by Bethany-Kris
Lucian didn’t get the chance to ask his mother what she meant by that. Cecelia had already turned and was leaving down the long aisle. The church was practically cleared out of parishioners, but for a few stragglers towards the back. Apparently he wasn’t the only one wanting to make a beeline out of the old building as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, Lucian was well aware that wasn’t going to happen today. Confession could take a while, especially if done correctly, and as his mother mentioned, honestly. Penance could be even longer. He was dreading that, too, though he wasn’t sure which one he disliked more.
So, just knowing that made Lucian take the long trek to the confessional a little slower. He distinctly remembered the first time he’d gone to confession because his mother demanded it. It was the Saturday morning following his eighteenth birthday. Antony allowed the Marcello boys to throw a massive party—something they were famous for—at their mansion style home in the gated community of Tuxedo Park in Orange County, New York with the bare minimum of parental supervision.
It wasn’t the party that had gone bad that Friday night, but the morning after. Cecelia happened upon a stash of Lucian’s usual things. Weed, condoms, and the like. She hadn’t been impressed, to say the least. But hell, he was eighteen, and at that point, readying to move into his apartment in Manhattan. He was terribly careful about keeping his things out of his mother’s sight, but that night had been wild and the morning after left him in something of a stupor.
Cecelia was more concerned over the condoms than anything else.
He still remembered her questioning, too. All the while Antony sat off to the side, smirking in his usual smug way. It wasn’t like his father didn’t know the kinds of things his sons were doing behind closed doors. His two brothers, on the other hand, laughed their still drunk asses off outside the office door.
“Is this the first time you’ve … well, you know, or has it been happening for a while?” his mother had asked. “Do you love this girl? Are you always safe?”
Lucian had tried, really, really tried, not to laugh, but his muddled up mind didn’t cooperate. His answers had been pretty damned simple. “No, it’s been happening since I was fourteen. Girls, and absolutely not,” he’d corrected for the second answer. “But, yes, I’m always safe.”
Those were not the answers his mother wanted to hear, except for maybe the last one. Cecelia then proceeded to take him to confession that very morning. It was a great way to spend the morning after his birthday while still dealing with a massive hangover.
Not.
Lucian was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even realize he was standing ten feet away from the confessional box. The confessional in their Catholic church reminded him of every old black and white movie he’d ever seen that involved confession with dark curtains to hide the people within, two sides, and an almost daunting quality.
Quickly, he glanced around for Father Peter, as the priest usually stood outside his side of the box to let the members of the congregation know he was there and accepting confession. The man wasn’t there in his usual robed attire. The curtains of the confessional were closed on both sides, though.
Lucian assumed, because his mother said herself the priest was making a special exception for him that Sunday afternoon, Father Peter must have already been inside waiting for him. Oddly, he usually would have left the right curtain open for Lucian to enter.
It didn’t matter, really. Lucian wanted to get it done and over with to satisfy his mother and that was it. Crossing the short distance to the confessional, he grabbed the curtain and tugged to open it.
And promptly froze right where he stood.
Chapter Three
She was beautiful.
Not in the usual, pretty face, clear skin, and bright eyes kind of way. She had all of that going for her, too, but that wasn’t it. No, the woman behind the confessional curtain was beautiful in a heart stopping, stunning, and make-your-lungs-ache kind of way.
Lucian knew instantly she wasn’t a fulltime member of their congregation. After years of attending, he would have noticed someone like her at least once, if not a dozen times before. It would have certainly given him something better to stare at other than the goddamned ceiling and walls.
Waves of hair the color of ebony, with a thick streak of deep maroon red behind her right ear trailed in curls down below her shoulders. The knee-length, pale colored curve hugging dress with sleeves that stopped at her elbows and pumps nearly matched the cream tone of her skin. Kneeling like she was didn’t hide the curve in her waist or the swell of her breasts beneath the fabric of her dress for a minute. As his gaze flicked over her, taking every inch of her in that he could in what felt like only seconds, he was sure there was ink below her dress. Damn, that mouth … Lips that were plump, and pink, forming an O of shock.
A mouth meant for kissing. One he thought might taste like hot candy. Probably as soft as silk. He bet she’d kiss like she owned him. Those lips of hers would take him straight to hell and back. Those thoughts, all of them, were what Lucian’s mind ran through almost immediately.
He didn’t kiss, ever. Not once with all the dalliances of women he’d had in his twenty-seven years. Sure, he fucked hard. Loved to use his teeth and hands to get a female shaking, sweating, and begging for more. Liked it even better when she used hers, too. Lucian would take a woman however she wanted him to take her, but he wouldn’t kiss her.
Kissing was so very intimate. Emotional, even. While sex was carnal, kissing was passionate. It filled in an entirely different way. Lovers kissed. It was almost meant to claim someone, to keep them, taste them, and have them for only you in that private way.
