Father Figure, Page 2

  “Who’s that?”

  Mom’s lips curled back like the feral animal she’d become.

  “Gabriel Thorne,” she snarled. “The man who murdered your father.”

  And that was the day revenge was born in the shriveled remnants of my young heart.

  The photo strip was mine now. She’d cried when she thought she’d lost it, but I didn’t care. It belonged to me, and I’d covered it with Saran wrap and hidden it behind a loose board in the floor. Whichever crack house or shithole I was living in, those photographs came with me. I checked every day to make sure that no rats had tried to chew on it.

  I heard the door creak behind me, but I knew who it was.

  “Hey, Blue, ya working tonight?”

  Jesus. Every damn night Juanita asked me the same question. The noise of the interstate just a hundred yards away almost drowned out her softly spoken words. She didn’t like working the streets by herself even though she’d been doing it for two years.

  “No, I’m busy.”

  I hadn’t turned to look at her, but I could hear the rasping sounds that told me she was scratching her arms again. I stretched my back and glanced over my shoulder, my eyes cold.

  “You shooting up again, Neeta? Smokin’?”

  She shook her head, her eyes too wide: she was lying.

  “¡Ay, Dios mío! I wouldn’t do that, Blue.”

  “Get the fuck out of my room,” I snapped, my eyes darkening with rage.

  She backed away quickly as I balled my hands into fists.

  A minute later, I heard her feet on the stairs, clattering on the bare boards in too high heels. Then the door slammed shut. The front had been boarded up years ago, so we used the back door. It was a shitty dump in a crappy neighborhood, but a jacked-up meth-head doesn’t give a shit when he takes an ax to your door looking for something to steal and sell. Speaking from experience. So making the old house look as though it wasn’t lived in helped some.

  Besides, it was just temporary, everywhere was temporary. There’s no point getting attached to possessions because everything gets stolen sooner or later. But the photographs were different—they reminded me that I had a job to do. Friendship, love—these were emotions of the weak, and the only emotion that I had left was rage burning inside me.

  I checked the padlock on my bedroom door and made my way downstairs in the dark. We didn’t pay utilities and stole our water from a little old lady who lived in the other part of the duplex. She was deaf as a doorpost if the way her TV blared day and night was anything to go by. She never noticed that her water bills had sky-rocketed since Neeta and I had moved in with a couple of other girls. I’d tried to tap into her electrics, too, but nearly killed myself. Whatever. I didn’t need power that much.

  My flip-flops sounded loud on the uncarpeted stairs even though I moved slowly in case one of the other shitheads who partied here had left used needles on the stairs. You could never be too careful. I carried a 12-inch iron bar in my purse next to my knife for the same reason.

  I didn’t have to wait at the bus stop for long, but even so, I was propositioned twice by guys in cars. The second drive-by wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I rammed the iron bar into his headlights then started beating the shit out of his pimped up junker while I screamed abuse at him like a crazy woman, and he peeled out of there promising to shoot me and rape me in the ass.

  I wasn’t worried, that tiny-dick wouldn’t be back. All the same, I felt a sense of relief when the bus arrived.

  The journey over to Mission Valley took nearly an hour, even though it was only six miles. Public transport sucked donkey balls in San Diego.

  Someone had left a newspaper on the seat next to me, so I read it cover to cover, catching up on world news, then tossed it aside in disgust: bombings, murders, dirty politicians. The world was a shitty place.

  I’d gotten into the habit of reading when I’d first decided to hunt for my father’s murderer. I’d forged my mom’s signature to get a library card and had spent hours poring over news reports from the base or anything to do with the SEAL Teams. I’d begun to think that Mom had been lying again, but one day, I opened an old news report and his name leapt out at me. The shock stole my breath and stoked my hatred to new heights. There he was, dressed in uniform, smug as fuck. He’d been given a medal or some shit. A reward for killing someone else—probably the way he’d murdered my dad. All I knew was that he’d gotten away with it. All I knew was that he didn’t deserve to live.

