Stripped Down

by Eden Butler

  Patrick had done exactly what she wanted. He had never married her, but she had his name. So did I. Had he lied to his bishop? Had someone forged documents for them? They left New Orleans when he was transferred, which, from the last letter I read, came in time that no one would know of my mother’s condition. They’d hidden from her family and moved to New York, posing as brother and sister. My entire life, I’d been told that my mother had married a man on a whim, some local she’d met while on vacation in Rome. But he left her after a month, and she returned home to New York, already pregnant, with no idea where her husband had gone.

  But it had been a lie.

  All of it.

  Everything I knew.

  Everything I believed my entire life had been constructed to protect a man from the same sin he’d never forgiven me for making.

  I dropped the book, the letters and pictures falling to the floor around me, and I threw back the chair. The air in the room had become too thick, the staleness of this old place suffocating me until I thought I might pass out.

  I needed to get out, away from the rectory, from my uncle’s secrets, from anything that reminded me of the lies told to keep me under someone else’s control. The street was crowded when I hit the sidewalk, but I managed to hail a cab immediately, slipping inside before I could get my heartbeat to slow.

  “Where to?” the driver asked, and I called out the address, thinking of the only place in the city with the only person who’d ever made me feel any real freedom. I’d go to him and try to forget for just one more night that my world was falling apart.

  16

  Johnny

  She was a drug I needed out of my system.

  The smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin, the feel of her nails against my back when I moved inside of her—it was all better than any drink, than the sweetest bump I’d ever taken.

  Sammy was addictive, and I was going on day five without a single fix.

  Angelo watched her, made damn sure no one, especially not Liam Shane, touched a hair on her head. Last he’d reported, she’d been with her uncle at the rectory.

  No harm, no foul, and I told him to call it a night.

  My apartment was too quiet. The empty rooms, the vacant noise of nothingness… I just couldn’t be there. So, I told myself work would give me something to do. It would fill the monotony. It would distract me from the withdrawals I had from not seeing Sammy, not hearing her voice, not tasting her mouth.

  But an hour in and I was already listless. The projections were done. The figures figured. No meetings could be had on a Friday night at eleven p.m. Garcia had been called and handled. I exaggerated about the trip to the Hamptons with Sammy, let him think we’d extended it so he wouldn’t get suspicious.

  Everyone else had a family.

  Everyone else had a life.

  Mine had passed me by.

  I shot tequila straight, not bothering with a glass. No need for propriety when there was just me and my damn internal whining as I watched New York below me, moving along, going forward, while I waited for Samantha to leave my system.

  Then, as if I summoned her with some spell, the elevator chimed. Angelo ushered her in, knocking once on my door before he opened it, holding it ajar long enough for Sammy to march inside. One look at her face and I knew shit had tumbled for her.

  “What happened?” I said, moving away from the window to meet her in the middle of the room.

  She was mad; that much I could see—eyes wide and wild, bloodshot and red. Her normally smooth, wavy hair was in disarray, and her clothes were wrinkled, like she’d slept in them. Sammy opened her mouth to speak, then glanced over her shoulder, eyebrow cocked as she looked at Angelo.

  “It’s okay, man. I got it,” I told him, nodding for him to close the door.

  She barely let the latch close before she rounded on me. “Your father, did he know? Did he tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” I set the bottle on my desk, touching her shoulders, hoping that would calm her. It only seemed to make her angrier.

  “About my… About Father Patrick? Did your father know about him and my mother?”

  “What about them?”

  The frown she gave me was severe and misplaced.

  I’d done a lot to deserve her anger but nothing in the past few days. If she was pissed at me, I wanted it to be for something I knew I did. “Bella, is this about me exaggerating what he and I…”

  “What I’m asking you, Johnny Carelli, is if your father ever told you that he knew Patrick Nicola wasn’t my uncle? Did he tell you that Patrick and my mother were not brother and sister?” She walked to my desk, pulling out of my reach to grab the bottle. In all the time I’d known her, I’d never seen Sammy drink tequila. Wine, often, sometimes whiskey, but never tequila and never straight from the bottle.

  “Sammy…”

  “What I want to know—” she chugged, squeezing her features as she shook off the taste “—is if you knew that Patrick is my…father.”

  “I…” My head swam, and I couldn’t do much more than watch her, trying to make sense of whatever nonsense had just left her mouth. “What?”

  “Yeah…” Another swig, this one deeper.

  It made sense now—her shock, her appearance, her loss of calm and control, and the immediate need to dull whatever pain must be riddling her. I couldn’t even imagine what that would feel like…being lied to by the one person you thought could never hurt you.

  “Sammy…” She silenced me with a headshake, and I moved to her, still only able to stare, still too shocked to do anything but watch her and only because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I grabbed the tequila from her and took one long pull, wiping my mouth dry with the back of my hand.

  “Come on,” I told her, grabbing her hand to bring her to the sofa next to my desk. “Tell me what happened.”

