by Lovell, LP
I smile. “Yeah, that’s…better.”
I go to the door and slide to the ground, wincing as I press my bruised back to the wall beside it.
“Please don’t hate me when this is done,” I whisper, more to the universe than him.
“Never.”
On a deep breath, I cross myself and begin. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been one day since my last confession.”
“I will hear your confession, Delilah.”
Oh god. I think I’m going to be sick. My heart beats harder and faster until it’s physically jolting my body. The air feels thin, and my vision swims. “I killed my friend,” I gasp. “And I can’t forgive myself.” I press a hand over my mouth, trying to quench the sobs that want to break free. I hadn’t realised how much I needed to speak the words. To confess them just like that, but now they’re out there. He knows, and I can no longer hide the ugly stain that’s spreading over me like blood in water. My heart breaks a little because I know; I just know that he’ll look at me differently. He says nothing, and I can feel his judgement even through the wood of the door. Closing my eyes, I pull my knees to my chest and press my forehead to them. He’s going to kick me out and never speak to me again. My ears are ringing, permeated only by the choking sound coming from my throat. I don’t hear him open the door, merely feel the warmth of his arms as he scoops me up and sits on the floor, clutching me to his chest. My tears soak into his shirt as his fingers stroke through my hair. Why is he being so nice? He’s a priest. He should be damning me to hell and kicking me out of his apartment. He should want no part of my sordid sin, but he’s here. And I cling to him like he’s the only island in a storm-battered ocean.
“Shh, it’s fine.” His lips press into my hair, his hot breath stirring the strands.
“I didn’t mean to. I was…I gave her boyfriend some pills. She overdosed.”
“Gave?”
“I was just delivering them.”
“For Nate?” I nod, and his chest rises and falls on a heavy sigh beneath my cheek.
“I was a fool. I wanted to date the bad boy and be rebellious.” He stills for a moment and then resumes stroking my hair. I lift my face from his chest, needing to see his eyes. I expect him to look horrified or repulsed, but he looks…relieved? “I tried to go to the police, but Nate said that the people he worked for would kill me if I did. I know I deserve that, but I was scared. Do you hate me?” I ask.
His brows pinch together in a frown, and he cups my face. “Delilah, you’ve never been more beautiful.” I frown, his reaction throwing me off. “People sin all the time. They ask for forgiveness they don’t really want, and for what? So they may go to a better place when they die. They don’t embrace their sins. They don’t suffer for them.” A soft smile shapes his lips. “But you have suffered, and why? Your guilt is debatable.”
“I’m guilty. I killed my friend,” I whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I need to repent in order for God to forgive me?”
“But it’s not his forgiveness you need, is it?” He twisted smile crosses his lips. “I think you should hear my confession.”
“Okay.”
He gets up, lifting me with him effortlessly before he places me down on the edge of the bed. He then stands, moving away from me and propping his back to the wall. He’s putting space between us.
“Forgive me, Delilah, for I have sinned,” he says. “It’s been thirteen years since my last confession.”
Thirteen? I say nothing and push that information aside.
Our gazes collide, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see something…bad. His eyes dance dangerously, and he folds his arms over his tattooed chest, making him look broader and even more muscular. He looks natural like this, and I realise that everything I’ve seen of him before has been so very unnatural — forced.
“I’m not who you believe I am, Delilah.”
I still. “Then who are you?”
Teeth scrape over his bottom lip, and his chest rises and falls on a heavy breath. “I’m not a real priest. Not a true believer as they would say.”
“Okay…”
“I became a priest because it served a purpose.”
“What purpose?” I whisper, not sure if I want the answer. I can feel it, this impending doom just lingering in the air. Everything is about to change.
“It’s complicated, but let’s just say it’s for business purposes.”
“What kind of business are you in, Judas?”
We stare at each other, and of course, I know what he’s going to say because I always, always fall for the bad boy. Every time.
“Cocaine.” One word. Like the cracking of a whip splitting the air. Only he split something else: us. I feel the rip tear across the expanse between us, threatening to send me hurtling into an abyss from which I cannot return. I’m a sinner. He’s a sinner. He’s a bad man. The words repeat over and over in my mind, but the accompanying panic that should come with them remains curiously absent.
“So you’re like Nate?”
“No, Delilah. I’d be the equivalent to Nate’s bosses, bosses boss.”
“The top of the food chain.” The words are an uttered breath as realisation truly sinks in. Judas is the person profiting from people like me, people like Isabelle. He’s the huge cog making the entire machine turn. Isabelle was a victim of that machine. I was a naïve participant. I feel sick to my stomach, and a throbbing starts behind my temples.
He says nothing, simply stands there and waits. “I need to go home,” I finally muster.
To his credit, Judas opens the door and walks out. When I gingerly follow him, he’s standing by the front door, keys in hand. “I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be walking long distances,” he says. His face is a mask that I haven’t seen before. Hard, implacable. This is the real man behind the dog collar, the drug lord. I don’t know this man, and yet, when I look in his eyes and spot a trace of pain, I hurt. I wish I could take it away, but right now I can’t.
