The Sinners of Saint Amos: The Full 3-book Boxset

by Logan Fox

  Maybe by becoming the perfect student, I’ll earn myself a private room. Perhaps even some kind of protection against the boys.

  It’s a lot to hope for, but I have Mom’s stubbornness on my side.

  I duck my head and squeeze closed my eyes. My lips tremble as I fight with myself. But this time, I lose the battle.

  Thoughts pour into my mind like rancid oil.

  How could you abandon me like this?

  You weren’t even supposed to be in that car with him.

  You were supposed to be at home, with me.

  You’re my mother.

  You told me you loved me, and then you chose him over me.

  You always did.

  I bite the inside of my lip until I taste copper.

  I hate you.

  I hate you!

  I fucking hate—!

  A hand lands on my shoulder. “Trinity?”

  I jerk away from the touch, and turn brimming eyes up to Gabriel. “Father,” I manage in a wobbly voice.

  “May I join you in prayer?”

  I’m vaguely aware of boys streaming past him in the aisle watching us intently.

  If I spoke, I’d start sobbing like a kid so I scoot silently aside. Father Gabriel takes a seat beside me, his thigh warm and hard where it presses against mine. With a quick smile at me, he sits forward and rests his elbows on the backrest in front of our pew. Then he clasps his hands and bows his head.

  Guilt eats through me like a heap of maggots.

  He thought I was praying when he walked past, when in truth I was cursing my dead mother.

  I fold down, pressing the tips of my steepled fingers to the skin between my brows hard enough to bruise. It helps with the shaking, and at least now I’m hidden behind Gabriel’s figure. If the boys walking past want to gape at me, they won’t be able to see much.

  But even now, like this—shielded by the provost—someone’s watching me.

  Are they waiting for me to fuck up and expose myself as the heretic I am?

  Or are they intrigued by this stranger in their midst?

  Well fuck them.

  Whoever they are, they can go straight to hell.

  Chapter Seven

  Trinity

  I don’t bother trying to find anyone to sit with at breakfast. I hadn’t even planned on going to the dining hall after the terrible time I’d had at the chapel. But on my way back to the main building, Sister Miriam makes a beeline for me and falls in step beside me.

  “I trust you are keeping well, Miss Malone?”

  Miss Malone.

  A faint tingle works its way deep inside me. I don’t know why, but my entire body came alive when Brother Zachary had spoken my name yesterday. In fact, that had happened every time he’d looked at me too.

  “Yes, thank you.” My voice is still thick with emotion. I don’t know how long Father Gabriel and I sat praying in the chapel. It felt like hours had gone by before he shifted in his seat and let out a soft, “Amen,” before excusing himself.

  “What are you wearing?” Miriam asks, in exactly the same tone she’d used to greet me with.

  “A uniform?” I look down at myself. My tie has shifted, exposing my cleavage.

  I turn bright red. It must have been the run over here that did it. So was it like this the entire time Gabriel sat beside me in prayer?

  Despite what I’d always thought, dying from shame is not only a possibility, but it seems destined to be Miss Malone’s fate.

  “Come see me after breakfast.” She breaks away and heads for the classrooms.

  Someone’s watching me again. I scan all around me.

  There’s no one sight.

  I stare at the distant trees. It’s so dark under that dense canopy, they could easily move around on the edges of the grounds without being seen.

  Goosebumps break out on my skin.

  I almost get all the way through breakfast without incident.

  En route to the table to put down on my empty tray, I feel eyes on me again. This time I don’t hesitate—I immediately scan the entire dining hall to see who’s looking in my direction.

  Quite a few of the boys still seated at the benches are looking my way, but they duck their heads when I make eye contact.

  Except the pair at the far back of the room. There beside the table with hot water urns for tea and coffee is the same sandy-haired guy I’d seen outside the chapel.

  This time there’s no mistaking the video camera in his hand.

  Or the fact it’s trained on me. He’s not looking through it. He’s watching the little fold-out screen.

  I hastily put my tray on top of the others. Time to get the hell out of here. My tray upsets the entire pile. I wince as the trays clatter to the floor by my feet.

  Not all of them were empty.

  My pants—Jasper’s pants—are now splattered with oatmeal and runny eggs. Some of it even got in my fucking hair. On instinct, those same disastrous words start playing through my head.

  It can’t possibly get any worse than this.

  It can’t possibly get any fucking worse than this.

  But it does.

  Everyone starts laughing.

  “Gees,” someone says behind me. “Were you born under a ladder or something?”

  I half-turn to Jasper, scared the ceiling might collapse on me if I make any sudden moves. “I’m sorry about your clothes.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Jasper shakes his head. “But it’s kinda impossible to stay pissed off at you.”

  I shake a glob of oatmeal from my hand with a sigh. “At least I got that going for me.”

  “You gotta take a shower.” He makes to grab my elbow, but I’ve had about all the manhandling I can, well, handle.

  I move away from him, lifting my hands. “Just tell me where it is.”

  He stares at me for a second, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Bet I’ll hear about a busted water main in an hour or so.” He shrugs. “But hey, it’s your funeral.”

