Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NATASHA
“F orgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…” I tried to come up with a date, then added, “I don’t know. Maybe a month since my last confession.”
The confessional was dark and comforting like the closet I used to hide in when my father was on one of his rampages. These days, I did my best work in the shadows, and I sure as fuck wasn’t hiding anymore.
These days, people hid from me because I was the thing that went bump in the night.
I heard the priest sigh from the other side of the confessional as the cloying scent of wax and incense filled my lungs. I imagined him squirming on his hard, wooden seat as he listened to the sins of his parishioners.
Adultery, cheating on taxes…
Little white lies and bigger, blacker ones…
For a moment, I considered asking him to share their sins. He wouldn’t, any more than he’d share mine, and I wasn’t his confessor.
Hell, I didn’t even know why I was here. I wasn’t sure I believed in God in the first place, and I didn’t want or need absolution. I should have counted myself lucky the holy water didn’t start boiling when I walked in.
Maybe I just needed someone to listen. Therapists had to report crimes. My priest… Well, he and I had an understanding.
“Thirty-eight days,” he supplied. “How many since the last time, child?”
His faint Afrikaans accent teased, and not for the first time, I was almost curious enough to ask about it. I wouldn’t, of course. Personal details weren’t part of our relationship.
“Three.” I didn’t bother asking what he’d meant.
“And?”
“Do you really want to know?”
If people weren’t in such a hurry to take advantage of innocents, maybe they wouldn’t end up, you know, dead. Totally not my fault. Honestly, I was performing a community service. Or maybe I was cleaning out the gene pool.
Potato, potahto.
Of course, there was that one DMV employee who didn’t seem to understand that no meant fucking no. After catching him slipping something into a woman’s drink at a bar, I was happy to educate him—and help him continue his quest toward becoming an incel.
Permanently.
I wasn’t a complete bitch though. The men who saw me into a cab when I tried to honeytrap them got to keep breathing. Strangely, I liked it when I could let them walk away. It gave me a sense of hope.
One man dared to yell at me, and it took everything I had to keep my laughter inside when he said, “Honey, you need to be careful. With all the misogynistic bullshit men are saying these days, it just isn’t safe for a woman to be vulnerable.”
Yeah, it was a touch infantilizing, but he wasn’t wrong, and his lecture came from a place of deep concern I wished more men possessed.
He even gave me a card for the Caroline Foundation in Arizona, plus one for what my initial research told me was an honest-to-god bondage club called Club Apocalypse, with instructions to call if I needed help.
Sadly, the Four Horsemen of Club Apocalypse were all in committed relationships, but if that was where decent men were being bred, maybe I needed to schedule a visit.
If I’d been in the market for a Daddy Dom, Sean Franklin would be at the top of my list. With his golden-brown complexion and muscles on his muscles, he was divine.
He was also married to a woman I’d be stupid to cross.
The minute my team of hackers and investigators heard his name, they peaced out on me because his wife, one Dr. Gabrielle Knox, was a woman with whom one did not fuck.
Of course, after doing a little research on the good doctor, I was girl-crushing on her hard and totally wanted to be her when I grew up.
For a very brief moment, I reconsidered applying for one of her Sirens of STEM scholarships, then shook it off.
I wouldn’t take a scholarship from someone who actually needed it, and college wasn’t on my agenda anymore.
And thus, the women’s shelter—which to my surprise was supported in large part by the adult resort—got a great big anonymous donation as a reward for Sean’s good behavior.
Well, I assume they did. On the back of the card, I wrote, “Don’t disappoint me,” then sent it to Lachlan. We weren’t married anymore, but that didn’t stop me from extorting donations to various worthy causes in lieu of him ending up wrapped in plastic like George, Enrique, and Matt.
Considering I’d gotten the name of his cleaner; I was sure he had some inkling he might end up in their care if he pissed me off.
“No, I suppose not,” the priest finally said, dragging me from my thoughts. He pushed a rolled-up piece of paper through the grate separating us. “Call the number.”
“No genuflection to the teenaged mother of a tortured prophet?”
He laughed softly. “That’s an interesting and not entirely inaccurate description of Mary, but no.”
I unfolded the paper and frowned at the number. It wasn’t American, but I couldn’t place the country code. “Who are they?”
“Call them, Spider.”
“Spider?” I asked. “I can’t decide if I should be insulted or not.”
