The Angel (The Original Sinners) (14 page)

With an angry swipe of her hand, Suzanne wiped tears off her
face. She slammed her laptop shut before even getting one piece of information
about Michael Dimir. Immediately she felt better. If Michael Dimir had attempted
suicide for the reason she believed he did, then the last thing she wanted to do
was violate him again. She had to keep her focus on her target, and her target’s
name was Father Marcus Stearns.

She stared at her closed laptop and knew opening it would be
futile. Someone once defined insanity as trying the same thing over and over
again while expecting different results. No amount of internet stalking would
get her anywhere closer to the truth about Father Stearns.

Although she no longer believed in God, Suzanne knew she was
doing His work right now. Someone somewhere knew something about Father Stearns,
something bad enough to send her an anonymous tip about him. Why her, she had no
idea. A thousand investigative reporters lived in the New York area. She’d never
worked as anything but a war correspondent. Perhaps whoever sent the tip knew
someone brave, someone unafraid of war zones would be needed to get to the
truth. And war zones she knew. She’d been in a dozen of them—Sudan, Pakistan,
Afghanistan, Iraq… Bombs had exploded around her, she’d seen soldiers get ripped
apart by IEDs right in front of her eyes. But never until now had she
experienced the sort of real fear she’d felt when standing in front of Father
Stearns. She wouldn’t let herself be intimidated. Not by one man. Not when she’d
walked into battle zones wearing nothing but camos and a camera. She would go
back to church. She had to.

The phone rang and jarred Suzanne from her dark, determined
reverie.

“Patrick,” she breathed when she answered. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” he said sheepishly and she sagged with relief. For
some reason, she’d been a wreck since her fight with Patrick. Now that they’d
broken up, she stressed more about him than when they were officially together.
“It’s my fault. You’ve been back in the States for like five minutes and I’m all
over you to commit. That wasn’t cool of me, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I promise. You mean so much to me,” she said,
knowing the words weren’t as good as “I love you,” but it was all she had for
him right now. “Let’s forget about it.”

“No, I don’t want to forget about it. Let me make it up to you.
Dinner? No sex required, I promise. But if you insist,” he said and laughed
nervously.

Suzanne smiled, grateful beyond words for his call, his
apology, for his presence in her life that kept her from succumbing to the grief
that threatened to overwhelm her at times.

“Dinner sounds lovely. But actually, you can make it up to me
in another way,” she said, staring at her closed and useless laptop.

“Anything,” he pledged.

She’d spent the past eight years in countries with bombs and
guns and death all around her. If she could face enemy armies she could face one
Catholic priest.

“I need to borrow your car again.”

* * *

Michael adjusted his position just slightly to better
capture the fading evening sun. His pencil flew over the paper as he traced a
series of curving lines. He paused, looked at his work, erased one line and
redrew it. As he turned closer to the window he inhaled and caught a whiff of
something in the air. He breathed the scent in again—sort of spicy but also
subtle and masculine. It wasn’t cologne or anything that strong. Just…Michael
inhaled again and closed his eyes…just mouthwatering. God, whatever it was, he
wanted to smell it for the rest of his life.

“Damn,” came a voice over his shoulder, making Michael jump in
surprise. He turned his head and came face-to-face with Griffin, who stood next
to him wearing nothing but boxer briefs. At least he knew the source of that
incredible smell now. Michael stared at him in silence for a moment and took in
the lack of clothes and the wet hair. Griffin had just gotten out of the shower
obviously, and that incredible scent came from his skin. “You drew that?”

Griffin took Michael’s sketchbook from him and sat opposite him
on the bench in the bay window.

“It’s not done.” He reached out to grab his book back, but
Griffin raised his finger at him, and Michael dropped his hands.

“Submit, submissive,” Griffin said, stretching out his legs
next to Michael. “I’m not your dom, but I am a dom, so behave.”

Michael repressed the urge to do the Nora thing and growl at
Griffin.

“It’s not finished,” Michael repeated, pulling his legs tight
to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. Griffin looked at him, set
the sketchbook aside and grasped Michael by the ankles.

“What the—?” Michael began as Griffin yanked Michael’s legs out
straight in front of him.

