Page 13 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
“You’re not a part of their world, lamb. You’re part of my world, you understand? You belong to me.”
That seemed to soothe her. She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. I belong to you. This place doesn’t matter.”
“Tonight, after we get settled, I can show you how much it doesn’t matter,” I promised, and that earned me a smile.
Inside, we were assaulted by the family—Poppy’s parents and her two brothers and their wives and then the host of well-groomed nieces and nephews in their flouncing dresses and bow ties. Despite Poppy’s need to flee all those years ago, her family was actually very nice—polite and intelligent and charming, if occasionally a little more proper than my Midwestern ass was used to. They’d been nothing but kind to me, even with my middle-class pedigree and non-existent income. In fact, since I had been the reason she started visiting regularly again, I think they felt very warmly for me. At least as warmly as they were capable.
I made good on my promise to Poppy after we went to bed and ate her pussy for as long as she could stand it, through silent orgasm after silent orgasm, until I finally had to clap my hand over her mouth because she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. And then we fell asleep in her childhood bed, a canopy bed so wide that four people could comfortably lay together and so tall that even I had to exert myself a little to climb on top. A princess’s bed in a princess’s room, and the princess herself nestled in my arms, her dark hair spilling over the pillows and my arms like a sleek curtain.
The morning dawned even colder than the last, bringing with it real snow, the kind that blew more than it fell, sending forlorn gusts of wind to rattle against the windows and doors. I woke after my wife, as usual, finding her sitting at her vanity with her hair already in loose gleaming curls and her lips already bright red.
“Who’s the sleepy one now?” she asked, eyebrow arched, as she fastened an earring into her earlobe. She was looking at me in the mirror as I got out of bed and walked over to her, stopping to raise my arms over my head and stretch. She stared at my reflection with undisguised fascination, staring particularly at the way my loose pajama pants slid even lower down my hips as I stretched, exposing a line of dark hair and highlighting the morning wood I was sporting.
“Come back to bed,” I said in a lazy, husky voice.
She turned, fastening her other earring and standing up. “Believe me, there’s nothi
ng I would rather do. But as I recall, you were the one who wanted to spend Thanksgiving with my family. You were the one who sermonized me about the importance of family and connection. And it’s Thanksgiving morning, which means Grandmamma’s cinnamon rolls, and I know you don’t want to miss your chance to eat some.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. “And yes, I know what you’re about to say, and yes, I know there’s something else you’d rather eat.” She leaned close to whisper in my ear. “But cinnamon rolls only stay good for the eating for a handful of minutes. I’m always good for it.”
She reached into my pajama pants, gave my hopeful cock a few teasing pumps, and landed a soft, light kiss on my cheek. And then her nude heels were clicking on the floor and she was gone.
She’d pay for that teasing later, I decided. In a big way. But for now, a cold shower was in order. No point in terrifying Grandmamma with my boner.
“You know, this house used to have a ballroom. But it burned down in the 1940s.”
We were alone together in the massive front entry, me staring at a family portrait and Sterling coming in from the morning room. I didn’t bother turning at the sound of his voice. It didn’t matter how little or how much interest I showed in him, he had decided at some point four years ago that we were buddies, and there would be no shaking him.
At least I had a drink with me.
Sterling Haverford III—former trust fund kid and now a business mogul—sidled up to me with his own whiskey glass in hand, looking as smug and handsome as ever in his bespoke suit and Italian shoes. Blue eyes, black hair and cheekbones from some sort of Abercrombie and Fitch hell completed the image, and when I glanced over at him to nod an acknowledgment, I felt the familiar burn of jealousy in my chest.
Did I mention he was also Poppy’s ex-boyfriend? And the man I saw her kissing the day I’d decided to leave the clergy in order to be with her?
I hated that he was handsome. I hated that he was rich. And I hated most of all that he was charming—so charming that I didn’t even really hate him at all. In a weird way, he reminded me of my brothers, Sean and Aiden, who were as different from me as humanly possible, but still some of the closest people in my life. Under Sterling’s veneer of money and good breeding was a horny American businessman, and with two out of three brothers meeting that definition, I knew the type pretty well.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Sterling continued, “Rumor was that my great-grandfather’s uncle started the fire in the ballroom by ashing his cigar too close to an unsuspecting debutante and her giant dress.”
Oh, how I loved to be reminded how historically close the Danforths and the Haverfords were. (Which was ridiculous, since Sterling and his wife being invited to share the holiday with us was reminder enough.)
“The house has recovered well,” I said, moving away from the portrait and over to one of the massive Christmas trees. Surely the Danforths hired people to do these things; I couldn’t imagine Margot Danforth untangling strings of lights or looping garland around a ten-foot tall tree.
“So, what’s the over-under on the Cowboys stomping the Raiders this afternoon?”
Dammit. How did he always know the exact kinds of things to say to capture my attention? I fucking loathed the Raiders, and I tried not to miss any opportunities to explain to people why.
Which is how I found myself in the library with Sterling, both of us on our third whiskey, arguing about whether or not Roger Goodell should step down as commissioner of the NFL, and also about whether or not Margot would let us watch the game instead of playing cards. And yes, bridge is what the Danforths did after their Thanksgiving meal instead of watching football.
Blue bloods.
Sterling stood—a little unsteadily—to get me another glass of whiskey while he refilled his own. “You know, Tyler,” he said as he walked to the globe bar that Mr. Danforth kept by the fireplace. “You’re not half bad. And you fit in well here.”
I didn’t know about that. Despite the kindness of my in-laws, I still felt out of place. At home in Kansas City, Thanksgiving was fried turkey and football, naps stretched out on the carpet punctuated with games of Monopoly and Chinese checkers. Here at Pickering Farm, it was a formal coursed meal with paired wines and different forks, followed by interminable bridge games and (if we were lucky) a frigid walk along the shore. I still felt like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby when I was here: a passive observer at best, a charity case at worst. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t a Danforth or a Haverford or any other name that could be traced back to the Mayflower or any of the original colonies. My pedigree dissipated less than five generations back, an illegible scribble on a forgotten ledger, people who epitomized the poor, huddling masses, people who carried nothing with them across the Atlantic except for rosaries and exhaustion and hope.
I would always be a guest here.
A clumsy outsider.
