The Angel (The Original Sinners) (4 page)

Michael shrugged and stood up. He couldn’t believe this—over a
year without saying a word to each other and now she was offering to drive him
home?

“Sure. Thanks.”

The parking lot sat deserted but for a shiny two-seater silver
convertible.

“Like it?” Nora clicked the button on her keys to unlock the
car.

“Yeah. Awesome,” Michael said, walking around the car. He bit
his lip with suppressed laughter when he saw Nora’s vanity license plate: it
read NC-17.

Nora stood in front of her car and studied it.

“Decided to treat myself last month. Not as nice as my Aston
Martin, but a BMW Z4 Roadster is nothing to sneeze at. I’m a fan of fine German
engineering.”

Michael looked her trim but curvaceous body up and down—talk
about fine German engineering. He started to say that out loud, knowing she’d
laugh at the compliment and the reference to her German background. But as usual
he couldn’t get the words out.

“Here, you drive.” She tossed him the keys.

Michael reached out and caught the keys with his
fingertips.

“You want me to drive your brand-new BMW?”

“You’re old enough to drive, right?” She opened the
passenger-side door and looked over the top of the car at him. “And considering
I’ve let you inside my body, it’s not that big of a stretch to let you drive my
car, right?”

She dropped into the seat and closed the door.

Michael’s knees buckled at her words. Taking a deep breath, he
opened the driver-side door. He slid his skateboard behind the seat and sat down
slowly behind the wheel.

“Let’s talk,” Nora began as he started the ignition and started
to drive. “Well, you don’t talk so you can listen while I talk.”

“Just, please don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say stuff like that again or I’ll get us into a
wreck.”

Nora laughed and squeezed his knee.

“All right, Angel. I promise I won’t talk about the night I
tied you down and took your virginity. If you insist.”

“Nora, please,” he begged. He loved that she still called him
Angel. No one ever called him that except for Nora.

“Fine, I’ll behave. For now. Anyway, here’s the deal. Søren
wants us gone for the summer so he can handle things in his own way. I think he
knows that if someone started sniffing around me, I’d probably kick their ass,
which, admittedly, might not help the situation.”

“Probably not.”

“And considering I sort of kind of committed statutory rape the
night you and I were together, well, I think he’s trying to keep me out of this
whole mess as much as possible. And you too.”

Michael put on the turn signal at a four-way stop. No cars were
coming from any direction. As nervous as he was, he hoped they didn’t encounter
another car the entire trip home.

“You didn’t rape me, Nora. I wanted it. I was fifteen, almost
sixteen, not five.”

He couldn’t believe he was finally getting to talk to her about
that night. He knew Nora and Father S were upset about this whole thing. But
today might be the best day of his life.

“The courts have a funny way of not caring about the legal age
of consent when underage boys and famous writers are involved. But hey, you
aren’t jailbait anymore.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Michael sent up a quick prayer
that he hadn’t been hallucinating when Father S had said he and Nora needed to
get out of town together.

“I have a friend named Griffin Fiske. He’s got a farm in
upstate New York. I think we should go wait this catastrophe out with him this
summer.”

“Griffin Fiske?”

“Yeah. He’s the son of John Fiske, Chairman of the Stock
Exchange. Wall Street type. Griffin’s a trust fund baby. But he’s a sweetheart.
Søren can’t stand him, but Søren has terrible taste obviously,” she said,
pointing at herself.

“Is he—” Michael paused and tried to force the words out. “You
know, one of us?”

Nora grinned. “Let’s just say that in the Underground, his
nickname is Griffin Fist.”

Michael’s stomach clenched.

“Oh, God.”

“Tell me about it.” Nora patted his knee again. She really
needed to stop touching his knee. “So the plan—we’ll go hide out at Griffin’s
place for the summer.”

“Hide and do what?”

Michael pulled into the driveway of the small bungalow he lived
in with his mother. Thank God his mom didn’t seem to be home.

“This is where you live?” Nora asked with nothing but curiosity
in her voice.

“I know it’s not great. But it’s a nice neighborhood.”

“It’s a palace compared to the house I grew up in. Do you like
it here?”

