Takeover: The Complete Series

by Lana Grayson

  But now, it felt like my orders took something from me.

  “Do you believe in God, Honor?” I asked.

  She didn’t like the question. “Yes.” Her voice shifted. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t want to believe anymore.”

  That broke my heart. “Why?”

  “Because then…it’d be easier to want you. I wouldn’t be breaking a covenant with God. I could be free to…” She bit her lip. “Be selfish. To sin without fear of reprimand for feelings I can’t deny. I don’t even know if I should deny them.” She hesitated. “If you didn’t believe, you wouldn’t fear the sins either.”

  “The sins are my own, Honor.”

  “Not these.”

  “Yes, they are. They are the sweetest sins. And I wouldn’t purge them away for a clean soul or untouched skin. I will keep this burden, my angel. You are the reason that I am healed, and that darkness was cast away.”

  “Then why can’t we be—”

  I interrupted her before she said anything foolish. “You healed me, but I don’t deserve you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You gifted me your virtue, and your touch has meant more to me than any blessing I’ve ever received. Because of you, I understand passion now. I see why it should be protected and sanctified. Why it should be a covenant, a sacrament. That…connection is too precious to give to anyone.”

  “You aren’t just anyone, Father.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She was getting upset. So was I, but I could hide the pain. I’d pray it away. I’d run laps around my block or beat the punching bag in the rectory basement to relieve that strain.

  “What happened between us wasn’t a mistake, Father,” she said. “It wasn’t a lapse in judgment or a failure of temptation. It was real. What I feel is real.”

  “And it’s best you forget it.”

  “How can I?”

  I exhaled. “The same way I will. Time. Separation.”

  “And if I want to see you again?”

  My chest ached. “Don’t try, Honor.”

  She stood, kicking away from the pew. I didn’t try to comfort her.

  “I’ll leave the parish,” I said. “And you can go on with your life. We have our own paths, and they diverge here. It will protect us both.”

  “From what? From our hearts?”

  “From each other.”

  She shook her head, the curls falling before her beautiful face. I wished she would have tucked them behind her ear. I feared this would be the last time I’d see her this close, this raw, without pretense or shelter.

  I’d have brushed her hair myself, but I didn’t trust where my hand would linger.

  “I’m not afraid of what I feel,” she said. “I just wish—”

  “Don’t wish,” I said. “We’ve already taken too much.”

  “So that’s it? We just…forget what we had? Ignore everything we’ve discovered?”

  “No, there’s one last thing I want you to do.”

  She sensed it from me, and like a raging animal, her hackles rose. Her beautiful face twisted in pain and she stepped away from me.

  “Don’t you dare, Father.”

  “I want you to confess to me.”

  “No.”

  She was too stubborn, to hurt to see why this needed to be done. “Why do you fight me on this?”

  “Why take away what precious memories I have?”

  “Why tarnish your soul with my mistakes?”

  “You have your sweetest sins.” She spat the word. “Leave me my beautiful mistakes.”

  “You trusted me with your body. Your innocence.” I extended a hand, calling her over. She refused. “Trust me now with this.”

  “It hurts.”

  “Yes. It hurts us both. But I will not leave you in a state of—”

  Her voice rose. “No. Just stop. Stop making what happened something perverted and terrible. Don’t make me hate what we did because I don’t, Father. I won’t repent a single minute of it. Not your touch. Not your kiss. Not the way it felt with you inside me.”

  “You’re in mortal sin, Honor.”

  “Then let me sin.”

  I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not if I could help her.

  Honor stormed before me, outraged and beautiful and hating me with such a furious passion.

  “You once said not confess our sins. We are supposed to uncover the reason we were led into darkness.”

  Honor knelt before me. I stiffened.

  “This is my confession, Father.”

  “Honor.”

  “Bless me, Father. I’ve never been honest with you. My last confession was so long ago, so broken and defiled, I don’t remember if I was even absolved.”

  “Stop this.”

  “For the past summer, I’ve had impure thoughts—I can’t count the number. I’ve engaged in sexual activity. Kisses. Touches more times than I can count. I’ve had sex with a man three times, and each encounter was greater and more meaningful than the last.”

  I wouldn’t hear this. “Honor—”

  She spoke over me, her words twisted in fury. “I don’t know why I did these things. At first I thought it was a test of faith. I believed it was temptation that darkened my desire and forced me to commit acts that I never imagined. But now…I understand.”

  I tried to stand. Honor pushed me back into the pew.

  “Bless me, Father. I gave myself to a kind, honest, and moral man. A man who was in pain. A man who lived a life of self-inflicted punishment for the sins done to him as a child.”

  This was a mockery of everything in my soul, and yet I stared into her eyes and hated that I hung on her every word.

  “I surrendered myself to this man,” she said. “And he taught me more about my faith and my body and the dangers of lust than anything I had ever read in scripture. Through him, I found the strength to confront my mother, to take a role of responsibility in the church, and to give of myself to others so that they might be healed.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Are you done?”

  “No. Because I have one final confession, Father.”

  And it would damn us both.

