Page 57 of Tortured Eyes
My eyes roll, body starting to turn away again. “Both alive. Still breathing.”
“Stop being petulant with me. You know damn well what I’m asking.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you, Logan. We’re conversing. Converse, or so help me I’ll throw your ass out of here for good.”
I snort and drink some more, watching his smile trying not to come out. He’s useless at this priestly shit with me. Everyone else in his congregation bends and kisses his ass when he speaks, perhaps hoping divinity comes through his hands. It does. I can feel it when he touches me. But it’s not the same with us. He’s just a man to me, one I’d probably admit to loving if I thought hard enough about it. Not going to happen, though. Can’t.
“At least tell me why you let her go,” he says.
“I told you. She said your name. Maybe you’re influencing me. God sure as shit isn’t, so it must be you.” He does smile at that as if he’s achieved something no one else can. He’s right to. If I were him, I’d be damn proud of that sway in my judgement.
“Do you like her?”
“She was a useful fuck.”
His eyes narrow, pinching to goddamn slits. I turn away and look out the window again, staring at the mass of stones littered out there. “I didn’t ask that, Logan. I asked if you liked her.”
I know he did.
And I’m not answering the question this time around either.
My head bows to look at my coffee, lips eventually taking another sip. What does it matter who I like or don’t like anyway? I’m not one for settling down, nor do I care to analyse why that’s the way I am. He was right out there at Vico’s funeral. I would never offer any real relationship to anyone. I am singular, comfortable in my own self-possession, regardless of whether I like her, or him, or not. Besides, if anyone gets the accolade of me liking them, loving them, it’s him not her.
I puff out a breath and spin slowly to reach for my jacket and the smokes inside it. I don’t know where the hell he thinks he’s going with this, but I need some kind of hit to deal with the fact that something about me does like her or wants her close again. Maybe. The feeling’s as irritating to me as the way he manages to get in my head, and as fucking tormenting.
He laughs at me softly, his body rising and his arm reaching for a bottle of wine. The glasses clink as he pours one and then the other. He doesn’t bring it over to me this time. He leaves it sitting there on the counter, probably intent on showing me exactly what alone feels like. He needn’t bother. I know it all too well.
“I told you you weren’t all devil,” he says, still laughing to himself. “A priest and a police officer? God does work in mysterious ways.”
I don’t know how to feel about the statement, but I end up grabbing the wine and walking to a chair, the cigarette lit. Perhaps I’m just happy to hear him laugh and relax again rather than that terse tone he delivers when I’m acting like a bastard.
“What’s she like?”
My brow arches. “She killed my uncle. What she’s like isn’t relevant.”
“Logan. You know she didn’t, otherwise, she’d already be with God. Talk. To. Me. Please. Why are you confused about her?”
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. You're evading questions about her and struggling to look me in the eye."
I huff and drink wine, considering her in my head and still wondering why I haven’t just walked the hell out of here already. “Redhead. As fiery as that hair suggests. Irish heritage. She might even be catholic. She’s certainly got the same set of balls on her that you’ve got.”
“You leave my balls out of this. We’re discussing your latest conquest. I don’t want to be compared to anything earthly, let alone female.”
I smirk at him, watching his eyes crease in amusement. He seems so free like this. So normal. Non-priestly. He might even make a good villain if he weren't so pure, especially with those piercing eyes of his and his cunning. The thought's more comforting than it should be. I can feel a new sense of relaxation sinking through me, the home I was after suddenly resonating like never before regardless of this location. It’s not home, though. Never will be. Not while those robes are hanging on his door, no matter where we are.
I turn my head to look at them, smiling at the deep burgundy and gold. “Why are you pushing me to talk about this?” I ask.
“You don’t know?”
I shake my head, unsure what he’s trying to do. He shouldn’t want this conversation with me, never has before. Not that I would have given it because I am everything evil in his world. Everything he should detest and loathe. I certainly don't deserve him. Even I'll admit that.
"I am sorry your uncle died. I wish I’d been there for you.”
I shrug and sip my wine. He wasn’t. Wasn’t invited either, no matter how much it might have helped me.