Michael shrugged. “Things aren’t great with Mom,” he said.
“She’ll probably be glad when I start college.”

“Where are you going?”

“Yorke. Got a full ride. Faxed in my scholarship acceptance
letter this morning.”

“Yorke? Good school. My old roommate used to go there. Anyway,”
she said and seemed to brush off a sudden sadness, “Søren said this summer might
be our last chance to help you. Help you—what did he mean by that?”

Michael didn’t answer at first. But everything within him told
him Nora could be trusted. That not only could he trust her but he should trust
her.

He leaned back in the seat and shut the car off.

“Two weeks ago…I almost hooked up with someone I met on the
web.”

“A dominatrix?” Nora asked.

Michael nodded and said nothing.

“Michael, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

“I know, I know. Father S gave me hell for it too. I was
just…”

“What, Angel?”

“Lonely. For you.”

Nora reached out and touched his face. His heart fluttered in
his chest as her gentle fingers traced the line of his lips, the curve of his
jaw.

“Now you don’t have to be lonely anymore. You’ll get me the
whole summer. Søren thinks you’re ready to be trained. I think so too.”

“Trained?”

“To be a submissive.” Nora let her hand drop from his face. She
got out of the car and Michael followed suit.

“I thought I was…” Michael glanced around to make sure none of
his neighbors were out. He’d die if anybody found out what he was. “I thought I
was a submissive.”

Nora leaned back against her car and crossed her shapely legs
at the ankles.

“Søren trained me for two years before he ever hit me or fucked
me the first time, kid. Subs have to be as well trained as dominants if you’re
going to do it right and not get hurt.”

“I want to get hurt.”

“Different kind of hurt.”

Michael hazarded a smile.

“Michael,” Nora began and all the mirth had left her voice,
“being a sub is hard. Being a male sub is even harder. A woman says she wants to
be tied up, everybody thinks it’s sexy. A man says that and everybody
thinks—”

“He’s a fag,” Michael finished for her. “At least that’s what
my dad thinks. Says I need therapy for my fetish.”

“Forget what your dad thinks. I’ll teach you how to be the best
damn sub in the Underground. And to quote the wise and powerful Kingsley on the
subject of fetishes,” Nora began and then slipped into an exaggerated but sexy
French accent, “‘Fetishes…they’re the pet you feed or the beast that eats you.
We’ll feed your beast until it’s tamed.
Oui?
’”

Michael laughed. Feeding that beast sounded like a great idea
to him.

“Oui.”

“Good. So you’re in?”

“I’ve been dreaming about this for…ever. If you and Father S
think I’m ready—”

“That doesn’t matter. Do you think you’re ready?”

Was he ready? God, for Nora Sutherlin he’d been born ready.
Michael nodded. “I’m in.”

“Great. Now how do we get you out of Dodge without your mom
calling the cops?”

Michael scoffed. “You don’t know my mom. She’ll be relieved if
I disappeared for a few months. Or forever.”

Nora pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Empathy shone in
her green eyes.

“I’m sure she loves you, Angel. If she doesn’t come around,
you’ve always got us. I got in trouble when I was fifteen—big trouble. My mom
totally washed her hands of me. Our priest practically raised me after that. How
do you think I turned out?”

“Amazing,” he said, and Nora curtsied.

“Your mom will come around, maybe. Hell, maybe my mom will
eventually come around.”

Michael hoped it was true. He missed his mom. They lived under
the same roof but they existed in two different worlds.

“I’ll just tell her I got a summer job upstate. I was gone most
of last summer working as a camp counselor.”

Nora mulled it over.

“When’s graduation?” she asked. “You have to be there if you’re
valedictorian, right?”

“It’s Wednesday night. I can skip though. I’m not
valedictorian. I flunked AP physics.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I’m not. I flunked it on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want to give the speech.”

He expected Nora to chew him out for his willful stupidity.
Instead she just laughed.

“I like your style. Look, don’t skip graduation. Even I went to
mine. I’ll send a car for you Thursday morning.” She pulled a pen and notebook
from her purse. “Here. This is my email address. Keep in touch, okay? Ask me
anything.”

