The Angel (The Original Sinners)

by Reisz, Tiffany

  “Okay,” she answered nervously. “I can deal with ‘off the record’ unless you confess to a crime. What?”

  He gave her a smile that if she saw it on the face of any man but a priest she would call it seductive.

  “I’m not a virgin.”

  His words and the gleam in his eyes left Suzanne’s hands trembling.

  “You aren’t?” Now they were getting somewhere. Now maybe she could get something out of him.

  “I wasn’t born a priest, Ms. Kanter. Any more than you were born an atheist war correspondent with a burning hatred of the Catholic Church.”

  Suzanne’s spine stiffened.

  “You’ve been investigating me, I see,” she said.

  “Your opinions on the church and faith are matters of public record,” he said as he strolled toward her. “And I believe you may intrigue me nearly as much as I intrigue you. Since I answered your question, might I ask you one?”

  “Ask.” She made no promise to answer it.

  “You are an atheist. God is truth. Without God, all is chaos, all is relative and truth is meaningless. And yet you became a journalist who’s dedicated her life to seeking out the truth amidst the chaos, a truth you don’t believe exists. Why?”

  “Diogenes traveled the world with a lantern by day looking for an honest man. I’m just Diogenes out with my lamp trying to shed a little light where I can.”

  “Diogenes also slept in a barrel and masturbated in public. How deep does your metaphor run?” he asked, raising his eyebrow at her.

  She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  “You’re not a normal priest, are you?”

  At that, Father Stearns laughed. A warm, open laugh, intoxicating and masculine. She wanted to hear it more, hear it again. It seemed so incongruous.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Eleanor asked me the very same question the day we met almost twenty years ago.”

  “And what did you say to her when she asked that?”

  “Exactly what I’ll say to you now—my God, I hope not.”

  Now Suzanne laughed. Laughing with a Catholic priest…the last thing on earth she ever dreamed she’d do. Suzanne abruptly stopped laughing when she remembered her job, when she remembered Adam. Father Stearns seemed smart enough that he could manipulate anyone he wanted to. She couldn’t let herself get sucked in just because of his appearance and sense of humor.

  “You speak of her very fondly. You two are close?”

  His smiled disappeared and once again he gave her a steely glare.

  “I could be a thief. Or the bastard son of the pope. Both would qualify as conflicts of interest. Why are you so certain the reason for my asterisk is sexual?”

  Suzanne thought about lying then had the feeling he’d see right through it.

  “I suppose it’s because you’re so incredibly attractive.”

  He laughed again, this time far more subtly.

  “Finding me attractive hardly qualifies as evidence, Ms. Kanter. Wishful thinking possibly, but not evidence.”

  Suzanne flushed, suddenly remembering the last time she’d had sex and how for one brief moment it was this priest, this man, on top of her and inside her and not Patrick.

  “I find you attractive as well,” Father Stearns continued. “But I shan’t accuse you of pedophilia and ephebophilia simply because I do.”

  Suzanne swallowed.

  “You find me attractive?”

  “Very much so.”

  “But you’re a priest.”

  “Priests are required to be chaste. Not blind. I had planned on praying the Stations of the Cross tonight. I may pray the Lord’s Prayer instead.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Lead us not into temptation.’”

  Suzanne’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t deny that she too felt led into temptation. Leaving…leaving would be good. Now.

  “Then I should leave you alone and let you pray.” She took a step back.

  “Will I see you again?” he asked, his voice perfectly composed. She detected no flirtation, no temptation at all in his tone. Only curiosity.

  “You’ll see me every week until I find out what you’re hiding behind that collar of yours.”

  He raised his eyebrow at her.

  “I’m hiding nothing but my throat.”

  “Saturday night. Empty church. Do you really wear the collar all the time?”

  “Not all the time. I do sleep and shower.” The words, although plainly spoken, still conjured images in her head, images she didn’t want. What did he look like under his severe black clericals? What did his body look like dripping with water? What did his skin look like against white sheets?

  “Right…of course. Only time I take off my collar too. Good night, Father Stearns. You’ll be seeing me again.”

  Suzanne turned to leave.

  “I look forward to it.”

  Suzanne’s steps nearly faltered, but she kept walking.

  “Ms. Kanter?”

  Pausing, she slowly turned back to face him. God, had she ever seen a more beautiful man in her life?

  “My collar…would you like to see me without it on?”

  12

  Michael rolled onto his back, moaned in pain and rolled immediately back onto his stomach. Somewhere in this massive mansion there had to be Advil or something like it. If he could just stand up, he’d be golden.

  From the door to his room he heard chuckling.

  “Don’t laugh at me.” Michael buried his face into the pillow. “It’s rude to laugh at a dying man.”

  “Poor little subby.” Griffin entered Michael’s bedroom, grabbed a chair and sat next to the bed. “She nearly kill you last night?”

  Michael unburied his face from the pillow and turned it to Griffin. Bad idea. Griffin sat shirtless and slightly sweating. He’d obviously just come in from a run as he had on nothing but running shorts, fuck, a good tan and his fucking sexy tattoos.

