Sinner (Priest Book 3)

by Sierra Simone

  My eyebrows furrow in puzzlement. What does she think she needs to say? It was just an objective truth, like the color of the sky or the reading order of the Wakefield Saga novels. It doesn’t need a response.

  But then I realize that perhaps she thinks I would like her to respond in kind, to make some kind of declaration about her feelings in turn, which of course I don’t expect…

  I mean, I definitely don’t expect it, and it hadn’t occurred to me before, but now that it has occurred to me, I can feel this thing inside my chest, a gap. It’s almost like a physical space, and somehow I know that if she said something back to me—that she liked me, that she cared about me, anything—it would fill up that mysterious chink, and somehow that would make me feel better.

  “Back to my age,” she says, and I nearly let out a bleak laugh. We’ve ventured into strange territory indeed if our massive age gap feels like a safer topic of conversation.

  “Yes?”

  It’s her turn to cup my hands now and she gives me a smile, one of those Zenny smiles full of contradictions, because I can tell she’s trying to be reassuring but that she’s also troubled about something. I don’t like this, any of it, the troubled smile or knowing I’ve made her uncomfortable, but I also can’t bear to take back what I said about her being the only one for me.

  “I appreciate you checking in with me, and while there might be some women in my position who would feel stifled or patronized, I’m okay with it. I like it, actually. I feel rather, well, doted on, and it’s nice. And I also trust that if I ask you to back off, you will.”

  “Anything. Anything you say or want, and I’ll do it.”

  “I believe you,” she says, and I wish that she didn’t look so worried as she said it.

  Three weeks left, I remember. Only three weeks left.

  As the days go by, she’s growing bolder and bolder in bed, using those words I like: pussy, dick, come. Fuck. She’s growing antsy for my cock, which is exactly what I wanted, for her to be peeling apart with lust, bursting with it, aching and heavy and ripe with it—and tonight’s the night I’ll finally give her what she’s so eager to have.

  But two things first.

  First order of business: I think I’ve found a place for the sisters, a renovated warehouse sitting empty on the north end of downtown, with an owner who’s desperate for any kind of tax relief on the vacant property. It would need a kitchen and dormitory space, but not only is it centrally located to bus stops and interstates, but it has ample room for a birthing center in an adjoining property that the owner is willing to lease out as well.

  I take some time out of my afternoon to tour it personally, politely listening to the owner chatter on about all his financial woes since taking the property on and how hard it is to find commercial tenants in this part of town and—

  Okay, maybe I’m not so politely listening to him because I ignore the rest of what he says. It’s irrelevant—I’ve seen his financials and I know that the write-off that the nuns would bring would give him a huge boost. We leave on a handshake deal and I call my assistant to see if he’ll arrange a meeting between me and the prioress.

  He calls me back a few minutes later.

  “So the prioress says that she already met with Charles Northcutt. Well, she and Zenobia Iverson met with him. Before lunch.”

  Roaring red flames my vision, making everything crimson and hateful.

  I’m.

  Going.

  To.

  Kill.

  Him.

  I call Zenny immediately, but I know she won’t answer because she’s in class and she’s one of those nice humans who silences her phone in those situations. I fume for a minute—not at her, never at her—but at Northcutt. At whatever he’s done.

  And when I get back to the office, surprise, surprise, he’s nowhere to be found. Probably left early to get his devil horns sanded down before the fundraiser tonight.

  Which brings me to the second order of business: there’s a fucking fundraiser tonight, and it was supposed to be glamorous and fun and the perfect prelude to finally taking my little nun to bed, but unfortunately now it’s going to have to be the scene of a homicide. Northcutt-icide.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I can hear Zenny’s breath trembling over the phone. “This is for me?”

  “It’s for you,” I confirm. I pin my phone between my shoulder and my ear and glance around the dull-ass country club. Valdman is supposed to meet me here, and I’ve encountered several Valdman-like men, pouchy and white and entitled, but no actual Valdman. Just lots of polo shirts and huffing laughter.

