The Righteous and The Wicked (17 page)

He smiles back at her and jerks his head in that direction. “Let’s go.”

They ride through the wilderness down the path to the riverside, and drop their bikes beneath a tree. Emma sits down beside Eric and stares out at the hidden river. The breeze blows her hair across her face and she tucks it away. He’s been trying so hard to survive without giving in to his thirst, and although Emma calms him, she also tempts him. His attraction to her grows each time he is with her. They have not been intimate since the day he pleasured her at the foot of the stairs, but he finds the easy way she has about her intoxicating. They seem to have an unspoken agreement that this friendship they share will almost serve as a distraction from what they want to be doing—what Emma desires and what Eric must avoid.

Emma looks out at the waves, but she can feel him staring at her. Things that have been said and things that have
not
been said hover in the air. She has made a decision, and this is the moment that will change everything. Either Eric will be willing to listen to her plan, or he will once again reject her. She pushes her hair behind her ear and hugs her knees, then she looks him square in the eye.

“I’ve been thinking . . . what if I could help you with your . . . addiction?”

He’s shocked she used that word; he’s never heard it said out loud in reference to what plagues him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I want you to get better, but I know that it’s a struggle and I know that sometimes you have to give in. When you feel like you . . .
need
it, I want to be the one to give it to you.”

He raises his eyebrows at this proposition. Physically, he could see her in that role, and he has, many times, in his mind. But it’s wrong for him to want to taint her like that. It would be a crime.

“Emma, these women that I’m with, they’re not like you. I could never ask you to . . .”

“I know what kind of women they are. I could be that way for
you
. I could try.”

Emma’s innocent yet indecent offer to help him warms Eric’s heart. No one has ever reached out to him this way, but he’s angry that she would want to lower herself to his level and get involved in his depravity.

“Emma, I don’t
want
you to try.”

“This is something I want to give to you.” She turns toward him, and rests her hand on his knee, trying to coax him away from anger, to convince him to let her in.

“I know you may feel like you know me, but I don’t think you do.” He strokes her hand.

“You’re a sex addict and you don’t want to be. Isn’t that the gist?” She’s calling him out on his secrets, and it’s almost refreshing to have this silent burden lifted.

“Well, yes, but I’m not proud of it, and I just can’t drag you into it. I don’t want things between us to be like that.” He lowers his head with shame.

She kneels next to him, and lifts his jaw with her hand. “Everything in life isn’t black and white. You need to stop thinking in absolutes. There’s a gray area here, and that’s where I want to be.”

“But why? What do you get out of this?” His concern for her is real, but his eyes are on her lips.

“I get
you
.”

He stiffens at her words. She wants him.

“Eric, people view charity as this great notion, but they just give
because they like the way it makes them feel. There’s no such thing as an unselfish act.”

What Emma’s saying rings true for him. People who claim to give selflessly get the satisfaction of being a do-gooder. They get something out of it. He agrees, but is shocked to hear it from someone who is not just kind and good, but religious.

“I thought you were Catholic?”

“I am, but I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking about right and wrong, good and bad, and I’m learning that people are just pieces of those things. Like I said before—there are no absolutes.”

“No black and white.”

She moves even closer to him, her face an inch from his. “I want to do this. I feel like we found each other for a reason. I want to help you get better. We can try to be strong together. But when you feel weak, when you can’t survive without it, when you
need
it, I want to be the one to give it to you.”

He feels conflicted, but his body burns. She’s so beautiful, and she wants him. She wants to save him . . . and he wants to be saved. He can’t control himself any longer. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her to him. He kisses her with passion and feels himself get hard. The lion inside him roars.

Emma nudges him away, and looks in his eyes. “Restraint.” She reminds him. “You have to try.”

She’s right, and he hates it. “Okay.” He lies back on the ground, sighs, and looks toward heaven.
“Restraint.”

The deal they are making to try to help Eric abstain from his sickness is idealistic, but deep down inside, they both know he won’t be able to do it.

Chapter Seventeen

The wooden crucifix hanging above her bed is taunting her, looking down on her from above with perceived judgment, as she gets ready for work. Her familiar routine feels different now that she has declared her righteous and wicked intentions to Eric.
She
feels different.

She remembers being a young girl at St. Simon’s. Her teacher would make the class stand with their arms outstretched, holding a schoolbook on each palm, mirroring Jesus’s position on the cross. Sister Josephine would walk through the rows, making sure no one bent their elbows or lowered their arms.

“Jesus was hung on the cross; He gave his life for
you.
The pain you feel is
nothing
compared to what He suffered. He felt unspeakable agony to take our sins away.
That
is how much Jesus loves you,” she told them, over and over again.

Since a young age, Emma was taught that love is pain. To love and be loved is all she has ever wanted. Love isn’t supposed to hurt. Everyone who ever loved her is gone. The lack of love in her life is her cross to bear.

