The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Read online

  These were important questions, and she’d much rather be having sex with him than asking them.

  “I can get a job. I can teach piano lessons. I can work as a translator. Hospitals are desperate for trained translators. I can—”

  “You can take the gift Kingsley is giving you and actually enjoy a year off? Spend time with me, him, Juliette and Céleste, and the new baby. Catch up on your sleeping, your reading. Take a Pilates class.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Okay, skip Pilates,” she said. “I do. You know, I think you’re forgetting something very important here.”

  “Do tell,” he said.

  “You inherited a massive trust fund when you were eighteen and you gave every cent of it to Kingsley. You can’t let him do one nice extravagant thing for you in return?”

  “He set up a trust fund for Fionn. That’s more than enough.”

  “God, you’re stubborn,” she said.

  He glanced away again and Nora saw a flash of something in his eyes, an expression she rarely if ever saw on his face.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked him.

  “I want it.”

  “You want the house?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s okay to want things,” she said. “I’ve made a career of it.”

  “Vow of poverty since I was eighteen. And if you think a vow of chastity is hard to keep…” He paused, looked away, then asked, “What if I can’t go back? What if I’m too happy here?”

  “Too happy would be a good problem to have.”

  “I’m not sure I should get to be that happy.”

  “You fathered a child with a married woman, who you had permission to be with from both me and her husband. She wanted a kid. You gave her one. You didn’t rape anyone, murder anyone. You’d didn’t even steal. And you’re only suspended for one year. Even the Jesuits don’t think it’s that big of a deal.”

  “There’s more to my punishment than I told you.”

  “Ah, let me guess. Therapy.”

  “Yes.”

  God help that poor therapist.

  “Spiritual counseling?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Forty lashes?”

  “You wish,” he said. “I have to attend Mass every day when possible.”

  “That’s all?”

  It wasn’t all. Søren went silent for a moment, and Nora braced herself.

  “I also have to present a notarized letter from Grace and Zachary stating that they want me to have no formal or informal relationship with Fionn.”

  Nora stared at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”

  “In the old days, it was normal for the Church to keep a priest’s child a secret, to cover the whole affair up. Things are changing, as they should. If a Catholic priest fathers a child, he’s expected to leave the priesthood to be a part of his child’s life. If I’m going to be allowed back in the Jesuits, Grace and Zachary have to make it clear—and legally binding—that they don’t want or need me in Fionn’s life.”

  “They’ll write the letter if you want them to,” she said. “It’s just words on a piece of paper. They would never stop you from checking on him, you know.”

  “I know,” he said. “I think. But the time may come when he knows. How will he feel when he finds out I picked the Church over him? That I asked to be exiled from his life?”

  “It’s only a piece of paper,” she said. “If you go back to the Jesuits, they’ll do what they have to even if they don’t mean it.”

  “If,” he said. “Even you’re not sure I’ll go back.”

  She tapped the toe of his shoe with the toe of hers.

  “How are we?” he asked, meeting her eyes again.

  A serious question, so she took a second before answering. It deserved serious thought and a serious answer.

  “We’re good,” she said.

  “Solid?”

  “Rock solid.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Nora smiled. “You don’t think we are?”

  “I keep waiting,” he said, “for you to finally get angry at me.”

  “I get angry at you all the time. I was highly perturbed at you earlier today when I was horny, and you were not there to do anything about it.”

  “Angry about Fionn.”

  She knew that’s what he’d meant.

  “We’ve talked about it a hundred times. Hard talks. Serious talks.”

  “Talked about it, yes. Never fought about it.”

  “I love Fionn as much as you do. If you’re waiting for me to be angry that you wanted a kid and I didn’t, so you found a way to have a kid without trying to make me into something I’m not? You’ll have to wait a long time.”

  “Still,” he said, “something tells me it’s coming. Storm clouds gathering. I can see them. Can’t you?”

