It’s only been a day and a night and already I feel myself returning.
I was mad when Father Martin said I was playing a part. But, the truth stings and the persona I created over the last year is fragile. Who I am deep down is stronger than the costumes I’ve been wearing, trying to keep myself safe from more hurt.
Which is ironic because I’m pretty sure all my shenanigans since the wedding have done a good job hurting me more than if I’d stayed the course and remained true to myself.
And, speaking of playing a part, Father Martin does not look like a priest right now.
Honestly, when I first walked in, I thought someone else was here. A lone figure standing in an empty office with his back to me. I startled, almost blurted an apology for walking into the wrong room, and then he turned and I realized who it was. So this is what he looks like in “normal” clothes?
Me likey.
The simple white t-shirt is sexier than should be allowed. It pulls just the right amount over the expanse of his pectorals and there’s a hint of six pack indents when he moves. His biceps look like they belong on a soldier, not a man of the cloth, covered with that swirling and sexy ink I got a glimpse of before. The tattoos cover his forearms, the colorful artwork twisting with every movement of the thick, corded muscle beneath. The ink ends at his neck, a colorful ring of tribal tattoos ending about an inch up, where a shirt with any sort of collar would cover.
As I step closer, I think I see the start of a curse word leading up under the short sleeve…
Fu…
“One last thing,” Sister Nathalia says as she reads off the list on her tablet, raising her voice over the noise of construction workers in the corner of the office. It’s weird. She’s always so harsh and old-fashioned I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her using a slate and chalk. “Don’t forget your grandmother is due a visit in five days. Should I order a delivery of gardenias as usual?”
She glances around the room, her gaze landing on the empty vases in Father Martin’s office. I hadn’t noticed them until now. Guess Grandma gets the VIP treatment.
If my cat, Baby, were here, she’d be all over those vases. Pushing them off the side, watching them smash to smithereens on the floor.
I almost chuckle at the image, then remember I have no idea where she is or if she’s even safe, and all the humor evaporates.
The crunch and whir of an electric drill cuts through the silence, echoing in the largely empty space, and I see Martin’s jaw clench as he rubs the bridge of his nose.
He’s not happy about something, maybe the noise or maybe me.
My heart jumps to my throat. All my happy thoughts and girlish fantasies fall to the floor like a thousand marbles, rolling under the chairs, the desk, hiding away where they can’t be seen. Or heard.
“Yes, of course.” He drums his fingers on the desk, his dark eyes flicking my way on a crooked smile and hope and lust flood back through me. “Yes. The usual. Is that all? Kitty and I have a session.”
He glances at the workers standing around the stepladder, talking about where they need the “line to run”. Only one of them is actually doing any work, measuring up and lining up a drill.
“That’s all.” Sister Nathalia curtsies like a little girl and backs away, not even bothering to look at me—or deliberately avoiding it. She already made a disapproving grunt when she saw that I was in here when she arrived.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say as soon as she’s shuffled out the door.
Martin frowns, tongue glancing along his upper teeth as I bite back a little moan, shivering at thoughts of my orgasmic shower scene last night. “That’s just her way. She doesn’t dislike you.”
“You sure about that?”
“Well, I haven’t asked her. She wants what’s best for you, that’s all. Same as me.”
“Nope, not the same as you.” I stare into his eyes, not clarifying what I mean by that. Because what the hell do I mean anyway? Wishful fucking thinking, that’s what. “Do you like this outfit?”
I pull at the hem of the checked skater dress, lifting it just a little to show more thigh before letting it drop. It’s not exactly slutty, but at the same time I’m not sure if Jesus would approve. His gaze lingers over my exposed cleavage, the glimpse of my bra, and a single moment stretches into a lifetime.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice rasping in his throat. It feels like the question is a reflex, like turning questions back on themselves is what he does as an automatic response.
Well, two can play at that game.
“I do if you do. I don’t think Sister Nathalia does.”
Father Martin’s jaw clenches, the muscle twitching, face set and dark. “You look very…”
“Nice?” I suggest. “Pretty? Hot?”
“I…”
There’s a chuckle from the corner where the workers are clearly getting an eye full of me. “You look fine to me, baby doll. How about a twirl?” One of the construction workers laughs while another one whistles and I turn to find them leering at me.