  Before I’d had my library card, I’d learned that flat plastic cards were useful for opening simple locks. But my library card had a legit use, too and I’d gotten more of an education in San Diego libraries than any public school. It was my safe place, my refuge: keeping the druggie’s daughter off the streets. Your tax dollars at work, people.

  As my stop came into view, I peeled myself from the plastic seat, briefly regretting the miniskirt I’d worn as the back of my thighs stuck for a second, then I shuffled down the aisle, trying to avoid touching the heaving, sweating humanity that over-filled the stifling bus. Sweat coated my body and ran in a steady rivulet down my cleavage, leaving a damp patch on my tank-top—way too hot for the beginning of March, crazy freakin’ weather.

  It was a relief to step out onto the burning sidewalk and make my way through the drunks and weirdos lining the final block.

  I’d staked the place out many times before and I had his schedule memorized—it didn’t vary much: Mass at 5:30am; visits, good works and shit every morning; lunch on the go—damn! I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d taken choir practice, too. Once a week he visited with a veterans’ charity; then two hours in the gym four times a week; on Thursday evenings he played basketball with a bunch of guys from a homeless shelter; and then he walked the streets almost every night. He was more alert then and I knew I couldn’t tail an ex-SEAL on foot, but I knew his type—he was probably getting laid and getting high. Men were hypocrites and bottom-feeding pond scum—Priests especially.

  On his one day off a week, he’d take his car and drive into the hills, hiking and communing with nature crap.

  That had been when he’d come closest to catching me because I had to steal a car and tail him across the city to find out where he went each week. I nearly lost him twice, but luckily his car was a piece of shit with no acceleration. That vow of poverty must be a bitch. He’d been gone overnight, so I assumed he was camping. I’d slept in the car until he’d returned before dawn and driven back in time for Mass like a good boy.

  Each time I’d watched him or followed him, I’d tucked my hair under a ball cap and disguised my figure with men’s shirts and pants.

  But tonight was different—tonight I wanted him to see me. Tonight, I unleashed my carefully thought-out plan.

  Father Gabriel Thorne would pay for what he’d done to my father, to my fucked-up mother, and to me. I’d scream his sin so loudly, the whole world would hear me.

  I skulked in the entrance to an alley opposite the rectory, then smudged my mascara so I looked like I’d been crying. I tugged up my tank top exposing some of my belly, and deepened the rip at the top, showing my bra.

  Then I waited.

  Sure enough, right on time, he exited the rectory wearing shorts and a faded blue t-shirt. His eyes were hidden behind aviators, but I knew they were gray like the ocean in winter. I was familiar with his thick thighs, and cords of muscle knotting his calves and biceps; and I’d spent many hours watching from afar while counting his abs: depending on the shit he wore, I could count six or eight. He was in pretty good shape for an old guy pushing forty.

  In fact, he hadn’t changed much since the photo had been taken: some salt and pepper in his stubble when he didn’t shave, which was rare; a few strands of silver in his short hair; some deeper grooves around his mouth and eyes.

  As he walked to his beater, I left the alleyway, rubbing my eyes and adding a slight limp for effect. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of a parked car a
nd knew that I looked pathetic and defeated.

  And just as I’d expected, he called out to me.

  “Hey! Hey, are you okay?”

  My head shot up as if startled and I stared at him wide-eyed.

  His hands opened so I could see his palms in a gesture that was meant to calm a wild animal.

  He pulled off his sunglasses and placed them on his head. His forehead was crinkled with concern, and I could see the creases around his eyes.

  “Hey,” he said more softly. “Are you okay? Have you been crying? It’s okay. I know I look kind of big and scary, but I promise I won’t hurt you. See that building behind me? It’s a rectory. That’s where priests live, that’s where I live. See? I’m a Catholic Priest. You can trust me.”

  He took a pace closer and I took a pace back, another step in our mating ritual, except he didn’t know that yet.

  He rubbed his hands down his cheeks in frustration.

  “Do you need help? Do you want me to call the cops?”

