Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (26 page)

No matter what their issues were, she figured she could lap them in the sin contest. Easy.

“Hello.”

She glanced behind her and recognized a guy from the prayer group.

He was a quiet one like her, a regular attendee who rarely opened his mouth. “Hello,” she said.

He nodded once and then stared at the ground, clasping his hands together and keeping to himself. For no particular reason, she noticed that he smelled like incense, the kind that was used in the church, and she was comforted by the smoky, sweet scent.

Together they moved up two paces when someone else went in...then another two paces...and then Marie-Terese was up next.

After a lady with red-rimmed eyes came out from behind the thick velvet curtain, it was Marie-Terese's turn to go in, and she gave the prayer group guy a smile of goodbye before stepping up to the cubicle.

When she'd shut herself in and taken a seat, the wooden panel slid back and the priest's profile was revealed on the far side of the brass screen that separated them.

After making the sign of the cross, she said softly, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.”

She paused, because even though she'd said the words many, many times, they were hard to get out.

“Speak to me, my child. Unburden yourself.”

“Father, I have...sinned.”

“In what manner.”

Even though he knew. But the point of confession was the vocalized recitation of evil deeds; without that there could be no absolution, no relief.

She cleared her throat. “I have...been with men unlawfully. And I have committed adultery.” Because some of them had had wedding rings on. “And...1 took the Lord's name in vain.” When she'd seen Vin hit the ground by the diner. “And I...”

It was a while before her list dried up and the priest's profile nodded gravely when she fell silent. “My child...surely you know the errors of your ways.”

“I do.”

“And the transgressions against God's ways cannot go...”

As the priest's voice continued, Marie-Terese closed her eyes and took the message deep inside. The pain of how far she had sunk and what she was doing to herself squeezed her lungs until she couldn't draw in any air at all.

“Marie-Terese.”

She shook herself and looked at the screen. “Yes, Father?”

“...and therefore, I shall...” The priest paused. “Excuse me?”

“You said my name?”

A frown appeared on his profile. “No, my child. I did not. But for your sins, I shall decree that...” Marie-Terese looked around, even though there was nothing to see but the wood paneling and the red velvet curtain.

“... te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus
Sancti. Amen.”

Dropping her head, she thanked the priest, and after he'd closed the partition, she took a deep breath, picked up her bag, and stepped out of the confessional. Next to the one she'd been in, she could hear the voice of the other sinner. Soft. Muffled. Utterly indistinct.

As she walked down the side aisle, paranoia had her eyes going all around the cathedral. The pair of women with veils were still there.

The man who'd been praying was gone, but two others had come in and taken his place at the back.

She hated looking over her shoulder and wondering whether she was hearing her name and worrying if she were being followed. But ever since she'd pulled out of Las Vegas, she'd been hypervigilant and she had a feeling she would always be like that.

Outside, she jogged over to her car and she didn't breathe easy until she was locked in. For once, the Camry turned over on the first try, as if her adrenaline were being transmitted to the engine, and she drove off to the club.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the Iron Mask and got out with her duffel, her paranoia was irritating the hell out of her. No cars had followed hers. No dark shadows were moving in for the kill.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—

Her eyes went to the alley where the bodies had been found...and she was reminded of precisely why she worried all the time.

“How you doing?”

Marie-Terese spun around so fast, her duffel bag slammed into her.

But it was only Trez, waiting by the back door. “I'm...good.” As his eyes narrowed, she put up her palm. “Don't prod me. Not tonight. I know you mean well, but I can't handle it right now.”

“Okay,” he murmured, stepping back so she could pass by him. “I'll give you the space you need.”

Fortunately, he was true to his word, leaving her off at the locker room so she could change. When she was in her god-awful uniform, with her hair fluffed out and her lids caked with eye shadow and her mouth all greasy, she walked down the long hall to the club proper, completely dissociated from who and where she was.