  After using the restroom on the third floor, I’d assumed the bathroom would be one of many. A private room with a tub and a shower—possibly even a combo, for efficiency—and a basin for the boys to shave in. Maybe even some stalls.

  How very naive of me.

  Saint Amos was definitely a prison in one of its earlier incarnations. Church, prison, orphanage, boarding school. Isn’t that the natural progression of places like this?

  Situated on the second floor, the bathroom looks more like a locker room. On the left, a row of basins and mirrors. To the right, a wall of showers. No shower curtains. A low wall separates every pair of showerheads from the next.

  A long bench splits the room down the middle.

  Because showering with your roomie adds to the fun.

  I shudder at the thought.

  Where the hell am I supposed to put in my tampon? Or do I go and squat next to the bench when no one’s looking?

  I’m dimly aware I need to get a move on—Sister Miriam said to meet her after breakfast, and I think I have class with Brother Zachary first thing, but I’m so busy trying not to lose my shit all that stuff fades into the background.

  I strip and hurry to the closest showerhead. I fully expect only cold water to come out, but after a few seconds I’m delightfully surprised by a lukewarm stream.

  I slather no-name brand soap and shampoo—no conditioner, duh—over myself while I try not to think about athlete’s foot. The fact this feels so good is a dire testament to how shitty the past few days have been.

  As much as I’d love to stand here for a few minutes and let the warmish water batter out some of my stress, I’m pretty sure I’m tempting fate. The longer I stay here, the higher the chance someone will decide they need to shower or shave or sit down on a bench for no reason.

  I dry off and put on the dress I brought with me. It’s far from flattering—nothing in my sparse wardrobe can possibly be considered seductive—but I still feel overly exposed as cool air washes over my b
are legs and arms. Even slipping on my cardigan doesn’t help.

  I hesitate, and then toss Jasper’s dirty clothes into what I assume is the laundry basket in the corner of the room.

  I wring out my hair and pat it dry with a towel as I hurry back to my room. Since I have no idea how long this thing with Sister Miriam will take, I’d rather fetch my notebook so I have it on me before Zachary’s class.

  I don’t dare show up late to his class again.

  There’s an envelope on my bed.

  I tear it open and pull out a class schedule typed out on a typewriter.

  TUESDAY

  7:00am - Prayer

  7:30am - Breakfast

  9:00am - English

  10:00am - AP Psychology

  11:00am - Free

  12:00pm - Lunch

  On and on it goes, spelling out every minute of my day till the last bell—lights out. I’d literally been lights out when that one rang last night.

  I haven’t had much time to consider how different things would be. I loved being homeschooled, but I’d never known anything else. Mother was an excellent teacher, but she’d also get into a mood sometimes and give me the day off to do what I wanted. Days like that I’d usually end up at the local library, reading whatever I could get my hands on.

  Maybe structure is exactly what I need. I can just follow my schedule day after day until it becomes my new norm. No need to think.

  Hopefully, by then, I’d have fooled myself into believing there could be such a thing as normal again.

  I toss the towel on the foot of my bed, snatch up my notebook, and head down the hall.

  I’m halfway down when the school bell tolls.

  Shit! It’s already nine?

  I glance through one of the windows I pass, but it’s impossible to make out where the sun is through the stained glass.

  Who would I rather not piss off: Zachary, or Sister Miriam?

  Since I have no idea where Sister Miriam is—does she have an office or something?—I choose Zachary.

  With my dress flapping around my knees and my hair dripping water down my neck, I sprint over the grounds and hurtle into the classroom hallway.

  I remember to push the door and not pull on it this time.

  One point for Miss Malone, nine-hundred ninety-seven for the universe.

  Brother Zachary glances at me from the blackboard. Forest green eyes narrow. His dark hair is long but carefully brushed back from his diamond-shaped face and dimpled chin.

  Oh Lord, he’s just as intense as I remember. And, like yesterday, my body reacts in the strangest way. Everything inside me goes tight and then, when I think I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen, my lungs fill with air.

  That breath calms me a little, despite how Zachary’s face hardens when he sees me.

  But it does nothing for the tingle dancing between my legs.

  “Late again, Miss Malone.”

  My heart thumps in time with his words, as if he’s controlling my organs.

  If he is, then he’s one cruel bastard.

  Because as I force myself to walk across his classroom, it’s as if he slides inside me and starts toying with my guts.

  I should hate him for having such an effect on me.

  Instead, all I can think about is him touching me. Not with his eyes, but with his hands.

  I know I’ve missed out on a lot in my sheltered life.

  Playdates, sleepovers, movies at the mall.

  Kissing.

  Sex.

  I’ve always been intrigued by the concept. What would it feel like? Who would be the one to finally deflower me?

  Against all logic, I’d resisted the thought it would be with the scrawny, pimple-faced kid from our church Mom kept trying to set me up with.

  My dreams had centered around someone a lot more like Zachary. Tall and handsome and charismatic in his own way.

  Maybe that’s why I’m reacting like this. Since I’d started here, I’ve been bombarded with good looking boys.

  Well, four, anyway.