  “Stop being so paranoid. You’re as bad as Kingsley.”

  She tapped his toe again with hers.

  “The next ten months will be hard,” he said. “If I’m going to make it through this, I’ll need you.”

  “You have me,” she said. “And Kingsley. Unless you tell him you can’t accept the house. Then he’ll kill you, and I’ll help him bury the body.”

  “How can I accept a gift this extravagant? I’d be in his debt.”

  “Allow me to explain the submissive mindset to you, Master Søren, because you clearly know nothing about it.”

  “Enlighten me, Mistress Nora.” He waved his hand, indicating she had the floor.

  “I know you think Kingsley gave you this house because he’s trying to coddle you or something while you’re going through a rough time. You’re worried accepting the house will throw off the balance of power. But that’s not how it works. I’ve had male clients give me tens of thousands of dollars in jewelry, vacations, cars…an Aston Martin…” She crossed herself as she spoke that hallowed name. “That’s what submissives do. They shower their masters and mistresses with tribute—gifts of worship, adoration, and gratitude—as they should.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s so. This house is not the gift of a man who sees a crying child and buys him an ice cream to cheer the kid up. This is the gift of a devoted submissive trying to show—in any way he can—that he worships the very ground you walk on. You turn down the gift of this house, you will be throwing Kingsley’s love and devotion and submission to you in his face.”

  Søren said nothing. Then he smiled.

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “The way you handle it is this—he gives you the house, you look at it, nod, and say ‘I suppose it’ll do.’ Then you pat him on the head, fuck him blind, and never mention that he gave you the house again. He’ll secretly hope for a feast of gratitude. Meanwhile, you’ll dole out mere crumbs. And he will eat those crumbs off your fingertips.”

  Søren reached out and patted her on the top of the head.

  Nora laughed, a laugh that bounced down the hall. She grabbed his hand and held it tight.

  “Now I just have to figure out a housewarming gift for you,” she said.

  They locked the house up and walked back to the hotel. As they laid down in bed together, Søren wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.

  “I’m still your priest, aren’t I, Little One?” he asked.

  She kissed his chest over his heart. She knew if she could cut his chest open and look at his heart, she’d see her name tattooed across it, right next to Kingsley’s and Fionn’s and God’s. “You’ll always be my priest.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday morning, when all God’s children ought to be in church, Cyrus was trying to hunt down a dominatrix.

  He’d stopped by Edge’s Garden District house/palace again, and while Nora Sutherlin’s black German Shepherd came to the gate and glared at him, his owner didn’t come with him. When he buzzed the intercom, no one answered.

  Cyrus considered any time after 8:30 in the mo
rning safe for making phone calls. At 8:31, he’d called Nora’s cell phone number that had been on the card she’d given him. The call went straight to voicemail. He’d asked her to call him back, but after waiting over two hours, he decided to try again.

  She picked up this time. It was 10:30.

  “Ah, Ms. Sutherlin,” he began. “This is Cyrus Tremont.”

  “Good morning,” she said. “Isn’t it? I think it’s good.” Then she laughed.

  “It is for somebody,” he said.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I have kind of a weird favor to ask.”

  “That sounds interesting. Ask it.”

  “If I bring you something, can you tell me what it is?”

  “What is it?”

  “If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t have to bring it to you, would I?”

  “True. But can you give me a hint? Animal? Vegetable? Criminal?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Send me a pic?” she said.

  “I’d rather not have a record of this.”

  “Come over then. I’m in the French Quarter. Le Richelieu Hotel. Suite 301.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “If a well-groomed Viking opens the door, don’t worry. He’s with me.”

  She hung up before Cyrus could ask about the Viking. He had a feeling she was trying to freak him out.

  It was working.

  Turned out she hadn’t been kidding about the Viking. When Cyrus knocked at the door to room 301, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man with a neatly-trimmed beard answered the door. He looked like he’d pillaged his share of villages.

