Beauty and the Blitz (41 page)

I lost my soul, but it escaped only to be trapped between us. In her. The only place safe enough, wicked enough, primal enough for it.

She bit her lip. Hard. Her eyes closed, and the curls of hair haloed behind her. Every thrust bounced her body for me, and her cries pitched high and pleading as I slapped against her.

How could something so dark and sinful feel so beautiful and raw? My natural desire was to take, to seize, to own. But my sins were corrupted into something even more insidious.

Every thrust indebted me to her. It saved me from darkness.

She let me do this to her.

She took
pleasure
from what I did to her.

And her soft mews, too timid to even whisper in the church I defiled, called for
me
.

Deliriously. Passionately.

I grabbed the rosaries and pulled her to me. The beads acted as a leash, and I stole a kiss as I pinned her under me. I took her deeper than before, punishing her in pleasure.

“Father…” Her eyes closed. “
Rafe
…”

I stiffened. She begged for a release—from my hands, my demands, and the pleasure I thrust within her.

And so did I.

It built with every slam of my body against hers. The dark, forbidden passion boiled inside me. Sparks of ecstasy centered in the worst shadows of my soul.

And yet, her pleasure shuddered as a beautiful, vibrant gift. She offered it to me. Drew closer, held my hand over the rosaries that I clutched in my trembling fingers.

I took her harder. Kissed her.

My words rasped. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“I already have, Father.”

Her breathing shuddered. Every sharp gasp a song of songs.

I had no defense against her. She stripped me bare, even as I yet wore the cassock and collar. Though I destroyed everything I once adored, she cleansed my soul. She understood. She soothed me. Comforted me.

Honor came for me with a sweet innocence, and in that moment, I realized I never had any control over her. Any punishment I feared I inflicted faded. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t lost.

She came and came and came, breathing pure pleasure and calling for my release with hers. Her body tensed too hard, but my hands guided her through the ache and into that pure bliss so forbidden to me.

Beautiful.

I groaned as the passion swept through me, lashing me as sharp as the barbs of a whip and as sweetly as the caress of an angel.

I buried myself in her. Every loathsome jet of heat should’ve scalded her, poisoned her. Instead she arched to take more of my seed. She moaned with me. Accepted everything I was and would be and defied our temptation with a need purer and more honest than my committed sins.

I collapsed over her, panting on the altar, over her body.

Honor laid back and closed her eyes. Goose bumps rose over her soft curves, though she sweated too, a delicate sheen that purified her as we rested.

She reached for the rosaries, but I stilled her hand.

“They’re yours,” I said. “I used them for strength, to prevent me from doing
this
. I have no need of them anymore.”

“But Father—”

“Nothing can save me now.”

S
in wasn’t easy
, despite what people said.

It was hard to commit. Hard to confront.

Harder to stop.

I knew what I did was wrong. I tried to live a life of faith and integrity, and I had failed.

But, for the first time since I burned myself on desire, I sang at Mass with an honest heart.

I was guilty. I had sinned. And Father Raphael needed my help.

He suffered because of our night together—erotic, sensual, and blasphemous. I knew what I had to do. No matter my sins, I had to return Father Raphael to a state of grace.

But first, I had to convince him that he deserved that forgiveness.

I’d texted him, but he had a meeting immediately following Mass. I wouldn’t be able to talk with him until the festival prep later. That meant I had the afternoon…

Off?

No work. No classes or homework. No volunteer hours. I could go home and relax.

With Mom.

The thought twisted me, and I hated myself for it. Why did I look for any excuse to leave the apartment? Avoiding my mother shamed me more than anything I had done with Father Raphael.

Mom hadn’t stopped talking since the church, and I doubted even she could remember what she chattered. She dropped her purse in the entry and prattled in the kitchen. I hung her bag over the back of the chair before the strap was soaked in a puddle by the door.

“Do you want coffee? I want some coffee.” Mom hummed to herself and fished in the cupboard for the grounds.

She still had a cup of coffee on the table, cold from the morning. I moved it and groaned. The envelope underneath was splattered and wrinkled.

Her bank statement. Unopened. That wasn’t good.

“Well, that was a beautiful Mass today, wasn’t it? Hungry?” Mom didn’t remember where she kept the bread. She opened the wrong cabinet twice and set the peanut butter next to the plates in her forgetfulness. A side effect of the drug abuse for so many years. “Just
beautiful
. Your choir is doing so good, honey. I’m proud of you. I tell everyone, I say to them
that’s my baby singing that solo.”

I nodded, offering her a sheepish shrug. “I know, Mom. I can hear you.
Everyone
can.”

“All the more reason to sing it loud and proud that my baby is doing her best by the Lord in every way she can.” She held her arms out. “Now where did I put that peanut butter…maybe I’ll make ham and cheese instead. Would you like that, baby? Did you want coffee?”

