Take What You Want (3)

Take What You Want (3)
Walking home under the blazing mid-morning sun while I'm this pissed off is miserable.

Daniel is a sore in my ass.

I want to turn around, march back to that log house, and bite his pathetic dick right off.

Even the cucumber sitting in my bag feels like a burden. Everything pisses me off-especially the sun beating down on my skin.

A horn honks behind me.

I keep walking.

I'm hugging the shoulder of the road, so whoever is jamming their thumb against the horn can go straight to hell.

It honks again. Then a third time.

I spin around, ready to scream at whoever it is, but the words die in my throat.

I know that shiny red car.

The catechist's car. The one that rarely gets used.

It pulls up alongside me, the power window gliding down with a low hum.

"Abigail," he says, leaning over the passenger seat, his hands resting lightly on the wheel. "Get in."

I don't hesitate. I yank the door open and slide into the cool leather seat.

"Good afternoon, sir." I smile. "Thank you for the ride."

"Welcome."

For a few minutes, the only sound is the hum of the tires against the road. Then he reaches over and dials up the radio.

I brace myself for the boring hymns Father Romanus and other church rats recommend for the youths of St. Peter's church, but a slow, velvety jazz trumpet spills from the speakers instead.

I turn to stare at him, stunned.

He doesn't even look at me. He just keeps his eyes on the road, navigating the quiet back lanes until we pull up behind an abandoned ranch house-seven doors down from my place.

The music keeps playing, wrapping around us until the engine suddenly coughs, sputters, and dies. The radio cuts to static.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath.

He steps out and pops the hood, disappearing into the front of the car.

For several minutes, I sit in silence, watching his silhouette through the dusty windshield as he works on the engine.

A moment later, he slams the hood shut, climbs back into the driver's seat, and turns the key. The engine purrs back to life, and the jazz track picks up right where it left off.

He leans his head back against the leather headrest.

I close my eyes and let the forbidden rhythm wash over me. If my mother saw me like this, she'd slap the hell out of me.

"I thought we weren't allowed to listen to this," I say quietly, breaking the stillness. "Why are you playing it?"

A slow smile curls the corner of his mouth. "I play lots of jazz and whatever the church forbids," he says softly. "Just like you and Calista."

My heart slams against my ribs. He knows? What did Calista tell him?

I open my lips to deny it, but he reaches across the console and presses a warm finger directly over my mouth.

"You got the note I left you," he says, his eyes darkening. "What do you say?"

My pulse spikes-the note. I hadn't even checked it.

"I... I haven't had the chance to open it yet," I mutter.

"Hmm." His lips curve slightly. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know you better than you think."

My hand flies to the door handle, but before I can pull it, the central locks snap down with a clack.

He bursts into laughter, shaking his head and pointing at me like we're old schoolmates sharing an inside joke.

"Relax, child," he says, letting the laugh die down into something far colder. "I know you and my daughter have your little dirty games going on."

I clamp my jaw shut.

If my mother hears a single word of this, I'm finished. Worse, she'd believe him before she'd ever believe me.

I sink deeper into the seat, fighting the urge to reach for the door again.

"Don't look at me like that, Abigail," he says, his hand sliding down my arm, his fingers warm and possessive. "I'm asking for your consent. I'm not going to force you."

I stare at him, my eyes wide, waiting.

"I can give you things you've spent your whole life being denied," he continues smoothly. "Secular music. Novels. Gifts."

His eyes stay on my face. "You want to see the city, don't you?"

The tightness in my chest begins to unknot. I watch him closely, calculating.

Then I nod.

"More than that," he whispers, leaning closer. "I can make you the head of the Girls' League. I can convince the Father to let you handle mass readings. I can make you the most envied girl in Saint Peter's." His smile deepens. "Just like my daughter."

A bitter taste fills my mouth, but I force a small smile.

There it is again.

Even when he's offering me everything I've ever wanted, he still has to remind me that Calista is the standard I'm supposed to measure myself against.

But I know the truth: I'll never be able to stand out like her.

Calista never has to ask for attention. It follows her into every room. She has her mother's terrifying beauty, the kind that makes people turn their heads without even realizing they're doing it. And whatever she wants, she gets.

Me? I'm the girl people forget is standing beside her.

I'm too quiet. Too invisible. I'll never take her crown.

Unless someone with enough power decides to put one on my head.

And the catechist has that kind of power.

"What do I have to do?" I ask softly.

He glances around outside the car, as if making sure no one is close enough to overhear. Then he leans in until his breath brushes my cheek. "You take care of my needs, and I take care of yours."

He thinks he's offering me a choice. Maybe he is. But I don't have to play by the rules he expects me to follow.

I tilt my head, letting a slow, deliberate smile creep onto my face.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. For now," he whispers.

I lift my hand and rest my palm against his jaw. He's handsome in the polished, authoritative way that makes people obey him without thinking twice.

He's the second most powerful man in Saint Peter's.

If he thinks he can use me against his own daughter, I'll let him believe it.

"Take what you want," I whisper, my voice dropping into a purr. "Just don't betray me in the end. And be gentle."