Devils redemption, p.16
Devil's Redemption, page 16
I swallow a deep mouthful of whiskey and look at the mausoleum wall. Look at her name. The date of her birth and of her death. At least the whiskey isn’t my father’s brand. I hate the stuff he used to drink. Always have.
I read the letter through again, the rosary wrapped around my fist, biting into the back of my hand as it clenches into a fist.
Zoë killed herself because our father was hurting her. Touching her.
A wave of nausea has me thinking I’ll throw up, but I don’t. How could we not know? How could that go on for a full year and we didn’t fucking know?
I get to the part about us. About myself.
He’s the most like our father and sometimes that side of him scares me.
Carlton Bishop’s taunt comes back to me. Something about history repeating itself. Did he mean the suicides? Or did he mean something else? I think about my own daughter.
Jesus.
I feel sick.
How can a father do that to his own child? How twisted must you be to do that to your own flesh and blood?
With a roar I smash the bottle against his marker on the mausoleum wall. I’m standing too close though and feel a cut on my forehead from a splintering of glass that ricochets off. I don’t care. I welcome the pain. But it’s not enough. So I draw my fist back and smash it against the stone protecting the space where his bones rest. Where the pieces recovered after the accident Zeke arranged lie too close to my little sister even in death. I beat my fist against it again and again and think about how I’ll remove his corpse. Burn what’s left of it. Let the ashes scatter where they may. I will get him away from her. Away for my baby sister. Even if it’s too late to change anything.
“Brother.”
I turn to find Zeke standing a few feet from me. My hand throbs at my side. I look back to the blood and whiskey-stained stone and crash my fist against it again. I hear my own scream. It’s loud enough to wake the dead.
“Jericho!” Zeke’s hand closes over my fist when I draw it back. We stand staring at each other for a long minute.
“You knew?”
He studies me, eyes narrowing once his gaze shifts to my other hand clutching Zoë’s crumpled letter.
“Did you fucking know?” I ask, drawing his attention back to my face. His has lost some of its color.
He nods a single, solemn nod. “I found the letter exactly as she meant for me to.” He drops his arm. I draw mine back and punch him.
“You fucking asshole! You knew all along. You fucking knew what he did. Why she did it. Why she fucking died.”
He touches his jaw. He’ll have a bruise, but he barely stumbled.
“Did you know before she died?”
“Fuck no.”
“She tried to tell you.” I wave the letter in front of his face. “Where the fuck were you when she tried to fucking tell you?”
“Where the fuck were you?” he yells back, the step he takes toward me angry. “Huh? Where the fuck were you, brother? Oh yeah. Gone most of the fucking time leaving us here with that monster.”
I stumble back at his accusation. Although he’s right. Every single word fits. I was gone. When things got bad, I left.
“What? No answer for that, big brother?”
I look down at my bleeding fist. It’s raw and fucking throbbing. But I need more. I deserve more. And so, I turn back to that bastard’s name and beat the stone wall until I can’t anymore. Until Zeke finally manages to pull me from it. To take me down to the ground. Into the dirt and mud, my baby sister’s letter, her final, terrible words ruined in the dirt.
“How could I not know?” I ask, my voice breaking. “How could I not fucking know? Not see.” I lean against the nearest gravestone.
“I was her twin. If anyone should have known, it was me. Hell. She tried to tell me. I remember when she tried. She’d gotten so skinny, remember? Didn’t sleep anymore. Didn’t eat. Didn’t do much but go through the motions.”
I push my hand into my hair and look up at Zoë’s name, notice the flowers that are dying. Time for new ones. I turn to my brother.
“Mom?”
He nods once.
“How long?”
“I told her before I left for Austria. Told her why I was going. What I was going to do.”
I don’t want to know how she took it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter, Jericho. Not anymore.” He sounds tired suddenly. Exhausted. And that darkness I’ve glimpsed a handful of times, that shadow, it settles over his features. Aging him before my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her. For you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to kill that bastard myself. Not leave it to you.”
“I would soak my hands in his blood over and over again if I could. You have nothing to apologize for.”
We sit in silence for a long time. I study my hand.
“When did you find the letter?” Zeke asks.
I turn to him. “I didn’t. Isabelle did.”
“Isabelle?”
I nod once, thinking of her in my bed. God. Could this night get any worse? Could it go farther off the rails?
“Let’s go back to the house. Get some sleep.”
“I’ll be there soon. Go ahead.”
“Jericho, there’s nothing you can do out here. Breaking your hand isn’t going to change anything.”
“I just need a little time.” I open the letter again, clean off the mud and read. After a while, Zeke leaves me alone. I’m not done punishing myself. Not yet.
28
Isabelle
When I wake up it’s mid-morning and someone is pulling the curtains back. I half-expect Leontine or Catherine but it’s a man. For a moment I think it’s Jericho. He’s dressed in a dark sweater and black jeans which is unusual for him. Then he turns, and I realize it’s not him. It’s Ezekiel.
