Eva
David looked nervous, scared as shit actually as he spoke to Nathan in the private hospital waiting room. I shouldn’t have come. David should be surrounded by people who love Marcia, not by people who were confused by her apparent shift in persona. I was seconds away from making an about face when David looked up and smiled at me. “Eva, you came,” he said, walking over and giving me a fatherly kiss on the cheek. I hardly knew this man, but I could tell that he had a kind soul. His eyes were warm, just like Jamie’s.
Nathan, too, looked at me and smiled. “I just checked in with the surgeon. Everything is progressing nicely. She should be out of surgery soon,” he said.
“Thank you, Nathan. I appreciate the update.” Okay, now what? I made myself useful and asked David if he needed coffee or something to eat. He said no, but thanked me. I nodded and announced that I was going to hit the cafeteria. I couldn’t just sit there with David in that waiting room. What would we fill the silence with? Stories of my childhood? Tales depicting my mother as a rancid, judgmental woman? I was on my way to the cafeteria when I spotted the hospital chapel. It was a small room, with a dozen or so seats and a cross hung on the far wall surrounded by fresh flowers. For some reason, I entered and took a seat. It was quiet I sought, not God. I didn’t need God. He had abandoned me a long time ago. I was in this chapel because I needed quiet, some time alone with my thoughts. I sat back and closed my eyes, giving myself over to the silence. Immediately Jamie entered my mind, and I cursed myself for coming here.
I was attracted to him, to my stepbrother . . . the priest. I had no idea what had possessed me to be so freakishly forthcoming with him. It was like whenever I was in that confessional the floodgates opened, and I couldn’t help but let him see me and to learn my sins. Maybe it was his voice, that demanding and dark tone he used that weakened me, the one that caused every desire of mine to surface, making me crave to be under his power, to be his possession. I knew that I affected him. The hard-on he had when he had driven me home, the questions he had asked me in the confessional, the one in which he had asked me if I had touched my pussy . . . well, he had definitely gone off script with that one. Still, he had ended our time together last night with him saying a prayer for my mother, and just like that, he had morphed back into the dutiful priest that he was.
“Would you like some company?”
That voice. I instinctively wanted to fall to my knees and bow my head whenever I heard it. “Um . . . sure. She’s still in surgery,” I said, turning around in my seat.
Jamie walked in and sat next to me. He was wearing his clerics and a black jacket. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The sight of him doing that, of him exposing his muscular forearms, inch by inch, made me flip my attention to the crucifix at the center of the room. I felt my face grow warm. I didn’t embarrass easily, and right now I was either embarrassed or coming down with the flu. “So, did you come straight from work?” I asked, feeling stupid as the words came out.
“Yes, I did. I had a funeral this morning, but I had the rest of the day off. I asked a priest from a neighboring parish to cover my Saturday evening Mass so I could be here. Before I was assigned to St. Bede’s six months ago, the parish had two priests. But as you are aware, one of them was caught with child porn and accused of molesting two altar boys. Thankfully, he was charged and defrocked. Although the other priest was completely innocent, he was still transferred to another parish, in hopes that if both men were gone the parish could start over with a fresh face.”
“You know, as an attorney I don’t solely go after corrupt priests, but since my specialty is sexual abuse cases, priests do fall under my jurisdiction. Does that bother you?” I asked.
“Does it bother me that you’re helping to clean up this diocese, that you’re putting sick pedophiles behind bars where they belong?” he asked.
“I just thought . . .”
“That because I’m a priest I feel the need to protect bastards that hurt children?” His tone was sharp and I flinched. His eyes softened, and he said, “I’m sorry, I was out of line.”
“No, you weren’t. And I’m realizing, albeit maybe a little too late, that I shouldn’t judge all priests based on the sins of a few.”
“It’s never too late. Never too late to start over,” he said.
I caught the double meaning, but I didn’t respond to it. Instead, I changed the topic. “So, do you like being a priest?”
“Yes. I enjoy helping people.”
“But you can help people and not be a priest. Take your brother, for example. As a neurosurgeon, he routinely meets patients with potentially devastating diagnoses, people who need him, trust in him and his skills. He fills them with hope and your dad, he goes after criminals who deserve to rot, criminals who had left a trail of victims. So why be a priest? Did you receive the call? A sign from God that the priesthood was the path for you? That your path included listening to fallen women discussing their sexual issues in your confessional booth?”
Jamie laughed.
Maybe this was the way to go. To not ignore the elephant in the room. “I don’t know why I’ve been so honest with you. It’s not like I tell every man—or priest—I meet about my broken relationship with my mother or my need to touch myself.”
His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. “You must have had boyfriends, men you have told what you . . . crave.”
The heat in my cheeks went straight to my core, and I pressed my thighs together. His gaze drifted to my legs for a split second and then back to my eyes. My breath left me as I felt him watching me. Feeling vulnerable, I looked down at the floor. “I . . . I . . . told my last boyfriend . . . Kevin. But he wasn’t . . . receptive to the idea.” Nor were the handful of guys I had dated prior to him. One of them actually had the balls to accuse me of reading one too many erotic romance novels. I had told him to fuck off. The minute he was gone, I had reached for my Kindle on my nightstand and reread my favorite scene from Fifty Shades. Screw you asshole.
Fingers cupped my chin, and he forced me to look at him. “How very foolish of him,” he said. My skin blazed beneath his touch. I looked into his eyes and saw something so familiar . . . so right. His lips parted as his attention went to my mouth. I couldn’t help but wonder how he tasted or how my body would react if his full lips feathered mine.
His fingers fell away, and I fought the urge not to pout, not to ache from the sudden disconnect. But I didn’t have to worry about disguising my disappointment for long, because David walked in and said, “Your mom is out of surgery and being wheeled to the ICU. Her vitals look good, but she will probably be out of it for a bit.”
