Craving Resurrection

  “You see him every Sunday?” I asked. “Well, that’s cool that he visits you when Patrick’s not here.”

  “He doesn’t visit me, dear.” Peg corrected me as Patrick’s face went pale. “I see him when I go to hear him give Mass.”

  It took me a moment to understand what she’d just said, my mind still reeling from Patrick’s odd behavior. Then it clicked and my jaw dropped as the truth sunk in. I turned completely toward Patrick, who looked as if he wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole. “Kevie’s a priest?”

  Chapter 7

  Patrick

  I turned to my side, trying to find a comfortable position on my mum’s couch. She’d had the stupid thing for longer than I could remember and I hadn’t fit comfortably on it since I was twelve. Fuck it, I’d sleep on the floor.

  I untangled the blanket I was using from around my legs and climbed to my feet. I would have just rolled onto the floor and slept where I landed, but I still had to move some tables and a footstool to make enough room for me to stretch out. It seemed that the older I got, the smaller my mum’s house became.

  The day had been so fucking odd I just wanted to go to sleep and fucking forget about it.

  Amy…Christ. I hadn’t seen that situation coming. Mum had seemed more upbeat recently when I’d called her, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. When I’d found Amy in my bed the night before¸ I’d been so startled I’d almost screamed like a girl. I’d never had a girl in that bed—I respected my mum too much for that—so the sight of her had not only raised my hackles, but had also given me an almost instant hard on. What was it about the thought of fucking a woman in a taboo location that was so appealing?

  Even in the dark, I’d known she was beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, maybe, but beautiful just the same. Poets wrote sonnets about her type of beauty. The kind you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, but couldn’t seem to look away from. And that hair… shit. The first thing I’d thought as she sat up and it tumbled down her back was how it would feel against my thighs. Now the thought made me feel like a complete dick.

  When I’d found her with that nasty fuck earlier, the only thing keeping me from killing him was my ignorance of the situation.

  I didn’t walk into things blindly. Ever.

  Except, it seemed as if that was exactly what I was doing with Amy. I didn’t understand anything about her—yet I’d acted like a possessed man earlier that night around one of my best friends. I’d fought with, helped, flirted with, protected and teased her all day and she’d taken what I gave her and threw it right back.

  None of it made any sense.

  I was staring at the wall and trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the door to my bedroom clicked quietly shut, and the light flicked on. What was she doing? I watched quietly for the light to turn back off, but it didn’t. Why wasn’t she sleeping?

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I was knocking quietly on the door and opening it slowly. If she didn’t want me to come into the room, she had plenty of time to stop me…

  Holy God.

  She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my small, childhood bed wearing a thin nightshirt that pooled around her thighs. Her arms were raised, and my eyes were drawn to her breasts, clearly free of a bra and moving gently as she messed with her hair.

  God was punishing me. That was the only explanation.

  When my eyes finally reached her face, I inhaled sharply. She’d pulled her hair into an elaborate braid that wrapped around her head, and for the first time I could see every angle and plane of her face and neck clearly. Gorgeous. Everything about her, from the way she was sitting, to the halo of dark hair, to her wide eyes staring at me in surprise.

  That was it for me. That was all it took.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured sheepishly. “I was trying out a new style I found in a magazine. Does it look okay?”

  As she turned her head so I could see the back of her hair, she tucked a few wispy strands into the braid, and I lost all control of my mouth.

  “Is it hard for ye to do all dat wit’ yer fingers de way dey are?”

  I had the overwhelming urge to cut out my own tongue as she turned quickly to face me.

  “I—uh, no.” She laughed uncomfortably and slid her hand under her thigh to hide it. “I don’t remember ever having them, so…”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said dat.”

  “It was an understandable question,” she said reasonably. “I’m sure people are curious… they just don’t usually ask about it.”