I sit up, my mouth feeling dry. I’m still wearing the sweater I’d worn yesterday but I can see my leggings on the floor where Jericho must have dropped them after undressing me.
“Good morning,” Zeke says. “I’m sorry to come in here and wake you.”
I look up at him trying to work through the memory of last night, of what Jericho told me. What he did to me.
I push the blanket off and cross the room to the dresser, not caring that I’m only wearing underwear and the sweater. It’s oversized so it hopefully covers enough of me, but I just don’t care. I pull the drawer open where he got that damn syringe and rifle through it, finding two more. I grab them, stalk into the bathroom and empty the barrels into the toilet before throwing them away. When I turn, I see my reflection in the mirror. See how haggard I look. I wash my face, rinse my mouth, and step into the doorway to ask Ezekiel what he wants. What message Jericho sent him to deliver. I fold my arms across my chest.
“What do you want?”
“You shouldn’t have given it to him,” he says. His arms are crossed over his chest too.
I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The letter, Isabelle. It’s not how he should have found out.”
I look on the floor to my leggings. Zoë’s letter. It must have fallen out of my pocket when he took them off to tuck me into the bed. As if my comfort matters to him.
But my forehead furrows when I think about what was in that letter. I look up at Zeke.
“It was Zoë’s suicide note.”
He nods although it’s not a question. “How did you find it?”
“Jericho was in that room down in the cellar a few nights ago. He was looking for something and when he didn’t find it, he threw a box at the wall. He knocked the picture askew. I saw the beads of the rosary and went down to investigate later when I was alone.”
“It wasn’t your place. That letter wasn’t for you.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t know what I’d find and you’re right that it wasn’t for me, but it was for Jericho.” I am surprised to hear myself say it. Hear myself defending my husband.
He presses his lips together in a thin line. “I was protecting my brother.”
I nod, walk back into the room. “I know. I’m sorry for what happened to her.” I feel my eyes fill with tears.
“Thank you. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“Jericho’s in bad shape Isabelle. Really bad.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle but before I can ask anything he continues.
“I found him at the cemetery last night. Heard what I thought was an animal out there, but it was my brother beating his fist to a pulp against the stone of the mausoleum.”
“Shit. He went out there after reading it?”
Ezekiel nods. “He feels guilty.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, wondering if I should have just left it in its hiding place.
“He’s downstairs now. Locked up in his study. Probably drinking another bottle of whiskey. Will you go to him?”
“Me?”
“I’ve tried. Leontine tried. I think you may be the only one who can reach him.”
“Me?” I ask again, surprised.
“You. Leontine took Angelique out. Dex is with them. I don’t want her coming home and seeing her father this way.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Just let me get dressed.”
“There’s no time.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He holds it up to me. “Key to his office,” he says, and I see the bruise on his jaw. I wonder if that was Jericho.
“Okay.”
Ezekiel opens the door and I take the key as I pass him. Before I’ve even reached the bottom stair, I hear music coming from the study. He has the volume way up. I recognize the piece. Mozart’s requiem.
Catherine is standing nearby looking worried. She meets my gaze and I try to give her a reassuring look then walk to the door. I don’t bother to knock, just slip the key into the lock, and push the door open. The music is so loud in here I can’t hear myself think. The curtains are drawn, the only light is the one I’d left on last night. There, sitting in my vacated seat is my husband. My husband looking like a broken man. A near empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He’s learning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them, head hanging, hair messy. His clothes are dirty. His shoes off. And the smell of whiskey and pain permeates the room.
I don’t think he hears me enter because he doesn’t look up. I quietly lock the door behind me and look at him again. At my husband sitting in this dark room smelling of alcohol and regret. Looking beaten. Hopeless. Not the devil I know.
He lifts his head. When his gaze meets mine my heart twists at the sight of him. My eyes mist and last night is somehow forgotten. Forgiven.
I go to him, and he sits back against the couch. I see his face more clearly as I approach, see the blood on it, the dirt. The scruff of five-o’clock shadow. His shirt was once white, but it’s ruined. Ripped in places. Smeared with mud and blood. For a moment I wonder whose but then I see his hands. The right one is worse than the left. It’s swollen, bloody, possibly a finger or two broken.
I drop to my knees between his legs and touch his hands, hear his hiss of pain. They weren’t this bad last night. This isn’t from what he did to Danny Gibson. No. It’s from what he did to himself after he found that letter in my pocket. I look in his eyes and touch his face, the cut at his forehead. He looks hopelessly at me. He’s far away. Too far. I need to bring him back.
“What did you do to yourself?” I ask him.
He doesn’t speak but he brushes the knuckles of his better hand across my cheek. Reaching beyond me, he takes hold of the neck of the whiskey bottle.
“No,” I say, closing my hand around the bottle.
He blinks, eyes focusing on me. He tries again.
“No, Jericho. It’s enough.”
I don’t know what to expect but I’m glad when he doesn’t fight me. I set it back on the table and stand. I know one way to draw Jericho St. James out.
I reach underneath my sweater and slip off my panties. He watches as I straddle him, not bothering to undress completely.
