The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Read online

“I’ll open a window.” Juliette walked to the large street-facing window in the nursery and parted the curtains. “Oh, bonjour, monsieur.”

  “What is it?” Nora asked, walking over to her.

  “We have company. Very handsome company.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. You’re so hopped on up hormones you flirted with the UPS driver yesterday. That’s my job.”

  Nora peered out the window and saw a man on the sidewalk staring at his phone in the shade of a magnolia tree—a trim black man with a tight fade. He wore a tailored brown suit and aviator sunglasses. Nora put him at about thirty, thirty-five years old. He took off his sunglasses, and she had to admit he wasn’t bad at all. Tall but not too tall. Strong build like a former high school quarterback who’d stayed in fighting shape. Something about his strict posture, his confident bearing, put her in mind of the sort of man she’d had dealings with before.

  “Handsome, yes. Bad news, definitely.”

  Juliette looked at her from the side of her eyes.

  “Police?” Juliette said under her breath so as not to scare Céleste. No woman lived with Kingsley Edge for ten years without learning how to pick out a plainclothes detective in a crowd.

  “I definitely get that vibe from him,” Nora muttered in reply. “Don’t see a badge on him, though.” The man had put his hand in his pocket, which revealed nothing—no badge, no gun. “I better talk to him. He’s either here for King or he’s here for me.”

  “Why would he be here for you?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Nora replied.

  “Ah, true,” Juliette said, patting Nora on the back. “You’re so good to us, sometimes I forget how bad you are.”

  Chapter Four

  Cyrus tried to never go into a new situation blind, a habit that had saved his ass more than once. In the shade under the magnolia tree, he took a moment to search for this Nora Sutherlin. Supposedly she was a professional dominatrix, according to Katherine, but the only hits were for her dirty books.

  He clicked on the one with the most reviews on Amazon. The Red: An Erotic Fantasy. There was a half-naked lady on the cover, which he did not object to in the least. He bought it with one click, smiling at the idea of it sharing space on his digital bookshelf with Carl Jung and Walter Mosley. He doubted either gentleman would mind.

  He found the About the Author section in the table of contents. Nora Sutherlin lives in New England. Find her online at www.norasutherlin.com.

  That was it? Just one line? Okay. He went to her website. Not much more there. Her bio had been updated to read, Nora Sutherlin lives in New Orleans.

  Great. So the lady liked her privacy a little. He could respect that. How many cheating husbands had he caught because they were sloppy online with their social media pages, leaving geo-markers on, claiming to be on a work trip while their phone tattled on them? Just out of curiosity, he went back to her book, picked a chapter at random and started to read.

  “Put your arms behind your head,” he said. “Clasp your fingers and keep your elbows open. Like a butterfly’s wings.”

  She did as she was told. The move made her arch her back, thrust her breasts forward. He stood before her, inspecting her.

  “Legs wider,” he said. He touched the floor with the tip of the riding crop in two places—here and there, showing her where to place her feet. She moved her feet wider apart, a foot and a half, and stood quivering in place.

  “Very nice.” He raised the crop and tapped her left nipple with it. Then her right. He caressed the underside of each breast with the triangle of leather on the crop’s end. He ran the shaft of the crop down the sides of her body from each elbow to each ankle and back up again. It tickled and made her shiver. She would have given anything to feel his body against her right now. She craved it and with every passing second she craved it more. No doubt this was the intention.

  He stepped close again. It was torture to be so close without touching. He brought the crop up between them and pressed the flat side of the tip to his lips. Then he pressed the opposite side to her lips.

  “Think of it as a kiss,” he said when the leather lay against her mouth. “That’s all it is. Just a kiss from me to you.”

  “Most kisses don’t leave welts,” she said. “I prefer French kissing.”

  “Well, I’m English. This is English kissing.”

  “Holy shit,” Cyrus breathed to himself. He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure nobody had heard him, or worse, seen what was on his phone. He scrolled a few pages ahead.

  “Open your eyes,” he said, and when she did it was to find him holding the dripping tip at her chin. He didn’t have to tell her to take it into her mouth. He placed his hand under the back of her head and lifted it with all the gentleness of a nurse raising the head of a sick patient to drink some water. She did it willingly, wrapping the tip with her lips and sucking. A small burst of semen shot into her mouth and she swallowed it eagerly. It was merely a taste of what was to come…

  “Jesus H.” Cyrus decided he better shut that right down before he had to take a personal break. They let people put stuff like that on Amazon?

  Cyrus was about to search for a photo of the crazy lady who’d dreamt this stuff up—he’d finish the book later, then go to confession after—when he saw the front door of the big white house opening. A woman half-walked, half-skipped down the stone stairway to the walkway that led to the main gate. She didn’t look like the sort of woman to emerge from such a grand door in such a grand house. She was white, pale, and not very tall. Her black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her cut-off denim shorts were ratty, her black t-shirt rattier. Tiny paint splotches dotted her from head to toe.

