Page 26 of Priest (Priest 1)
“I want to be a good person, but more than that, I want to be a good woman. Is there no way to be both completely woman and completely good?”
Shit. This conversation had gone from taxes to the darkest corners of Catholic theology. “Of course, there is, Poppy, to the extent that anyone can be completely good,” I said. “Forget the Eve and the apple stuff right now. See yourself as I see you—an openly loved daughter of God.”
“I guess I don’t feel so loved.”
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You are loved,” I said firmly. “Smart, attractive woman that you are—every part of you, good and bad, is loved. And please ignore me if I fuck up and make you feel any differently, okay?”
She snorted at my swearing and then gave me a rueful grin. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to corner you like that.”
“You didn’t corner me. Really, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
She took a step back, like she was physically hesitating about telling me what she was about to say. Finally she said, “Sterling called me last night. I think…I guess I maybe let it fuck with my head.”
“Sterling called you?” I asked, feeling an irritation that was way beyond the scope of professional concern.
“I didn’t answer, but he left a voicemail. I should have deleted it, but I didn’t…” She trailed off. “He repeated all those things he’d said before—about the kind of woman I am, where I was meant to be. He said he’s coming for me again.”
“He’s coming for you? He said that?”
She nodded and red rage danced at the edge of my vision.
Poppy evidently saw this, because she laughed and put her fingers over mine, where they’d been gripping the mop handle so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. “Relax, Father. He’ll come here, try to woo me with more stories about vacations and vintage wine and I’ll reject him. Again.”
Again…so like last time? Where you let him make you come before you made him leave?
“I don’t like this,” I said, and I said it not as a priest or a friend but as the man who had tasted her just one flight of stairs away from here. “I don’t want you to meet with him.”
Her smile stayed but her eyes changed into cold shards of green and brown. I suddenly appreciated what a weapon she would have made in a boardroom or on the arm of a senator. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s any of your business if I do meet with him or not.”
“He’s dangerous, Poppy.”
“You don’t even know him,” she said, removing her hand from mine.
“But I know how dangerous a man can be when he wants a woman he can’t have
.”
“Like you?” she said, and the mark was so ruthlessly and perfectly aimed that I nearly staggered back.
The weight of the overtones collapsed onto us like a rotten ceiling—Poppy and Sterling, yes, but Poppy and me, my childhood priest and Lizzy.
Men wanting what they shouldn’t: the story of my life.
Without another word, Poppy turned and left, her strappy sandals clacking on the stairs. I forced myself to take several deep breaths and try to figure out what the fuck had just happened.
Knock.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock knock knock.
“Stop,” I muttered, rolling out of bed, sleep making me slow and fumbling. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
