Page 1 of Sinning for Santa

Chapter one

Jaxcen

The sky lights up overhead as I leap from the curb, the reflection of the lightning bouncing off the hundreds of windows lining the tall buildings surrounding me. I count in my head, trying to prepare myself for the pending clap of thunder, quickening my pace as much as my pencil skirt will allow.

I ignore the chill of the water splashing up from the road as I run, knowing my Tony Biancos are going to need some TLC when I get home later. As much as I love these pumps, my need to get this over and done with is my top priority right now.

It wouldn’t matter if you had gone straight home, Jaxcen.

Shoosh, I silently snap at my internal thoughts while I run, being careful as I hurry over the tram tracks so I don’t get my heel caught and fall.

Thankful that the Melbourne city streets aren’t busy this late on a Tuesday night, I don’t have to continuously check for oncoming cars, instead keeping my focus on the church up ahead, and the large metal doors that hint to mediaeval times Australia never saw.

St Catherine’s Church is never open this late, but I clearly saw a couple of men slip inside from where I was across the street, and since Father Peters is obviously working right now, I’m sure he can spare me some time.

Darting around the two blacked out Land Rovers parked on the street in front of the church, I hurry through the gate and up thepath, holding my breath just as the sky lights up everything around me again.

Reaching the door, it creaks a little as I heave it open and quickly dash inside to get out of the rain just in time for a loud clap of thunder to rattle the very foundation I stand on.

Damn. The sky is angry tonight.

Taking a moment, I shake my feet and arms to dislodge as much water as I can in the small foyer, annoyed that I didn’t think to grab my raincoat when I left work earlier.

Of course I didn’t think about a coat when all I could think of was….

No.

This has to stop, Jaxcen.

Shame burrows deep in my gut, reminding me why I made a detour here instead of heading straight home.

Father Peters will help.

Glancing down at my ivory blouse clinging to my white lacy bra, I tug my thin black blazer tighter, trying to cover myself up as much as possible, before heading inside the main building.

As I step in, another flash of lightning illuminates the whole interior of the church in a rainbow of colours from the stained glass windows.

“Wow,” I whisper to myself, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of it, something that’s not typically seen on my regular visits during the day.

The towering height of the cathedral-like ceiling looks haunting as it’s plunged into darkness before the dull glow coming from the dimmed wall lights shows hints of its beauty. I take a moment to appreciate just how impressive St Catherine’s is, and the history held within the walls.

So many secrets.

Especially the confessionals.

That thought draws my eyes in that direction, and my gaze catches on Father Peters standing at the other end of the aisle talking to a man who’s sitting in the front pew.

From here, it looks like Father Peters is offering the man comfort, the sight tugging my lips into a smile.

He’s such a kind and generous man, his greying hair always styled into the same respectable short back and sides with a subtle side part, reminding me of what a grandad would look like if I had one.

Ignoring the puddle I’ve just left behind on the slate tiled floor from my rain drenched clothes, I move forward towards the man I came here to see, my heels clicking loudly echoing through the celestial structure, making my presence known.

My steps slow as Father Peters and the man he’s talking to in hushed tones both dart their heads in my direction, and for a moment I feel like I shouldn’t be here.

But that can't be right, can it?

This is my church.

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