Sparks: An Inferno Prequel

by Yolanda Olson

  Sparks

  An Inferno Prequel

  Yolanda Olson

  Copyright © 2018 by Yolanda Olson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  My funny ladies that kept telling me just do it and don’t give up on it no matter how hard it is. Lis, Linda, and Dawn—I’m pretty sure you guys are crazier than me sometimes!

  Abigail Davies of Pink Elephant Designs. I’m such a huge fan of your covers and I can’t thank you enough for continuing this series for me!

  Dez of Pretty in Ink Creations for editing this and giving it that Inferno series formatting. Always coming through in the clutch and saving the day. Thank you for stepping in when I need you the most!

  To the Twisted Rabbits. I know how much of a distaste you guys have for this family, so I appreciate you sitting through this chaos. We’re almost done!

  To my readers. You asked me one day, “What’s his Mom like?” Get ready to find out. This one is for you guys.

  My God, what have I done?

  What’s become of me that in my need for feeling the touch of another, I’ve looked to my own son? Why is he so ready to love me in ways that he shouldn’t and why am I so eager to allow it?

  I’m not a sick woman, but it feels like an illness has taken over me, making me crave him in ways that I never did his father. He’s so willing to learn—so keen on making his mother happy, and it’s like a drug. A pill that I shouldn’t swallow, a tonic that should never cross my lips, and an ambrosia that was only meant for the gods.

  And yet it’s here.

  In my own home, under my roof, waiting for me on nights when I need it the most and can’t control my hunger for it any longer. I indulge in the euphoria of his moans and the way his hands feel when they explore my body.

  I’m not worthy of this bliss and I’m not immune to the fact that what we’re doing is forbidden, but we love each other—even if in ways that a mother and son never should, and that has to mean something. The universe can see what we’ve become, and it has yet to strike us dead, and until that happens, I’ll do my best to savor every drop that I was never meant to taste.

  As I sit on the edge of my bed, watching the sunset on another day that should never have been, I wonder if Luke understands this as I do. That we should never have been together, and that we’re not meant to live like this.

  I wonder if he cares, but I know the boy. I knew him before he came into this world, when he was still growing inside of me. I felt his malcontent for humanity then and I can see it in his eyes when he watches people from the perch of his bedroom window walking down the street.

  He cares for no one except for me. Not his father, his siblings, or any strangers that pass by his line of sight. I only hope that one day his love will grow—blossom into something that it should, and that he’ll be able to learn to love a stranger and give her his heart as he’s done to me.

  Until that moment comes, he’s mine and even though I know in my heart it’s wrong, I’ll keep him close by when I need to feel the gentle caress of true love.

  A tear rolls down my cheek as I hold the veil of my old habit in my hands. It seems like a lifetime ago that I was a nun, and even though I have a good life now, there are days when I find myself longing for the simplicity of poverty and chastity again.

  The man that changed my life came to me for guidance one night in the wake of a terrible argument with his then-wife. It wasn’t my place to be his spiritual leader that night, but Father Moore had already gone to the rectory for the evening and he was so distraught that I didn’t have it in my heart to turn him away.

  I listened to his confession and I absolved him as much as I could. We became friends after that. He knew that I didn’t have the authority to forgive him, but my willingness to try and ease the anguish in his soul was enough to make him a frequent visitor to the church after hours.

  The last time he came to me as someone seeking counsel, he brought his wife with him in a last-ditch effort to repair what little hope there was left in the marriage.

  I sat in the dimly lit chapel and listened to them for hours, wondering how it is that I let this charade go on as far as I had. If Father Moore ever found out about what I had been doing—the counseling of the broken, he would have had me excommunicated from the Church.

  He never got the chance, though.

  The man returned two nights after his wife left him, after I failed them, and I felt the sting of shame when he revealed it to me. He promised me it was for the best and assured me that my friendship was valued.

  It wasn’t until a month after that visit that I saw him again. He attended services one Sunday morning, then when the congregation was emptying, he asked me to accompany him for brunch. I tried desperately to decline because there was something about the way he made me feel, but he managed to convince me that it was just a meal shared between two friends.

  Father Moore gave me permission and strict instructions on how to handle myself for the day in the company of a man not of the cloth, and I did as he told me to.

  I tried so much to remember my teachings, the instructions from my parish priest, and even the vows I made, but when he smiled at me and placed his hand on top of mine to cool my nerves, the woman inside of me came to the surface and I lost sight of who I had become.

  All it took was as simple touch to render me useless.

