by K. Ryan
"Forget it, Benn," I just bat a hand his way and gesture back to the list on my iPad. "James Joyce was Irish. So were Bram Stoker and C.S. Lewis. Some of them wrote poetry, some of them essays and novels. Almost none of them are connected to the same literary movement in the same time period except for Stoker and Poe, who both wrote gothic stories, but that's probably just a coincidence..."
"So basically," Bennett finishes for me. "We've got nothing. Again."
Only the sound of falling water permeates the air between the three of us. Bennett rests his chin dejectedly in his palm, I chew on my bottom lip in thought, and Jack remains as statuesque as ever, staring blankly out into the expansive green courtyard.
There's one question still simmering below the surface. One question none of us have had the courage, or maybe the detachment, to ask. At this point, it might as well be me. She was my mother. I deserve to know, don't I?
"Do you think..." I trail off quietly, summoning the most accurate phrasing for the most difficult question. "Do you think my mom and Father Lindsay were—"
Jack finally snaps out of it and his stormy gaze darts to me.
"No," he pushes out in a clipped voice. "They weren't."
"But don't you think it's a little suspicious? You know, considering my dad had those postcards locked in his bottom drawer and none of them are addressed to him? The only reason my dad even has those is because of my mom. That's the only thing that makes sense. So, doesn't it make sense that her and Father Lindsay had an aff—"
"Rae!" Bennett admonishes with wide eyes and a hand at his heart. "You're talking about a priest, you know. They take vows."
"Yeah," I frown. "I know. But I think we all know not every priest follows those vows to the letter. Father Lindsay pretty much admitted he knew her. What's the other explanation, Benn?"
He falls back in his chair, shoulders slumped and at a loss for words.
Finally, Jack's hoarse voice floats from the other side of the table. "I think Father Lindsay did know her, but not how you think."
"Okay," I throw my hands up in defeat. "So what is it then?"
Jack's grey eyes meet mine. What I find in them sets all the hairs on my arms on end.
"I don't know," he murmurs. "But I think we all know who does."
CHAPTER NINE
Jack
I want to forget I ever saw those postcards. I want to forget I ever met Rae and got pulled into this mess. I want to be wrong.
God, I need to be wrong.
But even as I barrel through the entrance of St. Anthony's with a one-track mind, the evidence is too real to ignore. Too rational to be just a coincidence. My life is right on the precipice...everything I've ever known, everything I've ever believed to be true...I know it's all about to shatter right at my feet. I can't stop it. Maybe I don't want to stop it now either because I need answers just as much as she does.
And because I can't bring myself to look him in the eye and ask, I'm here instead, inside the only place where truth still lives.
The truth hit me the same way a light bulb illuminates a room. It just switched on. Everything from that point on just slid right into place: the postcards, Father Lindsay's involvement, why Moretti would have them, and finally, why Sean was there that day. Some questions are answered, others are just clouded by a darker mystery, and I want to be wrong.
But I think I might be right.
When I skid to a stop in front of Father Lindsay's office, I feel her behind me. Flanked by her protector, she has no idea what's coming and maybe that's for the best. I'm somewhere between racing for the nearest trashcan and slamming my fist into a wall. Knowing what I know, I don't think I'd wish it on my worst enemy, and that includes her.
Father Lindsay's words in that alley echo in my mind: "Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in the darkness shall be heard in the light..." I think it's time for some illumination.
He opens the door two seconds later like he was already expecting us. His face falls, his shoulders slump, and he admits defeat without even having to say it.
"Look her in the eye," I point to Rae, my voice rough with something I don't recognize, "and tell her it's not true."
Father Lindsay runs a hand over his face, but he still doesn't speak. Rae's eyes dart back and forth, trying to make sense of what's happening. She isn't free-falling the way I am just yet, but she will be.
Finally, Father Lindsay shows just a hint of the man I always believed he was and shakes his head.
"I can't," he murmurs.