  “Sean, I…this is beautiful. Thank you.”

  I scrub at my perfect hair in frustration. I was supposed to be there right now, I was supposed to be there with Zenny surprising her with the gorgeous gown I bought for her, helping her change into it, dropping teasing hints about when I’d peel the dress back off her body. I’d made big fucking plans about every detail of tonight—Zenny hadn’t even known I was taking her to this fundraiser, it was going to be a little surprise—and now it’s been ruined because I have to see Valdman about Northcutt before he does any more damage.

  “Nothing’s too beautiful for you,” I tell her seriously. “I’m so upset that I can’t see you right now.”

  She laughs. “You’ll see me soon enough. What time is this party again?”

  I look at my watch and stifle an impatient groan. “Ninety minutes. Look, I have to meet with my boss, but I’ll—”

  “I completely understand,” she says, although she doesn’t exactly. I haven’t spoken to her about Northcutt yet because I want to have everything fixed before I ask her what happened and what inevitable shitty thing he did or said during the meeting. I want to be able to pull her into my arms and croon that Sean’s taken care of everything, that everything is going to be okay, and that Northcutt is going to be castrated for his crimes. “You’ve got a job. A big fancy job. I get that and I’m a big girl, Sean. I can handle dressing myself.” She sounds amused.

  “Okay, well, there’s a car service planning to pick you up in eighty minutes in case I’m running too late to get you myself. I’m not sure how long this thing with Valdman will go.”

  “You do remember who my parents are? I’ve been to hundreds of these parties. They’re all the same, and I know what to do.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Sean,” she chides. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  I worry about her.

  It’s almost an hour later that I pin down Valdman wandering in drunk from the golf course, a young woman who is definitely not his wife petting his arm and asking about dinner. And look, generally I’ve never cared that Valdman is a garbage person because he’s good at running his company, and there didn’t seem any reason to care about the first when the latter seemed more important.

  But I don’t know if it’s Jesus-osmosis or working more closely with the shelter or hearing Zenny speak so passionately about her callings, but I’m actually kind of grossed out by Valdman right now. Embarrassed for him…and then embarrassed for myself, because I’m honestly not on track to be any better than he is.

  He stumbles to a table, dismissing the woman with an impatient wave of his hand…and gesturing over a waiter with the same hand once she’s gone. He orders a scotch and then looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “I thought you were going to be at the fundraiser representing us tonight.”

  “I am,” I assure him, although an irritable part of me wants to remind him that I’d already be there if he just would have met with me on time. “But I’ve got to know that we’re keeping Northcutt away from the Keegan deal.”

  “I’ve gotten your messages,” Valdman says, accepting the scotch glass that comes his way. “But I don’t understand, Sean. You were the one who wanted off the deal in the first place.”

  I wish that I could tell this red-faced old fuck the truth and have him
care, but I know him too well, so I spin the truth so that he’ll actually care. “Look, we both want this thing to get fixed and get fixed quietly. And Northcutt is a recipe for an unsavory news story. If he says or does something to those sisters, they are not the type to stay quiet about it. And that’s not the kind of press we or our clients want.”

  Valdman considers this, and I press on, sensing a victory. “Yank him off anything to do with the Keegan deal. You can trust me to keep my nose clean and get this swept up.”

  I don’t mention, obviously, that I’m planning on fucking one of the nuns tonight, and that’s probably the exact opposite of keeping my nose clean. I’m different from Northcutt, what Zenny and I are doing is different and fun and good.

  I think.

  I mean, I hope I’m different from Northcutt. And Valdman.

  I look down at my hands as Valdman takes a drink, and I have a moment of real doubt all of a sudden. Why am I working with these people? Why have I made it my goal to be Valdman? Do I really want to be a gouty lecher with no meaningful relationships in my life when I get older? Is there any amount of money that’s worth such a hollow life?