  Nothing happened that day between us, yet when I got back to the convent, I dropped to my knees and begged for forgiveness because I had lost myself in the moment of feeling his skin against mine. I cried myself to sleep that night and did not attend services the next day.

  I didn’t think I was worthy enough to show my face in such a place of Holiness, and yet when he came calling again seven days after our first brunch, I slipped out of the convent without letting my sisters or Father Moore know where I was going.

  It happened that way every seven days for two months until he finally broke down and confessed to me.

  He told me he thought of me in ways that he shouldn’t, that he wanted to know what it was like to feel my hands on his body, and how he longed for the gentle heat of my lips against his.

  When I told him that it’s something that could never be, he looked at me with shattered eyes, but agreed to take me home.

  I just didn’t know that he meant his home and not the convent.

  I grip the cloth tighter in my hand, balling up the material as the memories continue to flood back to me. Another tear falls and as I wipe it away angrily, I let my thoughts continue as they were.

  He pulled up in front of a two-story, split-level ranch style home and turned his car off. At first, he kept his hands on the steering wheel before finally running a hand back through his hair and giving me a hopeful glance.

  “Just once—no one will ever have to know,” he had begged me. “You’ve made me feel so much more like a man than that bitch ever did and I just want to repay the favor.”

  “I’ll pray with you, but nothing more,” I had repli
ed, my voice trembled with the possibilities of what could happen behind the doors of his home.

  I sigh and let the habit fall from my hands as I close my eyes. It’s so hard to remember all of it, but it’s even harder to try and suppress it.

  I did get on my knees and he next to me, and we did pray, but that only lasted for so long before I felt his hands on my body.

  “I won’t force you,” he had whispered into my ear, “but I can’t not at least touch you.”

  My body felt like it caught fire when he moved behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I felt like I was burning in the heat of his passion when his lips grazed my neck, but when he used his hands to begin lifting the hem of my dress, I felt my desire as a woman becoming much stronger than my vows of chastity.

  “Just a little taste,” he said, his breath hot against my neck.

  I leaned my head back against him as he lifted the hem even higher, exposing my thighs and trembling legs. A small chuckle escaped from somewhere deep inside of him and as he reached up and removed the veil from my head, I knew that I would be lost to the Church forever.

  I didn’t stop him.

  I wanted his touch, the feel of his strong body pressed against mine as our bodies writhed in sweat and pleasure. I wanted to know what it felt like for just once in my life to be in the arms of a man who had such a need for me as a woman and not as someone to help them through a spiritual crisis.

  And my God, did I ever find out.

  He was so gentle with me. The way he pressed his lips so softly over parts of my body that I had never exposed before. The slow pressure I felt when he pushed into me for the first and last time, wearing the blood of my virtue on his glorious cock like he had been marked by eyes unseen.

  He taught me that night how to move on top of him, how to please him the way he needed to be, how to understand that what we were doing was a natural act, and not a sin.

  And when we were done, he took me back to the convent, promising me that it would always be our secret, and no one would ever find out.

  He had been right for the most part. No one did find out—at least, not until I started to show. What he didn’t know was that one night we spent together in each other’s arms, a seed had been planted.

  When that seed had grown to a point where it was no longer possible for me to hide it any longer, I confessed to Father Moore and laid my habit at his feet before leaving St. Thomas and never turning back.

  Sometimes, I find myself wondering how he’s doing these days. If what we shared that one night was enough to help him feel like the man he so desperately wanted to be again and if he wondered about me to.

  If he does, I’ll never know because until recently, I never did make an effort to find him again. I had pushed him to the back of my mind and was content to keep him buried there until I was asked about him.

  “Mom?”

  I turn and glance over my shoulder, wiping away any left-over tears, and smile at the young man standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me curiously.

  “Hey,” I say to him, as I get to my feet.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, just some bad memories came flooding back again is all,” I reply brightly, sitting on the edge of my bed. “What’s up?”

  He looks so much like him.

  Tall, dark hair, five o’ clock shadow on his youthful face, and eyes that can see so far inside of you, that you wonder what kind of void it is that he’s peering into.

  “Nothing,” he finally says, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I thought I heard you crying so I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  “I’m fine, honey. Thank you for checking up on me.”

  He nods, a small grin spreading across his face as he runs a hand back through his hair and glances around the room once, before turning and walking back out.

  He’s so much like his father that it will consume me one day.

  When I finally find the strength to leave my room again, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that Luke has already made dinner. He’s sitting in the living room with the television off, quietly eating his barbecue chicken wings and potato wedges.

  As soon as he feels me watching him from the doorway, he reaches for his napkin to clean his mouth, before glancing up at me with a smile.