  Honor held my gaze. “Over the past three months, I thought I suffered from the sin of lust, but I was wrong. I felt something more. Something holy and pure. Something I’ve never experienced for any man in my life. My heart had a revelation. You might try to take this joy from me, but I will fight you for it until the day I die. It can’t possibly be a sin!”

  I said nothing, waiting as she took a breath wracked with rage and fear and such sorrow I pleaded for Mary to take some of her pain.

  “Do I confess to this? Yes.” Honor whispered. “Did we touch? Yes. Did we kiss? Yes. Did we have sex? Yes.”

  Enough of this. I could tolerate her temper, but I couldn’t endure her tears.

  “It’s time to pray, Honor,” I said. “You’re angry now. Don’t blaspheme any more than we already have.”

  I stood, but Honor was already retreating to the door, brushing away tears.

  “I won’t repent for those sins,” she said.

  “They’re mortal, Honor.”

  “And I cherish them.” She ripped my rosaries from her neck and threw them at my feet. “Falling in love with you is my only regret.”

  24

  Honor

  The festival descended upon St. Cecilia’s. The parish was meant to celebrate the end of summer. Instead, we mourned the departure of Father Raphael.

  Some more than others.

  The Battle of the Choirs drew the crowds for the opening night’s events. Other parishes and neighboring churches sent their best for a “friendly” battle of song, but the congregation came to support our nine-person troupe. Suddenly, St. Cecilia’s was desperate for the win.

  Something for Father Raphael before he left.

  But hadn’t I already given enough? My heart. My soul. My vi
rginity?

  I had nothing else to give this man, and yet, if he had asked, I’d have given him so much more of me. But he’d made his choice. He decided on the path for his life, and I wasn’t a part of it.

  I shouldn’t have expected to be.

  It was selfish. Wrong.

  And it hurt too much.

  The festival was blitzed in light and music, shrieking laughter and crying babies. The cacophony swirled in my head, throbbing like a hangover. I wished I had the courage to drink, but Mom and I kept no temptations in the house. Why test an already tested soul, she had said.

  If only I’d listened to her.

  I hadn’t slept. My voice wasn’t in any shape to sing for the concert, and I feared the sounds that would squeak out once I attempted my solo.

  Deacon Smith gathered us in a circle, and his blessing for a fun and productive Battle of the Bands quickly devolved into a plea for some sort of miracle that would keep us on key or un-tune everyone else’s ears. But despite his lack of faith, Father Raphael had always complimented us.

  And he was nothing if not honest.

  I scanned the crowds. The stage and risers were installed in the back of the lot, shimmering in the lights and the neon glow of the rest of the festival. I remembered St. Cecilia’s events as a child…and it was probably why I worked so hard to make this event better.

  Craft booths were moved to the far corners so we could open the main path to games, bouncy houses, even an arcade. The rides were installed to the right, near the road to draw in more people. And the food booths and candy shops were pushed to the back, so more attendees would walk through the lanes.

  It worked. The festival was packed into the lot, and hundreds of people swarmed in the sweltering late-summer night.

  But he wasn’t here.

  Or he wasn’t with us.

  Father Raphael probably spoke with the other churches, greeted the rest of his congregation, or accepted the well-wishes of everyone in the parish who was still finding the time to thank him for his love and service to the community.

  I hadn’t thanked him enough for that kindness.

  And I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I had no idea what I’d do when I faced him again, probably for the last time. I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage.

  But hadn’t I already done that?

  How could I resent a priest for following his calling?

  What was wrong with me?

  No matter how hard I tried, I’d never justify my feelings. Our last conversation spawned words that erupted from a dark and terrible place in my heart. I didn’t know that sin existed in me, and I hated that it might have been the last thing I ever said to him.

  The crowd cheered as the lights centered on the stage. Judy crossed into the spotlight to greet the festival.

  “Welcome, welcome!” Judy took a microphone, juggled with it, and struggled to shout over the feedback until Deacon Smith slapped it from her hand and adjusted the setting. The crowd showed their gratitude in modest applause. “Thank you all so much for coming to cheer on St. Cecilia’s first—and hopefully annual—Battle of the Choirs!”

  The festival attendees funneled towards the stages while the bells, whistles, and other loopy game sounds echoed over the park. Alyssa and Samantha each took one of my hands and clutched them to their chests. At least it covered them up. Deacon Smith was unable to convince them to wear something more modest that didn’t reveal their flirty pink bra straps to the entire congregation.

  “You ready?” Alyssa giggled. “How pathetic is it that this is the highlight of my summer?”

  Samantha pouted. “I don’t see Daddy El. He better come over to wish us luck before we sing.”

  I said nothing, listening as Judy introduced our distinguished judges for the event—two town commissioners and the owner of the local Pizza Hut. It seemed absurd now, but all Father Raphael had wanted was to provide the church better opportunities. He’d worked tirelessly to give us fun activities and a chance to get involved in the community.

  And he’d succeeded. Despite the sins and darkness and nightmares of his past, Father Raphael did good everywhere he went.

  The least I could do was sing for him, so he realized not all of things we did together were sins.

