Page 56 of Tortured Eyes
I roll over at that and put my hands behind my head, eyes watching him carefully. He seems pissed, on edge despite our time together. He stands and reaches for a jug of water, keeping his gaze away from me. Fine by me. I could stare at his body for weeks. He's got a fighter’s frame, lean and toned. Strong as hell when the mood takes him. Not that anyone else would see it under robes. I do, though.
“What’s the matter with you?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m just… You’ve never come to me with blood on you before.” I look him over, amused at his dramatic response. There’s always blood on me. Maybe it’s washed off, but it’s still there. As he knows. It’s not changing any time soon either.
“You’ve always known, Samuel. I didn’t hide it.”
“No, but…” He shakes his head and sits on the end of the bed, sipping his drink—probably holy water. “Does it end?”
“No.”
I keep staring at him as he nods and sips his water some more, wondering what the fuck he thinks was ever going to happen. That I’d give New York up and come live with him in his church,repent of all my sins? Pretend the world outside doesn’t exist?
“Your uncle is dead because of it, Logan. It could easily have been you, too.”
I sigh and close my eyes, remembering Nate's blank stare, blood drenching him. It’s the last thing I want to think about here. The thought winds me up again, making me revert back to type and start questioning why the hell I’m here in the first place.
My body rolls upright, eyes searching for my clothes. I’m not discussing this with him, nor am I having him try goading me for information about what happened. It’s not his business. Not for him to hear, listen to, or understand. Too good. Too damn pure. And the fact of it is, I don’t deserve one part of Samuel's time anyway, and I know it. Last thing I should be doing is adding to the mental pictures he must already have of what I do.
Shrugging into my pants, I push my feet into my shoes and head downstairs, leaving him behind me. I’ll go before it gets aggressive and probing. No fucking way am I having both her and now him trying to make me feel ashamed of things that are gone and done.
He’s in his pants and in front of me the second I try pulling my shirt on, one of his hands trying to stop me. “Sit down, Logan,” he says calmly. “I haven’t finished. You owe me this conversation.”
“Get out the way, Sam-”
“Sit down. I’m not doing this again. Talk to me.”
“Why? You want to hear all the details?” I walk sideways, finishing with my shirt and then grabbing hold of my jacket. “I warned you to stay out of my head. You won’t like it in there.”
He rips the jacket from my hold so quick even I falter at his speed and strength. “Sit. Nothing you can say will change how I feel about you. Nothing. Please, sit down and talk. I’ll make some coffee. You need it. Give me something more.”
I frown but find myself stock still as he backs away slowly. More. Talk. I look at him as he pulls a pot out of the cupboards and starts filling it, his hands quiet and steady before he hears words he won’t enjoy. He doesn’t know half of me, and these words he’s about to hear will tear him apart from the inside out. Maybe it’s time he did hear them, though. Maybe he’ll push me away then rather than keep inviting me back—make a life for himself away from the man I am.
“It was a woman who caused Nate’s death. A cop,” I muse. He stills for a few seconds and then carries on as if it doesn’t affect him. My eyes drift to the small window and out into the graveyard. “I took her. Made her suffer for it.” Sugar cubes drop into the bottom of coffee cups, the sound of water being poured soon after. I tuck my hands in my pockets and look towards Vico's grave in the distance. “Beat her. Drugged her. Fucked her, and nearly killed her. That enough ‘more’ for you?”
“Nearly?” My brows lift at the word, a small smile playing around my lips. He can’t see it, but it’s there because only he would hear that one word in the middle of the others and find decency in my actions. I hear him move across to me, a cup of coffee placed on the table by my side. “Why only nearly?”
“She said your name.” I pick up the coffee and imagine her, remembering the look of her in the woods as she fought me, the way she held onto me as we rode there. Hungry. “Actually, I did. She repeated it. You’d like her. She’s got the same holier-than-fucking-thou attitude as you.”
“I’m a priest. I’m allowed it. As is a cop, if she’s a good one.”
I nod and turn to look at him, my back resting on the wall and one foot kicked over the other. “Why do you want to know this?”
“Because you’re not all devil, Logan. You know it as well as I do. I want to know the real you, the one who deserves me.” He sips and sighs, a tilt to his head as he keeps looking at me. “Did you see your brother at the funeral?”
“Yes.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“Considering he almost killed the man who sent the bullet into Nate, and we worked together to deliver his pain, I guess I'm feeling like he’s not all asshole anymore.”
“I thought you said the woman-”
“Caused it? Yeah, she did, but Emilio Mortoni shot him. He’s dead now. Think I put about eight rounds in his head. After we'd just about beat him to death anyway.”
He looks at me, no disgust on his features. I don’t know how he’s managing it, frankly. These words should repulse him, make him see the man he refuses to acknowledge in me. My own head bows. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s his continued stare and the aggravated state it’s causing in me.
“And your father and mother? How are they?”