There it is. Something true. Something that feels as tangible as it is abstract, but I guess that's the way the truth works. It doesn't forgive. It doesn't make excuses. It just is.
He pushes the door open a little further and gestures inside his office. Bennett and I don't hesitate, but Rae hangs back. She's finally realized that stepping inside this cramped space means stepping over the invisible line between reality and illusion. I can't blame her for pausing. I would too, if I had the luxury.
When Rae and Bennett are seated in the two chairs in front of Father Lindsay's desk, I lean against the wall with my arms folded across my chest, readying myself for the inevitable blow. At least, if anything, I have the luxury of knowing what's coming.
Father Lindsay takes his place at the desk, resting against the front of it like he can't bring himself to sit down, and he glances at me with all the things I've never noticed before: weariness, exhaustion, and guilt. So much guilt. Maybe I just pretended not to notice.
The room waits in anticipation as he takes a moment to stare a hole in the ground and I wonder if he wants to sink into that hole, to let it swallow him so he doesn't have to do this.
Finally, his tired, lined eyes snap up to Rae and a grim smile works its way across his face.
"I have to apologize for the way I behaved the first time we met," he smiles sadly. "I thought I saw a ghost."
"So you knew her," Rae whispers.
"Yah," he nods sharply. "I knew your mother. Not as well as I know your father, but I knew her."
She frowns, shifting in her chair with stiff, stilted movements. "I don't understand. I thought you didn't know my dad."
He shakes his head. "No, I can't say I've ever met Mayor Moretti. I was talking about Roark Callahan. Your father."
SHE NEVER SAW him coming. She certainly wasn't looking for him. All she'd wanted was just some time to herself for once, to go some place where she didn't have to look over her shoulder, where she didn't have anyone breathing down her neck and dictating every little moment of her life. So she finds herself at her favorite retreat, the best place on earth: the library.
Surrounded by aged paper and musty ink, she can escape. She can put on someone else's life the way she would a new pair of jeans. It feels like she's changing outfits a lot these days.
She trails leisurely down a random aisle, not caring where it leads or what she might find. The quiet is enough. The seclusion is a nice bonus.
Movement behind the stack catches her eye and when she dips down to find the source of this disruption, she stills. Sharp, sky-blue eyes stare back at her. Then the edges crinkle up, like the owner of these magnetic eyes might actually be smiling.
She whirls around until her back is facing him with a hand at her heart.
"Sorry," a deep voice murmurs behind her. "Didn't mean to scare yah."
"You didn't scare me," she lies. It rolls off her tongue too easily, but it feels good. Too good.
"Sure," he chuckles.
There's something in his voice she can't place. It's not familiar, but it sounds like a voice she's heard before, maybe only in her dreams, but it's like coming home. Like a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapping around her body, squeezing her tight, and warming her in places she wasn't sure existed.
He's said all of...what? Eight words and here she is, waxing poetic about a voice she'll probably never hear again after this day. But he's here. He hasn't walked away from her. At least not yet. Maybe she should run with it and gra
b hold of something that's always been out of reach until this moment.
She decides to test him, to see what he'll do, and steps down the aisle, keeping a hand on the shelf and her eyes on him. He doesn't disappoint.
He follows her lead and her movements, a smirk playing at his lips that reaches all the way up to his eyes. They move in unison and she's still not sure what kind of game they're playing. Cat and mouse? Something darker? More sinister? But it doesn't feel like it, not with the way he's watching her right now. There's something else, too. A fascination radiating from his eyes...maybe she's not really going crazy. Maybe this is real.
"Which book were yah lookin' for?"
She holds up the book the way she would a prized possession and he whistles softly.
"Bronte, huh?" His eyes seem lighter than they did before. "I guess I shoulda known you'd like that stuff."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She shoots back playfully, surprised by her own forwardness. This isn't like her, but something about him brings it out in her.
His eyebrows lift into his forehead as they continue their easy walk down the aisle. "Nothin'. You just seem like...I don't know, one of those girls who's smart enough to read those kind of books. That's all."
