The Angel (The Original Sinners) (27 page)

Griffin winked at him and left the room, still hooting in
unabashed joy, a sound that lifted Michael’s heart so high that he almost didn’t
hear what Griffin had said.

Once alone, he remembered.

Michael raced to the hallway. “Wait! Griffin? I’m what?”

20

On the subway, Suzanne found a safe spot on an empty
seat and pulled Nora Sutherlin’s medical file out of her messenger bag. She’d
read it last night outside Kingsley Edge’s house. She’d read it again at her
apartment. After two readings she still didn’t know what to make of it.

The file began with Eleanor Schreiber’s results from a physical
she’d taken before starting her freshman year at NYU. A basic physical for
insurance purposes, all it revealed was a healthy eighteen-year-old girl with
low cholesterol, low blood pressure and some mild hay fever. The only note of
interest was that young Eleanor had refused a pelvic exam. The little scribbled
note had raised Suzanne’s hackles. Why would she refuse a basic pelvic? Suzanne
had immediately assumed the worst: STI…pregnancy. Maybe even evidence of an
abortion. But a few pages later she’d found something that blew all her dark
theories out of the water. At age nineteen, Eleanor Schreiber had apparently
partied too hard one night and passed out drunk. She’d woken up with a frat boy
on top of her. The file contained notes from a rape crisis counselor who’d been
brought in to talk to Eleanor before, during and after the exam. Apparently the
counselor hadn’t gotten to perform her duties that night, as a note on the chart
testified:

Patient said she doubts the young man sexually assaulted her.
Claims she vomited on him during the rape attempt. Dismissed by the patient once
her priest, Father Marcus Stearns, arrived. Patient clearly suffering from
severe denial.

But young Eleanor hadn’t been in denial. The doctor’s report
not only showed no presence of trauma or fluids, but an intact hymen as well. At
nineteen years old, Eleanor Schreiber was still a virgin. Suzanne knew she
should have stopped reading there. To read another woman’s medical file seemed
such a gross invasion of privacy it turned her stomach to even have it in her
hands. And yet she couldn’t stop, even after learning that teenage Nora was not
lover to Father Stearns, or anyone for that matter.

After Eleanor turned twenty, things got even more interesting.
For some reason, instead of seeing a GP or an ob-gyn on a regular basis, Eleanor
Schreiber went to a Dr. Jonas for all her all her medical issues. Dr. William
Jonas, an internist at Central in Connecticut. And for a young woman who didn’t
participate in organized sports, Eleanor seemed to acquire a shocking number of
minor injuries—a sprained wrist, a bruised rib, even vaginal tearing. To Suzanne
they seemed to be clear signs that Eleanor Schreiber had been in a physically
abusive relationship in her twenties. And yet Dr. Jonas merely treated his
patient, took the most perfunctory of notes and sent her on her way without ever
calling the police or an abuse counselor. It seemed a shocking oversight on his
part.

Suzanne turned another page in the file. Her hands shook as she
read. To herself she whispered, “Nora Sutherlin…you bad Catholic…”

Age twenty-seven, Eleanor Schreiber had gotten pregnant. And
Catholic or not, the pregnancy ended quickly with a prescription for RU-486.
After that, the medical file ended. No more injuries, no more visits to Dr.
Jonas. Nothing.

Nothing…which is what Suzanne had on Father Stearns.

Kingsley Edge said go visit the sister—the one she didn’t want
to see. She knew Father Stearns had a sister in Denmark. He’d told her that
night at the rectory. Surely Kingsley didn’t mean her—that would be one hell of
a research trip. So that left Claire or Elizabeth.

She’d researched Claire last night. Lovely woman about Nora
Sutherlin’s age—a rich Manhattan socialite, no husband, no kids, no scandals. As
a war correspondent, Suzanne did really hate talking to socialites. Maybe that’s
what Kingsley meant. But then she’d looked into Elizabeth. Her very first Google
hit on Elizabeth Stearns revealed one vital and terrifying fact. Despite also
being exceedingly well-off, Elizabeth Stearns had a real job. She worked as a
therapist for victims of childhood sexual abuse.

The very phrase created aching knots in Suzanne’s stomach and a
thousand memories of Adam came crashing to the forefront of her mind. After his
suicide, the revelation of the abuse he’d suffered from their priest had tainted
every memory of him. Every recollection of him from after the age of nine—Adam’s
goofy grin in his graduation photo, the day he pushed her in the pool on her
twentieth birthday, the pride in his voice when she’d come home from her first
assignment in the Middle East, alive and triumphant—was blighted by the
knowledge that every grin had been a fake, every laugh a mask. The last thing
she wanted to do was spend the day with a woman who worked with victims of sex
abuse.