  I shook my head slowly, taking another step away from him.

  “Okay, no cops. But if you need help, I can help you.”

  I let him close the distance between us by another step, staring into his eyes my lips trembling, then I turned and bolted, losing him easily in the maze of back alleys and broken-down buildings that I knew from my weeks of stalking.

  I heard him swearing in the distance, then finally his footsteps faded until I was squatting alone in the gathering darkness. I smiled to myself. It was going to be so much fun fucking with Father Gabriel Thorne.

  Part One of Operation Nemesis complete.

  Amen.

  Chapter Three

  Gabriel

  Like a moth to a candle, an errant flame of red hair, my heart stopped cold.

  I’d wanted to help. I swear on my life that helping was my first thought.

  My second was the way her hair blazed red in the setting sun, unearthing a long-buried memory.

  Red.

  Red hair.

  Like Luke’s girl. Jeez, that was a memory long since buried, but I’d never forgotten her, not really. Maybe because I’d met her the night before my first mission … and Luke’s last. I shook my head—of course, this girl wasn’t the same; Red would be nearly forty now, like me.

  God, she was breathtaking. A bright burst of color shot through my entombed heart. I hated myself for noticing her hard nipples budding against her white tank top. I tried to look away, but the man inside me woke with a roar and a demand for flesh, a warm, female body.

  How old was she even? My thoughts whirled and collided, shattering inside me in a confusion of lust and guilt, duty and desire.

  She had to be at least eighteen, but I could never tell these days with all the makeup and sexy clothes that girls wore. Not that it had been much different back when I had been dating. At least I’d met women in bars, not on dating apps like the millennials did these days. I couldn’t even imagine that. For me, it had always been that physical heat that had drawn me to a woman. Her scent, her lips, her vibrancy. That spark when I first laid eyes on a woman and felt that irresistible magnetic pull.

  Like I felt right now, looking at this girl. Not a woman, a girl! I needed to stop that train of thought dead.

  Which meant, I needed to extract myself from the situation as soon as possible. Lucky for me, she ran away before I could get closer to her. Touch her hand. Tell her everything would be fine.

  Taste her.

  What? No! What was wrong with me?

  Ten years.

  Ten years without allowing myself to get lost in a woman. Had it just been too long? Why were my heart and my cock on overdrive?

  But she’d run away. She must’ve sensed that I was some dirty ol’ priest with lascivious thoughts.

  And she was right.

  “Is this a test, Lord? Did you send her to test me?”

  And I ground my teeth in frustration because I’d failed this test. I was … had been a SEAL and I did not fail.

  But you have failed, the voice in my head whispered. You’ve failed this soul in need, you failed Luke and you’ve failed yourself. Again.

  Dammit! I was a good priest. Honorable. Devout. And abstinent.

  And broken. A pathetic has-been, said the ever-present voice in my head.

  I watched her run away, her ass bouncing up and down. Man, what it would be like to fuck that girl from behind.

  Did I allow myself a few more dirty thoughts to prove to myself that deep down, that cocky young buck Navy SEAL was still alive inside of me, that the slow creep of middle age couldn’t touch me?

  But now I knew what I had to do.

  I sat in my car and prayed for forgiveness and, shamefully, that I’d never see that red-headed girl with the sad green eyes ever again.

  I drove to the homeless shelter determined to forget, determined to bury myself in honest labor, serving those in need.

  As a priest, I had vowed poverty and owned my car, my clothes and a few books, but I had a sense of purpose in my life, which made me a rich man compared to many that I met in the shelter and on the streets.

  After two hours of chatting, offering spiritual advice and shooting hoops at the shelter, I went back to the rectory and drank four fingers of scotch, but spent a restless night thinking about that redheaded girl. I didn’t want to think about her but I couldn’t help it. I recognized that she was in trouble but had been too scared to accept my help. Where had she come from? Why was she on the streets? Was she a junkie? A hooker? What was her story?

  She’d definitely gotten under my skin in just a few minutes and I didn’t understand why.

