CHAPTER 6
Michael sat on the porch outside his house waiting for the ride Nora promised. He still couldn’t quite believe that in a few minutes, he’d be whisked away to a farm in upstate New York to hang out with Nora Sutherlin and her kinky friend Griffin all summer. The Griffin part of the equation worried him. Nora he’d known for over a year now, even known her in the biblical sense. They hadn’t talked much since the night they spent together, but he still felt comfortable around her. Well, as comfortable as he felt around anyone. This Griffin guy might hate him. After all, Nora was supposed to train him this summer. Griffin might not like sharing her with somebody else, especially not a teenage boy with no money, from nowhere. Michael still couldn’t believe Father S would share Nora with any guy. But then again, Father S was an unusual man. He had a very literal concept of ownership where Nora was concerned. Since he owned her, he could lend her out and she’d still be his. Michael wondered how Nora felt about being treated like a library book. Michael kind of liked the idea himself. The thought of being owned by someone he was in love with got him so turned on he could barely breathe. He felt disowned these days. His mom didn’t really want him anymore. And God, his dad…his dad?
“Michael? What are you doing?”
Michael froze. Slowly he turned his head to the side and saw his father in his usual blue business suit stalking toward him. So engrossed in thoughts of Nora, Michael hadn’t even noticed his father had parked across the street.
“Nothing,” Michael said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Waiting on a ride.”
His dad stopped and looked down at him. Even if Michael hadn’t been sitting and his rather tall, stocky father standing, his dad would still be looking down at him.
“A ride to where?” his father demanded.
Michael decided to try a little deflection again.
“It’s Thursday morning.”
“I took the morning off. Your mother said you were going to be gone the whole summer. I thought I should see what was going on with my son.”
“I’m your son again?”
“Michael, I thought we put that behind us,” his father said in his most ingratiating voice. Michael liked the yelling better than the sucking up. At least the anger seemed genuine. His father’s friendly voice only meant he wanted something. Answers obviously. And Michael wasn’t about to give him any.
Yeah, I’m totally over that whole you wailing on me and Mom thing. We’re best buds again, Dad, Michael thought but didn’t say out loud. His father could turn anything against him, so Michael wore his silence as a shield.
His father’s eyes turned cold and menacing.
“Young man, tell me what you’re doing this summer, or I’ll make very sure whatever it is doesn’t happen.”
“I’m staying with some friends this summer. That’s all.”
Michael’s father stared at him without speaking. Bad sign. His dad talked. Constantly talked. He spouted off about sports teams, about the assholes at work, about the president, the job market, the world’s problems that would go away if everyone were just more like him.
“Didn’t know you had any friends, Michael,” his father said with cold suspicion.
Michael clenched his jaw and didn’t answer.
“What friends are these?” his father asked in a neutral tone Michael didn’t trust for one second.
Pulling his knees even tighter to his chest, Michael concentrated on the cold concrete underneath him. He always played this game when his father was angry. Michael would disappear, pull into himself, let his body become a hard outer shell that protected that part of him only Nora and Father S understood.
“Answer me, Michael.”
At times like these Michael wished he could talk like Nora did, wished he could say everything he thought. What he wanted to say right now was, You asshole.
“You as—” Michael began, but stopped when a shiny silver car, a Rolls Royce maybe, turned the corner of his street.
“What the hell?” his father asked, his angry dark eyes narrowing at the car.
Michael stood up, grabbed his duffel bag and head toward the car.
“Michael, get back here,” his father yelled after him. Whoever was driving the Rolls Royce slowed in front of Michael’s house, and the door opened for him. Michael threw himself and his duffel bag into the backseat and the car started off again. Glancing out the window, Michael saw his father glaring at him with unstrained fury. There’d be hell to pay when he came back at the end of the summer. But at least now he was free.
