Page 3 of Tortured Eyes
I look up to the front of the crowd, and my gaze lands on the only person here who actually did care for him. Hope Winters stands there as regal as always, her face hidden behind a long veil and no other cover in sight. She'll wallow in her misery as she should. Let the rain thunder down on her and show him the respect he deserves with her chin held high. Unlike her precious daughter, who stands back, huddled under the protective stance of Carter and a large black umbrella.
“I don’t understand you at all, Logan. You've changed so much. What on earth is the matter with you?”
Of course, she doesn’t. She hasn’t understood me for years. Didn’t understand when I tried to explain things to her. Didn’t understand when she stood and celebrated Carter’s wedding, her adoring eyes looking on at him. And she certainly doesn’t understand me now.
“Go be with your other son, Mother. I’m sure he needs you on show. I don’t.”
The sweeping look of hurt and pain on her face means nothing to me. Maybe if she’d looked at me the way she’s looked at Carter all these years, then I could find some fucks left to give, but she hasn’t. And so here we are in the middle of a Cane show of power, all of it publicised at a Vico funeral, and all of it organised by a fucking Wade.
* * *
An hour or so later, the false tears and weeping finally come to an end, and the last few of us are waiting in line to offer our thanks for the service. I tip my chin at half of Vico's top-level team, letting them know I'll be in touch at some point soon, and glare at my father as he makes the slow steps back up the hill with Nate. Father? Fucking joke. He's annoyed me more by daring to intrude on this funeral than I think he's ever done before.
I turn away and watch Vico's priest shake each guest’s hand as they go by instead, happier with that portrayal of realism. His head's lowered to offer a little more of that respect Vico deserves, until my own body steps in front of him. He flinches in my grip, eyes unsteady with my presence. My lips tip up, my hand gripping tighter with each passing second, and I wait for him to speak.
“Mr Cane,” he says.
“Father Cleary. The service was wholesome. You sent him off in style.”
“Benjamin Vico was much loved. He goes with God now.”
Does he fuck. He goes straight to the devil. Exactly where he’d want to be. I know that because I discussed it with him eight weeks ago, one of the final laughs I heard out of his lips.
“Mmm,” I manage, lips quirking. “With God. Does the diocese still offer confession on Sundays? I have a feeling I need a booth to repent in.”
“Of course,” he replies.
“Good. I'll visit later then.”
The faintest trace of a smile touches his lips,barely noticeable to anyone else, but I know it all too well.
“You are always welcome in God’s house.”
I nod and let go of his hand, not giving one fuck if I’m welcome in God’s house or not. Only that I’m welcome in Samuel Cleary’s. He clears his throat as I look at him, eyes slowly scanning the grounds and the few others still milling around. Still, I don’t move. Why should I? Two of the people I do give a damn for are here. One now in the ground. One presiding over the proceedings. If I thought hard enough about it, these grounds might even be a place of peace for me.
I stare almost through him at the pile of earth behind—wreaths and flowers beside it—as he talks to the few remaining guests and offers condolences. Vico's down there now. A corpse. Rotting. It's fucked up. Enough so that the thought makes me shudder as I think of his help through the years, his hand on my head occasionally, like a father’s touch.
And then I feel pressure on my hand again.
I blink and refocus, watching Samuel's mouth as he covers my hand with his again, almost a saintly offer of kindness.
“Logan?” he says quietly. “Are you alright? I know what he meant to you.”
Am I? My family hates me as much as I hate them. The one man I could depend on these last few years has gone. And I’m beginning to wonder if I’m falling for a man I shouldn't want to keep. All three of those things mean the Cane name in me, the one I should be beholden to, is waning further and further from my thoughts.
Lost.
I stare into light-blue eyes, so blue that sometimes they seem translucent, and wonder how alright I am. What he said this morning at the house is right to a degree. I am lost. Lost in thought. Lost in a constant war that rages inside. And lost as to who I am—what I am. He said it earlier with enough underlying malice in his tone that I walked out rather than argue with him. Wasn't the right time to talk about it then. Not the right day. But standing here now, seeing the way he offers prayer and solace so easily to others, makes me think of quieter times.
Calm times.
And then I remember he’s a fine one talking about me being lost. Here he stands, robes and satin draping his frame, Catholicism spouting from his mouth as if the words mean something when less than four hours ago he was bent over a table calling me every name under the sun as I fucked him.
“Would you leave the church if I offered that option?” I ask.
He drops my hand immediately as if I’ve committed some mortal sin he wasn’t aware I could commit. I chuckle and start walking away, amused at his reaction. He knows exactly what kind of sin I can commit. And how often.
“Logan,” he murmurs, walking after me. “If I thought you could even begin to settle into a civilised relationship, I might acknowledge that as a sensible question.”
