Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  She moans loud and long.

  “You called, baby?”

  I reach around and work her nub but leave it about the time she begins to push back trying to ride my cock.

  Her huff makes me laugh and that brings a moan deep inside her.

  I thrust and pull and when she begins to reach between her legs, I wet my thumb in my mouth and press it into her perfect ass.

  She falls to her chest against the bed, no longer fighting but taking, soaking up pleasure, not wrestling to get it.

  When I reach around and begin working her clit, she moans and chokes out, “Too much. It’s too much. Everywhere.”

  She explodes, pulling me in deeper. I keep at her clit. I keep at her ass. I keep up my thrusts but twist as I pull out and when she explodes again, I give in and come too, letting her pussy take me over the edge.

  Ecstasy.

  I lean over her back, exhausted, sweating, sated.

  “Happy New Year, Sirona.”

  “Happy New Year, Sean.”

  Thirty-Six

  January is a blur of orgasms, winter storms, puppy training, and various king-cake inspired recipes.

  I learn to make Irish stews while Sirona works on baking bread in a whole new climate.

  I finally buy a treadmill and put it in the garage. I hate treadmills, vastly prefer open-road running, but Irish stews, king cakes, and homemade bread mean I need it. Sirona doesn’t know how to make a dozen cupcakes; she only knows how to make five dozen. The treadmill at this point is a necessity.

  We also spend January doing things that people do in relationships when they start dating. We’ve done everything backward: meet, move across the globe, make a family, fall in love. It’s peculiar, but you have to know someone’s birthday and food allergies and stuff.

  It also gives me a chance to be known. Aside from Bobby, there aren’t a handful of people who do. To be perfectly frank, I need to know me too.

  Killing Calabrese took a load off me that was like removing an anvil hanging above my head. The dark cloud of his existence hung over me for so long, its removal is a blinding sunshine in my life. But it shines a light into an almost empty existence.

  Eating and fucking all day would, eventually, bore me. I guess anyway. I’m not there yet.

  At night, in bed, after we take care of baser needs, Sirona tells me about snippets of her life, stories of her growing up in New Orleans, stories of explosive doughs on her mother’s ceiling during early fails at baking, being self-taught, and wanting desperately to go to France to study.

  She tells me tales of Clara from her birth until last spring when I got to know her.

  She cries, sometimes missing home. Two and half months in is just long enough to have that vacation feeling wear off and the permanence of being on the run settle in.

  I tell her about my father and I share about my baker and potter mother. I tell her stories of New Orleans in the summers when I was a kid.

  I tell her about my father’s ill-gotten fortune and the security we have. She’s never not needed to work. And with Calabrese stealing from her, she’s always worked harder than necessary to bring home less than she earned.

  She sometimes wonders aloud about whether he can find us, whether she’s safe, whether Clara will be orphaned.

  I don’t tell her she doesn’t need to fear Enzo Calabrese anymore. I’ve never told her he’s dead. I couldn’t stand her looking at me and knowing I’m a killer and that it’s me she should be fearing.

  I don’t tell her about the priest, or child abusers and the like I’ve offed in my quest to make the world a little safer for my small, but loved, family of sorts.

  I don’t tell her anything I ever heard in the confessionals or stories I shouldn’t know from my time in New Orleans. And I never ask about her times in the confessional, the tears, the despair. It feels like a betrayal to her that I would know and she would not have meant to tell me.

  On a random Thursday, I leave Killian’s house after delivering yet another batch of cupcakes to him. The snow isn’t just falling, it’s almost a whiteout. It is gorgeous and peaceful and blankets everything in white. It also muffles all sounds except for my shoes crunching over icy sprigs of grass and brush.

  I look up and stare. Gray surrounds me, white puffs cascade down from gray skies. The silence and peace are almost deafening. And, in this moment, I say a quiet prayer of thanks for this new life. The calm, the bliss of happiness, for Sirona and Clara, and what is yet to come.

