Absolution: A Mortal Sins Novel Page 2

  Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s been … a while since I last confessed, and the shit I have to get off my chest isn’t quite as innocent as the last time I faced off with a priest.

  One significantly less attractive than Father Damon, I might add, but I digress.

  I’m only here for the sake of my grandmother, who raised me the last twenty-nine years and asked on her birthday, of all horribly manipulative things, that I confess my sins. Guess that’s all part of her making sure all her shit is in a row before meeting the big man upstairs. Woman isn’t even dead, yet, so I’m not so sure what the hurry is.

  Not that she was all that religious to begin. She did, after all, run a sort of halfway house for displaced prostitutes when I was growing up, which is how she met my mom, who came to her at seventeen years old. From what I gather, her son, my father, spent more time at home than on the ball field, growing up. As a result, ended up balls-deep in one of her strays, and because I was technically my mom’s fourth pregnancy, counting two miscarriages and a previous abortion, she opted to name me Ivy. IV. Four. Cheesy, I know, but that doesn’t even begin to describe how messed up my life has been ever since.

  Which is why my heart feels like a troop of chimpanzees are swing dancing inside my ribcage.

  My grandmother’s sense of urgency has little to do with my soul, and more to do with her own conscience, as she happens to be the only one privy to my darkest and most troubling secret. One that has pretty much destroyed my life and could land me in prison, if anyone else ever finds out. One I’m not entirely certain I can entrust to a man like Father Damon.

  The gravity of it is more than I can take, though, pressing down on me every day. My grandmother says, it’s an evil I need to set free, or it’ll crush me from the inside out, because everyday I feel like a traitor for having gotten away with it. I feel like I don’t deserve my freedom, even if I’ve technically not been free since the night it happened.

  The church door swings open, and what has to be the most handsome priest in Los Angeles swoops in like a dark storm cloud. Over his black clerical shirt and slacks, the stole dances around him. Even in the thick of summer, he wears a long-sleeved shirt that stretches tight over his massive arms, but he’s rolled them up to his elbows, exposing the impressive vascular map in his forearms. With dark eyes and a brooding expression, he doesn’t look like a priest. He looks like every other sinner in the city of angels.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, striding up to me, hand rubbing his chin. Another glance back at the door tells me he’s preoccupied with something, but I’ve been coming to the church a few times over the last month since Mamie’s condition has worsened to know that troubled look on his face is a permanent mask he wears. A few parishioners even call him Father Heathcliff—affectionately, of course, as they all seem to adore the man, in spite of his ascetic broodiness.

  “Do you chase down all your penitents after confession, or …”

  After another quick glance back to the door, his gaze falls on me like a thunderstorm. Good looks aside, his appearance is unnerving, imposing, like he’ll force the Lord into you one way, or another, and tell you to swallow it. The stern angle of his brows add a natural glower to deep penetrating brown eyes—the kind that don’t exactly scream comfort and reassurance. “I didn’t mean to run into you.” He ignores my earlier comment, which is okay, but he certainly hasn’t put me at ease about stepping inside that box with him. “Let’s get on with this.”

  It’s not the apathy in his tone that initially keeps me from stepping inside the confessional, but something I sense is troubling him. When he disappears behind the door, I stare after him a moment, mentally straightening the mess of words jumbled inside my head.

  Once inside, I kneel before the screen, the silhouette of him no less intimidating than when I could actually see his face moments before. After a few seconds of quiet reflection, I give the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  In the pause that follows, I clamp my eyes, breathing through my nose to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” His voice is deeper in here, or maybe that’s just my ears popping with all the stress, while the walls feel like they’re closing me in.

  “Too long.” Everything inside my head is spinning, and I squint harder in an effort to slow it down. When I open my eyes again, I can just make out his shadowed form on the other side, bent over his knees and cradling his head, and suddenly all the noise slamming against my skull turns silent. “Is everything all right, Father?”

  “Yes.” His obscure form straightens, voice guarded when he says, “Proceed.”