  “He had a heart attack after we…” She went quiet, and I knew there was something she didn’t want to share. Something I wouldn’t push her to tell me. Sammy had always kept her secrets. That likely would never change. I respected that. Being who I was, in the family I was in, I understood the value of a secret, so I let it lie and just listened. “He got upset when I told him that I wouldn’t…cut you out of my life.” She seemed calmer now, but the tears began to surface. She didn’t lean on me when I moved closer to her side, and I figured she was still angry about the mess I’d made of Liam at her center.

  “I went to the rectory to find a book for him… He likes Donne. And I found…” Sammy rubbed her face, wiping it dry quickly, as though she couldn’t stomach the tears and how quickly they came. “The letters between them. My mother and him. He was her priest, and she loved him. He loved her back and she wouldn’t let him leave the Church and I’m a bastard… All this time…” She stiffened before she stood up, pacing around my office. Whatever she kept to herself seemed to buzz around her head like an insect keeping her quiet but distracted, like she was trying to work out her own shit and didn’t need me to help her.

  I couldn’t help myself. I just couldn’t see her like that.

  “Sammy, please…” I tried, stopping her with my hands on her arms. “You’re pissed off, and you have every right to be.” She let me smooth the hair off her face, but she wouldn’t look at me directly. “He lied to you and it hurts. But I think part of this is you being scared that he’s sick.”

  “Of course I’m scared…” She closed her eyes as a new torrent of tears started down her face. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, Sammy smacked my arm, pushing me away from her. “Where the hell have you been all week? You just disappear on me? I needed you, and you just leave me alone?”

  Scrubbing my face, I took a minute, not real sure how to play this. I didn’t want to hand her a line of bullshit and I didn’t want her mad, but she needed me. She needed someone, even if she’d never ask for help. “I…thought it would be better if I gave you some space. Liam Shane is…”

  “I swear to G
od, Johnny Carelli, if you hand me some bullshit line about protecting me…”

  “It’s not a line,” I said, my own anger mounting. “Besides, I heard you and Indra talking. You were miserable. I was making you miserable. I just want you to be happy.”

  “You know what would make me happy?” She pushed me again, her cheeks flaming red. “If all the damn men in my life would give me credit enough to protect myself!”

  She started to walk away, taking quick steps backward, but I held her, taking her arm, desperate not to let her leave. Not like this. Not if I could help her. “Please,” I told her, curling my arms around her shoulders, twisting my fingers in her hair. “I just want to make sure you’re safe and happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “That’s not your job, Johnny,” she said, her voice flat, still angry.

  She let me dry her face, holding her still with my thumb against her cheek, my mouth on her forehead. “I want it to be. Still. Always, bella. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

  “You want to help me?” Her voice came out higher, and Sammy stifled the sob that got stuck in her throat.

  “I’d do anything for you. You know that.”

  It was a long two seconds while she watched me, her expression blank, her eyes widening as though she debated something she would keep to herself. Finally, the green of her eyes darkened, and Sammy shook her head, tightening her mouth until it resembled a hard line.

  “Then take off your clothes and get on your back.”

  Sammy had never made any demands of me. She took my body when she wanted it, but never first, never without me encouraging her. And it had always come from somewhere warm. There was nothing like that in her expression. She was still angry. Still hurt and scared. But if she needed this from me, it was what she’d get.

  The only consent I gave her was the slow nod of my head before I stepped away, already untucking my shirt to unbutton it as she leaned on my desk. Sammy’s expression stayed neutral, didn’t change at all until I slipped out of my shoes and loosened my belt, unbuckling and lowering the zipper on my pants. Then, her gaze was on me, and her attention was enough to turn me on.

  She took two steps, her gaze roaming over my chest, not touching me as I stood there, watching her untie the straps of her sundress and slide the light fabric off her body.

  “Lie down,” she said, her voice low, hungry. She nodded to the floor, and I obeyed, loving how she owned me, wanting her to touch me, wanting her mouth on me.

  Sammy slipped out of her sandals and pulled down her thong, crawling on top of me. Her mouth glided up my thigh, licking and teasing, cupping me, tasting just the tip of me until I was wet enough, ready enough, and she put my cock inside her, guiding me with her strong, sure fingers.

  “Bella…oh Christ…”

  That earned me a glare as she tortured me, but I didn’t care. She felt too good all over me, tightening, clamping down on me… It was all I could do to just hang on, let her use me, abuse me, however she wanted.

  “Anything…anything…I…want…” she said. Her movements were sloppy, disjointed, the harder she rode me.

  I arched up, steadying her, and the light coming from the desk lamp hit her face. I stopped moving altogether, seeing the heavy tears and the anguish twisting her features. “Sammy…” I said, holding her as she fell against my chest. “Amore mia …please…”

  “It’s all a lie…”

  “I’m not lying,” I told her, lifting her head to look in her eyes. “I’d never lie to you.”

  She closed her eyes, mumbling something I couldn’t hear under her breath. I wanted to understand, wanted her to tell me what she needed from me, but her cell rang. Sammy moved, sliding off me to grab her phone.

  I sat there, wondering how much more of a mess we could make of our lives when I heard her answer the call.

  “Yes, this is she. Okay…is he speaking?” She exhaled.

