31. Service for One
~ brIDGET ~
I was woken by a pounding on the door that startled me out of sleep and sent my pulse through the roof.
And because the sound broke me out of a nightmare, it took several seconds to remember that Ronald wasn’t outside my house, and he hadn’t killed Cain.
But then the pounding started again—on the front door—and I realized it was real.
I threw back the covers and raced through the house, grabbing my hoodie from the foot of the bed and throwing it on over my pajamas before I got to the door.
When I opened it, there was a balding guy with a potbelly stomach, holding a clipboard and looking annoyed on the other side. The morning sun was bright—I’d slept in—and there was a huge truck in the street outside my house… with my car on the bed in the back of it.
I blinked, first at him, then at the car, then back at him.
He thrust the clipboard towards me, tapping one spot on it with the pen he held in the other hand. “Your car, right? You gotta sign here that you received it safe,” he growled.
I blinked again, then took the clipboard from him and scanned the paper quickly.
Tony’s Tow
“Wait… you towed my car?”
The guy grunted. “Your boyfriend paid for it to be towed here, said you couldn’t drive last night.”
Cain? Or Ronald because he was wracked with guilt?
My hands were shaking as I signed and I couldn’t breathe right. But as soon as I handed it back to him, he took it without a look, then whistled at the guy in the truck.
I stood on my concrete path in bare feet, feeling a little faint, and hugging myself as they maneuvered the truck into my driveway and rolled my car off the back of it.
Then they were gone—ignoring my wave—and I walked back into the house rubbing my eyes and trying to feel like I was real.
The world seemed distorted.
After that initial shock wore off, my heart felt sluggish, like my blood was too thick and cold, and my skin was too tight, pulling against me, trying to suck me out of myself.
I tried to eat, but a wave of nausea hit on the first bite, so I put the yogurt back in the fridge and took a shower instead.
And then I put on sweats and a loose hoodie because I couldn’t stand the feeling of anything tight on my skin, and I paced the floor of my living room for an hour.
My mind kept flashing back to that moment that Ronald had me pinned on the ground and I couldn’t breathe. And my lungs would freeze.
Then I’d remember how Cain tore him off me, and my lungs would inflate again.
Over and over.
I tried logging into the forum, ignoring the DMs from Nate and a couple others, only checking to see if Cain was online—but he wasn’t. Or at least, he wasn’t visible.
And I didn’t know what to say, even if he was. So I said nothing. And I thought about what Gerald would have to say about me not having words.
And then I remembered I was supposed to see Gerald that afternoon, and my entire body recoiled.
No no no no no.
And then I remembered why I’d fled to Vigorí yesterday and my breath whooshed out of me.
I had to find it—buried in a pocket of my cloak—but got my phone out and dialed Gerald’s office.
He’d given me his personal number to text in an emergency last year, but I ignored that. I did not want to talk to him.
“Doctor Fisher’s office, this is Natalie! How can I help you?”
I faked a smile because I knew people could hear it in your voice, and spoke as calmly as possible. “Hi, Natalie. I’m supposed to see Gerald this afternoon, but I’m going to have to cancel this week’s appointment. A family friend passed away and I have to go visit his, er, people today.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry to hear that! What was your name and I’ll get that taken care of.”
“Thank you. This is Bridget.”
There was a very still, very silent moment at the other end of the phone, and I closed my eyes and mouthed a swear.
“Bridget? Bridget Thompson?”
Was that the last name I’d used with them? I thought so. “Yes.”
“Ah, I see. I’m so sorry to hear about your friend, Bridget.”
“That’s okay. It’s just one of those things.”
“Of course, of course. I know that Doctor Fisher would still want to talk to you—”
“I know he would too, but tell him I haven’t missed an appointment in over a year and I won’t miss next week. This is a very real loss. It’s my old high school chaplain. His name is Richard Fitch. Gerald can look it up if he wants to.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but look, Bridget, Doctor Fisher has been really clear that if you’re canceling an appointment he wants to speak with you personally, so if you could just hold for a brief moment—”
“No, I can’t. I have to leave right now. I was up late and my car was towed and it’s a whole thing. But I have to leave. I’m sorry. Please tell Gerald I’ll see him next week. I’m going to see Richard Fitch’s people—tell him that. He can look it up.”
“I know but—oh, look, Doctor Fisher is here now—”
“Goodbye, Natalie. Thanks for your help.”