There was an old, Italian proverb Lucian remembered to explain the motions of love: Il bacio sta all'amore come il lampo al tuono. The kiss is to love what lightning is to thunder. Italians called falling in that kind of love the colpo di fulmine—the thunderbolt. The feeling came like a strike of lightning so powerfully swift it would change the unsuspecting man right where he stood. Nothing could ever be the same. There was no preparing for it, either. Appropriate, then, how the two adages could overlap so perfectly to fit something as unattainable and frightening as true love.
But those things, all of those thoughts, trickled away when he stared into her eyes. Blue, like the sea, flecked with green specks that reminded him of emeralds. Clear as day and opened so wide right back at him. Penetrating right through his chest to where his heart suddenly beat like a thousand hooves.
There was something behind that gaze, something he recognized. A lost look, the wanderer’s stare. As if maybe she hadn’t quite found home yet, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. Or perhaps, she just hadn’t found herself and the right people to give that sense of home to her.
Lucian knew that sight like nothing else because he stared at it every fucking day when he took a good look in the mirror.
It hurt to look at her, he realized. He didn’t have a clue why.
Still, Lucian stood there staring at her, the curtain fisted in his clenched hand, and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t help it. The tingling sensation spreading over his lax lips reminded him of his first urge—to kiss her, to know the taste of her and her mouth.
That was completely ridiculous. Absurd, even.
Who in the hell was she?
A name, he wanted her name.
Lucian wouldn’t get it. He couldn’t.
Women didn’t generally have that strong of an effect on him and he wasn’t about to let a pretty face start it up now.
“B-bella, scusi,” Lucian stuttered, apologising for his intrusion and letting the curtain fall closed as his shaking fist returned to his side. “Merda.”
He’d even fumbled over his words for Christ’s sake. As confident and cocky of a man as he was, he couldn’t manage to get two words of Italian out properly. And he’d called her beautiful, like a cafone.
Turing on his heel, Lucian made a decision to get to th
e front of the church as quickly as he could and get the hell out.
Fuck confession.
Screw what his mother wanted.
Lucian couldn’t do this shit or deal with it today.
“Lucian, son?”
Vaguely, he heard Father Peter calling for him from behind, but Lucian didn’t even bother to wave the priest’s concern off. He simply continued his near jog until he was out of sight and smelling the air of New York City.
“Lucian?”
Gio’s deep tenor drew Lucian’s gaze up from his feet, the bright light of the outside blinding him. Why was his family still standing on the front steps of the church?
“That was too quick,” he heard his mother say. “Did something happen?”
“Son?”
“Hey—”
“Gio,” Lucian said, the strain in his throat turning his youngest brother’s name rough and raspy. “Drive me home, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Gio agreed, shrugging. “Sure, man.”
• • •
Jordyn stood on shaky legs, moving the curtain of the confession box out of the way. The priest who had been taking her confession seconds before was standing outside instead of the handsome intruder who was there moments ago.
His eyes—a hazel swirl of emotions—had caught her like a deer in the headlights.
She barely witnessed a glance of a black suit disappearing fast around a corner before he was gone completely.
What had the priest called him? Lucian, was it?
“Miss Reese, I apologize,” the priest said, obviously flustered. “It usually isn’t in one of my parishioner’s nature to interrupt like that. I’m sure Mr. Marcello—”
“It’s okay, I think he apologized,” she interrupted quietly.
She was sure that was what he said before the curtain closed. Or something similar, like excuse me.
“And something else,” Jordyn added, more for her benefit than the priest’s.
Bella, was it?
The man looked at her like he recognized her, then called her Bella.
“Beautiful,” the priest said from her side.
“I’m sorry?”
Father Peter, as he’d introduced himself earlier, smiled. “I heard him, and what he said was beautiful before he excused himself.”
Oh. He thought she was beautiful?
In her profession, it wasn’t unusual. Jordyn was accustomed to men’s leers and even their occasional comments. She didn’t mind, and usually brushed them off so long as they didn’t put their hands on her. She was aware of her good looks, as far as that went, but men mostly described her lewdly as hot, fuckable, or something disgustingly similar.
Not him, though. Beautiful, he said.
Huh.
“I think you surprised him being behind the curtain. He probably expected it to be empty, given the times I usually reserve for confession.”
That was obviously an understatement.
Jordyn waved it all off. “Listen, thank you for offering to speak to me, but I should go.”
Father Peter frowned. “We should finish. I’m willing to listen, if you’re still willing to speak.”
As it was, Jordyn already felt out of place in this house of God. Women like her didn’t make a habit of going to church, let alone being seen near one. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that brought her to this particular church, but she chose one far enough away from her Brooklyn apartment that she knew no one would recognize her. That way, it wouldn’t get back any of the members of The Sons of Hell.
The last thing she needed was them getting wind of her going to church.
It was only something she did occasionally, whenever her mind was filled with crap she couldn’t handle, or stress was eating her alive. Despite the way her mother had lived her life, she always tried to make time for religion, or at the very least, God. There was something entirely freeing about being able to have those kinds of memories of her mother without all the other awfulness surrounding it.
Shaking off those depressing thoughts, Jordyn offered Father Peter a smile, but it didn’t feel real even to her. “No, really. I should go.”
