by Ava Lore
That was old Tara, she thought firmly. And he'd let her know exactly what he'd thought of that.
"I'm proud of you," he said, catching her off guard. "You held yourself well."
She shook her head. "It was weird."
He quirked an eyebrow, rakish and sexy, if it weren't for that damn clerical collar like a noose around his throat. "How so?"
Forcing herself to concentrate on his chin—his dumb, sharp chin—she took a deep breath. "I don't know. I don't... maybe I shouldn't be here."
He waited patiently. Father Michael had infinite patience. It made her hate him sometimes. She didn't deserve that kind of indulgence. She tried to explain. "It just felt like I was being the old me," she said. "And I didn't like being the old me."
His hand still rested against her arm, and she felt his thumb move, stroking small, gentle circles she was sure he meant to be soothing. "The old you," he said, "is still you. You are simply more now."
She pressed her lips together, a sudden and treacherous sting of tears creeping across her eyes. Hurriedly, she blinked them back. "I suppose."
"No, it's true. You are still that young woman I met five years ago, but grown. That's all. You still have the tools you needed back then, and in the future you may need them again. Don't forget that. The trials we face serve a purpose."
Tara hated it when people talked about purpose. It seemed stupid. Except when Michael talked about it, it never seemed quite as dumb. He never told her her suffering was for a higher purpose, just that it uncovered parts of her that she otherwise would not have known about. As the sun serves a purpose, he said. As the rain and wind serve a purpose. Perhaps there is will behind them. Perhaps not. But without them there could be no life. Take the gifts they give you and be at peace.
Swallowing, she nodded.
For a long moment he studied her, as though he were trying to decipher a strange language written across her face, but then he dropped his hand and backed away. For a moment, he seemed awkward, and he cleared his throat.
"Shall we move on to our next corner?" he asked.
Tara nodded and followed him back into the van.
She woke shivering, drenched in sweat, a scream coiled in her throat, ready to strike. For a moment she was lost, disoriented. The dream clung to her, like seaweed, threatening to pull her down, down.
She sat up, and all became clear. She was not in her bed at home. Not there, not there. She was bigger. There was a knife in her hand. She kept it on her at all times now. She was on someone’s couch. Whose? Ah, right. The dealer. She’d traded a hummer for a hit. It wasn’t prostitution, not really. Just… favors for favors. He’d let her crash on the old, beat-up sofa and she hadn’t slept in days. Just snatches, here and there, so when the opportunity presented itself, she passed out.
And the dreams had come again.
Now she was wide awake and shaking, slimy with sweat and grime. On trembling legs, she stood and stumbled through the dark room. Was it night? Evening? Morning? She couldn’t tell. Time was all messed up, and it didn’t matter anyway. She had nowhere to be.
She found the bathroom and switched on the light. Couldn’t meet her eye in the mirror. Turned on the water. Splashed her face, her hands. Lifted up her sweatshirt and tried her best to clean her armpits. She reeked. Felt like death.
Something poked her in the soft swell of her breast, and she hissed. Reaching into her bra—so ratty now that it barely held together—her fingers found something.
Small, white, smooth, cardstock. The priest’s card.
She pulled it out.
His name was Michael. Michael, Michael. Father Michael. Father, father, father. She had enough of fathers for one life.
Staring at the white rectangle in her hand, she willed herself to tear it up and throw it away. Instead, it lay placidly in her palm. She tucked it into her pocket, turned off the light, and staggered back to the couch.
Lowering herself to the filthy fabric, Tara tried to close her eyes, but she was afraid to sleep. The dreams were always lurking under the surface, just waiting for her to drift by.
The little card burned in her pocket against her hip.
Father Michael.
His name floated across her brain. If only she’d been able to go through with her streetwalking attempt. If only he was one of those wayward priests, who gave into women and wine. She might have a place to stay now, and food in her stomach.
She closed her eyes. His face floated in the darkness.
She might have actually enjoyed servicing him. She could have done it. He would have been delicious.
What did forbidden lips taste like? What was the scent of soiled virtue?
That tight stuffy collar. She bet it smelled of wine and incense. And the body under the black shirt... hard. Toned from years of ascetic self-denial. Thick hair, full lips. She wished she could have kissed them. A man married to the church, in the arms of a woman not his wife. She could have been the other woman for him. She would have slid her hands over his body, nipped at his skin, devoured his flesh. Could have teased his nipples between her lips, dipped her tongue into his navel. His cock, untouched, would have lain full to bursting in her palm.
She could imagine the taste of it—dark, sour. His hot breath in the confines of his car, coming fast as she sucked his member. His fingers tangling in her hair as he sampled earthly pleasure for the first time. And when he came, she would suck every last drop from him. It would be a sin to spill it.
Her hands were in her pants. Too many drugs had her underweight, and it was nothing at all to slip her fingers through the tuft of her pubic hair and down into her slit.
She was slick, wet, hot. Her index finger stroked and circled her clit as, in her head, she defrocked him, climbed into his lap, straddled his hips, stole his kisses, muffled his prayers, destroyed all his do-gooder faith with a thrust of her hips. Him inside her. She wanted that.
