Page 19 of Priestly Sins

I wish I boxed. I wish I could do something to get this frenzied, vibrating energy out of me. A run won’t cut it. If I’m alone with my thoughts any longer, I’ll go mad. I get home and change into street clothes… anything to not look like that prick who deserves to rot in hell.

As I head to my Benz, I grab my phone and call Bobby. I need him to get with Killian on a few things and I need to see where the South Carolina house stands.

I drive the streets for way longer than needed. Metallica and a little speeding on the interstate and I’ve calmed myself. The rage simmers and I return from Baton Rouge where I’d driven just to keep moving.

I cruise through the alley and around the block before parking out front of Petites Fleurs. It’s nearing closing time when I walk in. The clinking bells announce my arrival.

Clara bounds up from the back, only to stop yet again, frozen by my presence in the shop. “Miss Clara Bell, what do you have on special today? How are the petits fours?”

“Dee-licious,” she singsongs as she skips toward the glass case.

She grabs my shirt and tugs, giggling, all while trying to drag me to the case. Now I’m frozen in my tracks and rendered mute.

When she finally succeeds in budging me from my spot, one little hand smacks the glass down low. “No more pink petty-floors today, but we have pink cupcakes. Want one?” she begins and drops my hand, making her way around the corner.

“Clara, where’s your mom, love? Think she can help us?”

Just as quickly, she tears toward the back screaming, “Momm-my!”

A harried Sirona rushes out and, like last time, stops dead in her tracks.

“You’ve got to stop that,” I say, gesturing to her almost tipping over from being rooted in place.

“What?”

“Freaking out every time you see me here.”

“I’m not…” but she trails off and averts her eyes.

“You are and I’m asking you not to. Just Sean, remember?”

“You’re dressed... differently.”

“Rough day. Went out for a drive. Didn’t want to feel confined.”

“Ah.”

“Clara tells me you have pink cupcakes today.”

She comes unglued and goes all businesswoman on me. Remembering where we are and assuming why I’m here. “We do.”

“Do you still have coffee?”

“Just the dregs but I can make some more.”

“No, don’t.” I turn. “Clara, are the pink ones your favorites?”

“Yup.”

“If I cut it in half, will you share it with me?” I glance at her mother expectantly, but not apologetically.

“Yes!” she squeals.

“Okay, it’s settled then. One pink cupcake, please.”

While Sirona and Clara run around getting things together, I grab a seat at the indoor table, my back to the windows. While I normally hate being that vulnerable and at the mercy of whomever can best me, tonight I feel exposed and I’m not interested in curious eyes that might look through bakery windows.

As Clara and I sit and munch on our cherry cordial cupcake—leave it to her mom to skip the strawberry-strawberry combination—Sirona moves around behind the counter doing close of business duties, emptying the cases, wiping down counters, and the like.