“Isn’t that what you are? You weave a web to trap unwary prey.”
I considered the idea and decided I liked it. It wasn’t every day a woman got a cool supervillain nickname. Sadly, I couldn’t afford a volcanic island lair. Then again, a private island probably wasn’t much more expensive than living in Santa Cruz County.
“No, thanks.” I crumpled the paper into a ball and tucked it in my purse. I didn’t want it, but I wasn’t one to leave evidence behind that might have my DNA or fingerprints on it. “I’m not calling an international number that I don’t know.”
“They have use for your unique skills and can provide resources you only dream of.”
“I have my own.”
“Not like the assets my friends can give you,” he murmured. “Things like protection and a team behind you. They would very much like to meet you, and I?—”
“I said no.” I rose and gathered Dante’s leash.
He sighed, then said, “I’ll see you next month.”
I didn’t reply. Although the priest would indeed see me soon, it wouldn’t be in a confessional.
After getting into my car, naturally with Dante in the back seat, his head hanging over my shoulder in a silent plea for chicken nuggies on the way home, I took a few minutes to look up the country code for the number the priest gave me.
“Italy?” I laughed and shook my head, then tucked the paper into my purse for later. “Guess the priest thought I’d be a good mafioso type person.”
Dante woofed softly and cocked his head. I swear that dog understood English better than most people I knew.
“Yeah, you’re right. Not everyone in Italy is a mobster, and it was rude of me to stereotype. Maybe he thinks I should be confessing to someone at the Vatican.”
Knowing Dante’s level of anxiety would match mine; I kept my humor and positive attitude the whole way home and even smiled at the young drive-thru attendant who gave Dante an extra nugget for being handsome.
Once he was curled up in his bed asleep with his kitty, Angel, I crept silently into my office.
Without wasting time, I opened my computer and messaged one of my hacker contacts. As the priest and his friends would soon learn, there were consequences for fucking with me.
* * *
LACHLAN
“I’ve heard of this place,” Saoirse said when I handed her the card bearing Natasha’s terse instruction. “The Caroline was built on an old cult compound and is named after a woman who died there. It’s supposed to be one of the safest women’s shelters in the world.”
I didn’t mention how much I wished Natasha could have gone there. Instead, I asked, “How much do you think I should give?”
She handed the card back and shrugged. “At least a million. Natasha won’t be happy with anything less.”
“Five hundred grand,” I countered. “I’m a bit strapped for cash these days.”
“Really?” She sat on the couch across from me and folded her legs under her. “How much has she hit you for?”
“Ten million.” I grimaced when the elderly toy poodle Natasha coerced me into adopting tottered to Saoirse and begged to be picked up.
The poor thing was deaf, mostly blind, had incontinence issues, and sported a disconcerting underbite that made him look like he should join the Uruk Hai.
Naturally, although the name didn’t fit his sweet temperament, the shelter named him Orc.
As hard as I tried not to let it happen, Orc was growing on me.
It happened every fucking time too. The poodle was the sixth geriatric animal Natasha decided I should adopt.
All came from kill shelters, and my job was to give them a good home for their remaining time, which was just long enough to get attached to them.
Not that it took much.
I could almost hate her for it, but at least I still had Marmite, the ancient Shetland pony who liked to lay his head in my lap for as long as I’d let him. I kept telling myself we had plenty of time, and sometimes I even believed my lie.
Marmite was only forty, and the record for the oldest pony was Sugar Puff, who passed at fifty-six. Not that I researched how long a pony lived or anything.
Maybe Natasha was trying to teach me empathy in the most brutal way possible, but it was surprisingly satisfying to give animals a comfortable home for whatever time they had left.
Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when I had to let them go, but I also knew the ones I’d already taken were a mere drop in the bucket of unadoptable pets.
Not for the first time, I wondered if I should start canvassing the kill shelters on my own. I had plenty of space and could easily take more than one at a time. After all, now that my vengeance against Steve Ashland was complete, I needed a hobby.
“Yikes.” Saoirse plucked the dog from the floor and settled him on her lap. “Guess she’s counting it the alimony you should have paid her.”
“Piss off,” I muttered. “You know perfectly well I tried.”
“Or maybe she’s still rocking sociopathy. Who knows?” Saoirse scritched the poodle’s ears, making him groan with delight. “Natasha isn’t really the sharing type.”