Faithless #2: A Tainted Love Serial (4 page)

N
ightmares
—a form of unbreakable reality, where the darkest imaginings are brought into the light and given the wings of life. Nightmares—there’s no other way to describe it, the horror swimming through my veins and constricting around my heart to the point where breathing becomes a luxury.

“Get out,” Noah says from behind me, his voice trembling.

I shake my head in defiance and follow the only course of action I can wrap my head around. I turn and slam the door in Noah’s face but have already forgotten that it’s broke. He pushes through the door and grabs me.

“Let go of me,” I scream and jerk away from him. For the first time, I notice the rest of the contents of the room. There’s a second chair parked against the back wall. A camera is perched atop a tripod and aimed squarely at the man. Along the wall beside the door, an array of tools—hammers, scissors, wire cutters, knives. “What the
hell
is this?”

Noah chews on the edge of his thumbnail, his hazel eyes turning feral. His lips move before he’s prepared to speak.

“Answer me!”

“Revenge,” he says dryly and reaches behind him, pushing the door against the frame. He turns and kicks his boot against the bottom of the door, lodging it into the corner of the frame so that it stays shut. “That man doesn’t deserve your sympathy or your whining.” He looks over his shoulder, his eyes hunkered down with a certain weight of sadness, of darkness. “He’s the one who killed Luke.”

My head spins and I chuckle nervously. The only thing I can force myself to say is a simple ‘shut up’ as if I don’t believe him.

He wedges the bolt from the broken deadbolt into a crack between the door and frame then shakes the door to make sure it won’t budge. “I lied last night when I said I arrived too late.” He refuses to face me as he speaks, and I’m stuck in between the two of them, still unsure which direction the truth will come from. “I was in my car waiting for him when I saw him exit the bar.” He turns around and paces toward the man lying on the floor, aiming a finger at him. “A second later, this man came up behind him and bashed him in the head with a brick.”

“No, no, no,” the man stutters. “He’s lying,” he screams. “He’s lying!”

Noah pulls his foot back and kicks the man in the stomach, causing him to cry out in pain. Causing me to flinch and back up against the wall, searching for a sense of safety or comfort in this nightmare. Noah bends down and grabs the gag that sits around the man’s chin and forces it back into his mouth.

“If true,” I swallow a thick cluster of air, “why not let the police handle it?”

“At first, I thought the police were just terrible at their jobs.” He grabs the back of the chair railing and wraps his other arm around the man. In one fast movement, Noah pulls the chair back into a sitting position. “Then I realized it was something else. This town is corrupt.”

“I can’t be in here right now.” I turn to flee, placing my palm on the knob and forcing it open. The door swings and slams against the wall and I hear footsteps p
adding
after me. I rush faster, sweeping down the center aisle of the church and heading for the oversized, double doors. There are chains wrapped around the handles, explaining why I couldn’t get in earlier through the front doors. I spin around to find an alternate exit, but Noah is blocking my path.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, but trust me when I say this is the only way.”

“What are you hoping to gain?” I shake my head. “Justice?”

“That’s a part of it, but…” He’s unable to look me in the eyes. Instead, he opts to stare at the floor—it’s less confrontational. “It’s mostly about revenge. If he doesn’t confess, he dies. A part of me is hoping that he doesn’t.”

I reach for his face and make him face me—making him look at me while he says all of these monstrous things. Hoping somehow that I’m able to bring him back down to Earth. “You are not a monster.”

“Newsflash, Faith. You don’t know me anymore.”

I duck under his arm and tighten my fist. “No. That’s where you wrong. I know you too well.” I spin around to him. “This isn’t you.”

“You need proof?” He asks before marching down the aisle and disappearing into the back room.

I lean against a pew and wipe my palm across my face, then slick my fingers through my hair. The temperature of the thick air is spiking and I’m finding it increasingly hard to breathe. Sweat trickles down the side of my face.

“Here’s your proof,” Noah yells, pushing the man down the center of the aisle and then finally, onto his knees. He crouches to the floor behind the man and reaches for the collar of the man’s t-shirt, ripping it down the center. Exposing long, bloody cuts trailing down his chest. “Is this proof enough?”

I turn my head and look away as I try to focus on anything but this man knelt before me. There’s a rage building from within, the kind that is only matched by a conscience fortified by years of difficult choices—even when I didn’t make the right choices.

My naked legs dangle over the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth while the rest of my body—and mind—remain motionless. The nurse said the doctor would see me in a few minutes, but it’s been at least twenty.

With every second that passes on the clock, I re-think my decision. I could go back home to Luke and Noah, and we could have this baby. We’re not in any position to do so right now, but things could change.

But they never do. It’s the same cycle over and over. A cycle that I have to break. I’ll leave here in a few days when this is over and board the bus to Florida, where I’ll start a new life. A life hopefully void of tragedy.

