Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele
10
Edward
Silence descends on the room, then Arpad bursts out, "Did I just hear you say—?"
"Baron?" Damian scowls.
"He’s returning?" Weston drums his fingers on his chest.
I nod.
"When?" Saint snaps.
"He didn’t give specifics. All he said was that we need to be extra vigilant because we are closing in on the perpetrators behind our kidnapping."
"Ah," Arpad snaps his fingers, "so the information Antonio’s been sending us is correct then?"
Arpad’s referring to one of the Sicilian Mafia who is also one of our informants.
"How the hell does Baron keep track of everything that’s happening from wherever he is?" Saint mutters. "You’d think he has someone keeping an eye on us."
Silence in the room. The men look at each other, then Sinclair widens his stance. "Wouldn’t put it past the bastard." He scowls.
"Not that it matters." Damian shrugs. "We don’t have anything to hide from him. If he kept in touch with us, we’d simply share everything anyway."
"How did Baron contact you, Ed?" Sinclair finally asks. "The last time we heard from him was when—"
"—he wrote me with advice for Damian, telling him not to marry Julia," Arpad takes up from where Sinclair left off.
"Knowing full well that’s exactly what I would do as a result," Damian mutters.
"And now he’s written to you, saying he’s coming back?" Sinclair frowns.
"Because what, he knows Edward is in a similar quandary of the heart?" Damian asks.
"I am not in any quandary." I draw in a breath. Another. Stay calm. You’ve just asked for the Lord’s forgiveness; now, all you have to do is hold it together. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her. Don’t. Think. About. Her. "About her." I suck in a breath, attempting to retract the words that slipped out, then curl my fingers into fists.
"So," Saint drawls, "you are in a quandary about her."
"I said I’m not in any quandary about her."
"But you actually…are," Damian frowns, "in a quandary about her?"
"Not about her." I scowl.
"Yes, about her." Weston smirks.
"All about her?" Arpad offers.
"No," I square my shoulders, "not at all."
"Yes," Sinner insists, "you are."
Anger thrums at the base of my spine; heat flushes the back of my neck. "It’s. Not. About her," I grate out. "It’s about me, and the fact that I haven’t been able to live up to my vows, my promises, the word I gave to the most important presence in my life when I set upon this path. I haven’t been able to adhere to them. Do you understand how that feels? To have your entire world turned upside down in a matter of seconds?" I glance about the room, take in each of their faces in turn. "To look at yourself in the mirror and realize that everything that you’ve stood for so far was a lie. That the only thing that mattered, the one thing that you thought you could rely on—yourself, your honor, your ability to be truthful to yourself? It’s all gone. That you were fooling yourself so far. That you thought you’d come a long way in healing yourself, but really, all you’ve done is hidden behind a mask—which you thought was your true self, but it isn’t, not really. For all there is, is you and the wound that never heals. The one that turned you into your worst nightmare. The one you couldn’t live with. Yourself."
By the time I finish ranting, I realize I’ve said too much. I wish I could retract my words. My chest rises and falls. Goosebumps dot my skin. A bead of sweat slides down my temple as I tuck my elbows into my sides. "What am I doing? Apparently, I can’t even control my temper." This is what the thought of her does to me. She’s crept into the crevasses of my disguise, torn off the mask I’d donned. She’s exposed exactly how weak I am at my core. Is this why the Lord sent her to me. To hold up a mirror to my frailties? To reveal just how fragile my relationship with Him is? To tell me that I haven’t changed, not really? For beneath it all, I am still the sad and lonely, tortured boy with a past that will never let go of me.
"What bullshit is this?" Sinclair growls. "Stop being so hard on yourself, Ed." He walks over to me, grips my shoulders. "Of all of us, you and Baron were affected the most by what happened at the incident. And yet, neither one of you has never told us the details."
"And I’m not starting now." I shake off his grasp. "I think it’s time you guys go."
"Oh, fuck off," Saint snaps.
I glare at him and he glares back.
