Blessed: A Bad Priest Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I try to focus on my book, but his eyes burn my skin. I glance up at him. He stands with his hands hanging loosely by his sides, body slightly turned, staring at me. I shift in my seat and rake my hair back with my fingers. I read two pages without taking in a single word.

  He's still staring at me. Every time I look up, my eyes meet his dead on. He isn't even ashamed about it. His stare is disconcerting. He looks like he has every right to stare, like whatever I'm doing is exactly his business. It makes me uncomfortable. But I guess I started it.

  I read two more pages without seeing a single word. My attention is on the stranger with the dangerous eyes. I'm not looking at him, but I know exactly where he's standing when he steps forward along with the line that is waiting to order. I know what he looks like without having to look again. He's handsome, I can tell, even when I'm not glancing up at him, that his easy confidence is well earned. He has nothing to hide with his careless blond hair and smoldering dark eyes.

  What's his problem? Surely, we are square now? He’s made his point. I turn around in my chair so that my back is to him and faced the other way. I'm not going to look at him, and he has no reason to look at anything other than my back, either.

  I manage to focus on my book again. Freud is going into depth about dream analysis. I reread the same two pages, concentrating on what I'm reading this time. Someone sits down right next to me. When I look up, I look right into his eyes.

  I drown in the deep, dark depths of them. I shudder.

  "The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life." His voice is deep and smooth like velvet.

  "What?" I ask.

  He nods to my book. "Freud."

  Did he just quote the father of psychology to me?

  "Are you a fan?" I ask.

  "Of doing things rather than dreaming?"

  I shake my head. "Of Freud."

  He shakes his head and smiles. His teeth are too white to be real.

  "Only when his theories suit me."

  I raise my eyebrows. "That’s a glib way of living."

  His smile doesn't fade. He sits sideways in the chair, one hand resting on his leg, fingers relaxed. The other hand is on the table, holding loosely onto the cup of coffee he just ordered.

  He doesn't respond. He doesn't leave. He sits next to me as if he’s been invited, looking at me with a stare that makes me feel naked.

  "Don’t you think Freud’s theories are outdated?" he asks.

  One sentence, and I have my back up. "If he was outdated, the field of psychology wouldn’t be based on his findings."

  The stranger shrugs. "He suggests that we’re all programmed to function a certain way, and that’s it. We have to play the hand we’ve been dealt."

  I ought to tell him off. I should tell him to leave. He's rude and invasive.

  "You don’t believe that we're all put together in a way that can be understood?"

  "I believe in free will," he says.

  I can't tell him off. He's so comfortable in his own skin; it makes me uncomfortable in mine. How do you tell someone they're wrong when their existence screams that they believe they're right?

  Yes, he's probably using all the right cues. He knows his body. He’s mastered the language of speaking without words. It doesn't mean anything.

  He is also incredibly hot. I see men often, but I rarely want to look twice. He smiles at me as if he knows what I'm thinking. His eyes make me uncomfortable, like they're looking into my soul.

  I clear my throat. "Was there something you meant to tell me?" I ask. "A reason why you’re sitting here?"

  He shakes his head. His eyes never stray. He doesn't look out the window, or at his hands, or at the floor. His gaze is unfaltering.

  "The chair was empty."

  "So, you invited yourself to join me?"

  He looks around for the first time, taking in the other patrons.

  "I wasn’t interested in anyone else."

  I can't help myself. I blush. Heat creeps up from my collar, and I know my cheeks are bright red. To confirm my suspicions, he grins broadly.

  "Who are you?" I ask. Anything to get the attention away from me.

  "Thomas," he says. Such a classic name. "Thomas Silber."

  Classic and foreign.

  "Nicole," I say. "Shoemaker."

  "That’s German, you know."

  I nod. I was aware that I had German blood somewhere in my lineage. "Everyone in America was someone else, once, before they became Americans."

  Thomas shrugs. It's a beautiful shrug, confident without being offensive.

