Page 147 of Priest and his Anarchist

“Cute fuck-me boots, Ev.” I turn into her, tilting my head. Everything around me shifts beneath my feet. “Care to try them out?”

Her head whips around to me. I wish I could see her face right now, only the party is a sea of burgundy red from the strobe lights flickering around my yard, and thanks to this bottle of whiskey, I’m pretty sure I’m fucking drunk. Again. This is not good.

“Ew, Priest!” The bottle in my hand is gone in an instant and my smile falls.

“Ev, come on…” I tease, my tongue dampening my bottom lip. “What’s the matter? Don’t wanna fuck me?”

Silence stretches between us, I laugh again, clutching my stomach when my abs tighten. “Chill, Evelyn. I ain’t about to fuck my handler.”

“Priest!” she snaps, kicking off the hood of my car and standing directly in front of me. “You need to go to bed before you start spewing secrets.”

I pull my arm out of her grip, sidestepping away from her. Everyone here is only here because I allow it. This house, this party, their lives…anger takes hold as I stumble into my house through the front entrance, cutting off the party happening in the front yard. The silence is like a balm to an open wound. The tension in my shoulders releases as my eyes land on Moose, standing near the staircase.

“You’re drunk.” His tone is a beat above judgmental, but that’s nothing different to his usual tone, which is always judgmental.

“I’m fine.” I flick the lock of the door, keeping the mess outside the house and my castle separate. After tossing my shirt to the corner, I scrub my eyes with the back of my hand.

“You’re not fine. You’re drunk.”

I can hear someone else crash through the door, and when I look up, I’m staring back at eyes the exact same as my own. Her hair’s pulled back in a low bun, her face fresh of makeup and her usual edgy attire replaced by sweats and Ugg boots.

“Jesus, son…” Mom steps inside, shaking her head at Moose and closing the front door when he leaves.

“Mother, I’m not up for one of your lectures. Maybe I made a mistake building this so close to your house.”

I stumble into the living room, leaving the lights above set to warm. Falling into the leather sofa farthest from the entrance, Mom makes her way to the floor-to-ceiling windows, tapping buttons on the dial. Shutters slide closed behind me. I don’t bother reminding her that they’re one-way.

“Are you going to make yourself useful or are you going to school me on my bad decisions lately?”

She falls silent. I follow her as she makes her way to the bar that’s tucked away in the far corner behind the floating fireplace. Soft yellow lights illuminate the bottom structure, and it’s not until she takes the spot beside me that she finally answers.

“Which one? The one where you stopped taking our calls or the one where you killed someone who meant something to you?”

“Psh.” I roll my eyes, waving her off. “Neither.”

“Priest.” The simplicity of my name leaving her has me hesitate. “This…” She taps at the tattoo that crawls over my shoulder. “Remember when you had me do this one?” I swallow, but it doesn’t leave. My throat swells. Why the fuck won’t the pain leave?

“No.”

“Priest…” she tries again, and her fingers crawl over the fine line ending of the ribbon that stops at the edge of my neck, enough to never be able to hide it. “I remember. It was the night of the charity gala?—”

“Mother,” I deadpan, zoning off in the distance. “Are you going to help or not?”

Her touch is gone as quickly as it arrives, and she places her glass on the concrete coffee table in front of us, unzipping a bag.

“You know, you could do this yourself.”

I choke on my laugh. “You’re encouraging that shit?”

She doesn’t join my drunken stupor, but I see the smile on the corner of her mouth. “No, shithead. I’m not. What I mean is your art, P?—

“—Mother,” I warn again.

She rolls her eyes, taking out the utensils. “Fine. But one day, you should. You need to share it with people.”

“What part?” I joke, resting my head against the couch and closing my eyes. “You and I both know no one wants to see that side of me.” I swallow the harsh words as they leave me for the first time. “They barely tolerate the small side I allow them to see.”

Mom’s silent a moment and I hate that I said what I did. With anyone else, it’d fly over their head, but not Mom. Not Madison fucking Montgomery. She should have used some of this intuition when she first started dating Dad. Heard he ran circles around her for years.

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