  “Mr. Tremont, I presume?”

  “The Viking, I presume?”

  The Viking smiled and Cyrus knew he’d seen this man somewhere before… It came to him—this was the guy arm-wrestling Kingsley Edge in the photograph on Edge’s mantel. Didn’t have the beard in the picture, though.

  The blond held out his hand to shake. Cyrus took it, a little apprehensively, worried this was the sort of big guy who had to prove how tough he was by crushing fingers. But no. While firm and confident, the handshake didn’t hurt.

  Cyrus stepped into the room. He figured the Viking explained Nora’s good mood. He saw an unmade bed in the other room, clothes on the floor, his and hers. Cyrus felt a pang of jealousy. Two more months, he told himself. He just had to make it two more months until the wedding.

  “Is that Cyrus?” Nora’s voice came from behind a half-closed bathroom door.

  “I assume so,” the Viking said, raising his voice so she could hear him through the door.

  “Nora?” Cyrus called to her. “I just need to show you this thing really quick. Then I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “Show the Viking. If he doesn’t know what it is, neither will I.”

  Cyrus heard water sloshing in the bathtub. Reluctantly, he pulled the Nike duffel bag off his shoulder and unzipped the it.

  “Well?” Nora called again from the bathroom. “What is it?”

  “A male chastity device,” the Viking said loud enough for Nora to hear in the bathroom.

  “There’s your answer, Cyrus. You’re welcome.”

  Cyrus cleared his throat. “You can’t just tell me it’s a…that…and then expect me not to have follow-up questions.”

  “What kind of chastity device is it?” Nora called out from the bathroom. “A PA-5000? A CB-6000? Custom?”

  “That I don’t know,” the Viking said. “That’s your area of expertise, not mine. And I’d rather not touch it.”

  “Can you bring it in here, Cyrus?” Nora asked.

  “Are you dressed?”

  “No, but it’s a bubble bath. You can’t see anything.”

  Cyrus looked at the bathroom door and back at the Viking, at the door, at the Viking. The Viking only gestured with his coffee cup toward the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man to let another man hang out in the bathroom with his girlfriend.

  Cyrus generally tried to avoid making big sweeping generalizations about groups of people, but he was starting to get the feeling kinky people were a little on the eccentric side.

  “So I should just go in?” Cyrus said to the Viking.

  “You were invited,” the Viking said.

  “All right. Going in. I’ll just take this bag of Satan’s toys with me.”

  The Viking grinned behind his cup of coffee. Cyrus went to the bathroom door and leaned in a little while rapping one knuckle lightly on the frame.

  “Nora?”

  “Come on in. Show me what you’ve got.”

  She hadn’t been kidding. The bathtub was full of bubbles that covered her all the way to her neck.

  “Sorry to bother you at…bath time?”

  “No bother,” she said. “Søren and I just finished breakfast. We weren’t doing anything that couldn’t be interrupted.”

  “Wait. What’s his name? ‘Sir’?”

  “Close enough,” she said, grinning. “Søren. A Danish name. S, slashed O, R, E, N. Looks like ‘SORE-in,’ but Danes say ‘SIR-in.’ Almost rhymes with ‘stern.’” She giggled for some reason. “You can put that in your notes. Don’t forget the slash. He hates when people forget the slash.”

  “Got it,” he said, fumbling with whatever the hell a “slashed O” was supposed to look like. “He’s not really a Viking, is he?”

  “Nah.” She stuck her foot out of the water and rested it on the bathtub ledge. “I’m only teasing him because he grew a beard while he was gone for a month on a cross-country road trip. I’ve never seen him with a beard before. I kind of like it. The Scandinavians were some of the first lumberjacks in America. We can thank them for deforesting most of the Pacific Northwest. Thanks, assholes!” She’d raised her voice for that last part.

  “Judge not lest ye be judged, Kraut,” the Viking called back.

