Page 2

TWO

MOIRA

I kick at the floorboards, still sitting in the pew long after the service has finished.

The sexy priest stands at the back of the church, shaking hands and murmuring blessings like he actually means them, his deep voice steady and calm. There’s a line of folks slowly working their way out of the sanctuary, thanking him for his sermon and making small talk.

I didn’t think priests were allowed to be that young and hot.

Fuck, what am I even doing here?

I slump against the hard wooden pew and tilt my head back, looking up at the beautiful light spilling in through the stained-glass windows. The church smells like candle wax and polished wood and old people. It’s… nice. Different.

Clean.

I clearly do not belong here.

The last time I stepped foot inside a church was… God… back when I was a kid, and the nuns from school would drag us in for weekly chapel on Wednesdays. The boys would always snap my bra straps when the nuns weren’t looking. But when I punched them for it? I was the one who got in trouble. Sister Agatha would just sigh, shake her head, and mutter under her breath about me turning out just like my mother.

I tighten my coat around me like armor, curling my fingers into the sleeves. My palms are damp, and my breathing’s uneven.

I should not be here.

But my brain’s been doing the Electric Slide into the deep end of the crazy pool ever since Friday night, and if I don’t do something drastic, I’m gonna start climbing the walls like a rabid raccoon.

Breathe, Moira. Act normal. Blend in.

Ha. Normal. God, it’s not like I don’t fucking try. I should win a goddamn Oscar because I spend my whole life acting.

Why can’t you just be normal, Moira?

That was my mother’s favorite line.

Everyone in our little village outside of Donegal said I was just like Mam, and then there was Mam, saying I should be acting normal like everyone else in town.

As if she was one to talk. She was the town slag, a drink in her hand if she was awake and breathing, and there was barely a day of my life when there wasn’t some man or other in our one-room flat. Domhn and I would hide in the closet, but it wasn’t like that was soundproof or anything.

When Domhn and I moved to the States right as I became a teenager, I eventually lost my accent, and he raised me the best he could, but?—

Somewhere in all that mess, I was supposed to come out knowing how to be normal?

The line waiting to talk to Father Sexy is finally dwindling, so I stand up and tiptoe toward the end of the pew. Head down, shoulders hunched, trying to look devout instead of deranged. The few other people scattered throughout the sanctuary don’t even glance at me. Good.

I just need to get clean.

Not, like, Jesus-clean. Just… brain-clean. Soul-clean.

Something-clean.

I scan the front of the church, looking for the little booth that Catholic churches always have, but there’s nothing. No tiny wooden box to tuck myself inside with a little sliding panel between me and salvation.

I chew my lip, debating. Maybe I can make my confession to the priest face-to-face? Is that a thing?

Why does he have to be so goddamn hot? How am I supposed to confess my sins to a priest I want to climb ? Especially when the sins I need to confess are all about fucking?

I get in the line, still not sure what I’m going to do. Maybe just slip out the door and chalk this up as another ridiculous one-off impulse?

I scratch at my wrist in the spot that’s already raw. But it’s nothing compared to the itch that’s inside me. Ever since Friday when that crazy hot new dom made me come so hard after not being able to come for months, I’ve been itching like mad. But nothing else will do it. Believe me, I spent all weekend wearing out every vibrator I’ve got to recreate the feeling.

Me not being able to come is like the sun not rising. Sex is my failsafe. My one sure escape. But no matter how many men I fuck or fancy vibrators I try, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fucking broken ever since last year when?—

I shake my head, scratching harder at my wrist.

But then he walked into the club like a fucking god. So dark and sexy and mysterious in that skull mask, commanding my body in a way no one ever has before. Bringing me back to life. Talk about resurrection .

Then he didn’t show up on Saturday.

God, I’ve been dying for his touch ever since, and what’s worse, I don’t know when or if I’ll ever get it again. I couldn’t sleep last night. So I drove to the club this morning, planning to wait until they opened tonight, praying the mysterious dom would appear again.

But once I got to the club, I realized how ridiculous it was to just sit in my car for twelve hours like some kind of desperate stalker. So I got out. Started walking. And when I heard the organ music, something inside me just?—

I don’t know. Snapped.

I mean, I’m not generally given to introspection, but this weekend, everything has felt tougher than usual.

Something’s got to change.

I have to change.

It’s time. It’s beyond time. I just don’t know how.

So, for the first time in years, I wandered through the doors of a church.