"No swearing. Not when you are in the house of the Lord."
"What-fucking-ever," he responds.
"Saint," Sinclair warns, "keep it down. The Father’s already hurting. You’re not making it any better."
"Of course, the Father’s upset." He snorts, "He’s realizing that he’s not perfect. He’s one of us. As flawed, as fallible, as prone to falling in—"
"Stop," I growl. "Don’t go there."
"Oh?" Saint tilts his head, "What are you going to do, Ed? You going to punch me in the face? You going to finally give in to the insecurities that crawl inside of you as much as the rest of us? You going to finally get your head out of your arse and do something about your life that’s been stalled since the incident?" He takes a step forward and I throw up a hand.
"I’m holding onto my temper with great difficulty here."
"I’m sooo scared." He grins. "What are you going to do about it, Ed? You going to get off your high horse and finally accept that you can’t stay separate from reality. That you are like the rest of us. That you’re in lust with—"
Something inside of me snaps. My vision narrows; my pores pop. I swipe out and bury my fist in his face. Saint stumbles back as blood spurts from his face. He straightens, shakes his head, then bares his teeth. "Finally," he growls, "fucking finally, you show what’s there under that exterior."
"I haven’t even started." I take a step forward, swipe out my fist. He ducks, then jumps forward. He lowers his head, charges, catches me in the chest. I hit the ground, Saint on top of me. He raises his fist and I laugh. "Hit me. Go ahead, I deserve this and more."
Saint blinks. He scowls down at me, "What the hell?"
"Why did you stop?" I growl. "Hit me," I command.
"You lost it, man?" He frowns.
"You’ve lost it." I strike out with my fist and he evades it. Anger seizes me; frustration thrums at my temples. I rear up, smash my forehead into his chin and he yells.
"What the bloody fuck?" He pulls back his fist and I laugh and laugh.
"Do it," I spit out. "Hit me in the face."
He hesitates.
"Or have you lost your nerve?"
Saint’s gaze narrows; his nostrils flare. His fist descends toward me. I close my eyes and wait. Wait. The next second, his weight is pulled off of me.
"What the—?" I snap my eyes open, just as Sinner hauls me to my feet.
Arpad and Damian restrain Saint as he glares at me, chest heaving.
"Stop this." Weston frowns. "You should know better than to rise to the bait, Saint." He turns on me, "And you, Father? What’s gotten into you? You taunted him, knowing he was going to lose his temper, and of all the places, in Church."
"The Church?" I blink. "I am in the House of God," I whisper in horror. I squeeze my hands into fists. I’ve done it. I’ve sullied the one place that is more holy to me than anywhere else. I’ve tarnished the most sacred of spaces. I’ve given in to temptation. Again. What is wrong with me? I hang my head. "Get out of here, all of you," I whisper. "Out."
That’s when the ringing of a phone breaks the silence.
Sinclair answers his phone, then glances up at me. "It’s for you."
"Me?"
I take the phone from him, "Hello?"
"Edward? It’s Isla speaking. I am calling about Ava."
"Ava?" My fingers tighten, "What’s wrong with Ava?" My heart begins to race. "Tell me right now."
"She’s fine…" Isla hesitates, "but not for much longer."
I hear the sound of music in the background, then something crashes to the floor. A man swears in the background. There’s the sound of cheering, then Isla gasps.
"Isla, what’s happening?" I frown.
"We are at the National Portrait Gallery bar. You’d better get here fast."
I toss the phone back at Sinner, turn and race for the door, when he calls out, "Better change out of your priestly garb first, Father."
I pause to stare down at myself. Should I take it off? No way, am I going to a bar dressed like this… And yet… Why does it seem like I am making some kind of choice? Does it mean that I am forsaking Him? No. Of course, not. All I’m doing is going to help out a friend. That’s allowed, right?
I shrug off the priest’s robes, drape them over the nearest chair.
"Here!" Damian calls out behind me.
I turn and snatch my phone that he tosses in my direction. Then I grab my wallet and keys, and I run for the door.