I clicked the END button on the phone before she could have time to hand it to him, and muttered a curse as I turned the phone off completely. The battery was nearly dead anyway. I’d need to charge it while I was driving. I would tell Gerald about all these details next week. They were true.
Then, just to make it all true, I grabbed my keys and purse and ran out to the car that was still sitting in the driveway and started driving to the little church on the side of the highway, praying that the hot Priest didn’t mind drop-ins, because there was no way I could stomach talking to Gerald today—my skin would actually split and my guts would fall out.
But it would use up a lot of time to drive out there and beg the tattooed priest for some time. And that would solve the problem of Gerald.
Right?
Right.
I was standing at the closed double-doors of the church, rattling the knob and swallowing hard. I knew I was acting weird, but I’d lost my nerve for just walking up to that little cottage and forcing the Priest to deal with me. I’d had the idea that if I could get someone at the church then it was their job and—
“Bridget? Are you okay?”
I whirled, clutching one hand to my chest—see, I was learning to be a pearl clutcher already—to find Sam standing there at the bottom of the steps.
He was in jeans. And a slim-fitting sweater. His hair was tousled deliciously. And he was looking at me like I was crazy.
“I wasn’t trying to break it!” I shrilled.
His brows rose slowly. “I know… were you looking for me?”
“Yes! I mean, no. I mean… Well, just someone. I was… thinking about Richard and… I don’t know!” I wailed, then dropped my face into my hands and took a step back because I was embarrassed and now deeply wished I hadn’t come, because he was looking at me like he was worried for my mental health and wasn’t that probably right? I mean, I was a hot mess. But not the way he probably thought, and—
“Bridget?”
I lifted my face out of my hands and realized I was crying when his eyes widened and he rushed up the steps to get an arm around me and usher me back down and around the building.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You can be here. That’s what we’re here for, I promise. It’s fine. Don’t cry—I mean, cry if you need to, but… you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything…”
He was babbling almost as much as me and I started laughing because it was so ridiculous.
A person who’d never been to church being escorted through an old-people’s parking lot by a priest who was a felon and both of us completely clueless about how this was supposed to work.
Oddly, his discomfort made mine less, so I was already blinking away tears by the time he got me into the cottage and practically shoved me into one of the dining chairs, before he marched back into the kitchen to make coffee.
“Now,” he said a couple minutes later while the machine was bubbling away. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Is it just about Richard? I was thinking about you yesterday because I found something I thought you’d want. Wait… wait right there. I’ll go find it.”
I sat there, wiping my face on my hoodie sleeves, and snorting a little because we were both being kind of stupid. But he was back a minute later with a little book in his hands.
“I hope… I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t… I wasn’t prying,” Sam said nervously, clawing a hand through his hair as he took the seat next to me. “I was trying to figure out if there were any other people I needed to notify of Richard’s death. We haven’t been able to unlock his phone yet. So I was going through his journal and diary, looking for names and… well, yours came up.”
He passed me the little book, open to a specific page he’d had his finger stuck in and I saw pages of Richard’s scrawled handwriting.
“Wait… Richard wrote about me in his journal?”
Sam nodded, and gave a sad smile. “He wrote really wonderful things.”
He pushed the book closer and I caught one word on the page.
Bridget.
I leaned back in my chair like he’d just pushed a snake across the table.
“I… that’s really sweet of you to… to show me that. But I don’t think… Right now isn’t a good time. I just—”
“He’s not telling anything personal, Bridget. He’s talking about how much he cares about you.”
“That’s worse!” I blurted, then clapped a hand over my mouth, staring at Sam, wide-eyed over my hand, as he stared back.
Then he blinked and shook his head like he was clearing it. Then he gave an adorable, self-deprecating smile and leaned his elbows on the table, resting his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Bridget. That’s a lot. I just put a lot on you. I’m sorry. I’m still… finding my way with normal people. I’m—”
“I’m not normal!”
Dear God, please sew my tongue to the roof of my mouth forever. Thank you. Amen.
Sam dropped his hands and looked at me, grinning. “That’s great. Because I’m not either.”
We just sat there, staring at each other for a second.
And my heart started to beat faster.
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to just land on you like this,” I said, trying to keep my voice lower and quieter so I wasn’t shrieking at the poor man. “It’s been a rough couple of days, and I think… I think it didn’t really sink in the other day when we talked about Richard and I just… I needed to get out of my house,” I said, embarrassed, and gesturing towards my loose sweats.