  She came to the gate but didn’t open it. She left it closed and smiled at him through a six-inch space between the bars.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Nora Sutherlin. I’m told she knows the owners of this house.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  When he’d watched her nearly skipping down the steps, he’d guessed her age at about twenty-four, twenty-five. When she pushed her sunglasses up to her head to reveal a pair of cunning green eyes regarding him ironically, he revised his estimate up a little. Thirties, definitely. Too confident for her twenties. Too cynical, too suspicious.

  “Private detective. Cyrus Tremont.” He handed her his business card and showed her his identification.

  “That was my next guess. Who are you working for?”

  “Don’t we all ultimately work for ourselves? I take cases that talk to me.”

  “Give me a second, will you?”

  “For what?”

  She didn’t answer. She took an iPhone out of her back pocket, typed something in. He waited as she scrolled. Finally, she nodded in approval.

  “You have very good Yelp reviews, Mr. Tremont. ‘Betty P’ says, ‘He caught the bastard in the act in twenty-four hours. Never getting married again but if I do, I’m putting Cyrus Tremont on the job. Five stars.’ Well done.”

  He smiled. “You Googled me.”

  “ID’s can be faked.”

  “So can reviews.”

  “Touché,” she said, continuing to look at her phone. “Says here on your website you only take the cases of women and children. Why is that?”

  “They need the help. Grown men don’t.”

  “So, a knight-errant.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, since you are who you say you are, what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me where to find Miss Nora Sutherlin. I’ll take an address, a phone number…”

  “I’m Nora Sutherlin. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand through the bars for him to shake. It was covered in pastel paint the color of cotton candy. Whoever this woman was, she did not intimidate him. He was fairly certain a dominatrix would intimidate him, or at least try to.

  “Yeah, no, I don’t think so. But nice tr
y,” he said, ignoring the hand. This little lady did not write about ladies getting their pussies slapped around with riding crops. She definitely didn’t do the slapping in her free time, either.

  “I swear, I’m her,” the woman said, smiling.

  If there hadn’t been a gate between them, he might have laughed in her face. “Ma’am, Nora Sutherlin is a dominatrix,” he said. “And a porno writer.”

  “I know. I’m her, remember? Although technically it’s erotica, not porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn.”

  “Right. Fine. I’ll leave you my card. If you see her, you can have her call me.”

  “I can call you right now, but we’re already talking. Just picture me in a corset. And not splattered with paint.”

  To humor the woman, he started to fish his phone out of his jacket when a little black girl wearing a pink ballet tutu came running out the front door, a large dog at her heels, and pink pigtail ribbons flying.

  “Tata, I taught Gmork a new trick!” the girl yelled. She ran over to the paint-splattered woman.

  “Show me, baby,” the woman said.

  The girl faced the enormous black dog and pointed her finger at it. “Couche!”

  The dog lay on the ground.

  The woman applauded. “Very good,” she said. “But he already knows how to lay down.”

  “I know,” the girl said. “But now he knows how to do it in French.”

  “You’re teaching my German Shepherd French? You’re going to give him an identity crisis.”

  Cyrus watched the whole show with a smile on his face. In three or four years, he and Paulina might have a little girl of their own running around in a pink tutu, a little girl who looked just like this one. And surely this lady was not a dominatrix. She was a nanny or an auntie.

  “Princess?” A woman’s voice called to the girl. “You know you’re not supposed to interrupt grown-ups talking. Come back in the house.”

  “Sorry, Maman.” The little girl ran to the woman standing at the top of the steps and wrapped her arms around the woman’s leg.

  If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have taken it off out of sheer respect for the woman’s otherworldly beauty. Her elegant dark skin shimmered in the morning sun, and her black hair was braided into a crown—a fitting style for a woman so statuesque and regal. Her white dress stretched across a very pregnant stomach. She glowed like she’d swallowed the moon and carried it inside her.

  The pregnant goddess said something to the woman he’d been talking to, the woman who Cyrus had briefly forgotten existed. She replied in French. This elicited a smirk from the goddess, who took her little girl back into the house.

  “Mr. Tremont?” the woman who was not Nora Sutherlin said. “You dropped something.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Your jaw.”

  He looked at her with pursed lips.

  “Don’t sweat it,” the woman said. “Juliette’s the reason the phrase ‘jaw-dropping’ was coined.”

  “That’s Edge’s missus?”

  The woman nodded.

  “My respect for the man has gone up a notch or two.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll go down again any minute.”

  “You don’t like Mr. Edge?”

  “Love him. But I also know him. You want to come in and continue our conversation? It’s hot out.”

  “That dog don’t look too friendly.” The dog in question stood looking right at him, the lines of his body tense as a soldier at attention.

  “He doesn’t like men very much, but he’s well-trained,” the woman said. “Watch. Gmork.” She snapped her fingers and the dog snapped to attention. “Gib laut.”

  The dog barked once.

  “Gmork. Sitz.”

  The dog sat.

  “Gmork, verehre mich.”

  The dog dropped his head and licked the woman’s toes.

  “What command is that?” Cyrus asked.

  The woman smiled. For a second—only a second—something about that smile made him think he might be in the presence of another goddess. But not the sort of goddess one put on a pedestal and admired. No, she was the sort of goddess one sacrificed doves and cattle and virgins to, in the vain hope of not inciting her wrath.

