by Lovell, LP
My fingers grip the front of his shirt as my eyes close. My heart stumbles over itself, hiccupping. “Goodbye, Judas,” I breathe.
I move past him and walk out of the church. It hurts. Every step hurts, but what my fragile heart fails to understand is that whatever it may feel, it’s not for this man. It’s for a lie.
It’s late by the time I get home, and the house is plunged in darkness. Turning on the kitchen light, I wrinkle my nose at the state of the place.
There are unwashed dishes in the sink, spilt cereal on the side and a note stuck to the fridge with scrawled sharpie on it.
Lila
Rent is due tomorrow!
Love you. Tiff. X
I snatch it down and dump it in the bin. Damn it. I’d almost forgotten. Taking my phone out, I log in to the Internet banking app and transfer the money. The new balance shows as minus one hundred and thirty pounds and twenty-one pence. Great. Just great. I need a job like yesterday. I wince when my lip stings, and I realise that I’ve been chewing on it.
Okay, this is shit, but it’s controllable. I can get a job. I can fix this. Strangely, I feel a certain power in that. Because of all the crap going on in my life recently, I’ve had very little control over any of it.
Grabbing a piece of toast, I take it upstairs to my room and open my laptop. I start searching for jobs, any jobs: bar work, weekend retail, even delivery driver positions. I just need something fast. Once I’ve applied for ten jobs, I close my laptop, lie down and close my tired eyes.
It’s pitch black, but I know I’m in the confessional. The scent of wood polish, the sense of confinement, the absolute stillness of the air as it’s restricted to a small space. My own breaths are the only sound to echo through the space, and I glance around, waiting. Slowly, my eyes adjust, or perhaps it is getting lighter like the grey light of dawn peaking over the horizon. I make out the silhouette of a figure pressed against the mesh of the divider. Moving closer, I make out the tinge of red hair. My heart rate picks up, and I close my eyes as a tear breaks free.
“You,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
When I open my eyes, I see a hand at Isabelle’s throat, squeezing, choking. She claws at the fingers, her eyes wide.
“No!” I slam my fists against the partition, but it might as well be made of steel.
Out of the darkness, Judas appears over Isabelle’s shoulder. A sick grin works over his face as he squeezes her neck harder and harder. Finally, she goes limp, and he drops her.
“We’re the same, Delilah,” he purrs.
I jolt awake, gasping for air. Just a dream. It was just a dream.
Bright morning sun blinds me, and I hold a hand up, shielding my eyes from it. Dragging myself out of bed, I shower and dress for uni before quickly checking my emails.
There’s one new one in my inbox. Subject: When can you start?
Frowning, I open it. It’s from Fire Nightclub.
Dear Miss Thomas.
We’d like to offer you a position at our nightclub. We are hosting a grand re-opening event next weekend. Please be at the club at 9.30 p.m. on Friday to go through basic training before your shift.
Regards,
Marcus Manning,
Manager, Fire.
I smile, and relief washes over me. I can’t believe I have a job without even having an interview. Finally, something is going right.
* * *
The library has that usual eerie silence, the kind that puts you on edge for fear of needing to cough.
I focus on my book, scrawling some notes across the lined paper in front of me. Someone pulls the chair out beside me, and I’m just about to tell them that the seat is taken when I look up and see Judas.
He drops into the chair, his tall, muscular frame filling it to capacity. My eyes dart around the library nervously. Why am I so edgy? It’s not like he has drug lord written on his forehead.
It’s only been two days since I last saw him, but it feels like forever. I’ve thought about him constantly. My eyes flick over the charcoal grey suit, his white shirt open at the collar. It all just fits him so well, and suddenly he looks every inch the ruthless businessman, the beautiful, ruthless businessman.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, forcing my eyes from his accentuated waist and broad shoulders.
“We need to talk. I’m taking you to dinner.”
“I told you, I need time.”
