Saving Evangeline Read online

  “Why were you about to jump?” He pats his pockets and frowns. “Hey, you got a cigarette?”

  “Ew.” I wrinkle my nose with disgust. “No, I don’t smoke. It’s a nasty habit.”

  A grin spreads across his face. He’s much too handsome to be a cleric with those angular cheekbones and strong, clean-shaven jaw. I bet he has a huge cult following of unsatisfied, female parishioners who love to go into great detail about their non-existent, fantasy-filled sex lives in the confessional. Hell, I’d like to do him in the confessional…

  “Not nearly as nasty as Sister Winifred’s habit, but that’s another story. We all have our vices, don’t we? Tell me, Evangeline Lourdes Salvatore, what’s yours?”

  “I go by Evie—” I stop short and cross my arms in front of my chest, narrowing my eyes. “Wait—how do you know my name?”

  “It’s my business to know. So what are your vices? Tell me all about them, and if they’re really good and juicy, in minute detail, please.” Chuckling, he grabs my hand and leads me toward the end of the bridge. I sputter with indignation, sounding like the dying desk fan that sits on my station at the salon. Former station, I quit yesterday.

  “Your business? I’m none of your business! What kind of sick bastard are you?” I pull away from him again, and my pulse pounds in my ears as the bitter taste of fear floods my mouth. A shiver of apprehension creeps over my body. Trying to be discreet, I take a step back.

  It’s late and I’m alone on a deserted road in rural Florida with a handsome stranger who knows my name. This is the stuff of low-budget horror movies. They’re out to get me again. I squelch the thought as my survival instinct kicks into super-drive. Which is kind of bizarre, since just moments ago I wanted to die.

  “Leave me alone.” I’m not sure if I’m speaking to him or the voices in my head. Don’t panic, this isn’t a movie. Don’t turn your back to him. Trying to act nonchalant, I scan the ground searching for anything to use as a weapon. Dammit, I left my purse with pepper spray in it at the edge of the bridge.

  “Take the frightened gazelle look down a notch. I’m not going to hurt you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and continues down the bridge—humming of all things—Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.”

  “So says every sociopath in every slasher movie ever made,” I grumble. But, for some strange reason, I believe him. Maybe it’s the collar. I’m following him like he’s the damn Pied Piper of Hamlin.

  “Evangeline, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have done so already. I’m here to save you.”

  My unladylike snort would make my mother twinge. “Seriously. Tell me how you know my name, Father…?” Please don’t say you’ve heard the gossip.

  “Blackson. Remiel Blackson. But, you can call me Remi. Like I said, it’s my business to know. Aren’t you a parishioner of Our Lady of Perpetual Chaos?”

  This time I laugh at his corruption of our parish church name and the absurdity of his statement. A parishioner? As if. “I haven’t been to church in a long time, Father. I attend St. Mattress on the Springs. Everyone knows I’m a sinner of the worst kind.” I’m not bragging. It’s a well-known fact. Ask anyone in the godforsaken town where I’ve lived my entire twenty-one years. If you can call it living; maybe existed would be a better word.

  “Oh, good!” He yanks his hands from his pockets and rubs them together in the worst over-acted imitation of a stage villain I’ve ever seen. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “The worst kind of sinner is my favorite. You might even say it’s my specialty. So, come on, evil Evie, tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done. Consider the confessional booth open and in business. I promise to go light on penance and heavy on absolution.” He nudges my shoulder as we walk toward the end of the bridge.

  “I c-can’t.” For some peculiar reason, even though everyone in the entire damn county knows why I’m a horrible person, I don’t want this priest to know—not yet. He’ll find out soon enough if he listens to the gossip. I’m notorious, and my reputation is widespread.

  “Fine. But if it makes you feel better, I’ve probably done far worse myself.”

  I roll my eyes in a childish manner. “Yeah, right. Like what, drink a little too much of the sacramental wine? Trust me, whatever you’ve done can’t compare.” Laced with a mixture of shame and anger, my voice sounds bitter even to my own ears. Before I realize it, we’re standing next to his car, and I notice he’s picked up my purse on the way.