  Proceed. It sounds like something a judge would say, and when the visual of sitting before a roomful of people studying my every word, my every expression with their accusing eyes, forms inside my head, a cold hollow tickles my chest. The nausea drives up my throat, and before I can stop myself, fluids burst free on a torrent, splashing against the kneeler below me. I reach out to steady myself, and accidentally push the confessional door open, letting in enough light to see small chunks of peppers and lettuce from my salad decorating the wood in an array of disgusting colors. Oh, shit.

  First thing that pops in my head? I don’t think I have enough napkins in my purse to clean this.

  Second thing? I don’t know what the second thing is, because I’m too busy rummaging for napkins, rifling through all the crap I never use.

  “Are you okay?” Father Damon’s voice is a distant echo, like the warning of something I’ll have to face as soon as my brain loses the shock and catches up with the mortifying scenario playing out.

  “I can’t … find … I don’t have napkins. God dammit!” I slap the back of my palm over my mouth and cringe at the God reference. “I’m so …. I’m sorry, Father.” I’m done. Not only did I desecrate the confessional with the shitty salad I had earlier, but I also just cursed in front of a priest. Nabbing my purse , I stand up from the kneeler, stumbling backward, as if the anxiety inside my head has rendered me drunk, and make my way out of the booth, where he’s already standing. “I’m sorry, I’m …. I just .... I’ll clean it up.”

  “No, no. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Seriously, if you have some paper towels and some … cleaner, I’ll do it.” The words spill from my mouth as if programmed, and I can’t even look him in the eye. Instead, I glance back at the mess oozing onto the floor, taunting my gag reflex again.

  “It’s okay. It’s happened before.”

  “You’re just telling me that. Not that I’m calling you a liar, because I’m not. I know priests don’t lie.” Tears form in my eyes, not only from this ridiculously embarrassing moment, but the stress of it all, and I suddenly wish I never made the promise to my Mamie. “I’m …. I’m just so …”

  “If it’s something I said, or did, to make you feel uncomfortable …” Though his voice is less stern and irritated, his eyebrows remain pinched to a frown. “My apologies, it’s been an unusual night for me.”

  I don’t say anything to that, certain I’ve tipped the scale to a night he wishes would just end already. That’s about where I’m at, as the sour stench of the confessional serves as a constant reminder that I will probably never speak to this priest again after tonight.

  “Would you like to talk about it? You’re welcome to come to my office.”

  Seriously? Surely the tight clench of my jaw, the heat in my cheeks, and the fact that I can’t even lift my gaze past his white collar give some impression that I would rather lock myself inside that confessional, salad chunks and all, and die there. “It’s nothing you did, or said. I’m sorry, I have to go.” Purse hiked up onto my shoulder, I shuffle quickly toward the church entrance.

  “Wait!” he calls from behind, but I don’t stop for anything, as mortified as I am.

  I push through the door and vow never to return to this damn church again.

  My one night off. My one f
ucking night off, and how do I spend it? Not sipping wine on my roof, or curling up in bed with my book, like I planned. No, I spend my night hurling inside a cramped confessional, with one of the hottest priests that has ever blessed the clergy.

  Fingers curled around the strap of my purse, I tip my head back, resting it against the wall behind me. The Metro Rail hums along, not as crowded as earlier in the night, when I’d stupidly taken it across town to church. Only an older woman with dark hair and tanned, wrinkled skin, sits staring at me from across the aisle. I hate public transportation, but that’s the breaks when you don’t have a pot to piss in. Most of my paycheck goes toward bills and what small amount is left, into savings for the trip of a lifetime, one I’ve been planning since I was about fourteen years old—to Paris, where my grandmother was born. One I wonder if I’ll ever make, with the cost of rent higher than the nuts on a giraffe.

  The rail stops at West Expo and S Western Avenue, where I exit down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Once on solid ground, I nab a cigarette from a pack of Kools in my purse and light up. Slipping my apartment keys into my knuckles, I keep my head low and make my way one block up to an old, Spanish colonial style building built in the 1920’s, complete with thick green vines growing over half the building’s exterior. This late at night, the neighborhood is fairly quiet, but just last week, Mrs. Jackson told me someone had tried to carjack her at gunpoint. I’ve learned predators come in all packages, so I trust no one when I’m alone.