  It feels like it was all too easy. New Orleans feels miles away and Thanksgiving week like a memory whose edges want to blur. I can almost sense the end of my angst and worry as it drifts away. For some reason, I want to sing Dobie Gray and reach into my coat pocket to grab my phone to find “Drift Away” on YouTube when I notice a text from Bobby. No, not a text. Three.

  Bobby: Where are you? Need to talk.

  Bobby: This is not a drill.

  Bobby: Call me.

  Bobby: [Picture Message. Unable to Load]

  I stop dead. These came in almost an hour ago. The last, thirty minutes ago, is simply a box around an image that hasn’t loaded since my signal isn’t strong enough and I need Wi-Fi.

  I dial Bobby only to get a fast busy signal. Staring at my phone it shows the call unable to connect.

  I make my way to the house, constantly trying Bobby to no avail, until I hit the outskirts of my Wi-Fi range and am able to connect.

  “What’s up?”

  “Seriously? An hour later and that’s your greeting?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, Bobby. Just seeing your messages and called as soon as I could.”

  “Then you haven’t seen it?”

  “Not yet. Looking now.” I pull the phone away from my face and stare down at my phone. Ice slides from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet, freezing my blood, and killing my Dobie Gray mood.

  What the fuck?

  “What the fuck, Bobby?”

  “That’s what I thought. Came in today’s mail. It has a New Orleans postmark, but no return address. Sent to your house in South Carolina and forwarded here as we’d arranged.”

  “But that’s…”

  “That’s a series of photos of you with Clara on your lap. The envelope included a news article about pedophilic priests being sought by the NOLA PD and the Diocesan offices for questioning. It also discusses the murder of another priest within the diocese who was being counseled on his behavior.”

  “Counseled. Yeah, well—”

  “Sean...” He drifts off for just a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. “It came with a note.”

  “Betting I don’t want to know.”

  “You don’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

  “It simply says, I know what you’ve done.”

  Fuck!

  “Betting you never thought you were taking on all of this when I dropped that two-fifty on your desk.”

  “Sean, I love you like a brother, but, no, never saw all this coming.”

  We sign off a few minutes later and I stare back up into the sky. That peaceful gray now seems oppressive, angry, and aggressive.

  I barely fall asleep that night. Shit is bad. I have no idea who knows what, but someone followed me enough to have pictures, too many and over many weeks, of me with Clara. Holding hands, sharing cupcakes, all of it.

  A simple Google search reveals that NOLA TV stations are all over the disappearance of a priest and a young girl that he checked out of her preschool, and that her mother has vanished. Foul play is suspected. My picture is everywhere, as are others of Clara and me, many without Sirona in them.

  This shit just keeps getting worse and worse.

  It says that Sirona Dugas vanished off the face of the earth, leaving everything behind including her car, business, apartment, and phone and poof!—gone. She had five one-way tickets to Stateside airports. Customs search shows she never landed anywhere.

  How Killian pulled that shit off, I’ll never k
now, but I’m grateful.

  I fall into a fitful sleep with vivid red dreams of cackling, maniacal laughs and bug-eyed villains.

  I wake with Sirona’s mouth on my cock. She hates when I buck into her mouth so I use all my available concentration to hold my thighs stiff and just soak in the pleasure, coming out of my tortured nightmares and into the best of all living dreams.

  She’s sucking hard, moving quickly. Her typical finesse isn’t there, but sucking me off doesn’t require it. It’s good and I’m enjoying the fuck out of it so much that I shove my fist into my mouth and bite down to stop my moans.

  It’s a desperate blow job and as soon as I feel the tears on my thighs, I slide my hands under Sirona’s arm pits and tug her up my body.

  “Baby? Baby, what’s wrong?”

  She falls on my mouth, fighting to be closer. I sit up and gently pull her away, trying to get to the bottom of what’s going on.