Suddenly Michael realized he wasn’t alone in the back of the lavish car. First he saw riding boots, black riding boots, and dark gray trousers. The trousers belonged to a rather old-fashioned but dashing-looking suit worn by a crazy-good-looking dark-haired man who studied him with a little smile on his sculpted lips. Michael had no idea who the man was, but he had no doubt in his mind that he sat in the presence of a dominant friend of Nora’s, and probably a very important one.
Michael hazarded a timid, “Hello, sir.”
“Bonjour, Michael,” the man said with a French accent, pronouncing his name like Michelle. French? So this was Kingsley, Father S’s necessary evil. The man looked Michael up and down once more before reclining back and throwing his riding boots on the seat opposite him and crossing them at the ankles. “Mon Dieu, chérie does have good taste in her pets, doesn’t she?”
“Pets?” Michael repeated, in some distress.
The man leaned forward and Michael nervously studied his handsome face—the dark umber eyes, strong European nose, the sensual tilt to his mouth.
“Tell me, Michael, have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”
* * *
Nora arched her back and tilted her hips high. Finally she found the right angle of penetration. Admittedly, it had been her idea for she and Griffin to fuck on top of her Aston Martin, but once he tunneled inside her, she realized that car hoods and sex didn’t always mix. Not that Griffin seemed to mind. While she lay on her stomach across the car hood, her hands tied behind her neck, Griffin thrust blithely into her. Once she raised her hips, he slipped his hand under her and found her clitoris. Now equally blithe, Nora turned her head to the side and smiled.
“When did you get a Ducati?” Nora asked, noticing for the first time the motorcycle sitting in the corner of Griffin’s garage stocked with Ferraris, Porsches and one hardcore Shelby Mustang.
“I’m fucking you and you’re asking me about my motorcycle?” Griffin gasped through gritted teeth.
“Sorry, sir,” she said without any actual contrition. “A Ducati is the reason Søren and I are together.”
“Dammit, I hate that he has one too.”
“I don’t…”
Nora closed her eyes as a memory floated up out of the mists of the past.
“Eleanor Louise Schreiber! Get out of bed this instant,” her mother shouted at her. Nora remembered throwing the covers over her head in her determination that this would be the day she broke her mother’s spirit. This would be the day she would defeat the tyranny of organized religion. She’d skip Mass today and never, ever, go back.
“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouted back from under the sheets.
“Eleanor, get out of bed this instant and get ready for Mass.”
Nora remembered hearing real anger in her mother’s tone. Good. Anger made her erratic. She’d either kill her or storm out. Either way, it meant no church today. If Eleanor could just fight her way out of Mass, she’d be free…unchained, unfettered, unbound by the Catholic Church forever.
“I’m an atheist.” She flipped over onto her stomach. “I’ll incinerate the second I walk into church. It’s for everyone’s good that I stay away from that place.”
Her mother had growled under her breath. So that’s where Nora got that habit from?
“Eleanor,” her mother said, sighing. Damn. Sighing wasn’t good. Sighing meant her mother was going to try to either reason with her or bribe her.
“What?”
“Father Greg is retiring soon. Today is the day the new priest is starting at Sacred Heart. If the new priest hires someone else to do the church’s books, you don’t get free tuition to St. Xavier anymore.”
“Don’t care. Send me to public school. No more uniforms.”
Nora remembered the sharp breath her mother took. That her mother hadn’t just beat the shit out of her yet was one of life’s great mysteries.
“Eleanor,” her mother began, her voice dripping with saccharine. “Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”
Rolling her eyes, Nora had flipped back over and glared at her mother.
“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.”
But her mother continued.
“And he rides a motorcycle.”
That got her attention.
“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece of crap from Japan, is it?” Her father hadn’t taught her much but he had taught her cars and motorcycles.
Shaking her head, her mother tapped her chin. “I can’t remember what it was called. Something Italian sounding. Du-something.”
“A Ducati?”
“That was it.”
Nora remembered her heart racing a little right then. A handsome Catholic priest who rode the finest, fastest, most wicked motorcycle money could buy? She’d have to see it to believe it.
