Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross
Dean cursed as he grudgingly ascended the stairs to the main parlor of the funeral home. He needed to leave. He’d almost crossed the line again—the woman had some sort of bewitching hold over him. It was like he was starved for her touch. The slightest contact from her left his impeccable control almost non-existent. Yes, she had the most sensual lips that begged to be ravished, and yes, she had beautiful green eyes that sucked you into their depths and screamed she wanted to be fucked. Hell, even her shy, quiet nature mixed with her wild ginger hair stirred the beast in his pants. He’d had sex with many gorgeous women over his life, but this one—he just couldn’t put his finger on what drew him to her.
Hand on the front door, he paused and closed his eyes, and shuddered as the sensation of her small body shaking against his flowed through him. He’d instinctively wrapped her up in his arms to cry, and it had felt right like that was what he was meant to do.
He shook his head.
The emotions were confusing and difficult to sift through.
What did he know of love? He knew pain and abuse, he knew hatred and rage, and of course, he knew of loyalty and friendship, but love?
When it became obvious Yasmine was going to stay locked in the bathroom until he left, he decided to give her the privacy she wanted. He couldn’t stand to see her cry or to see her in pain because, in a way, her pain was over something he’d done.
Finally, Dean yanked open the door and stomped out of the funeral home. Feeling eyes on him, he turned to look up at the old Victorian-style home. The curtain in Yasmine’s room moved slightly, and when he smiled up at the window, the curtain promptly slid back into place. A gnawing ache throbbed in his chest as his eyes took in the large home. It had been converted and added onto until it was the fixture in the community it was today, but the warmth and care that emanated from that place—it was all about her, not the grandeur of it.
The good mood that had accompanied his kill and victory over a sexual predator quickly evaporated. As Dean meandered along the sidewalk, his gaze cast down at the skiff of snow. He didn’t mind the cool winter’s bite as it blew his long robes around his legs. He’d witnessed enough heat, sand, and sunburn for multiple lifetimes.
“Well, good morning Father O’Sullivan, and what a lovely morning it is,” Whitney’s all too bubbly voice broke his deep concentration.
He looked up and internally groaned. She was blocking his path. Her bright red lips smiled, showing perfect teeth, and the woman’s equally perfect black curls surrounded a face that had won her many in bed. The distracting curls comically bounced like miniature coils in the wind.
This woman was a sinner of another sort. The perpetual adulterer was on his list—if it weren’t for his little black book, he would’ve lost count of how many times she sat in his confessional. She always gave way more detail of her escapades than was necessary, and it didn’t take much for him to conclude she was trying to seduce him with her dirty talk.
On more than one occasion, she found reason to strip down to practically her underwear in the small booth. He couldn’t deny he’d been tempted to take her up on the offer to slip between her legs, but that would blow his cover, and she wasn’t worth the hassle.
In fact, she was already supposed to be gone from this world, taken out by the same tragic car accident that took out her friends, but that had not happened. Whitney had decided last minute not to go with her girlfriends on their “shopping trip.” It had taken a lot of time and energy to plan out the sabotaging of their car. When to do it, how to make it look like a simple accident, and this annoying lump of flesh had felt under the weather and avoided her fate…for now. She wasn’t exactly high on his priority list to finish off, so her time would come when he didn’t have bigger things to concern him.
Finally deciding to respond to her overly friendly ‘good morning,’ Dean spoke carefully.
“I would have to disagree, Whitney. It is not lovely today, considering the bodies of six innocent children were just discovered brutally assaulted and murdered. I’d think that with you being a mother yourself, you’d feel the weight of such a heinous crime?”
Those red lips snapped from a smile into a fake pout, the sadness never reaching her eyes.
“Oh, yes, that. Of course, it is such a tragedy, poor things. I just try not to think about it too much. It sets my heart into fits.” Whitney fanned at her face as if she might cry, and the back of his hand itched to feel it crack across her skin, maybe even break a bone or three.
Whitney grabbed his arm, her matching red nails like drops of blood on his robe. “It really is so sad.”
One fat lonely tear trickled from her grey eyes. It took effort, but he managed not to roll his eyes. Whitney had been gunning to get into his robes since he first arrived, and she’d become more brazen of late. It was no secret she was the town slut. In fact, she seemed to revel in the knowledge. Not that he gave a shit how much she fucked other people. It was her purposeful, poisonous drive to destroy others’ happiness that caught his interest.
Whitney’s husband either didn’t care, liked the idea, or was an idiot. Dean still hadn’t figured which it was. This type of sinner was more like a mosquito for him. Was she annoying? Yes, but she was not what he actively searched for, not what he craved to squash from existence.
He stared down into her eyes as she batted her eyelashes at him and all he wanted to do was pick her up by the neck and squeeze—he wanted to watch the light leave her eyes as she clawed at his arm. It wouldn’t stop the emotional issues he was currently facing, but it might make him feel a trifle better. He could take her back to the church. She would go easy enough, and then he could quickly kill her. But no, that was not the way he worked.
Giving Whiney his best comforting smile, he patted her hand.
“There now, don’t cry. They’re in God’s embrace, and He will take good care of them. Just as I am certain that suffering will rain down upon the sinners of this world.” He gently pulled his arm out of her talon-like grip.
Whitney’s eyes darted away from his as she bit her lip. She seemed a little uncertain with his veiled threat, but it didn’t last long. Whitney fluffed her hair. “Yes, I guess that’s the best we can hope for.”
Dean nodded with a sigh.
“Have a good day, Whitney.” He made to step around her when those bright red nails gripped his arm again. He was all too aware of her squeezing his bicep as she seductively sucked in her bottom lip, the tip of her tongue tracing the edge.
“Father, my son is grown and has gone off to school, so I can relate to how…lonely it can be on your own. If you ever have the need for some company, as I’m sure it gets tiresome in that big old church all by yourself, be sure to give me a call. We can talk or…something.”
Dean’s eyes met hers, and he couldn’t be certain but thought he heard her moan. She smiled wide and brushed past him, her body coming into contact with his. He looked back at her swinging ass. Another time, another place he might have taken her for a ride, but he never fucked his targets. She looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a wink like she didn’t just solicit a priest. The fact he wasn’t a real priest wasn’t the point because, as far as she knew, he was.
Dean ground his teeth together.
Whitney might have just pushed herself higher on his priority list.
“You may see me sooner than you’d like, Whitney,” he mumbled under his breath and turned, continuing on his way.
Something that Yasmine said kept playing over in his mind. She mentioned that this situation with the girls was bringing up old memories. One could assume that she meant remembering when the girls went missing, but he had a feeling there was more to it. Her reaction was too personal, too emotional for it not to have hit closer to home. Deciding to do a bit of investigating, Dean marched across the street and waved to a passerby as he aimed for Mabels.