The Pope: Cards of Love

by Lovell, LP

  Placing an arm around my shoulders, he pulls me into his side and leads me straight through the church. I barely look up from the shadow of his body until we’re at his apartment building. Wordlessly he opens the door and guides me inside.

  “You should stay here a while. I can take you home later.” My breaths shorten at the thought of going home. Nate knows where I live. What if he turns up? Placing my hand to my chest, I try and swallow down the debilitating fear. “Hey. Hey.” Judas cups my face. “He won’t touch you, I promise.” His words are calm, softly spoken, but his expression is the polar opposite. There’s something feral and uncontrolled raging behind his eyes, and I’m both scared of it and thrilled by it because I know that Judas would never hurt me. I know it in the depths of my soul because he’s a good man. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

  I press my forehead against his chest, and his arms come around me, his palms smoothing over my back. “Thank you,” I whisper, fighting back yet more tears. As if I wasn’t a mess before, now I’m a simpering wreck.

  As the adrenaline that fired through my veins lessens, the more the pain all starts to kick in. Judas takes something out of a drawer and pours me a glass of water before handing me several pills. “Take those. They’ll help.” I do as he says without question and a small smile touches his lips. “You should lie down.”

  Again, like the obedient little lamb he calls me, I follow him down a hallway to a bedroom. The citrus of his cologne hangs heavy in the air, and I know that this is his room. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do.

  He smirks before turning to a chest of drawers and taking out a t-shirt. “You can wear this.”

  “Thanks.”

  I try to fumble with the small buttons on my shirtdress, but with one bandaged hand, the fiddly buttons are near impossible. Eventually, he pushes me away and takes over. I lift my eyes from the buttons to his face and find his gaze firmly locked on mine. And that’s where it stays, even as the material separates, and I feel the rush of cool air over my stomach. He turns me away from him, and I shrug the dress over my shoulders, allowing it to pool at my feet. There’s the audible sound of a sharp breath, and I shiver, before sliding his soft t-shirt over my head. Pulling back the covers, I climb into his bed, my head already foggy and my eyelids heavy.

  Judas disappears from the room and comes back a few moments later wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms. My eyes suddenly have no problem staying wide open, and I’d be surprised if my jaw isn’t gaping, though I can’t feel it through the incessant throbbing.

  I’m not sure a man has ever been more perfect. Just miles of tanned skin over taut, honed muscles. An enormous tattoo of an angel sits on his chest, the wings arching high and spreading right up to his shoulders. When I catch a glimpse of his back, I see a plain black cross that spans his shoulders and stops about half way down his spine. It’s not pretty or ornate, just simple, thick, black lines. Everything about him is just…art. If he notices me looking, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slides into the bed next to me and gently pulls me close. My good cheek lands on his chest and the heat of his skin sears me like a brand because at this point, I honestly think Judas is imprinting himself on me: mind, body and soul.

  I’ve kissed him. I think about him every hour of every day, and now he’s here, holding me when I need it most. Fingers stroke through my hair and his lips press to my scalp, caressing, caring, piecing me back together one touch at a time. I had no idea how badly I needed this, needed him.

  The fog in my head swims thick and fast, and the heavy tempo of Judas’s heartbeat is like the ticking of a hypnotist’s clock, lulling me, deeper, deeper…until sleep overcomes me.

  15

  Judas

  I lay there for a while, listening to Delilah’s soft breaths. Her chest rises and falls gently, her fingers twitching against my stomach every so often. She feels so small tucked into me like this, so trusting. I close my eyes, and all I see is her — on her hands and knees on the church floor, blood everywhere. Glancing down, I can still make out the bruising that’s blossoming over her cheek, her throat.

  He touched her. He hurt her. And the rage that’s burning in me is threatening to scorch me from the inside out. After an hour of making sure her breaths remain even, I slip away from her. She doesn’t stir. One of the pills I gave her was a sedative because I need her to sleep. I need her to be completely unaware that I ever left.