“Fine,” she’d said, throwing off the covers. “I’m coming.”
Nora came hard and relaxed against the hood of her Aston Martin as Griffin made a few more spiraling thrusts inside her before pulling out of her and untying her hands.
“Good idea,” he said, dragging her back to him. With her hands now free, Nora tugged down her skirt and leaned back against Griffin. “Never fucked on an Aston Martin before. Something for the scrapbook,” he said.
“Neither have I. Or in it. Came close with Zach though. He had a major hard-on for this car.”
“Zach?” Griffin asked, peeling off the condom and zipping his pants up.
“Blue Eyes, remember? My insanely hot Jewish editor who left me for his wife?”
“Right. That guy. I think he had a hard-on for you. The car was just a bonus.”
“She is a very nice car,” Nora said, running her hands over the hood. The Aston Martin had been a gift from a lover three years ago—a member of a Middle Eastern dynasty who came to the States every few months to indulge his very top-secret obsession with female dominants. Gorgeous man. He loved painting Arabic poetry on her naked body after sex. After their first week together she’d found the Aston Martin in her garage as a thank-you. “She’s my baby.”
“Why did you have me drive her up here and put her on blocks then?” Griffin asked, making a circuit around the car.
Nora kissed her fingers and touched the hood in a little benediction. Noticing the smears on the paint, she grabbed a chamois. With care and elbow grease she buffed the Nora/Griffin smudges off the inferno-red finish.
“I was going to give it to Wes, my old roommate.”
“You had a roommate?”
“Live-in intern. Never told you. Gorgeous kid. You would have tried to fuck him.”
“That’s probably true. What happened to this gorgeous intern?”
Nora sighed heavily. “He fell in love with me. Bad situation. Had to let him go.” She tried to sound cold but she could tell Griffin wasn’t buying it.
“Sounds like he wasn’t the only one in love.” Griffin eyed her meaningfully.
“Griff, you’re too pretty to also be smart.”
Nora deserved the glower he leveled at her.
“Do you still talk to him?”
“He calls, but I don’t answer. All I know is that he withdrew from Yorke and went back to Kentucky.”
“You ever Google-stalk him? See what he’s up to on Facebook or Twitter?”
Nora shook her head. “I’ve been tempted, but I don’t know. What if he was still sad and lonely? It would break my heart.”
Griffin came around the car and stood in front of her. He cupped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes.
“What if he was happy? Dating somebody even?”
Nora exhaled heavily.
“It would break my heart.”
“Nora,” Griffin sighed. “You really need to—”
“Master Griffin? Mistress?” came an English-accented voice from the door to the garage.
“God, it turns me on when he calls me Master Griffin,” Griffin groaned as Nora laughed and straightened his clothes. He’d actually put on pants today—khakis with a white T-shirt that stretched across his powerful tattooed biceps. Pants and a shirt but no shoes or socks. Still, they were making progress.
“Your other guest has arrived,” Griffin’s stately white-haired butler said.
A grin spread across Nora’s face. “Junior kinkster’s here. Let’s go.”
Nora grabbed Griffin’s hand and raced past his butler.
“So tell me about this kid,” Griffin said. “You said he’s a seventeen-year-old submissive from your church. Anything else I need to know about him?”
“Like what? Food allergies?”
“Let’s just say I barely remember being seventeen. I think I spent half the year drunk and the other half of the year high.”
“You don’t have to worry about Michael. He’s very straight edge. Søren said he doesn’t even drink. But there’s three things you probably should know about him.”
“I’m ready,” Griffin said, opening the front door just as Kingsley’s silver Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the house. “Hit me.”
Nora slapped his arm.
“First, Michael doesn’t talk.”
“Is he a mute?” Griffin asked, sounding slightly horrified. Griffin only shut up when you put something in his mouth—preferably a body part.
