Fear the Wicked
Page 14
Sheriff’s Holmes’ eyes went wide once the noise stopped. “Yeah,” he answered, his voice tight and restrained. “I can have somebody there tonight.”
JACOB
Staying in the city for a full week had been a bad idea. I understood that Timothy needed time to find the music director and priest who’d abused Jericho, but it left me in a place I didn’t want to remember, surrounded by phantom voices from my past.
I’d spent the first night on the couch in my childhood home. Not able to force myself up the stairs to what had been my old bedroom, I’d laughed to myself to make a bed out in the formal living room, to think about how my mother would have screamed to know I’d mussed the room she kept so pristine just so she could pretend everything was perfect in her family and world.
After tossing and turning all night, with only small bursts of panicked sleep, I decided the following morning while I drank coffee at a small café that sleeping in the house would only be hazardous to my health. The next night, I’d rented a hotel room in some glitzy building down the street from the parish. It was the first night I’d slept solid after returning home, but the renewed energy only left me bored and idle – a man in search of something to occupy his time.
While staying with Alan, I’d allowed my desires and darkness to take me over. I’d played with those women, one right after the other, without so much as bothering to learn or remember their names. Much like when I’d been young, I used my looks to draw them in. I’d warned each and every one of them, but like most women, they’d laughed and believed I was only playing. They learned differently once climbing in my bed. I never hurt them enough to make them fear me when they left the next morning, but I gave them enough to make them think twice about climbing in my bed again. Most had been smart enough to stay away, some, however, found that they enjoyed being treated like a toy. Sure, they’d convinced themselves that it was only a game, but I knew in the backs of their heads they’d known that what I’d done to them had been wrong.
I never understood why some women believed they could change a man like me. Although I wasn’t as bad as some of the sick fucks out there, I had certain habits that any decent woman would know to avoid. But those women that wanted to fix me, the ones who’d convinced themselves that their pussy was magic enough to make me fall to my knees and beg them to be mine, they kept coming back for more regardless of the marks they carried when morning came and I showed them the door.
Some didn’t make it to morning. Many times, I couldn’t be convinced to share my bed for more than a few hours. Their body heat irritated me when I wanted to sleep. God forbid they wanted to snuggle. I was never in the game for companionship, love, or happy feelings. Women were a means to an end…
At least, until Cassandra.
She had been the first that I wanted to keep by my side. The first who didn’t cry or complain when I bruised her skin. The first who wore the marks I gave her as a badge of honor, a reminder of the type of man she was with. She hadn’t been ordinary, or the type who was easily disturbed. But in my passion for her – my love – I’d ended her life far too soon, and attempted to hide myself in the Church.
It would have worked. I could have lived the rest of my life hiding behind the misguided belief that a man like me could be saved.
Then Eve happened and my life was once again turned upside down – first with her temptation, and then with her untimely destruction at my hand.
Elijah had asked what kind of monster I am. He hadn’t been wrong to ask the question, he’d just phrased it poorly. Because, in truth, it wasn’t just me who was the monster – we both had been molded and shaped by the circumstances of our youth.
I could barely hold it against him for the manner in which he’d tormented me, but even knowing what I know about his secrets, I still needed to know precisely why I was the target of his rage.
Morning light streamed through my window on the seventeenth floor of the ridiculously glitzy hotel room in which I’d been staying. My eyes cracked open and narrowed against it, my body moving to stretch out the sore muscles from the position I’d held in sleep. Behind me, a woman mumbled in her sleep, my movement enough to rouse her as well.
I’d been too tired the night before to walk her to the door, too tired to hear her arguments or complaints when I told her she’d fulfilled the purpose I had for her. But rather than rolling over and beginning her day with the demand that she get dressed and let herself out, I glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table and convinced myself that she would be a good distraction to pass the time, a toy to be played with until I had to leave and meet Father Timothy.
Erica…or Erin…I wasn’t sure of her name, wrapped her arm over my waist, her body scooting closer against my back as if to steal what heat I could generate. My teeth clenched together at the contact, but my cock was hard. I didn’t often let that part of me dictate my decisions, but in this instance, I gave in to the flow of blood that turned a sleeping appendage into turgid and throbbing flesh.
My fingers grasped over her wrist, the strength I used to squeeze the delicate bones a warning of what I wanted to do. A soft gasp filtered over her lips, but she didn’t complain, didn’t attempt to pull away and run. I felt her large breasts press against my back, felt the well trimmed hairs between her legs tickle the skin of my ass. Her legs brushed against mine as her foot slid down my calf, lower until her foot was pressed against mine.
“Good morning,” she said with a sleepy voice, a trace of flirtation edging the words. “Are you up for another round?”
Swallowing down the burst of violence that tore through me, I squeezed her wrist a touch harder, my lips twitching with humor when she gasped again. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Soft laughter bubbled over her lips. It made me want to kick her out of the bed and shove her out the hotel room door. I refrained from reacting, and struggled not to think about what made me hate certain women so much.
