Dead of Eve (22 page)

The room’s stone walls compassed a bench press, free weights, a stationary bike and other sundry weight machines. At the apex, a heavy bag hung from the ceiling.

He eyed my boots again. “Did ye manage without a posser?”

I held up a foot for a closer inspection. “A what?”

A grin sprouted on his face. “A wet foot, bonny girl. Ye get a wet foot dabbling through the pipes?”

“Oh.” I wiggled my toes. “No wet feet.”

“Right then. Follow me.”

We trudged down a long passageway, boots squeaking on the concrete floor. It emptied into a one room spread.

A metal island overwhelmed the left side. Behind it, a concrete counter lined the wall, littered with propane burners. A worn plaid couch sprawled in the center. Stacks of books and newspapers scattered around it. On the right, sat a single bed. Next to it, a three foot crucifix hung above a prayer bench, surrounded by drippy candle sticks.

He dropped his duffle on the island and pointed to a doorway beyond the bed. “Round back is the bog with running water. But water wen’ be hot till morning.”

My jaw dropped. “How is it done?”

He leaned a hip against the island and removed several wrapped Bushmills bottles from the duffle. “Tomorrow.” He pointed to the bed. “Now ye sleep. I’m taking the couch.”

His glare told me arguing would’ve been fruitless. Besides, I didn’t have the energy. My chest felt cold and wet. I still needed to deal with that. “Do you have a needle and thread?”

He headed to a rack where his clothing hung. “I have plenty of clothes. I’m sure somethin’ fit ye.”

“It’s for a…cut. I need to stitch a cut.” Unless the infection was lingering.

Eyes wide, he reached my side in two long strides. “Where? I didn’t know ye got scratched—”

“No.” I waved him off then glimpsed his hand clutching the pommel of his sword. Shit. “It wasn’t tonight. I’m not infected.” I stretched my jaw wide and stuck out my tongue. Closed it. “We good?”

A beat. A grin. “Sorry. Right.” He backed away. “I’ll just get the first aid kit. We’ll take a gander.”

Shit and fuck. “No, it’s…uh, my breast. I can manage myself. If you have a sewing kit?”

He dug through the kitchen and procured a dull needle and a black thread. Then he handed me a dram of whiskey. “It’s all I got. Ye sure?”

“I’ve got it. Thanks.” I shut the bathroom door and stared longingly at the bathtub. Did he say hot water in the morning? I couldn’t believe it.

I sipped the whiskey, removed my sweatshirt. The turquoise stone lay on my bare chest. No bra. Not since my father’s house. Under the stone, raw florid skin edged the
C
shaped gash from my collar bone around my tit. I was relieved to see the bacitracin from the pharmacy and iodine from my first aid kit had killed the last of the infection, which meant I’d be sewing after all.

I rinsed away the blood, threaded the needle and splashed the whiskey on my chest.

The task was grueling. Every poke through the skin, every pull on the string, grew more tortuous. When he tapped on the door, I had no idea how much time had toiled by.

“Evie?”

I clenched my teeth. “Hmm?”

“Ye okay?

“Yep. Fine.”

“Let me help. I’m a priest. I wen’ molest ye.”

I flinched at the suggestion. To be honest, I did trust him. But I hid deeper wounds. If he prodded around this one, he’d likely stumble on others I wasn’t ready to lick.

I hollered through the door, “Almost finished.”

Hell has three gates: lust, anger, and greed.

Bhagavad-Gita

I shivered awake. For a fleeting moment, I didn’t know where I was.

A wooden Jesus hung from a huge cross on the wall. Two worn imprints dented the cushion on the prayer bench below it. A flame stood still on a single candle. Across the room, folded blankets lay on the empty couch. Muffled thuds clapped from the hallway. Roark?

Blood crusted my jeans, which were wadded on the floor. I pulled up the drooping neckline of his borrowed tee and covered my shoulder. If the hem at mid-thigh didn’t make me feel vulnerable, the fact that I’d discarded my last pair of panties in Dover did.