Yuck.
Blow shit up…
Father Martin is across the room in an instant, and the worker’s throat is in his grip as he’s slammed into the wall. His skull bounces off the plaster work with an audible clunk, and I find myself on my feet, gawping like the other men are gawping.
“You don’t fucking look at her, you hear me? She’s not your fucking baby doll.” Martin growls.
The man’s eyes are wide as he twists his head back and forth, feet scrambling against the floor. “Aren’t you a fucking priest?”
“Yeah, and if I have to I’ll send you on your way to hell. Capiche?”
The man nods, desperately struggling for breath. He slaps the wall, eyes fixed on Martin’s, who grunts, releases his hold and turns my way.
“We’re getting out of here,” he growls, eyes narrow on the worker who is rubbing his throat while the other two guys pretend to be busy on the electrical panel in the wall.
His words brook no argument, and I’d follow wherever he went, but I don’t have to. Because in two long strides he’s by my side, his arm draped over my shoulders, tucking me under his arm as he walks me out of the room, slamming the door behind us and into the quiet of the stone hallway.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we step into the corridor that runs the length of the school on this floor.
“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I don’t have to choke out construction workers for disrespecting you,” he says. “Looking at you”.
“You look at me,” I challenge, pushing the envelope a bit as the tension crackles between us.
He stops, takes hold of my shoulders and stares into my face. I don’t miss the way his eyes take quick glances down, making my lady bits tingle with anticipation, making my fantasies come alive with ideas of being taken right here. “I like your dress,” he says, making the words sound dirty somehow. And meaningful. Like I like your dress is code for something else. “Did you wear it to…”
He licks his lips, and I find myself nodding.
“Yes.”
He groans and draws closer. So close I can feel the heat from his body against mine. So close I can hear his heart thumping. Or is that mine? My jaw drops and my lips part, ready, waiting for his.
Then he pulls away. “Chemistry. Seems like an appropriate class for today, don’t you think? Something you’ll enjoy. Me as well.”
Chemistry.
I thought that was what we were just doing… sure felt there were some reactions going on.
He leads and I follow, the sounds of construction getting louder and softer as we pass rooms where men are working, ripping out the old parts of the school and church and replacing them with new. I only see two women among them. I’m not sure why I notice that, but I do. This place is so old fashioned, it’s like living in another time.
“We should go over the rules again,” Martin says as I perch on a stool behind a desk with a few beakers laid out.
My skirt rides up, flashing my right thigh up to the line of my panty waistband. But since it’s just me and him here, to hell with it. I want him to see my flesh. I want him to be tempted. I know I shouldn’t but I do.
“First, I need you to know that everything we tell each other is strictly confidential. I know we’ve been over this already, but I want to make it absolutely clear.” He takes a step forward, putting his hands on the edge of my desk. There’s the sound of hammering from the next room. “Anything you tell me, Kitty, stays between us. Unless I think there’s some imminent danger to you, then I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you safe. I’ll always keep you safe. You can trust me on that.”
I nod. “I do trust you. I put myself in your hands. All of me.”
He hesitates, then goes on. “Number two, no judgment. Whatever you tell me, about your past or your thoughts or feelings, it won’t affect our relationship in any way. Number three, your goals are my goals. We’ll work together to achieve them. Number four…” He draws a deep breath that inflates his whole chest, making him seem even bigger, even more of a presence. I know why he’s hesitating. I’ve memorized rule number four, reading and re-reading the words on the laminated list of rules I found in a drawer in my room last night. The words that made me think about him, about his eyes on me, about being watched while I… “Rule number four, I can enter your private quarters any time I like. You can’t keep me out.”
“That’s not…” I lick my lips. “The rule says A member of staff may enter for normal maintenance and cleaning or if they have reason to believe—”
He cuts me off. “Rule five, I make the rules.”
Not exactly what it says either. I mean, that’s the gist of it I guess. But the way my nipples are hardening and I could squeeze the squeal out of a nickel right now, semantics don’t really matter.
I want him in charge. I want him making demands. I want him to abuse his position. But, I also don’t want to make it too easy for him. Why, I’m not sure, but my gut tells me to push back a little.