  "What is a beautiful woman like you doing indoors on a day like this?" he asks, gesturing toward the window.

  I laugh. "Did you just use a line?" I ask.

  "Yes," Thomas says. "I did. No good?"

  I shake my head. "Ordinary men use lines."

  "And I’m not ordinary?" he asks with the ghost of a smile lingering around his lips.

  I shake my head. "You’re not."

  Thomas nods and shifts in his seat, sipping the coffee he bought.

  "You choose your words carefully," he says.

  "Why use many words when only a few will do?"

  Thomas smiles. "Did you just use a line?" he asks, mimicking me. I shake my head.

  He has a beautiful smile. It spreads slowly across his face. It makes me feel like it's because of me. I know the tactic.

  "I'm doing recommended reading for my course, if you must know," I say. "I’m studying psychology."

  Thomas nods. "That explains why you’re a fan of Freud."

  "I’m not a fan of Freud. He’s the father of psychology, the first person to really analyze the relationship between the conscious and subconscious mind. Saying I’m a fan suggests there are those who have an aversion to him."

  Thomas’s eyes are on me, and they're intense. "Aren’t there?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "That’s like saying you’re a fan or a hater of Florence Nightingale when today’s healthcare is largely due to her efforts. It’s not something people disagree with."

  "But healthcare doesn’t suggest who you are. Psychology does."

  I narrow my eyes at him. "I think your ‘aversion’ isn’t for Freud. It’s for anyone who might tell you who you should or shouldn’t be."

  Thomas sips his coffee. I'm starting to think he’s only come into the coffee shop to stare at me, and he’s only joined me to pick a fight.

  "You’re very observant, Miss Shoemaker."

  "Nicole, please."

  "Nicole," Thomas says. I like the way he rounds his lips to say my name, and I like the way it sounds in his mouth. He says it like it isn't just an ordinary name but something exotic.

  "What do you do?" I ask.

  "I just finished my MBA at Columbia. This summer, I'm a free man."

  "This is the second time you’ve mentioned freedom," I say.

  "Are you counting my words? Freedom isn’t noticed enough these days."

  I chuckle. "We’re the freest country in the world. We have rights and equality and choices. If that’s not free, what is?"

  Thomas nods slowly. His eyes are on his coffee cup now. He turns it around and around.

  "Choices," he says. I wait for him to carry on talking and finish the sentence he started.

  He doesn't.

  I closes the book I'm reading.

  "Do you believe that?" Thomas asks, nodding toward the book.

  "What?"

  "That your dreams are a product of your subconscious?"

  I nod. "It makes sense."

  "So, how does it work when someone is the man of your dreams?"

  This guy is smooth, I have to give him that. I smile. "I don’t know. How does it work? I don’t think such a man exists."

  He laughs. It's unashamed, carefree, and genuine. "You’re something else, Nicole."

  I don't know why that makes me blush again. I know I'm different than everyone else, from the way I see my
studies to the way I see men. When Thomas says it, though, he makes it sound like a compliment.

  I hook my hair behind my ears with my fingers. His eyes are on me again, intense as before, and I feel self-conscious.

  "Where do you study?" he asks.

  "NYU," I say. "I’m moving into clinical psychology now. You know, hospital work."

  "Why?" he asks. There's no double meaning, no pretense or judgment behind that question. He wants to know.

  "There are too many people that need help and not enough who want to help them."

  "Help them with what?" he asks.

  "With what they’re struggling with. Their pasts, their minds. With being trapped. I believe you understand that."

  He nods and his expression changes to something I don't understand.

  "I do," he says in a soft voice.

  What is it about this man? He's intriguing beyond anyone I’ve ever met. He's straightforward but also a riddle, all at the same time.

  He stretches his arm out and bends it at the elbow to look at the time.

  "I have to go," he says and stands up.

  My stomach sinks. I hadn’t wanted him to sit next to me. Now, I don't want him to leave.