“You are out of control with the fetal-position thing,” Griffin
said with obvious exasperation. “You are allowed to take up space, Mick. Every
time you get the least bit stressed out, you pull up into this tiny ball and
practically disappear. An impressive feat considering how tall you are.”

“Sorry,” Michael said, trying to relax. “I get nervous and I…”
He tried to explain further but words failed him.

“You turn into a hedgehog,” Griffin said. “Self-protective
measure. But you’re with me right now. Put the spikes away and chill. You don’t
have to protect yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Not even in the fun way,
okay?”

Michael’s heart contracted and then expanded hard enough he
felt it at Griffin’s words. He couldn’t believe someone with Griffin’s sheer
physical presence, not to mention all his money, would treat Michael with such…
Michael tried to come up with a good word for it. With such care.

Slowly Michael smiled. “Okay.”

“Good. Now just sit there and look pretty while I nose through
your book.”

Annoyed and embarrassed, Michael started to cross his arms but
Griffin glared at him. Obediently Michael relaxed his arms and legs.

Griffin leafed slowly through the pages of Michael’s battered
Moleskine sketchbook.

“Do you just do pencil sketches?” Griffin asked.

“Mostly. Pen and ink, pencil and pen.”

“Charcoals?”

“Love charcoal but it’s messy.”

“So?”

“Mom gets mad when it gets on my clothes,” Michael said and
then cursed himself for saying something so idiotically childish.

“What’s with all the wings?” That particular sketchbook had
nothing in it but variations on a theme—angel wings, bird wings, insect wings.
Maybe next he’d try griffin wings.

“It’s my safe word Nora gave me. I’ve been doing wing drawings
ever since.”

Turning his sketchbook around, Griffin flipped to the drawing
Michael had been working on all day.

“This is incredible,” Griffin said, holding up the open book.
“You’re like John Coulthart, but softer, more emotional.”

Michael’s blush deepened. “You know Coulthart’s stuff?” Michael
asked, slightly stunned.

“I know I don’t look it,” Griffin said, “but I’ve got a geeky
side. Plus I majored in art history at Brown.”

“You went to Brown?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t graduate. Long story,” Griffin said with a
note of something Michael had never observed in him before—discomfort. “But I do
know art. I’ve got two Picassos in my bedroom, there’s a Kandinsky in Nora’s
room and there are a handful of Delaunays around. I dig orphic cubism. And since
I know art, I know talent. And you have it, Mick. I love this.”

Griffin stared at the drawing Michael had been working on.
Nothing very fancy, it was only a picture of slightly gothic-looking angel wings
stretched out across the page. The huge hulking wings were attached to the back
of a frail boy who sat on the ground with his legs pulled in tight to his chest.
A personal drawing. Michael had never intended anyone to see it.

“Thanks. Nora ordered me to do something today to make myself
relax before tonight. Drawing usually works.”

Griffin closed the sketchbook with obvious reluctance. Michael
took it back from him and walked over to the bed where he slipped the book under
his pillow.

“Usually? Nervous about tonight?” Griffin stood up and started
strolling around his old room.

“A little.” Michael sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to
stare at Griffin. Griffin cracked him up. He just walked around in his underwear
as if he couldn’t begin to care what people thought about him. Of course,
Griffin had a crazy-good body, so why not walk around almost naked?

“When’s the last time you fucked?” Griffin asked as he sat on
the edge of Michael’s bed and rolled onto his back. Michael shifted nervously.
An almost-naked guy was lying on his bed. He should have disliked that, wanted
to dislike that…couldn’t quite bring himself to dislike that.

“Um,” Michael began as he turned to sit cross-legged, his back
to the headboard. Personal questions—he hated them. His dad always grilled him
with personal questions. “Nora asked me the same thing yesterday.”

Griffin raised his eyebrow at him.

“You know what that means, right?”

Michael shook his head.

“She’s getting your sexual history. Means fluid bonding.”

“Fluid bonding?”

“Sex without condoms.”

“Wow,” Michael said, his stomach tightening a little. “Is that
safe?”

“She’s clean. Gets tested constantly. All the 8th Circle
bigwigs do, myself included. And she’s got an IUD so I wouldn’t worry about
knocking her up.”

“So do you and Nora, you know, fluid bond?”