  The ornate front door of Villa Hermosa stands lit, as usual, and I discard my smoke to hustle inside, jogging two flights up to my apartment. My sanctuary. The one place in the world I feel safe and content.

  At my door, I turn the lock over, but at the soft brush of my shoulder, a scream flies past my lips and I pivot around to find Mrs. Garcia standing behind me.

  “Iby … dat man came to da door again today. I told him you were gone, but he says he plans to come back.” A heavy Filipino accent accentuates her words as she lifts her brows in warning and stuffs her hands into a bag of Piattos. “He almost broke da door down, and I’d call da police, ip he did.” The crunch of her snack is a bit exaggerated, like she’s crushing his skull, or something.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garcia.” The mere mention of him settles in my stomach like bricks. A few years back, I made a deal with the devil, otherwise known as Calvin Bianchi, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.

  Stern demands, restraining orders, police reports, nothing seems to phase the asshole. Like an unshakable virus, he just keeps coming back, doing everything in his power to make my life miserable. And nearly breaking down my door, it seems. “You … don’t have to tell him anything. If you see him again, just call the police.”

  “Oh, belieb me, I will. You’re a good girl, Iby.” A warm, wrinkled hand cups my face, and I try to force a smile, though in truth, I want to cry. Stuffing the bag under my nose, she offers one of her chips, and I reach inside to grab one. “You deserb a good man. Not dis … gago.” The curl of her lip tells me whatever gago means, it’s bad, and as Mrs. Garcia likes to throw out random cuss words, it’s probably derogatory in her language.

  “I threw up in the confessional booth tonight,” I say around a mouthful of Piattos. “I’m not that good.”

  “Nobody’s perpeck.” A light slap to my cheek breaks her grip, and she smiles, shuffling back to her apartment across from mine. “’Night, honey.”

  “’Night, Mrs. Garcia.”

  A cool rush of air hits my face as I enter my apartment, and my eyes dart toward the open window, where the long white curtain flutters in the evening breeze. Across the room, I come to a stop in front of the window. It’s cracked just enough to make me wonder if I left it that way earlier in the morning, when I had my smoke before I rushed out the door. I hate smoking in the apartment, so most times, I sit beside the window to keep the musty nicotine odor from stinking up the place.

  The nighttime air dances around me as I stare out over Leimert Park, what I consider a jewel in the city of Los Angeles. Five years ago, I fell in love with the rich culture and heritage, and, of course, my apartment. Even in moon’s light, the crisp white walls and splashes of color from the sparse furniture give it a light, airy feel. Classic French posters above a black leather settee, which I bought at a secondhand store, set a vintage French, eclectic style throughout.

  On a table to the right sits my antique phonograph, which I fire up. The soft crooning of Edith Piaf immediately eases the tension in my muscles, and I flick on a lamp, before making my way into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine. My favorite part of the small studio apartment is the French doors that separate the kitchen from the living room/bedroom. Some might call the space cramped and cluttered, but for me, it’s home. It’s my beloved haven.

  La Vie En Rose plays in the other room, while I pour a glass of wine, mentally washing my brain of the earlier events. I close my eyes, and as I swirl and sniff the tart red blend, standing in the darkness of my little retro-style kitchen, Father Damon’s face pops into my head, all stern eyes and furrowed brows. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about him after leaving church. I’ve certainly had my fair share of fantasies that’ve probably bordered on fetishes, with some of the shit that comes to mind, but at a flash of curdled salad dripping down the kneeler, I gag, and hot flashes of embarrassment warm my cheeks.

  “How’s’at wine taste, love?” The sound of his voice skates down my spine, and whatever sense of calm I managed before turns to tight strings of tension.

  Calvin. Devil in the flesh.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” I toss the un-sipped wine into the sink, and set the glass onto the white tiled counter.

