Page 96 of Tortured Eyes
We smile at each other, and I go and grab the bag for him.
“You don’t look dressed for this, girl.”
“No. I’ve just left work. And I’m not here to work out.”
He starts up a steady pace with his hits. “Go on then. Spill.”
“I’ve changed, Jimmy. And I’m not sure I can go back to the person I was before.”
“Before what?” he asks as he wallops the bag again and again.
My grip shifts and I lean into the bag, making sure it doesn’t move about too much. “Before Cane. Before finding out about my Dad. And realising just how fucked up this world can be.”
Jimmy pulls his last punch and stands, drawing in gulps of air. “When I got shot, I was angry at the world. Everyone around me was a constant reminder of what I had lost, and I resented the job that put me in that position in the first place. It was a dark time for me, and it changed me as well. It would be foolish to expect everything to slide back into normality.”
“You were fucking shot. Not the same.”
“You're grieving for your dad all over again.”
“How do you make that one?” I frown at him, hating that he’s brought him into this conversation.
“You’ve lost the memory of who he was to you. That’s going to cause some shifts.”
“How did you get through it all?” I venture, wondering if Jimmy knows what I’m thinking.
“I had to let go of some of the rage I’d buried. And I found something I love to do. That makes it easier.” He makes a mock punch of the bag. I step out from beside it and tackle Jimmy in a hug.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Hey, no problem.” He hugs me back, and I soak it up.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?” But I don’t know when I’ll be back. I do know that I need to take some time before making a knee-jerk decision that I might come to regret.
* * *
Jimmy’s words swim in my mind the entire journey. Or at least the parts that didn’t involve messages from Samuel. He sent me the name of the house, and I couldn’t stop from rolling my eyes. Clearwater. Fucking yay. Of course, it’s a place that means something to Logan as well. Bloody secured all his security information with the fucking name.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, but part of me was still hoping that the connection between Samuel and Logan wasn’t as strong as I feared, I guess. And I need to wrap my brain around that sooner rather than later.
Samuel also said he’d take care of transport to Clearwater, but I wasn’t expecting the car waiting for me as I exit the airport. An older gentleman in a grey suit opens the door and tries to take the backpack from me, but I politely smile and jump in the back. What priest has his own chauffeur?
On the way to Clearwater, I text Samuel that we’re on the way and fight with the temptation to tell Logan I’m here. Will he want to come and see me? I have so many questions about his relationship with Samuel, and, with a bit of perspective, trying to understand how I fit into Logan’s world has a lot to do with my current confusion.
The ride is uneventful, and the driver isn’t one for conversation. I take in the scenery as we get further away from the city. I’ve never thought of New York without all the skyscrapers, but it’s sort of beautiful if you like that kind of thing.
A few hours later we pull up to an old house, right next to Smithtown Bay, the name Clearwater built right into the iron gates. It’s impressive, not quite on the scale of Cane Manor, but it's not the sort of wealth I'd expect of a priest. We wait for a moment before the gates part for us, and we travel up the short driveway to the main house.
I’m out of the car and at the front door before the driver has a chance to open his own door.
“Father Cleary.” I stop my slight gawk at seeing him out of his robes stood on the porch. Although simple and understated, it suits him. A little too well. He looks model-good, and I fight the blush from attacking my cheeks at my internal thoughts.
“Call me, Samuel. I have a feeling our conversation will need a more personal touch.”
“Great. Because calling you Father Cleary when you’re in a t-shirt and jeans sounds a little odd, especially with...” I wave my hand at his frame, not quite able to tell a priest he looks hot as hell. Maybe I expected him to be dressed in his robes when he greeted me at the door. I should have known that priests don’t spend every waking moment in them, but Jesus. It's almost unfair how good he looks.
He smirks,filling me with a type of squirm I have to get rid of. “Can I offer you a drink? We can go through into the lounge. It has the best view.”
“Water is fine.”
