15. Judge
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Iwake with a start, confused about where I am. Rubbing my blurry eyes, it all comes back to me. I’m at Myla’s apartment after a night of sex that ended with her becoming emotional. Not the result I was hoping for but I know the tears had nothing to do with me. Not really.
Yawning, I glance at my phone and groan, cursing my damn internal clock. I didn’t get to sleep until nearly four in the morning, which means I only got two hours of sleep. My mind goes right to coffee, and I toss off the only blanket I could find last night, which was some furry decorative thing hanging on the back of the couch. It’s six inches too short to cover me, and the backing is plastic, so it did little to keep me warm.
I don’t have to search to find what I’m looking for this time, and it’s not long before the machine is sputtering. Inhaling the rich aroma, my attention is pulled away by the creak of Myla’s bedroom door opening. I hold my breath, not knowing what to expect; the sexy, open, and free woman I fucked, or the confused, despondent one I was sent away from.
Wanting to feel her out before speaking, I keep my back to the kitchen, pretending to find the brew coming from the machine fascinating. Her bare feet barely make a sound, but I feel her approach, stopping short, clearly not expecting me to still be here.
She gasps. “Oh my god, Judge. Your back.”
All the blood drains from my face, hell, from my entire body. Or at least that’s what it feels like. I took my clothes off and threw them in the wash after I left Myla’s room. I managed to stay awake long enough to get them in the dryer, but I must’ve fallen asleep before I could redress, and the two fucking hours of sleep did nothing to keep my mind sharp.
Fuck me, how did I not realize I was standing in her kitchen in only my underwear?
Frozen in place, I close my eyes as the scars from each lashing come to life and burn under her scrutiny. My mouth goes dry and my stomach turns, not knowing how to explain this away. I can’t tell her they’re all from when I was a kid because some are still scabbed over.
She’ll never understand. No one can. Oh, god. What if she tells someone? What if she tells Cy or Rigger? There’s no way they’d trust me after that. Who wants to confide in someone whose demons are bigger than yours?
I can barely feel her cold hands through the scar tissue as they tentatively rest on my shoulder blades. Though it’s been some time since I’ve allowed myself to look at them in a mirror, I have a good idea of what she sees. Long, thick stripes of fibrous tissue, some white and flat against my skin, others red and raised. There are too many to count, and it no doubt looks grotesque.
“Don’t,” I say, shrugging off her touch.
“What happened to you?”
Too ashamed to face her, I swallow hard, wondering how to explain it. If they were all old injuries, it would be easy; I could tell her about the abuse I suffered throughout my childhood and teenage years, but she’s not stupid. It’s obvious some of the scars are fresh.
“Self-flagellation appeared sometime in the fourteenth century, where the pain of whipping oneself was believed to exorcise evil and cleanse the soul. Even those within the church used it as a form of penance for disobedience.” I pause, knowing once I say the next part, there’s no taking it back. She’ll know everything I work so hard to hide. “And horrifyingly enough, there are still those who use it today as a means of atoning for their sins.”
“Is that what you do?” she whispers.
I turn, looking her dead in the eyes. “You’re not the only one with demons. Some are just better at hiding them.”
“This is why you won’t take your clothes off when we have sex.”
I purse my lips and nod. She looks away, and I notice she has a thick layer of makeup over her swollen eye, but her split lip is an angry red. Her eyes dart all over the room as her mind works to process this new information. Her expression is hard to read, giving me no indication of how this will change her opinion of me.
“So, you what? Cane yourself or something every time you commit what you deem to be a sin?”
“The cat o’nine tails,” I correct, and she pins me with a look that says I’m being obtuse. “Right. Not the point. Sorry.”
“So you whip yourself when you sin?”
“Not just my own. My brothers rely on me to take their confessions, and that sin doesn’t just dissolve into thin air. It has to go somewhere, and they can’t do what’s best for the club if they’re weighed down with guilt. So, I accept them and when the weight is too much for me, then?—”
“You bleed it from yourself.”
“Essentially.”