It wasn’t until I returned to this town that I had the realization of why my sexual tastes were so violent – wasn’t until I’d been forced to face my past and stare into the memories of my youth. However, now that I knew, I couldn’t erase that understanding from my thoughts. Even considering it now had my cock deflating.
Erin … or Erica …whatever the hell her name was could fix that.
“You were a bit rough last night,” she cooed, “But that’s okay. I like a man who knows what he wants and is willing to take it. Any time you need a late night friend, you can certainly give me a call.”
I was drunk when I brought her back with me the night before, and because I hadn’t yet rolled over to look at her, I couldn’t tell you what she looked like. I knew my type, though, and I knew she would have long brown hair and green eyes – just like Cassandra and Eve – just like another woman who wouldn’t stick up for herself in life and spent her time cowering in a fucking corner. How sickening is it to discover that the mold for what I would eventually look for in a woman was my mother?
Not that I wanted to sleep with my mom or any sick thing like that, but I couldn’t deny I didn’t want to punish her for never coming to the defense of me or my brother. Perhaps it was the feeling of finally doing something about what was done to us, or perhaps it was something as simple as getting even for my mother’s complacency when we heard Jericho scream.
I didn’t know what she did when it was my turn down in that basement, but I assumed her blank expression and drink in her hand were just the same.
No. Fucking women who had the same features wasn’t what I was after. Nothing about my mom turned me on. But hurting them, the release that it gave me, had definitely sprung from the desire I’d had to hurt her.
Sitting up, I dropped my feet to the floor and scrubbed my face with my palms. With my bleary eyes only partially opened, I finally responded to what she’d said.
“Why don’t you come over here and kneel down in front of me? I have an idea of how you can wake me up.”
It did nothing for me but irritate me, and I had half a mind to ask her to leave. But when she was standing before me in all her naked glory, when she sunk to her knees and licked her full lips, when she tilted her green eyes up to my face, I closed my eyes and let her do her best to seduce.
Her fingers were warm against my cock and I felt the familiar rush of blood pushing me fuller, longer. Once my erection was at its largest point, she flicked the tip of her tongue over the head, teasing me with the wet torment.
My hand slid down my thigh to find her hair and fist it, the muscles in my forearm tense as I struggled not to go too far. Despite how often I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t a monster, I couldn’t forget the death in both Cassandra and Eve’s eyes once I was done.
Letting go to the full scale of my desires was dangerous and I didn’t need another body lying in my path. Eventually those crimes would catch up to me, and jail would only stop me from finding and destroying the men who’d made a mess of Jericho’s and my life.
The Music Director.
The Priest.
Elijah.
All men who hid behind the disguise of pious men, but like me, hid a monster behind their soft eyes and practiced smiles.
It was too bad I knew certain ones were out of reach.
Lips wrapped around the head of my cock, another teasing flick of the tongue, a soft moan that vibrated against my skin. My hand fisted tighter in her hair as my head fell back. As my body came to life, so did the images.
It wasn’t this woman I saw as her lips slid down the length of my shaft, it was Cassandra or Eve, the two women who hadn’t been frightened of the man I hid behind the mask. They had known the real me and loved me regardless.
Live green eyes glistening with abandon and need.
Dead eyes accusing me of having gone too far.
Angry eyes judging me as I was accused of being a monster, both in my young life, my college years, and only a few months ago.
The accusations would always follow me. The anger and violence my constant companion. And despite the faith I’d given to a God who didn’t know me, I’d hoped that, with time, the monster would die.
He hadn’t. He still infected me with the memories of my father’s beatings, the fear I saw in women’s eyes. He still taunted me with thoughts of how I could use the woman on her knees in front of me and hurt her like I’d hurt so many others.
“Stop,” I growled out, the pain and memories too much for me to bear. The woman kept going, soft laughter a vibration against my dick because she believed I was playing.
“Fucking stop!” I roared, my hand jerking her head off me so hard that her teeth scraped against my skin. She fell backwards, her ass impacting the ground with an audible thud, her blue eyes darting up to me in shock and seething anger.
“What the fuck?”
“Get out,” I whispered, trying like hell not to scream the demand. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that I could only handle sex when I was shit faced and drunk. Too many whispers were filtering in my thoughts, too many memories flashing in my mind. Too much pain, anger and regret were bleeding out of my heart to pretend like anything would be normal again.
“You need to apologize,” she answered, her shoulders rounding back so that her tits stuck out from her chest.
My lips tilted in humor. “And you need to get your fucking clothes and get the fuck out before I open that fucking door and drag you there kicking and screaming. If you don’t think I’ll toss your whore ass out the door completely fucking naked, I dare you to say another word.”
She didn’t move except to widen her eyes.
I couldn’t help the volume of my voice. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”
The anger blazing behind her gaze transitioned into fear. Without another word, she scrambled away from me, gathered her things and quickly pulled on her clothes.