  “I’ll tell him personally to back off,” Valdman says finally. “You have my word.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I shake his hand and leave the country club. I’m going to be late to the fundraiser, and all I can think about is Zenny alone, waiting for me in her pretty new dress, at the mercy of the wolves.

  My biggest fear when I stride into the hotel ballroom is that Northcutt is already here and he’s causing some kind of mayhem with Zenny, but once I get into the event itself, I don’t see him anywhere in the room. Thank God. It takes me a heart-poundingly long minute to search out Zenny, but once I find her, that strange new gap in my chest expands and contracts with enough force to make my breath catch.

  She is magnificently, indescribably, painfully beautiful.

  The dress I bought for her is a delicate shade of blue-green—seafoam is what the girl at the store called it—and it gorgeously sets off the amber-brown of her skin and the copper in her eyes. And then there’s the way the chiffon flutters and kisses along her body—over her perfectly curved shoulders and teardrop breasts. Along her narrow waist and then over that sweet ass. She’s living, walking art. And she’s mine.

  For the next three weeks, a hateful voice in my head adds, and that hollow in my chest starts to physically ache.

  I go straight to her, not even bothering to make eye contact with the people telling me hello as I pass, and then I pull her into my arms. And for a moment, the ache eases.

  “Hey you,” I murmur, nuzzling against her hair.

  “Hey yourself,” she says back, smiling. “Glad you could finally join me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, still nuzzling. “Dumb boss. Dumb meeting. All I could think about was you in this dress.”

  “You like it?” she asks, suddenly shy.

  I pull away enough to look at her, to run my hands over her waist, and then I pull her back into me so she can feel where I’m getting hard. “You look like something out of a fucking painting. Like a princess. I can’t wait to do very un-princesslike things to you when we get home.”

  “A princess? Really?” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  I nod, pressing into her belly and running my lips over the shell of her ear. “The kind of princess who ends up bent over a bed with her gown up over her waist while a prince kneels behind her and kisses her pretty cunt.”

  “Promises, promises,” she replies, her voice hitching with undisguised arousal.

  I want to tell her that tonight is the night that I’ll do more than kiss her cunt, that tonight is the night I’ll finally give her what she wants so much, but then she pulls away and I realize her phone is ringing.

  I make a grumbly noise as she pulls it out of her clutch, wanting to be pressed against her and murmuring dirty words into her ear once again, but it’s someone from the shelter with a question, and I understand when she has to duck out of the party to take the call. I do some discreet adjustments to my body and find a drink, suddenly feeling very grouchy and restless without her, my Zenny-bug, and that hateful voice pops up in my head again.

  Less than three weeks left.

  Less than three weeks.

  “Sean Bell!” a stupid voice says nearby, and I turn and try to look polite, because it’s not this person’s fault that they aren’t Zenny and therefore aren’t interesting to me. “It’s been ages! It’s Hayley, remember? And this is Sophia, Todd, Katelyn, and Jeremy. Sophia, Sean used to work with Mike, before Mike moved into consulting.”

  And before I know it, I’m swallowed whole by a cluster of stupid people and their stupid chatter.

  Introductions are made—apparently I used to work with “Mike,” although if it’s the Mike I’m thinking of, Hayley needs to get a divorce and take him for everything he’s worth. (At the office, we used to call him Cocaine Mike, until a fuzzy and very illegal night involving a park bench and an escort earned him the new nickname of Double Condom Mike.)

  Ugh. I can’t believe I ever hung out with that guy. Or anyone like him.

  Why am I spending my time with these people? I run my gaze over the group currently gabbing at my face, and all I see are entitled, self-absorbed faces honking like geese about their entitled, self-absorbed lives. I feel the same wave of discomfort I felt earlier with Valdman, but even stronger this time.

  I don’t like this, I realize, and the realization is like a leviathan circling my raft. I don’t like these people and I don’t like this life.

