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With a fake smile, I curtsy. “Va te faire foutre.”
“Please.”
“Why? So you can rope me into falling deeper in love with you, and then go off and get yourself killed? No thanks!”
Pulling his knees up, he rests his elbows there, the sheets bunched between his legs and making him look like some David GandyGQspread. Disgustingly handsome. “I’m just observing right now. Watching. Learning. I don’t have a plan because … I don’t know what I’ll do yet.” He runs his hands through his hair and down his face. “When I found Isabella, covered in blood and lying next to her dead mother, I remembered her question the night before, asking what I would do. I felt helpless. And hopeless.” The tight pinch of his brows and the shine in his eyes tugs at my heart. “At the very least, I want to look her killer in the eye. I want him to know what he stole from me. I want him to feel pain and suffering, and helplessness and hopelessness, just as I felt. But most of all, I want him to know how special that little girl was, how she was loved so much, that her father would do something batshit crazy like go after the leader of a ruthless cartel.”
Muscles sagging in defeat, I look everywhere else in the room, except at him, because I’ll break into tears if I do. Tears of frustration and understanding, and more frustration. I pad back toward the bed, and once I’m in reach, he yanks me onto the mattress, caging me against him with his arms and legs. He grips my chin. “I curse you for coming into my world. For giving me purpose beyond these hateful thoughts. I curse you for being beautiful and irresistible, always tempting me. You’ve made this hell for me.”
I focus on his lips, those beautiful, kissable lips, and back to his eyes. “Good. If that keeps you alive, then I’m glad.”
His mouth slants over mine in a frantic and frustrated kiss, and the moment his hand snakes down inside my panties, I know I’ve grown weaker. Absolutely defenseless against this man and the way he makes me swallow up his pain and agony like an alcoholic fiending for the last drops out of a bottle.
34
Damon
“The crux of Jesus being nailed to the cross was not that he was so helpless as to die for our sins, but that herefusedto exercise the power given to him to prevent it.”
I look out over the decent-sized congregation who’ve come to listen to my first Sunday homily. Whatever reservations they may have about me as a person, there’s no denying their unwavering attention now, their devotion to God. I’d have probably made a much better impression, had I not stayed up to watch my half-brother’s fight the night before.
“Come down from that cross if you’re really the son of God!Because those who refused to believe and understand the Scriptures needed to witness the power of God through the spectacular deliverance of the Lord from that cross. And as Jesus suffered through humiliation, degradation and agonizing torment, it became easier for them to deny this immeasurable power. In the gospel of John, Jesus referred to his hour, and when it finally manifested itself, he didn’t fight, or flee, from it.Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much grain.”
Sometimes, in the thick of a homily, a passage from the Bible can hit in the most unexpected ways, and right now, I’m thinking how stupid I’ve been. I didn’t set out to become a martyr. I’m far too selfish to offer up my life for the sake of my fellow man. I came for payment. A debt owed to me. An eye for an eye, and if that isn’t the way of Anthony Savio, then I don’t know what is. I’m the son of a once-feared man. I can’t even hide behind good intentions, because the truth is, I chose this life somewhere along the way. I’m not a savior. I never was.
“Do not pity Jesus, for he did not pity himself. He gave his life of his own free will, so that others would flourish and know the truth. So that we might better understand the love of our Father. So that we might take courage in our darkest moments. It’s not in the ease of a painless life that we find strength, but in our suffering.”
Once mass has finished, I greet the congregation in the narthex, noting a slight bit more warmth from the first time I stood here.
“Wonderful homily, Father,” an older woman says in her thick Spanish accent, as I take her hand and smile.
“Thank you.”
The pat on my back diverts my attention to Father Javier standing beside me. “I’d like to meet with you in my office afterward.” He speaks low like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Of course.”
Once the narthex has cleared, I divest my clergy garments and make my way to the offices in the back of the church. I find Javier sitting at his desk, and take a seat in the chair across from him.
“I trust you’re settling in to your new home.”
“Yes, albeit slowly.” Perhaps another priest would steal the opportunity to mention the tunnel, which may explain why he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked in.
“Your homily was very well-received. A number of parishioners approached me to let me know.” He tips his head, drumming his fingertips against the desk. “I feel I should make you aware of something.”
My head tells me to stay in the game. To bluff, if necessary. This is where, I’m guessing, the other priests met their demise, after all, so if he asks about the tunnel, I never saw it. “Oh?”
His shoulders sag, and he clears his throat. “When I first learned you were going to join our parish, I have to admit, it wasn’t welcomed news. We’ve had so many priests come and go, leaving our congregation feeling a bit … adrift. My initial opinion of your being here wasn’t exactly favorable.”
Strange that this would be his big confession, when a gaping hole sits in my nightstand as we speak. “I suppose that’d be understandable.”
“Please forgive my unfounded prejudice against you. I’m fairly protective of my people.”
“I forgive you.”
With a sharp nod, he smiles. “Well, I’m sure you have a busy afternoon, as do I.”
Taking his cue, I push up from the chair and notice a name I recognize on a notepad set out beside his computer keyboard. “You’re a sports enthusiast?”
