“Zenny.”
She ignores me, leading me into a large room lined with neatly made-up bunk beds. “But in the winter, we’re over capacity. We have a strict separation of families, men and women, but there are times when we have to let overflow guests sleep on the kitchen floor so we don’t have to turn anyone away.”
I glance around the sparse room, which despite its tired blankets and flat pillows, is extremely clean and smells surprisingly homey. A familiar mix of baking bread, fresh flowers and Mr. Clean. Then I look back at the young woman who’s trying very hard not to look at me.
“Zenny.”
She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, talking very quickly now. “And then here’s the cafeteria,” she says, turning into a wide doorway. “As you can see, it’s pretty small for what we do, and the kitchen needs updating, but despite all that, we were able to serve close to two thousand—”
“Zenny.” And this time I touch her. Just a brush along the white, artificial-feeling fabric at her elbow. And she goes still and stiff, like I’ve frozen her to the spot.
“Tell me what last night was all about,” I say, and I know I sound bossy, I know I’m using the same low voice that I would use to tell a woman to open her legs for my mouth. I know it and I don’t care. I don’t think I can handle living with last night in my mind without some kind of closure, I don’t think I can look at her for another second and not kiss her—I can’t listen to another word without needing her to say my name over and over again. Something has to shift, something has to stop this terrible twist she’s got going in my chest, and this is the only thing I can think of. “The honest guy thing, remember? How about you give me the honest girl thing?”
From behind her, I can see the lift and drop of her slender perfect shoulders as she breathes. I can see the catch of the sunlight through her curls and the tight line of her jaw as she thinks.
“Turn and look at me,” I coax gently, and then oh fuck, that was a mistake, because she does turn, she does look at me, and it’s like every time I forget. I forget how fucking gorgeous she is, I forget what the sight of those pouting lips does to my cock.
“Please,” I say quietly, peering down into her face. “Tell me about last night.”
The bright morning sun makes the copper in her eyes look molten, liquid, like her very soul is bubbling hot and waiting to be cast. She sighs, about to look down, and I don’t let her, I catch my finger under her chin to keep her eyes on me. My touch seems to shock her, and it shocks me too, and in the back of my mind, I think of stained glass and the sharp taste of wine.
“I—I just wanted one last night to myself,” she finally admits. “In a month, I’m professing as a novice, and aside from going to school, I’ll no longer be free to…” she trails off, as if catching herself using words she doesn’t want to use. “Then it will be time to seriously devote myself to the order. To this life.”
“So you were going to ask just any old man you saw to kiss you?”
“You’re not that old.”
“You know what I meant. Answer me, please.”
Another sigh. “No. I just wanted to dress up and drink and have a night that wasn’t homework or cleaning shelter toilets or studying ecumenical texts. But then I saw you, and you didn’t recognize me at all, and it felt terrible but it also felt…safe, I guess. Like I knew you and didn’t know you at the same time. Like I could pretend to be someone else and also know that you would take care of me.”
“That was a dangerous assumption,” I tell her, feeling a spike of retroactive fear. “The things I said to you last night—dammit, that wasn’t okay of me to do.”
She arches an eyebrow. “So it was okay to say those things to me when I was just a stranger, but when you know I’m Elijah’s sister, then it’s not okay?”
“Well, yes. And also you’re so young. And I’m not a good man. If you’d told me you wanted it, I would have spent the rest of the night with my mouth on your cunt.”
Her eyes widen and I remember we’re in a place run by nuns.
Sigh.
“Sorry,” I concede, dropping my finger from under her chin and running a hand through my hair. “But do you see why this is a little weird to me? You’re Elijah’s baby sister and now all of a sudden you’re a nun and the things I wanted to do to you, Zenny, Jesus fuck, you have no idea.”
“Is this the infamous Sean Bell having a conscience?”
“We haven’t seen each other for fourteen years,” I say, miffed and amused at the same time. “For all you know, I’m a very principled man.”
She rolls her eyes. “I talk to Elijah almost every day. I know enough to know your only principles are about money.”
“Untrue,” I protest.
“Really?”
“Uh, yes, really. Witness me panicking that I had carnal thoughts about you last night.”
She waves a hand. “That’s more about your fraternity with Elijah than actual ethics.”
“I don’t see a meaningful difference between the two.”
“Are you still having carnal thoughts about me?” she asks abruptly, and she asks it with that tempting combination of boldness and vulnerability that I can’t resist. Like she wants to know the answer so badly that she’s willing to expose her own curiosity and desire—and more than desire itself, but the desire to be desired. And it betrays so much about her—her youth and energy and spirit and innocence and honesty and longing, and it’s potent, it’s so fucking potent.
“Do you want the honest guy thing still?” I ask, because I have no problem being honest, but after I answer her, she might have a problem with it. And I want to give her the choice to back away from this conversation now, before I reveal exactly how impure and worldly a secular man can be around a holy woman.
“Yes,” she whispers, peering up at me.
I open my mouth to answer her, remembering only at the very last instant that there’s at least one other person here, that Zenny wants to be a nun, that it wouldn’t be good for her to be caught with me whispering dirty things in her ear, and I don’t want to be interrupted anyway. I need her to hear exactly what I’m going to say to her so that she understands how serious this all is.
I glance around the cafeteria to make sure we’re alone, and then I take her elbow and lead her into the kitchen, which is partitioned off with a swinging door. Once inside, I let go and she instinctively takes a step back, pressing herself against the wall.
Smart girl.
I do all the good guy things: I stand well away from the door so she has a clear exit, I put my hands in my pockets, and I ask for a final time, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
She lifts her chin the tiniest bit, and I see her nervousness, her uncertainty. But she says, “Yes, please,” in a calm, clear voice.
Fine, then.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you today,” I say, watching her blanch with surprise at my blunt lewdness. “I can’t stop thinking about pushing that jumper up to your waist and nuzzling into your cunt until my face smells like you. I want to bite your tits through that white shirt. I want to see that cross necklace sliding around your collarbone as I find out if you prefer two fingers or three.”