Page 23 of Priestly Sins

He tells me it was a former fire station. Bottom floor is all garage, home gym, and bathroom with a shower. Second floor was gutted into one great room when it was remodeled. It is where the kitchen, breakfast nook, an office, and a huge living room are. From there, you can walk out onto the deck that rests on the back end of the massive first floor garage. The deck is lined with a wrought iron chest-tall fence and has an outdoor cooking area. The all-glass doors out onto the deck fold accordion-style on tracks to make for one huge outdoor area. It is overhung on the living room side with the balcony of the third floor, providing some shade and relief from the rain.

Bobby laughs as he relays this. Apparently, the mosquitos in Charleston are similar in size and enthusiasm to the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys in Oz, so it’s mostly the idea that I can have the space. Whether I ever will or not is another story. The third floor is three bedrooms and two full baths. The walk-out balcony comes off the master and is deep enough to sit outside and drink coffee if I want to. Between the pervasive humidity and the damned flying critters, this is a dream scenario. One that Bobby’s realtor sold him—or me, rather—hook, line, and sinker.

All in all, my thirty-fifth is the best birthday I’ve had in a while.

Thirteen

May rolls in to June and with it comes sweltering heat and the tangible pea-soup-like humidity Louisiana is known for. I hate running in the summers when it’s like breathing through a wet rag, but my mind is rarely more at peace than when I’m putting miles on the pavement.

I don’t want headphones or AirPods today. I don’t want noise in my head. Just the sounds of the city waking up, the pace of my breathing, and thwack of my shoes as they slap the asphalt. My path takes me by Petites Fleurs. I’ve begun varying the time I begin, so no one paying attention would notice, but it’s always on the path. Today, I mix it up and run behind the shop. That random white box truck is there again, but by the time I make the block, it’s gone.

I pound my way home. Seven miles now, adding the bake shop into my path means a longer daily run.

In what has become a daily event, I fist my cock in the shower and think of the blonde with chocolate-colored eyes and a beautiful ass.

My work day flies by and soon I’m home. After dinner, I sit in my red chair and thumb the doubloon in my left hand. I stare at the brick wall and drink my Kilbeggan.

For the first time in a long time, I’m lonely.

This is a solitary life and I’m accustomed to it. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had constant company or conversation. But, by the time I finish the first tumbler, I can feel the unease of aloneness rattling in my chest. It’s a low vibration, an antsy-ness for more.

And I don’t get more. I never get more.

I have one mission and it does not include a dinner partner or, better yet, a bed partner. I appreciate the beauty of vengeance, but it is a lonely art.

Me:Thankful for you, Bobby.

Bobby:Same. You okay, man?

Me:Just fine. Just wanted to say thanks.

I turn my phone facedown and continue sipping my whiskey. The doubloon eventually makes its way to my pocket and I let the amber liquid soothe the lonely corners of my empty soul. I’ll regret it in the morning. Right now, I’ll have another finger or two in honor of my fucked-up life.

I know better than to drink that much. I do. Why I did it is beyond me now.

The gurgling in my belly is only surpassed by the throbbing in my head. It’s that dull pounding that wraps from my eyes to the back of my head, as if this baseball cap were two sizes too small.

My pace is sluggish. My breathing uneven. It’s a hellish three miles so far this morning and I bought it all with my ridiculous melancholy.

The moisture in the air and the smell of warm urine combine to make me want to gag.

As I turn onto the street where Petites Fleurs lies, I see the white box truck pulling away and heading toward me. Thank God for the sunglasses and ballcap. The same two goons are in it. Squished between their hulking frames is a young boy whose presence sobers me instantly.

Henry.

I don’t change my stride. But as they pass, I make a split-second decision.

I go around Petites Fleurs to the back alley and see Sirona’s car. I jiggle the handle and am pissed the back door is unlocked. Bad idea at six in the morning to be lax with security.

I yank it open, pulling off my shades, and pop into the back hall, the cold air assaulting my hot, sweaty skin.

“What now?” a voice huffs angrily from the office.

Sirona, hair flying wildly behind her, comes around the corner with fire in her eyes.

“I said—”

“You said…?” I motion my hand in a circle for her to continue.