I’m caught in a tailspin of guilt and loathing, unable to move on, and just when I think I’ve found someone who may finally help me, finally absolve me in some way; he’s worse than me. Satan disguised as an angel of light. Truer words have never been spoken.
The car ride is tense and silent. When he pulls up outside of my house, he stares straight ahead through the windscreen. Looking at my home, a shiver of fear works up my spine. Nate knows where I live. He might come for me. If he knows who Judas really is, he might heed his warning, but I can’t rely on Judas protection. I don’t want to.
He hands me something, and I glance down at my phone in his hand. “My number is in it. If you need anything, call me.”
I nod and grab the door handle, pulling it. But I hesitate before I get out. “Thank you for helping me, Judas. You’re a good man.” And then I get out of the car, those words ringing in my mind because I actually believe them.
17
Delilah
When I get in, I dump my handbag on the kitchen counter and go to the fridge. There’s a note stuck to it.
Just a reminder that the rent is due on Friday.
Tiff x
Shit. I thump my forehead against the fridge door. I have enough money to pay this month, but what about next month? I dealt for Nate because it was a rush, but the by-product of that was money. I never had to worry about getting a job to pay rent. But now…it’s been nearly two months.
Mum doesn’t have any money, and I’d rather starve than ask my father. I need a job, now. God, my life is such a train wreck.
Grabbing the orange juice from the fridge, I pour a glass and take it to my room. I’ve refused to look in a mirror, but I force myself now. Standing in front of my wardrobe, I stare at my reflection. The left side of my face is a kaleidoscope of blues, pinks, and purples. My bottom lip has a split right down the centre with a thick scab over it, and bruises ring my neck. Lifting my dress, I see the welts on my lower back, and of course, my
bandaged hand. Now my outside looks just as messy as what is inside.
Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I allow my head to fall into my hands. I’m a criminal, a drug dealer, and a killer. I have no money, no job, my ex-boyfriend just beat me up, and the friendly neighbourhood priest, who I trusted to help me, is, in fact, a drug lord. Great.
I jump in the shower, and then I get to work on trying not to look like an abuse victim. Taking out my make up bag, I start to carefully apply thick layers of foundation over the bruising on my face. A swipe of mascara, a little blush, and I don’t look half as washed out as I feel. I don’t manage to cover the purple hue completely, but close enough. There’s not a lot I can do about my lip, and I toss a silk scarf around my neck to cover the marks at my throat.
A navy shirtdress and some knee-high boots, and I’m good to go. I don’t even bother to dry my hair before leaving the house.
I sit through four lectures, trying to pay attention, trying to take down notes, but I’m jittery. I keep looking over my shoulder — sure that Nate is about to jump out from some corner. Judas said Nate wouldn’t touch me again, but how does he know? My thoughts trip over themselves at that. Did he kill him? Would he? He’s a criminal. Of course he would.
At the end of my last lecture, I leave the hall and head for the library. I’m behind on a paper on Gandhi, and I need a particular book that can’t be checked out. I’d buy it, but seeing as I can barely make rent... I find a table, get the books I need and work. I’m so distracted that I hardly notice it’s grown dark outside. I turn on the desk lamp and glance around the library, realising that there’s only me and one other guy in here. The elderly librarian is propped behind the desk, her head lolling to one side and her glasses sitting at a jaunty angle as she falls asleep.
The man is sitting on a chair in the corner. His head tilted down as he reads a book. He looks a little old to be in here, but then he could be a mature student or a lecturer. Closing up my book, I put all my things in my rucksack and stand up. My bruised body has seized up from sitting too long, and I wince, my steps short and awkward as I make my way to the door. When I shoulder the door open, my gaze happens to travel to the corner where that one man was sitting. He’s gone.
I step outside and my heartbeat flitters in my chest. I’m alone. The steps of the library drop into a square courtyard surrounded by trees. The wind rustles through the leaves, sending shadows reaching and writhing through the dim orange glow cast by the streetlights. I find myself scanning the shadows, looking for threats everywhere. What if Nate’s out here again? I’ve just reached the bottom of the steps when the library door bangs closed behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the man with the book, his tall, thin frame towering at the top of the steps. Part of me thinks I should stay with him, in case Nate is out here, but he looks dodgy. He could work for Nate for all I know. Before I can think it through, I start striding across the courtyard, as fast as my stiff legs will carry me.
I’m too late for the last bus, so I’ll have to walk home. I’ve gone a few streets when I tilt my head and hear quickened footsteps following maybe a few meters behind. When I look, I see the same straggly figure as before. He’s following me. Or he’s just walking this way, and it’s a coincidence? Says every girl who ever got raped, murdered, and dismembered. Panic rises like a wave, hard and fast, drowning out rational thought.
Without thinking about it, I speed up and take out my phone, pressing Judas’s name because who else am I going to call? I have no one. It rings and goes to voicemail. Fuck. My house is fifteen minutes away. The church is five. Breaking into a run, I head in that direction. Over my heavy breaths, I’m sure I can hear footsteps behind me. My heart slams against my ribs and adrenaline overrides any pain I might have been in a few minutes ago.