  I pull the door closed with a muted click and go to the living room. Taking out my laptop, I pull up Facebook and type her name in. Delilah Thomas. She pops up, and I quickly find a picture of her and the guy I saw the night I followed her. He has no Facebook account, but a picture is enough.

  Taking out my phone, I send a text.

  Me: Hey. I need you to find everything you can on this guy. First name is Nate. I’m sending you money now.

  I attach the picture and then do as I said, logging into the app and sending across three grand. The finder’s fee.

  Jase: Give me ten minutes.

  Ten minutes later and an email pings up. There’s an image of a drivers license, an arrest record of petty drug charges, and a home address. Nathaniel Hewitt. Twenty-four years old. He’s also sent me a mobile phone number and a link. Clicking on it, it’s a map, with a blinking green dot on it. He’s in Soho.

  My phone pings again.

  Jase: Heads up. Pretty sure this guy works for the Moretti’s.

  Even more reason for me to kill him. I have to wonder if Delilah knows.

  Slipping back into the bedroom, I silently get changed into a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Delilah rolls over, a soft sigh falling from her lips. She looks so small in my bed, but so right. My heart thumps heavily, and a strange feeling settles into my chest. I’ve never even bothered with women past a few nights of pleasure, never understood the concept of love. But as I look at her, so beautiful, so broken, I realise love pales in comparison to this…obsession. There’s very little I wouldn’t do to have her.

  Moving closer, I gently stroke a strand of deep brown hair away from her face. Even in sleep, she leans into my touch, and I smile, pressing my lips to her forehead.

  “I’ll make it right, sweet Delilah,” I whisper.

  * * *

  I grip the steering wheel, my teeth grinding over each other as I watch the apartment building. It’s nearly midnight, and the street is quiet. My phone is hooked into the car, and the screen on the dash shows a map of the surrounding area. I watch as that blinking green dot moves, fast enough to be a car. Closer, closer, until I finally see a black BMW come screeching around the corner at the top of the road. The engine is obnoxiously loud, breaking through the peacefulness of the street. It parks on double yellow lines, and someone gets out, walking up to the front of the building. I’m out of the car and crossing the road before he even reaches the door. Just as he slides his key in the lock, I step up behind him, palming the knife in my pocket and pressing it to the side of his throat. He stills, lifting his hands.

  “Walk inside, go to your apartment.”

  He pushes the door open and steps inside slowly. “You’re fucking with the wrong person.”

  I huff a laugh under my breath but say nothing. The kid has no idea what’s coming, and honestly, I’m not sure I do either. This rage is riding me so hard that I know I can’t trust myself to be rational or restrained, but I’m here because I don’t care. I’m not planning to kill him because killing people is messy. There’s clean up and alibis, blah, blah, blah. That said, if he happens to die, I’ll deal with it.

  He moves up a flight of stairs and the entire time, I’m right there, breathing down his neck with cold steel pressed to his throat. Once inside his apartment, my temper gets the best of me, and I punch him. Blood explodes everywhere, and he cries out, clutching his badly-broken nose. I drag him by the scruff of his neck and dump him in the armchair in his living room. It’s only when I turn the lamp on that I see the trail of rust red spots o
ver his cream carpet. Fat drops of blood, leading to the window where pieces of glass dust the windowsill and carpet.

  “That’s her blood, isn’t it?”

  He looks up at me, his hand still clutched to his face and blood now streaming down his chin and pouring into his lap. “Who the fuck are you?”

  I smile, my pulse calming and the heat in my veins dying down. The rage is still right there, but it becomes ice cold, calculating. I start picturing all the ways I could hurt him. All the ways I could make his last moments miserable.

  “You might know me as Father Kavanagh, but my real name is Judas Kingsley.” I say the words slowly, dramatically, drawing them out with a smile. There’s a reason I go by the name Kavanagh, and it’s because, in certain circles, the name Judas Kingsley comes with dire consequences. There was a time when I was every bit as feared as my brother. When I was young and foolish and wanted a reputation. His eyes narrow, and I can see the wheels turning, him piecing together everything he knows from threads of information.