“This is the part I know for sure, Bridget. I’m glad you came. I want to help you if I can. And most people take some time to process when they get news like that. So, at least in that, you are, in fact, normal.”
I snorted, and he grinned and my heart beat a little faster still.
“So,” he said, watching me carefully. “Why don’t we start again? I’m glad you came. What brought you here? Was it just Richard? You said the last couple days have been kind of rough. Have you had other bad news as well?”
“I found out that… I mean, I think, but I’m not sure. But… I think I don’t want to die.”
Sam blinked. “Okay. Just in case you aren’t sure, that’s also normal—”
“No, I mean…” I groaned and dropped my face into my hands again. And I remembered what Gerald had said about talking to people to see if they cared and how that was a risk, and one I was scared of. And he was right. I knew that. But I also thought… I thought this guy was kind. And kind of hot. And he did a job that most people couldn’t do. And I was kind of at the end of my rope and…
“Do you guys have like… attorney client privilege, or something? But like, the god version?” I asked bluntly.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you mean you want me to tell me about a crime? Or—”
“No, I mean… if I tell you something that’s kind of… odd… do you have to keep my secrets?”
Sam’s mouth curled up in a sweet smile. “Bridget, I will keep your secrets—unless you’re going to hurt someone, or yourself, in which case I’ll try to convince you not to—I’ll always keep your secrets. And any pastor who wouldn’t isn’t listening to the God they claim to serve.”
“Okay, cool. Then… you might want to get your drink because I think this might take some time.”
Sam shrugged. “Sounds good. Do you want a cup?”
“I better not. I’ll explain why. But it’s kind of a long story.”
“Well, then. Why don’t you start talking while I get myself a drink and we’ll see where this goes?”
Oh, it’s going deep, Sir. Better clutch your rosary or whatever.
“Great, okay, so… have you ever heard of Vigorí ?”
Sam frowned as he got out of his chair. “What’s that?”
“It’s a sex club in the city. Except, like, a hidden one. You have to be invited and I’ve been a member for about four years, because I have issues.”
To his credit, he didn’t miss a beat. But he also didn’t turn to look at me as he walked into the kitchen.
“So… for the purposes of being a man of God, I need to tell you… I don’t need your sex stories, Bridget. I just… you can tell me what you’re struggling with in general terms, but I don’t need details, right?”
“Are you sure?”
He huffed as he pulled a mug from the overhead cupboard. “I am certain.”
“Okay, then well… Are you familiar with Doms and subs and all that kind of stuff?”
He went still, spooning sugar into a mug, then cleared his throat. “I mean, I understand the concept.”
His ears had gone pink. How adorable. A whole lot more of his skin was going to flush before this story was done if he was already embarrassed.
Was it a sin to embarrass a priest? Well, hopefully not.
“Great, so just so you know, I’m not technically a sub, but… I like being dominated, just… in a different way than most people want to be. And I’ve been looking for a very specific kind of Dom. And I think I found him, but there was this other guy too, and I wasn’t sure if they were the same guy…”
Sam sat at the end of the table, staring at me intently, his brow furrowed, the mug to his lips, though I was pretty sure his coffee had to be cold by now.
“You asked him to kill you?”
I nodded and licked my lips because his eyes shadowed. But was it with judgment, or grief?
“Bridget… why would you do that?”
“Because I don’t want to be here anymore. But I don’t want to kill myself. I want to die. I just… I want to feel alive first.”
He put the mug down and sat back in his chair, one hand extended to the table, tapping on its top, his expression firm. “You’re telling me that you like being hunted? By men?”
“Yes. Not just any man, but one in particular.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me feel alive.”
“Killing yourself makes you feel alive?”
“No… it’s the threat I guess? Or… look, my psychiatrist says all kinds of things. But I’m pretty sure what he means is that my brain and body are messed up and I only feel excited when there’s very real danger. So… I go looking for it.”
“But death… death isn’t a thrill, Bridget. It’s the end.”
“I know. But that’s okay too.”
“No, It’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” I said firmly, not letting my gaze waver. “You know what prison is like, right?”
“Yes. And it’s hell. Definitely do not recommend.”