  It’s a terrifying thing to consider, because I’ve spent every year since graduating college working to be here. Working for the money and the parties and the hilarious-but-disgusting nights with guys like Double Condom Mike. I thought it was what I wanted; I thought it made me strong; I derided anyone too weak to see the world for what it really is, which is a fish tank of angry eels. But now I want out of the tank, and I really, really want away from the eels.

  I want what Zenny has. And Tyler and my mom and everyone else in my life who’s actually good and not a human dumpster fire.

  It’s while I’m processing this that I register a lull in the conversation, and I see that everyone in the group is looking at me. Well, not actually at me, but at someone behind me. I catch a blessed glimpse of seafoam chiffon and a crown of scrolled, luscious curls, and turn, ready to yank Zenny to my side and nuzzle her some more. Or maybe I’ll simply take her hand and lead her back to the car, because now I can’t even remember why I thought this would be a fun idea. Her parents are so involved with Kansas City society that surely she’s been to enough of these in her life to be bored by one, and I’m definitely bored here, and this was a dumb idea.

  Yep. I’ve decided. I’m going to lace my fingers through her slender, perfect ones and then we are going to my car, and then we are going home and I’m going to let her claim my body the way she’s been aching to claim it all this time.

  I get as far as reaching for Zenny’s hand and finding it, which is then that Sophia (or Hayley, I’m not sure which) says casually, “I’ll have another glass of champagne.”

  There’s a silence, and I’m completely lost as to why the hell Sophia (or Hayley) is telling us this, and then she adds, “Actually, make it two. And you can take this one.” She holds out an empty champagne glass into equally empty air, as if she expects someone to take it.

  As if she expects Zenny to take it.

  Zenny’s hand feels carved from rigid stone inside of my own, and the world seems to slow down, time accordioning out, as the absurdity of what Sophia or Hayley is saying starts sifting through my mind. Because of course Zenny isn’t going to take the glass, of course she doesn’t work here—obviously she’s dressed as a guest, obviously I know her because we’re holding fucking hands—and then everything sifts lower and oh my God, this isn’t just Sophia or Hayley being stupid (well, yes, she’s also being stupid) but it’s somethi
ng else on top of that, something worse—

  “No, no,” one of the guys interrupts. “That’s Jeremiah Iverson’s daughter.” There’s a resounding chorus of oh yeses! where it becomes clear that she must be Dr. Iverson’s daughter and it also becomes clear that nobody knows her name but it’s definitely, definitely his daughter and they all love Dr. Iverson and the Honorable Letitia Iverson and does everybody remember that time Judge Iverson pardoned Hayley’s parking ticket, because Hayley does, Hayley remembers it.

  They’re talking about Zenny like she’s not even here, and there’s a small intake of breath from next to me, and I realize I’m squeezing her hand too hard. I give her a gentle pump in apology, and then turn back to the group of garbage geese people ready to rip them apart.

  Which happens right as Sophia or Hayley says one last terrible thing. “Oh, so you’re a guest here!” she says, reaching out to give Zenny a playful tweak on the shoulder. “You should have said something!”

  “Get your hands the fuck off her,” I say, in what I think is an admirably calm voice, given the situation. Because it’s finally become clear to me exactly what dynamic is at play, and I’m beyond angry, I’m beyond furious, I’m something else altogether. I’m biblical, I’m Jehovah finding Israel worshipping false gods, and I’m going to smite these motherfuckers, I’m going to unleash plagues on them and watch their bodies be eaten alive by sores and fires and famine.

  And locusts. I’m going to kill them with locusts too.

  “Um, what?” Sophia/Hayley laughs nervously, thinking surely she misheard. Surely.

  “I said,” I say (again, in a voice that I think is graciously calm, given the circumstances), “get your hands the fuck off my date. And don’t you ever fucking insinuate she doesn’t belong somewhere ever the fuck again.”

  The silence that follows is appropriately deep, and I straighten up a bit, feeling slightly better, although still very smitey, and then Sophia/Hayley laughs. “Oh my God, Sean! You are so funny!” And her friends laugh along with her, bleating, oblivious idiots, and I’m so confused.