  “Ohh…that hurt,” she said, wincing. “He always goes straight for Hitler. So unfair. Hitler was Austrian.”

  “You two married?” Cyrus asked. The question made her laugh.

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Look, I won’t take up any more of your time,” Cyrus said. “If you just take a look at this.”

  Nora rose up out of the water to look inside Cyrus’s duffle bag, giving him a good peek at her wet bare back.

  “Interesting,” she said. “Can you hand me a washcloth?”

  Cyrus glanced around, found a stack of white washcloths and passed one to her. She wrapped it around her fingers and lifted the whatever from the bag.

  “Have you seen one of those before?” Cyrus asked.

  “Not this one exactly,” Nora asked, examining it. “Close, but this looks custom-made. Do you know anything about male chastity?”

  “Only that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  She glanced up at him and smiled. Her make-up had been washed off. Her naked face looked young and vulnerable. But her eyes were something else entirely. This lady had seen things.

  “Some dominants enjoy controlling a male sub’s access to his own body. Punishing unauthorized erections and that sort of thing,” she said. “It’s not necessarily long-term chastity that’s the goal. Maybe only a few hours or a night. Anyway, this is a nice cage. Very good work.”

  She sunk back into the bath, and the water sloshed and parted just enough that Cyrus could see the tops of her very full breasts.

  “I’m going to go out there and take my chances with the Viking,” he said.

  She only smiled at him. “Have some coffee. I’ll be right out.”

  Cyrus retreated to the suite. He saw the unmade, very well-used bed, but no Viking. He poured himself a coffee. When he was sipping it, he noticed the door to the terrace. The Viking was seated outdoors at a black iron table reading the Sunday paper.

  Nora stepped out of the bathroom wearing the hotel’s white bathrobe, Le Richelieu embroidered in gold thread over the breast pocket.

&n
bsp; “Let’s go outside,” she said, picking up a chair to take onto the terrace. “Can you grab the door?”

  Cyrus stopped her. “Let me carry that.”

  “Oh my,” she said. “Aren’t you chivalrous?”

  “Just polite,” Cyrus said.

  “That was the beginning, you know,” Nora said, holding the glass door open for Cyrus. He watched as Søren, the Viking, put his paper down on the table and folded it neatly. One of those types. A little anal. A bit too proper. Secret wild side. Cyrus knew the type. Used to be the type.

  “The beginning of what?” he asked Nora.

  “Chivalry. The subculture of male submission,” Nora said as she sat in the open chair, coffee cup cradled in both hands. Cyrus set his chair down and sat.

  Nora continued, “It began in the courts of medieval Europe. Supposedly. Knights would choose a lady—almost always married because that was more proper—and he would devote himself to serving her chastely. Poems, heroic deeds, gifts… It was the start of the idea of Woman Superior and Man Inferior—not a common concept you find in most cultures outside a handful of matriarchal societies.”

  “So you’re saying kink comes from King Arthur,” Cyrus said. “Crazy.”

  “I still have male subs who bring me gifts, write me poems, offer to do all sorts of things for me. One offered to have him killed.” She nodded at the Viking.

  “You never told me that,” the Viking said, giving her a look. Same look Cyrus might have given Paulina if she said one of her exes had offered to kill him.

  “I wanted to keep my options open,” she said, winking at Cyrus.

  The Viking picked up his coffee cup and drank from it, keeping an eye steady on her the whole time.

  “I didn’t expect to be having these conversations when I agreed to find out the cause of Father Ike’s suicide,” Cyrus said.

  “Any new news there?” Søren the Viking asked.

  “He called Nora before he shot himself, and he had that thing in his bedside table,” Cyrus said. “That’s all I got right now.”

  “Did you decide what it was precisely?” the Viking asked Nora.

  “Some custom piece,” she said. “Stainless steel cock blocker. With that thing on, no way would he be able to get an erection without agony. Like putting your dick in a spiked vice. I need one.”