The Angel. Tiffany Reisz

phone. She had one new text message.

      Hurry up, it read. My cock can’t wait to see you. Love, The Griffin.

      Nora wrote back, Just for that, I’m taking the scenic route.

      With a hint of heaviness in her heart, Nora left Søren’s house and headed to her car. She threw her stuff and herself inside and started the engine.

      Griffin … It had been over a year and a half since they’d slept together. The last time had probably been in Miami at his father’s beach house. She’d lied to Wesley and said she’d had a book-signing at an alternative bookstore down there when all she really wanted to do was get away from her slightly disapproving roommate for a few days and have uninterrupted kinky sex. She’d gotten her wish. She probably would have continued to see Griffin even after going back to Søren, but even Søren’s patience could be tested by the young and often obnoxious Griffin Fiske. For Søren, S&M was like air or water—he needed it to function. For Griffin, S&M was a game that he played to get laid as often as humanly possible.

      Nora remembered her last night with Griffin at the beach house. They’d gone out to a club and brought home some insanely hot Portuguese kid named Mateo or Mateus … something like that. Bi-curious and barely twenty-one, he’d never been with another guy before or done kink. Nora had taken her turn first, Griffin second. Then they’d tackled him at the same time. The next morning the kid dropped to his knees begging them to take him back to New York with them.

      Suddenly Nora found herself grinning like an idiot. She and Griffin did make a good team.

      Nora revved up her engine, put on some Beastie Boys, headed for the parkway and hit the gas.

      Fuck the scenic route.

      It didn’t matter where he’d fallen asleep the night before—the couch in the living room, his tiny twin bed at his grandmother’s house, his own bed under his mother’s roof—no matter what bed he fell asleep in, he was always back in the hospital bed when he woke up.

      Michael remembered the dryness in his mouth when he’d finally woken up, how his lips felt like torn paper. He remembered the tubing around his nose and the wires running in and out of his arms. He’d been afraid to move his hands, afraid if he tried they wouldn’t be there to move.

      He’d opened his eyes and blinked painfully. A man in black stood at the window in the hospital room staring out onto the helicopter pad. Deepest night, the only light in the room came from the life-support equipment that beeped and breathed in the dark.

      “Father S?” It took everything Michael had to croak out those words.

      His priest turned from the window and walked to his bed. Looking down on Michael, he smiled and Michael saw nothing in the smile but forgiveness.

      “Your mother is here, Michael,” his priest said in a voice quiet as the night that surrounded them. “She’s with your father and the doctor right now. Should I find her for you?”

      Michael shook his head. He wasn’t ready for his family yet, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to face them again.

      “Am I,” he began and coughed a little. “Am I going to hell?”

      Father S reached out and briefly placed a hand on Michael’s forehead.

      “No,” he said simply and with such conviction that Michael immediately believed him.

      Michael looked up into his priest’s face. He’d admired Father S from the moment his family started going to Sacred Heart. What he wouldn’t give to have Father S’s peace and certainty.

      “Am I going to live?” Michael barely heard his own voice.

      “You are, yes. Thank God.” Michael heard the shadow of fear lurking behind the relief in his priest’s voice. He never imagined he’d ever see Father S afraid of anything. Even in the dark he could see a smudge of red on Father S’s white collar. Michael’s own blood, he realized. “Your hands will have some numbness, but all feeling should return eventually. You lost a great deal of blood, and will be fatigued for a few weeks as you recover. I’m afraid you’ll be in counseling for some time.

      I’ve asked your family if they’ll allow me to counsel you instead of sending you to a secular psychiatrist. They’re discussing it with your doctor right now.”

      “I don’t think even you can help me.”

      Father S had looked down at him and exhaled slowly.

      “Your mother told me about the pictures your father found you looking at a few months ago, and the cuts and burns.”

      Only the severe blood loss kept Michael from blushing.

      “Dad thinks I’m sick. He left Mom because they keep fighting over me. I think I’m sick too. I want bad things. I don’t know why.” He paused to cough again. “I don’t know what I am.”

      Father S looked at him for a minute and Michael felt himself being weighed in his priest’s mind. He must have passed the test because Father S sat on the side of Michael’s bed and began to speak words Michael never even dreamed he would hear from the sainted Father Marcus Stearns.

      “Michael, as a priest I hear a hundred confessions every week. But now if you’ll allow me, I’m going to let you hear my confession. And be warned, it is a long confession and will certainly shock you.”

      “Your confession?” Michael swallowed the sandpaper in his throat.

      Father S crossed his arms over his chest and met Michael’s eyes. Michael studied his priest’s profile. Even now he seemed the epitome of piety and tranquility, his handsome face un-lined and serene, his eyes as strong and gray as steel.

      “Michael,” Father S said, his voice low but steady, “I know what you are.”

      “You do?”

      “Yes. You are something different—something some people find strange and fearful—but what you are is as natural as being male or female or awake or asleep. The things you desire, you long for, I understand them. You belong in a different world from the one you now live in.”

      “What world? What am I?” Michael asked, wanting to sit up but finding his body would not work with him yet.

      Father S had met his eyes and Michael saw the hint of a smile in them, a secret smile and the passing shadow of a green-eyed girl who could make any man lose his religion.

      “My confession begins,” Father S said, “as the confessions of many men begin—with three words.”

      “Father, forgive me?” Michael hazarded a guess.

      Father S sighed.

      “I met Eleanor.”

      Michael opened his eyes and saw, as he knew he would, that he lay in his own small, neat room at his mother’s house. Rolling out of bed, he threw on clothes and booted up his computer. His hands shivered with excitement when he saw he had an email from Nora.

      Michael—A car will pick you up Thursday morning at ten. Pack whatever you want, but I’ll make sure you get everything you need. It’s a long drive so bring something to read and eat. Can’t have you wasting away. God knows you’ll need your strength this summer. Oh, don’t bother packing your halo, Angel. You’re not going to need it.

      This message, and your pants, will self-destruct in five minutes.

      Covering his mouth as he laughed, Michael leaned back in his desk chair.

      Michael knew enough about dominants and submissives to know that the relationship between them wasn’t always sexual. He’d happily live as Nora’s personal slave whether she fucked him or not. Dominants got off on dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come in handy. But something about that line—Don’t bother packing your halo—made him think that Nora intended to use him