“No, just really quiet. Nervous type. Quiet.”
“Submissive?”
“That,” Nora said as the door to the Rolls opened and Michael stepped out. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and smiled up at her. Raising his hand, he gave her a nervous wave.
“Holy shit,” Griffin breathed, his dark eyes widening at the sight of Michael.
“Yeah,” Nora said, smiling back at Michael. “Number two—Michael is absolutely, completely, ridiculously beautiful.”
“Nora…” Griffin said in a distressed voice. “I think I’m in love.”
“You’re in heat, Griff. Big difference. Oh, and number three…Søren says you can’t fuck him.”
Skipping down the steps, Nora left a speechless Griffin behind her. She grabbed Michael and pulled him into her arms.
“Hey, Angel,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “How was the trip?”
“Bizarre,” Michael whispered. “There was a guy in the backseat. In riding boots. We dropped him off at Father S’s.”
“Oh, that was just Kingsley. He likes to inspect the new recruits. Did he hit on you? Ask you if you’ve ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”
“Um, yeah,” Michael confessed, blushing. “But I didn’t—”
“Good,” Nora said. “You passed inspection. Go say hello to Griffin while I make out with your driver.”
Nora bodily spun Michael, aimed him toward the steps and slapped him on his jeans-clad bottom. Robin, one of her and Søren’s favorite submissives from The 8th Circle, stepped out of the driver’s seat in her chic gray chauffeur’s costume complete with driving hat and leather gloves.
“I love a woman in uniform,” Nora said, giving Robin a long, thorough kiss. From the top of the steps, Nora heard applause. She pulled back from the pretty submissive and saw Griffin clapping and Michael gaping. Michael looked at Griffin, who looked at Michael. Michael looked at her. Griffin kept looking at Michael.
Nora groaned. “Robin, take me back to the city with you.”
“I’m sorry, mistress. Mr. King said I wasn’t allowed. Oh, and Mr. S has a message for you.”
“What, pray tell, is Mr. S’s message?” Nora asked, already dreading whatever message Søren decided to pass on to her through an underling.
“He wanted me to ask you if you still had that note he left for you? The one that said ‘Do not open until instructed’?”
“Yes. I still have it. What about it?”
“He said you still can’t open it.”
Nora nodded. “Fine. Great. Wonderful. You can tell Mr. S that he can take his note and shove it up—”
“Nora?” Griffin called down to her. “Kiss Robin again. I want to get a pic.”
Nora rubbed her forehead. Long summer ahead. Too long.
Nora shook Robin’s hand goodbye, a move that led to booing from the peanut gallery at the top of the steps. Robin got into the Rolls and drove off, leaving Nora alone with a timid teenage boy and a horny Griffin.
Looking up at the blue sky above her, Nora sent up a quick prayer to St. Mary Magdalen, patron saint of ex-prostitutes, and St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Her prayer consisted of one word.
“Help.”
* * *
Suzanne took a deep breath and whispered one word to herself—“Afghanistan.”
An odd mantra, but it worked for her. She’d been in Afghanistan for the past three months, and in that desolate, broken country, she’d eaten fear and slept with courage. Lieutenant Hatton, the handsome Texan who always called her Red—IED took his right arm. Staff Sergeant Zimmerman, the New York Jew who couldn’t stop flirting with her—a bullet to the sternum. And Private First Class Goran, the shy North Dakotan with a one-year-old daughter back home—a bullet to the brain. His own.
She’d seen all of it. Witnessed horrors she could barely recall because her mind had done such a good job of burying the visuals so deep even she couldn’t find them. No one really understood why she did what she did, not even her really. In college when she decided to major in journalism, her advisor told her she had the looks to be a top-notch weathergirl. Her impressive intelligence could get her far, he’d said. But a face and body as choice as hers could take her anywhere she wanted to go. And he’d grabbed her ass and told her exactly where he wanted her to take it. Instead she took it to the dean and got the tenured, award-winning professor canned. As he cleaned out his office, she knocked on his door, smiled at him and said, “Cloudy with a chance of fired,” before walking off. Weathergirl her ass. A man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself had been the death of her brother Adam. Her advisor had been the first abusive man with too much power she’d taken out. Father Stearns might be next.