As she trolled the fringes of the crowd, it didn't take long to find business. A little eye contact, some hip, a slight smile and she had her first candidate of the night.

The guy was an utter civilian—in other words, he would have looked absolutely fine anywhere else but here in Gothlandia. He was over six feet tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, and he smelled of Calvin Klein's Eternity for Men—an old-school favorite that suggested he wasn't all that suave, but at least had a good enough nose. His clothes were nice, but not over-the-top, and he didn't have a wedding band.

The conversation about the transaction was stilted and awkward, and he blushed the entire time, so it was clear he'd not only never done this before, but had never pictured himself in the position of exchanging money for sex.

Join the club, she thought.

He followed her into one of the bathrooms, and in a characteristic warping of reality, she felt as if she were disembodied and walking two steps behind, watching the pair of them go behind the closed door.

Inside the cramped space, she took the money he offered, tucking it into the hidden pocket inside her skirt, and then she stepped into him, her body cold as ice, her hand trembling as it brushed up his arm.

Stretching her lips into a fake smile, she braced herself for him to touch her, forcing her body to stay where it was, praying that her self-control was enough so that she didn't run out screaming.

“My name's Rob,” the John said in a nervous voice. “What's yours?”

All at once the bathroom closed in, the deep purple and black walls going trash-compactor on her and squeezing her tight, making her want to yell for help so someone, anyone would stop them.

Swallowing hard, Marie-Terese gathered herself and blinked fast in the hope that clearing her eyes would help cleanse her brain and get her back on track.

When she leaned in, the man frowned and pulled away.

“Changed your mind?” she said, wishing that he had, even though it would just mean she'd have to head out and find another one.

He seemed perplexed. “Ah...you're crying.”

Recoiling, she looked around his shoulder at the mirror over the sink.

Good Lord...he was right. Tears were rolling down her cheeks in a slow stream. Raising her hands, she brushed them off.

The man turned to face the mirror as well, and his face was as sad as she felt. “You know what?” he said. “I don't think either one of us should be doing this. I'm trying to get back at someone who doesn't care who I sleep with, and I just didn't want anyone else getting hurt.

That's why I came to...”

“A whore,” she finished for him. “That's why you came to me.”

God, her reflection looked awful. Her heavy eyeliner was melting off and her cheeks were paper white and her hair was frizzed out.

As she stared at her face, she realized she was done. The moment had finally come. She had been inching toward this for some time, with all those gearing-up pauses before she could come into the club and those Dial-scented crying jags in the shower and those panic attacks in the confessionals, but the approach was no longer.

The arrival was here.

She wiped her hand on her skirt and took out the folded bills. Taking the man's palm, she put the money into it. “I believe you're right.

Neither of us should be doing this.”

The guy nodded and squeezed the money hard, looking hopeless. “I'm such a pansy.”

“Why?”

“It's just so typical of me. I always choke in these situations.”

“For what it's worth, you didn't choke. I did. You were...kind.”

“That's me. The nice guy. Always the nice guy.”

“What's her name?” Marie-Terese murmured.

“Rebecca. She's in the cubicle next to me at work and she's really...perfect. I've been trying to impress her for about four years now, but all she does is talk about her love life. I thought maybe if I could tell her about a date of mine where I get lucky...Trouble is, I never get lucky and I'm a rotten liar.”

He tugged at the sleeves of his shirt as if he were trying to spiff himself up in the face of his reality.

“Have you asked her out?” Marie-Terese asked. “No.”

“You think maybe she's hoping to impress you with all those dates of hers?” The guy frowned. “But why would she do that.”

Marie-Terese reached up and turned his face back to the mirror.

“Because you're actually good-looking and you're nice, and maybe you're reading the situation wrong. The thing is, if you ask her and she blows you off, you don't want to go there anyway. There's no reason to be one of many.”

“God, I can't imagine how to ask her for a date.”

