Read Online The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 by Alexie Aaron - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexie Aaron
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left until I turned east towards my destination.
Holy hell, at first I did fine as there wasn’t any oncoming traffic. I kept
singing, “left, left, drive on the left.” The natural instinct of American
driving kept trying to take over, and when the first car past me I almost peed
myself. The road in was hilly and I’m sure the landscape beautiful, but this
white-knuckled woman driver saw nothing, heard nothing but my driving mantra. When
it came time for me to turn right from the left lane I almost started crying.
Why do I get myself into these pickles? When a break in
traffic came I took a deep breath and turned on to a less traveled lane and
slowly made my way into the town. I parked near the hotel as it was
recognizable from the day before, and I knew that I could find it again. I
started walking towards High street where I found a bank that would exchange my
dollars for pound sterling. Everyone I bumped into seemed nice enough and only
a few times I feigned being hard of hearing so the speaker would repeat what
they were saying as some of the accents were tough on my inexperienced ears.
Soon my commercialism kicked in and I shopped. I mean I
went in everywhere, chatted with clerks and proudly lugged my purchases back to
the truck before finding someplace for a snack. I spied a small news agent’s
shop where I could get a soft drink and crisps to take to the waterside and
enjoy the view. I started walking towards it when I collided with someone tall
exiting the hotel.
“Yikes, sorry, I wasn’t…you?” I looked at my fellow
collider and saw the familiar dancing blue eyes. “What the he…fancy meeting
you here,” I managed.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” Father Michael said none too
convincingly.
“You’re not following me are you? And where are your priest
duds?” Hands on hips, eyes drinking in the big shoulders, trim waist, muscled
thighs in tight jeans…stop it, he’s a priest for gods’ sake. Brook brothers
shirt rolled up at the elbows, open at the neck, smelling of cologne. I’m sure
smelling good must be a sin.
He pulled his hand through his hair, his eyes deciding
something before talking to me. He looked behind me and then grabbed my arm
and pulled me closer.
I would be lying that my body was in confusion. My hormones
wanted a kiss, my flight instinct tried to warn me he could be a danger, and my
Sunday school teacher was shaking me for all the lustful thoughts. All he said
was, “Not here.”
Not here for what? My murder, him breaking his priestly
vows, my damnation...oh I was in deep doo doo now. He guided me across the
road to a bench facing the ocean. It was shielded from the road but public
enough that I could scream if I wanted to. He let go of my arm. I knew he
left a bruise, one on my skin and another on my soul.
“I guess I need to explain a few things.”
“Well, yeah.” I said with indignation. I supposed if I used
a more theatrical phrase, something written for Emma Thompson, I wouldn’t have
sounded so stupid. “What are you doing here? And sit down, you’re blocking my
view.” Yes, and I don’t have to see how tight your jeans are. Get a grip on
yourself. I scolded myself.
He sat down but not before reaching into his pocket. Was it
a gun, knife, chloroform? It was a picture. He handed me a black and white
photo. I reached into my purse and fumbled around until I found a pair of
bright purple reading glasses. I put them on to clearly see the picture before
me. It was a shot of a family taken in front of a wraparound porch, the kind
found attached to Charleston antebellum homes. A serviceman – an airman – was
centered with, I assumed, his parents standing on either side of him. Two
small boys looked up adoringly, and a young girl was clutching the family dog.
“The airman is my uncle Donald. He was lost in the war.
The boy here,” he pointed to the smaller of the
Holy hell, at first I did fine as there wasn’t any oncoming traffic. I kept
singing, “left, left, drive on the left.” The natural instinct of American
driving kept trying to take over, and when the first car past me I almost peed
myself. The road in was hilly and I’m sure the landscape beautiful, but this
white-knuckled woman driver saw nothing, heard nothing but my driving mantra. When
it came time for me to turn right from the left lane I almost started crying.
Why do I get myself into these pickles? When a break in
traffic came I took a deep breath and turned on to a less traveled lane and
slowly made my way into the town. I parked near the hotel as it was
recognizable from the day before, and I knew that I could find it again. I
started walking towards High street where I found a bank that would exchange my
dollars for pound sterling. Everyone I bumped into seemed nice enough and only
a few times I feigned being hard of hearing so the speaker would repeat what
they were saying as some of the accents were tough on my inexperienced ears.
Soon my commercialism kicked in and I shopped. I mean I
went in everywhere, chatted with clerks and proudly lugged my purchases back to
the truck before finding someplace for a snack. I spied a small news agent’s
shop where I could get a soft drink and crisps to take to the waterside and
enjoy the view. I started walking towards it when I collided with someone tall
exiting the hotel.
“Yikes, sorry, I wasn’t…you?” I looked at my fellow
collider and saw the familiar dancing blue eyes. “What the he…fancy meeting
you here,” I managed.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” Father Michael said none too
convincingly.
“You’re not following me are you? And where are your priest
duds?” Hands on hips, eyes drinking in the big shoulders, trim waist, muscled
thighs in tight jeans…stop it, he’s a priest for gods’ sake. Brook brothers
shirt rolled up at the elbows, open at the neck, smelling of cologne. I’m sure
smelling good must be a sin.
He pulled his hand through his hair, his eyes deciding
something before talking to me. He looked behind me and then grabbed my arm
and pulled me closer.
I would be lying that my body was in confusion. My hormones
wanted a kiss, my flight instinct tried to warn me he could be a danger, and my
Sunday school teacher was shaking me for all the lustful thoughts. All he said
was, “Not here.”
Not here for what? My murder, him breaking his priestly
vows, my damnation...oh I was in deep doo doo now. He guided me across the
road to a bench facing the ocean. It was shielded from the road but public
enough that I could scream if I wanted to. He let go of my arm. I knew he
left a bruise, one on my skin and another on my soul.
“I guess I need to explain a few things.”
“Well, yeah.” I said with indignation. I supposed if I used
a more theatrical phrase, something written for Emma Thompson, I wouldn’t have
sounded so stupid. “What are you doing here? And sit down, you’re blocking my
view.” Yes, and I don’t have to see how tight your jeans are. Get a grip on
yourself. I scolded myself.
He sat down but not before reaching into his pocket. Was it
a gun, knife, chloroform? It was a picture. He handed me a black and white
photo. I reached into my purse and fumbled around until I found a pair of
bright purple reading glasses. I put them on to clearly see the picture before
me. It was a shot of a family taken in front of a wraparound porch, the kind
found attached to Charleston antebellum homes. A serviceman – an airman – was
centered with, I assumed, his parents standing on either side of him. Two
small boys looked up adoringly, and a young girl was clutching the family dog.
“The airman is my uncle Donald. He was lost in the war.
The boy here,” he pointed to the smaller of the
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