  His jaw sets and his chin lifts as he pushes to his feet. “You think Delilah will make you any money?” He lets out a laugh. “You’re welcome to her.”

  I shove my hand in my pocket, sliding my fingers through the cool metal of my brass knuckles. My father’s side of the family taught me business, but my mother’s side of the family are Irish gypsies. They taught me that violence should always be brutal and memorable. Put a man down once properly, and he’ll never rise again.

  My arm swings back and smashes into his face. I smile at the satisfying crunching of his cheekbone, and the little demon that I try to keep leashed dances around his fire. My fist pulls back again and again, nailing him in the gut, the ribs, mainly body shots. And when he’s lying on the floor gasping for short breaths through cracked ribs and straining lungs, I pause. My chest rises and falls heavily, and my knuckles are bleeding where the brass has bitten into my skin. I don’t care. His blood and mine mix together, coating my fist and smearing up the length of my forearm.

  That demon is riding me hard, screaming at me to just land one last punch to his throat. Collapse his trachea, and watch him suffocate to death right before my eyes. You see, Saint and I aren’t so different. I’m just better at hiding it.

  I walk away, pacing for a few minutes. Nate just lies there. Gasping through rattling lungs. His fingers grip the arm of the couch, and I notice the splits in his right knuckles. From hitting Delilah. Glancing across the room, I spot some kind of bronze statue on his mantelpiece, an award of sorts. Picking it up, I toss it up and down in my hand, testing the weight.

  Then I grab his wrist, wrenching him forward on a cry and slamming his palm on the coffee table.

  “What are you—”

  My arm arcs high into the air, and I bring the statue down hard over his hand. I swear I can hear the bones crack, and I smile. He screams, and I slam a hand over his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Tears form and fall down his cheeks, meeting my fingers. When he finally quiets, I remove my hand, and he whimpers like a kicked dog. “Stay away from her, or I’ll make this look like a trip to Disneyland,” I growl.

  “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?” His voice is pained. I say nothing, allowing the assumption to go unchecked. “Does she know who you are?” Each word is a strained whisper.

  Dropping to a crouch, I grab a handful of his hair and wrench his head back. “You know who I am. And I know exactly who you are, who you work for, your entire tiny network. Go near her again, and I will destroy you.” I stand, sneering at him. “You should be grateful I’m showing you mercy.” I remove the knuckles and slip them into my pocket. “After all, I am a man of God.”

  When I get back to my apartment, Delilah is still asleep. I get in the shower, and the water runs red with blood: mine and Nathaniel’s. It swirls down the drain, taking the night’s events with it. I clench and release my fists, trying to dissipate the rage that’s still sitting on my chest like a lead weight. I wanted to kill him. I needed to hurt him, and that lack of control bothers me. She shouldn’t have so much power over me. I had a plan. I was going to be patient, but now he’s ruined it.

  When I finally step out of the shower, the very first rays of dawn are starting to creep over the horizon, turning the night sky grey. I slip into bed beside Delilah, pulling her against me. She settles with her back to my chest, and I kiss the side of her neck, inhaling the lingering hint of vanilla that remains on her skin. I wrap my arm around her waist, and she slides her hand over mine, holding on.

  My chest squeezes tight, and I close my eyes, feeling both peaceful and chaotic at the same time. And she’s the source of both, the cause and the consequence. She riles my demon and then she soothes him, petting him like a harmless kitten.

  I wake to the feel of something stroking over my chest. Blinking my eyes open, I glance down at Delilah with her cheek pressed to my chest and her fingers drawing circles on my other pec. If she notices the hundreds of raised lines set into the angel’s feathers, she doesn’t say.

  Her gaze is fixed on the wall, eyes distant. The bruising on her face is darker this morning, purples and blues mixing and tarnishing her smooth skin.

