by Lovell, LP
They’re replacing her. Why does that bother me so much? I mean, it’s logical and rational. The room is empty. But it shouldn’t be, should it?
My phone rings. Nate’s name flashes on the screen, and bile creeps up the back of my throat. It’s all too much at once, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I need air.
Pushing to my feet, I grab my coat and hurry to the front door.
“Where are you going?” Tiff calls after me.
I don’t answer. I just need to get out of here.
I don’t even remember how I got here. I think my brain just blacked out, on autopilot, until the soothing scent of incense hit me. Finally, I take what feels like my first real lungful of air. I know he might not be here. I want to call out for him, but I realise that I don’t even know his actual name. And calling him Father Kavanagh just feels…I don’t know, wrong?
I walk down the centre aisle and pause, staring at the statue of the virgin. I wonder how many people have stood on this exact spot feeling as though everything is so pointless. I wonder how many people have found peace in the serenity of her gaze, in the kindness of her open arms.
The little rack of candles sits in front of her, some lit and some burnt almost to their base. Each one a prayer, a wish, a hope. I take a fresh one and use the stick to light it. And in my mind, I pray for Isabelle’s family, that they can find peace. I hope that if there is a life beyond this one, that she finds peace there too.
“Delilah.” I turn at the deep rumble of my name on his tongue. Those sapphire blue eyes lock with mine, and a warm sensation spreads through my chest like being immersed in a hot bath. The candlelight dances against his skin and catches on his coal black hair. “Are you alright?” His brows are pinched in concern, and I don’t know what to say because I’m not alright. I shake my head. “Come and sit.”
He sits on the front pew, and I take the seat next to him. For long moments we say nothing, and I simply stare at the Virgin.
“What’s your name?” I ask. He says nothing, and I look at him. “I’ve come here many times now, and you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
He stares at his hands folded in his lap. “Judas.”
“Judas?” He’s a priest, and he’s called Judas.
He nods. There’s another long silence before he lets out a sigh. “Why are you here tonight, Delilah?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds, and something physically shifts. My heart skips over itself and my stomach knots tightly. The air crackles between us as if the Virgin were covering her eyes and the Lord himself were holding his breath. “I needed to see you.” I breathe the words like a confession.
“I see, well…I was just about to head home.” He pushes to his feet and disappointment sinks in my gut. “I was going to stop for sushi. Care to join me?” He holds out his hand.
I tuck my chin to my chest, hiding the small smile. “Yes.” My fingers slide over the warmth of his palm and static tears over my skin, making me flush with goosebumps.
Judas disappears out the back for a moment, and when he comes back, he’s wearing a black wool coat and suit trousers. He looks…very unholy, and I never realised how much those robes did to hide just how attractive he is.
Neither of us says anything as we move along the damp pavements, walking side by side. When we reach the sushi bar, he opens the door for me and ushers me inside. We take a seat at the bar, and a conveyer belt of dishes in little plastic domes whir around in front of us.
A waitress comes over just as he slides his coat off, revealing a black, buttoned shirt that clings to muscles I didn’t expect him to have. The white collar is absent, and I wonder if that means he’s ‘off duty’. Do priests ever really go off duty? Don’t they say God is always watching?
“I’ll have a whiskey, and…” He lifts a brow at me.
“Uh, just water please.” She leaves, and I prop an elbow on the bar. “I thought priests didn’t drink.”
He grins. “You’re aware the Catholic Church hands out free wine on a Sunday?”
I smirk. “Like happy hour without the three a.m. vomiting?”
“Hmm. The very reason you ever came to the church.”
“Not my finest moment.”
He laughs, twisting in his seat and resting one elbow casually on the bar. His eyes meet mine for a beat, and I feel like he sees all my dirty secrets. All the parts of myself I wish I could hide and forget about.
“And yet you came back.”
“Well, there was a very nice priest there.”
“You aren’t religious.”
My lips pull into a wry smile. “Yeah, but he’s not the usual religious type.”
“Oh?”
“No, he spares me the bible-bashing bullshit.”
The waitress brings our drinks, and he picks his up, swirling it around and sending the ice clinking against the glass.
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” he asks, resuming our conversation. “The sparing of bullshit?”
The smile that flashes over his face catches me off guard. Unholy indeed. “He does have a nice voice. Helps when you can’t see him in the confessional.” I shrug one shoulder and lean in closer. “Probably for the best. He’s not a looker.”
He chuckles into his drink, and I take a sip of water. “In my experience, most Catholic priests look like paedos.”
I laugh and slap a hand over my mouth as water sprays through my lips. I’m coughing and mopping up the mess with a napkin. He simply slaps my back, and when I glance at him, a wicked smirk plays over his lips.
When I can finally breathe again, he asks, “So, why did you come to the church tonight? You weren’t looking for wine.”
I suck in a deep breath and hold it for a beat. “To see you.” When I look up, his eyes are right there, waiting for me. There’s something in them that makes butterflies erupt in my chest.