  I doubt I’d have felt the same way about anyone in this class. But it’s not just the way they look. There’s something else. At least with Brother Zachary, it’s a little more obvious. He exudes a dark aura. His steely eyes, and the way he walks like he owns the room and every stick of furniture inside it.

  Even the students.

  Especially me.

  Every time I step into this class, it’s blatant I’m entering his domain, and I’m only here because he allows it.

  Chapter Eight

  Trinity

  Yesterday I spent my entire Psych lesson trying to ignore the fact I was apparently head over heels in love with my teacher. Today isn’t going much better but at least I’m taking some notes.

  Every time he happens to glance at me, I blush.

  “…next stage, which is postnatal. Those can include neglect and what?”

  It’s the quiet that drags me from my thoughts. I’ve resorted to staring at my notebook and doodling circles in the margins so I won’t catch on fire.

  I look up.

  Yup—everyone’s staring at me.

  What now?

  Reluctantly, I look over Zachary.

  He’s holding a piece of chalk against the board, poised to write.

  “Neglect and what?” He taps the chalk, dipping his head a little.

  Dear Lord—he wants me to answer? My mouth opens as my eyes take in the diagram he’s drawn. This stuff all sounds very familiar. I’m sure Mom already went through this part of the curriculum, but for the life of me I can’t remember anything.

  “I don’t know.”

  My heart turns to lead when disappointment darkens his eyes.

  He turns and points to one of the boys. “Eric?”

  “Abuse?”

  Zachary says nothing, but the tap-squeak of his chalk speaks volumes as he writes down the answer.

  “Thank you, Eric. Abuse and neglect can affect genetic change during the postnatal stage of an individual’s life.”

  I keep my head down for the rest of the lesson, not even daring to look up when I hear silence. Unless he calls on me directly, I’m not fuck risking it.

  Thankfully, he ignores me for the rest of the lesson. By the time the bell sounds, I’m such a bundle of nerves I drop my pencil twice before I can shove it into my dress pocket. It sticks out halfway, but at least it’s got a better chance of staying in there than in my hand.

  I try and merge with the boys leaving class, ridiculously assuming they’d provide camouflage.

  Instead, I cause chaos.

  Some of them step back to let me through the door first. Others, as if sensing Armageddon is seconds away, speed up so they can exit first. I end up getting bounced around like a pinball.

  Zachary watches impassively, not even bothering to catch me when I stagger. For my own safety, I wait to the side until everyone’s left.

  “A moment, Miss Malone,” Zachary says, like I knew he would.

  I try and keep the door open—it’s set on a hydraulic hinge like the lunchroom—but Zachary puts his head to the side and that’s somehow a command for me to approach.

  The door hisses closed.

  I creep closer and try to disappear behind my notebook.

  “I’m not like the others,” Zachary says.

  A downright hysterical laugh escapes me before I can press my lips closed.

  Zachary’s eyes darken to the green of tree shadows as he perches on the edge of his desk. “Which part of this amuses you, Miss Malone?”

  I bite the inside of my lip and hope it will be enough to stop me from losing my shit. But he waits me out, so I shake my head and try to look meek.

  “Is it the part where you receive penance for continuously showing up late to my class?”

  Continuously? Dude, it’s the second day of my miserable stay at Saint Amos. Have a little—

  “Or is it the part where you fail this class because you can’t be bothered
to apply yourself?”

  My face heats up. I wish I could say something, but I don’t trust myself to speak, especially since I still feel like laughing.

  Who does he think he is? He’s treating me like a ten-year-old. I can’t believe I liked this guy. He’s horrible.

  “I only got my schedule this morning.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Zachary tilts his head. My guts worm around in my belly at the intensity of his stare. “And your voice? Did that also just arrive?”

  I just shake my head.

  His eyes flicker away, as if he’s suddenly lost his patience. He stands, steps closer. “I’ll tell you again. I’m not like the others.” He bends and reaches down.

  He’s going to touch my bare leg. Is that why he kept me back? He’s so close I can make out the patterns in his irises.

  His perfect skin, his expressive mouth, the tendons in his neck that tense as he stretches out his hand.

  Oh, Lord, how badly I want him to touch me.

  But not on my leg.

  I squeeze my thighs together.

  There.

  That’s where I want him to touch me.

  Right between my—

  Zachary holds up my pencil. “I don’t give second chances,” he says before tucking it back into my pocket. It must have fallen out when that guy bumped me. “I’m writing you up for this, and I suggest you do whatever it takes to be on time for my next class.”

  His words mean nothing to me. I’m hypnotized by the way his mouth moves.

  “Do I make myself clear, Miss Malone?”

  He’s still a foot away, but I want him closer. I want to know if his touch will be gentle or firm. I imagine his large hands will demand from my body what he demands from my mind.

  “Miss Malone.” It’s not a shout, but the snap in his voice goes right through me like he yelled.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” I babble. “I promise I won’t be late again.”

  The door whooshes open. Sister Miriam steps inside, ruddy face framed by her habit. “There you are!” Her mouth turns into a cruel curve. “Wait in the hall for me.” She stabs out her finger, and my body moves without a single thought from my brain.