  “Hey.”

  She tilts her head back and looks at me. “Hey.”

  Neither of us says anything else for long minutes, and I wish I didn’t have to, but the previous night lingers there between us. I can see that she’s hurting, and I can see that she’s still scared. She goes to chew her bottom lip but winces. A fresh bead of blood wells in the split, and I brush it away with my finger.

  “He won’t come near you again, Delilah.”

  She closes her eyes, swallowing on a deep breath. “I’m sure he won’t.”

  “No, he won’t.” I accentuate my words, as I place a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “I promise.”

  “What did you do?” she whispers.

  Shifting, I force her to sit up so I can move. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and drag a hand through my hair. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Judas, what did you do?” she repeats, her palm landing on the bare skin of my back. It’s like she’s attached to the mains and a bolt of static straightens my spine.

  I stare at the wall, at the abstract piece of art that Saint gifted me when I first moved in here. He loves his art. “I’m not who you think I am.” The secrets lay between us like a minefield, and it suddenly feels impregnable. I want to tell her everything, but she’s not ready. He’s forcing my hand. Delilah may be a broken, troubled sinner, but she’s a normal girl with a normal life. But then I remember Nathaniel’s comment. You think she’ll make you money? Or perhaps sweet Delilah is far more tainted than even I’ve given her credit for.

  Her hand smooths down the length of my back. “Did…” She inhales a sharp breath. “Did Nate say anything?” There’s a tremor in her voice.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I meet her gaze. The look in her eyes, her teeth scraping over the corner of her lip. She’s scared. I watch her for a moment, reading her, seeing her.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?”

  “Knows what?”

  “Your sin.”

  Her eyes close and she drops her chin to her chest. It’s all the answer I need. He knows. He knows, and I don’t!

  Bracing my back to the headboard, I grip her waist and yank her into my lap. She gasps in surprise, her palms landing on my chest. My t-shirt rides up her thighs as she straddles me and my heart rate ticks up. Taking her face in both hands, I force her to look at me. Nowhere left to run, little lamb.

  “It’s time for you to confess, Delilah.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.” I’ve never begged for anything in my life, but I need it. I need her sin like I need air.

  “You’ll hate me, Judas. I hate me.” She chokes on her words.

  “I’ll confess mine if you confess yours,” I offer, and there it is, the culmination of what should have taken months, all out t
here. Both our sins, on the table, the ugly darkness revealed. I’ll gladly show her mine if I get to see hers.

  She drops her head forward, and as she blinks, a single tear clings to her lashes before falling to her cheek. “It’s not…it’s not the same.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re a priest, Judas. You’re good. And my sin…”

  “I’m not good, little lamb.”

  She offers me a small smile. “How could you possibly be bad?” She reaches up, stroking feather-light fingers over my lips. “You couldn’t.”

  “Little do you know, sweet Delilah,” I lean in close, nipping her earlobe, “For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.”

  16

  Delilah

  I shiver at his words as what feels like the trail of an icy finger drags down my spine. I want to confess to him, I do. I want to pour all of the ugly guilt out, just so that someone else knows, someone else can shoulder some of it, and I know Judas will. But I’m terrified that I’ll lose him. That he’ll be so horrified that he won’t be able to look at me.

  I take his right hand, tracing my fingers over the raw scabbed-over skin that rings each finger. It wasn’t there last night, I’m sure of it.

  “So you’re Satan?” I ask on a whisper. He says nothing. Our eyes lock. “Then confess to me, Judas.”

  His thumbs stroke over my jaw gently. “You first.”

  “That’s…fair.” He looks at me expectantly. Waiting. Those deep blue eyes search my soul, reading me like a book. “I don’t think I can confess to you if I see you.”

  The corner of his lip pulls into a smirk. “Really?” I nod, and he simply moves me from his lap, gets up and steps outside the room, closing the door behind him. “How about now?” he says from the other side of the door.