Not that I’ve got any actual hope for help. After last year, betraying my brother in the deepest way possible, even if I didn’t mean to?—

“What are you doing here?”

I startle at the question, blinking up at the priest. Holy shit. Up close, he’s even more devastating. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, lips that look like they were made for sin instead of sermons.

“I need to confess,” I blurt.

His expression doesn’t change. But his eyes…

“We don’t do confession like that here.” His voice is even and unreadable.

I falter. “But—I thought?—”

“That’s Catholicism,” he says. “Episcopalians don’t do confession like that.”

I should leave. Apologize for wasting his time. But my body feels glued in place, buzzing with something I don’t understand.

Then his gaze drops to my wrist, where I’m still scratching.

“We might not do confession like you’re used to,” he says, voice low, eyes intense, “but I can still listen. Tell me what troubles you.”

Since there’s no one in line behind me, he leads me back to a pew. I follow, feeling a little light-headed.

I sit down beside him, suddenly hyper-conscious of how close my knee is to his knee.

I take a shuddering breath and curl my fingers against the wood of the pew underneath me, trying to focus on anything besides his overwhelming masculine energy.

“I’ve done things,” I blurt out, not sure how to start. My voice trembles, but if this priest is willing to listen, I’ll tell him everything. Maybe if I just say it all out loud, I can be free of it? “Things I’m not proud of. Things I can’t take back.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and heavy.

He closes his eyes as if he knows this is only the first admission of many. I let go of the pew and twist my fists in the fabric of my jacket.

“I hurt people,” I say, voice shaky. “I mean, not like I punched anyone or anything. But I’ve used people. And let them use me, too. Then, the people I actually care about, I push away. I betrayed my family. And now…” I trail off as I look at the floor. I decide, since this is my one chance to be honest with myself and God, to tell the truth.

“Now I don’t even know if I can care about anyone. I don’t know if I want to. It hurts too bad .” My throat clogs on the last word. “Everything hurts.”

I can’t look up at the Father. Even though I want to see his reaction, I’m not sure I could handle it.

I take another breath, this one fractured and shallow. “I thought… I thought if I kept moving, I could outrun the mess I made of my life. But it’s still here.”

I press a hand to my chest, fingers curling into my ribs. “It’s always here. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t even know if I’m worth saving.”

“You are ,” the priest responds immediately, deep voice fervent.

“How can you say that?” I look up in surprise. “You don’t even know me.”

He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple move in his throat. “Because redemption doesn’t come from doing things perfectly. It comes from the fight . From choosing to believe you’re worth saving, even when it feels impossible.”

But I have been fighting. And now, there’s no fight left in me. My shoulders sag, and the faintest sob escapes before I press a hand to my mouth as if I can shove the sound back down.

“It’s alright. It’s going to be alright. . .” His voice is so gentle and so without the pity people usually talk to me with. The way he’s sitting, it’s like he’s barely holding himself back from reaching out to me.

I wish he would. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and listen to the heart beating in his solid chest. Like the good part after sex.

I wince back and shake my head, dropping my hand only long enough to suck in a breath and whisper, “I don’t know how to fight anymore.”

The compassion carves even deeper in his brow as he inches slightly toward me on the bench, reaching out a hand before yanking it back and fisting at his sides.

His words are still vehement as he says, “You don’t have to fight alone. You aren’t alone.”

My breath catches. Does he mean he’ll help me? That he’ll… that he’ll be there for me and somehow help me find a path even though I can’t see any way forward?

But as my eyes search his, I realize how ridiculous I’m being. No, you idiot, he’s talking about God. He’s saying God will be with me.

All my hope deflates.

No offense, but God let my brother be tortured by his childhood sweetheart’s father while they were both just kids, so I doubt He’ll be intervening to help the likes of me anytime soon… Especially since I’m the one who brought that evil man back into their lives after they’d escaped him.

I don’t deserve my brother’s forgiveness. Much less God’s.

I swipe at my eyes and nose with my forearm and push to my feet, the movements stiff and jerky.

“I— I should go,” I stammer.

“Wait—”

“No. I can’t—this was a mistake.”

I turn and rush for the door before I do something stupid, like let the handsome priest stop me. I just know, with salt in my mouth from my tears, that I’ve got to get the hell out of this holy place.

The priest’s voice sounds ragged as he shouts, “Go in peace!” after me.

But I know the truth.

There’s no peace for someone like me.