Page 19 of Absolution

As a fairly young priest, it’s not uncommon for me to get the occasional wayward glance, or inappropriate comment from a woman, but it is rare that my body reacts so out of control as a result. Nothing she’s said warrants my sudden inability to reel myself in, but that’s the beauty of women like Ivy. They have a way about them that makes a man, or priest, for that matter, ponder what those pull-worthy locks of hair would look like plastered to her sweat-drenched face.

Still rigid, I watch her saunter out of my office, and only at the click of the door do I dare look down to find the source of her amusement. My slacks are tented enough to shelter a village.

It’s been a long time since a woman toyed with my restraint that way, and a harrowing thought snakes its way down my spine, inciting a shiver, as a frightening reality settles over me.

Ivy is poison in my blood.

9

Ivy

Exhaling a breath, I rest my head against the door to Father Damon’s office and shake off my nerves, before I head out of the church toward the rail stop. I’m not usually one to dress for attention, so the eyes on me, as I shuffle down the sidewalk toward the stop, make me want to crawl in a hole and hide, but it was necessary. A woman doesn’t try to seduce a man without a small bit of effort, and she sure as hell doesn’t try to seduce a priest without three-inch stilettos and a sleek A-line skirt. Pretty sure it was one of Mamie’s live-in prostitutes who taught me that.

I’m not exactly what I’d call a temptress by nature, either, seeing as the only sex I’ve had in the last eight years makes me want to don a habit and join a convent. But, as I’ve come to learn, sex can be a powerful and manipulative tool, if properly wielded. And as awkward as the exchange with Father Damon may have been moments ago, it proved one thing—even a holy man can be led astray.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with someone so stern and aloof as Father Damon, but opportunity can be a surprising little bitch who shows up when you least expect it. When I came to the church last night, looking for some small measure of comfort after a stomach-turning encounter with Calvin, only to find it wasn’t the variety of churches that stayed open all night, I might’ve ended up paying a visit to Suicide Bridge. After all, I still haven’t confessed my sin, so why not make it a double-whammy damnation sandwich? Turns out, I didn’t have to damn my soul at all, because I found something much more troubling. Morbid.

Something that might have any other girl staying as far away from Father Damon as possible.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not any other girl.

History has proven, time and time again, that I’m an opportunist—admittedly, not always wise in my pursuits. And when I saw Father Damon drive across the lawn toward the back of the church, as if he’d gone out on a drunken binge, curiosity took over.

From my hiding place in the nearby bushes, I watched with interest as he dumped a body into a hole in the ground. Took a minute for me to realize it was the septic tank. Really, that alone should’ve disgusted me—and it did, for a brief second, until I imagined Calvin’s body sliding into that hole, never to be seen, or heard from, again. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so disgusting. Suddenly, it seemed like a solution to my problem.

So I spent the entire night plotting how I might rope Father Damon into my plan, when the answer struck me. I’m a witness to his crime. That alone makes me worth his time. Worth his attention. Worth striking some sort of deal with, for my silence.

One doesn’t just come out and blackmail a man like that, though. I know from experience of dealing with a criminal. They require manipulation, seduction, trust. Otherwise, I could very well end up buried in shit alongside whomever he stuffed into that hole. No, one has to preen them along, make the criminal see them as more than just a roadblock to their freedom. It’s not my character to cry in front of people, but I wanted him to comfort me, to feel a small bit of compassion. To see me as a person deserving of his trust.

When I was thirteen, I remember lying sprawled out on the bed, watching one of the women who stayed with us, a prostitute named Luciana, as she sat half-naked in front of the mirror, telling me that a woman’s body holds more power than any weapon a man could ever dream up. That, if properly manipulated, it could make kingdoms and empires crumble. At the time, I wondered if she’d bothered to take her medication she often left out in the bathroom sink, but I remembered those words, when I made the deal with Calvin to sleep with him once a week, in exchange for him not showing up at my work, or doorstep.

And it worked, up until a few nights ago, when the asshole let his buddies annihilate my apartment.

Ugh. Calvin would lose his shit, if he knew where I’ve been this morning, what I’ve done. But if I don’t do something, I’m stuck in this nightmare forever, and I’d rather suffer the deadly consequences of changing my situation, than cower from him for the rest of my life.

The rail comes to a stop, and I stand to exit, keeping my head low to avoid the unwanted stares, until my heels click against the concrete. I swap them for the flats in my purse and keep on toward the hospital, lighting up a cigarette along the way.

My shift doesn’t begin for another couple of hours, but I thought I’d pop in on Mamie and read her a bit of the new romance novel I picked up. In life, she was never a fan of the damsel in distress characters, and I often wonder what she’d think of me in my situation. According to her, my grandfather, the only man she ever married, physically abused her for years, until one day she decided she’d had enough. She up and left him, taking my father with her, and together, they bounced around a lot, living on the streets and in shelters. Until my grandfather finally died and willed her the house and a small bit of property—an act she always said was more forgetful than charitable, as he apparently didn’t think to amend his will after she left him. That was when she opened the doors to other battered women, prostitutes mostly, and eventually started a sort of halfway house.

Pausing at the hospital’s entrance, I put out my cigarette and take a seat on the bench there, stealing a moment to massage my aching feet. Thankfully, I won’t have to take the rail after work. Most nights, I get a ride home from my coworker, Clara. In exchange, I give her gas money and the occasional batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies, which she seems to appreciate more than the cash.

In the brief moment of calm, I think of Father Damon. I dare say the events from last night have given me a whole new perspective on the man, who I pegged as somewhat dark and broody, but virtuous to a fault. I had no idea a man like that, apriest, could be dangerous and deadly, as well. Like a fictional fantasy come to life. The reserved and forbidden pastor who isn’t as aloof and untouchable as he likes everyone to think.

A week ago, I thought him incapable of mounting a hard-on, but after today, mounting and hard seem fitting for the man, if the bulge in his slacks was anything to go by. A man like that, pent up with so much tension and restraint? He’d probably go hours on adrenaline alone, and revel in the sweat and toil.

Nothing like Calvin, who gets himself off and can’t stand the feel of someone else’s sweat on his skin, or the smell of sex on him afterward. He’s the kind of germaphobe who’d probably wear a mouth guard, if he ever decided to do something selfless for once, like go down on a woman, a thought that crimps my lips.

With a frown, I will away the thoughts of Calvin and make my way into the hospital, and up to my grandmother’s floor. She’s supposed to be transferred back to the nursing home today, or tomorrow, so I want to make sure everything is set for her discharge.

As I round the divider curtain in her room, I come to a screeching halt, my heartbeat pounding up into my throat.

Sitting on a chair beside her as she sleeps is Calvin. He smiles back at me, pressing a finger to his lips to quiet me.

Gaze shooting to Mamie again, I study her chest to be sure she’s breathing, and scan the scene for any sign that he’s hurt her. “What are you doing here?” I whisper through clenched teeth, eyes still trailing over her frail form poking through the thin covers.

Leaving his chair, he comes to a stop beside me, the proximity of him setting my teeth on edge. “Let’s talk outside, love.”

Muscles knotted in tension, I step outside the room with him, and he crowds me against the wall, bracing his hand beside my head.

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