Page 61 of Priest (Priest 1)
Besides, this was exactly what Sterling wanted. He wanted me to stew and fume, he wanted me to brood over his victory, but I would not grant him that satisfaction and I would not do Poppy the disservice of lobbing accusations via text or voicemail.
We would wait to talk about it until she came back. That was the reasonable thing to do.
But strangely, having a plan of action (or a plan of inaction, as it were) didn’t help. I tried to watch TV and read, I tried to sleep, and in every pause of dialogue, in every paragraph break, was that picture of Poppy and all the unbidden, awful images of her and Sterling talking and touching and fucking. Finally I gave up on it all and went downstairs to the rectory basement where I lifted weights and did sit-ups until the moon started to sink, and then I drained four fingers of Macallan 12 and went to bed.
I woke up that morning with sore muscles and an even sorer conscience and a phone still devoid of missed calls or messages. I indulged in the quiet fantasy of dropping it into a boiling pot of water and walking away or maybe microwaving it—punishing it for everything that had gone so terribly wrong in the last twenty-four hours—but I settled instead for leaving it behind as I went to prepare for Mass and then for the pancake breakfast.
The morning went by in a robotic blur—especially after Millie told me that Poppy had called in sick to volunteer (this was followed by a look that was not exactly scathing but was certainly grumpy and I must have looked fairly pitiful, because she relented and gave me a dry kiss on the cheek before she left.)
And then I found myself with a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do but try to avoid feeling my feelings, and you know what? I decided that I was going to work out some more.
And drink. That too.
When I finally finished cleaning the church basement and went home, I saw that Bishop Bove had called again and sent me a badly garbled text message that also included several what I assume were accidental emojis.
I should call him back.
But instead, I changed into my gym shorts, grabbed the half-empty bottle of Scotch and trotted downstairs, where I turned up the Britney as loud as the speakers would go, and brutalized my screaming muscles with more weights, more sit-ups, more squats, chugging whisky straight from the bottle in between each set.
I would drink and sweat until I forgot that Sterling existed. Hell, I would drink until I forgot Poppy existed.
And I was getting close. The drunk push-ups were beginning to drive home how much my body did not appreciate the concurrent intoxication and exertion, and my arms were about to give out when the music stopped abruptly, and I heard my name called by the only voice I wanted to hear.
Startled, I got to my knees as Poppy walked over to me, wearing the same pale tie-neck blouse that she was wearing in the picture last night. Did that mean she spent the night with Sterling? The Macallan and exhaustion destabilized me enough that I wanted to ask—no, accuse—just that.
But then she got to her knees too, and without hesitation, wove her fingers into my sweaty hair and pulled her face to mine.
The moment her lips touched me, everything else flared up and burned away, like so much flash paper thrown into the air. I forgot why I was punishing my body, why I was drinking, why I hadn’t been able to sleep last night.
She slid her arms around my waist and parted her lips, beckoning me inside her mouth, and I went where I was summoned, finding her tongue with mine and kissing her with everything I had. I seized the back of her neck with my hand, gripping her in the way that I couldn’t grip her commitment or her time, and my other hand reached under the wrinkled pencil skirt she was wearing and found the lace of her thong, pushing it aside to find the soft skin between her legs. Without preamble or prologue, I pushed a finger inside of her pussy, which was tight and not entirely ready for me, although I could tell that she was getting there.
She moaned into my mouth at my intrusion, breaking our kiss with a gasp as I started rubbing her clit with my thumb while I crooked my finger inside of her.
She leaned against me as I worked her cunt, and God forgive me, I was so jealous that Sterling might have touched it the night before that I couldn’t discern whether I was touching her for her benefit or mine—as if I could reclaim her if I made her come.
Watching her pant into my shoulder with her day-after hair and day-after makeup, her creased clothes, that general walk-of-shame look, was so fucking hot and so goddamn infuriating at the same time, and it was no wonder she flinched at my voice when I said, “On your hands and knees. Facing away from me.”
She swallowed and slowly obeyed. “Tyler…” she said, as if realizing for the first time that maybe she owed me an explanation.
“No. You don’t get to talk.” My voice was raspy from the workout and the Scotch. “Not a fucking word.”
My dick had been stiff the instant I heard her voice, but by the time I moved her skirt over her hips and pulled her thong down to her knees, I was so hard it hurt.
I should warn her that I’ve been drinking. I should warn her that I’m angry.
Instead, I pulled my shorts down to expose my cock, nothing in my mind but fucking that pussy, but the moment I notched my head against her cleft, my jealousy got the better of me. My jealousy and perhaps my conscience, which was beaten and gagged, but still not ready to let me fuck a woman drunk and in anger.
So I withdrew and instead of having sex with her, I fisted my cock, staring at her ass as I stroked myself. It was not quiet—I grunted every time my hand slid back up over my glans, and my hand and my dick made the distinctive sound of jacking off—and Poppy cried out, starting to turn back to me.
“That’s not fair!” she protested. “Don’t do this, Tyler—fuck me. I want you to fuck me!”
“Turn around.”
“You’re not even going to let me watch?” she said, and she sounded hurt, shut out.
Well, boo fucking hoo, Macallan Tyler thought and Good Guy Tyler winced. But no. No, she should atone. Somehow.
I smacked her ass and she jerked against my hand, letting out a low groan that told me she wanted more, and I wanted to give it to her, but part of me also didn’t want to give her anything, not until I knew that she wasn’t back together with Sterling, but then fuck it, it could be part of her atonement, and I spanked her again and again, the flat of my palm landing on her ass, alternating cheeks, until it glowed pink.
