Page 81 of Priestly Sins
She leaves me for a minute to grab Clara and put her to bed. I’m alone with my thoughts for easily ten minutes. When Sirona returns, she silently grabs my hand and leads me through the darkened house to the master suite and into the bathroom, where the shower is already going, steam billowing.
She undresses me and then herself and drags me into the shower. She turns my back away from the spray and slides in behind me, hugging me, face pressed to my back, taking the brunt of the fiery water. The silent tears run down my face. My body shakes and heaves. The vomit comes and I allow it. And she holds me.
Until the water runs cold, she’s there.
This is the moment when my resolve solidifies like concrete in my veins.
That fucker burned down my house. Worse still, he killed my ma, Sirona’s dad and mom, and now Bobby.
Fuck, not Bobby!
How, from beyond the damned grave, is he still fucking up my life? How?
In the middleof the night, Sirona slides on top of me, positions my cock at her entrance and slowly, silently, takes me. She allows my silence, but maintains eye contact with me all the while. When my thrusts buck her, she rides me deep until we both come. She slides off and positions herself behind me, taking my back, literally and figuratively, allowing me to sleep after an overwhelming day.
Thirty-Nine
Imake the slow trek up to Killian’s the next morning. He’ll know something is wrong immediately. He’d know the same if I failed to show.
The weekend’s snow is melting but it’s at that in-between stage where it’s mostly water with ice around the edges. If the sun would come out, we’d have mud. As it is, with the sun hidden by gray clouds, it’s just a mushy, icy sludge.
It took me cleaning my shoes day in and day out from Irish winter walks to decide to buy boots for just this occasion.
The squishing of the boots and the rustling of my coat are the only sounds I hear. No birds, no breeze. No anything. I didn’t allow Hagrid to accompany me. It’s not Killian’s favorite anyway—to have Hagrid try to chase and play with Winkles. He allows it, but it’s not his preference.
I couldn’t handle the energy and joy that dog brings on the morning after…after Bobby was murdered. Of that, I’m sure.
Since this bullshit nightmare isn’t going away and has followed me, albeit not physically, I need Killian’s sage wisdom and his help.
I knock and push open the door. Make my way straight to the coffeepot and pour a mug. Unlike any time since New Orleans, I also grab the Kilbeggan and pour three fingers. I sip on each, tending toward the Kilbeggan but not interested in getting drunk. The numbness would be welcome though.
“Good morning, lad.”
I raise my Kilbeggan in a mock toast but don’t meet his eyes.
“What is it, lad?”
“He’s fucking me from the grave.”
“Come now, lad, I’m sure—”
“He left a pink daisy on Sirona’s mom when he killed her. There was one outside my burned down house in the States. And now my best friend and my attorney. He’s. Fucking. Me. From. The. Grave.”
Killian simply reaches for the bottle of whiskey and takes a pull straight from the lip.
He sits in silence. He pours the whiskey into his coffee mug and sips while he waits.
My shoulders slump and the rage wells, like tears would, but never bubbles over.
“Fuck!” I slam my fists on his wooden kitchen table, shaking the bottle and rattling the mugs.
“Here’s the thing. He’s dead. He’s fucking dead. I killed him. Drove an ice pick through his heart and left him hanging until his heart stopped beating. I know he’s dead.
“I hated him. I’ve always hated him, but he had no clue who I was. How could he? I changed my name. I was his parish priest for fuck’s sake. No way he would put any of that together. His ego was too big to pay attention to a kid. I was nothing to him. Shit to be scraped off his shoe. Ma was…. I don’t even know, but Sirona’s dad? Sirona’s mom? Bobby?” My voice breaks on his name and I stop, staring off.
“Her da have a daisy too?”
“What? No. I mean he killed—”