“How about... Rebecca, what are you doing Thursday night?' Make sure you go for one of the weekdays. Too much pressure for a weekend.”

“You think?”

“What do you have to lose?”

“Well, she is next to me at work and I see her every day.”

“But you're not exactly having a good time now, are you? At least you can have some closure.” He met her eyes in the mirror. “Why were you crying?”

“Because...I can't do this anymore.”

“You know, I'm glad. I picked you because you don't seem like the kind of woman who...” He flushed. “Ah—”

“Who should be doing this. I know. And you're right.”

The guy turned to her and smiled. “This actually worked out okay.”

“It did.” On impulse she reached out and gave him a hug. “Best of luck. And remember when you're asking that woman out that you're a catch and she'd be lucky to have you. Trust me. I've learned the hard way that a good man is hard to find.”

“You think?”

Marie-Terese rolled her eyes. “You have
no
idea.”

He smiled even more widely. “Thank you—I mean that. And I think I will ask her. What the hell, right?”

“You only live once.”

He was beaming and full of purpose while he left the bathroom, and as the door eased shut, Marie-Terese went back to staring at herself.

In the light that shone down on her from above, all the smudged black makeup made her look like a bona fide Goth.

How ironic that on her last night in the club, she finally looked like a regular.

Leaning to one side, she snapped free a paper towel, thinking she'd tidy her eyeliner. Instead, she ended up rubbing her lipstick off, just ripping the glossy coat from her mouth. Never again. She wasn't ever wearing that horrible gooey stuff again...or any of the rest of the makeup...or the ridiculous slutty clothes.

Done. This chapter of her life was done.

God, it was amazing how light she felt. Amazing and insane. She had
no
idea what she was going to do next or where she was going to go, so by all that was rational, she should have been panicked. But all she could think of was how relieved she felt.

Turning away from the mirror, she reached for the wrought-iron doorknob and realized that she had gone from tears to smiling.

Opening the way out, she— Looked up into the grim face of Vincent diPietro.

He was leaning against the wall right across from the private bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest, his big body tensed up in spite of what should have been a relaxed pose. His expression was of a man who'd just had his gut slit open.

The problem was, he had no reason and no right to feel sucker punched.

As Vin stared at Marie-Terese, taking note of the flush on her cheeks and the fact that she didn't have any lipstick left on her mouth, he shouldn't have felt a thing. Same deal when that guy had come out of the bathroom with a smile on his face and his shoulders set like he was so the man—there should have been nothing unusual going on in the center of Vin's chest.

This was not his woman. This was not his business.

“I need to go,” he said, standing up from the wall and turning away.

One look at the thick crowd and he headed for the back of the club, for the hallway that, thanks to last night, he knew had a door at the end of it.

All the way along, his father's drunken voice dogged him:
You can
never trust a woman. They're sluts, every one of them. Give them a
chance and they'll fuck you every time—and not In a good way.

Marie-Terese caught up with him about a third of the way to the exit, her high-heeled shoes clipping over the tiled floor. Grabbing his arm, she tugged him to a halt. “Vin, why are you—”

“Behaving like this?” Damn it, he couldn't look at her. Just couldn't do it. “You know, I don't have an answer for that.”

She seemed nonplussed. “No, I was asking...why did you come? Is there something wrong?”

God, where to start with that one. “Everything is fine and dandy. Just frickin' perfect.”

As he started to walk off again, he heard her say loud and clear, “I wasn't with him. That man in there. I was nor with him.”

Vin glanced over his shoulder; then marched back up to her. “Yeah, right. You're
with
men for a living—or do you think I've forgotten what a prostitute does for money.”

While he watched her pale, he felt like a total bastard. But before he could backpedal, she filled the silence.

Lifting her chin, she said, “It's the truth, and whether or not you choose to believe it is your problem. Not mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to change.”

As she brought up her hand to push her hair over her shoulder, he saw that she had something gripped in her fist...a rumpled paper towel with smudges of red all over it.