  The next morning, she was still on my mind. I woke up hard and nearly succumbed to temptation. Masturbation was a mortal sin for a priest. A spiritual life, not a life of the flesh was my road. But I was only a weak man, made of sin and temptation, created from flesh.

  I took a long, cold shower instead.

  I was still rattled and decided that I needed to burn some energy. One of my favorite tried and tested methods to clear my head was either a long run or pushing myself at the gym until my lungs shriveled and my arms and legs were ready to drop off.

  As it was hotter than Hades outside, I opted for the air-conditioned gym. I must be getting soft. I shook my head wryly at the thought. Forty was looming—but so what? I couldn’t be the hard man forever. Not that I thought of myself that way anymore: the reflexes had begun to slow, recovery took longer, and reading glasses were in my future. But God had blessed me with a strong body, so I saw it as my duty to keep it in the best working order I could.

  Corinthians 9:26-27 said, ‘I drive my body and train it, for fear that, after having preached to others, I myself should be disqualified’. That was pretty much the philosophy I lived by.

  The gym I used was six blocks from the rectory. Usually, I’d jog over there and jog back, but I wanted to give some extra time counseling vets at the veterans’ lunch club later, so I drove instead.

  The place was unusually busy. It wasn’t one of the big chain gyms, but it was reasonably well equipped, and more importantly given the pittance that was a priest’s wages, it was cheap.

  Today was leg day. I groaned, but the physical release was exactly what I needed. Soon, I was sweating hard: barbell squats, leg press, lunges, deadlift, leg curls until my muscles were screaming for me to stop.

  Finally, I finished with a slow run on the treadmill and a few bicep curls, just ‘cause.

  “Wow, you’ve been going at it pretty hard. Are you training for something? Ironman maybe?”

  I looked up to find a hot blonde standing next to me, running her eyes over my sweat-soaked t-shirt.

  “No, I just like to keep in shape,” I smiled politely.

  “I can see that. You’re in great shape. Maybe you could help me with my training program?”

  And with that comment, she’d gone from being friendly to flirting. And even though she was stacked, with long, tan legs, stick-str
aight blonde hair that hung in a long ponytail, and eyes as blue as the summer sky, I didn’t have even a flicker of interest. Which was a relief—this morning I’d begun to think I was losing it. My iron control—oh, the folly of Pride yet again.

  I continued to smile politely. “They have some excellent personal trainers here; I’m sure one of them could help you. I wouldn’t want to take their jobs.”

  She laughed. “Fair enough. How about a drink later? I’m Jenny.”

  “Sorry, Jenny. I’m pretty busy.”

  “Married?” she pouted, staring at my ringless left hand.

  “Married to the job.”

  “A man who works hard should let himself a little time to play,” she said, running her hand down my forearm.

  Boy, she wasn’t giving up. “Not me,” I said firmly. “I’m a Catholic Priest.”

  Her face contorted. “Look, if you don’t want to have a drink with me, fine, but there’s no need to be a dick about it,” and she marched away, her long hair swinging, and I’d say putting a little extra shake in her ass so I was sure to notice what I’d have to go on missing.

  When I was out of uniform, telling people I was a priest always made them do a double-take or question what I was saying to them. But that was their issue, not mine. Anyone could be called by God, even suicidal ex-SEALs.

  I showered quickly and pulled my black shirt over my damp body, then snapped the white clerical collar into place. I’d worn a uniform of one type or another my whole adult life—it was my identity, a symbolic reminder of my consecration to God, and my role as someone who dedicated his life and service to the Lord.

  On a bad day, I felt unworthy; on a good day, I felt like I was declaring myself #teamGod.

  I tossed my sweaty gym clothes in a bag and headed for the car, mind already on the men I’d be seeing at the veterans’ charity lunch club. Occasionally, we’d gotten a few women coming in, but it was rare, and it tended to be more like an all-guys’ club most of the time.

  “Oh my God! You really are a priest!”

  The blonde woman, Jenny, was staring at me with a shocked expression on her face.