3. Torrent
Chapter 3
Torrent
He’s not there .
As I look out across the street, disappointment sinks in. I really thought he would be there. I’ve started looking forward to seeing him and this is the first time he’s failed to show.
He’s given up.
That’s good. He needed to give up. I need him to stay far away from me. Logically I know all of this, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I feel letdown by Devil, even if I shouldn’t, and the weight of that emotion is almost crushing. A smart girl would go back to her room and pretend to be a good little girl. I’m not smart. If I was, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in right now.
I catch the other girls working in the garden and I sneak away. I look over my shoulder repeatedly, afraid someone will see me. I can cover if they do, but I need a break—even if it’s a small one.
I turn the corner of the building and lean against it, breathing deeply. This place is historic and so old I swear it was probably standing before Tennessee even became a state. The block is covered in green ivy halfway up and it sticks into my back, but I ignore it. I’m wearing a white uniform, including the damn veil and coif on top of my head. I thought nuns wore black. I could handle black a little more. At least I’d feel more at home in it. I rip the top off my head; it’s fucking hot and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle being here. I know I promised my dad, but damn, nothing seems to be changing and I miss my old life.
“That looks better.”
My head jerks up when I hear his voice.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my head tilted to the side so I can watch him closely. I was kind of hoping I had embellished how good he looks. I didn’t. He’s tall and wide, his skin a golden tan and his hair is copper brown and when the sun hits it I see those highlights even more. He’s wearing jeans that look lived-in and hug him in all the right places—so much so that my mouth waters. I force myself to look at his face—and not the bulge pushing against the zipper in his jeans. His eyes are blue. They’re not a normal blue. Jesus, they’re a dark, sparkling blue and they send goosebumps over my body and it’s so intense my nipples freaking tingle. To disguise my reaction to him, I take out a few of the pins that didn’t come out of my hair and then sift my fingers through it.
“Wanted to see you, Angel,” he says, but he’s different. He’s not smiling or cocky like he was the first time we met. He’s staring at me and he’s completely serious… so serious that it’s unnerving.
“What for?”
“Been asking myself that for a while now.”
“You got a smoke?” I ask him, figuring it’s best not to comment on his reply.
“Do nuns smoke?”
“This one does.” I shrug.
He takes out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket on his cut and reaches it over to me. I take one out, silently congratulating myself that my hand doesn’t shake. When I bring it to my lips, he digs in his pocket again and brings out a lighter. He lights it, his gaze holding mine. It’s the simple act of lighting a cigarette, but it feels more intense.
Probably because I’m playing with fire, literally and figuratively.
“Thanks,” I tell him, ignoring the fact that my voice is hoarse.
“Is smoking a sin?”
“Depends on what you’re smoking, I guess. Is that why you’re here? Church is usually on Sundays.”
“I don’t think they let the Devil in church. Pretty sure that’s against the rules.”
“The purpose for church is to save lost souls, Devil. ”
“Mine’s a little more than lost.”
“What makes you say that?”
“How about the fact I want to rip that get-up off of you and fuck you against the building right now?” he asks and for a minute my heart stops. My body feels flushed and heat invades my system, inching up my spine.
I take a big drag off my cigarette, hoping the nicotine soothes me. It doesn’t. Instead I’m having visions of Devil fucking me, my body pressed into the brick as he slams inside, filling me...
“Did I leave you speechless, Angel?”
“Just enjoying my cigarette,” I tell him, doing my best to keep my voice even and unaffected.
“You should give those up,” he responds.
“Why’s that?” I ask, shaking off the ashes of the cigarette and taking another drag. I’m going to have to get back to the others, and I wish like hell I didn’t have to. I can’t stay with Devil though. It’s not safe…or sane.
“Because I want to kiss you.”
“And my smoking would stop that?”
“No, but I’d rather taste you than a cigarette.”
“You smoke though. Isn’t that kind of a double standard?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to stop smoking so I’ll kiss you?”
“If you want to kiss me, Angel, fuck yeah, I’ll give them up.”
“Just like that?” I ask before I can stop myself. I ground my cigarette under my shoe, but I never look away from him.
I’m not sure I can.
In answer, Devil takes his cigarettes out of his pocket and throws them on the ground. I watch as they hit the green grass and then his foot comes down and smashes them under his boot.
“Exactly like that.”
“I better get going,” I tell him, feeling unnerved and very tempted to kiss him.
“Don’t leave,” he orders—and it’s definitely said like an order.
“I need to get back before they miss me,” I explain, but we both know I’m running and we know why, because I’ve not been entirely successful in hiding my reaction to him.
“Give me something,” he says as I start to turn away.
“I’m not kissing you,” I tell him, because I know if I do there will be no coming back from it.
“I could make you like it,” he says. I see a ghost of a smile on his face. His lips are mostly hidden by his well-groomed beard, but when he smiles his forehead crinkles.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I tell him with complete honesty.
“Then give me your name.”
I start to lie to him. It would be safer to lie, but for some reason I find I don’t want to.
“Torrent,” I tell him, and start backing away, unable to turn away from him.
“Torrent…” he repeats and he says my name like it’s candy on the tip of his tongue and he’s savoring it, enjoying the flavor so much he’s memorizing it.
Damn.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, and when I do I fully expect him not to tell me. I know that a road name is special and most men only go by it.
“Logan,” he answers, surprising me.
“Logan,” I whisper, nodding my head in a yes motion, because the name fits him. It’s strong, rough and yet smooth. I like it and I like that he has it. It would have made it so much easier if his real name had been George or Martin—heck, Herman would have been great. “Goodbye, Logan,” I whisper, the act of saying goodbye somewhat painful.
“I’ll be seeing you again, Torrent.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” I tell him, shaking my head negatively.
“Probably not, but it’s going to happen,” he warns.
“Then maybe we both better start praying, Logan,” I warn him and that makes him smile again.
Too bad I’m not kidding.