  “Evangeline, sins aren’t a game of one-upmanship. They’re mistakes, and I’ve made plenty of them. I haven’t always been a priest, you know.” He opens the car door for me. As I slip past him into the car, the nostalgic scent of fresh cut pine boughs and cinnamon assaults my senses. Damn if he doesn’t smell like Christmas in August. He shuts the door, and I reach over and switch the ignition so I can roll down the window and turn on the interior light.

  Turning back to face him I ask, “Now what?” My voice trembles a little, which pisses me off. Why is this priest affecting me so?

  Remi leans down and peers at me, his clasped hands resting on the open window. A hint of a smile flickers across his face. I like the laugh lines that crinkle by his mesmerizing eyes. He looks to be just a few years older than I am. I realize I haven’t been around anyone close to my age since Jack. Lately, it’s been my lot in life to attract older men. The worst was old Mr. Locke who couldn’t get it up and ended up crying on my chest all night. What’s wrong with me? I’m thinking about sex? This man is a priest.

  “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to scoot over and drive off in my car, continuously looking behind you while I crash in through the windshield or sunroof?” he teases.

  Stunned, I don’t know how to react. No one has teased me in a long time. Most people ignore me or walk around me on pins and needles, waiting for either my head to spin around, or for me to vomit pea soup. Or, like old Mr. Locke, men use me for their own pleasure, thinking my reputation gives them license to take advantage of me. What if he isn’t teasing?

  Jesus, what the hell? I bite my lip, realizing my foolishness. I’m sitting in a complete stranger’s car. Even if he does wear a priest’s collar, it’s no reason to blindly trust him. And yet, I don’t feel compelled to get out of the car and run. He just isn’t scary. Most sociopath murderers probably aren’t, you idiot. Ever hear of Ted Bundy? I look out the windshield into the dark nothingness of my surroundings. We’re miles from civilization.

  Who is this priest? I don’t remember hearing any town gossip about old Father Asswipe retiring. Where the hell is he from, and how did he get here? It took me hours to walk here. I chose this place because of its remoteness, and I never heard his car drive up. Maybe he flew here. I squeeze my eyes shut, shoving the ridiculous thought aside. Dumb ass, you were busy concentrating on ending it. He had to have driven up. My breathing saws erratically and blood pounds in my ears as my thoughts scatter like confetti in the wind.

  He reaches a hand in the window and strokes my hair, the way I used to pet our cat, Duchess. It’s soothing and comforting. “It’s okay. I know you’re scared,” he murmurs. My breathing eases, and my heart quits hammering. A sense of warmth and peace surrounds me. I give in to this strange new feeling, tired of my lifelong struggle to keep my thoughts coherent.

  Sucking in a shallow breath, I draw my gaze to his. Flames seem to spark and flare in the depths of his pupils. When I was a little girl I would lie in the backyard staring at the clouds in the blue sky and talk to the angels. At the time, my mother complained about my overactive imagination. I’ve always maintained it was real, despite the professionals labeling it as a symptom of my disease. The feeling of comfort from back then is the one that comes over me now. I blink and the flames disappear. I must be more exhausted than I realized. What do I have to lose by trusting him?

  As a matter of fact, he might be doing me a favor. I think suicide is a mortal sin, which would embarrass my mom. If I’m murdered, I could have a full Catholic funeral without
the guilt, and she can accept any condolences without the humiliation. And dead is dead, after all.

  I swallow my fear and take a deep breath as I gaze at the cross dangling from his chest. It sways gently back and forth, and I wonder if a religious magician is hypnotizing me. “If you kill me, will you at least promise to make it quick and easy, with minimal pain?” My question is only half-kidding.

  He reaches in the car and tips my chin up so he can look into my eyes. “I don’t believe I could cause you any more pain than what you’re already dealing with, do you?” The scent of Christmas infiltrates the car, and again, I have the peaceful sensation of staring at the sky and talking to the celestial host. I attempt to swallow the lump in the back of my throat, but it won’t go away. All I can do is shrug my shoulders in a combination of pretend indifference and defeat. I realize it isn’t him I’m scared to trust. It’s me. I don’t know how to deal with kindness.