  "Can I get your number?" he asks. "If you’ll let me, I can take you out somewhere, and we can argue the reasons for our existence."

  I smile. He's insufferable and irresistible.

  "All right," I say. I reach for a napkin and write my name and number on it. I hand it to him. He grins again, a smile that can mean a thousand things.

  He folds it and puts it in his pocket.

  "Nice to meet you, Nicole, the psychologist," he says and walks away. I watch him all the way to the door. He doesn't look over his shoulder once before he disappears.

  Thomas

  I unlock my apartment door and step inside, flicking on the lights to the kitchen. I put the napkin with Nicole’s number on it on the counter. I might call her. I might not.

  This girl is different. I like them when they're different. There's nothing like a challenge to spice things up. How long would it take me to get her into bed with me? About the time it would take me to get her to shut up, if I had to guess.

  Different works for me because I'm different. Challenge aside, it makes me feel like less of an oddball. How ordinary could the crown prince of a country be? I will never be like the people I spend all my time with. If they don't fit in either, it makes me stand out less.

  Nicole is a smart one. The smart ones are always harder, but so much more fun. And so much more interesting. Maybe I'll call her. The thought of breaking down her defenses and making her scream my name gets me hard just thinking about it. She would be a satisfying conquest.

  My phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket. Jessica’s name flashes on the caller ID. She hasn't been one of the smart ones. In fact, she can't even take a hint. I consider not answering, like I usually do, but I need to put a stop to this. She needs to leave me the fuck alone.

  "What?" I ask when I push talk.

  "Is that how it’s going to be?" she asks.

  I nod even though she can't see me. No matter what I do, I can't get rid of her. She's one of the few women I regret sleeping with.

  "What do you want, Jessica?"

  "I’ve been trying to call you," she says.

  "I know." I’ve watched the phone ring every time.

  "Why aren’t you answering?"

  I sigh and walk to the living room, sinking into an armchair.

  "Because I don’t want to talk to you," I say.

  I pick up the remote and put the television on mute on the sports channel. I missed the Jets-Broncos game. Highlights flash on the screen. They're much more interesting than anything Jessica has to say.

  "Why are you being like this?" Jessica asks. "I thought we had something."

  "Well, you thought wrong. And that was six months ago. I know I’m good in bed, but damn, why can’t you just move on?"

  "Because it meant something to me, Tommy," she whines.

  I grit my teeth. "Don’t fucking call me that." Some girls think baby talk is cute. I don't. "Look, we had some fun together, but I made it clear from the start that I didn’t want something serious."

  "I can’t help how I feel about you," she says.

  "Yeah, and I can’t help how I feel about you," I say. "And what I feel is nothing."

  I tip my head back, leaning against the cushion of the chair. Jessica's like a laxative. She irritates the shit out of me. She doesn't know when, or how, to stop. I’ve ignored her, I’ve told her off gently, I’ve been mean, and I’ve been downright cruel. I’ve done everything to let her know there'll never be anything real between us, but she's too stubborn or too stupid to listen.

  I don't do relationships. I don't even make love. I fuck. A lot. I don't want to get tied down to anyone. I've had enough commitments in my life.

  "How can you say that?" she asks. "I know you feel something for me."

  "Seriously, Jessica, you need to move on," I say. "Find yourself a nice guy or a decent vibrator. Whatever the hell it takes to get past this. Nothing is going to happen between us."

  "I can’t just move on, and you know it, Thomas," she says. At least she's using my full name. Progress. "I’m in love with you."

  I can't help but smile. "You’re in love with me?" I ask. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

  "Don’t be a dick about it. If you had a heart, you would know what it means when someone steals it."

  I chuckle. "Listen, if I stole your heart, let me give it back. And if you’re trying to insult me, it won’t work."

  "I’m trying to tell you I love you."

  I laugh at her. I don't even try to hide it.

