Page 7 of Tortured Eyes
Three
The fluid footsteps from behind make me smile, and I wait for them to arrive next to me. He might be part of God’s world, somehow towed there by his righteous belief that the masses—humans—are all deserving of forgiveness. But we both know better. Me, because of the atrocities my own family has committed over the years, the same ones I’m still committing, and him, because of his needs.
He tells me he has hope that God will absolve him of his own sins if he helps those masses, gives them the reprieve they’re after—the waiver of religious forgiveness. I doubt God will, if such a thing exists. He should. If anyone deserves decency, it’s Samuel, but in my book, if you preach something you should abide by its rules. Samuel Cleary, whilst deserving of the highest accolades regarding love and compassion, is gay. Damn sure that's not in any Bible. Maybe it should be. I don't care in reality. We are what we are. God can go screw himself as far as I'm concerned. I just like fucking Samuel. Or fucking with him. Or letting him fuck with me. I haven’t worked it all out in my own head yet, but either way, he’s one of the few people in this world I trust.
Listen to, even.
“You came. I didn't think you actually meant it,” he says, arriving in my eyeline. I look over his robes again, considering fucking him in them. Amusing. “I won’t here, Logan. You know that.” He scans the nearly empty church, glancing at the one parishioner praying up front.
I chuckle at the vision of her there, her feet tucked neatly under her uninspiring clothes as she crosses herself and begs for mercy, or pity, or whatever the fuck it is these people pray for.
“I think you could, if you were forced into it.”
“Logan. Don’t. This is God’s house and…”
“And what? You think you’re going against his wishes if it’s in his church? Isn’t he all-seeing according to you?”
He frowns at me, attempting that glare he's getting closer to with each step forward we take.
“Get rid of the woman. I want to use the alter for decoration,” I muse, walking towards her. “Or she can stay if you'd rather have some fun with a married woman.”
He huffs and walks past me swiftly, a small knock to my shoulder as if showing his disdain for my advances. Another laugh rumbles through me. It’s not like he hasn’t always known who I am or what I am. I watch as he draws the woman up from her knees, his graceful hands holding hers just like he did with me all that time ago, and I eventually turn away to give them some privacy.
I don’t know why Vico wanted Samuel’s particular parish back then, but he’d wanted to visit this church. Said he had things to repent for.I nodded, drove him here, and that’s when Samuel Cleary first came into view. Blond. Tall. Lean compared to me but toned, nonetheless. Early thirties. He blinked at me as he welcomed us like he couldn’t keep those eyes directed at me for longer than a few seconds. That a man of God could go eye to eye with Vico—with all the massacres that man had caused—but not me, was an anomaly. So, I waited until after they’d done whatever they needed to do. Watched as Samuel crossed and anointed a shaking Vico with sacred words of hope and then stood toe to toe with him again.
We talked for a while as Vico walked in the cemetery, and slowly he began to look directly at me. I’d never once felt a sensation like those luminous eyes on me before him. Never have since. Three months later, I fucked him. Eight months after that, his parish received a donation of more money than it had ever had before. He doesn’t know it was me, and he never will as far as I'm concerned. Maybe my conscience was affected by a good man.
Still is affected.
“Logan?”
I turn my head back to him, pulling my eyes from a stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He’s alone, the rest of the church empty. All I can hear is his breath, the light ease of nature in it touching me in ways I can’t explain.
“I can’t here, Logan,” he reiterates. “Don’t make me. Come to the rectory. Please.”
I nod, calmed by his compliance regardless of whether I’m getting my way or not, and follow him as he walks through old passages out towards a small copse. It’s a short walk, paths strewn with winter leaves to match the clouds overhead. A storm’s coming. I look up and frown, hands lodged in my pockets. Damn right it’s coming. By tomorrow I’ll be back in Chicago, dealing with family values and a business with my name on it, which isn’t in my control.
My head dips under a branch, and I smile at the figure weaving the path in front of me. There’s no storm yet, though. Not one that doesn’t end with a few hours peace afterwards, at least.
The second he’s through the door, I’m all over him, kicking the damn thing closed behind us and tearing at his robes. The sash gets tossed, the cassock pulled and yanked, the lie of it all dismissed as inconsequential until he’s finally just Samuel again—my Samuel. He pants and quivers, chest exposed and the button on his pants already flicked, but his hands hover, unsure whether they should reach for me or not. He’s right to be wary, right to tread carefully around my moods, especially today. I’m not someone anyone knows well, even when they’re as close to me as he is. But what he does know is that the way I treat him, the way my hands move on his skin, has become less aggressive lately, less hostile. I'm changing for him.
He moves a step forward, fingers outstretched for my face. They slowly drag the length of my jaw, and all the time, his eyes meet mine to calm the rage inside. They're soft,careful. And then, one by one, he starts on my jacket, vest, tie and shirt. If men fucking could be called seductive, he’s the epitome of it. Slow, sensual. Every touch means something to him as if he cherishes each second he gets with me. For once, I let him take his time, unsure why, and just look at him. Maybe it’s going home I’m avoiding, or maybe it’s just the thought that for here, right now, I don’t need to be anything other than a man. A normal man in this small pocket of time.
“I’m sorry you lost him,” he whispers, closing the distance down between us. “I’m sorry I can’t bring him back for you.”
I stare into his eyes as he pushes his fingers into my hair and brings his mouth towards me. His lips touch mine as gently as his fingers as if waiting for permission. He has it. Always. It's me who should be asking for his permission, me who should beg. “Tell me how to help you, Logan.”
Sucking my dick would be a good start.
I arch a brow, a small smirk following. It’s all he needs from me to sink downwards, priestly knees touching the ground beneath him for entirely different reasons today. My gaze drifts around the small room, taking in this home of his. Neat, organised. Comforting with its charm and homely sense of care. Rustic throws cover the chairs. A rug lies tattered by the fireplace. If any part of me understood this part of his life, I’d even call it graceful in its humble offering of unpretentiousness. It’s so far from the vicious way I live my own life, though. So far from the dishonesty and corruption, the wealth. So far from me in reality.
A warm hand wraps around my dick, drawing me out. The groan that comes from me instantly reminds me what we do have in common, and I close my eyes and blow out a breath. Fucking is what we have in common. Fucking and then talking whilst we drink red wine. I look down again, another sigh leaving me, and cover the back of his head to keep him where I want him. It's a possessive hold, needy even, and lets him feel every piece of proof he asks of me. I'm becoming someone else for him alone. And because of that, he doesn’t belong to God. Not for these few hours, at least.
He belongs to me.
* * *
I check my watch—midnight—and wander down the steps to the tarmac and onto Chicago turf. The car waits over on the left, Dennis Radcliffe, my security, already by the side of it with the door open for me.
