by Keri Lake
For someone so content to ask for help, she’s certainly hesitant to accept it when offered. “Would it make you feel more comfortable? Safer?”
“He’d freak out if he saw me with another man.”
“You don’t think the white collar speaks for itself?”
“Not for Calvin. I’m certain he’d think you drove me home for sex.”
The comment sends a shiver down my spine, and I have to clear my throat to keep from croaking the next words. “Well, we know that’s not true, so I don’t particularly care what he thinks.”
“In that case, I’d appreciate it. If you walked me up.”
Door held open again, I help her out of the car. My hand brushes the small of her back as we make our way inside, a mindless gesture, the way I used to every time Val and I would enter a room. Except, she isn’t Val, and I’ve no right to touch her with any level of possession, so I curl my fingers into a fist, taking a step back. Strange how natural it feels with Ivy, though, falling back on the habits I dropped when I became a priest. As I follow her up the stairs, I try not to stare at the back of her calves, the black line that runs the length of her panty hose and disappears into those heels. Heels that would drive me insane, digging into my back.
This all feels too familiar to me, and my bastardly body responds with the anticipation of a man who’ll be rewarded for the climb.
As we round the staircase to the second floor, the sound of shouts and arguing bleeds through one of the passing doors.
“Don’t mind them,” Ivy says over her shoulder. “They fight like that all the time. It’s like a pastime for them, or something.”
“Something to look forward to everyday.”
“They probably do. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was some twisted kink they’re into.” At the next floor, she comes to a stop in front of a door, and I take note of the number: 1040. “This is me.” Purse slung over her shoulder, she lowers her gaze from mine. “Would you like to come in? I mean, just to make sure no one is inside.”
“Sure,” I answer cautiously.
Key slipped into its lock, she turns to a click, and the door opens on to a room that’s remarkably bright, with white walls and sheer curtains. The décor is unapologetically female and carries a mouthwatering scent, her scent, like vanilla and peaches. I follow after her, my eyes wandering the scenery, while she slips in and out of rooms.
“Looks like its all clear.”
Gaze trailing over the record player, I swing my attention back to her, and everything inside of me tells me to leave, because everything in this place is a temptation, including her. The way she stands in her skirt, one heeled foot kicked behind the other, her blouse unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage. It’s too much at once.
“Would you like a glass of wine? I mean, I’m assuming that priests … you know, with communion, and all … ”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I understand. You probably don’t drink much.” The disappointment in her eyes comes off like a slap of rejection, an unintended dismissal of her offer, and I feel bad for it.
“I’m more of a whiskey drinker. But wine is good. Wine is calm.”
The wily glint returns to her eyes as she lifts her gaze with a smile. “Calm? Am I to assume the chaste Father Damon has a wild side?”
“I wouldn’t call myself chaste.”
“No?”
Pausing to consider my next words carefully, I shake my head. Who’s this girl going to tell, after all? And does it matter, after all these years? “I was married before. Not many know that about me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”
“Was it annulled, or something?” Screwing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that.”
“No. She died. My wife and daughter.”
Frowning, she tips her head, that troubled look returning to her face. “Can you excuse me for a moment?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Once she disappears through the French doors, into what I’ll assume is the kitchen, as I can make out a table and extravagant looking chandelier, I browse through her selection of records set beside a phonograph. Mostly French titles, from the looks of it—ones I can hardly pronounce, let alone recognize.
She returns carrying two wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. “Hope cabernet is good for you.”
I should refuse the proffered drink and leave right now, but I don’t.
“I’m sorry about your wife and child. That must be a very … painful topic for you. I won’t pry.”
“I appreciate that.” I kick back a sip of the wine, wishing I could polish it off. Taking a seat on the settee, I carefully set the glass down on a coaster atop a wooden coffee table. “So, tell me about French singers and Eiffel Towers.”
Smile painted on her face, as if it’s a topic that makes her happy, she takes a seat beside me, uncomfortably close, and I have to resist the urge to back up, so as not to make her feel it’s entirely unwanted closeness. It isn’t, but I shouldn’t be enjoying it as much. “My grandmother was born in Paris. I grew up listening to all her French music, speaking the language, and someday, when I manage to save up enough money, I plan to go there.”
“Your grandmother means a lot to you.”
“She’s the only person in my life who didn’t abandon me. My mother left right after I was born, and my father is probably passed out somewhere in Venice Beach, unless he already died of an overdose. Heroin addict.”
“That’s too bad. Heroin’s bad stuff. It must be quite lonely, at times.”
Sucking her bottom lip, she runs her finger around the rim of her glass, seemingly thoughtful for a moment. “It is. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when Mamie’s gone. She’s all I have.” Lifting the glass to her lips, she takes a sip, and when she lowers it from her face, I catch the glisten of tears.
“Hey, its going to be all right, Ivy.” Thumbing away the fallen tear from her cheek, I take a moment to study the brilliant green of her eyes, rimmed in red. Absolutely stunning.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve leaned in close enough that I can feel her breath against my mouth, and when I slant my lips over hers, I can taste the wine there, the savory flavor that I suck from her skin. It’s only at her first escaped moan that I realize what I’ve done, the predatory way I’ve responded to her anxiety, and I pull away.