“These doors are always open, child,” Father Peter replied. “Always.”
Nodding, Jordyn began to walk away.
“And,” he continued in his same, soft tenor, “… Mass is at the same time every Sunday.”
She took note of that, but doubted she would be back in this church again.
Regardless of the unknown, gorgeous man with a voice still ringing in the back of her mind.
• • •
A little after six that evening, Jordyn walked through the front entrance of Legs and Leather, ignoring the blatant ogling of the two security guards. She was long accustomed to their staring. Legs, a strip club owned and operated by Ron, the Vice President of the Brooklyn chapter of The Sons of Hell, wasn’t anything fancy or upscale. Most of the girls working the poles were either barely above age, or old enough to be her mother. They’d do anything for the right price, and that price wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.
The one thing the older women and younger girls had in common?
A vice—drugs, usually.
Jordyn, while occasionally dabbling in something to take the edge off, was proud to say she didn’t follow down that same addictive path as her mother once had. It was, after all, exactly what led her mother Sandra straight into the motorcycle club’s seedy ways and eventually ended her life, too.
She wasn’t a dancer, though. Jordyn was lucky enough to keep some morality in herself by waiting tables and keeping most of her clothes on. If you considered the heels, skimpy lace and leather panties and matching bra ensemble she was forced to wear decent. She sure didn’t.
“Hey, sugar,” one of the security guards drawled. “Heard you gotta special on tonight.”
Jordyn nearly stumbled in her walk past the guys, but fixed it quickly. A special and her name were not two things that she ever thought would be said together in the same sentence. It meant she’d be working a pole and not the floor. “Excuse me?”
“Can’t wait to see those pretty tits of yours without anything covering them. Not to mention that ass. Goddamn girl, we haven’t seen all of that ink of yours in a long time.”
A shiver crawled up her spine. Something awful welled in Jordyn’s stomach, leaping straight up into her mouth and leaving a bad taste behind. It was their agreement, she thought desperately. Ron promised her. She wouldn’t have to dance, not ever, if she didn’t want to.
“What?” She turned sharply on four inch heels to glare at the meathead.
“You heard me. But I guess you’ll find out soon enough. Meeting is in ten. Better hurry it up, chica.”
When the idiot reached out as if he was going to stroke her cheek with two fingers, Jordyn snapped back from him. “I suggest if you want them to remained attached to your arms, you’ll keep your hands off me, asshole.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that.”
Jordyn made it through the club in record time. Instead of going back to the dressing rooms to change into her uniform—or lack thereof—she bypassed that altogether, weaving through the dirty pool tables and scratched up booths until she reached Ron’s office. The door was shut, which often signaled there was business happening behind closed doors the workers weren’t to be interrupting. She didn’t give a shit.
Banging on the door, Jordyn yelled, “Open up!”
She continued to slam her fist on the door, though no one answered. Finally, after two minutes, the door swung open to reveal Ron in his usual jeans and T-shirt attire. He also wore the motorcycle club’s leather vest as he always did, the VP patch sewed on the right side gave away his ranking. His glowering eyes bore into hers furiously.
“What in the fuck do you want?” he barked.
Jordyn should have been scared. Any one of the other girls in the strip joint certainly would have been. Probably would have scattered away like frightened little mice. That wasn’t her
.
“What’s this about me and a special, Ron?” she asked, the rage curling around the edge of her voice. “What in the hell is that about, now?”
“Now’s not the time, Jord.”
Screw that.
“No, now is exactly the time, Ron. You promised me.”
She was only twenty-one, but she’d been working in this goddamned club since she was sixteen. In fact, she was serving alcohol to men thirty years her senior before she was ever legal to do so. Jordyn cleaned up after the girls whether asked or not. Kept their space good, took care of them if something went wrong with the men, and on more than one occasion, had been the one to make the anonymous phone call to nine-one-one when she found a girl out back, overdosed.
Jordyn did her part.
They had a deal.
“Like I said, now’s not the time,” Ron repeated quieter.
“Is it Will?” she asked, a wariness and hesitance starting to seep in. “Is that it?”
Will Vetta was the President of the Brooklyn chapter of The Sons of Hell, and as far as Jordyn understood it, pulled a high rank in the club in its entirety. Jordyn wasn’t entirely sure why, although she suspected it had something to do with her mother, but the man hated her guts. It seemed like he would even go out of his way to make a day particularly difficult on her if he could.
Jordyn didn’t mind standing up to any member of The Sons of Hell. They didn’t scare her—she was so much better than any of them. But, Will? Will Vetta scared the living shit out of her.
That kind of thing could happen to a girl when a man holds a gun to a thirteen-year-old who just found her mother dead not hours before and says, “You say nothing. You’re ours, now. Do you understand me, kid?”
Oh, Jordyn understood.
“Is this about him?” she asked again.
Ron frowned, some of the anger disappearing from his gaze. Turning over his shoulder, he muttered something inside the room before opening the door wider. Raine, Ron’s old lady and one of two bartenders for Legs, slipped out without a word or glance in Jordyn’s direction.