Her orgasm came on her quick and painful, and she choked on a cry, bucking against the couch. She stroked her pussy, fast, hard. Her hands were his hands.
In the dark of her head, pierced by green eyes in the gloom of her mind, a father’s hands weren’t so bad.
Three corners later and they were out of food and needles and condoms, but still had plenty of blankets. Tara surveyed the back of the van and the devastation wrought by sixty street walkers. It was amazing.
"I can't believe how much those girls can eat," she said at last, closing the door. "They are like black holes."
"I've heard the same said of college students," Michael said.
She gave him a smile. Her nerves had calmed with each corner and each successful encounter. She was starting to feel like herself again. Her new self. Not her old self.
Michael smiled back at her, and her heart flopped over in her chest.
Or was she feeling like her old self again?
Turning away from him, Tara lifted her face to the sky and inhaled. High above the city, the clouds reflected the lights, and, as she watched, one small, lone snowflake fluttered down, tumbling through the air.
"You were a college student once, right?" she said. "Don't you remember how hungry you were?"
He laughed. "I do remember," he said. "Hungry for the worst things. If there had been a free salad bar on campus I would never have touched it."
"I'm a sucker for the fluffernutters the hall RA serves on Thursday nights," Tara said. “It's definitely better than dumpster diving.”
He made a noise in his throat. “Have you told anyone about your teenage years?” he asked. “Any of your friends?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “I don't want to depress anyone.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye.
He stood, wrapped in black, staring at her. She knew the sort of picture she must present to him: the girl who he saved. The one he lifted up and rescued. Standing in the cold of the Baltimore night as the snow began to fall.
What must it feel like to rescue someone that w
ay? She wanted to know. She wanted him to show her.
She wanted many impossible things.
Blowing out a stream of vapor into the cold air, she turned back to him. "Well, what now?"
He shrugged. "We can take the rest of what we have back to the church and call it a night," he said, but at the end of his sentence she felt some phantom words hanging, speaking without actually saying anything.
Tara chewed her lip. "Do you... do you want to go get something to eat?"
"Do you know a free salad bar?"
She laughed. "No. But I can pay for myself." I think. She had a ten in her wallet. If she didn't get anything to drink but water and stuck to the cheapest stuff on the menu, they could go to an all-night diner. Maybe she could just have a piece of pie or something...
"I'll pay," Michael said. "It's the least I can do."
Tara blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"
He shook his head. In the cold, his lips had turned pink and kissable. "I mean that I feel like this was a little out of your league tonight," he said. "Usually my assistants come once or twice and bail on me, or I ask them to leave."
She raised her eyebrows. "Ask them to leave?"
"You know the kind of older woman who wants to help in the church?" he asked. "I shouldn't say this, but they are not the best for ministry on the streets."
Tara nodded in understanding. "Yeah," she said slowly. "They'd probably scare off every girl in a three mile radius."
"Not only that, but they always try to gossip to me," he replied. "There's confession for a reason, and it's not so that I can spread secrets, and if someone chooses not to confess to me that is between them and the Lord."
The Lord. The words made her itch, but Tara suppressed her instinctive shudder. She didn't want to disrespect Michael. His faith had been strong enough to pull her up. She needed to let him have it.
"Let's go get something to eat," she said.
Michael nodded. Together they piled into the van and set off down the street as the snow began to fall.
The middle of October. Or was it the end? Time on the streets had no meaning to her. It was Wednesday or Saturday or Fuckday. It didn't matter. The priest—Father Michael MacEnroe, what a cliche—had picked her up again. He did it more and more often now, and each time he did she expected him to make a pass at her. She wouldn't have minded. He was beautiful. But he never did.
They sat in a diner at one of the nicer ends of town, an all-night place that served shit like skillets full of ham and cheese and ridiculous slices of pie that no person in their right mind would eat, their crusts so oily they gleamed in the dim light of the hanging lamps.
Well, she never claimed to be in her right mind.
"What's up, Father?" she said, shoveling her second piece of pie into her mouth and chewing loudly. She always hoped to make him disapprove of her in some way. She didn't know why. Maybe it would make her feel better. He seemed so perfect, so accepting and kind. She wanted him to slip up in some way.
No one was perfect. Everyone hid something.
"I've been worried about you," he said without preamble, and she nearly choked on her blueberry pie. Forcing herself to swallow, she took another bite and made sure to show him the contents of her mouth as she chewed.
"Yeah? Why?"
"You haven't been around your usual places," he said.
That stopped her. "You keeping tabs on me, Father?" She put extra emphasis on the last word, letting him know she didn't need a father. She had one. Once. And then she didn't.
"Of course," he said. "I worry about you."
She didn't know what to do with that information, so she rolled her eyes and tried to play it off, but he was unflappable. Simply stared at her with those glittering green eyes. The clerical collar shone white against his throat. A flash. A target. She wanted to work her fingers under it and loosen it for him. It couldn't be comfortable.
What did he hide under that sober priestly garb?
