Page 38 of Priestly Sins
I smile a fake smile and lie while I congratulate her as I make my way down the receiving line. She won’t meet my gaze and her shoulders are rolled forward. She’s visibly shrinking, trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. She doesn’t want this fanfare. The attention makes her uncomfortable. It’s apparent.
As we sit for the first course, I listen to the speeches being made. This might as well be an Italian wedding with all the pomp and circumstance. This isn’t what my Sirona would want. She recoils when Marco “Rocco” Rockwell puts his arm around her chair. She cringes when he rubs his hand down her bare arm.
Her red sheath dress is too… everything. Too tight, too sequined, too short, too low cut. Sirona would be in Levi’s and Chucks given her preference. She’s certainly not an updo, diamond earrings, with red lipstick kind of woman. They’re trying to mold her into what they want. Rocco—I grit my teeth—leans in to kiss her neck and she flinches. She covers quickly by pretending it tickled.
She’s not that good of an actress.
When Enzo looks at his wife and clinks his knife to his champagne flute, I know I’ll regret listening. “I’ve known you a long time, Princupessa. I was friends with your father for years and watched you grow. Losing him killed me. Watching you lose him—and Sylvie—God rest her soul—cut me deep. It is my great honor to give you away at your wedding.” Sirona actually gasps and her body heaves but Enzo goes on, bold as brass. “And to welcome you officially to my family. To you and Marco,” he raises his glass, “may you have many happy years and many beautiful babies I can call grandchildren.” Self-satisfied, he smiles at his adoring audience, taking his bows, and sits again next to Zera, dropping a chaste, perfunctory kiss on her cheek.
I excuse myself and head to the bar. “Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double.” I toss a five into the tip jar and nod at the bartender. He drops one in front of me and as I raise my glass to my lips, I grouse, “Another.” With one gulp I toss back the not-cheap whiskey and drop the glass to the rubber mat where he is placing the second. “Thanks,” I add as I turn and take in the room.
Never in my dreams did I ever expect this.Thisbeing just about everything in this situation. Breathing the same air as Enzo Calabrese, hating an engagement party, envying the groom, wishing it were me. Everything. Fucking everything.
I return to my table and smile and mindlessly speak with the guests there. We make small talk. No one asks me what I do; the collar says it all. The jokes are polite and clean. The waiter refills my whiskey, always cut now since I must be careful, and I join the conversation as I’m able while always keeping my eyes moving and my ears open.
When they bring out the cake, it’s too much. It’s too much like a wedding. I make my apologies and excuse myself to the lobby. I catch Calabrese’s gaze on the way out and the fucker smirks as he lifts his glass in a toast.
And I’m done.
I exit the ballroom, taking deep breaths, and make my way toward the exit.
Just as I’m passing the other conference room door, it snaps open and Sirona is running for the restroom. I follow her, unbeknownst to her, and slip in behind her.
She stands at the granite, both hands resting on the sink, head hanging down, tears streaming. Her head snaps up when I throw the lock home.
“Don’t. Just don’t. I—”
I rush her and turn her back to the wall, using my hand to wipe off the offensive red lipstick. “Hate this,” I mutter as I smear it down her face.
“Sirona.”
“God, please don’t—”
But she doesn’t finish her sentence. I fall on her, devouring her mouth, rubbing my hands down her sides, feeling her ribs. She moans into my mouth and I kiss her, knowing she can taste the whiskey on my breath mingled with my desperation. I fold my arms around her lower back, pulling her flush to my body. My cock swells in my trousers, seeking her.
Her arms are around me, pulling me into her, gripping me frantically.
I yank my face from hers, peppering her face with kisses while I whisper harshly, “Did it mean nothing? Did our kiss mean nothing to you?
I go back in, more slowly this time. It’s a kiss that promises more. I rock my hips into her soft belly, wanting everything, but pull back, knowing I can’t have it.
“How can you marry him? Why, baby? Why would you marry him?”
She holds my gaze. It’s the first time in months. Her stare becomes defiant. But she never answers.
I pull away, letting my hands slide across her too-thin body one last time. Dropping my gaze, I sigh, defeated, and choke, “Be well, Sirona. I hope he makes you happy.”
“Sean!”
I turn from the door, my gaze snapping to hers, my eyes daggers. “Now you call me by name? Now, when I can’t have you, you choose to torture me?” I twist the lock, rush through the door, make my way down the hall, and out into the night.
Twenty-Two
The rain pours down. The popping, hollow sound keeping rhythm with my tumultuous thoughts. Fall thunderstorms in this part of the country are legendary. This one does right by my soul. Somehow, it’s cleansing.
My red chair and I are one again. I play with the metal coin in my hand. I flip it over and under my knuckles, my fingers bending and flexing in a dance choreographed a long time ago.
The Kilbeggan goes down smooth. I miss the burn it used to provide. I need something to focus on, like the sizzle down my throat after the tang on my tongue.