Oh, great, she thinks. Now I feel like a jerk.
She tilts her chin up to steal a glance at him and that's when she notices the red welt on his cheek and the smattering of purple underneath his left eye.
"What happened to your face?" she blurts out without thinking.
He just lifts a shoulder like it's nothing.
Okay. Maybe that was a little forward, considering they've been talking for literally two minutes. But he's still here, watching her with that soft smirk playing across his lips as they inch further and further toward the end of the aisle.
"So, um," she tucks some auburn hair behind her ear in a wasted effort at camouflaging how nervous he makes her. "What book were you looking for?"
He holds up a copy of Stephen King's latest book, The Dark Tower, and shrugs. "What can I say? I like the local guys."
She mulls it over and frowns back at him. "Local? Stephen King isn't from Boston, is he? Isn't he from Maine or something like that?"
"Eh," he waves a hand. "Close enough."
Silence seizes the air between them, but it isn't an awkward one. There's an electric charge between them that's so palpable, she'd probably be able to reach out and skim her fingers along its edges. His eyes never leave hers as they tip-toe up to the end of their respective stacks and then there's no obstacle between them anymore. Only a little bit of space that she wishes she had the nerve to close.
He does it for her and that smirk deepens into a full-blown smile as he holds a palm out to her.
"My name's Roark."
She sucks in a deep breath—this is just a moment. A drop in the ocean. One of many moments she'll have in her life. But this feels like so much more. It holds her in place and she hesitates for only a moment, not because she's scared, but because she's absolutely terrified. He's the kind of boy you could get lost in. The kind of boy you could give everything to without a second thought.
So, she takes his hand.
"I'm Jillian."
"ARE YOU SURE this is okay?" she asks, clinging desperately to his hand as he leads her through throngs of sweat, beer, and screams.
For the first time since she got into his car, she's beginning to rethink the most impulsive and reckless thing she's ever done in her life. The makeshift boxing ring in the center of the bar, where two guys pummel each other with spit and blood flying everywhere, says as much. But he asked her if she wanted to go somewhere with him and for the life of her, she couldn't tell him no.
"You'll be fine," he calls over his shoulder. "Nothing's gonna happen to you 'cause you're here with me."
This is so far out of her element it's not even funny. Not to mention the fact that if her parents ever got a whiff of where she was, let alone what kind of boy she was with, they'd never let her leave the house again. And maybe that's why she's here. After tonight, she'll probably never see him again, so why shouldn't she embrace recklessness for once instead of always focusing on what's appropriate? This feels right, even if it scares her. Even if it doesn't last.
He leads her to the other side of the bar and bumps fists with another guy, who has his other arm wrapped around a petite, painfully gorgeous girl with the most unusual grey eyes she's ever seen. The girl smiles at her as they approach and suddenly, she wants to turn and run. She doesn't fit in here. She'll never be as self-possessed and confident as the girl in front of her.
Almost as if he can sense her thoughts, Roark wraps his free arm around her shoulders and pulls her in closer as he gestures to the couple in front of them.
"This is my buddy, Shane Flynn, and his girl, Jess," he lifts his chin to each one. "This is Jillian Walker."
Shane's dark eyebrows lift into his forehead as he takes a long pull from his beer bottle. It's sort of a wonder he's even physically capable given the deep purple bruises coloring the left side of his face. "Walker? As in Judge Walker?"
Her cheeks flush with embarrassment because this was exactly what she'd wanted to avoid. No matter what she does or how hard she tries, she'll always be Judge Walker's daughter. The arm around her shoulder tightens protectively and then she hears his gruff voice above the roar of the crowd.
"Hey, she's with me, okay? Leave it alone."
Shane holds up the hand wrapped around his beer and she hopes that's all the mention her dad will get for the rest of the night. She didn't come here to talk about him. She came here to be with Roark.