Regaining my composure slightly, I asked, “And the cancer? Is it . . .”
“The doctors are confident that they got it all. They had to remove both breasts, but we were prepared for that.” David teared up. “I’m just . . . so thankful that they caught it in time.” Jamie stood and gave his dad a hug. The scene brought tears to my eyes. David really loved my mother. This warm, caring man was crying because he thought he could have lost his wife. My confusion only grew. The mental image of the mother I knew was growing more blurry by the hour. David gave his son a pat on the back before ending the embrace. “You two must be starving. Why don’t you grab a bite? I’ll call you when she wakes up,” David said.
“You sure, Dad? I don’t mind staying.”
“Yep, go on, grab a beer and some sandwiches on me,” he said, digging a few bills from his wallet and placing them into Jamie’s hand. Jamie tried to give the money back to him, but David shook his head and walked away.
“Well, I could go for a beer. How about the Plough and the Star?” Jamie asked. His tone was again friendly, no longer heated and I wanted to kick myself for being disappointed over the switch.
Friends, stepsiblings. That was all we could be. Anything else would be a sin.
With that in mind, I accepted the invite . . . as a friend. “One of my favorite places. Sure, let’s go.”
We took a cab to the Irish pub that was within walking distance to my house and his rectory. I was a little nervous to go there since Kevin liked the Plough. But he typically frequented it for lunch or a drink after work, and since today was Saturday it should be safe. We grabbed a booth beside the enormous lit Christmas tree in the corner. The restaurant was all decked out for the swiftly approaching holiday with white lights and red poinsettias everywhere I looked. A roaring fire was ablaze in the wood burning fireplace that encompassed half the wall. It was cozy, and since it was only six o’clock, the party crowd hadn’t arrived yet.
We ordered two Harp and a few appetizers from our very diligent but flirtatious waitress. She didn’t give two shits that Jamie was wearing his white collar and clerics. She looked right past his priestly attire and practically threw her double Ds in his face. But much to her disappointment and my enjoyment, he didn’t seem to notice, and his eyes either remained on his menu or on me.
I was such a goddamned hypocrite. I had no room to judge the waitress for wanting the man seated across from me. I had masturbated in his confessional booth and then admitted it to him. All this waitress did was show some boob. I shook my head at my gross lapse of judgment and decided to keep this outing casual and safe. “So don’t think for a moment that I haven’t noticed that you didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“And what question was that?” he asked, looking up from the menu. He flashed me a mischievous smile, one that I felt all the way to my toes.
Get a fucking grip, Eva!
I cleared my throat. “I asked you if you received a call, some sign from God that you were meant to be a priest?”
“I believe I did.”
“When did you receive the call?”
“About eight years ago. I was in my second year of medical school when I knew that the priesthood was something I needed.”
“But before that did you . . . you know, did you . . .”
“No, I don’t know. What exactly are you asking me, Eva?” He put the menu down at the same time our busty waitress arrived with our drinks and then left. I grabbed mine and drank straight from the bottle and gave the wooden tabletop my undivided attention.
“You’re blushing, Eva. And I find that interesting because I don’t take you for one to embarrass easily.” He was right. It was a monumental feat to get me to blush. But with him, that was all I seemed capable of doing. Shit. “Look at me, Eva.”
That voice. That motherfucking voice. I loathed it and craved it at the same time. It did things to me. Like, make me comply on command. I looked up and asked, “Did you . . . date?”
“Did I date? Did I have girlfriends pre-seminary school?” he asked.
I took another gulp of beer and nodded.
“I wouldn’t classify what I did back then as dating.”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“I fucked women. I didn’t date them.”
“You’ve had sex?” I asked. Of course, he had sex with women. Scratch that. He had fucked women. He used the term ‘fucked.’ Was a priest allowed to even say that word? I didn’t want to know the answer. But I did want to hear him say it again.
Jamie laughed. “Yes, many priests prior to ordination have led healthy sex lives.”
“But . . . how . . . I mean . . . how can you go from the active life you had to living a celibate one? Don’t you miss it?”
“I’m a man, Eva, of course, I miss it. I struggle with the fact that I won’t ever feel a woman’s soft curves grind up against me or hear her whimper as I thrust into her heat.” My eyes grew wide, and I felt my jaw drop. He put his hands in front of his face to hide his eyes. “Maybe we should talk like this as if a screen is in front of us. You seem more comfortable that way. Obviously, you are surprised at what I had just said. My question is: Why are you surprised? Because that admission came from a priest or because I’m your stepbrother?”
I heard the smile in his voice, and I imagined that if his hands weren’t acting as a shield, his eyes would be boring into mine. I needed to see his eyes. I needed to know. I grabbed his wrists and pushed his hands away. I didn’t let go of his hands as they rested on the tabletop, as we locked eyes. The heated desire I saw in his gaze would have been my undoing if it wasn’t for Super Tits. Our waitress showed up with our food in the nick of time. But before she set our plates down, she glanced at our connected hands. I overreacted and let go rather abruptly and sat back in my seat.
I was falling apart. And if he didn’t see what was happening, how he affected me, he would very soon. My desire for him, my need to taste him, a priest, was my one-way ticket to Hell. As if sensing my distress, Jamie kept the conversation during dinner light, once again morphing back into the dutiful priest, not the priest who had used the F-word and admitted to missing sex.
I missed that man. He was the one who captivated me, who made me so wet that I contemplated going into the bathroom to toss my soaked-through panties into the trash. In the end, I decided to live with the discomfort, and we paid the bill and left. We had just stepped out of the pub and turned to walk north on Second Street when I saw him. “Shit.”