Staggering up the church steps, I still don’t feel safe. Glancing around frantically, I spot the confessional box and run to it, diving behind the curtain and pulling it closed. My breathing is so loud I might as well be throwing a party in here, and I do my best to quiet it. I hear approaching footsteps on the stone floor, and I back up in the tiny space, regretting my decision to come in here because there’s no escape. The material of the curtain bunches and pulls where someone has grabbed it, and then it’s torn back, sending my heart dropping through the floor.
“Delilah?” Judas frowns at me. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.
“Judas,” I breathe, grabbing him and yanking him inside. I tear the curtain shut and close my eyes for a second, leaning my head back against the partition while I catch my breath.
“What’s going on?”
“Someone was following me. So I ran.”
I open my eyes to find him smiling wryly, amusement dancing in his eyes. I swat at his chest. “It’s not funny!”
“Tall, skinny guy?”
“Yeah…”
“I sent him to keep an eye on you.”
I swat him again. “What the hell, Judas? You didn’t think to tell me? I thought he was with Nate.” My body trembles and he takes a step forward, crowding me against the partition. He’s wearing his black shirt with the white dog collar, but now I know who and what he really is, there’s something depraved about it. I lift my gaze from the collar to his eyes and his hands press up against the divider, either side of my head. One look at him has my heart stumbling in my chest like a drunk.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought we were done.”
“And what if I was…am?”
“You’re here.”
“The church was closer than home,” I defend.
That cocky smirk makes an appearance again, and on a priest, it looks wrong, but on him…this true version of him, I realise, it’s perfect. “If you feared me, you would have taken your chances.”
Reaching up, I cup his jaw. “I’m not scared of you, Judas. Far from it.” That’s what makes this so conflicting. He leans into my touch before his forehead brushes mine. I should fear him, but maybe my brain just isn’t programmed right. I seem to lack fundamental survival instincts. Or perhaps my mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that Judas isn’t the hero in this story, he’s the villain.
“Good.”
“Should I though?” I whisper, my fingers now tracing his chin, my thumb skating over his bottom lip. He’s so beautiful. So intoxicating. My mind is fighting a losing battle against every other instinctual part of me that simply wants him. No questions asked.
“No. I would never hurt you.”
“You’re a good man,” I say, and I’m not sure whose benefit it’s for: his or mine. Can’t he be a good man who does bad things?
He laughs at that. “Ah, little lamb, that’s just wishful thinking. I’m not good, but neither are you. Not deep down.” His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us, an understanding of sorts. I swallow heavily, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny like he can see all those ugly parts of me that I keep buried. But I don’t see disapproval or disgust in his eyes. In a warped way, it feels like a meeting of kindred souls. Or maybe I’m just trying to justify this twisted desire I have for him. At this moment, right here, right now, I’m not sure I care. The repercussions feel meaningless. I just need him.
I tilt my chin up as if pulled by unseen forces, brushing my mouth to the corner of his. That spark crackles between us as one hand creeps through my hair. Tugging, he forces my head back until his lips can trace the line of my jaw, and I let him, because the second his lips meet my skin everything else ceases to exist. My body flushes in goosebumps, my lungs falter, and my heart races. And he’s barely even touched me.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my skin. The grip on my hair tightens, and his body crushes mine. “You didn’t run, and now I’ve got you, sweet Delilah.” The words sound like a threat, but I want them to be a promise.
My mind and heart wage war on each other, one demanding I run from this man, the other praying he never lets me go.
His mouth slams over mine, and I instantl
y feel my lip split open again. I don’t care. I want to bleed for him, to bind us in an unbreakable oath, to be his sacrificial lamb. A warped little corner of my soul loves the wrongness of it. The dog collar, the confessional, the depravity…it all makes my skin prickle with heat and my thighs press together in anticipation. I want him. All of him. Possessing me with that darkness that I see in him now. Owning me, claiming me. Because the devil protects his own, doesn’t he?
For one blissful moment, I allow myself to just free-fall into that sweet abyss where it’s nothing but this beautiful man and me, and the simple fact that I want him and he wants me.
But reality shoves it’s way back into my mind. Guilt whispers in my ear, a familiar old enemy. Isabelle’s face flashes through my mind, and my entire body locks down. Placing my hands on his chest, I push him back an inch. He stills, his head falling forward as he sucks in a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. His lips twitch, and his knuckles trace delicately over my bruised cheek. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
He closes the space between us again until every single hard line of him is outlining my softer frame. Lips brush just below my ear, and I shiver as warm breath caresses my skin. “Just let go, Delilah. Stop fighting it.”
My fist balls against his hard stomach, the movement sending a sting across my injured palm. “You’re bad for me, Judas,” I manage.
The coolness of his gaze meets mine. “Yes, I am.”
“I…I have to go.”
I shove past him, but he catches my arm, holding me against him. “That man will continue to watch you. Don’t run from him,” he says calmly.
“Judas, I don’t need a—”
“Nathaniel will try to approach you at some point. You have the power to destroy him. He will try and make amends in the hope of keeping you quiet.” My blood runs cold at the thought, and he nods as though satisfied with my reaction. “Until next time, Delilah.” Leaning in, he presses his lips to my forehead, allowing them to linger there.