The door is pushed open and I’m hit with a breeze of warm air. “Hello, Faith,” the Doctor says as he shuts the door behind him. He’s an older gentleman with pepper hair and glasses perched across the crux of his nose. He takes a parting glance at my file, and he must notice the confliction spelled across my face. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I know if I surrender an ounce of doubt, I’ll be enrolled into a series of ‘
Do you really want this?’

So instead, I lie. “I’m sure.” And of all the battlefields that I’ve seen in my life, this one is the hardest. Holding back the tears becomes a war, and the outcome of success is guilt.

T
he man has been given
a name—Ben—and denying his humanity is no longer an option. Before, when he was simply the man being held hostage, it was easy to pretend. Now I know there’s a soul in there, no matter how far gone. No matter what he’s done, we’re not in the position to decide his fate.

We’re back in the square room, the same room where Ben’s been held captive for God knows how long. Noah stands behind the camera, framing the scene.

Ben sitting in his chair with his hands chained behind his back.

I stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame and alternating between looking at Ben and looking out the small, square window in the back. It’s snowing again and the trees are already colored white.

Noah holds his fingers up, all five of them. “Five minutes, Ben.” Then he steps toward me and places his hands on my hips. “It’s going to be all right.”

I give him a nod, and turn. He follows me out to stand beside the pulpit. “Say you get a confession, what comes next in your brilliant plan? How do you come back from this?”

“That’s not currently a part of the plan.”

“So, what? You surrender your soul because of him? He’s the monster, Noah. Don’t become him.”

“He killed Luke!”

“I know that,” I scream, shaking my hands. “And a part of me wants to go in there and beat him to death. But I came back to Old Town to start a new life, and losing what’s left of my soul isn’t a part of the plan.” But when have my plans every turned out the way I thought they would? No matter where I run, everything eventually falls apart. “It can’t be a part of the plan.”

Noah throws his arm across the banister and swipes his sweaty head against it.

“It’s us against the world, right?” I plead trying to gain access to his beating-heart, a heart that I know is still in there somewhere. “Well, I’m tired of losing. And this?” I point to the back room, where Ben is. “What’s going on in there? That’s losing.” My lips begin to tremble as I urge him one last time, “Don’t become him.”

“It’s too late for that,” he says, avoiding eye contact, and burying his head further into his arm.

“It’s never too late,” I protest, grinding my teeth against each other. “It’s never too late to do the right thing. That’s what separates the good men from the bad. You are not too far gone, and you’re not a monster.”

“No?” he groans. “You look at me and you see a reflection of who I used to be. You’re so blinded by your heart that it won’t let you see me for who I’ve become.”

“I am trying to save you!”

He throws his hands together in a thunderous clap. “You’re wasting your time.”

“God,” I scream and bolt away from him, turning back to him when there’s enough safe distance between the two of us. “You’re such a coward who is just shutting off your emotions so you can live with your actions!”

He shakes his head violently, his cheeks rising into his eyes. “Do you think he doesn’t deserve this?”

“What about Luke?” I question, moving closer to Noah. “Do you think he’d approve?”

“He’s dead,” he says softly. “He doesn’t get a say in how I avenge his death.”

I slap him as hard as I can, and instantly recover by throwing my hand over my mouth, shocked and terrified by my own reaction.

His cheek turns cherry-red with my handprint tattooed across his face. He rubs his skin with his knuckles, grunting through the pain. “I probably deserved that.”

“I’m sorry,” I whimper through a sniffle. “I was wrong. Maybe we are too far gone.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He sighs. “This is the end of the road for me, anyway.”

“Now what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“It means that after I get his confession… I don’t care if I live or die. Hell, I might even prefer the latter.”

The foundation beneath us cracks, and through the earthquake of his quiet delivery, I finally get it. On this merry-go-round of lies—we’re both guilty of lying to each other and ourselves—there’s one fragile piece of truth left—Noah isn’t a monster because he can’t live with his actions. But I’m not kidding myself—this revelation brings no comfort to my tired being.

“You are unbelievable,” I scold him and take a step back. “That’s your grand plan? To die?” Then I freeze in place, my entire world going cold in an instant. It’s reminiscent of the first day of sunshine after a long winter. “What about me?” I question, my voice shaking and my eyes watering. “What am I supposed to do in the wake of that?”

“You did fine without me for three years,” he scoffs apologetically.

“You are so full of shit,” I cry. “Do you honestly believe I’ve been fine? Maybe… maybe I should go back in time and tell everyone who has ever hurt me to cut me with a knife. That seems to be the only way you process the presence of pain—with physical proof.”

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Let it all out.”

“I accepted that your faith was shaken, because I never gave a fuck about Jesus or his damn saints! In some fucked up way, it made it easier to be back here with you, because it reminded me of the way things used to be.”