Hands gripping either side of my face, she stops my retreat and tugs me into her once more. Like a sinning thief, I steal a moment longer, curling my fingers into a fistful of her long hair. The anger pulses through me in waves. Why now? Why, when I’ve already committed so much sin, does she come along and tempt me this way? A sweet, poisonous apple that tastes like everything I want. Everything I need right now.
My senses kick in, and I give a gentle push to her chest, breaking the kiss. “Forgive me for this. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Kissing me? Do you have any idea how many times I wished for this?”
“It’s not right, Ivy. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.” I push up from the couch, knocking the wine. With quick hands, I capture it before it falls, splashing only a small bit onto the back of my palm as I right the glass back onto the table.
“Here.” Still seated on the couch, she takes my hand , and drags her tongue over the trickling drops of wine, eyes on me all the while.
A shiver ripples down my spine, at the same time my dick lurches, as I watch her tongue trail across my skin. I draw my hand back, balling it into a fist at my side, and when she rises to a stand in front of me, all systems tell me to back away.
Two erect nipples peek through her sheer, cream-colored blouse, offering even more dimensions to the perfect globes just begging to be touched. The light sweep of her tongue adds a shine to her lips, urging me to suck them into my mouth, just like before. As I stare back at her, I’m not Father Damon, but a thirty-five-year-old man who’s denied himself pleasure for nearly a decade. Pleasure he thorou
ghly enjoyed up until this point.
“I have a confession, Father.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear it right now.” I skirt around her, making my way toward the door. “I’ll take your confession tomorrow. At the church.”
“I saw what you did.”
Hand on the knob, I pause. An ice cold sting moves through my blood, turning my muscles paralyzed. “What did you say?”
“The other night. I saw what you did.”
I muster the strength to turn around, and in spite of the proud incline of her chin, I can see she’s trembling. “What do you think you saw, Ivy?”
“You … you dumped a body. Into the septic tank.” Now she’s the one backing away.
Fuck.
The only thing worse than having committed the sin, is knowing she, of all people, witnessed it.
Inching toward her, I keep my gaze locked on hers in a silent threat that seems to work, because the moment her back hits the wall, she casts her gaze from mine. “Are you certain that’s what you saw?” It’s not me talking. Not Father Damon, but my father’s son. The ruthless bastard who made a point to clean up after his messes, or face his father’s wrath. I can damn near hear him laughing inside my head, telling me what an idiot I am for being so careless, so sloppy. I want to tell him to go to hell, but he’s right.
What have I done?
Gaze still cast from mine, her jaw hardens in a way that makes me want to bite down on it while I pin her to the wall. “I know what I saw. And I’m not afraid.”
“You look pretty afraid to me. I can feel you trembling.”
“It’s not fear.” Damn her when those green eyes meet mine, brimming with the kind of wicked desire that lets me know exactly who has the upper hand. “I want you to kill him. Discard him the same way you discarded that body. I need him out of my life, or it’ll be my body tossed into some reeking hole in the ground.”
“You’re asking me to kill a man for you.”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t kill the man you dumped?”
“He kidnapped a child. Kept her in a cage. Hurt her. Raped her.”
“And because I’m not a child, I’m less deserving of your empathy? I’ve already told you, I have no other choice. This is my cage. And I can assure you, he’s hurt and raped me, too.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose fails to calm the sudden shit-storm swirling inside my head. “Ivy, contrary to what you might think, I’m a priest. Not a hitman.”
“Funny. You looked perfectly comfortable from where I watched. Who is it … the bishop I would need to contact in this matter?”
My eye twitches, and before I can stop myself, I grip her throat, pinning her to the wall behind her. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me, too? Father?”
“You’re quite the little serpent, aren’t you? Disguising yourself as innocent and naïve?”
“And you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, so how bout we both shed these skins and be real for a moment. You want my silence. I want my freedom. Surely, we can come to an agreement.”
“Is this why you invited me up here? To dig your fangs into me?”
“It’s not just me he’s hurt. He’s a murderer. He’s killed families. Just like yours.”
“You know this? You’ve seen him kill?”
“No. It’s just a feeling. You’d feel it, too, if you met him.”
“I’m not going to kill based on a bad feeling. They have websites for that. As for what you think you saw, I won’t be blackmailed into playing your little games.” I release my hand from her throat, remorseful that I lay them on her, at all. I’d call it reflexive, but I’ve never threatened a woman that way before—not even one who played me, which tells me Ivy has awakened some uncontrollable urges inside of me. All the more reason to stay as far away from her as possible. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the church.”
I turn to leave, but at the tight grip of my arm, I swing around, and perhaps the warning in my eyes is enough, because she lets me go.
“You think I’m just some weak woman out to rope you into my shit? I got into a bad situation with a very bad man, and I can’t get out.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and maybe the tears that follow are the first sincere show of emotion, but I wouldn’t know. “Nothing I’ve tried will remove this bastard from my life. So, you can bet your ass, I’ll take whatever bold steps I have to in order to get my life back. If that means asking a priest to kill for me, so be it.”
