The Angel (The Original Sinners) Page 16

  Michael shook his head.

  “She’s getting your sexual history. Means fluid bonding.”

  “Fluid bonding?”

  “Sex without condoms.”

  “Wow,” Michael said, his stomach tightening a little. “Is that safe?”

  “She’s clean. Gets tested constantly. All the 8th Circle bigwigs do, myself included. And she’s got an IUD so I wouldn’t worry about knocking her up.”

  “So do you and Nora, you know, fluid bond?”

  Griffin sat back up and scooted to the top of the bed, leaning back against the headboard right next to Michael. Once again Michael breathed in Griffin’s scent. Michael decided to find out what kind of soap Griffin used just so he could buy some and smell it whenever he wanted.

  “Nope. I don’t with anybody.”

  “How come?” Michael asked, genuinely curious. Guys at school were always bitching about their girlfriends making them wear condoms.

  “Mick,” Griffin said, turning his head to stare into his eyes. “There is nothing, and I repeat, nothing I haven’t done. And I’m not talking just sexually. Every bad act on the face of the earth, minus murder and rape, I’ve done it. So there’s this part of me that wants to hold something back just in case I’m ever actually in a real relationship with somebody. Does that sound sappy and romantic? If so, don’t tell anybody. I’m supposedly l’enfant terrible of the Underground. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Michael grinned, not entirely sure what a l’enfant terrible was but deciding he liked the term.

  “A little sappy. But not in a bad way,” Michael said, surprised that Griffin would have this sort of softer side to him. Art? Saving part of himself for a real relationship? “So you never, you know—”

  “Come inside anyone?” Griffin finished for him. “No. Never. Sex talk from Dad, age thirteen. ‘Son, we have more money than God. You get a girl pregnant, and she’ll take half of it. Condoms every time.’ And then he gave me a box of Trojans.”

  Michael burst out laughing at Griffin’s impression of his father’s stern voice. Remembering something suddenly, Michael stopped laughing.

  “Wait. Nora, she went—”

  “Nora went down on me. If you stayed and watched until the end you would have seen me put on a condom before I finished up.”

  Mentally Michael dug a hole and crawled inside it. Griffin had seen him watching two nights ago?

  “Griffin.” He finally choked the words out. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I was just on the way to the kitchen and heard—”

  “Mick, calm down,” Griffin said, smiling at him. “I’m not mad. This is me. I fuck in front of people all the time. I was only irritated you didn’t come in and join us.” Griffin gave him a wicked smile.

  Michael’s toes went a little numb.

  “I think Nora might have not liked that,” Michael said, not entirely sure if that was true. He’d fantasized about threesomes before. Last night in fact his mind had wandered a little too far and he’d imagined Nora dominating him while Griffin watched.

  “Your mistress loves an audience. In fact, I’ve watched your priest fuck your mistress after King and I fucked her.”

  Michael felt his eyes wanting to pop out of his head.

  “You’ve seen Father S…”

  “Fucking? Yes. Back when your mistress was still just a sub like you, he’d do all sorts of shit to humiliate her at our club. Which she totally got off on. You know why me and King and your priest all fucked her once in the same night?”

  Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine.

  Griffin leaned in close as though he was about to share a secret. Every muscle in Michael’s body stiffened as Griffin’s tattooed, muscular shoulder pressed against his. Michael tried not to notice the drop of water sliding from Griffin’s hair down his neck and coming to rest in the hollow of his collarbone.

  “It was her birthday. And that’s what she asked for,” Griffin whispered.

  “Oh, my God,” Michael breathed, pulling his legs to his chest again. Not out of self-protection but to hide his sudden erection.

  “I know. Awesome night.” Griffin gave a little wistful sigh. “Things went to hell shortly after that though. Nora dumped your priest and then she just disappeared on us. When she came back, everything was different.”

  “She came back and started working as a dominatrix, right?” Michael knew a little of Nora’s story. Father S had given him the basics. He’d met Nora when she was fifteen and still just Eleanor. Love at first sight. Training at eighteen. Consummation when she turned twenty. Seven blissful years together before she left him for reasons unknown. Then she came back and joined forces with Kingsley, who turned her into not just a domme, a female dominant, but a dominatrix—a female dominant who charged for her services. A lot.