“You know what you are, you son of a bitch? You’re a fucking lunatic!”
The door slammed so hard the walls of the room shook when she exited, but I didn’t care anymore. Couldn’t care when everything I’d thought I knew about my life had been destroyed.
I wanted to pretend that my anger made me powerful, but it was only another symptom of my fear. Fear of my father’s fist pounding against me. Fear of the dark, dirt floored room that had been my cage. Fear of the torture I was forced to listen to when my father turned his anger against my brother.
Fear of taking another life just because I couldn’t control myself.
I could add it all together into one dark conclusion: I wasn’t afraid of all those individual memories and moments of desolation. I was afraid that I’d lost control and become no better than my father and mother.
Jericho had regained his control when he became Elijah, and now I feared him, too.
“Fuck!”
Pushing out of bed, I stormed into the bathroom to jump in the shower. The water scalded me where it rained down from the showerhead, the steam becoming a cloud that threatened to suffocate me in the warm moisture. Breathing in deeply, I pressed my forehead against the cool tiles, my hands fisting and releasing as I fought to get myself under control.
I needed to vent the frustration and anger before it consumed me, needed to find the answers I was desperately seeking so I could at least understand what Jericho had done.
And even though Father Timothy had asked that I meet him at one in the afternoon, I knew that I couldn’t sit around and wait any longer.
Slamming my hand down on the knob, I turned off the water, dried off and got dressed. With four hours to go before the time that Timothy told me to meet him, I was out the door and climbing into the elevator knowing that I was headed to the parish despite the early hour.
It only took me thirty minutes to walk there in the busy morning traffic. When I reached those imposing doors, I hesitated for just a second before throwing them open.
Timothy was in the sanctuary, blowing out candles and lighting others. Fortunately for me, there wasn’t another soul around to hear me when I walked in.
“You’re early,” he called out, his eyes cast up to look over at me. With a hand hovering over the candle he’d intended to light, he straightened his posture and turned to face me fully.
“I couldn’t wait much longer.” My voice didn’t give away the anger I was feeling. It sounded more dead than alive. “I need to get out of this city, and the only way I can leave is to know what you have to tell me. Were you able to find the two men?”
His mouth was a tight line, his shoulders slumping with resignation. “We should discuss this in private. I need to finish up some things here in the sanctuary before I can talk with you. Why don’t you take a seat on one of the pews while I do so?”
The last place I wanted to be was in a parish pew staring up at God’s altar, but I had no choice, it appeared. By the tone of his voice, I knew it would be impossible to push Timothy to tend to his duties any faster.
The room fell into sanctimonious silence as I walked to a nearby pew and sat down on the hard wood. Leaning forward, I buried my face in my palms. I tried to convince myself I was just tired, but I knew myself well enough to know that I was hiding.
Even though I’d once been a priest with the same duties and responsibilities of the man I was waiting on, even though I’d spent countless hours in a sanctuary less dramatic and glamorous than this once, I found it difficult to be surrounded by the religious symbols and relics that were now staring me down. I wasn’t a different man just because I’d removed the clerical collar, but with each new memory of my life that surfaced, with each new secret that was unburied, I found myself becoming more jaded and angry at the concept of God.
I couldn’t even refer to that heaven
ly being as if he actually existed, not now and never again after realizing just how horrible he’d allowed my life to become.
There was no telling how much time passed before I felt a hand land on my shoulder, before I heard the soft susurration of cloth against wood as Timothy sat down.
“Is it really so hard to look up at the altar? You’ve been sitting like that for at least an hour now.”
Without moving or looking over, I answered, “It’s all a lie told to appease the masses, a pretty veil pulled over the truth that we are on our own.”
“Can I ask you something, Jacob? Just out of idle curiosity.”
Finally ripping my hands away from my face, I looked up, my gaze locking on a large gold cross positioned in the center of God’s altar. Beside it was a small, carved box, the jewels embedded in the wood glimmering beneath the soft lighting of the sanctuary. I wasn’t sure what religious relic was contained in that ornate box, but what I did know was that it was most likely priceless. The bones of a Saint. A remnant of some perfectly pious man. A lie covered as easily as a shroud that is draped over the face of a tortured Savior. I had been part of that lie when I chose to swallow it down, but now I found it difficult to stare it in the face.
“What do you want to ask?” A knot in my throat made my voice hoarse and deeper. Clearing it several times, I was able to speak again, but still I felt strangled.
Timothy allowed several seconds of silence to float between us before building the courage to ask a question I wished he had left alone.
“What happened in your life to cause you to lose faith in God?”
On any other day, I would have brushed off the question and reacted with contempt. This morning I was weaker, somehow, more willing to lay out the answers to that question only because I couldn’t make sense of them myself.
“Are you asking this as a priest would a parishioner? Can we consider this my confession?”
Timothy shifted in his seat to lean forward. With his elbows resting on his knees, he looked toward the altar while speaking to me. “If that’s what you need in order to talk. This conversation will never go beyond you or me.”