“You have your journal,” he grunts. It’s not a question. The journal is tucked under my arm.
“Do you have yours?”
He pulls a small, slightly bent notepad out of his Levis pocket and puts it on the desk in front of me. So I shrug and hand mine over to him.
“Thank you. We should…” He falls silent, glancing at the wall behind me as a loud thud echoes through the room. Then another. Then another. With each one the muscle in his cheek twitches. “Fuck it, let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“You choose. Where would you like to go, Kitty?”
“The beach,” I say without hesitation and he nods, reaching for my hand, our fingers weaving together.
“Good girl. The beach it is. Let’s go.”
“So, a pedicure, huh?” Father Martin’s hand rests on the pages of my journal, holding it open against the gentle breeze coming in from the ocean. He squints my way, frowning in the sunlight over my shoulder as he reads the answer to the second question he asked yesterday.
What do you want to do?
After we left his office, we wound around through passageways and narrow stone stairways until a wooden door on ancient, hammered iron hinges swung open and released us from the chill and hardness of the building onto the soft warmth of the grass that led to a wooden walkway to the beach.
With him in his civvies and me in a dress, it feels like we’re just a normal couple, out for a day on the beach. Our own little secluded space is ensured by a rocky outcrop, shielding us from the rest of the world. Just me, him and the vast openness of the water.
The hush of the waves rolling in is such a contrast to the din of workers and their tools.
I think about the real answer to his question. The one I didn’t write down because I kept sobbing and having to put the pen to one side. That if I could do anything in the world right now, it would be to find Baby, my cat, and bring her home from wherever that asshole Hoover took her.
Somehow I don’t think Father Martin can grant that wish.
“I love pedicures,” I say, forcing my voice to remain even, forcing myself to stop thinking about where Baby might be right now. “My favorite way to relax. Plus I’m not a big fan of my toes and I want to dip them in the water. Nice pink toenails instead of these.” I point down at my feet, still tucked away inside my now sandy socks. I’m too embarrassed to get them out, I sort of hate my feet but with my nails painted, I can let them out for a peek of sunshine and some fresh air.
He frowns, deep in thought as he stares at me like I’m the sun itself.
“So I get to read one of your answers now, right?”
“What?” He draws a quick breath. “Yes. Go ahead.”
I open the small journal and see his tight handwriting, letters all the same size, almost like they’ve been typed. It reminds me of something my dad used to say. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.
Father Martin would have liked my dad, I think. They would have found a lot in common.
“You became a priest because of your Mom and grandmother?” I ask as I read his response. “Really?”
“They were a big influence,” he says, without the softness I’d expect, then clears his throat like he’s done with that subject. “Now—”
“And you do get lonely,” I read.
“That’s the second question. We were going to take turns.”
“Well, I used the word ‘and’ so technically it’s all one question.” I purse my lips, waiting for him to deny me, but when he doesn’t, I press on. “So, all those lonely nights… You ever dream of having someone to share those moments with? Ever wish you had someone to—”
“Objection, your honor. Leading the witness.”
I giggle. “Fine. Your turn.”
He stands, coming over to me, and the world gets smaller. With each step he takes, everything else dims and contracts and becomes less important. When he’s standing right in front of me, turning the page in my journal, it’s like we’re the whole universe, revolving around each other in the blackness of space.
“That’s a horrible way to find out something so important,” he says, staring into my eyes.
His face is filled with compassion as I remember the question. A childhood memory you’ve never shared with anyone before. Something you felt was a formative moment in the life you’re living now.
I know it’s a standard question. I’m not fooled into thinking I’m something special, that this isn’t an exercise he uses with all the girls that come here. But still…I wish it was.
I blink away the burn that starts in my lower lids. “He was my dad and I loved him,” I say, and Father Martin puts his arms around me. Not like a priest, but like a father would. Warm and comforting. “She couldn’t have made it easier to hear, but I needed my mom right then more than ever, and she gave me nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says, rubbing my back and making a hushing noise not unlike the sound of the waves. “I get it. Why was this a memory you’ve never shared? Feels like finding out how your dad was dying is important. You kept it locked up.”