Griffin sat back up and scooted to the top of the bed, leaning
back against the headboard right next to Michael. Once again Michael breathed in
Griffin’s scent. Michael decided to find out what kind of soap Griffin used just
so he could buy some and smell it whenever he wanted.

“Nope. I don’t with anybody.”

“How come?” Michael asked, genuinely curious. Guys at school
were always bitching about their girlfriends making them wear condoms.

“Mick,” Griffin said, turning his head to stare into his eyes.
“There is nothing, and I repeat, nothing I haven’t done. And I’m not talking
just sexually. Every bad act on the face of the earth, minus murder and rape,
I’ve done it. So there’s this part of me that wants to hold something back just
in case I’m ever actually in a real relationship with somebody. Does that sound
sappy and romantic? If so, don’t tell anybody. I’m supposedly
l’enfant terrible
of the Underground. I’d like to keep
it that way.”

Michael grinned, not entirely sure what a
l’enfant terrible
was but deciding he liked the term.

“A little sappy. But not in a bad way,” Michael said, surprised
that Griffin would have this sort of softer side to him. Art? Saving part of
himself for a real relationship? “So you never, you know—”

“Come inside anyone?” Griffin finished for him. “No. Never. Sex
talk from Dad, age thirteen. ‘Son, we have more money than God. You get a girl
pregnant, and she’ll take half of it. Condoms every time.’ And then he gave me a
box of Trojans.”

Michael burst out laughing at Griffin’s impression of his
father’s stern voice. Remembering something suddenly, Michael stopped
laughing.

“Wait. Nora, she went—”

“Nora went down on me. If you stayed and watched until the end
you would have seen me put on a condom before I finished up.”

Mentally Michael dug a hole and crawled inside it. Griffin had
seen him watching two nights ago?

“Griffin.” He finally choked the words out. “I’m so sorry. I
didn’t mean… I was just on the way to the kitchen and heard—”

“Mick, calm down,” Griffin said, smiling at him. “I’m not mad.
This is me. I fuck in front of people all the time. I was only irritated you
didn’t come in and join us.” Griffin gave him a wicked smile.

Michael’s toes went a little numb.

“I think Nora might have not liked that,” Michael said, not
entirely sure if that was true. He’d fantasized about threesomes before. Last
night in fact his mind had wandered a little too far and he’d imagined Nora
dominating him while Griffin watched.

“Your mistress loves an audience. In fact, I’ve watched your
priest fuck your mistress after King and I fucked her.”

Michael felt his eyes wanting to pop out of his head.

“You’ve seen Father S…”

“Fucking? Yes. Back when your mistress was still just a sub
like you, he’d do all sorts of shit to humiliate her at our club. Which she
totally got off on. You know why me and King and your priest all fucked her once
in the same night?”

Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine.

Griffin leaned in close as though he was about to share a
secret. Every muscle in Michael’s body stiffened as Griffin’s tattooed, muscular
shoulder pressed against his. Michael tried not to notice the drop of water
sliding from Griffin’s hair down his neck and coming to rest in the hollow of
his collarbone.

“It was her birthday. And that’s what she asked for,” Griffin
whispered.

“Oh, my God,” Michael breathed, pulling his legs to his chest
again. Not out of self-protection but to hide his sudden erection.

“I know. Awesome night.” Griffin gave a little wistful sigh.
“Things went to hell shortly after that though. Nora dumped your priest and then
she just disappeared on us. When she came back, everything was different.”

“She came back and started working as a dominatrix, right?”
Michael knew a little of Nora’s story. Father S had given him the basics. He’d
met Nora when she was fifteen and still just Eleanor. Love at first sight.
Training at eighteen. Consummation when she turned twenty. Seven blissful years
together before she left him for reasons unknown. Then she came back and joined
forces with Kingsley, who turned her into not just a domme, a female dominant,
but a dominatrix—a female dominant who charged for her services. A lot.

Griffin lowered his voice as though he was telling a ghost
story around a campfire. “When she was a sub, your priest kept her on a pretty
short leash. She only ever wore white at the club. And he only let her wear her
hair down in private. And almost no makeup, either. She wasn’t allowed to speak
unless he gave her express permission.”