  "You don’t love me, Jessica. You love the idea of me. It’s lust and desperation. Not love."

  "Why are you always such an asshole to me?"

  I move to sit on the edge of the couch. This conversation is boring me. We're just retracing the same old arguments we have before. I want to get rid of her and move on with my life. At least, she is just calling now and not arriving at my front door anymore. She's the one girl I should've never brought home. Having her know where I lived was the biggest mistake.

  "You think I’m being an asshole?" I ask, laughing. "This is me being nice. You don’t want to see what I’m like when I’m an asshole."

  "Don’t you believe in love at first sight?" she asks, ignoring my answer.

  I scratch my head. "Love is an illusion. Lust is just chemistry. Put friendship and lust together, and people call it a relationship. It’s a waste of time. Do me a favor. Fall in love with someone else. And don’t bother me again."

  "You’re such a dick," she says, as she’s told me so many times.

  "Yes, that’s the point I’m trying to make," I say. "A dick is all I'll be. That’s never going to change."

  "You have no heart."

  "You already said that. Now you’re just going in circles."

  Jessica has been one of those girls who played hard to get. I liked it. Most girls fall into bed with me the moment I ask. It's my face that does it. I never tell them who I really am. I’d never get a moment’s peace if women knew whom I was.

  "You’re really just going to tell me off like that?" Jessica asks. Her voice quivers.

  "Goddammit, Jessica, you better not be crying."

  "I’m not!" she says, clearly crying.

  This has escalated way too quickly for me. I'm done. I don't want to play these stupid games anymore. Time to get serious. Again.

  "Jesus, Jessica. Show some self-respect. I never told you I wanted anything more than sex."

  "You never told me I was just going to be a booty call, either."

  "Look," I say. "You’re a good-looking girl, and you’re a wildcat in bed." I have to be careful with the number of compliments I lay on this one. She takes everything to heart. But she's really been fantastic in bed. She has a body to die for, hourglass figure, tight ass, and selfless attitu
de, so she's given me everything I wanted. "There’s someone out there who will appreciate you."

  "I don’t want someone else," she says.

  "Well, I do. So get your shit together and deal with it. I have to go, Jessica. I have a call on the other line. Don’t ever call me again."

  "Can’t we just be friends, then?"

  "No Jessica. If you don’t stop calling me, I’m going to have your number blocked."

  "You can’t do that to me!" she cries out.

  "I can, Jess. And I will." It would be easy for someone of my stature to make it happen. I don't have to pull strings. I have people who pull strings for me. I hang up the phone before she says anything else. A great couple of nights in bed isn't worth all of this drama. Did she think she could guilt me into loving her?

  I get up and walk to the bedroom, leaving my phone on the coffee table. I’ve had enough of people for one day.

  In the bedroom, I strip off my clothes and put them in the hamper. Someone always comes to collect my laundry. I walk naked to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The spray is hot when I step under it, hitting my skin like thousands of pins and needles. I let it run through my hair and over my back and shoulders.

  I think about Elanda, the kingdom where I grew up. I go back every Christmas to be with my family, but it isn't my home. Not even with me being the crown prince. I’ve been in schools and universities in New York all my life. I was given nothing but the best education, all in preparation for me taking over one day.

  I'm next in line to take the throne. Most people would be excited about being king someday, but not me. I didn’t choose this path for my life. Through sheer luck, good or bad, I’ve been born into this. Nobody asked me what I wanted for my future, and nobody cared. It was probably better that they didn’t ask me. I would've told them to go fuck themselves.

  How am I supposed to rule a kingdom I don't give a shit about? If my father wants me to love my homeland, he shouldn’t have sent me away for most of my life. Worse than that, my father wants me to settle down and produce an heir.

  I don't want that life. Any of it. Not ruling, not marrying, not settling. Would I be forced into an arranged marriage, like something out of the Middle Ages? Would my father try to pair me up with German or French nobility? Anything could happen, and I have little to no choice in the matter.