Revelations(45)

It’s not happening, I have my mind set—he’s going to live. And hopefully, with me. If not, then not. Either way—he’s going to live.

“I’m sorry at the way things have turned out,” he continues, “I truly hadn’t expected it so soon. I thought we had more time. At least a few more days…” I take a seat beside him on his cot, take his hand in mine, twining our fingers.

“Have you heard from your father?” I ask hopefully, although I don’t expect that to be the case. He never directly intervenes in what we do. And yet, did he not send me to his son? Surely not simply to offer us paradise and yank it away so cruelly once it was attained? I wish I knew.

“No, not yet.”

We sit together in silence. Relative silence, that is. My ears and my still tender head are assaulted by the ticking of a clock. I bet Kaplan has one on the wall, just out of sight. One of those cheap plastic ones. I find the quite sound jarring. I’m all too well aware of its presence as it signals the passage of time. Clichéd, maybe.

But it’s still true, and it’s working against us.

“Are the others…?” He hesitates, as if looking for the right words. “Treating you well?” I read between the lines, of course. He knows how they’ve been before, how they can still be. That’s another reason I have my Thomas mole among them.

I think he’ll warn me before they attempt anything. If he can, that is.

“The usual.” I shrug. All right, maybe I’m glossing over things a bit, but there’s no sense in worrying him about something he can do nothing about. The atmosphere when I left was decidedly hostile, for lack of a better word. And no one was exactly sorry to see me go. Mary M said she was going to talk to them, but I honestly don’t think it will help. Which reminds me. I have to find Mary—as in his mother—and see she’s taken care of. Luckily I know they won’t do anything to harm her, she’s well loved. But this must’ve come as quite a shock to her too.

Which gives me an idea.

“I tell you what. I’ll bring Mary back with me next time. It’ll do you both good.”

He squeezes my fingers, rewards me with one of his beautiful smiles. “I’d like that, Jude. Will you bring both of my Marys?” he teases, and I can’t help but feel he is happy that this longstanding enmity between myself and Mary M has been not only been eased a great deal, it’s perhaps working toward being eradicated.

Maybe you can teach an old Judas new tricks. Or maybe it’s because for the first time in my life I’m truly happy, and I know he’s the reason. He makes my heart sing. So I’ve no reason to hate her. Maybe I’m simply mellowing in my old age.

Which brings me back to the whole way too soon thing, and how cruel it is.

Rather than explode with the frustrated rage that threatens to course through me, I reach for him instead, as my salvation. Our arms twine about one another, our lips meeting once again, and this discussion is over. At least for now.

“Jude,” he murmurs into my mouth, my hands sliding through his dark tresses caressingly, “Jude, don’t expect too much from the judge. Bail will never be set, that’s how it’s meant to be…”

I refuse to entertain such a notion. They can’t deny him that, surely, and if they do, then I’ll simply have to try another tactic. A less legal one. Whatever it takes to release him. I mean what I say. He is not going to die this time. You have my word on that.

I push such thoughts aside, as I melt into him, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other enmeshed with his between us, and I’m so very hard for him that I can feel it, bulging against these designer trousers. A slight movement on my part brings our joined hands into his lap, and I can feel his own raging desire. Oh damn, why is life so very cruel?

And as if to illustrate my point, the outer door—which I wish now I had locked, in hindsight—opens, and a chorus of shocked gasps begins. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to divine who’s arrived. I’m all for giving them more of a show, but I’ve no wish to cause Jesus any more trouble, so I gently pull away, turning so that he’s behind me, shielded by my body.

Well, well, there they are, the sniveling hypocritical asinine members of C.O.C.K. Led by the chief cocksucker himself, good old Mr. Lassiter. And isn’t he all decked out today in a white silk suit so bright he could pass for a televangelist?

“Ladies, you may wish to avert your eyes,” he drips in his saccharine tones, although I notice most of them continue to stare voyeuristically. “Thank goodness we came when we did, otherwise I fear we might have been treated to more of the same thing we interrupted earlier.”