His lips quirk. “But you don’t want to talk about it…” I don’t want to talk about my problems. I came to him to forget them — because he distracts me. His face, his voice, this little thrill of energy I get when I’m near him; when I’m here, it’s all I feel. I don’t do well with people. I don’t connect with them well, and yet I feel inexplicably drawn to this man. I know I’m safe with him.
“No. I don’t want to talk about it.”
His index finger taps over his bottom lip absently, and I wonder if he’s even aware of the action. Finally, he drops his hand, as though he’s finished deliberating. “Then why come?”
“Maybe I don’t need to talk. Maybe I just want to…be.”
“Okay.” He straightens in his seat, moving away from me slightly, and until that point, I hadn’t realised that we were both leaning in.
There are a few moments of silence, and then he glances at me. “You done with your ‘being’ yet?” A cheeky smile flashes over his lips, and I swat his arm. “Come on, tell me some mundane bullshit. What do you do for work?”
“I’m a student.”
“Okay. Which university?”
“Kings.”
“What do you study?”
“Philosophy.” I wrinkle my nose, and he laughs.
“Did you just not know what to do, or…”
“I did a year of medical sciences, and always wanted to be a doctor. Then, I don’t know. I guess I just got tired of other people’s expectations. And I wanted to piss my Dad off. I temporarily debated becoming a stripper instead, but turns out the long-term career prospects aren’t so great.” I shrug one shoulder, and he laughs, the sound rumbling over me. “At this stage, I’m pretty sure he’d rather I was a stripper.”
“That bad?”
“Yep. So, did you always want to be a priest?”
He huffs a laugh. “I fell into it. Religious mother. Seemed like the easy option at the time.”
“You’re not…how I imagined a priest would be.”
“No? Am I doing it wrong?” He leans closer, and our arms are so near I can feel the heat from his skin.
“No. You’re not doing it wrong,” I breathe.
He picks up his drink and takes a slow sip, his full lips pressing against the rim of the glass and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. There’s a pause, that crackling in the air, and then he places the glass down. “Good,” he says, but I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.
And that’s how our evening goes. We talk about the inconsequential details that make up a person’s life, and I absorb every crumb of knowledge about him. We eat sushi. He drinks a few glasses of whisky, and that low buzz that seems to permeate the air when I’m near him becomes more incessant as the minutes tick past. I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t indulge in it, but for the time that I’m with him, I forget. It’s simply this mysterious man and me. Nothing else. Life has narrowed to this single moment.
When the meal is over, I drop a twenty-pound note on the counter, and he shoves it back towards me before giving the waitress his card.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
“The least I can do is feed a starving student.” He flashes me a smile. “Besides, you know what they say about the Catholic Church having too much money.”
“I hear all the priests are corrupt too.”
His smile widens. “Oh, you have no idea.”
I follow him outside and the chilly night air meets the warm skin of my cheeks, making them tingle.
“Thank you. I came to the church because something shitty happened, and…you made it better. You always make it better,” I murmur.
There’s a pregnant pause and his lips part as though he were going to say something but then close again. “Come to Mass tomorrow.”
“Mass? Don’t you actually have to be a Catholic to attend Mass?”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks. “Goodnight, Delilah.”
Stepping close, his hand slides across my waist and his lips brush against my cheek, lingering just a beat too long before he releases me and turns away, disappearing into the shadows of the night. My heart flip-flops around in my chest, and I close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath of the air that still smells of his cologne. My cheek feels scorched where his lips touched me.
What am I doing?
9
Judas
I stand at the entrance to the church, a smile forced on my face as the regular parishioner’s flock to their weekly ritual mass. They all smile, drop money in the donation box, bring cakes and baked bread. This is where my façade is truly tested.
Each week is like a crowning performance, to make a church full of people believe that I am their own personal messenger of God. To make them think that I am a good man, worthy of the adoration I see in their eyes when they speak to me because of course, I am the best of them. A devout man. A lie.
They file in, putting on acts of their own, pretending that they’re every bit as holy as the farce I put on.
I greet them one by one, but my smile falters when I spot Angela Dawson. My eyes dart around, looking for her husband, but he’s nowhere to be seen. She hasn’t come here for weeks, not since the deal we made with Harold. I imagine he warned her away from the corrupt priest, but little does he know… He never did ask how I got those figures. Figures kept on his own personal computer. In his house. She flashes a wide smile at me, and I groan because I do not want to deal with this. It requires a degree of tact because she has no idea of exactly who I am, or just how much I used her. If Harold were to find out that I banged his wife, well…my carefully constructed house of cards could all come tumbling down. A man who has lost his dignity is one thing but add into the equation a woman scorned…no thanks.
She makes her way forward until she’s standing in front of me. Her blonde hair is swept into a French twist, accentuating the sharp cheekbones of her face. She’s at least twenty years older than me, but her husband’s dirty money has been well spent on keeping her immaculately preserved.
“Judas,” she says, sliding her hand into mine, but we don’t shake. She simply leaves it there until I have to pull away from her.
“Angela. I’m surprised to see you.”
