Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

15

Ava

He’s going to leave me. He’s going to leave me. He’s going to…leave me and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s going to choose Him over me, as he always does. He’s going to leave me to return to the Church. I know it just by the tormented look in his eyes. By how he holds my gaze and refuses to look away, how he steels himself as if waiting for the worst that is yet to come…which could be possibly, what? What could be more horrible than him walking away from me a final time, and never looking back?

I can’t let him go.

Not after what just happened. He saved me…metaphorically and literally; he had rescued me from myself. If I had been ready to walk away from him earlier, now… I am not. Now, I am going to fight for him, with every bone in my body. Which is why I’d pulled out the only trick I have. I’d asked him to hear my confession.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

I stare at the confessional booth. I haven’t been to a confession before, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how it’s done.

He takes his position behind the screen, and I slip into the adjacent cubicle. I kneel, then lock my fingers together; stare through the screen, at the hint of his chin, the angle of his nose, the curve of his beautiful lips that are visible through the lattice work.

"You wanted to confess?" His voice echoes in the enclosed space.

I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is so dry that nothing emerges.

"Ava?" He prompts me, "You said you have something to confess?"

"Y…yes."

Shit, why is it that when I need the powers of conversation most, words fail me? I shuffle my feet, hunch my shoulders, then straighten them. "Um, maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it."

"Perhaps your subconscious wants you to open up? Often, speaking what’s on your mind is the best way to gain perspective. At the very least, if you talk, it’ll shut me up."

"Not that you say a lot," I mutter. "In all the time I’ve known you, which I admit isn’t that long, you’ve never mentioned anything about yourself."

"This is your confession, not mine," he reminds me.

"You always have a ready answer."

"Not this time. All I’m going to do is listen, without judgement, remember?"

I hear the smirk in his voice. Asshole… Wait, that’s not right. You can’t call a priest an asshole… However much he is one. Right? And this is Edward, toned down in his role as a priest. How would he be if he weren’t one? Why am I even thinking of that, considering that will never be a possibility? It’s why I am here, after all, in a confessional, with him in the one role he is comfortable playing.

I blow out a breath, then lower my head,

"You start with saying, 'forgive me, Father, for I have…’"

"Bugger that."

"Eve!" he admonishes me and I subside.

"Do I have to say that?"

"Do you want to confess?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." I lower my chin, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… This is...ah. This will be my first confession."

There’s silence from his side, then, "That’s all right. Tell me your sins," he commands, and a shiver runs down my spine.

Here goes. "I lied to you."

"About what?"

"About being attracted to you."

"Is that right?"

I nod.

"I am in love with you, Edward,"

There, I’ve said it. For better or for worse, it is out there now. Maybe it’s a low blow to stop him from leaving, but what else do I have in my arsenal, right?

"Did you hear me?" I prompt.

"You haven’t known me long enough to have fallen in love with me."

"Just like you have fallen for me; you just haven’t allowed yourself to acknowledge it."

"Why do you think you are in love with me?"

I frown. "That sounds more like a psychologist’s question than a priest’s."

He chuckles. "A good priest is also a psychologist when it matters."

Right.

"So, why do you think you are in love with me?"

"Because I am."

"Answer the question," he snaps.

I stiffen, then choose my words carefully. "Because...before I met you, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I loved dancing, but that was it. Anything outside of that? I was no good at it. I didn’t know how to live…didn’t know what I wanted to wear, what to eat, what to drink, when not to say the wrong thing. I was adrift, unmoored, like I’d been waiting for a signal in the dark, a beacon to guide me, a force to propel me. Something that would take me by my hand and point me in the right direction. Or maybe someone." I tilt my head. “Someone who’d tell me when to get up, what to wear, when to eat, when to sit, when to vote, when to dance, when to relax. Someone who’d take the choices out of my hand and direct me on how to survive. I want someone to believe in me… I want someone like you to guide me, to steer me, to be my conscience, to hear what my soul wants and interpret it for me. Because that’s what you do, Father, right? You’re the one who advises and directs people. You lead, they follow. That…that’s what I want."

There’s silence then, "What?" he asks in a low voice. "What is it that you’re asking for?"

"Forgiveness for what I am about to ask for, Father."

"What’s that?"

"For you to tell me what to do."

"And you’d obey."

"Always, and only for you, Father." I swallow, clench my thighs together. What the hell am I doing? What am I doing? Don’t say it, don’t. "I want you to direct me, to command me, to take control of my life and of me, my choices. I want you to tell me what to do, Father."

Silence extends for a beat, another. He’s quiet for so long that I lean forward. I peer through the lattice, but I can’t make out his expression. Shit.

I stand up, then press my palm into the screen that separates us.

What the hell is he thinking about? Did I upset him? Have I gone too far? This was a terrible idea. It really was. Why don’t you ever know when to shut up, Ava? I turn to head out of the booth, "Edward I—"

"Kneel." His tersely spoken word whispers through the space. I blink.

"Excuse me… What…what did you say?"

"I said, on your knees."

I hesitate. What the hell is he talking about? He surely doesn’t mean that, does he?"

"Now," he snaps and I slide onto the floor, on my knees.