  She raised her other hand to start unwinding the braid, and I swallowed hard as her hair flowed back down around her shoulders. I took a step forward, watching it closely as she ran her palm down the length. Then I realized she was still self- consciously hiding her damaged hand under her thigh.

  “Don’t do dat,” I ordered hoarsely. “Don’t hide it.”

  “I just thought—”

  “Whatever yer t'inkin’ is wrong.”

  She was uncomfortable and trying not to show it and I was more ashamed than I’d ever been in my life. I’d done that. I made her feel that way—which had never been my intention. I shouldn’t have been in there with her, not while I was trying to get my head on straight, but suddenly I couldn’t leave her without somehow fixing the mess I’d made.

  I reached down and pulled her hand from beneath her leg, keeping my eyes on hers as I lifted it up between us. She maintained eye contact and kept her hand relaxed in mine, but her pulse was racing at the side of her neck. Rubbing my thumb along her palm, I finally dropped my eyes to her hand.

  Two of her fingers, her left pinkie and ring finger were both missing. They weren’t completely gone, but ended at the middle joint, giving the impression that she’d only curled them out of sight. The skin was smooth, there was very little scarring and if she made a fist, it probably wasn’t even noticeable that those two fingers were gone.

  As I stared, she finally tried to pull her hand away with a huff of frustration. She didn’t want me looking—her embarrassment was clear—but I wasn’t about to let go.

  And once again, I lost all sense of myself and did something stupid.

  “What?” she gasped as I put her ring finger into my mouth and ran my tongue lightly up the side, ending the movement with a soft kiss. I repeated the motion with her tiny pinkie, then moved her hand up my face so I could kiss the palm of her hand.

  “I was an idiot and I’m apologizin’ for de hundredth time since we’ve met,” I said, keeping her hand close to my face so she felt every breath on her palm. “It was insensitive to ask about yer fingers in such a way. In all honesty, I have no idea why I asked ye dat. It’s none of me business, and yer hair looked beautiful so de question was irrelevant.”

  “I think you may be the oddest person I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m not usually like dis, believe me.”

  “You’re still holding my hand.”

  “Do ye accept me apology?”

  “There’s nothing to accept. You were curious.”

  “I made ye uncomfortable.”

  “Only because I thought it grossed you out.”

  “Grossed me out?”

  “Disgusted you.”

  “Dere’s nuttin’ about ye dat’s disgustin’.”

  “Why are you still holding my hand?”

  “I’ve no idea.” I still didn’t let go.

  She went silent for a moment at my words, looking down at where I held her hand in mine. I didn’t know why I hadn’t dropped it yet. I told myself that it was because I still felt the need to prove that her missing fingers didn’t bother me—but that wasn’t true. It was a part of the reason, but not the entire reason. If I were only trying to reassure her, I wouldn’t have slid my fingers between hers until they were completely entwined.

  “Want to hang out in here for a while?” she asked suddenly, her voice hoarse.

  “It’s late love, why aren’t ye sleepin?”
As soon as I’d said the words, I prayed that she wouldn’t change her mind and ask me to leave.

  “Can’t sleep.” She shrugged as if it was no big issue, but her eyes were drooping from exhaustion. “Come on, you’re falling off the bed.”

  She scooted back on the mattress, gripping my hand tightly until she’d settled herself against the wall behind her. I didn’t resist when she pulled me up next to her, even though I knew it was a bad fucking idea. I was twenty-two years old and she wasn’t quite eighteen according to my mum—no good could come from sitting on a bed with her in the middle of the night, especially when she was wearing so little.

  “I was in a car accident when I was two,” she told me as I got settled. “My mom says my hand went through the window—that’s how I lost my fingers.”

  “Dat must have hurt like a bitch.”

  “I don’t remember it. They’ve just… always been missing, you know?” She straightened her fingers in mine and looked down at her hand. “I think most people notice, but no one ever says anything.”

  “Except eejits who blurt out any fuckin’ t’ing dat pops into dere heads.”

  “Nah, just you.”