I shrug. “Who would I tell? My mom was there and she didn’t care. I never had a lot of friends, I was smart—” He shoots me a look that makes me pause, then course correct. “I am smart…but in school, I was the chubby girl with the overly competitive streak. I was like that kid in that old TV show…” I squint, thinking. “You know the one, it’s an old, old show about that teacher that comes back to like New York in some poor neighborhood? Welcome something…”
“Welcome back Kotter?”
I clap. “Yeah, that’s it, that guy in the class who was always obnoxiously raising his hand to answer every question.”
“Jesus, Horseshack.” Father Martin let’s out a real laugh that rumbles down into my toes. “No way were you like Horseshack.”
I reply with a vigorous nod. “I was. So, chubby, check, obnoxiously trying to be the smartest kid in every class, check, and…I just didn’t know how to speak ‘kid’. I never dug up worms or played tag on the playground. I wore weird clothes because everything felt itchy or odd so my Dad finally got my mom to just let me dress myself. Anyway…so once you are that kid in school, you’re branded until you graduate. So, no, I didn’t have friends to confide in. I don’t have any other family, well until old prune juice Hoover. And I sure wasn’t telling him. So, you can believe me or not, but that’s the truth.”
Father Martin snorts in enthusiastic agreement on that last part and I wonder again how well he knows Hoover.
“I believe you.” His hands snake around to the small of my back, and I imagine them going lower. “I asked, you answered. It’s important to reflect on the things that brought us to where we are now. Otherwise, how can we move forward?”
I twist my lips this way and that, attempting to distract myself from his hands and the way he sounds like he cares so much. It makes me uncomfortable in a way I don’t understand, so I stare out at the waves and change the subject. “I wish I could fall asleep to the sound of the ocean,” I say on a long breath, trying to calm the rising tide of heat and tension inside me.
“Have you always loved the ocean?”
“Yes, but… the water scares me too. I can’t swim. But, I want to learn. I just never got around to it.”
“New rule. No going near the water. Not unless I’m with you. While you’re here, I’ll teach you to swim. We’ll start in a pool, where it’s safe.”
I nod. “Okay. I mean, thank you.”
I reach down between us, my hand brushing… Oh, Jesus that thing’s bigger than I thought. Does he walk around with that all day every day? Doesn’t it get heavy?
“Kitty, what are you doing?” he asks with a crack of pain in his voice.
“G—getting your journal,” I stammer. “I had another question for you, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did you like having your hand on my breast?” I say, blushing at the words I wrote hastily in the journal, wondering if he’d answer honestly, and if he did what that honest answer would be. “I can’t… I can’t read it.”
The ache in my chest lessens as I think of my Dad and the crazy way I found out he was dying. How my mom offered me nothing but the brutal truth, no shoulder to cry on, no outlet for all my sorrow and frustration.
It wasn’t her fault. I guess. I don’t need a fall guy for my problems, but even if she was hurting, I was a kid, you know?
“The answer is yes,” Father Martin says, shaking me back to the moment. “Yes, I liked touching you.” His hand slides to my ass, squeezing. Fingertips trailing lower, pushing the skirt between my legs. God, I want it gone. I want to feel his touch. “I like touching you. All of you.”
Without warning, his lips crash against mine like the waves to the rocks, soft and hard all at once. I taste the heat of him, feel his tongue brushing mine, tangling, battling. He lifts me up and I moan into his mouth as his fingers sizzle along my slit, drawing dripping liquid. God, I want it to last forever. Am I dreaming? Fuck, I hope not. I don’t want to find out this isn’t real.
As the kiss breaks, I stare into his eyes, then start to smirk.
“You’re a good kisser.” I make a fake glare. “How many other girls have you practiced on?”
For a moment, his eyes darken. Something flashes in them. Some hurt, I think. Some memory he didn’t want to share.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m shaking my head. “No. I wanted you to—”
“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“But, you wanted to, right?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t always get what we want. Even—”
I hear a distant voice, but clear on the breeze coming down off the cliffs that lead back to the school or church or whatever Saint Margaret’s really is. Sister Nathalia’s voice, calling for Father Martin.
“There’s something I have to do. At the church.” He moves forward, as if he’s going to touch me again, then draws back like he’s just been burnt. “Sorry.”
And with that, he’s gone. And I wonder what I said to destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