He lifts a brow. “You’ve had time. I’m not a patient man.”
“How did you know I was here?”
His lips twist up into that wry smile that takes him from good guy to so very bad. His gaze shifts over my shoulder, and I follow it to my own personal stalker. The man looks at Judas, nods, and then simply leaves.
“You know, this is moving into creeper territory,” I hiss under my breath.
His smile only deepens, and he leans in, bringing his lips to my ear. “We’re way past that.”
I shake my head and push to my feet, putting my books in my rucksack. Judas chuckles to himself as he follows me out of the library. He places a hand on my back, leading the way across campus to one of the car parks.
It’s not until we’ve been driving for fifteen minutes that I finally speak.
“Where are we going again?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Okay. Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
I stare at him. “Are you trying to surprise me?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m just not telling you where we’re going.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Fine. Just so you know, I don’t like surprises that involve a shovel.”
“You think I’d kill you?” A crooked grin shapes his lips.
Truthfully, I don’t know anymore. I don’t trust my own judgement. It’s let me down too many times.
“I think I have a habit of going for bad guys, and my tastes seem to be getting progressively worse.” I shake my head, but he has no smart comeback this time.
The soft sounds of a piano drift through the upscale restaurant, the notes trickling over my senses. Candlelight sways back and forth, playing over the golden tones of Judas’s skin. I glance around at the dark little corner of the restaurant that he brought us to. We’re somewhere outside Covent Garden, and one look at the place tells me I can’t afford to be here. Hell, right now I can barely afford McDonald’s.
I swirl the olive around in my Martini before bringing it to my lips and prying it from the cocktail stick. Judas’s eyes fix on my mouth, his expression darkening.
Sexual tension gives way to anxiety, and I fiddle with the small wooden stick nervously. Judas isn’t a priest, and he isn’t just running party pills to teenagers. He’s a cocaine dealer, a drug lord, a criminal. What I can’t work out is why he’s pretending to be a priest. So many puzzle pieces are scattered in front of us, waiting to be assembled. But once they are, will I like the picture? I’m not sure there’s any way to make that image pretty.
“Why are we here, Judas?” I ask.
“To talk.”
I take a sip of my drink, well, more like a hefty gulp, and set the glass back down on the pristine white tablecloth.
“Fine. I don’t understand,” I say.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Any of it.”
Our eyes meet across the table, the wavering glow of the candle flickering between us. We say nothing for a moment, but it all hangs right there between us. Words waiting to be said, shots waiting to be fired because once it’s all out there, there’s no going back. I know it. He knows it. Do we trust each other enough to spill our secrets? Does he trust me? And if he does, am I worthy of that trust?
“Why are you a priest?” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “And don’t give me the half-cut version. I told you my secrets. I trusted you.” He studies me, eyes searching mine, delving deep into the recesses of
my self. “Right now, all I know about you is that you sell drugs.” I lower my voice. “Everything rational is telling me to run from you, Judas. As far and as fast as I can. I need you tell me everything.” I chew my bottom lip. “I need you to give me a reason to stay.”
“And yet here you are, little lamb because whether it’s rational or not, you want to be here. You’re drawn to me — to this.”
I close my eyes for a beat, swallowing down the blind panic that’s threatening to consume me as I walk this tightrope that spans the black void of the unknown. He’s right. I’m helplessly drawn. I’ve come to need Judas. When I’m with him, life seems a little more bearable. The guilt of Isabelle’s death is still there, but it’s muted. He’s like a band-aid to everything that’s wrong in my life. He makes me feel whole. A little less broken. Stronger. However, he represents the very thing that put me on my knees in the first place. He’s been my crutch, but that crutch has grown thorns, and I’m bleeding. Fat crimson drops all over the pristine white of what we once had. There was a certain innocence to it, but now…
“It’s not as simple as that, and you know it.”
“No?” He hesitates, and I practically choke on my rising heartbeat. “It could be.”