"I don't need anyone to worry about me," she said. "You'd be better off worrying about Kairi or Ladonna or Mychelle."
"I do worry about them," he said, "but I worry about you the most."
She made a noise with her mouth, a dismissive noise, letting him know just what she thought about his concern. "You're wasting your time, Father. I don't need a dad."
"Oh?" His voice was soft, inviting, and almost without thinking about it she told him.
"Yeah, had one of those. He left. So no thanks. Don't need that again."
"I see."
His deep, soft voice. She could have wrapped herself up in it. Could have rubbed it over her skin, if it were a real thing. She wanted to luxuriate in his voice. She wished he would talk more. He made her feel something when he did.
"Whatever," she said. "Tell me about you. We're always talking about me, but it's just same shit, different day here."
To her surprise, he smiled. "Is it?" he said. "You're eating better."
"Of course I am, you won't stop stuffing food down my throat."
"Oh? You hate pie that much?"
She put her arms out and dragged her pie closer. "Don't touch my pie," she said. "It's the only thing I like other than smack."
She shouldn't have tried to shock him. He didn't shock easily. "I won't touch your pie," he said, and in her head it turned into something salacious. Sexual.
She watched his mouth as he took a sip of his coffee. "So really," she said. "What's going on?"
"One of the girls I minister to overdosed last night," he said.
The statement clattered to the table between them.
Tara swallowed. "Who? Is she okay?"
"Her name was Misti. And she died."
Though there were other people in the diner, silence descended, almost smothering them. The pie in her mouth was suddenly like cardboard and ashes. Slowly, Tara forced herself to chew it and swallow it down.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I am, too," he replied.
They finished in silence. Tara choked the next few bites of her pie down, but it felt like glue in her throat. If she ate too much of it, she felt like it would fill her up, suffocate her. Death by pie. It was even worse than death by dope. At least death by dope would feel good. Wouldn't it? She'd never seen anyone die of an overdose, but she'd heard it was pretty peaceful. Too much, you slip away.
"Was she..." she searched for the words. "Did she go peacefully?" she asked at last.
To her despair, Father Michael shook his head. "No," he said. "She choked to death on her own vomit."
Tara nodded. "Well," she said. "Thanks, Father. I'll remember not to eat anything the next time I shoot up."
Without warning, his hand shot across the table, and her wrist was suddenly held in a crushing grip.
Pinned, on her stomach, the stink of the sheets around her face. Weight on her back. Burning between her thighs.
Panic. She pulled on her arm.
Immediately he let go, and she snatched her hand back.
She trembled, rubbing her wrist, staring at him.
His face was pale, and he suddenly looked older, more haggard. "I am so sorry," he said. "I am so sorry."
She'd wanted him to break, to mess up. But she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.
"No, I'm sorry," she said, surprising herself. "I'm sorry. Father, I'm so sorry." A lump rose in her throat, too big, too much. She hated crying.
Pushing her pie away, she swung out of the booth, not daring to look at him. She wished she'd kept her hair long, able to sweep it over her eyes, but it was too much with the street, so she just looked at the pattern of the carpet on the floor, an ugly green thing, criss-crossed with beige lines and red flowers. Horrible. Vomit inducing. If she'd been high, it would have given her a headache. "I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry about your..." Friend? Girl? Sheep? "I'm sorry about Misti. I'll see you around."
She heard him get out of the booth behind her, but she was already barreling toward the door, full of shame
and a sudden, deep fear.
Was she going to die like Misti? Would anyone but some nosy priest give a shit?
She didn't want to see Father Michael all of a sudden. He had to care about her. It was his job. His calling. She didn't want to be anyone's job. Her mother had made it clear just how much of a problem she was.
Slamming her hands into the glass door, she burst into the cold night. The air slapped her face, and she wanted to run and run and run.
"Tara!"
His voice behind her. She picked up her pace. She couldn't catch her breath. She couldn't see straight. They were in a weird part of town. She didn't even know which way was home, or what home was, or if she wanted to go back to any home she had ever known. She just wanted to crawl under a rock and sleep away the fear.
He caught up with her behind the restaurant, just before she managed to slip behind the broken fence and into the alleyway of some low-rent neighborhood. "Tara," he said, and his hand landed on her shoulder.
She whirled around. "What do you want?" she said. She meant it to come out defiant, but it just came out small and shattered.
The moon was full above them, and the wind rustled in the branches of the trees in the alleyway behind them. The world was turning toward winter, and the leaves were falling.
He was so beautiful in the moonlight. She wanted to throw herself into him, let him hold her up. She was tired, and tired of running. She wanted to worm her way into his clothes, draw strength from his warmth, fill herself up with him, feel alive, feel wanted, feel loved.
He was full of love. But she didn't know how to accept it. Like a vessel, broken and badly repaired, she couldn't hold what he wanted to give her, could only take what he couldn't give. Her mother's boyfriend had seen to that.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
“So am I,” he said, and then he was reaching for her, his arms sliding around her shoulders.
It was a mistake. A slip. She shouldn't have lifted her face to his. She shouldn't have crossed that gap between them. But she did.