  “Not thirsty anymore?”

  “No.”

  “’At’s too bad. I like you when you’ve had a few drinks in ya.”

  “We had an agreement. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Once a week, I get the hellish displeasure of doing whatever he wants all night, in exchange for him not showing up at my work, or my home, or the grocery store. For the last five months, it’s worked. He stays on his side of Los Angeles, and I’ve got mine. Saturdays are the worst night of my life, without a doubt—a day of the week I dread as much as having a goddamn root canal every seven days—but considering the authorities haven’t bothered to keep him away from me, I consider it a success on my part. Eight years with the asshole, and I still don’t know what he does for a living, but I have no doubts about his connections to police, judges, lawyers, businessmen. I’ve seen him shake hands with politicians and important people in the city, who treat him like an old friend, but I don’t have a clue how they know him.

  Sometimes, he wears a suit and tie, and based on his bulky build, I’ve guessed him to be a bodyguard, or something. He’s mentioned a military background, on occasion, and tonight, he’s wearing jeans and a gray camo T-shirt. I know he’s killed—of that, I’m certain, along with the belief that he’s a true sociopath. The kind that can wear charm like skin stretched over the evil buried beneath it.

  I don’t have to look up to know his eyes are narrowed, arms crossed. Years of dealing with the asshole means I can damn near predict the thoughts in his head, which are probably spinning with questions, like where I’ve been all day.

  “Came by earlier. You weren’t here.”

  No shit.

  “Where were you?”

  Busying myself with straightening up a mostly spotless kitchen is a poor attempt to convince him that I’m not just a little unnerved by his presence. “Out.”

  “You know that ain’t how it works.” He moves deeper into the room, boxing me into the corner between the sink and the stove, his body big and imposing. “I get to know where you are at all times. That’s the deal.”

  “Yeah? So is not showing up at my apartment. Why are you here?”

  “Having the walls painted. Fucking paint fumes are killing me. So I’m having the boys come here.”

  His
words sink inside my head like a bucket of bricks in the ocean. “No. No way. I don’t have enough room for tha—”

  Grabbing my throat, he slams me against the wall behind me, nearly lifting me up off the floor. Air locks inside my chest, my mouth fish gaping for one sip of it. His thumb strokes my hammering artery as if testing the sharp edge of a blade.

  “Way I see it, I can go wherever the fuck I want. Ain’t I the reason you get to stay in this shithole?” He glances around before his eyes are on me again and down to my breasts. He cups one of them, squeezing it too hard in his palm, sending a bruising zap of pain across my flesh. In what little movement I can muster, I turn my head away, while he fondles me, undoubtedly studying my reaction. “Boys’ll be here at ten. Gives us an hour. Was thinking we could dirty up that clean, white bed of yours.”

  No. I’ll never want to sleep in it again if he fucks me there.

  “I’m not in the mood,” I rasp over the throttling of my neck.

  Head shaking in disapproval, he snorts a laugh as he sets me down. “When do I ever ask if you’re in the mood, shithead?” A sharp tweak of my nipple has my face screwed up in pain, and I clench my jaw in frustration.

  “I’m sick. I threw up earlier,” I grit out, my arm rubbing over my tender breast.

  “’Sat what I smell?” His grin is the most disgusting thing about him, because it shows off pearly white teeth designed to highlight the face he spends more time primping every morning than I do my own. “Go get cleaned up.”

  “I’ll shower later.”

  “You’ll shower now. I don’t want you scaring off my friends, smelling like a fucking carton of sour milk.”

  “Why do you do this shit? What do you get out of making me miserable?”

  “Miserable? ‘Sat what I make you? And just how miserable would you be right now, if you were paying on forty grand in fees to the city, huh? Living out of a fucking tuna can because your shitty ass job doesn’t pay for anything more than a piss pot.” He leans into me, assaulting my senses with the smell of his chewing tobacco. “Maybe you should’ve cut the cord to Grams a little earlier, baby girl, and you wouldn’t be in this position.”