“Exactly. But that’s the problem. I got put in prison—inside myself—when I was a kid, and now, no matter what I do, I can’t get out. If my health doesn’t kill me, my thrill-seeking will. And if I don’t die, I have to keep facing all this other shit—sorry for swearing—and… there’s just nothing left that’s fun anymore. Except this.”
His lips twisted like he wanted to say something, but he was stopping himself. “How long has this been going on?”
“I’ve been kind of dabbling around the edges of it for a few years, but about a year ago there was a guy who wasn’t the right one so that made me a little gun shy—maybe knife shy is the better term, anyway—just recently… I found the guy. Except, like I said, in the process of finding him, I also found another guy. And when the first one didn’t show up this week I kind of panicked and went and found the other guy and… turns out he’s not the cool kind. He’s… just an asshole.”
“Wait… wait…” Sam sat forward, pinching his temples between his hands. I got to admire his big knuckles and the tendons on the backs of his hands for a second which was nice. “There’s three guys?”
I snorted. “There’s been lots of guys, Sam.”
He shot me an unimpressed look that reminded me a lot of Gerald. “That’s not what I meant. These… Doms. These guys that are willing to kill you… there’s three of them?”
“Not quite. There was one last year that I thought was the right kind, but it turned out he actually just wanted to murder me—whether we matched or not. So once I got rid of him I kind of stopped looking for a while. But then things got worse and I went back, but more carefully and—”
“What things?”
“Hmm?”
Sam’s expression was gentle. “What things got worse?”
“It doesn’t really matter, the point is—”
“No, Bridget. I disagree. I know you’re in a… situation with these men. But what put you there? Because if you solve that, the rest will go away on its own.”
I thought of Cain and smiled. He wasn’t going away. “I don’t want them to go away.”
“I’ve gathered that. What I want to know is… why? What has happened to you that makes you want to put yourself in danger?”
“I told you,” I deflected. “It’s what makes me feel alive.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Bridget, if you don’t want to talk to me about this, you don’t have to. But you said you’re having a tough time. And you said you discovered yesterday that you don’t want to die.”
“I don’t want to die like that.”
His lips thinned. “So, what I’m telling you, as someone with some real life experience and a relationship with God that showed me the difference between a symptom and a cause, is… I know there’s a reason you don’t want to live anymore. And that’s the real cause of whatever pain or anxiety you’re having now. So if you want some help… I think that’s where we should focus. It’s up to you, of course. It’s your story. But I’m telling you, I want to know. What happened to you?”
I opened my mouth to give him the poor little rich orphan girl line I gave everyone else, because people wanted to believe that. They wanted to believe that having money didn’t really make you happy—which was true—and also that no one with money really had a reason to be unhappy—which wasn’t. And I’d been telling that story for so long, I didn’t even think about it anymore.
But when I opened my mouth, he tensed and that made me hesitate and we were just looking at each other and suddenly my heart gave a little kick.
Gerald’s line that he’d repeated countless times over the years came back to me, echoing in my head in his deep, pompous tones.
The only way to know if a person can be trusted is to trust them—which is why we’re so scared to do it. We have to take the risk before we can know if we were right to do so. You’re a risk taker, Bridget. Try it.
I’d always ignored that last part.
But as I readied again to tell Sam the lie, my skin did that thing where it closed in on me, and I felt the hand on my throat and…
And for the first time ever I decided maybe it was time to stop caring if people looked at me differently, or wondered if I was crazy.
Maybe this guy would be different.
And so I swallowed back the lie, pulled my hands in my lap, and tried to figure out how to tell him at least part of the truth.
“You said you’re a felon?” I said quietly.
“Yes. Assault and battery, sexual assault on a woman, and voyeurism. It never gets easier to say that, but it does get easier to live with myself every day I don’t go back to it.”
I nodded and swallowed hard, my entire body poised for flight, my heart pounding, and my thoughts beginning to skitter. But I found I wanted to do this. I wanted to finally be honest with someone.
“So, um, my dad is a felon too.”
“Here in State?”
I nodded. “You might have heard of him. His name’s Gordon Reynolds.”
Sam frowned at the wall. I waited.
It was a pretty boring name, but anyone who lived in the Pacific Northwest and was alive twenty years ago knew it—even if they couldn’t remember why.
I’d had to tell this story before—against my will, or for legal stuff. You could always see the moment someone’s brain made the connection on my dad’s name. Because they did exactly what Sam was doing now.
First he went very still.
Then his eyes went wide and cut to me.