  “I thought you might be hungry, so I made us something simple.”

  “Thank you,” I say to him softly. His smile spreads across his face and I can almost swear I saw him proudly puff his chest out. The smallest amount of praise and Luke feels like he’s done a world of good. He’s an amazing boy and I let him feel like the wonderful young man that he is because he’s worthy of the praise.

  He deserves so much more than I can give him, but he seems content to stay inside of these walls with me instead of going out to make any friends.

  I fix myself a plate, grab a fork and a couple of napkins before I head back to the living room.

  “Mind if I join you?” I ask Luke who nods without glancing in my direction. While I know that I don’t have to ask his permission to do anything in my own home, I like to treat him as an equal.

  “It looks nice outside today,” I begin conversationally once I’ve sat down, “wanna go for a walk later?”

  “Nah.”

  “Honey, you have to learn to take walks every now and then. Go outside, breathe in the fresh air, maybe make some friends?”

  He scoffs, “The only friend I need is sitting right across from me. If I want fresh air, I can open a window, and there’s no point in walking anywhere when it all leads back to the same place.”

  “And what place is that?” I ask, stabbing a potato wedge with my fork.

  “Home.”

  I manage a tight smile, not that he’s even looking at me, before I pop the potato wedge into my mouth and begin to chew thoughtfully. There has to be a way to get him out of this house—I don’t want him to turn into a hermit.

  “What if I go with you? I can afford to stretch my legs a little bit,” I offer brightly.

  Luke slowly raises his eyes from his plate and stares deep into mine. The look he gives me tells me he thinks it’s a trick of some kind, but I’m fresh out of tricks to get him outside of these doors.

  “I’m serious,” I reply with a light laugh. “We can go outside and see what the world looks like. Just once, I promise that if you don’t like it, I won’t make you do it again.”

  He tears his eyes away from me and cranes his neck to look out of the living room window before he finally sighs and drops his eyes back to his plate again.

  “Okay. But only if you go with me.”

  “Then it’s settled! Once we’ve finished dinner, I’ll go freshen up and we can go for a little nighttime stroll.”

  He nods as he begins to pick at his chicken with his fork and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside of his head. Luke seems to be really preoccupied these days, but he’s fiercely private and doesn’t share much with me—no matter how hard I try to get him to tell me things.

  We finish our dinner in silence, with a few stolen glances and small smiles at each other. I don’t mind the silence for the most part, it was something I had become used to in the convent, but since no longer being a part of the Church, I long for conversation and noise—something my son isn’t fond of.

  It makes me wonder if that’s something he got from his father, because I know in my soul that those traits haven’t come from me.

  Once we’re both done and have sat around for a few moments, Luke picks up his plate as well as mine, and disappears into the kitchen. When I hear the sink turn on, I sigh and walk back toward my room to find something comfortable to wear. If this is the one time I can get him outside of these doors, then I’m going to make him walk for as long and as far as I can.

  I settle on a pair of loose, black sweatpants, a crimson colored tank top, and a brand-new pair of running sneakers that I’ve kept at the bottom of my closet. I saved them specifically for this oc
casion and I hope my feet don’t blister too soon into our walk.

  I walk over to my vanity and find a hair tie, then loop my long, blonde hair back into a loose ponytail and give myself a glance in the mirror before I turn off the light and walk out.

  “Are you ready, honey?” I call out as I walk down the hall.

  “Yeah,” comes the glum reply. I find my son standing at the other end of the hallway by the front door, arms crossed over his chest, and an unhappy look on his face. “Let’s get this over with,” he says, pulling the door open and stepping aside to let me through.

  It’s a lovely, brisk night in Sandpoint and I almost immediately regret wearing a tank top, but I know that if I go inside to change, Luke will say that we went outside and that our trip is over, so I bite my lower lip as I loop an arm through his and begin to lead him away from our home.

  “Do you wanna go to the Byway?” I ask him cheerfully. “I’m sure if we hang out there long enough we might be able to see the Northern Lights.”

  He shrugs but doesn’t veto my idea. Unfortunately, because I don’t want to push him too hard right now, I drop the subject and continue to walk with him in silence.

  After about twenty minutes we’ve reached the town center and I walk over to one of the welcome center maps to see where we can go next.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I jump. His presence, while strong, is often forgettable due to his overwhelming need for silence.

  I giggle nervously as I try to hide the fact that I forgot my own son was with me, and nod at him.

  “What’s a good age to have kids?”

  “What?” I ask him in confusion. Luke is only fifteen years old, so that’s not something I would expect him to be wondering so soon in his life.