Page 96 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

But I say nothing. I just push past him and head toward the exit.

“Take my room,” he says.

I stop, hand on the doorknob.

“I’ll sleep in the church,” he adds. “You can take my room.”

I yank the door open and don’t look back.

Thirty-Three

Cisco

I’m not sure how I make it out of the changeroom, let alone the abbey. I don’t see the walls or feel the gentle rain in the courtyard. I don’t even care if anyone sees me in my torn shirt, stumbling along the path to the church. All I care about is getting out of Mercy’s orbit before I lose every shred of control. Even now, I smell her, feel her soft yet unyielding body against mine. Hear her husky moan into my mouth, taste her lips.

My skin is burning.

I cut across the slick gravel, through the sweet-smelling wet trees, and up to the church’s side door that no one uses. My fingers tremble on the handle, and I think of how her hand trembled on the knife at my throat. Then I think about the freckles at her throat, at how I wanted to taste every one of them, but never had the chance.

Now I crave it more. I’ve opened a lid on a bottle, and Mercy is the drink.

This is not how it’s supposed to go. I’m supposed to be the one who contains the evil, starves the monster, keeps the hunger on a leash. But I kissed her, I wanted more, and my cock is still hard. Pathetic. It aches and throbs with every pulse. Usually, when this happens, I find ways to get rid of it. The gym, a run outside, or a prayer. Sometimes, a nice quiet meditation on the floor, arms outstretched. Even routine preparation for Mass can have a soothing effect on me.

But I don’t want that. I want her.

Growling, I enter the church, dripping water with every step. The scent of beeswax and incense fills my nose. Prayer candles are lit, and fresh flowers are by the holy water font. I dip my hand, look at the cross over the altar, and mumble, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

Whether God hears, I don’t know, but relief shudders through me on my exhalation. For a moment, I consider heading to the front, kneeling, and praying beneath the crucifix.

Instead, I stalk toward the oratory and find it not the mess I left two days ago. The bright, overcast light filters through the stained-glass window behind the desk. The nuns have cleaned the room and replenished stock and supplies. The desk is polished, the stuffy velvet couch is dusted, and this evening’s cassock is out for confession. I don’t deserve their kindness.

I stagger into the small bathroom and flick on the light.

The face in the mirror isn’t mine, but some hybrid thing. It’s bruised along the cheek from her grip, lips cut from her slap, and swollen from her kiss. My eyes are dark and wild, but not black. The white collar hangs slack, and the skin beneath my jaw has a thin, raw wound from the dagger.

Her mark, not God’s, not the devil’s.

I lick my thumb and swipe the red line so hard that it burns just like her knife did. The pain conjures her scent, the feel of her body against mine. I swipe harder. My cock jerks against my trousers, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure through my lower abdomen. An agonized groan wrenches from my lips.

This is wrong.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try not to think about her, try to think about what sin means to me instead. It is my appetite unleashed. That’s the short version, the only one that’s ever made sense to me.

When penitents come into my booth, my identity ceases to exist. In there, I am the office. I bow my head, listen, and assign Hail Marys. A heavier sin, a graver one, requires contrition. But whatever they bring in stays in, and whatever they take out is forgiveness.

In the seminary, we learn that mortal sin requires grave matter, full knowledge, and deliberate consent. Tick, tick, tick. We learn that thoughts can damn you just as much as deeds if you let them root. Tick.

But for me? For a priest with vows? It’s worse.

I gave up the right to a wife, to a bed, and to have my own children. Lust isn’t just lust for me, the way it is for a married man tempted by his secretary. Lust for me is breaking a promise I made on my knees in front of the bishop, with my hands in his, swearing in the sight of God.

Sin, for me, is the moment the leash slips.

Is your curse your reason there is no us?

She said “us.”

Instead of denying her bullshit, she tossed me a deflecting question. She didn’t say no.