A wool robe draped a chair by the bed. I kicked off the blankets, grabbed the robe and stabbed my trembling arms through the sleeves.

Thump. Thump-thump
.

I stilled. What the hell was he up to? A hiss echoed every hit. Ah. The heavy bag.

My rumbling stomach led my feet to the kitchen. A can of coffee and a coffee press sat behind first cabinet door I opened. I sucked a breath through my teeth to keep from drooling. Within minutes, I pushed solar heated water through the grounds in the press. The rich roasted beans enveloped me with the sweetness of Saturday mornings with Joel and the A’s…I swallowed back the lump in my throat and rifled through the next cabinet. Rolled oats. Brown sugar. Canned pears. The makings of an actual meal.

While I savored the coffee, I flexed my arms, twisted out the kinks in my back, and massaged my sore thighs. My muscles, joints and mind exhibited a liquidity and clarity only a rested night could bring.

Rhythmic thuds marched down the hall. Each jab hit in a pattern. His vigor never faltered. The sweat was probably beading across his broad back. I bet his blond curls were damp with it, clinging to his flushed cheeks. Shit. I rubbed my hands on the robe and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

A note was adhered—with chewing gum?—to the bathroom door.

HELP YOURSELF TO A SHOWER. HOT WATER WILL RUN 10 MINUTES.

Coffee and a shower? I had to be dreaming.

Despite my searing stitches, it was the best shower in memory. I finished in five minutes, hoping to have left him enough heated water. Then I borrowed some cotton pants, fixed breakfast, another canter of coffee and carried a mug down the hall.

I froze in the doorway. His fist slammed into the bag. The brute force punch followed all the way through. And he didn’t look tired. Each blow landed as strong as the last. Sweat dripped in rivulets down the cut valleys of his naked back. Black workout shorts hung on his too perfect backside. I wanted to rake my fingernails down his twitching lats and press my lips against his—

“Mornin’.” He panted and rested his gloved palms on either side of the heavy bag to steady himself.

His shoulders rose and fell through heavy breaths. I wrestled to control my own breathing. Ugh, what a pervert. I had managed to ignore my libido for months. Why was I losing it so suddenly? He was a priest for fuck’s sake.

A damn fine priest of masculine perfection.

“Good Morning.” My voice was weak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I brought you coffee.”

He kept his back to me as he grabbed a rag and wiped his face.

“Um…I’ll just leave it by the door,” I said. “And I made breakfast and hopefully left enough hot water.” I bet my face was flushed. I turned to leave.

“Evie?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank ye. I’ll be on me way.”

I swept from the room with an annoying flutter in my belly.

Showered and fed, Roark sat at the island and watched me peruse his CDs. I held up a Ramones album. “Sheena is a punk rocker.”

“She was.” He sidled next to me on the floor. His cargos and T-shirt were a nice change from the prior night’s cassock and collar. A reminder of my filial guilt and disregard for the Catholic Church.

His jade eyes gleamed over freckled cheeks as he regarded me.

I fought the urge to scoot away. “Thank you for the shower. I almost forgot what one of those felt like.”

He beamed.

“Tell me how you keep it going. The electricity and water system.”

His smile widened, filling my vision until it was all I saw. “Of course. There’s a network of rain collection pipes running through the neighborhood. The water containers are down here, below the freeze line. The solar panels power the electricity and heat the water. But heating the water alone takes a rake of energy.”

He raised a brow as if waiting for me to interrupt. “I figured out it takes all of the hundred and fifty square feet of solar panels about seven hours to generate enough power to heat twenty-five gallons. And there are lashings of batteries to store the power.”

“A ten minute shower uses twenty-five gallons of water?”

“Right ye are. To conserve, I use the propane cookers to boil water for dinner and tea.” He gestured to the scattered burners in the kitchen. The scars on his knuckles rippled with the movement.

“Where’d you learn to hit like that? Last night with the aphids and this morning on the bag?”

“Ah, now I never tell that one.” He stared at his hand and stretched his fingers as if recalling a memory.