  “You’re overwrought and tired. I’m going to drive you home, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He’s right. My nerves are shot, my battery drained, and my limbs feel like lead. All I want to do is curl up and sleep. And yet, I’m afraid of the nightmares that have plagued me for two years. I never sleep until exhaustion sets in, and then only in two-hour stretches, at the most. The last time I slept was two nights ago.

  He walks around to the driver’s side and eases into the car, snapping off the interior light. With the darkness, a lost, empty feeling engulfs me. He’s taking me home. In my mind, I’m already dead. My house is my tomb. As if sensing my reluctance and fear, Remi turns and pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. Beneath the drab clerical shirt he’s all hard muscle and his presence is one of quiet strength. I feel safe for the first time in what seems forever—encompassed in his dark wings. I squeeze my eyes tighter and my finger traces the outline of the cross he wears. Arms, not wings. I pull away embarrassed by my whimsical musings.

  He smiles as he fastens his seatbelt. “Buckle up, Crazy Girl. If we have an accident, you don’t want to die because you weren’t wearing your seatbelt, do you?”

  My heart sinks into my stomach, and I clench my fists in my lap. He does know. Father Asswipe must have given him an earful, or it could have been anyone else for that matter. I’m more than famous. I’m infamous. I frown and search his face by the dim light on the dashboard, looking for condemnation, horror, or mocking cruelty, but find none. His lips curl in to a sly smirk. I smack his arm as his warm laughter fills the car. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Father.”

  “Sure they do. Everyone likes me. And please, call me Remi.”

  He pulls out to the main road and flips on the radio. Thank God, it isn’t a country station. Casting me a sideways glance and an easy grin, he opens the sunroof. I find myself smiling in return and feeling strangely carefree being in the company of someone who doesn’t seem to give a damn about my past. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this way. Feeling impulsive and reckless, I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand in my seat, squeezing through the sunroof to inhale the heavy, humid night air.

  Storm clouds are gathering in the distance, but overhead it’s clear and millions of stars twinkle like glitter on black velvet. There’s no traffic on the deserted back road, and I squeal with delight when Remi kicks the speed up and cuts off the headlights. We’re submerged in darkness, the road lit only by the illumination of the moon. For a brief moment I’m frightened. Is being scared shitless becoming some sort of warped addiction? On the radio, Pearl Jam wails “Given to Fly,” and Remi cranks it up full blast as we fly down the road at a breakneck speed.

  “Spread your wings and give in to the moment,” he shouts, followed by a loud rebel yell as he pumps the air with his fist, sounding like a teenager on a joyride instead of a priest saving a crazy girl. His laughter is like a bright light in a dark cavern and fills the empty hole where my soul should exist. I look down at him and find myself grinning. His hair is a disheveled mess, and his pure ecstasy at living in the moment is intoxicating. I want to drink in his bliss. My hair blows behind me in chaotic disarray and goose bumps appear on my arms, but whether from the cold air, or fear, I don’t know, or care. In this moment, I’m liberated from the nightmare that is now my life. I throw my head back, shut my eyes, and hold out my arms. It’s both terrifying and thrilling.

  I’m flying.

  I’m free.

  I’m alive.

  Chapter Two

  AS WE NEAR THE TOWN where I’ve lived all my life and hoped to never see again, Remi flips on the headlights and slows to the speed limit. My moment of freedom is gone. My shoulders sag as the harsh reality of my life settles back onto my shoulders. I lower myself into the car and buckle my seatbelt, my limbs heavy, making my movements clumsy. He’s taking me home. I swallow back my tears of frustration and clench my fists in my lap. He wouldn’t understand. No one does.

  He pulls in to the parking lot of a convenience store on the outskirts of town and parks the car. “Do you mind picking up a pack of smokes and maybe a six-pack of beer for me?”

  “Because you saved my life, right?”

  “You got it, Crazy Girl.” He winks at me as he pulls money out of his wallet and hands it to me.

  My mouth goes dry. No, he did not just wink at me; it’s my mind playing tricks again, dammit. He’s a priest, for God’s sake.

  “I thought you said you took a vow of poverty?”