I looked up. She didn’t realize we didn’t have the money for lunch meat. She laughed about the peanut butter and got the coffee brewing.

“I swear, I don’t know where my head is sometimes,” she said.

She smiled. It was too broad, too…unfamiliar.

I tried to remember a time when Mom exhibited any signs of…
life
. Back when she was sick, she never drank for the thrill or the bubbly high. She downed enough to go numb, and then she drank more to stay down when the world kicked her hard enough. And the pills? The Oxy did the trick when she couldn’t carry a can or bottle.

Was this really Mom? Was this the woman under the drugs? Her skin had cleared, and a few social programs had helped to fix her teeth. She smelled of soap instead of body odor and alcohol, and her words slurred only when she got too excited to unjumble her thoughts. She jumped from one topic to the next, almost manic, and I could hardly keep up.

Then again, I hadn’t really tried. I couldn’t. Not when I had so many events and practices and classes and…

No money.

I stared at her bank statement. It was more frightening now that she was sober than it had ever been when she was sick. At least then we had a reason to lose so much money. Mom didn’t have a job—hadn’t had one for years. She never really understood the value of a dollar.

Her account was nearly overdrawn, and I had no idea where the money had gone.

But I could guess.

“Hey…Mom?” Why did I hesitate before calling her name? “I think we ought to sit down and talk about the bank account.”

Mom hummed as she heated a frying pan. Grilled cheese it was then. “Oh, not just now, baby. Let’s get something to eat first.”

“There were withdrawals this week for one hundred and eighty dollars.” I felt sick. “Cash from the ATM. Why are you pulling out cash?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

Oh, but I did. I was worrying. Cash never lasted long around Mom.

I hated to think it. Alyssa and Samantha hadn’t wanted to tell me about the gossip spreading in the church. I glanced up, staring through her graying hair and smile to find the woman I remembered.

One hundred and eighty dollars paid for the electricity and groceries.

I hated that I searched her expression for any signs of deceit.

“Mom, is something going on?”

“Of course not.”

“We needed that money.”

“Well, if
you
must know…” She flipped her sandwich too late and burned it. “I’m planning a surprise.”

I didn’t like that. “Surprises that cost this much money?”

Or a surprise that would account for just enough to hide a bottle of cheap whiskey under the sink and a handful of pills in her purse?

“Okay, Honor. You caught me.”

I held my breath.

Mom plated the crispy grilled cheese with a dollop of ketchup on the side. She pushed it to me.

Close, but it was Dad who had liked the ketchup. I preferred pickles on mine. I ate it anyway.

“I had this great idea,” Mom said. “You’re so involved in the church, and it’s wonderful. The woman’s group and the festival and this special Battle of the Choirs.”

I peeled a bit of cheese from the bread and ate it to avoid speaking.

“I wanted to get that sense of community too. Really thank the people who have been so kind. So…” Mom held her arms out. “I’m going to host a dinner party here for all those lovely people at St. Cecilia’s who have helped us.”

I dropped the sandwich. “You
what
?”

“I want to invite some people over. Judy, Ruthie, a few other ladies in the women’s club. We could even invite Father Rafe. He’d love a home-cooked meal.”

“Mom, you’ve never cooked a meal like that in your life.”

“Nonsense.” Mom frowned as she remembered. “I’m sure I have.”

“Not in the past sixteen years,” I said. “I don’t think you know how to cook.”

“We’ll learn.”

“You don’t just
learn
this stuff.”

“Of course you do. Everyone does.”

Maybe when they were younger. Maybe before the drugs addled their minds. Maybe before they became a woman who couldn’t remember that she put the bread in the freezer and the peanut butter in the cabinet.

“Mom, I don’t think we should do this. Money is…really hard to come by. And we’re behind on the bills—”

“The Lord will provide, Honor. He did in the past.”

“No, He really didn’t.” I tossed the statement on the table. “
Dad
was the one who provided.
Dad
shifted his schedules and took harder hours and did everything he could to make ends meet. But now he’s dead, and I’m here trying my hardest. I gave up my school, my job, everything to come here, and we don’t have enough money to—”

Mom crossed her arms. “Honor Maria Thomas, you tell me right now what this is
really
about.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have them come…
here
.”

Mom looked over our apartment, her mouth drawing into a thin line. “I spent half a year confined to a space smaller than this. I am
proud
of this home we have. I am
proud
that I can walk out that door anytime I want without a guard on the other side. I can wear my Sunday best and not an orange jumpsuit. I can go to
church
and talk with those nice God-fearing people.” She shook her head. “And I’m not going to be ashamed if I invite them into my
home
.”

“But this isn’t
home!
” I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my voice. “Home was across town. With
Dad
. In the house he built with his bare hands for us. A house we don’t have anymore.”

“Home is where your family is, Honor.”

“If that’s true, half of our home is buried six feet under.” I pitched the bank statement onto the table. “Dad’s dead. This family is broken.”