  Raising his hand Michael held up five fingers.

  “Five times?” Griffin asked. “I’m impressed. God, to be seventeen again.”

  “Why do I hurt in places she didn’t hit?” Michael asked, trying to rise up but collapsing back on the pillows again.

  “That’s from the bondage. Gotta relax when you’re tied up or you’ll pull muscles.”

  “You don’t have any drugs in this house do you? Preferably ones that will knock me unconscious?”

  Michael saw a shadow cross Griffin’s face, but the smile came back quickly.

  “Nope. No drugs. But I have something better. Just a sec.”

  Griffin walked over to the wall and pushed a button on the intercom.

  “Alfred, I need ice and that vitamin K goop. To the nursery. Stat.”

  Michael heard the crackle of static.

  “I loathe you, Master Griffin,” came a British accent over the intercom.

  “Thanks, Alfred,” Griffin answered and came back to the bed.

  “Is your butler’s name really Alfred?”

  “No. It’s Jamison, I think. Can’t remember. I changed it to Alfred years ago. My first crush on a dude was Batman. Anyway, I know how to deal with pain without using drugs. I survived this,” he said, pointing to the slight crook in his nose, “without taking a single painkiller.”

  “Awesome,” Michael said, studying Griffin’s face. The break in his nose made him even more handsome, not less. “How’d you get it?” />
  “It’s embarrassing. I’ve been in probably five or six bar fights in my life, and it’s a hundred-ten-pound girl named Rainbow Smite who breaks my nose. Accident. I think.”

  “Rainbow Smite?”

  “Yeah, she’s on my roller derby team, the Bronx Zoom.”

  “You have your own roller derby team?”

  “I sponsor them. Sometimes even ref for the other league. Can’t ref for my own obviously.”

  “You skate?”

  “Can’t ref if you can’t skate. What?”

  Michael stretched out his arm and pointed to the floor.

  “Under the bed,” he said sheepishly.

  Griffin raised his eyebrow and bent over. From under the bed he pulled out Michael’s skateboard.

  “Zoo York. Nice,” Griffin said, running his hands over Michael’s board. “But your back trucks are too tight.”

  “I know. Turns for shit right now. The king pin’s stuck. I’m going to have to get a drill—”

  “Where’s your skate key?”

  “In the drawer.” Griffin opened the bedside drawer and pulled out the key. Michael watched as Griffin used his impressive arm strength to dig in the tool and pop the stuck king pin. Carefully he adjusted both trucks.

  “This good?” Griffin asked. Michael sat up and turned the trucks.

  “Perfect. Thank you.” Michael met Griffin’s eyes and smiled. Griffin didn’t say anything at first.

  “You could come with me, if you want. To a bout. My team’s awesome. Roller derby’s like BDSM on wheels.”

  Michael nervously bit the inside of his cheek. For some reason he felt as though he’d just been asked out on a date.

  “Can I come watch you ref sometime?” Michael pictured Griffin in tough referee gear and really liked the image.

  “Of course. But when I ref you have to call me Patriarchy. That’s my derby name.”

  “I’m there.”

  “I’ll even let you blow my whistle,” Griffin said as he handed Michael his skateboard.

  Michael laughed and blushed as he flipped the board to inspect the deck.

  “Jesus Christ,” Griffin said and grabbed Michael’s arm. “What the hell happened?”

  Michael’s blood turned to ice. He’d been so relaxed talking with Griffin he’d forgotten to cover his scars. Michael tried to pull his arm back but Griffin didn’t let go.

  “It’s nothing,” Michael said, holding his other arm to his stomach.

  “That is not nothing. Tell me what happened to you.”

  A knot formed in Michael’s throat. “Um, I had a bad day a few years ago.”

  “Bad day?”

  “I slit my wrists in the sanctuary of my church. Father S saved my life.”

  “Saved your life? You almost died?” Griffin’s eyes went wide with horror.

  Slowly Michael nodded.

  “Goddammit. I really like hating your priest. Now I can’t anymore,” Griffin said, finally letting Michael’s arm go.

  Michael laughed a little as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Griffin shook his head. When he looked at Michael again, it was with new eyes. Something glowed in them, burned in them, something he’d never seen before. Whatever it was, Michael liked it.

  “You’re okay now, right? No more bad days?”

  Michael nodded, relieved Griffin didn’t ask him a bunch of questions about that day or why he’d done it, the way some people did.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I promise. One day at a time, right?” He put his skateboard back down on the floor. “Plus Father S said if I ever hurt myself again, he’d kill me.”

  Griffin gave him a little half smile and shook his head.

  “Seriously. I loved hating him. Fuck.”

  “Why do you hate Father S so much?” Michael asked as he lay back down again.

  Griffin started to answer but Jamison appeared in the doorway with a cooler.

  “Thank you, Alfred,” Griffin said, taking the supplies. “There’s a thousand dollars in the cookie jar. Go buy yourself something pretty.”

