Page 54 of Tortured Eyes
Twenty-One
New York
Freezing air assaults me the second I step outside and walk towards my car. I nod at Rico and Tony Consetti and send them back into the building to get on with cleaning that shit up. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been back and the business of corruption, whilst efficient, is trying my patience.
I slide into the Merc and start the engine, my other hand reaching for a bottle of whiskey. Snide comments have been whispered on the grapevine, people within the team starting to do what they shouldn't. It's pissing me off. And now this. I wipe the side of my face and knuckles with a handkerchief, getting rid of the blood I’ve just spilled, and drive.
Fucking paedophiles.
All the shit I do, all the killings and exploitation, and yet that’s one thing I won’t have on my streets. I don’t care how much money the ring leaders try to shove in my face now Vico's gone, or how threaded the loop through the high rankers is. How the hell Senator Richard Kelly even sits there at Congress comfortably, flashing his fake white smile to the masses, is beyond me. The only reason he's still breathing is because the information I have on him might be useful one day.
A long breath eases out of me as I try calming myself down. It’s not working. Cunt stood there with his suit and tie in place, several of his henchmen at his side, and tried telling me the kids didn’t matter, that they were lost causes. All I could damn well hear was Samuel in my head, his conversations with me about the kids in his neighbourhood, about them getting a decent chance in life. And now because of those words, and because of the massacre left behind me, and because I've purposely tried to keep some fucking distance from him while I get hold of New York again, his voice echoes and calls too loudly for me to avoid any longer.
Nearly an hour later and the road’s heavy traffic peters out to barely anything. I weave the outskirts of the small town, finding my way to someone who seems as close to a home as I’ve got. But a church? I grab at another bottle and drink some more, discarding the first. Can't work any of this shit out at the moment. This life I'm in, the thoughts I'm processing. My head's screwed. Why need him now? Maybe it’s just the debauched nature of fucking on consecrated ground that's bringing me here, under his God’s roof. Sleazy. Not that it is. There isn’t one fucking thing sleazy about him.
Talking of sleazy. That’s something I could get into with the other name that keeps revolving in my head. Red hair. Fiery as fuck mouth. A punch that damn near sends me sideways when she means it. Yeah, I could lose myself in that for a long damn time.
My lips creep up into a grin as I slow into the back streets and park, wondering if she’s been enjoying that tape I sent her along with the other information. I sure as fuck do. Something about the way she wants me in that video makes me watch it repeatedly as if it burrows under my skin and makes me remember it above any other woman. Toss in the corrupt nature of the files she’ll have been sifting through, all the images and words she’ll be damn near gagging on, and I’m horny as fuck most of the time when I think about her. Maybe I shouldn't have let her go?
A cop, a villain, and a priest.
What a threesome that would be.
I get out of the car, hovering under the dark shadow of the tree, and keep drinking. There’s no one here. It’s nearly the dead of night now, and the only thing that’s likely to be out here will be doing the same as me—loitering with intent. I walk slowly and stare at the steeple in front of me, eyes casting across the gravestones surrounding it. There’s a peacefulness now. People are asleep in their homes or whispering nighttime wishes to children who’ve woken from bad dreams. Good for them.
It's a shame those people don't get it, though, or understand what's happening around them. It’s monsters like me lurking in the dark who keep their world a little safer. It’s what the underground does, regardless of civilization's perception that we make the world worse. Detective Bryce McCarthy will see that now. She'll see that the reason we corrupt above us, and the reason the cops do as they’re told, her dead father included, is that without us these streets would be far more disturbing than they are. Even criminals need a hierarchy, a sense of leadership to what she would consider anarchy.
Although,why I give a fuck about her thoughts concerning me, I don't know. I do, though. She's like a memory I don't want to lose. A sharp corner I feel like cutting myself on again.
The key he's given me unlocks the old wooden door, and I wander into the small hall, air puffing out of my mouth as I come in. He’ll calm me in here now, make me think of the right thing to do when choices are variable. I dump the bottle of scotch and look around, laughing to myself. If only New York knew how much God influences their chances by way of a priest’s hands guiding my thoughts. I even let her go because of him because she said his name out loud. I might have uttered it first in frustration, but it was the sound of it coming from her mouth that changed everything.
I step around the creaking floorboards and head for the stairs, taking my jacket off as I go, and dumping it on a chair. The shirt follows, belt already unbuckling as I climb each step. It’s warm in here, soothing against the cold outside. I stop in his bedroom doorway, eyes focused on the sight of him half-exposed under the white sheets. Blond hair. A long, lean chest. I glance at his lips twitching, licking my own. So peaceful in his sleep. So secure in the knowledge that no one will come for him in the dead of the night. Who would? A priest doesn’t have that fear.
“Come to bed,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.
I chuckle lightly and nod, removing the rest of my clothes as my feet take me to him.
“You were awake?”
“God woke me up.”
“I did try not to.”
He rolls to make room for me, his eyes finally opening as I shift onto the soft sheets and look at him. So blue, even in this dark light. They're like a clear summer day. No clouds or threat of rain. Just bright. Crisp.
We don’t move. Just stare at each other. For my part, I’m just trying to immerse myself in something good again, something as honest as it can be between a priest and a killer. I blink at the thought, grating at the imagery I’ve just left behind while he lies there gazing, and watch as he reaches for my face and wipes something from my cheek. A small red smear sits on the pad of his thumb, showing exactly where I was before I came to him.
“If you forgive men their trespasses, then you shall also be forgiven,” he murmurs, looking at the blood. “Do you think he’ll forgive me for you?”
I doubt it.
But I hope so.
My mouth smothers his before he has a chance to think about it, my body rolling him onto his back. I don’t want him seeing anything other than the reality between us when we’re alone, regardless of whether I just did the right thing in his eyes or not. No thoughts of murder. No images of death, of blood. He’s too pure for that these days, too untainted by life outside these walls.
He groans into my lips as my fingers trail up his side and wander to places I know so well. The ridges of his chest, the flat plains of his stomach, light muscles rippling beneath it. I end up breaking away from his lips, kissing my way down his sternum, his ribcage. Everything always smells so damn unspoilt about him. Not innocent. He’s far from innocent, but he cleanses me, washes me of a present I can’t and won’t deny.
“Logan,” he murmurs, his desperate fingers reaching for my hair.
