the other Saints in the back of the chopper a fair amount. I'm glad to be back on solid ground. To be honest, I've never been one for helicopters. Planes or VTOLs with all sorts of artillery, sure; helicopters, no thanks.
"Can't make money if I ain't got no pussy to sell."
Zimos is right. If Matt Miller gets these girls back, it'll be sort of a double win. A: he gets away with mocking me, B: the Saints lose out on a pretty huge business venture, C: he gets away with mocking me. For purely unselfish reasons, the Saints are going to keep these hos.
My men go around me and file out of the helicopter, jumping to the cement floor of the abandoned parking lot Pierce had decided to land in. I swing my legs over the side of the chopper but I don't hop out after them. I have something I need to do first.
As my thumbs press at the screen of my phone, Pierce and Zimos make their way over to where I'm seated. They wait patiently as I finish sending a text to Matt Miller, informing him of my decision.
Sorry, we're keeping the bitches. Have a nice day!
I put one hand on Pierce's shoulder and use him as leverage to leap out of the metal box of doom unscathed. Across the empty lot I can see my Saints using a very large forklift to move to ho crate onto the back of an eight-wheeler. The girls squeal in protest of the action (they're all so sick of being in that crate) but they'll warm up to us in time. We're sort of the good guys today.
"Zimos, you take the girls back to your pad and start bringing in some money," I command easily, moving towards the truck at a very fast pace. Pierce and Zimos hurry to keep up with me.
"You got it, baby."
"Pierce, I need you to-"
"Yeah, yeah, go get us a car. I know the drill."
My fedora-wearing lieutenant changes direction and heads for the street to our right. I pray inwardly that he doesn't get us one of those weird mopeds he's so into. Riding them makes me feel like a college student again. I scan the lot with one hand hovering over my SMG, just waiting for a group of Deckers or Luchadores to storm our operation while Zimos climbs into the driver's seat of the eighteen-wheeler. The Deckers in particular have always been big fans of ambushing us.
"You good, Zimos?" I call up to him as my Saints back away from the vehicle. He leans out the window and flashes me a smile.
"I'm fine, girl. Maybe you should worry 'bout yourself this time."
I don't answer this because I'm not sure how to. Worry about myself? What's there to even worry about?
"Seriously." Zimos settles back into his seat as another car approaches us, "Stress is bad for your skin."
This comment actually brings a small smile to my face. Pierce honks the horn of our new car from behind me and I take it as a cue to say my goodbyes to Zimos and the rest of my Saints. He and I follow behind Zimos all the way to the street and then go our separate ways.
"We going home?" Pierce asks, nearly colliding into another car as he weaves in and out of traffic on the highway. I nod, thinking of Shaundi. I won't admit it out loud but I don't think it's a great idea to leave her alone when she's acting so deliberately apathetic.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as we speed by some unfamiliar fast food restaurant. I glare at it as I reach for my cell, wishing it was a Freckle Bitch's. Boy do I miss getting my daily dose of Big Swallow.
What a shame. The screen reads, I was so looking forward to meeting you in person.
I stifle a snort of laughter at this latest text and Pierce glances over at me, clearly surprised. It's no secret between us that I've been having a hard time laughing at anything recently. To avoid having that conversation again, the one about how I need to get over losing Johnny already, I turn the radio on. Pretty soon Pierce is humming along to some song I've heard twenty times but never cared much for and I'm free to drown myself in my thoughts. I press my forehead to the cool glass of the passenger's side window and allow Pierce's voice to carry me into my memories.
"I don't know what else to say." I admit to the framed picture in my hands, "Except, maybe that I miss you. Is there really anything else to say?"
The picture doesn't respond because it is, after all, only a picture. But it's a rare picture of Gat (he never was one for photography outside of our professional shoots) and that makes it special to me. Frustrated, I hurl myself back on my bed and contemplate throwing the picture aside. I can't. I know even before I actually think about it that I can't.
"If you were here, you'd just call me a pussy." I chuckle lightly at the thought. Johnny never was one to sugarcoat things and he'd tell me straight up if I was moping over something I should've stopped mourning some time ago. In fact, that was pretty much what he'd said to me when I'd been holding back tears after the Carlos incident. Crying won't bring him back.
It's been a while since I thought about Carlos, actually, and I'm surprised that his memory still hits me with all the pain and force of a wrecking ball. The first time I met that kid was more than two years ago and now the only physical thing I have left of him is his old SMG. Metaphorically speaking, I also have a closet's worth of things I should have told him but never got the chance to. For Johnny I have a little less. We'd been so close that I'm sure he knew how much I'd cared about him without me saying a word.
"I'll kick Killbane's ass soon, I swear." I continue speaking to the photo like it might answer me if I talk at it enough, "And then I'll feel better. I'm not so sure about Shaundi, though. That girl hasn't been okay since you died."
All Shaundi really does nowadays is stalk around our penthouse with an angry look at her face and lift weights in the rec room like she's getting ready for war. The only people left who are still brave enough to talk to her are me, Pierce, and (surprisingly) Kinzie. I think the two of them have somehow bonded over their shared hatred towards mankind.
I sigh audibly and place the framed photograph of Johnny back in its usual spot on my bedside table. It's dark enough outside (and inside, I'd been too lazy to flip the light switch when I'd first walked in) for me to sleep without Pierce bursting in here and complaining about me acting 'like an old hag'. Please. Even gang leaders, especially ones with faces as spectacular as mine, need their beauty sleep.
My combat boots drop to the floor with a resounding thunk and I pull my legs up under the comforter before settling down for a good night's rest.
…or not.
It's too hot in here. I kick the comforter away from me and curl up into a ball.
…still not working.
Exasperated, I punch my pillow into a more agreeable shape and throw myself back into it with much more force than is necessary. I'm facing Johnny's picture now, and it might be this more than anything else that makes me feel calm enough to sleep.
The room I've claimed as my own in this penthouse is really much too big for one person to live in on their own; every sound made in it reverberates against the walls and comes back at you ten times louder than it originally was. This is why when my phone vibrates just slightly I hear it right away. I flip it over to see that same annoying Brit's name along with four startling words glowing on its screen, a stark contrast to the darkness of my room.
Good night, my liege.