I don’t even let that sink in before exiting the apartment. And as I make my way down the staircase, I reach down to adjust the second massive erection she’s worked up in a matter of two days.
12
IVY
The mind is a terrible tormentor, sometimes, the way it can make a person relive something in punishing repetition. Nearly a week has passed since Father Damon heard my confession, and all I’ve thought about since is the look of betrayal in his eyes. Not a hint of fear in that dark broody gaze, but the hurt and shock damn near made me buckle. I didn’t want to hurt him. Every part of me wanted to apologize and assure him that I would never say a word to another soul. I wanted him to trust me and know that I would never deceive him by going to his superior.
But if I give him that assurance, I’ll be forced to entertain Calvin for as long as the asshole breathes, and that kills me more than having to relive the punishing look in Father Damon’s eyes.
I click send on the email addressed to Bishop McDonnell, carbon-copied to Father Damon.
Just a warning shot at this point.
In the email, I merely sing Father Damon’s praises, touting him as an incredible leader and spiritual guide to the community. Short and sweet, and packed with so much punch, my fingers are tingling. I decided to wait until just before I walk out the door for work, because any sooner would have had me sitting around all day, biting my nails, wondering if he’ll get a hankering to kill me, instead.
I need him to know I’m serious. Particularly after yesterday morning, when I entered Mamie’s room to find a bouquet of flowers Calvin sent her. The accompanying card read: Smothering you with love.
It’s one thing to threaten me, but the thought of Calvin going after my grandmother is more than I can take. It’s made me desperate, and perhaps a little psycho, but that’s what happens when you mess with someone I love. You get the psychotic bitch who’ll do whatever she has to do.
I type a separate email, this one only to Father Damon, and attach a selfie I took earlier—from my jawline to just above my bare breasts. No message, just the image. He’ll be angry, no doubt. Perhaps even uncomfortable and embarrassed. But I guarantee he’ll stare at the photo for far longer than it takes to simply delete it.
Tomorrow is my scheduled rendezvous with Calvin, and I can hardly stomach the thought of the ruthless prick’s hands on me. I haven’t eaten all day because of it.
Yet, if I opt not to go, he’ll show up at my work, the nursing home, or, worse, at my apartment again. I’ve already burned one set of sheets, and I can’t really afford to burn another. This place is the only sanctuary I have, and the moment he feels free reign here is the moment it truly becomes my cage.
Gathering up my bags, I close my computer, feeling ever the manipulative bitch as I head out the door for work. But it’s like I said before, I’ll be whatever I have to be to keep those I love safe.
Pushing a cart stacked with medical records through the aisle, as I stop to file one away in its proper sequence, a buzz at the door stiffens my muscles.
Few people tend to ignore the sign out front, but one in particular makes me nervous as all hell, and the last time I opened the door to him, I ended up selling my soul. A sickness twists in my gut as I abandon the cart, hoping if it’s Calvin, I can make him leave without much incident.
Breath held, I swing back the door to a much more handsome, but clearly pissed-off, face, and the air whooshes out of me like a deflating balloon.<
br />
“Father Damon? What are you doing here?” Okay, sure. I expected him to email me back. Maybe even show up at my apartment. Never in a million years did I guess he’d show up at my work.
“You know exactly why I’m here. How about we find a place to talk.”
“There’s an old office down the hall. We can talk in there.”
Perhaps the only safe place to talk about murdering someone. It was the old pathologists office before they moved the morgue to the other side of the basement—a transition I welcomed wholeheartedly—and no one tends to go down the hall for much of anything these days, believing that half of the corridor to be haunted.
As I push out through the door, he takes a step back, allowing me to pass, and follows after me down the hall like a storm cloud about to wreak havoc. Every muscle in my body is trembling, my chest closing around my lungs in a tight fist of excitement and fear. I brought this on myself, and he’s undoubtedly here to set me straight. Except, I don’t plan to fold so easily, as he’ll find out soon enough.
I enter the dark room, flipping on the light as he slips past, and the moment I turn around, all the argument escapes me, when he rolls his sleeves up, revealing a network of veins crawling up his meaty forearms.
“If you think showing up to my job is going to make me back down, you have gravely underestimated my tenacity.”
His cool demeanor is unnerving. Like a mafia guy just before he puts a bullet square in some poor sap’s skull. “You’re a smart girl, Ivy. Today’s move was well played.”
“Does this mean you accept my request?”
“No. No, this doesn’t mean that, at all. But while we’re on the topic, why don’t you tell me exactly what you had in mind?”
“What’s the point? If you’re not going to do it?”
“Because I don’t think you’ve thought that part through. I don’t think you realize what happens when you kill someone. Even if you’re not the one doing the killing.” The crossing of his arms draws my eyes to his massive biceps, a reminder of how easily he could throttle me, if he wanted. “So, let’s start with how you think this will go down. Have you even gotten that far?”