“I’d love to hear it.” I made a dramatic scan of the room and lowered my voice. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Here I sit with the last lass in the world and she wants to hear
me
story?”

His smile was infectious. I knew I was grinning like a fool, but couldn’t stop myself.

“Right.” He picked at a wool loop in the rug. “Then I’d like to start a’ the beginning if ye den’ mind.”

“Please.” I leaned against the bookshelf and met his steady gaze.

He bent a leg and draped an arm over it. “I was raised in Northern Ireland. The streets were uneasy. A sectarian environment. Ye know the conflict between the Catholics and Protestants?”

At my nod, he said, “Like the other boyos I grew up with, I learned how to fight and defend myself. But I wanted out. So I entered the seminary to become a religious priest. There, I committed me life to vows of poverty, obedience and chastity.”

He sighed. “I have continually fallen off the road to poverty. Matthew 19:21 says ‘If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast, and give to the poor.’ It sounded so easy, that’s for sure. But as a priest I lived a community life. A middle-class lifestyle with a car, a housemaid and a piped telly. I had a secure job and a salary. I wasn’t free of all worldly goods.”

He glanced around the room. “Even now, I den’ live in poverty and there’s no poor to give to. That brings me to me vow of obedience. Ye said ye spent time in the church? Do ye know this vow?”

I shrugged. “Mind your superiors, right?”

He smiled. “To be a good example of Christlikeness, obeying your superiors was a means to do so. Obedient humility.” His smile fell away. “I lived this one well till…”

His voice trailed off as he secured his unraveling dreadlocks behind his ears. “I stumbled upon a wee Irish lad getting reefed by Brit soldiers. They were ridiculing him for his accent. Made him say things…anything…then clatter him in the gub for saying it.” He rubbed the scars on one hand. “I lamped every one of those Brits out of it.”

“Serves them right.”

“Right. Bugger is…I couldn’t stop scrapping after that. I lost me head at the first sign of trouble. Then I got a reputation. I got approached by folks involved in underground boxing. They wanted to train me and put me in a ring. At the time, I thought I’d become a better boxer so I could help more lads. I learned from the best and got real good. Won a rake of fights and gave away me earnings. I’ve been milling ever since. Me superiors never knew.”

Creases furrowed his forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to rabbit on like this.”

His decency warmed me even if I couldn’t sympathize with his vows. “I’m glad you told your story.” I nudged him with my elbow, grinning. “And no doubt your pugilism saved the world’s last lass.”

He chuckled. “I think the world’s last lass was holding her own brilliantly.” He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s two of three vows failed, then. All I have left is me chastity.”

My breathing hitched.

He lifted his eyes, captured mine. “I’ve held this vow for donkey’s years. It’s been the bloody hardest of the three, yet the only one inviolate. I den’ take it lightly.”

I squirmed under his gaze. I was probably the only person left who could stand in the way of his treasured vow. I had enough things to worry about. Walk away. Don’t do this to him. I stood. “Father Molony, thank you for—”

“Who’s Annie?” He remained on the floor, staring up at me.

My heart pounded in my chest. Heat tingled my cheeks. “What?”

“Ye screamed her name in your sleep.”

I turned away. Exposing my vulnerabilities to a stranger was stupid, stupid, stupid. His clothes swished behind me. His footsteps approached.

“I usually remember my nightmares. I wake or get woken.” I faced him. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He held his position a breath away. “Ye couldn’t be roused. These nightmares…they happen often?”

I didn’t respond.

The lines in his brow deepened. “Wha’ have ye been through?”

I shouldn’t have come there. I didn’t know him and he was too damn perceptive. I reached inside, in my chest, in my gut, and sought the tug that guided me across the Atlantic. Nothing. Just the race of my heart as his eyes dimmed to a dark jade in quiet patience.

I took a deep breath. “The nightmares come and go.”

Annie’s graceful smile tapestried my mind. And Aaron, tethered to his Booey. As horrific as their visits had been, they were my torches, my guides in the dark. “Annie was my daughter. And I had a son, Aaron. I lost them to the outbreak.”