  Griffin lowered his voice as though he was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “When she was a sub, your priest kept her on a pretty short leash. She only ever wore white at the club. And he only let her wear her hair down in private. And almost no makeup, either. She wasn’t allowed to speak unless he gave her express permission.”

  Michael tried and failed to picture Nora as Eleanor wearing all white, no makeup, her long, gorgeous wavy black hair pinned up and hidden away. And not talking? Nora silent? So weird.

  “The first night she came to The 8th Circle as a dominatrix, I was there,” Griffin said. “You can’t even imagine the shock on everyone’s face when they realized this smoking-hot new dominatrix wearing red leather on Kingsley’s arm was Søren’s ex-submissive. Once they did, it got ugly.”

  “Why?” Michael asked, trying to picture the scene.

  “They only knew her as a submissive, and there she was all decked out like a domme, trying to be tough. Even the submissives laughed at her.”

  “Poor Nora,” Michael said. “What did she do?”

  A smile crossed Griffin’s face, a smile that sent a thrill of something down Michael’s spine.

  “You know how they say if a guy gets sent to prison and he doesn’t want to become the new bitch, he’s gotta find the biggest guy in the place and beat the hell out of him?”

  “Right.” He’d seen movies with that plotline.

  “There was this masochist at The 8th Circle named Trent. He was to masochists what Søren is to sadists. His nickname was Unbreakable. Your priest probably could have broken him, but Trent only let women top him. Anyway, Nora goes right up to him and asks him if he wants to play. He said yes and then tried to spit in her face.”

  “Holy shit. What happened?”

  Griffin laughed, low and throaty, and Michael suddenly felt the need to excuse himself for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed a pillow and covered his lap with it.

  “Nora ducked. That woman’s got killer reflexes. She came up and slapped him so hard his nose bled. Then things got really interesting. She broke him. In one night. He safed out, started crying. She sent that big masochistic motherfucker to the hospital. After that, she owned The 8th Circle. No one ever questioned her dominant credentials again.”

  Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would be an honor.

  Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at the ankles.

  “Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all did,” Griffin said and M
ichael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes. “Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he wanted her back more than ever.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.

  “No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway, the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”

  “Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”

  “She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”

  Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the middle of the bed and faced Griffin.

  “Tell me more about Nora.”

  Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him. Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed. Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe around him?

  “So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”

  “That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British butler standing in the doorway.

  “Mister Dimir,” the butler said in his perfectly snooty accent. “The mistress requires your presence.”

  Michael’s heart leapt in his chest. Thirteen months since he’d been with Nora. Thirteen months since he’d been with anybody. And now, right now, the one and only Nora Sutherlin had summoned him.

  He turned to Griffin, who flashed him such a wicked grin that Michael, not even standing, felt his knees buckle.

  “Go on, Mick. It’s showtime.”

  11

  Once she arrived at Sacred Heart, Suzanne tried to figure out what the hell she was doing there. Her brief encounter with Father Stearns had only stoked her fascination with the man. As a reporter she had a highly sensitive internal bullshit meter. Father Stearns said he could spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards. Maybe so. But she could tell the truth from a lie just by watching someone’s eyes.

  I haven’t performed an exorcism in weeks.

  Bullshit.

  My office is always open, Father Stearns had said with far more sincerity.

  Truth.

  After dark on a Saturday night, Suzanne doubted anyone, including Father Stearns, would still be at Sacred Heart. Maybe she’d peek into his office and see if she couldn’t get a little insight into the target of her investigation. She parked on the street about fifty yards from the church. As she walked toward the side entrance she studied her surroundings. A lot of New York commuters lived in Connecticut towns like this one—they were safer, cleaner and had better schools. Wakefield seemed like a charming little suburb, the perfect place to raise a family. Small but well-appointed houses, orderly streets, historic shops and no real crime of any kind…such a perfect little town. Too perfect, Suzanne decided.