She grips my arms and turns me back around. There’s nothing left for me to hide, so I allow it. The nerves might be damaged in most places, but I feel slight pressure as she traces each slash mark marring my back. What I don’t feel is the typical psychological pain that manifests as physical pain whenever anyone even comes close to touching my back.
I first noticed it when we were on my bike, then again when I asked her to touch me over my cut. I’m not delusional enough to think that she’s the cure for my mental disease—that’s a fairytale that exists only in books—but there’s a reason for this. I just don’t know what it is.
Yes, I do. Myla is my exception.
“Some of these are really old. When did you start this?”
“In my twenties.”
“These scars are older than that.” She traces a few that are up higher by my neck, a spot I can’t reach on my own.
“Those aren’t from me.”
“Then who?” Her voice snaps from concerned to lethal, ready to take down the person who hurt me. A smirk tugs at my lips in response. It’s been a lifetime since someone has shown genuine concern for my well-being, but that’s always been the case, and I only have myself to blame. I’ve perpetuated this dynamic in all my relationships, rooted in my deep-seated fear of rejection and abandonment.
At least I’m aware of why I do the things I do, but the question Myla asked was, ‘Who?’ and though the answer is simple, it’s something I’ve never told another soul. I close my eyes, feeling heat climb up my neck and face. Pressure builds behind my ears, and my hands tremble as I spill the rest of my secrets.
“The story they told me was that my mom was a teen when she got knocked up, and her parents gave her a choice: keep me and get kicked out of the house, or allow a good Catholic family to adopt me. I don’t blame her for the choice she made. She’s every bit a victim in this as I am.” I bite the inside of my mouth so hard I taste blood, the physical pain shutting down the emotional pain. “They traveled two counties over just to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally run into me with my new parents, and my mom signed over her rights to Catholic family services. Joke was on them, though, because no one adopted me. Or maybe the church didn’t let anyone, I don’t know.”
“You never had parents?” She wedges herself between me and the kitchen counter, taking my hand in hers. The difference between them is striking, and not just in size. Myla’s hand is soft and unblemished in any way, really driving home our age difference. Her fingers are thin and delicate, and her nails are trimmed and filed. Mine show each of my forty-two years and then some, with the scars, sun spots, and an obvious avoidance of any kind of lotion. My nails are just as ugly because I bite them down as far as I can without ripping them off completely. Even so, I love the way they look together, and I lift them up to kiss the back of her hand.
“No. I grew up in a group home for boys that was overseen by nuns and the priest of the local parish. Father Kerrigan was fucked in the head but was good at hiding it. Even if I had told someone what he was doing to me, they wouldn’t have believed me.”
“What did he do?”
“He liked little boys in a way grown men shouldn’t.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh my god.”
“I was his favorite, and as fucked up as it sounds, I was proud of it at the time. He was constantly telling me my parents didn’t want me, my grandparents didn’t want me, and no adoptive parents wanted me, but thankfully, he did. I owed him my life and my silence because he’s the only one who ever loved me.”
“What a twisted son of a bitch.”
“Yeah.” I laugh humorously. “He would bring me into the rectory for ‘sessions,’ as he called them. Then he’d make me undress in front of him and?—”
“You don’t have to tell me the specifics.”
I shake my head. “Anyway, after he was done ‘showing me his love,’ the guilt would overcome him, and I was made to repent for my sins.”
“Your sins?” she scoffs.
“That’s what the old scars are from.” Even though I say the words, I’m careful to keep myself from falling into the memories. I stopped allowing myself to go there a long time ago.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him. What’s his first name? Where was this? I can find him.”
I can’t hold back the smile I give the little vixen. “Thank you for wanting to avenge my honor, but you can’t kill him.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I already did.”
Her posture straightens, and her brows furrow. “Good. He deserved it.”
I drop her hand and move to her side, stirring my black coffee for no reason other than I can’t look at her when I tell her the next part. “He did, but that’s not why I killed him. I ended his life because he found a new favorite. Here I was, preparing for the priesthood so I could be just like him, and he discarded me like trash. It shames me to say I killed him because I was jealous.”
