No, she hadn’t thought that. But she had secretly hoped it.
Nora took a deep breath. Grief, she told herself, naming the sensation that took over her body at the moment. Søren had taught her this trick years ago. If she could name her feelings, enumerate them, label them, she could distance herself from them, make them objects separate from her. Burning. Stinging. Aching. Bruising. Giving her agony a name gave her mastery over it. An old S&M trick for controlling pain, she used it now. Sorrow, she told herself. Irrational, stupid, feminine sorrow.
An image flared up in her mind, an image of her sweet, virginal Wesley naked and burying himself inside another woman, thrusting into her, coming inside her.
Jealousy, Nora named the new feeling. Raging jealousy.
Nora took another deep breath. She sucked in her pain, her misery, held it in her stomach and pushed it out of her nose. Michael. She repeated his name in her head. He had to be her focus tonight. As she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a bundle of white paper sitting on her bedside table. Michael’s checklist. Picking it up, she skimmed through Michael’s answers. Underneath the section on S&M, Griffin had left her a note.
Mick’s not just a sub. He’s a masochist too. Can I have him when you’re done with him?
A subtle line existed between submissives and masochists. Submissives enjoyed submitting even if they hated the pain part of the process. But masochists not only liked submitting to pain, they got off on it.
Good, Nora thought, putting the checklist aside. Tonight, for some reason, she felt like beating the holy living hell out of somebody.
* * *
Michael Dimir—Suzanne typed the name into her Google search bar and paused before hitting Enter.
For days now Suzanne had avoided researching the kid who’d tried to kill himself at Sacred Heart. It hurt too much to think about, hit too close to home. But she couldn’t avoid it anymore. After one meeting with Father Stearns, she’d discovered he was a man to be reckoned with. Even now, sitting alone in her apartment, her body recalled the fissure of shock she’d experienced upon seeing the priest for the first time. And when they’d spoken, she’d had the distinct impression he was playing her, toying with her. He’d been expecting a reporter—that much was obvious. And he hadn’t betrayed the slightest flicker of fear or nervousness around her. Even the purest innocent got a little nervous around a reporter. Who the hell was this priest?
Suzanne pressed Enter and started sorting through all the hits. She hated herself for digging up dirt on a kid. But she kept hitting a wall with Father Stearns. Maybe she’d have better luck with one of his parishioners.
Nothing came up about the suicide attempt, of course. A minor at the time, the newspapers would have withheld his name. His name—Dimir…young Michael must be of Eastern European stock, she decided. She’d known a couple of Dimirs during her two-month stint in Romania and Serbia. That’s it, she told herself. Keep it professional, keep it vague, keep it impersonal. Don’t think about him as a person, as a kid, as a Catholic kid who loved the church and trusted his priest and who…
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.
Nora took a deep breath. Grief, she told herself, naming the sensation that took over her body at the moment. Søren had taught her this trick years ago. If she could name her feelings, enumerate them, label them, she could distance herself from them, make them objects separate from her. Burning. Stinging. Aching. Bruising. Giving her agony a name gave her mastery over it. An old S&M trick for controlling pain, she used it now. Sorrow, she told herself. Irrational, stupid, feminine sorrow.
An image flared up in her mind, an image of her sweet, virginal Wesley naked and burying himself inside another woman, thrusting into her, coming inside her.
Jealousy, Nora named the new feeling. Raging jealousy.
Nora took another deep breath. She sucked in her pain, her misery, held it in her stomach and pushed it out of her nose. Michael. She repeated his name in her head. He had to be her focus tonight. As she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a bundle of white paper sitting on her bedside table. Michael’s checklist. Picking it up, she skimmed through Michael’s answers. Underneath the section on S&M, Griffin had left her a note.
Mick’s not just a sub. He’s a masochist too. Can I have him when you’re done with him?
A subtle line existed between submissives and masochists. Submissives enjoyed submitting even if they hated the pain part of the process. But masochists not only liked submitting to pain, they got off on it.
Good, Nora thought, putting the checklist aside. Tonight, for some reason, she felt like beating the holy living hell out of somebody.
* * *
Michael Dimir—Suzanne typed the name into her Google search bar and paused before hitting Enter.
For days now Suzanne had avoided researching the kid who’d tried to kill himself at Sacred Heart. It hurt too much to think about, hit too close to home. But she couldn’t avoid it anymore. After one meeting with Father Stearns, she’d discovered he was a man to be reckoned with. Even now, sitting alone in her apartment, her body recalled the fissure of shock she’d experienced upon seeing the priest for the first time. And when they’d spoken, she’d had the distinct impression he was playing her, toying with her. He’d been expecting a reporter—that much was obvious. And he hadn’t betrayed the slightest flicker of fear or nervousness around her. Even the purest innocent got a little nervous around a reporter. Who the hell was this priest?
Suzanne pressed Enter and started sorting through all the hits. She hated herself for digging up dirt on a kid. But she kept hitting a wall with Father Stearns. Maybe she’d have better luck with one of his parishioners.
Nothing came up about the suicide attempt, of course. A minor at the time, the newspapers would have withheld his name. His name—Dimir…young Michael must be of Eastern European stock, she decided. She’d known a couple of Dimirs during her two-month stint in Romania and Serbia. That’s it, she told herself. Keep it professional, keep it vague, keep it impersonal. Don’t think about him as a person, as a kid, as a Catholic kid who loved the church and trusted his priest and who…
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.