The tension breaks when the waitress comes over and places a meat and cheese board down between us. Judas smiles at her politely, and I see the blood rush to her face before she moves away.
“I’m a priest because it was necessary at the time.”
“What does that even mean?” I sigh.
“I had to lie low.”
“So, what? Now you just run your drug empire from the church?”
“For now. I have people in place to run things for me.” His eyes flick up and back down again before he spears a piece of cheese with a cocktail stick and pops it in his mouth. “And the church has its uses.”
I absorb those words and lean forward, my voice dropping to a hissed whisper. “You’re using the church?” I’m not religious, but even I think there’s something sacrilegious about that.
“It’s not the most corrupt thing the Catholic faith has done. Don’t panic.” A small smirk pulls at his lips, and I drop my head into my hands.
“Do you feel guilty, or bad even?”
“For what?”
“You’re destroying peoples lives.”
“How so? We live in an instant gratification world. People want what they want. There’s no morality to it, no sense of risk or failure. I’m a businessman and business is always about supply and demand. Do people take drugs and overdose? Of course. Do they ruin their lives? Often. Can you place that responsibility on the man giving that person those drugs, or on the person taking them? We live in a society where everything is always someone else’s fault, especially the man lining his pockets.” I shift uncomfortably, not liking the fact that his words make sense.
“If you believe in God though, then you must see that it’s wrong.” I’m almost begging him, wanting him to say the words I so badly need to hear.
“God tests us, little lamb. I am his test to others. I weed out his sinners. You were your friend’s test. She failed.”
“No. Drugs killed Izzy.” I meet his gaze, tears clinging to my lashes. “And I have to live with that.”
Judas sits back in his chair, his eyes narrowed and a cocktail stick resting against his lower lip. He snatches it from his mouth and raps his knuckles on the tabletop. “I can’t make that right for you, Delilah. One act does not equal another. You selling those pills is no different to you giving her a bottle of tequila and her then getting behind the wheel and killing herself.” He shrugs. “It’s piss poor luck. And if you hadn’t agreed to deliver those drugs, someone else would. Either way, your friend ends up dead. It’s the same story. Call it fate if you like.”
I swipe at the tears that have begun trailing down my cheeks in a steady stream. “I feel so guilty all the time.” My eyes meet his, so intense, such a beautiful shade of blue. “How can I be okay with this, Judas? You’re no better than Nate.”
I watch his eyes shutter, his features hardening. Standing up, he tosses some cash down and moves around the table, grabbing my arm, his hold firm but not bruising. Wordlessly, he practically marches me through the restaurant, leaving the untouched platter of food and half-drunk glasses. There’s a tension to him that scares me. Outside, a light patter of rain hits the pavement, and a cool breeze sweeps around us, making me shiver. His car is parked in an alley tucked beside the restaurant, and when we reach it, he releases me.
“You think I’m like him?” he asks, his voice quiet, too quiet.
“I…don’t know.”
“I would never hurt you,” he growls.
I hug my arms around myself and lean against the side of the car. “I know, but what you do…you’re no better.”
“No, I’m not.” There’s no emotion in his voice, just pure fact. “I am who I am. I sell drugs. I make money. I do bad things. And I want you, Delilah Thomas, as much as you want me.” His attention focuses fully on me, and his eyes hone in on my lips. “Tell me to leave you alone.” If only I could. Judas moves closer until he’s standing right in front of me. “Tell me to stop.” Reaching out, he slides his fingers over my neck and into my hair. Warm breath fans over my face and I tilt my chin up, inviting it, needing him. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, closing the small gap between us. His mouth brushes over mine, and my body feels like a live wire, sparking everywhere. My lips part, inviting him in, seeking him out. Accepting my demise. Welcoming his destruction. “I want you, but I won’t apologise. I won’t ask forgiveness, and I’ll never change.” Closing my eyes, I place a shaking hand on his chest. Can I do this? Can I accept what he is while hating myself for the same thing? “We’re two sides of the same coin, Delilah. Just let go of that morality you cling to so hard.”