  Suzanne didn’t trust perfect. Adam had been perfect—perfectly happy, perfectly content, perfect life—until he’d committed suicide.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured Adam’s face, something she tried very hard never to do. They looked alike, really. Everyone always said that. But apart from their shared dark brown eyes, red-blond hair and oval faces, they had almost nothing in common. She was the skeptic, the cynic, the hot-tempered pistol in the family. Adam was the angel, her parents’ perfect firstborn. Sweet, kind, even-tempered and so devout she didn’t even tell him when she stopped believing in God, knowing how much it would break his heart. And all that time he had this horrible thing inside him that someone else put there…a darkness, a contamination, as the note he’d left behind called it. God, the note.

  I’m unclean, contaminated. I can’t face taking one more shower knowing that no matter how long I stay under the hot water, I’ll still be dirty when I get out.

  Suzanne forced the memories away. For Adam she would do this…for Adam and Michael Dimir and any other kid who’d been hurt by the Church.

  She slipped through the side door into Sacred Heart and made her way past small classrooms. Even in the low light she could read the notices on the bulletin board:

  Choir practice—7:00 p.m. on Tuesdays—Don’t forget your sheet music, Gina.

  Suzanne laughed a little through her burning tears. Poor Gina.

  The Knights of Columbus wants you! Email adonovan@sacredheartct.org for more information.

  Her dad had been a Knight of Columbus. Such an imposing name for a group of usually overweight fathers who didn’t do much more than have charity barbecue cook-offs.

  All couples planning to marry must meet with Father Stearns at least six months prior to their wedding. Make an appointment with Diane.

  A celibate priest doing marriage counseling? Suzanne shook her head. What on earth would a Catholic priest know about sex or marriage or romantic relationships of any kind?

  At the end of the hallway Suzanne found a closed door with an engraved nameplate on it. Father Marcus Stearns SJ, it read. SJ? She’d seen those initials before but couldn’t quite remember what they stood for. Pulling her notebook out of her bag, she jotted them down. With almost shaking fingers, Suzanne reached out for the door handle. It turned. So he had been telling the truth. His office really was always open.

  For safety’s sake she left the lights off. From her bag she took out a small flashlight and shined it around the office. Immediately she gleaned Father Stearns was a neat freak. Nothing appeared out of place. Not a stray book or a single sheet of paper. A beautiful office really, Suzanne decided. The big rose window must cast glorious red-and-pink light into the room on sunny days. The ornately carved desk looked like old oak to her—probably weighed as much as Patrick’s Saab. The books on the shelves were lined up with military precision. She studied the titles and discovered she could read very few of them. How many languages could Father Stearns read? It appeared that in addition to the usual Biblical languages—Hebrew, Greek and Latin—Father Stearns had books in French, Spanish, Italian…and a lot of books that seemed to be in a Scandinavian language. She didn’t know two words of Swedish, Danish or Dutch but she could recognize the distinct characters—the a with a little loop on the top or the o with a slash through it. Suzanne picked up what appeared to be the oldest book on the shelf. From the shape and size of its worn leather cover, Suzanne guessed it to be a Bible. She opened it and saw an inscription on the front pages written in a woman’s elegant hand.

  Min Søren, min søn er nu en far. Jeg er så stolt. Jeg elsker dig altid. Din mor.

  The only word in the inscription Suzanne recognized was the name Søren. She’d taken a few philosophy classes in college and
learned of Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher and theologian. But if she remembered correctly, Kierkegaard wasn’t Catholic. She pulled out her notebook again and carefully copied down the inscription inside the Bible. In addition she made a note to look up Søren Kierkegaard. Why would Father Stearns have a Bible inscribed to someone named Søren? A relative maybe? she wondered. He certainly looked as though he had Scandinavian blood. But her research had indicated he had an English father and a New England WASP mother. Another mystery.

  She put the Bible back on the shelf and turned her attention to the desk. Something seemed off about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Then she realized—no computer. Well, maybe he had a laptop. Although she didn’t see any computer accessories anywhere, either—no printer, no power cords, no internet router. She only saw Montblanc pens and high-quality writing paper on his desk. Father Stearns might be something of a Luddite. That would explain his lack of internet presence.

  Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him with them every year.

  You bless us year after year, Father. Love in Christ, the Harpers, read one tag.