Now he leans in and his warm breath in her ear sends a shiver down her spine. "Me and Shane? We're gonna own this whole place someday. We're gonna fix it up, rename it somethin' wicked cool—"
"And Irish!" Shane butts in and they fist bump again.
"And Irish," Roark whispers in her ear with a light laugh. "And then it'll be ours. We'll be the ones runnin' these fights and callin' the shots. No one will be able to take that away from us."
"You fight too?"
He gestures with his free hand toward his face. "You asked what happened to my face, right? Now you know."
Shane tilts his beer good-naturedly toward the ropes in the center of the bar. "Just yah wait 'til you see your boy in there."
She doesn't have to wait long.
A bell dings from behind them and Roark darts forward, presses a warm kiss on her cheek, and takes off with a wink. Time seems to pass in slow motion then: he swings a leg around the side of the ropes, ducks under, and unbuttons his shirt. Her cheeks are still hot from the feel of his mouth on her skin and the sight of his finely-tuned, sinewy muscles sets them aflame. He bounces up and down in place, tossing his neck from side to side, and pounds his bare knuckles together. When the bell goes off again, he circles his opponent as the crowd waits in silence for someone to make the first move.
Suddenly, Roark's opponent lunges forward, swinging his first around to connect right with his jaw. Roark's head snaps back violently and she jumps at the loud crack, her heart lodged in her throat. But he doesn't take long to retaliate—when his opponent swings again, he easily dodges the blow, leveling a one-two punch right into his jaw.
It was amazing—she'd known Roark had some brawn underneath all that flannel, but she'd had never guessed it would be like this. The way he moves around the ring...there's an athleticism there she hadn't expected and something predatory about it, too. And his sweat-sheened, rippling muscles are a sight to behold. She can't take her eyes off him.
After the victory march, they're back in Roark's beat-up Charger. Rain pelts the car on all sides, but he just turns the radio up a little to drown out the sound.
"So how'd you like your first fight?"
The way he says first, it almost sounds like he's implying there will be more. Just the thought of it shoots a wave of excitement all the way down to her toes.
"It was...interesting."<
br />
His lips curl up into a knowing smile and his free hand threads through hers. With only the music of the rain and the radio, they drive in silence, hand in hand, until the next song makes her smile.
"You like this song?" he murmurs.
Her shoulders swivel a little to the beat and she hums along, loving the way his hand tightens around hers. Suddenly, he breaks out into song: "Every little thing she does is magic...everything she do just turns me on..."
Every single syllable is off-tune, but that just makes her laugh even harder. He pounds a hand on the steering wheel and keeps right on singing. Now she's bouncing in her seat, bopping to the music, and even shaking her shoulders as she sings along with him.
"Hey," he calls out to her above the music. "You wanna dance?"
"What?" she laughs.
Not even a second later, he pulls over to the side of the road, leaps out of the car, throws her door open, and tugs on her arm to coax her out into the pouring rain. It only takes a little convincing, though, because the laughter in his eyes is too palpable to resist. With The Police blaring through the speakers, he twirls her around in the rain, spinning her around and around, lifting her up in his strong arms, and she raises her hands to the sky, high from the rain and drunk on him.
When he sets her back down, she slides down his body, but his hands never leaves hers. His thumb brushes her cheek and tilts her chin up. Even through the sheets of water, she can still see the question in his sky-blue eyes. Then he leans down and presses his warm lips against hers. His touch is everywhere, leaving trails of smoke and fire in its wake.
If she could just live in this moment for the rest of her life, she could die happy.
WHEN HER DAD catches her sneaking out of the house, he steals the truth from her in less than a minute. Lying has never come naturally to her, at least not until she met Roark, but she can't bring herself to look her dad in the eye and lie to him. It doesn't matter what she says, though, because he won't listen. It doesn't matter that being with Roark lights up her world, gives her something to live for, something to hope for. It doesn't matter that he feels the same way. Her father won't stand for it—won't see his daughter 'caught up with some street fighter'.