“Afghanistan,” she repeated. She’d been in war zones. She could do this. Suzanne changed into a reasonably nondescript black dress and pulled her long red hair back into a knot. Earlier that day when she’d hit yet another brick wall attempting to dig up anything on Father Stearns, she’d decided she had no choice but to meet the man. Scanning Sacred Heart’s website she found that Father Stearns presided over Thursday evening mass. Purposefully she hadn’t told Patrick about her trip to Wakefield. He worried about her, worried she’d get hurt. “Afghanistan,” she told him every time he started to patronize her. He chased cheating politicians around the Upper East Side. She covered war zones. That usually shut him up.
Before leaving, Suzanne slipped into a pair of plain black flats. At five-nine in bare feet, Suzanne stood as tall as most men she knew. The priests of her childhood were all small men, old and weak. She wanted this priest to feel comfortable around her, comfortable enough to talk. Intimidating him with her height wouldn’t help the situation.
Being a city girl to the core, Suzanne didn’t own a car. Luckily Patrick did, and he trusted her just enough to let her borrow it. Either that or he really did want her back and would use any means to get in her good graces. Using Google Maps she found Sacred Heart Catholic Church a scant five minutes before Thursday evening Mass was due to start. She raced from the car and into the sanctuary, taking a seat near the back where she could lurk unnoticed. Once inside and seated, Suzanne took the opportunity to look around and get her bearings. Digging in her bag, she pulled out her little steno pad and flipped it open.
Beautiful sanctuary, she wrote. Stained-glass windows depicting Christ’s miracles, traditional architecture—Richardsonian Romanesque maybe? Choir loft above me, seats about 300 people. Truly gorgeous church. I fucking hate it here.
She hadn’t sat in a Catholic Church in years, not since Adam died. Even before that she’d given up on the church, on her childhood faith, on prayer. Any God who could let the sort of evil she’d witnessed happen on His watch wasn’t a God she wanted any part of. And since there didn’t seem to be any other gods out there doing any better, she’d just given up on the concept altogether. She didn’t miss Him or It one bit.
Suzanne stiffened with nervousness as a hymn she hadn’t heard in a million years began and filled the sanctuary. For a 5:30 p.m. evening mass, an impressive number of people were in attendance, almost a hundred by her estimate. Well, if Father Stearns had made the short list to be a bishop so comparatively young, he must have something going for him. Maybe he was one of those liberal theologians who did a lot of social work. Or maybe the church had a fairly active youth group or music ministry. Or maybe…
Suzanne’s body rose from her pew as her heart plummeted through the floor. Shock came first and gave way to disbelief. Disbelief lasted but a moment before suspicion reared its head.
Never before in her life had Suzanne seen a man more strikingly, viscerally handsome. Blond, incredibly blond, and so tall she could have worn five-inch stilettos on her feet without fear of even meeting him eye to eye.
The vestments, the white collar…it had to be him. But how could a Catholic priest be so… She couldn’t even find the right word. Attractive? Beautiful? Desirable?
Still staring, Suzanne nearly forgot to sit down with the rest of the congregation. She’d chosen her seat carefully hoping to go unnoticed in the crowded middle of the sanctuary. But as Father Stearns came up to the altar he cast his eyes across his people and let them rest on her for a long, deliberate moment.
As his gaze touched her, Suzanne felt something stirring in the recesses of her stomach, something that formed a tight knot and sunk in deep and hard. Her hands went numb. Her skin flushed. Even her toes tingled in her plain black flats. For the first time in over a decade, for the first time since Adam died, she felt compelled to release one tiny desperate prayer under her breath.
“Oh…my…God.”