by Nancee Cain
“Sorry.” I fidget under his scrutiny, as I stare at the happy trail dipping into his sleep pants. “I’m not a morning person.”
“No kidding. Look, you need to learn how to deal with this shit. It will help ease the nightmares and visions.” The early morning light filtering in through the curtain makes the room soft with a diffuse pink light. Covering my face with my hands, I sigh. He’s right. The memory of the wreck that took Jack from me haunts my nightmares. It was my fault. The weight of my culpability makes my shoulders sag.
“You have to let this go, Evie.”
“I can’t.” If I let go, I’ll lose Jack forever.
“Why not?”
“Just leave it alone, Father. I’m not a good person.” I don’t feel like explaining, knowing he will be like everyone else and not believe me, chalking up my visions to my supposed mental illness. I scramble from the bed and run into the bathroom, slamming the door. I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I brush my teeth. I no longer recognize the girl who stands before me. I used to care about how I looked. It was an advertisement for my job as a beautician. Since Jack’s death, I just haven’t given a damn and it shows in my lank hair and gaunt cheeks.
I open the door to find Remi standing there with his arms outstretched on the doorjamb. The cross dangles over a perfectly contoured chest with just the right amount of hair. The man could grace the cover of GQ. The scent of fresh cut pine boughs and cinnamon combined with the beauty of his fit body are an assault on my senses and leave me feeling off kilter.
He groans and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. “My, my, you certainly seem proud of the fact you’re not a good person. As a matter of fact, you wear it like a Girl Scout badge of honor. Would you like a pinning ceremony or something? We could call it the World’s Most Pathetic Little Girl badge. You’ve worked hard for it. You’ve earned it.”
My mouth drops open. “How dare you speak to me like that?” Furious, I shove at his hard chest, but he doesn’t budge. Fire appears to flicker in the depth of his imperturbable gaze as a lazy, slow smile spreads across his face.
“Why don’t you do something about it instead of wallowing in your self-pity?”
“Move,” I grind out, pushing again at him.
“Make me.”
I knee him and he isn’t fast enough to deflect the entire blow. He doubles over, grimacing, allowing me to slip past him.
“You don’t fight fair, do you?” he gasps, struggling to stand upright by gripping the doorframe.
Even though the power is back on, the house darkens ominously and I hear the sound of ruffled feathers. A blast of air fills the hallway, blowing my hair in my face. Terrified, I run toward my mother’s room, but the door slams shut before I reach it.
There’s no one here but us, and when I turn to face him, I see the flames in his eyes and dark wings expanding behind him. Ducking, I cover my head like I’m in a disaster drill from elementary school. This can’t be real. Terrified, I cower, squeezing my eyes tight.
“Stand up,” he roars, his voice filling the hallway like the blast of a jet engine.
I don’t want to disobey, but I’m too scared to move. I peek between my fingers to stare at bare male feet in front of me. Slowly, I raise my head to find Remi glaring at me with his hands on his hips. There are no dark feathers and his eyes have no flames leaping from them. He’s just a man. A disgruntled man, for sure, after what I just did to him, but just a man. A breeze through an open window in the other room must have slammed my door shut. Wait, why would I have a window open in August? I don’t remember opening a window with the power outage, but maybe Remi did.
I lash out in anger to hide my confusion. “You deserved it. You’re an asshole, Father Blackson.” I leap to my feet and flounce into the kitchen to start some coffee, only to remember I have no groceries. Dammit. I wasn’t supposed to be here today and it’s this meddlesome priest’s fault. I stare out the window, lost. Now what?
Remi enters the kitchen a few minutes later dressed in his clericals minus the collar, and collapses into a chair. Leaning on the table, he covers his face, rubbing his eyes and mutters, “I’m truly in hell; what did I do to deserve this?”
“You can leave. I’m not keeping you here.” Please don’t leave me.
“If I leave to go find some breakfast for us, will you behave until I get back? Or do I need to take you with me like a bratty child?” He looks up and his penetrating gaze makes me squirm.
