Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Father Martin snorts in enthusiastic agreement on that last part and I wonder again how well he knows Hoover.
“I believe you.” His hands snake around to the small of my back, and I imagine them going lower. “I asked, you answered. It’s important to reflect on the things that brought us to where we are now. Otherwise, how can we move forward?”
I twist my lips this way and that, attempting to distract myself from his hands and the way he sounds like he cares so much. It makes me uncomfortable in a way I don’t understand, so I stare out at the waves and change the subject. “I wish I could fall asleep to the sound of the ocean,” I say on a long breath, trying to calm the rising tide of heat and tension inside me.
“Have you always loved the ocean?”
“Yes, but… the water scares me too. I can’t swim. But, I want to learn. I just never got around to it.”
“New rule. No going near the water. Not unless I’m with you. While you’re here, I’ll teach you to swim. We’ll start in a pool, where it’s safe.”
I nod. “Okay. I mean, thank you.”
I reach down between us, my hand brushing… Oh, Jesus that thing’s bigger than I thought. Does he walk around with that all day every day? Doesn’t it get heavy?
“Kitty, what are you doing?” he asks with a crack of pain in his voice.
“G—getting your journal,” I stammer. “I had another question for you, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did you like having your hand on my breast?” I say, blushing at the words I wrote hastily in the journal, wondering if he’d answer honestly, and if he did what that honest answer would be. “I can’t… I can’t read it.”
The ache in my chest lessens as I think of my Dad and the crazy way I found out he was dying. How my mom offered me nothing but the brutal truth, no shoulder to cry on, no outlet for all my sorrow and frustration.
It wasn’t her fault. I guess. I don’t need a fall guy for my problems, but even if she was hurting, I was a kid, you know?
“The answer is yes,” Father Martin says, shaking me back to the moment. “Yes, I liked touching you.” His hand slides to my ass, squeezing. Fingertips trailing lower, pushing the skirt between my legs. God, I want it gone. I want to feel his touch. “I like touching you. All of you.”
Without warning, his lips crash against mine like the waves to the rocks, soft and hard all at once. I taste the heat of him, feel his tongue brushing mine, tangling, battling. He lifts me up and I moan into his mouth as his fingers sizzle along my slit, drawing dripping liquid. God, I want it to last forever. Am I dreaming? Fuck, I hope not. I don’t want to find out this isn’t real.
As the kiss breaks, I stare into his eyes, then start to smirk.
“You’re a good kisser.” I make a fake glare. “How many other girls have you practiced on?”
For a moment, his eyes darken. Something flashes in them. Some hurt, I think. Some memory he didn’t want to share.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m shaking my head. “No. I wanted you to—”
“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“But, you wanted to, right?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t always get what we want. Even—”
I hear a distant voice, but clear on the breeze coming down off the cliffs that lead back to the school or church or whatever Saint Margaret’s really is. Sister Nathalia’s voice, calling for Father Martin.
“There’s something I have to do. At the church.” He moves forward, as if he’s going to touch me again, then draws back like he’s just been burnt. “Sorry.”
And with that, he’s gone. And I wonder what I said to destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
CHAPTER 9
Kitty
Why don’t we get what we want? I mean, if God wants us to be happy, it makes sense to give us what we want. Right?
By scientific method, not giving someone what they want is more likely to make them unhappy than happy. Look at me. I want Baby back. I want it so desperately it makes me sick. If I at least knew she was safe, that would be something. And I can’t even get a little consolation of being fucked on the beach by Father Martin.
I don’t get it. I hope God does. But, I have my doubts.
I take a step forward along the edge of the shore, my toes brushing the edge of cool water as it rolls onto the sand. I took my socks off and left them where we were talking. Now that he’s not here, I don’t much care about my ugly toes, although I’d still love to get that pedicure. “He loves me. He wants me. He loves me not. He wants me not.”