“You stupid man,” I tell him as I undo his belt and pants, sliding my hand inside his briefs to grip his still soft cock. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” I ask, kissing his mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back at first. He’s unresponsive. But I move my hand over the length of him. As he hardens in my grip, his pupils begin to focus on mine and he closes one hand around the back of my head.
I raise myself up and adjust my position to mount him, taking him inside me, kissing him as I do. Our eyes are open, mouths touching, tongues wet. He’s hard inside me as I ride him slow and deep.
He moans. “Isabelle.”
“Shh.” I kiss him again as I grip the hem of my sweater. I pull it off, then rip his shirt open, the fabric tearing easily so we’re skin to skin. I need to get closer. As close as we can be.
He reaches around me, holding onto me with one arm as he grabs the whiskey with the other and brings it to his mouth.
“No,” I tell him. This time he resists but I shake my head. He allows me to take it from him. I let the bottle drop to the carpet. “I need you, Jericho,” I tell him, moving my hips and squeezing my muscles in that way I know he likes. I can feel him grow harder inside me as his hands come to my hips. “I need you here with me, do you understand?”
He doesn’t speak but begins to move me, grinding me against him.
“Our baby needs you. Your daughter needs you. Do you hear me?”
“It’s all so much worse than I ever imagined,” he says more to himself than me. “All fucking gone to hell.” His grip hardens around my hips.
“Stay here with me,” I say, cupping his face and making him look at me. “Be here with me now. I need you. Do you hear me? I need you, Jericho.”
He looks at me, eyes tired and full of so much pain.
“Please,” I say.
“I am like him. Zoë knew too. I idolized that man.”
“No. You’re not like him. I know.”
“I’m a devil. You said it yourself.”
“You could have hurt me. Really hurt me. So many times. But you didn’t. Not once.”
He shakes his head. “Isabelle—”
“And you’re my devil. I need my devil now, do you understand?”
“I knew you wouldn’t want a pregnancy. I changed your pills out. It’s worse than lying. You know that. I know that.”
“Shut up.”
“And eventually, I’ll hurt you. Don’t you see?”
“Shut up. Just shut up. Shut up and make me come. I need you to make me come.”
He swallows hard, eyes darkening. He grips my hips and pulls me down hard, grinding against himself. Then he lifts me and places me on the couch, spreading my legs and kneeling on the floor between them. He pulls me to the edge of the seat and buries his face. All I can do is grip a handful of hair and bite down on the back of my hand to keep from crying out. The scruff on his jaw is rough against my thighs, his mouth soft as he dips his tongue inside me before closing his mouth over my clit.
I come, my body shuddering with the orgasm. When it’s over he’s up again, knees on the edge of the sofa, face to face as he takes me. Something is different between us, our eyes wide open, never wavering from the other’s face. When we come, we cling to each other, my arms around his neck, him gripping a handful of hair. He forces my head back and kisses me the moment I feel him empty inside me. I swallow his moan, knowing we belong to each other. Me to him and him to me. This is right. The way it was always meant to be. Me and him. Bishop and St. James.
And the baby inside my stomach has her destiny laid out for her. Her purpose. She will heal old wounds. She will close the history book and write a new future. Because even if the words aren’t spoken, I love Jericho St. James. And I need him. I know it’s the same for him. However this started, however he meant it to be, it’s something other now. Something whole and perfect and right. Strong enough to face all the ugliness of our world.
29
Jericho
She cleans my hands. My face. The antiseptic stings but I try not to move as I watch her. She’s beautiful. So beautiful. Even when she tells me how stupid I am to battle stone. She’s right. She prattles on about what Angelique will think when she sees me like this. How we’d better get me bandaged up and not stinking of a distillery before she gets home. It’s good. Distracting.
That’s twice now that Dex has taken my mother and Angelique out. I need to talk to him about that. It’s like my household is revolting silently behind my back.
Isabelle tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear and looks at me. After our shower she dressed in a lightweight sweater dress. Her legs and feet are bare, the dress hugging her round ass. When she turns to throw away the bloody cloth she used to clean my wounds, I’m tempted to bend her over the foot of the bed, push her dress up to her waist and take her again.
“What?” she asks when she turns back to me.
I realize I have a grin on my face. To be honest I feel like I’m in a dream state. Probably at least partly due to the amount of alcohol I consumed and the fact that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.
“Your ass looks good in that dress.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles and draws the sheets back on the bed. “You need to eat this and sleep.” She points to the sandwich on the nightstand. “You need something to soak up all that whiskey.”
“Sit,” I tell her.
“Eat,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest.
“I’ll eat if you sit.” She doesn’t move. “We need to talk, Isabelle.” As soon as the words are out, it’s like that high begins to evaporate for both of us.
She sits beside me, tucking her legs up under herself. “Eat first.”
I nod and eat the sandwich in about three bites. I am hungry.
“Maybe chew?”
I smile, wipe my mouth, and turn to her. “What I told you last night. Do you remember?”
Her face darkens and she nods. “I threw away the other syringes. If you ever do that to me again—”