  In fact, the entire summer had been wonderful.

  Confusing.

  Heart-Breaking.

  I chugged my water before I got upset. I’d lose my voice if I started to cry.

  And I’d never be able to explain the tears.

  We took to the stage last—and after four rousing renditions of Ava Maria, the crowd cheered when Deacon Smith announced our chosen hymn, Pie Jesu.

  The choir picked it because it best complimented my voice. I chose it because I knew Father Raphael would love it.

  But I still didn’t see him.

  My heart beat a little too fast as organized on the stage. I scanned the crowd. Mom bounced in the middle of the woman’s group, cheering me on. It was the first event she’d ever attended in support of me, so I expected the barrage of camera flashes. Others also shouted and called for us.

  The women’s group. The youth group. The deacons.

  But not him.

  I couldn’t find Father Raphael.

  And the realization made me sick.

  Deacon Smith called off the song.

  I missed the cue.

  Not that it mattered. We planned, practiced, and thought it’d be an amazing idea to sing our Pie Jesu acapella, written in layered harmonies. It all hinged on me. I was to sing the first half of the first verse completely solo, without even a tuning note from the piano.

  I didn’t have stage fright, but now I feared that note more than anything. It didn’t matter if it was out of tune or out of time. He wouldn’t hear it.

  He wasn’t here.

  Deacon Smith clapped a bit louder, counting off the song and marking the rest of the time with his hands so I could see the downbeat.

  Christ, what a fool I was.

  I didn’t look over the congregation. I opened my mouth, surprised that the note which emerged was as rich, powerful, and lovely as the first note I sang during try-outs.

  When he had been watching. Listening.

  Wanting me.

  He deserved better than the way I treated him. Even then, I sang deliberately to tempt him. I did all I could to draw his attention and earn his favor, even knowing what I was doing and the pain it would cause.

  Father Raphael had tried to protect me. From him. From myself. From the lust and desire and the darkness that I thought was just a physical attraction to the forbidden.

  It wasn’t.

  We hadn’t prepared for what would happen. Didn’t know why we’d wanted each other so badly.

  And now as I sang, as my voice rang over the festival and drowned out the whizzing games and electronic songs and the constant hum of conversations and phones, I meant for him to hear me.

  I wished he knew that I was sorry for hurting him.

  That I was so grateful for him.

  That I never meant to fight.

  And that I did love him…and I understood why he had to leave.

  I just hoped I wasn’t too late to tell him.

  The song crescendoed, slow and melodic and surging the goose bumps over my skin as our voices harmonized and forged a beautiful, haunting breath of music.

  It ended softly, reverently, and the stillness was shattered by a rousing applause.

  Judy took to the stage, accepting the praise of the crowd as she reintroduced us as St. Cecilia’s prized choir.

  “Thank you all so much!” She clapped and the microphone buzzed. “Now I think we ought to invite up here the man who made this all possible up here. I am so pleased to introduce Father Raphael St. Lucian, our parish priest...” She hesitated. “At least for the rest of the week.”

  The audience cheered. I held my breath.

  I didn’t see him. Neither did Deacon Smith. He shrugged at Judy.

  “Father Rafe?
” Judy called over the festival. She nervously made a joke. “Would our priest please come to the stage?”

  One of the youth group mothers shouted over the crying baby in her arms. “I thought I saw him in the church?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Judy sighed. “All right. We’ll just move onto the judging. Now, we’re going to give our esteemed judges a few minutes to discuss—”

  I wasn’t listening. Alyssa and Samantha called to me, but I hurried from the stage, jumping off the steps and nearly losing my heel to the muck behind the stairs.

  I knew where Father Raphael was, and I knew just what he was doing.

  Leaving.

  He wouldn’t have missed the festival unless he meant to avoid it, to rush from our lives, without the common courtesy to tell us he was packing his office.

  He was leaving.

  The tears stung my eyes and blurred everything as I sprinted to the church—as fast as I could break through the people and dart through the booths.

  The crowds thickened beyond the concert. Pressed in. Laughed and milled and got lost between the flickering reds and yellows and purples of the lights. Canned music and the rumble of chains on steel equipment muffled the presentations from the stage.

  I didn’t care.

  I pushed through the dizzying crowds, parting the sea that would crush back and tear me upon the rocks of my own sin.

  Was he still in the church?

  He wouldn’t have gone. Not yet. Not so soon.

  I closed my eyes and prayed.

  Please don’t be gone.

  I twisted through the booths and vendors, sliding between two tables and rushing behind those restocking from their trailers. An electrical cord twisted in the grass, and I hopped to avoid it. My toe crunched against a concrete block used to pitch the tents, and the pain would have made me weep if I could afford those few precious seconds.

  In the dark, I slipped against mud and sweated as the night drew close. I filled my crushing lungs with humid misery.

  The parking lot was full, and I dodged parking cars and swarms of people milling outside the festival. I burst to the sidewalk and yanked on the back door.

  Locked.

  No.

  I didn’t have time to catch my breath. I ran to the front, tripping over my dress and falling to my knees at the front steps of the church.