Suzanne closed the file as she reached her stop. In ten minutes
she had her rental car. In fifteen minutes she was on the road to New
Hampshire.

In four hours, she was there.

* * *

After a huge dinner in the dining room on Griffin’s anal
table, the three of them—Griffin, Nora and Michael—adjourned to the living room.
Nora threw confetti everywhere in honor of Griffin’s six years clean and sober
while Michael sat in near silence on the leather sofa and watched Griffin and
Nora do some ridiculous dirty dancing on top of the coffee table. Michael wanted
to join in the celebration, would have joined in, but Griffin’s threat from
earlier that Michael too would be getting tattooed that night had put him into
hardcore freak-out mode. His sexuality he could hide more or less. At least he
could keep the submission and the attraction to guys a secret from his mom. But
a tattoo? That’s not something one could keep in the bedroom.

A little after five, the doorbell rang and Griffin commanded
Jamison to answer it, which he did only after calling Griffin a “well-arranged
waste of molecules.”

Griffin’s butler returned with a leggy, purpled-haired woman at
his side who had elaborate tattoos running up and down both her muscular arms.
Dark green vine tattoos ran across her ample cleavage and climbed up her
neck—the tip of the top vine ended in the hollow behind her multi-pierced
ears.

“Griffin Fiske, you dirty whore. One more year again?” she
asked in a Scottish accent.

“Spike…don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”

“Don’t have to pretend.” She slapped Griffin hard on the
biceps, hard enough Michael flinched in sympathy. But Griffin only grinned.

“Nora, Michael. This is Spike. She does my ink for me. Best in
the business.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Nora said, shaking Spike’s hand. “You do
gorgeous work.”

“And you have gorgeous skin,” Spike said, making a circuit
around Nora. “Would look better with ink on it.”

Nora sat on the couch and picked up the edits on her books
she’d been working on all day.

“I would love a tattoo. Big-ass Jabberwocky all over my back.
But my priest doesn’t allow me to get anything weird done to my body.”

Griffin rolled his eyes while he stripped out of his shirt and
sat two chairs side by side.

“Nora, you have your clit hood pierced,” Griffin reminded
her.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But who do you think did that?” She put on
her glasses, pulled her hair into a bun that she secured with a pen, instantly
transforming herself into Writing Nora, the only version of Nora Michael found
sexier than Dominatrix Nora.

“Father S did your piercing?” Michael’s mouth went suddenly
dry.

Nora only shrugged as she turned a page in her notes.

“You celebrate Valentine’s Day in your way and we’ll celebrate
it in ours. Carry on.”

Nora waved her hand dismissively while Spike and Griffin got
settled in. Spike plugged in her electric needle, mixed her ink and cleaned
Griffin’s arm with alcohol.

“Anything fancy, mate?” she asked as she adjusted Griffin’s
arm.

“Not this year. Just add another band to the bottom.”

It took less than fifteen minutes to finish Griffin’s tattoo—a
black vine around the bottom of his right bicep. Michael could only watch in
fascination as blood pooled and dripped. Griffin barely even winced as the
needle pushed ink deep into his skin. For the entire time Spike worked on
Griffin’s arm, Michael studied his face. He had such a handsome profile. And
even in obvious pain, he couldn’t stop laughing or smiling every few seconds.
Where did all that happiness come from? Michael didn’t really care. He just
wanted to be a part of it.

Once finished, Spike cleaned Griffin off and took a photo of
the tattoo.

“When are we getting that griffin on your back we’ve been
talking about?” she asked.

“Think we’ll save that for next year and lucky anniversary
number seven.” Griffin turned to Michael. “Spike specializes in big work. Did
big black angel wings all over the back of some guy in Scotland.”

“My best work,” she said with pride. “I love wings. They’re my
favorite to do. Speaking of…” She gave Griffin a meaningful look.

Griffin looked at Michael.

“Come here, Mick. Got a present for you.”

Michael stood up and walked over to Griffin. Nora put her notes
away, shoved her glasses on her head and watched them both.

“Griffin, I don’t think I should get a tattoo. My mom might
kill me. And I don’t know what to get or where.”

Griffin reached out and took Michael by the forearm. He lifted
Michael’s hand and placed it on the center of his bare chest. Every nerve in
Michael’s body came alive at the contact of his fingers on Griffin’s skin.