  “Ye just proved me—” I turned my head to look at her, and she was smiling impishly. “Ye pokin’ fun at me?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “When’s yer birt’day?” There went my mouth again, asking shit that didn’t need an answer and I shouldn’t be asking in the first place.

  “What? Oh, next month.”

  “Eighteen, yeah?”

  “Yep. Not that eighteen will be much different than seventeen.”

  Eighteen was very different than seventeen in my eyes.

  “At least ye’ll be a legal adult by den, yeah? Ye can move away from dose manky parents o’yers.”

  “Where would I go? It’s not like I have a job or any money,” she scoffed, shaking her head.

  “T’ings have a way of workin’ demselves out. Ye won’t be dere forever.”

  “Did you move out when you were eighteen?”

  “Nah, I had to stay wit’ Mum for a couple extra years. I left for Uni when Mum got a promotion at work and could afford dis shitehole herself.”

  “You work, though, right? As a mechanic?”

  “Sure. Pays de rent on me flat and livin’ expenses. Doesn’t leave much after dat, dough.”

  “Oh.” Her head was leaned back against the wall, but her eyes were closed and every twenty seconds or so, it was dipping a little to the side until she jerked it back up. She looked so sweet that way, with her mouth relaxed and her dark eyelashes fanning her cheeks. I imagined lying down and wrapping myself around her so I could run my fingers through her hair until she drifted off completely. I knew better, though. That road would take me straight to hell.

  “Why don’t ye go to sleep, love?” I asked, causing her head to jerk up again.

  “No, stay for a while. I’m not tired.”

  “I’m watchin’ ye fall asleep where ye sit. Yer tired.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about that guy who came to my house earlier.” She whispered groggily. “Every time I close my eyes, I think he’s going to come back.”

  “Yer not at home, ye know he wouldn’t get to ye here,” I told her gently, my gut clenching at the thought of her lying in my bed afraid. There was something inherently wrong with that picture. She should never have reason to feel afraid, especially while she was wrapped in my sheets.

  “There’s a window.” Her voice was so quiet I had trouble hearing her, but when I finally figured out what she’d said, I had to stop myself from cursing out loud. There was a window at the foot of my bed that I’d had to stop crawling through when I’d reached puberty because it was so fucking small. The fact that she was afraid anyone over the age of ten could slip through it was a testament to how frightened she was. She’d hid it well, no doubt about that, but the truth often comes out in the dark of the night when one’s so tired that their walls become nonexistent.

  “Here, love,” I said calmly, though my blood was boiling. I wanted to find that piece of shite and kill him, but I had other more important things to focus on at the moment. I reached up with my free hand and threaded my fingers into the hair at the side of her head, pulling her sideways a bit until she was resting against my side. “Sleep, I’ll not let anyone bodder ye tonight. Ye have me word.”

  She sagged into me and I had to look away from her as she curled her legs to the side. She was wearing shorts that I hadn’t seen when I’d first come in, but they didn’t hide more than an inch of her long, smooth legs. I pulled the blanket up and over her to hide them. Christ.

  She was going to be sore in the morning after sleeping sitting up the way she was, but I told myself over and over again that it didn’t matter. I couldn’t pull her into my lap and cuddle her more securely and I couldn’t suggest she lie down flat. The sight of her spread out on my bed would completely dissolve any shred of decency I had left.

  I didn’t sleep that night as I sat with her. And if there had been any confusion before, it was gone then. I knew without a doubt that I was completely fucked.

  Chapter 8

  Amy

  I woke up with a hard chest under my head and fingers threaded through my hair.

  Patrick.

  Opening my eyes cautiously, I took inventory of our bodies. I was on my side with one hand on his chest and the other still wrapped in his between us. Sometime during the night, we must have slid down the wall, because he was flat on his back on the bed with his feet resting on the floor. He couldn’t have been comfortable, but his even breaths indicated he hadn’t woken up yet.