  Her tears come and she lifts from her knees near mine and climbs over me, straddling me and takes my cock, guiding me inside, and sinks down. She doesn’t move or lift herself off, she just rocks.

  I’m seated deep and surrounded by her, but confused at the turn in this moment.

  “Sirona, baby. Need you to talk to me.” I brush her hair back and look into her eyes.

  Her forehead meets mine and she rocks, breathing in my exhales and holding my neck as if it’s a lifeline.

  “Baby?”

  Her reply sends me reeling.

  “If something happens to me, I want you to take care of Clara. Promise me, Sean. I need to know she’ll be safe. I need to know you’ll protect her and love her and—”

  That sentence is never finished because I kiss her deeply and lay her onto her back, never losing our connection. I make love to her, hard and driving, looking into her eyes the whole time.

  We never say another word through our lovemaking, but the connection is deep and moving.

  When we’re done, I turn her in my arms, spoon in behind her, and wrap my arms around her torso. I’ve surrounded her, giving her the protection she so desperately needs.

  “Is there any reason I can’t adopt her?”

  Sirona’s body goes stiff and she curls in on herself, sobbing quiet tears.

  “Baby?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Oh.” The rejection from her denial cuts me like a blade, gutting me.

  When my silence lingers too long, she rolls in my arms and takes in my face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sad that she can’t be mine. At least legally. She is mine in every way that counts, but legally…” I trail off.

  “Why can’t she be?”

  “You just said no.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You shook your head and I thought…”

  “Her biological father signed away his rights.”

  “So, can I?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Woman!” I grumble.

  She laughs the easy laugh of someone not weighed down.

  Then I take her again—less rough this time, but still fast and hard—needing her, giving myself to her, taking from her.

  When we’re done, I tell her I’ll make the call first thing.

  When I get Bobby on the phone, I can just picture him shaking his head.

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon and certainly not with this kind of news, but I’m happy for you, Sean. Truly happy.” He surprises me by barking out a laugh.

  “You know that she and Trey are the same age?”

  We chat for several minutes about life and family, never mentioning yesterday’s conversation. He promises to take care of Clara’s adoption. I ask him to keep it quiet if he can. No need to draw attention to our little family.

  Thirty-Seven

  It isn’t in Sirona’s nature to not celebrate a holiday. She’s not the in-your-face streamers-and-balloons type, but she is the celebratory meal with a mention of why she, or in this case, we, are celebrating.

  Ireland is celebrating Skelliking Day, its version of Mardi Gras. Obviously, we are missing the sheer decadent, over-the-top party that only New Orleans, and maybe, Rio know how to the throw. We’ve had King Cake in our house since the Twelfth Night anyway, but today she went all out.

  Not traditionally Irish, certainly, but our Cajun feast is laid out before us. Seafood gumbo, potato salad, and homemade, crusty French bread sit alongside a green salad and meat pies. Our spread is overzealous, but it is Sirona and Clara’s first Mardi Gras away from home. We’ve built a beautiful life here in Ireland, and it has quickly become home to our family.

  The warm richness of the gumbo hits my tongue and I’m transported to New Orleans, to its second lines, to its ‘Throw me something, Mister!,’ to its jazz. I miss the music, but a little Louis Armstrong can get me there quickly. So on goes Satchmo, peppered with traditional Mardi Gras music available on YouTube and sent throughout the house by the sound system.

  Killian has taken his sweet time acclimating to family dinners and a four-going-on-sixteen-year-old girl. After losing his wife almost fifteen years ago, he’s embraced the life of an old curmudgeon. Since everything about Clara is sunshine and unicorns, she repels his grumpiness. He loves it and loathes it at the same time.

  He and his wife weren’t able to have children, so having a ready-made family dropped into his peaceful country home shook up what vestige of peace he had in life. But I think he’s coming around. His smiles are more frequent and his growls no longer have sharp edges. I’d love to say it’s my presence, but we’d both agree it’s Sirona’s sweet nature, Clara’s exuberance, and the daily cupcakes. I’m lagniappe.