“Um, sure?”
He glowers and points at me like he’s a high school principal. “I mean it, Evangeline. Promise me you won’t harm yourself at least until I get back.”
I’d laugh if he weren’t so damn serious.
“Okay, I’ll wait to off myself until you return. Want to help me? I promise not to tell on you.”
“At the risk of getting into deep trouble, if you keep up with your smart ass answers, I’ll consider it.”
For the first time this morning, we both smile.
He stands and fumbles with fastening his collar. Growling with frustration, he runs a hand through his hair and storms around the kitchen muttering under his breath about Woodstock. I like his hair like that, delightfully disheveled in a just-rolled-out-of-bed way. However, his rumpled appearance, accented by his unshaven jaw, tousled hair and wrinkled clothes will cause talk in this gossip-infested, backwoods town. Of course, his car being in front of my house all night has probably already started the nasty rumor mill. Like I need more scandal. But he doesn’t deserve it.
“Give me your shirt.” I hold out my hand.
“E-Excuse me?” His head snaps up and his Adam’s apple bobbles. He’s flustered. The tiny, spiteful part of me smirks with satisfaction at having the upper hand for a change.
“I’ll iron your shirt for you.” I motion with my head toward the old-fashioned, drop-down ironing board on the back of the pantry door.
Remi’s heated gaze never leaves mine as he tosses the collar on the table and slowly unbuttons the shirt, one agonizing button, at a time. His inherent grace makes him move like a male stripper, teasing and taunting. It’s my turn to be ill at ease as he shrugs out of it. Sexual desire surges through me like a wave crashing on the beach at high tide.
My mouth feels as dry as the Sahara. I want to run my nails over that beautiful chest, as heat infuses every inch of my body. An overwhelming need to connect in a primal way permeates my loneliness. Closing my eyes, I imagine his bare skin slick with sweat and the sound of his heavy breathing of desire in my ear…
Remi sucks in a deep, audible breath and my eyes flash open. That sounded eerily similar to my imaginings. In the stormy depth of his turbulent green eyes I see my need reflected there. Residual shame from my upbringing pulls my gaze to the cross on his bare chest, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment over my inappropriate thoughts. He holds the shirt out to me on two fingers and I take it, careful not to make contact.
I remember, too late, I got rid of my iron. “Never mind, I don’t have an iron.” I hold his shirt back to him, but his eyes are closed and his lips are moving silently—no doubt, praying for my immortal, wicked soul.
I now know my true punishment for being mouthy and an ingrate. It isn’t the job of saving this squirrelly girl from killing herself. It’s being forced to be celibate in the presence of overwhelming temptation. Evangeline Lourdes Salvatore is the embodiment of every male sexual fantasy carried out alone in the dark, throughout the history of man. She is quite simply, sex incarnate.
Writers could wax poetic about her looks and would stumble on their descriptions. Musicians could attempt to capture her beauty in song, and it would sound like a discordant tune in comparison. Painters could try to replicate her body on canvas, but it would never capture her true beauty, or the inherent sweetness of her soul.
She has the longest, blackest lashes I’ve ever seen, framing her bewitching dark eyes. Even the purple smudges underneath them, the result of her exh
austing so-called illness, can’t detract from their magnetic pull.
I bet her lips are petal soft. Being full, they appear to be in a permanent pout since she rarely smiles. I want to nibble and tug on that lower lip she worries with her teeth when she’s fighting her inner demons. Her glorious hair is a riot of tangled curls that I long to run my hands through as I bury myself deep inside of her. I don’t dare linger on the memory of her naked in the bathtub…If circumstances were different, and I was human, I’d forsake my priestly duties and fall to my knees begging her to let me worship her soft, curvaceous body.
But nooooo, none of this is allowed for Father Remiel Blackson.
After handing her my shirt to be ironed, I close my eyes and curse my fate, conceding defeat. He’s proven His point. I’m damned to hell, after all.