  “I will purchase a firearm and shoot you with it,” Griffin’s butler said, bowing elegantly. “Master Griffin.”

  He left the room and Griffin opened the cooler.

  “Shirt off. On your stomach. Show me the damage,” Griffin ordered.

  Michael pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. Griffin whistled at the sight of Michael’s naked back. Michael knew what he saw—his entire back covered in small round red-and-brown bruises.

  “Gets better,” Michael said. “Thighs.”

  Griffin reached out and pulled the sheet down his legs. On the back of Michael’s legs from the edge of his boxers to the bottom of his thigh were bright red parallel welts.

  “That sadistic bitch caned you?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Badass. Well, we know where the ice goes then.” Griffin opened the cooler and carefully placed two ice packs on the back of each of Michael’s thighs. Michael sighed with relief as the ice immediately silenced the screaming heat of the welts. “And for the back bruises, liquid vitamin K. Top-secret bruise-fighting goo. Ask any woman whose ever had plastic surgery, i.e. my mother.”

  Michael grinned as Griffin poured out some of the white lotion onto his hands.

  “I’m going to rub this in,” Griffin warned, “and it’s going to hurt but you’ll heal a lot faster, okay?”

  “Okay,” Michael said, tensing as Griffin shifted from his chair to the bed and sat right next to Michael. Michael didn’t fear more pain. Pain was fine by him. He tensed for other reasons, namely having Griffin’s body so close to his. Michael had on nothing but plaid boxer shorts, and Griffin wasn’t just on his bed, he was in his bed about to touch him.

  Griffin laid his hands gently on the center of Michael’s back and slowly kneaded. Michael sighed with bliss as Griffin’s touch sent subtle thrills throughout his back and shoulders. His bruises ached but the pleasure of Griffin’s hands on him trumped any pain. With long, even strokes, Griffin rubbed the vitamin K over Michael’s sides, up his spine all the way to his neck and down to the small of his back again.

  “Feel okay?” Griffin trailed his fingers across the arch of Michael’s rib cage.

  “Amazing actually,” Michael admitted and wondered if Griffin’s chest pressed to his back would feel this good.

  “Good,” Griffin said in a low voice. “I want you to feel good.”

  “So are you going to tell me why you hate my priest so much?” Michael asked, needing to talk about something, anything, to keep his mind from going where it wanted to go.

  Griffin sighed heavily as he poured more lotion into his hands and began rubbing the tops of Michael’s shoulders and upper arms. God, had anything in history ever felt as good as Griffin’s large, strong hands on his arms?

  “You can’t tell the mistress. I love her, and she’s really important to me so I don’t want things getting weird between us.”

  “I won’t tell,” Michael said, even though Nora had promised him sexual favors in return for telling her if he found out.

  “A long time ago…I fell in love with Nora.”

  Michael swallowed hard. For some reason, it bugged him hearing Griffin declare his love for somebody.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, after she came back out of hiding. She’d been Søren’s perfect little sub for years. Then she disappeared
and came back this whole different person. But she was still the same Nora to me. I’d always called her Nora, by the way. Even when she was still Eleanor. Anyway, I knew she wasn’t a true dominant, just a switch. I thought for sure there was a part of her that still wanted to submit to a man. The thought of this amazing, beautiful, brilliant dominatrix being my secret personal property? God, I thought I’d die if I didn’t have her. But you don’t do anything in the Underground without getting your priest’s okay. I went to him and asked permission to talk to her about it, to tell her I loved her and that I wanted us to try being together. We’d fucked before, of course. But that year she was gone, you can’t believe how much I missed her.”

  “What did Father S say?”

  “After spending a good twenty minutes telling me what an obnoxious child I was who didn’t deserve to kiss Nora’s shoes, he said he’d entertain the idea under one condition.”

  Michael tensed again as Griffin’s fingers lingered near the bottom of his back right at the waistband of his boxers.

  “What was the condition?”

  “Søren doesn’t think any dominant should ever beat someone without first knowing how it feels to be on the receiving end of pain. He told me,” Griffin said, running his hands back up to Michael’s shoulders, “that if I submitted to a beating administered by him, he’d think about it.”

  “Oh, shit,” Michael said. “What did you do?”

  “Not my proudest moment. I pussed out. Couldn’t do it. Not even for Nora.”

  “Don’t blame you. I love Father S and owe him everything. But he scares the shit out of me too. Nora’s the only person I know not scared of him.”

  “He’s terrifying. And he knows it. And he loves reminding people of how scared they are of him. Part of that sadist mind-fuck shit he pulls. Anyway, it’s for the best. I don’t feel that way anymore. Nora and I definitely would have failed as a couple.”

  “Why?”

  Griffin took his hands off Michael’s back and removed the ice packs from his thighs. Slowly Michael rolled onto his back without nearly as much pain as he’d felt earlier. He looked up at Griffin looking down at him. Inhaling, Michael smelled Griffin’s scent again, that spicy masculine smell that lingered under the other clean smell of sweat and deodorant.