  I also discovered that Sirona puts leftover meals together for him and walks them up the hill a couple of times a week. She does full spreads. Seriously. The man hasn’t grocery shopped or cooked since we got here. His little winks in her direction tell me he’s smitten by her kindness and generosity. She loves family and finally has some back. He does too.

  Hagrid gets treats under the table from Killian. None from the rest of us, so my uncle has a willing partner in crime sitting at his feet, dusting the floor with his tail, waiting patiently for a scrap of something or other to fall into his eager mouth.

  My text tone chimes when we’re finishing up dessert of homemade cannoli, but I don’t grab it right away. We clear the table and begin the dishes. Lather, rinse, repeat. Seems like we do a lot of dishes. I won’t complain about that seeing as I had years of meals alone, dishwashers that rarely saw any action, and lots of frozen meals. Getting real meals with real people and enjoying the conversation the whole time is something I hope I never come to complain about.

  When my phone dings a second time I excuse myself and slide to unlock it and see two messages from Bobby.

  Bobby: Got a second?

  Bobby: Need to talk with you. It’s important.

  Me: Give me five?

  Bobby: Done.

  I mention to Sirona that Bobby needs to chat and tell her I’ll be right back, kissing her briefly, and head to the study to give him a call.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?

  “Dude, no clue how to tell you this, but I got a call from the fire department in Charleston. Your house? It burned to the ground last night. They suspect arson. I’m sorry.”

  “Arson? Why do they suspect that? And that sucks, but I never stepped foot in it. Any idea why someone would burn it?”

  “No clue, but I’ll keep you posted. But, Sean, be smart. Can’t imagine this is about you, but knowing what we know, you need to stay alert just in case.”

  I agree and we exchange a few more pleasantries before hanging up and going back to our respective families.

  Three days later, I’m sitting in my office, staring off. I study the windows and wonder whether the stain they used inside will fade over time with the sun.

  Ten minutes later, my mind wanders to the street I grew up on in Boston. I didn’t go by last year wh
en I was in town to meet Staunchley. Google Maps to the rescue. I “drive” the street and wonder about the cars that are parked there, whose they were, who they were visiting. The map is five years old and has me curious.

  I type in Ma’s old address in New Orleans and check the street view. I drove by it only once during my time assigned in NOLA. It was within the first two weeks of my arrival and while I hadn’t been in it in nearly fourteen years at that point, the ache and subsequent anger it caused forced me to forego another. Looking at it now is no different. I close the browser and channel that melancholy.

  I turn back to the screen only to have my phone ding with a new text message.

  Bobby: You around? Just spoke with the fire investigator and insurance company about the Charleston house.

  Me: Yup. Calling you now,

  “Hey. What did you find?”

  “So according to the fire chief it was definitely arson. They suspected it by how quickly and how hotly it burned. Investigation confirmed it. Above my pay grade, but their report, which is in my hands, says they concluded aggravated arson—potential life-threatening risk beyond firefighter’s lives even—to those around the home. That’s a felony. I’ll work with the insurance company. You’ll definitely get your money out of it, but arson? Sean, that’s not a bunch of kids screwing around.”

  “You’re right. It’s as if it’s personal.”

  “Agreed.” His one-word answer sounds resigned.

  “Was there anything out of the ordinary or any detail that struck you as odd?”

  “Will read it and let you know. That work?”

  “Of course. How’re the kids? How’s Sherrilyn?”

  “We’re good. Eliza turns one next week. Sherrilyn is cleaning like the Queen herself is coming to the house and I have a honey-do list that will take me into the next decade to complete. Speaking of… better get after it. I’ll keep you posted as to what I find.”

  “Thanks, Bobby. Truly appreciate it.”

  I hang up and slide my phone onto the desk near my keyboard.