  “Well, I may have told a little white lie on that one. I’m not a monk.” Thunder rolls in the distance and clouds have moved in, obscuring the moon and stars. “Please? People get weirded out by the collar. They forget priests are humans, too.”

  With a huff of annoyance, I slam out of the car to do his bidding, unable to explain this power he seems to have over me. Although, why am I surprised? Since Jack’s death I’ve allowed men to have power over me on any number of occasions, and this is the least of them.

  I throw open the door and storm into the store. The meth-head clerk behind the counter doesn’t bother to look up from his porn as I slam a six-pack of beer on the counter, grab a lighter, a chocolate bar, and a dashboard hula-girl. When he doesn’t acknowledge my presence, I hop on the counter and reach, snatching a pack of cigarettes.

  I catch a glimpse of my warped reflection in the mirror used to prevent shoplifting, and I’m glad Ms. Fake Tits of August has the guy’s undivided attention. I look like an escapee from a mental institute with my wide eyes and tangled mess of hair. I snicker over the irony. The clerk rings me up without looking up from his titty magazine. Grabbing my shit, I race out of there before he notices me.

  I toss Remi the cigarettes and lighter before sticking the hula girl on the dash next to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  He smiles and flicks her hip so she sways. Giving the lighter a funny look, he tosses it in the console as he drives out of the parking lot. Without even asking for my address he pulls up to my home, confirming my suspicions. This time I’m not fucking crazy. He knows.

  Remi parks the car and opens the pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind? It’s been forever since I indulged.” He offers me one.

  I decline with a shake of my head, wrinkling my nose with distaste. “Oh no, go right ahead. I want to die, anyway, remember?”

  He shakes his head and chuckles as he rolls down the window. Cupping his hand around the cigarette, he stops and glances over at me, looking momentarily confused. I hand him the lighter.

  “Thanks.” He lights his cigarette, taking a slow draw. Leaning his head back, he closes his eyes and exhales a perfect smoke ring. His moan of pleasure, resonates like something a priest shouldn’t have experienced. Well, not recently anyway—after all, he said he hasn’t always been a priest. I squeeze my thighs together and try to think about something besides those perfect lips on my skin. If there is a hell, I’m pretty damn sure I just sealed my fate with my fucked up thoughts.

  “God, I’ve missed this,” he murmurs. Thunder rumbles over us and I look out the win
dow. The air is heavy with the impending rain and the leaves on the giant palm trees sway back and forth, dancing in the wind. A typical summer storm in southern Florida, they’re common this time of year. He exits the car while I remain frozen in my seat, not wanting to enter my house. I don’t want to be here. I certainly don’t want him to be here. And yet, I don’t want to be alone. Maybe the crazy docs have misdiagnosed me. I must be fucking bipolar, not schizo.

  My car door opens. “Come on, Crazy Girl.” He holds his hand out to me, and I stare dumbly at it as if it’s a life raft in the ocean of my self-pity. Have I always been this pathetic? Yeah, probably so. It’s hard to remember life before Jack. I grab his hand and step out of the car. If he lets go I’ll fall into the abyss of my depression and slowly suffocate. It’s how I’ve been living for the past two years. Dying one minute at a time, a slow, painful death. I can’t go on like this. It hurts too damn much.

  “Well, thanks for saving my life. I guess it’s just another normal day in the exciting life of a clergyman,” I quip, not looking at him. He drops my hand, and I pick my disappointment up off the pavement and dust it off, shoving it back into the recess of my mind. I’ll handle it later, when I get the courage once again to end it all. I shuffle my way toward the house with slow, plodding steps. I never thought I’d be back here. I guess I’ll have to switch to plan B—after I come up with a plan B, that is.

  The strange sound of a large bird flapping its wings makes me spin on my heels to face Remi. He stands there smoking his cigarette, holding the beer, and looking at me with a thoughtful frown, his head cocked to the side. A soft breeze rustles the leaves of the trees behind us. It was just the wind in the trees.

  I suck in a steadying breath and throw open the front door. Remi moves behind me and I hear him clucking his tongue against his teeth behind me.

  Turning, I glare at him. “What?”