  I watched her in the reflection in the window, spotting the relief I knew she’d never let me see if she knew I was looking.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  She hung up, hurrying around my office to dress, and I followed her lead. I pulled on my shorts and pants, not bothering with my shirt. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t want a chaperone to confront her uncle. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

  She nodded, not looking at me.

  I knew none of the problems we’d had before she walked into this office had been settled.

  “Sammy…”

  “You did lie,” she said, cutting me off as she pulled back her hair and twisted it into a messy knot. “You lied then. You lied about what my uncle said to you in his office.” She turned, finally facing me. “Men lie. I get that now. Even very good men.” I stepped toward her, meaning to stop her when she started for the door. “Don’t worry about it, Johnny. I can handle things myself.”

  Sammy left before I could catch her. I swore I heard her mumble something that made no sense to me then. Something that would haunt me until I was hunting her down, desperate to find out what had happened to her.

  It came out as an afterthought, a throwaway statement she likely didn’t think I heard; something that stung more than anything she’d ever said to me before.

  “We don’t need you.”

  17

  Sammy

  Patrick’s breaths were even, and the monitor next to his bed marked a lowering temperature and blood pressure level.

  He was cooling, his skin no longer blazing-hot.

  He was calm now, healing.

  I wasn’t faring as well.

  “He’s in and out,” the nurse said, getting a nod from me.

  I kept my attention on the man in the bed. The woman fiddled with the machine, checking tubes and medicine, while I could only watch and wait.

  I’d taken my time getting back to the hospital. I wasn’t eager to face him or confront all the lies he’d constructed for the past thirty years. There were so many questions. So many things that made no sense to me. So many facts hidden behind cover-ups and half-truths. My apartment was closer to the hospital than the rectory, but after I’d stopped home for a change of clothes, I’d gone by my uncle’s place to grab evidence. He’d wake up and I’d say my piece. After that, I had no idea what would happen.

  The picture in my hand seemed like such a monumental thing, volatile like a grenade with the pin already pulled. It rested on my lap, my parents’ smiling faces staring back at me—one dead now, one likely dying on the bed in front of me.

  “Samantha?” he said, his voice weak and breathy. I didn’t take his hand when he reached for me, and he noticed, leaning in my direction, a frown already forming on his face. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  He followed me with his gaze as I moved from my chair to his side next to the bed, silent, my expression neutral. There was nothing I could say that would make a bigger impact than the picture in my hand, so I handed it over, placing it on his chest, my attention never leaving his face as he picked it up.

  The confusion that made him look so much older when he woke shifted instantly as his gaze lowered and he moved his eyes down to the photo, looking at the image of a thirty-years-younger version of himself and the woman he claimed to love holding their baby.

  I wondered how long he considered lying. I wondered if he had a blanket explanation cued up should anyone, especially me, ever come across this picture and connect the dots like I had. But as he went on looking at that picture, as the years seemed to flit through his mind the longer he stared at my mother’s beautiful face, clarity and surrender seemed to crash together, and Patrick—my uncle? my father?—decided not to bother with a lie.

  “Does anyone else know?” he asked, wincing when I laughed. “I don’t mean to sound indelicate, but there is a protocol. It’s the only reason I ask.”

  “There’s a protocol?”

  He stared into the hallway, looking very old and very tired as two nurses passed by. Patrick leaned back, moving the pi
cture to the tray at his side. “Bishop Williamson stipulated that you were to be cared for when he placed me here. We weren’t to be transferred for any reason. It was unspoken. He prepared the necessary paperwork, had you and Ava made legal, but officially, he knew nothing. He was a good man and understood…how mistakes can be made.” He closed his eyes, hands rubbing into his lids before he looked at me again. “He let me go on telling the story of her being rejected by her husband. He believed I would be a good priest. And when she died…” He crossed himself, suddenly overcome with emotion, tears dotting his lashes. “This isn’t Ireland, mind. The Church here hasn’t begun to acknowledge children fathered by priests, and we knew that. You were allowed to live at the school as a ward because you were my family.

  “But if anyone ever discovered the truth, the Bishop made me promise I would leave the Church and absolve him of any knowledge.” Patrick rubbed his face, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

  “Bishop Williamson died fifteen years ago,” I said, not understanding why he was so upset.

  “It would tarnish his memory and his reputation if anyone knew what he permitted.” He lifted his head to look again at the picture but didn’t touch it. The old priest glanced at me, looking like he wanted to say something, but instead, kept silent. “Did you tell anyone?”

  I said nothing, but I watched him, letting him guess.

  He knew me well enough to know whom I’d run to and why I’d done it. Patrick let his head fall back against the pillow, and he looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide. “That boy…”

  “Is no different from you.”

  He jerked his gaze to me, face pinking. “I am nothing like…”

  “Johnny fell in love with a girl who was off-limits…like you.” Patrick looked away from me, staring again at the ceiling. “He got that girl pregnant but couldn’t marry her…like you.” I stood, leaning against the cabinet behind me, watching the man I’d known as my uncle shake his head and mutter under his breath, small prayers I doubted anyone would answer. “And like you, a stubborn old priest kept Johnny swimming in shame and resentment until it nearly undid him.”