“We can’t go back—“

I throw my hand to him, interrupting him. “But if losing your faith means that I lose you to the grave, then I take it back. I take it back because I won’t let you give up on the only thing you’ve ever believed in.”

“I believed in you.” He approaches me, his weight tilting to one side. “From the first time I laid my eyes on you. But I’ve come to learn that faith has an expiration date.”

“This isn’t about me and you,” I shriek. “This is about you, you, you.” I beat on his hard chest with every repetition of the word. “You.”

He shifts his head to the floor, shaking it while pursing his lips. “That’s the problem.”

I chuckle uncomfortably. “I can’t be around you right now.” I push past him and prop a foot against the steps of the pulpit.

“Faith,” he whispers and grabs my arm. “Look at me.”

“No.” I shake his arm off me and gallop up the steps.

Noah gives chase and I run faster. But he catches me and throws me against the wooden cross. When I try to fight him, to push him away from me, he pins my arms behind my head. “Look at me,” he cries, but I refuse. “Tell me that I’m not a monster.”

It sinks into me, the stunning realization that I could be wrong. “No…”

His chest heaves. His hazel eyes fixated on mine. His grip on my arms tightens. His lips press against mine, forcefully. Instinct tells me to pull away, but instead, I give into the kiss.

His sweaty palms move from my arms to my cheeks and I take advantage of my new-found freedom. I reach for the belt of his jeans, and unfasten it with haste. His mouth sinks against my neck as I wrap my palm around his hardness and squeeze. Feeling his pulse through the thickness of his cock jump-starts my own heart. For the first time since last night, I can feel it beating. I can hear it.

With every stroke, he gasps, breaking our kisses a shattered second at a time. I remove my hand from him and spit into my palm, then go back to work, pumping his cock with reckless strokes.

His breathing harshens, and he’s unable to kiss me anymore. His body shudders with every stroke and he’s left helpless, drawing sharp breaths whenever he can. The warmth of his breath burns into me, lighting a fire from within.

He shifts his weight into me, his cock pushing against my jeans. “Turn around,” he husks.

And I do as commanded, prepared to surrender myself to a carnal act of sin—being fucked in a church will most definitely sign my one-way ticket to hell. But if it numbs the pain, even if only for a little while, it’s well worth it.

He reaches around and pops the button of my jeans. He kisses the back of my neck before he pulls my jeans and panties to the floor and caresses the curves of my ass with his palm.

He nuzzles his lips against my ear and takes a nibble, causing a moan to slip from my dry mouth. “Fuck me,” I demand. “Fuck it all away.” He slaps his cock against my ass and runs a trembling hand underneath my shirt. “Jesus—”

He glides into me without hesitation, sliding all the way in until his pelvis presses against me. A harsh moan lands against my neck as he braces a hand against my hip and begins to rock.

My body craves to be closer to him so I reach behind and grab his head, pulling him close. He adjusts himself and pushes his body against me. I stumble forward and my right cheek lands against the surface of the cross.

He slips his tongue into my mouth and kisses me between moans and uneven thrusts. A hand trails to my stomach and he clenches me tight as he begins to assault my pussy with a tirade of thrusts.

His cock tears me up from within, slamming into me stroke after stroke—taking control of his emotions in the only way he seems to know how. He fucks me into believing something, even if it’s just another lie. In between our grinding bodies, there’s a space between us—no matter how small. And in that space, there’s room to breathe, to operate in a reality where there isn’t a man chained up in the other room.

The trauma and the confusion give way to an equally explosive bout of confusion. Everything fades away until all that’s left is his breath on my skin, his cock in my pussy, and his heart pounding against my back.

“Fuck,” he cries out and grips my hip tighter while his other hand moves from my stomach to my other hip. It’s at this precise moment that he forgoes all pretense of making love. He shifts his body backward and my head bows down, held against the cross.

He dives all the way in, filling me completely. Every thrust thereafter becomes deeper and harder, until he’s fucking me to the point where I can’t breathe. My head bounces against the cross with every slam against me.

His fingers dig into me and he begins to grunt loudly, pounding me against the cross—crucifying me, owning me, and somehow atoning for his sins all at the same time.

When some people feel lost, they seek advice from their elders. But for people like Noah and me, that’s not an option. The only way we can make sense of this world is through skin-on-skin contact. For most people, the world spins when they fuck. For Noah and me, it’s the only way we can get the world to stop. It’s the only way we can get the world to shut up.

“Fuck,” he pants and thrusts against me one last time. He somehow finds a new depth from within my aching cunt and then goes an inch further. His body shakes against mine as he holds himself still, emptying himself inside of me.

And the world makes sense again. He bows his head against my back and whimpers through the last tides of his orgasm. When he goes to pull out, I claw at the crown of his head and pull him back to me.

I’m not ready to be lost again.