“I can’t,” I choke.
“What good has it ever done you? You’re an outsider. No one understands you because you aren’t like them.” His lips whisper over my temple. “But I do because you’re just like me.”
“I’m not.” My voice is nothing more than a fleeting whisper over the pounding of my heart. Fear has my hands trembling and my breaths coming in rapid pants. I’m terrified of his words, scared of the truth.
“You said you feel guilty.” His lips brush my ear. “But do you really? Or is it just guilt over the absence of guilt?” No, he’s wrong. He’s wrong. He takes a step back, and a wicked smile dances over his lips as though he can see my mind free falling into the darkness. “You’ve spent so long pretending that you don’t even know yourself anymore. You act how you think you should. You persecute yourself for the simple fact that you don’t feel or behave like others.”
My heartbeat is so loud it’s rattling against my eardrums. “No, I’m not a horrible person!”
“Shh.” He rushes forward, his hands cupping my cheeks, thumbs wiping away stray tears. “There’s nothing horrible about it. You are who you are, Delilah. Cloaked in shadows. So beautifully steeped in sin.” Tipping my face back, he brushes his lips over mine, and I let him. My stupid heart trips over itself and slows like a frightened animal being soothed by its master. Tears continue to fall, covering both our lips. “Dance with me in the dark, little lamb,” he whispers, like a demon tempting me to hell. “I’ll make you feel so good.”
I should resist, but without him, what would I be at this point? This isn’t rational or sane. It just is. And the reason it upsets me so much? He’s right. I don’t know that I feel truly guilty over Izzy’s death, and that is where my guilt stems from. I should. I’ve just passed one off for the other, punished myself because it’s all the same, right? But Judas sees. He knows. I don’t know that I believe in soul mates, but this inexplicable pull, the way I need him…I could almost believe.
Leaning in, I press my lips to his, clasping his face in my hands. I never want to let go, but I need time to deal with this. Time to think.
“I need time
, Judas,” I breathe over his lips.
He drags his knuckles over my cheek and down my throat. “Then I’ll be waiting.”
Cupping my face gently, he places his lips to my forehead. He’s warmth and light and safety, and I’m not sure how that is even possible.
“I’ll drop you home,” he says.
“It’s okay. I’ll walk.”
Pulling away, he moves to the passenger door and pulls it open. “It wasn’t a request, Delilah.”
He waits for a moment, and I swallow heavily before getting in the car. My head is swimming with thoughts racing through my mind at a hundred miles an hour. My heart aches, letting out choked, pitiful beats within my chest. The ten-minute ride feels like prolonged torture because I know that I’m going to have to get out, and I don’t know when I’m going to see him again.
He pulls up outside my house, and I force myself to open the door, refusing to look back. I’m at my front door before I hear the engine rev and pull away. As soon as I’m inside, I release a breath and my body sags.
I already feel like part of me is missing. How has a man I’ve only know for a few weeks — a man who I really knew nothing about — become so ingrained on me?
It’s not right, but does it need to be?
* * *
A week. It’s been a week, and honestly, I imagine this is what a drug addict feels like when they’re coming off their habit of choice.
Everything feels so dark, so pointless. I feel like I’m slowly dying.
I knock on the door of the student counsellor’s office and wait. “Come in,” a voice calls.
Opening the door, I step inside. A middle-aged woman with a sleek brown bob smiles at me from behind her desk. “Hello.” She looks down at some papers in front of her, the red-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose as she does. “Delilah Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Sit, sit.” She gestures to the seat across from her, offering me a warm smile and bracing her elbows on the desk. “I’m Mary Andrews, the student counsellor here at King’s College.” I nod in acknowledgement. “Now, tell me why you wanted to see me today, Delilah.”