“Judge—”
“It’s fucked, I know. But one day, I walked in on him during a session and caught him with a little boy who looked exactly like me when I was young. I lost it.” My eyes burn, and my nostrils flare as I fight not to let the memories drag me down. “I beat in his skull with a metal cross he kept on his desk.”
“How did you not get caught?”
“I did get caught. A nun heard his first cries and ran in to help. You should’ve seen the look on her face. Not because she actively caught Father Kerrigan raping a boy—I think she always knew that was happening—but because the amount of blood covering all three of us was horrific.”
“How are you not in prison right now?”
“They covered it up. I was given enough money for a bus ticket and instructions to never return. A few years later, I looked into it and found an obituary for the parish’s beloved Father Kerrigan, who suffered a deadly fall down a flight of stairs.”
“They should all die too.”
“Maybe, but not by my hands. His life was the only, and will be the only, I’ll ever take. I understand why it’s necessary for my brothers, but that’s not me. So I play the role they need while never being the one doing the killing.”
“Do they know what you do because of them?” she asks.
“Who?” I know who, but now we’re veering into some seriously dangerous territory.
“‘Don’t do that. Not with me.’ Isn’t that what you always say when I’m evasive?” She stands behind me once again, her hands moving to my biceps before trailing down my arms. Wrapping her arms around my middle in a hug, she rests her cheek on the back of my shoulder. “You know all my secrets, and now I know yours. There’s no point in hiding from me.”
I sigh. She’s right. What the hell else do I have to lose? “No. They don’t.”
“Judge,” she says in an admonishing tone. “I’ve only been around the club for a few months, but it’s been long enough to know they wouldn’t want this for you.”
I tip my head back, resting it on hers so she knows her affection is wanted. How long has it been since I’ve shared true intimacy with a woman? I don’t think I ever have. And if I did, I can’t remember.
“I know, but it’s not for them. It’s for me. It’s just what I have to do.”
“I don’t like the idea of you hurting yourself.”
“You’re doing the same thing. Not physically, but emotionally. This crusade you’re on is causing just as much harm to your spirit.”
“Where did you go when you left?” I don’t miss her quick change of topic, but I allow it. There’s only so much trauma we can cover in one morning.
This part I don’t need to hide from, so I turn around in her arms and hold her close. “I didn’t know where to go, but I knew it had to be far away, so I went west. I ran out of money in Reno, and here I am.”
“How did you find the club?”
“I need to back up a little before I tell you that. When I got to Reno, I didn’t have any skills except projects I’d done for the church, so I went back to what I knew and found a church. I think the priest knew I was running from something and took pity on me, kicking me some cash for doing odd jobs around the parish and reserving me a bed at the shelter.”
“You lived at a shelter?”
I nod. “For three years, until I was twenty-one. One day, I was working on rebuilding a pew when this man walked in. He was this big, scary lookin’ motherfucker with the most badass beard I’d ever seen. I kept an eye on him, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Just sat in the pew across from where I was working and started praying.”
“Cyrus?”
“Yep, though he wasn’t the president back then. I could tell he was upset, so I sat next to him and talked with him. By the time he left, he was asking me to come hang around the club.” Only now are the memories flashing through my mind pleasant ones. “The first time I went to the clubhouse was quite the experience. There was a party going on, and it was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.”
“I’ve heard stories about these parties, but I’ve never been. The club kept things low-key while I was there.”
“Yeah, well, you and Tinleigh were both recovering. I think the guys wanted to be respectful. The first night I was there, things were not respectful. I was intrigued and horrified at the same time, but Cy grouped me in on some conversations about shit the club was going through, and they must’ve liked what I had to say because two weeks later, I was prospecting.”
“They deserve to know.”
She may be correct, but it’s a possibility that will never come to fruition. My burden of guilt and remorse is mine to bear alone, and I’m not inclined to share it with anyone, except now with Myla. I’ve been hiding in plain sight for so long, it’s almost cathartic to open up to her. For the first time, someone truly knows me and understands the darkness within me. It brings a sense of comfort amidst the chaos of my existence that I wonder if I also bring to her.
Now that we’re in this together, I say the one thing that’ll stop her in her tracks. “Fine. I’ll tell them about me if you tell them about you.”