She glances over her shoulder, offering a small polite smile to a woman standing nearby. “Yes, I was afraid that Harold had found out. I am sorry. I wanted to see you though.” Her lips press together, and she looks genuinely apologetic. Christ.
“Best that you don’t.” I paint what I hope looks like regret on my face.
She nods and moves on, walking into the church.
I don’t need this today.
Once everyone is seated, I take up my position at the pulpit. Every eye is on me, but mine scan the room, looking for one person. The silence is interrupted by the heavy squeal of the church door hinges, and then a small figure slips through the gap.
Delilah.
She’s wearing a yellow dress that clings to her small waist but flicks out over her hips. She looks innocent like sunshine, yet sinful. So damn sinful. Her eyes meet mine, the stormy grey of her irises surrounded by thick lashes. She nervously drags her fingers through the dark waves of her hair before she tiptoes along the length of the back pew. There’s no seating left at the back, but instead of walking further into the church, she simply stands against the wall, and I wish she hadn’t, because I can see her clear as day. She’s all I see, and I can’t stop looking at my little sinner, the black lamb of the flock.
This is my moment, the time when I have to try my hardest to play the man these people think I am. The man she thinks I am. But the problem is, when I’m around her, I just want to be myself. To let it all out and see if my suspicions are correct and, if deep down, we’re on a level.
Tearing my attention from her, I cross myself. “The Lord be with you.”
I read the prayers and recite from the marked bible pages in front of me, though I barely register my own words. People nod, and stare, rapt by the words of the holy book, determined to live their lives by it for the next week. I go through the motions of mass, which I could recite with my eyes closed.
Then comes the communion. Father Daniels stands a few feet away from me with his tray of wine all poured into plastic shot glasses. I usually do the wine because I can’t think of anything worse than putting food into people’s mouths, but today is different. Today I snatch the bread tray before he can say a word.
I patiently wait for people to approach one by one and drop to their knees in front of the altar. I give them the bread, being careful not to touch anyone. Eventually, Angela approaches, and in my periphery, I see the bright yellow of Delilah’s dress only a few people away.
Angela drops to her knees. A small, knowing smile pulling at her lips.
“The body of Christ,” I say, and she parts her lips. I practically slam-dunk the piece of bread, refusing to touch her. I can see from the look in her eyes that she’s confused. She thinks I want her, that we share a forbidden lust of some kind, hindered only by her husband.
“Amen,” she says.
Under pressure from the mounting line, she gets up and moves along to Father Daniels.
A few more people and then Delilah moves in front of me, fidgeting nervously. She waited until the very end, and she’s the last person. A shy smile pulls at her lips.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she whispers.
“Get on your knees,” I say, and she does immediately. I fight the groan that lingers in the back of my throat and force myself not to picture her with my dick in her mouth, worshipping me like a good little disciple. Her eyes fix on me, peering through those long, dark lashes, and I know she knows what she’s doing. Beneath that façade of innocence, she’s a wicked little thing. A temptress.
Clearing my throat, I say the words. “The body of Christ.”
I hold up the piece of bread, and she eyes it before her gaze meets mine once more. And that’s where it remains as she parts her full lips, waiting. I place the bread on her tongue but hesitate before I withdraw my fingers. She closes her mouth, h
er lips brushing my fingertips in a feather-light caress, and then her tongue swipes over her bottom lip, catching my thumb.
My pulse shoots through the roof, and a breath hisses through my lips. There’s a pause where neither of us reacts. As though we both forget who we’re supposed to be for a moment. I’m supposed to act as though that was clearly a mistake and it doesn’t make me want to fuck her on the cold hard floor of the church. But it does. Everything about her does.
Her eyes shift, the settled grey of an autumn sky turning into a churning chaotic storm with lashing rains and rolling thunder. Electricity lingers in the air, and it feels dangerous, as though one spark could set everything off. Poor little lamb, so hungry, and yet she has no idea who or what she’s actually dealing with.
“Now you say Amen,” I whisper.
“Amen,” she repeats before pushing to her feet. The second she breaks eye contact, my body sags, and she takes that static tension with her, allowing me to think clearly once again. She’s not the only one affected here, and that’s…troubling. I realise that the rest of the congregation are seated, watching me, waiting for me to tie up the service. Shit.
After Mass, I see everyone outside, but I never spot Delilah. She must have slipped away. I go to the office and change out of the white Sunday robes. One second I’m alone, and then like an apparition, as I pull the material over my head, Angela appears. I glare at her before I turn my back and hang up the robes.
“What do you want, Angela?”
“To see you.” I take a seat behind the desk, and she moves closer, tugging her blouse down just a little to expose her cleavage. Gone is the put together woman who stands in church, playing the pillar of the community, the Stepford wife. “I know you’re angry with me, but it was too risky. Harold’s been…distracted. I thought for sure he knew.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Her face falls, and her shoulders stiffen. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
My mind whirs through all the words I can say other than fuck off. The last thing I need is for her to get pissed, and get me struck off, or worse tell Harold. Now, of all times, I need him on board.