Luc, the lucky bastard, doesn’t know how easy he got off, merely being sentenced to ruling over the damned as the Prince of Darkness. Because right now I’d do just about anything it takes to get off.
Chapter Five
REMI IS LEAVING to go on a search and destroy mission for something edible for breakfast.
I peer at the empty driveway and then back at him. “Where’s your car?”
He doesn’t make eye contact with me. “I, uh, moved it around the corner after you fell asleep.”
I wonder if he moved it to protect his reputation or mine. I feel like a housewife on an old sitcom and find myself imagining what his lips would feel like if he were to kiss me good-bye.
“Behave,” he calls out as he rounds the corner with his long, easy gait. I jump, praying he isn’t a mind reader and is just admonishing me in a general sort of way. Although it’s a bright, sunny day, now that he’s gone it feels like the sun is hiding behind thick cloud cover.
Reluctantly, I go back inside, regretting my decision to stay home and wait for him. I don’t want the dark thoughts to take over again. Remi has shown me a slight sliver of hope in my gloomy world. I need to stay busy until he gets back.
Since the power is back on, I march into the kitchen and yank the cupboard door open, finding the out-of-date brownie mix. Reading the back of the package, the only ingredient needed is water. I’m not even sure why it was in the cupboard. I don’t cook and Mama would die of shame before she’d use a mix. Is it safe to eat since it’s expired? Perfect! Death by chocolate. My dark humor makes me snicker. I have to remember to tell Remi. That sick bastard will think it’s funny, too.
As I wait on the oven to heat, I grease the pan with the half stick of butter and find myself humming the song from the wild ride last night. I long to feel the wind in my hair again and relive that feeling of freedom. Maybe the answer to my suicide quest would be to cliff dive to my death. Where can I find cliffs in south Florida? Or perhaps, I don’t really want to die at the moment? The thought makes me pause. Is it because things are less depressing in daylight, or because of a certain irritating, yet kind priest?
I check the oven and it’s stone cold. Crap, this is just my luck. The pilot light must be out. I can’t even remember the last time I cooked anything that wasn’t heated in the microwave. Scrounging through several mostly empty drawers, I find a box of matches. Now I just have to figure out how to light the damn thing. Kneeling before the oven, I stick my head inside, without a clue what I’m looking for.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Remi shouts from behind me. That rustling feather sound envelops the room, and although it’s dark inside the oven, the light in the room behind me seems to dim as well.
Startled, I bang my head hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. Two strong hands grasp me by my waist and jerk me unceremoniously to my feet. I shrug out of his grasp and rub the growing knot on the back of my head.
“Ouch, what the hell are you doing? That hurt, asshole.” Tears spill down my cheeks.
Remi grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me until my teeth clatter. I’m about to snidely ask if he’s ever heard of shaken baby syndrome, but the look of fury on his face makes me hold my tongue. The vein on his forehead has popped out, accenting his red face, and his eyes seem to simmer with fury. I hope he doesn’t have a stroke since I’m not current on my CPR certification. Or is that just for heart attacks? I can’t remember. I wipe at the tears streaming down my face.
“Don’t you dare pull the crying card on me. I wasn’t even gone that long, for Pete’s sake. I trusted you. You promised me you wouldn’t hurt yourself. You can’t do this to me, do you hear me?” he shouts.
“I’m pretty sure the next-door neighbors ‘hear’ you, Father,” I yell back. Instead of letting me explain, he’s jumped to the conclusion I was trying to kill myself. And for once, I’m innocent, dammit.
“I won’t allow you to die on my watch.” He lets go of me and starts pacing. “Why? Why do you keep trying to kill yourself? You’re young and beautiful, with a full life ahead of you. Dammit, Evangeline, life is good. You need to get your head out of your own proverbial ass and grab life by the balls.”
“Oh that’s Biblical.” I snort and cross my arms in front of my chest. “And priests shouldn’t swear.” The pain from the knot on my head has receded somewhat, leaving me pissed.