Emma buttons her blouse, and slips on her heels. Faint whispers emanate from the wooden box in the closet, and she disregards them. She looks at her reflection—her pious appearance in no way matches the shadowy desires that are growing inside her each day. She tells herself she doesn’t need love. That she doesn’t want it. She wants to be rid of pain, and Eric’s body takes that pain away for her. She looks at the mirror and wonders if she will ever have a full heart.

The lonely old house is filled with light and sound on Friday night. A passerby would see Emma and Eric lit in the warm glow of the kitchen as music wafts through the windows. But there are no passersby, only Eric and Emma playing Scrabble at the kitchen table.

“That is
not
a word.”

“What do you mean? It’s totally a word. It means really crappy.” Eric leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with arrogance.

She shoves the dictionary at him. “Show me where it says ‘craptastic’ in the dictionary.”

His lips perk up in a smart little smirk. His haunting blue eyes stare her down, and her heart flutters. After a brief staring contest, he relinquishes to her challenge and withdraws his letters.

He replaces them.
T.R.A.P.
“Trap.”

It occurs to Emma that this is foreboding, but she ignores the nagging thought and focuses again on Eric’s fingers as they arrange the letters. She thinks of what those fingers once did to her and her face flushes. She sees him noticing, and his smirk grows into a smug smile.

Emma clears her throat. “Um, do you want another beer?”

“Yes. Are you going to continue to make me drink alone?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

“I’m afraid so.” She pushes her chair from the table.

Eric gets up and changes the music. Emma grabs a beer from the fridge and fumbles with the wet bottle and stuck cap. Without a word, Eric takes it from her, letting his fingers linger on hers, and then opens it with ease. He stares at her as he takes a long drink of the frosty liquid.

Flustered, Emma returns to the table, but Eric remains standing. He sips the ale and watches her. She returns to the game, using the word he has just put down to make her own.

T.A.S.T.E.
“Taste.”

He thinks about doing just that to Emma, and sits back down across from her. The table acts as a barrier, keeping him from what he wants but shouldn’t have. She’s playing with her hair as she fingers her letter board, her sweet little eyebrows crinkled together in concentration. Eric loves that she’s trying so hard to keep him occupied, to try to keep his mind on things other than indulging his addiction. But sometimes she hurts more than she helps. When she wears a certain color, or touches him, or laughs . . . or breathes. He’s always tempted, but he’s fighting it, and she’s there for him. Tonight, the temptation is winning.

“I guess I should leave,” he says.

She looks disappointed, but nods in agreement.

“When can I see you again?” He asks the same question he always asks, and he knows just what she’ll say.

“Tomorrow.”

He walks toward her and places his half-empty beer on the table before her. She looks up at him, but doesn’t move. Her luscious mouth opens and Eric places his hand gently on her cheek. He runs his thumb along her soft skin and her eyes close. He bends down and kisses her forehead. Then he opens the door, and is gone.

The walk home feels like a million miles and he can still hear faint music playing in Emma’s kitchen when he reaches his front door.

Restless, Emma lies in bed. It’s too early for sleep, but she can’t think of anything else to do. She feels hot, like she has a fever, but that’s not what it is. She
wants
Eric to break down. She wants him to crack and give in. She rolls over in her bed, and her sheets tangle around her frustrated body. She hates how selfish she is.

Next door, Eric sits on his bed, distracted and unsatisfied. He stares into his closet at the black clothes he wears when he’s hunting, and the bargaining begins. He could do it just one more time. He could drive far enough away that he wouldn’t know anyone. No one would recognize him. He could sneak away with his headlights off so Emma wouldn’t see him leave. He battles against the devil on his shoulder, but can think of nothing but his need. He stares out the window at her house and longs to feel release
,
but he doesn’t know if he can be with her that way. If he shows her his true face, she will surely balk at his evil and run.

He picks up his cell phone and types out a message to Emma. He deletes it. He rolls over. He sits up. He lies down. He opens his drawer and grabs a handful of sunflower seeds. The painstaking process of eating them has distracted him before—replacing one addiction with another—but right now it’s like swatting at a raging bull with a feather. Black clothes. Emma’s offer. Emma’s body. Consuming her, bending her, filling her. The darkness before he comes, and then the unspeakable bliss.

His skin is crawling and he can’t take it. He showers, dresses and looks in the mirror. Everything is just right. He grabs his keys, gets in the Jeep, and gives one last look at her old white house. He starts the car. There’s no turning back from this. He takes out his cell and texts Emma.

It’s Eric. Meet me at the lake . . . I need it.

He turns the wheel, swerving along the snaking curves of the road. Through the windshield, he sees the moonlight on the lake as he approaches the rocky beach, but it grows scarce as the Jeep speeds along. Clouds are forcing the light away—the rain will be here soon. His phone sits silent on the seat next to him, and his impatient gaze darts toward it. He grips the wheel tighter and drives faster.