  “Worship me,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The command I gave my dog was ‘worship me.’ This is called foot worship.” She snapped her fingers and the dog stopped his licking. He lay at her feet, gazing up at her with adoring dark doggy eyes.

  “Okay. So maybe you are Nora Sutherlin.”

  Chapter Five

  Kingsley Edge might yet live up to his reputation—mercenary, perverted, and dangerous—but Cyrus couldn’t fault him his taste in women or his taste in home decor. If Juliette was a goddess, her home was a worthy temple.

  Nora Sutherlin—if this really was Nora Sutherlin—led him up the steps to the large arched front door, her giant dog following at her heels. Cold air blasted him right in the face, and he basked in it. Although only ten in the morning, the city was already starting to steam.

  “Very nice,” Cyrus said. “Mr. Edge has a beautiful home.”

  She took him down a hallway to a parlor room filled with furniture the likes he’d never seen outside a Chartres Street antique store.

  “A king needs his castle. Do you mind very much if I change clothes before we talk?” she asked. “I shouldn’t get paint on anything. King would tan my hide.”

  “Literally?”

  She smiled. “So you have heard of him.”

  “His reputation precedes him.”

  Her smiled widened. “Make yourself at home. Wet bar’s there if you’re thirsty. I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared with her dog, and Cyrus helped himself to a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. He wandered the room, taking it all in. Fancy sofas—tufted velvet, exposed wood arms, carved wooden legs. Versailles-type stuff, very old world. The parlor was wallpapered with some kind of old-fashioned Victorian-looking stuff—red with an ivory floral pattern. Paulina would have liked it. A little too ostentatious for his taste. Then again, this was the Garden District. “Ostentatious” was standard procedure in most of these houses.

  The only personal touches in the room were the framed photographs on the top of the marble fireplace mantel.

  The same man appeared in each one of them. Kingsley Edge. Cyrus wasn’t the best judge of whether a man was good-looking or not, but even his eyes told him Edge was a head-turner. Of course, with a woman like Juliette in his house and bed, he’d have to be.

  Mr. Edge had wavy dark hair that needed cutting. Dark eyes that were cutting. If hadn’t already known otherwise, Cyrus might have assumed Edge was of Louisiana Creole ancestry like Paulina—a little Spanish, a little French, a little Afro-Caribbean, a little who knows what…

  According to his record, Edge was fifty. In the photos—which appeared recent, based on the age of his daughter in one—he didn’t look a day older than forty. Money, Juliette, and looks. Lucky bastard.

  The picture of Edge and his girl had been taken in winter. His daughter was wearing a white coat and pink mittens, while Edge was sporting a tuxedo. Both of them had on wide smiles for the camera, and the little girl had her arms around her father’s neck.

  In another photo, Edge and Juliette were slow dancing, looking at each other like nobody else existed in the world. Edge had on the same tuxedo jacket, and a patterned kilt. Scottish wedding?

  The last photograph on the mantle had been taken at the same wedding. Edge and a pale, blond man were arm-wrestling at a table covered in wine bottles. Their eyes were locked on each other in a death stare, although it was clear both men were trying hard not to laugh. The blond was almost as much of a head-turner as Edge. Possibly. Men were not his specialty.

  Cyrus glanced over the pictures again. These were the photographs of a man who loved his family. He might not have believed it without seeing it, knowing what he knew about Edge. But it wa
s better this way, wasn’t it? Better to have a bad reputation that hid a secret good side, than to have a good reputation with a secret bad side?

  In his career, Father Ike worked tirelessly as a church pastor, a school chaplain and a prison chaplain. Paulina had said students adored Father Ike. She certainly had liked and trusted the man. And all that time that good man had a secret dark side.

  Or maybe not. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding.

  Right. And Cyrus was the next Miss America, too.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  He turned and saw Nora Sutherlin standing in the doorway to the room, her dog beside her like a shadow. She’d changed out of her shorts and paint-splattered shirt into a black halter top dress with a high thigh slit and red high heels that gave her the illusion of height. She’d taken her hair out of the ponytail and now it fell around her shoulders in lively black waves. That was more like it. Now he believed this was a woman men paid money to spend time with.

  “You were gone three minutes. I expected thirty,” he said.

  “I’m not very high maintenance on Saturdays,” she said. “Here, proof I am who I say I am.”

  She passed him a business card—solid black with silver lettering, the words Mistress Nora and a phone number. He dialed the number.

  Her phone rang. She held it up, showing him he was calling her.

  “All right. I buy it now.” He ended the call.

  “Thank you. Would you like to have a seat?”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “So will I then. What can I do for you?”

  “You live here?” he asked.

  “I have my own place, but I’m here a lot. I’m on the day shift.”

  “Day shift?”

  She walked to the mini-bar and poured herself a glass of ice water.

  “Juliette’s at thirty-five weeks. She could go into labor any time now. Papa is with her at night. She needs someone with her during the day. At least Papa thinks so,” she said and smiled. “Papa Kingsley.”

  “How do you happen to know Mr. Edge?”