Stopping in his tirade, he glares at me and points his index finger in my direction. “I happen to be a huge fan of Mark Twain who said, ‘Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.’ Old Mark was absolutely correct. Plus, I’ll have you know, there happen to be over one hundred and thirty passages that mention the word ass in the Bible.”
“Prove it.” I’m not about to give up, no sirree. Besides, getting Father Blackson riled is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I wonder just how many of his buttons I can manage to push.
“What?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, making it even sexier than before.
I shrug and examine my nails. “I don’t believe you. Do you really expect me to believe the word ass occurs that many times in the Bible? And why would anyone know this obscure fact?”
“Everyone knows this fact. You can look it up on the Internet.”
“You can also look up porn,” I mutter. “It doesn’t mean that’s what real naked women look like.”
“Really? Tell me more. What’s your favorite site? Are you a porn connoisseur? Do we need to add this to your list of sins for confession? And don’t forget, I know what naked women look like.”
I’m sure my cheeks are now the color of a hooker’s lipstick as I remember him waking me in the bathtub. In an attempt to hide my embarrassment, I roll my eyes. “I’m not convinced you have your facts straight.” Picking my purse up off the table, I dig through empty gum wrappers, broken hair clips, and old grocery lists, looking for my phone.
Glancing at the three missed calls, I choose to ignore the voice mail from my mother and go straight to Google. I type in my query. Sonofabitch, he’s right. I bite my lower lip and glance over at him.
He’s standing with his arms crossed in front of chest. One eyebrow lifts and a smug smile spreads across his face.
Grudgingly, I admit, “Okay, so you were right. You’re the seminarian, not me.” Only my stupid tongue makes a Freudian slip and I pronounce it semen-arian. My cheeks feel sunburned.
He snorts and laughs. “Uh, is that a new term for a porn star? The word is seminarian and technically, I’m not either one.”
I throw up my hands. “Whatever, I don’t think the Bible using the word ass in the context of a donkey counts as swearing, though.”
“An ass is an ass,” he retorts with a chuckle.
“We’re going to argue semantics?”
“Don’t you mean semen-antics?” He laughs, a full, deep sexy laugh that makes my toes curl.
I smack him on the arm. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you? You won’t even listen to me before jumping to conclusions, you ass.”
The amusement leaves his face and he frowns, taking a deep breath. He leans against the counter, tilting his head. “I’m listenin
g.” His intimidating look doesn’t scare me. I’m beginning to think my instinct is right. He really is a nice guy.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
“This time.”
He knows me well. “The pilot light’s out.” I point to the pathetic pan of uncooked brownies sitting on the counter. “You’ve watched too many old movies. This is a new oven. I’m sure it has safety features. I don’t even know if you can kill yourself that way anymore.”
“You weren’t…” Remi points to the oven and then the brownies and a grin breaks out across his face. “You really weren’t trying to pull a Sylvia Plath?” He throws his head back and chuckles.
I shake my head no, wondering who Sylvia Plath was, maybe an old girlfriend? I push the tinge of jealousy away; I have no right to this feeling.
“Sorry, I thought…I mean…I walk in and see your ass up in the air and your head stuck in the oven. Naturally, I assumed—”
“Well you know what they say when one assumes…”
His carefree laugh is contagious, and I’m startled by the sound of my accompanying guffaws. When was the last time I laughed this loud and this hard?
“You really thought I was going kill myself that way? Don’t you think I’ve done my homework? It would be easier to die of carbon monoxide poisoning in a garage. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car or a garage. Not to mention, my track record on suicide attempts is pretty pathetic. Don’t lose any money by betting on my success.” I sigh and pretend to pout just a bit.
“Hmm.” He scratches his scruffy chin. “I guess I need to brush up on suicide methods so I can stay one step ahead of you. I suppose I can do an Internet search…”
“Smart ass,” I reply with snicker before frowning with despair at the coffee spilled across the floor. I place the back of my hand to my forehead and melodramatically sigh. “Dear God, this is a travesty. Life without coffee isn’t worth living.” I’m only half kidding. I really needed that caffeine.