Griffin started to unbuckled Michael’s watch.

“Wait. Stop,” Michael said. Griffin clapped a hand onto his arm
and held Michael in place.

“It’s okay, Mick,” Griffin whispered. “You can trust me here.
Please.”

Swallowing, Michael nodded. “Okay.”

Griffin removed Michael’s watch and set it aside as carefully
as if it was Griffin’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Audemars Piguet and not
Michael’s twenty-three-dollar eBay special.

After removing the watch, Griffin took off Michael’s black
wristband. He turned Michael’s arms over and showed the scarred wrists to
Spike.

“Can you do it?” Griffin asked.

Spike narrowed her eyes at the scars, and Michael inwardly
writhed in mortification.

“I’ve covered worse. Much worse,” Spike said as she ran her
fingers over Michael’s wrist scars. “Yeah, I can do it. ’Course I can.”

“This is what I was thinking, Mick.” Griffin pulled a folded
piece of paper out of the back pocket of his pants. He opened it up and showed
Michael. “I stole your sketchbook while you were with Nora and sent some of your
drawings to Spike. This is what we came up with.”

Griffin gave a drawing to Michael, who could only stare at it
in speechless wonder.

“I thought we could cover the scars,” Griffin whispered. He
tucked a loose strand of Michael’s hair behind his ear, and Michael shivered at
the intimacy of the gesture. Watching Griffin have sex with Nora didn’t feel as
private as Griffin absentmindedly taming Michael’s hair. “You won’t have to hide
them anymore. Your wrists will look like that.”

“Like this?” In his hand Michael held a drawing of angel
wings—open and unfurled and almost solid black. One wing would be tattooed on
each wrist.

“You’ll be able to do this,” Griffin said, holding both wrists
out and together, “and you’ll have a full wingspan. Want to do it? My treat,
okay?”

Michael swallowed a throatful of tears. No more hideous scars
on his wrists he’d have to cover up… Just beautiful ink that Griffin had bought
and paid for. Getting this tattoo would be like being marked by Griffin.

“Yes.” He looked up at Griffin with eyes that never wanted to
look away again. “Let’s do it.”

Griffin clapped his hands loudly and grabbed Michael by the
shoulders.

“You won’t regret this, Mick. Ink doesn’t get into your skin.
It gets into your soul. Changes you. And this will change you in the good
way.”

“You sure you want to do this, Angel?” Nora asked, her eyes
full of concern but no judgment.

“Yeah, definitely. It’s okay, right?” he asked.

“This decision is all yours to make. If you want it, do
it.”

“I want it.”

“Good,” Spike said. “I hope you mean that because inking scar
tissue is a bitch. We’ll do the basics tonight and get some decent coverage.
I’ll need you back in six weeks for touch-ups.”

Michael sat down while Griffin brought a table over and placed
it front of the chair.

“Griff,” Spike said, giving him a stern glare. “You’ll have to
hold him steady. This won’t be easy going.”

Griffin looked at Michael, and Michael gazed back at Griffin
without blinking or looking away. That strange feeling he always experienced
when about to start a scene with Nora came over him. He started to sink into
that weird Zen place that Nora and Griffin called subspace.

Michael extended his left hand and Spike started to swab his
wrist with alcohol.

“Hold him down, mate,” Spike ordered Griffin. “Don’t let him
move a muscle.”

Griffin took Michael’s hand in his and held his fingers and
forearm hard against the table.

“I won’t even let him flinch.” Griffin and Michael’s eyes still
remained locked on each other. Michael felt blood surging through his body. The
buzz of the electric needle started up.

“Won’t lie to you, kid,” Spike said, making a final adjustment
on her needle. “Skin on the wrist is thin and sensitive. Getting ink on your
cock would hurt less than this will.”

Michael took a deep breath in and slowly let it out of his nose
the way Nora had taught him.

“It’s okay,” Michael said and knew he’d never been so calm or
certain in his life. He had Griffin’s hands on him holding him down. No fear, no
agony, nothing in the world could penetrate the armor of his happiness. “I can
take pain.”

* * *

Slowly Wesley turned around. Standing in the doorway to
Nora’s bedroom was a man well over six feet tall, with perfect pale blond hair,
penetrating steel-gray eyes and a face too handsome to be human. He wore jeans
and a black T-shirt that revealed impressively taut biceps, and in his right
hand he held a motorcycle helmet.