and yeah, I knew it was all kinds of wrong to have a hard-on in church, but fuck, that was what confession was for, right?
At least I wouldn’t be telling the Father where I’d had my lustful thoughts–just that I’d had them.
It was beyond hypocritical in my mind to commit sins, uncaring that I did so, while knowing all would be forgiven when I told my confessor, and I uttered however many Hail Marys he deigned suitable for my punishment.
Still, those were the rules under Aidan Sr.’s leadership.
Fucked-up, but true.
At least once a week we had to go to confession, once a week we had to attend mass, and once a week we had to take the Holy Communion.
It was clever, actually. The Father never took confession on Sundays, so that meant we had to attend twice a week like good little Catholic boys.
Aidan always was too shrewd for his own good.
I was hovering outside the church’s entrance, waiting on the O'Donnelly brothers and their parents to finally move ass. I was cold, and I wanted to get this Sunday over with because then I could call Aoife and spend the rest of the day between her thighs.
Yeah, I was getting to be like a broken record.
The last time I’d been this hard, this often, I’d been twelve and Aidan Jr. and I had taken turns in paying Mary Elizabeth Sanders one dollar bills to show us her bra.
Desperate times and all that. What teenage boys could get off on was weird as fuck, but I swear, every time she’d shown us her bra, it had been like finding nirvana.
I had to hide a grin at the memory, then I turned to Aidan Sr. and faced him down. “Introduce you to who?” My voice didn’t hold a quaver of fear because Aidan was like a viper who had a rodent in its line of sight, ready for its dinner.
He could scent fear better than a bear in the woods, and I wasn’t about to fall for any of his traps.
“Aidan tells me you didn’t go to O’Shea’s last night, and the others have dropped hints about you suddenly leading a very sheltered life.” I didn’t tense when he slung his arm around me. The leather coat he wore over his three thousand dollar suit creaked as he tucked me close. “I know my boys. Only pussy will have them staying in on a Saturday night.”
My eyes flared at his use of the word ‘pussy’ so close to the church. Then, I realized he’d maneuvered me to the street beside St. Patrick’s, and suddenly everything made sense.
The hypocrisy was enough to make me snort, but knowing Aidan didn’t appreciate jokes that were against him, I kept my dark humor at his ridiculousness hidden.
“Who is she?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Aoife Keegan,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t know her identity. Things like stubborn owners who refused to sell out when Acuig came a-visiting, were only brought to his attention when I had to call in some of our thugs to show said stubborn owners the way ahead.
“That’s a good, strong, Irish name.”
“I know,” I told him. “She’s a good, strong, Irish girl.”
“Which ways does she follow?”
That translated in Aidan’s language to: does she go to church?
“She’s not Protestant, is she?” he continued, asking the age-old question that concerned all Irish parents.
“She’s Catholic,” I confirmed.
That had him beaming brighter than if I’d told him I’d just deposited thirty million into his accounts. “You doing right by her?” he inquired, tilting his head to stare down into my eyes. “It’s too much to ask that my lads don’t dip their wicks everywhere they go, but are you treating her right?”
“She’s the marrying kind,” I informed him softly, and Aidan stilled at my side before he released a gentle laugh.
“One of my boys has finally been snared, hmm? Then I definitely need to meet her.”
I tensed. “She’s not ready for that.”
Aidan sniffed. “She’ll never be ready for it. She knows what you are, no?”
“Aye, she does, sir,” I replied, and I realized I couldn’t have sounded more Irish if I’d tried.
Sometimes, on Sundays, after service with the very Irish Father, and then with the lilting accents around the place, it was easy to pick up on that if you had a good ear.
I had a very good ear, which meant I sounded like I was being an ass.