Michael took the sheet of paper with subtly trembling
fingers.

She traded the sheet of paper for her keys.

“Nora?” Michael said as she opened her car door.

“What, Angel?”

Michael looked down at the paper in his hands.

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

“Father S…it’s going to be okay with him? He’s going to fix it,
right?”

“He has his ways of getting anyone to bend to his will. If he
doesn’t want to be bishop, he’ll find a way out of it.”

Michael nodded, wanting to believe her. He hated the thought
that Nora and Father S would get in trouble just for being in love with each
other.

“You really think he’s going to have to deal with the
press?”

“The media is all over sex scandals in the Church these days.
Probably so.”

“What’s he going to do?” Michael’s stomach formed a tight knot
of worry. But Nora only smiled at him.

“He’ll probably do what I do when I talk to reporters—charm the
pants off of them.”

* * *

“Anything?” Suzanne asked and stretched out her aching
arms.

“Not much. Every time I click on a link to a Marcus Stearns,
all I get is an essay on the expulsion of the French Huguenots.”

“Me too,” Suzanne said and closed her laptop. She looked down
at her notes. In four hours of searching online she and Patrick had found out
nothing about Father Stearns. Nothing useful anyway. The anonymous fax she’d
received hadn’t merely been a list of names. At the bottom of the page the
asterisk had been explained within four ominous words—“possible conflict of
interest.” That list of names told her two vital truths—Father Marcus Stearns
was on the short list to be the next bishop of the diocese, and Father Marcus
Stearns had something to hide.

“Dug around on Facebook, et cetera. A few parishioners mention
him,” Patrick said, flipping through his notes. “‘Father Stearns performed a
wonderful wedding homily from the Book of Sirach,’” Patrick quoted. “‘I can’t
believe Matthew didn’t howl when Father Stearns poured the water on his head.’
Nothing exciting. Going from all this, we’re looking at a perfect priest who’s
adored by his church.”

“I don’t buy it. Nobody’s that perfect. And I’ve got an
asterisk that says differently,” Suzanne said, holding up the fax again. All day
she’d been picking up the fax again and staring at the asterisk by Father
Stearns’s name.

“Suzanne,” Patrick said, giving her a level stare, “the phrase
conflict of interest
could mean anything. You
know that, right? He might have donated money to some political candidate the
church doesn’t like. It doesn’t automatically mean he’s a child molester.”

Suzanne shook her head. “If it were that innocuous, no one
would have gone to the trouble to send me the fax. We’ve got to keep
digging.”

“Fine. So what now?” Patrick asked, dragging Suzanne into his
lap. She knew he hoped the answer would be
Give up and get
over it.
But she’d only just begun to fight.

“You’re the investigative reporter. What would you do?” she
asked.

“Start making phone calls. Get the gossip from the locals.”

Suzanne pulled away from Patrick and found her cell phone.

“You’re the pro,” she said, giving her phone to Patrick. “I’m
just a war correspondent. Show me how it’s done.”

Patrick sighed heavily and flipped his laptop back open.
Peering over his shoulder, Suzanne watched as he looked up the phone number for
the chief editor of the Wakefield newspaper. Patrick dialed the number and
talked his way past a few peons.

“Patrick Thompson for the
Evening
Sun,
” he said, and Suzanne was impressed he was using his own name
and newspaper. “I’m looking into an incident that happened at Sacred Heart
Catholic Church a few years ago. I’m sure you know what I’m referring to.”

Suzanne covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. What a
bullshitter. She and Patrick knew absolutely nothing about anything that
happened at Sacred Heart in its entire history.

Patrick had been smiling when he called but the smile faded as
he listened to whatever the voice on the other end was saying.

“Two years ago,” Patrick repeated and scribbled something down
on the notepad next to his knee. As she read the words, the blood drained from
her face and hands.

Patrick hung up and looked at Suzanne. Suzanne tore her eyes
from the page and looked back at Patrick.

“Now you know why I’m going after this,” she said, and Patrick
nodded. “It’s not just about Adam. Not anymore.” She gazed down at the words
again.