  As quietly and gently as I could, I untangled his fingers from my hair and slid away from him to climb off the bed. I couldn’t believe he’d stayed the entire night with me, and I was more than a little apprehensive to walk into the living room.

  Peg was out there and there was no way she’d missed that Patrick wasn’t where she’d left him the night before.

  Choosing between being in bed with Patrick when he woke up or facing Peg was easy though. I left the room silently, pulling the door closed behind me as I followed the noise into the kitchen.

  “Want some breakfast?” Peg asked from where she was leaning inside the fridge.

  “I should probably get home.” I needed to get far away before I proved the medical field wrong and actually died from embarrassment.

  “Stay! Havin’ a special breakfast today!”

  Before I could ask her why breakfast was so special, I felt a hand slide along my waist.

  “Mornin’, Mum,” Patrick rasped as he walked past me. He leaned in to kiss his mom on the top of her head, and she smiled as if he’d just found the cure to cancer.

  “Did ye sleep good?”

  “Got a fuckin’ kink in me neck.”

  “I bet,” Peg said knowingly, glancing at me with a smirk. “Well, sit down! The food is ready.”

  We all sat down at the table as I tried hard to avoid both sets of eyes that were staring at me. Nothing to see here, folks.

  “Ye’ll say prayer, Patrick,” Peg ordered, reaching out to grab both of our hands.

  Great, now I was going to have to hold his hand again, when all I wanted to do was go home and brush my teeth and try to get over my complete mortification. I lifted my hand and limply placed it in his waiting one. I tried not to show any sort of reaction, but I stopped breathing when he ran his thumb over my fingers. The damaged ones.

  My eyes met his as he began to pray.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and dese dy gifts which we—”

  The prayer was cut off as the door to the living room opened behind me and a man’s voice called out in greeting.

  “Margaret! Ye here?”

  Patrick’s hand dropped mine like it was on fire as he jumped to his feet. The veins in his neck were suddenly bulging, his face like stone.

  “De fuck are ye doing here, Da?” he asked angrily, startling me.

/>   “Watch yer mouth, boyo,” the man admonished with a glare.

  “Yer not welcome here.”

  My gaze flew between the two until I felt Peg’s hand tighten in mine. When I turned to look at her, her normally rosy cheeks were pale and she was frozen in place and staring over my shoulder.

  “Can a man not have a visit on his son’s birthday?” the man asked jovially.

  My thoughts of his complete obliviousness were cut off as I saw his hand clench and unclench at his side, a motion that was familiar because I’d seen his son do it repeatedly. He was nervous, maybe even scared. He turned his eyes to Peg, and I could feel the tension in the air as Patrick gripped the table’s edge as if it was the only thing holding him back.

  “Margaret, love—”

  “Eyes on me, ye old bastard,” Patrick roared, making me jump in my seat.

  Peg began to dig her nails into the back of my hand, her body still stiff and still with an emotion I couldn’t pinpoint. Terror? I didn’t think that was right. There was something there, but I had no idea what it was.

  When Peg’s husband took a step closer to the table, I moved instinctively. My chair screeched across the floor as I stood, and for the first time since he’d arrived, the man’s eyes went to me as I stepped in front of Peg, blocking his view of her. My arm was twisted oddly behind my back since Peg didn’t seem ready to let it go, but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead, I met the man’s eyes and lifted my chin.

  “Sorry, dear. I didn’t notice ye dere. Ye Patrick’s girl?”

  “Don’t speak to her,” Patrick hissed as he rounded the table.

  “She’s lovely,” he replied, looking between Patrick and I.

  “I swear to Christ, old man, one more word—”

  Patrick’s voice had taken on a wild edge, something that must have knocked Peg out of her stupor, because, with a small squeeze of my hand, she came to her feet behind me.

  “Robbie, that’s enough.” Her voice was like a whip, slicing through the small kitchen. “Patrick, take Amy home.”

  “Mum—”

  “Do as I say,” she shot back, sliding around me.