Page 36 of Priestly Sins

“I was wrong before.” Shit! I said that out loud.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

We yank open the door and, just as we exit, a goon rounds the hall heading toward the Japan exhibit.

I push Sirona’s back into the wall and my instincts take over and I do the first thing I can think, the thing I’ve wanted to do for so long. I lift my hands to her face, shield her body with my own, and drop my mouth to hers.

And I kiss her.

Deep.

The moan in my mouth echoes hers. She doesn’t pull away but kisses me right back. I know I should stop, but I don’t. I deepen the kiss because I’ve wanted this since I met her. My growing cock is taking over. And when the sound of shoving or shuffling of shoes vanishes, I pull back and give her one last peck. I thread her fingers through mine and grab my phone while walking toward the side exit.

Two NOLA police officers scan us as they walk away from the museum. I offer a chin check and nod, and they do the same.

I move us around the block until the Uber I ordered arrives, where I drop her in the back seat and mumble, “I’m sorry.” I’m not. I’m anything but sorry, but I’m on Enzo’s radar while she’s in his snare, and for that I am truly sorry.

Her face drops and she averts her golden eyes. “Oh… okay.” Her shoulders roll forward as the Prius drives away.

I walk toward Emeril’s, nonchalantly like a local, but find a dive bar that has a decent whiskey selection. No Kilbeggan, but the Atelier Vie will do. As does the second when I order an oyster po’ boy.

By the time I get back to my car, I have a parking ticket. Fucking NOLA meter maids.

I call a parishioner and ask a favor, telling him I have another who needs a tow and asking him to grab the Honda Accord and drop it off a block or so from Petites Fleurs and send me the bill. Told him I’d appreciate it if he could get to it tonight and personally deliver the keys in the morning.

Me:Hope your scenic drive home was safe. There’ll be another Uber waiting for you in the morning to take you to work. Your Accord will be there. Keys will be dropped off to you by eight.

The silence in response is deafening.

* * *

Two days later,her mom is found dead.

She was executed by the docks in Marigny, a pink gerbera daisy left on her body.

If Sirona was dead at her father’s funeral, the post-mortem on this will be worse. Her black dress is hanging from her. Her honey-colored hair is limp. Her red-rimmed eyes convey nothing. Her empty beauty is haunting.

She sits utterly alone in the front pew. Clara is nowhere to be seen.

Enzo Calabrese looks none the worse for wear. His presence is notable since he, no doubt, ordered the hit.

I spend the entire funeral with the urn holding Sylvie Dugas’ ashes to my left, alongside a single photo of her, beautiful and full of life. She wasn’t a parishioner. In fact, I don’t think she was Catholic which makes me curious why her service is here.

I wish I could go to Sirona. I’m desperate to comfort her. Wishing more so I could give vengeance or love or help her in any way, in every way. Instead, my words are hollow. I’m ready for this to be over. I desperately need a break from this suffering.

As I offer the last prayer before we disperse, Goon Three from the museum grabs his phone and begins typing. When Calabrese grabs his own and looks down, the first shiver of true fear in my life runs down my spine. His gaze locks on mine and tells me what I now know—Goon Three recognizes that I was with Sirona and now Enzo knows too.

By the time I disrobe and make my way to the front of the church, Sirona is gone. Enzo’s back is visible as he meanders down the sidewalk, his swagger on full display. The church is empty save for the daisy at my feet.

Twenty

My trip to Petites Fleurs the next day has my gut heavy like lead. Sirona means something to me, of that much I am sure. Enough to want to save her, protect her, to laugh with her, to comfort her. Enough to be nervous about seeing her. More nervous since I know I contributed to her mother’s passing. No, it wasn’t my fault, but whatever we did hastened the outcome.

My mind also can’t stop replaying that kiss. God!

The bells are gone when I push the front door open. The sound that has come to give me the same elation my text tone did in college doesn’t greet me. The light is off in the glass case as well. Things look almost normal, but they feel wrong.