“Don’t you say such things.”

“I hope that money is going to a dinner, Mom. I really,
really
do.”

“Honor—”

I stood. “I gotta get to the church. We’re doing the festival prep later.”

Mom stood in silence, watching as I grabbed my purse. I hated myself for leaving, for the words I said and the bitterness in my voice when I spoke of family.

But she had never acted like a mother.

And, God help me, I wasn’t acting like the daughter she needed.

The door closed behind me, and I nearly wept.

I didn’t believe her story. A
dinner
party? With all that cash missing?

She had been clean for an entire
year
. Why was she throwing it away now? After all the confessions? The jail time?

Dad’s funeral?

She wasn’t the woman I remembered, but I couldn’t allow the mother from my past to return. How was I supposed to help her if I couldn’t face her?

If I hadn’t forgiven her for everything in the past?

I drove to the church, hating how Father Raphael’s voice haunted me. His words repeated in my mind.

Do you resent your mother
?

Lately, he was a bad priest, but I knew so much good existed in him. First he lost himself in sin, and now Mom destroyed herself in vice. Two good souls depended on me to make things right. The easiest way to heal Father Raphael was to remind him why he became a priest.

To protect his flock.

I slipped into the church and greeted the few parishioners still lingering in the halls. His office door was closed. I stared at the handle.

I hadn’t come to experience the thrill of his state. I wasn’t there for a kiss or a touch. I wouldn’t even return the rosaries I wore around my neck.

I came to talk to him. My heart ached, and I longed to hear his voice whisper a kind word. Advice. Maybe see his smile and accept a compliment or two.

Was it a sin to imagine a life without guilt?

Probably, if only because it led to my most dangerous temptation. If I let myself imagine that life, I’d fantasize about something deeper than lust and desire. A moment without vows or collars.

But I had enough sins to atone for. I wouldn’t tempt myself to steal more of Father Raphael than I already had. For that reason, I turned from his office and meant to escape back into the church.

I nearly collided with him.

And the warmth and joy that shuddered through me was worse than any sin.

“Hi,” I said.

Father Raphael gave me a knowing and twisted smirk, like he’d read through my intentions. “My angel.”

“I…” I pointed past him. “I was going.”

“Why?”

“It’s not important.”

He took my hand, squeezing over my palm with a burning authority and firm grip. He tugged me into his office, closing the door behind us.

I breathed deep as he passed. He was richly drenched in the sandalwood incense from today’s Mass. So regal and sensual. How could a man smell so
important
?

He guided me to the chair before his desk, but I didn’t sit. I stared at him—his lips, his eyes, the way his collar shone so bright.

“You, above all others, know my office is always open.”

“I know, Father.”

“You’re nervous.”

I licked my lip, a twitch more than an invitation, but he leaned in for a kiss. I closed my eyes as his tongue flicked over mine.

Wine.

He tasted of wine.

Or was it my imagination? My guilt?

His hand brushed my cheek. How could the world and all its mysteries make sense during a kiss but shatter as soon as our lips parted?

“I haven’t seen you since that night,” he whispered. “I was worried.”

“Why?”

Father Raphael moved the collar of my shirt to the side, touching the rosaries. I’d slept in them. Held them. Kept them as close to my heart as I could.

“I thought I frightened you away,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

He hummed, low. “We’ll see, won’t we, my angel?”

It pained me to hear the defeat in his voice. He carried a burden of sorrow, so secret inside him. I wished he’d explain it, but that aspect of his life was truly forbidden. It existed in his obsession with me—fierce and intense. Why did he punish himself so much?

“You know you didn’t hurt me, right?” I said. “Just the opposite.”

“Not all wounds are physical.”

He released me, and I couldn’t imagine what he saw with his stare. He looked at me as if I really were an angel. He was wrong. I wasn’t even that good of a person.

But he told me I’d be his salvation.

What was I saving him from?

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

He averted his eyes, studying the crucifix on his wall. “That night…you helped me to indulge in something dark and dangerous. It was a terrible desire, and I let myself fall. I explored a part of me I usually suppressed because I knew you wouldn’t run away when I revealed it.” He sucked in a breath. “But you should have run, Honor.”

Never. “It wasn’t frightening, Father. Yes, it was very wrong, but it connected us—”

“It corrupted you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I dominated you.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I surrendered to you.”

He didn’t listen. “I used you. I lost myself that night. When I thought I controlled my lust, I suffered from pride. You tried to warn me, but I thought I could contain it. Then…I faltered.”

“We both did.”

“I think I meant to do it,” he admitted. “I sinned because I wanted to destroy myself.” His gaze fell over me, just as stoic and strong as ever. “I won’t have you defend me or any of the pain I caused you.”

“I’m not in pain, Father,” I said. “Not physically. Not emotionally. I don’t know what to do about my spirit, but that’s my sin to bear, not yours.”