The Pope: Cards of Love Read online

  The Pope

  Cards of Love

  LP Lovell

  Contents

  Also by LP Lovell

  Prologue

  1. Delilah

  2. Delilah

  3. Judas

  4. Delilah

  5. Judas

  6. Delilah

  7. Judas

  8. Delilah

  9. Judas

  10. Delilah

  11. Judas

  12. Delilah

  13. Judas

  14. Delilah

  15. Judas

  16. Delilah

  17. Delilah

  18. Judas

  19. Delilah

  20. Judas

  21. Delilah

  22. Delilah

  23. Judas

  24. Delilah

  25. Judas

  26. Delilah

  Epilogue

  THE SAINT

  27. Absolution

  HATE ME

  Cards of Love

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 by LP Lovell

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.

  Also by LP Lovell

  She Who Dares series:

  Besieged #1 Conquered #2 Surrendered #3 Ruined #4

  Wrong Series:

  Wrong #1 Wrath #2 Wire #3 War #4

  Kiss of Death Series:

  Make Me #0.5 Kill Me #1 Kiss Me #2

  Collateral Series:

  Hate Me #1 Hold Me #2 Have Me #3

  War Series:

  War Poppy

  War Hope

  Bad Series:

  Bad #1 Dirty #2

  Standalone:

  Absolution

  High

  The Game

  Tiger Shark

  Prologue

  ‘For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ - 2 Corinthians 11:14

  My arm swings back and smashes into his face. I smile at the satisfying crunching of his cheekbone, and the little demon that I try to keep leashed dances around his fire. My fist pulls back again and again, nailing him in the gut, the ribs, mainly body shots. And when he’s lying on the floor gasping for short breaths through cracked ribs and straining lungs, I pause. My chest rises and falls heavily, and my knuckles are bleeding where the brass knuckles have bitten into my skin. I don’t care. His blood and mine mix together, coating my fist and smearing up the length of my forearm.

  That demon is riding me hard, screaming at me to just land one last punch to his throat. Collapse his trachea, and watch him suffocate to death right before my eyes.

  I walk away, pacing for a few minutes. His fingers grip the arm of the couch, and I notice the splits in his right knuckles. From hitting her. Glancing across the room, I spot some kind of bronze statue on his mantelpiece, an award of sorts. Picking it up, I toss it up and down in my hand, testing the weight.

  Then I grab his wrist, wrenching him forward on a cry and slamming his palm on the coffee table.

  “What are you—”

  My arm arcs high into the air, and I bring the statue down hard over his hand. I swear I can hear the bones crack, and I smile. He screams, and I slam a hand over his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Tears form and fall down his cheeks, meeting my fingers. When he finally quiets, I remove my hand, and he whimpers like a kicked dog. “Stay away from her, or I’ll make this look like a trip to Disneyland,” I growl.

  “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?” His voice is pained. I say nothing, allowing the assumption to go unchecked. “Does she know who you are?” Each word is a strained whisper.

  Dropping to a crouch, I grab a handful of his hair and wrench his head back. “You know who I am. And I know exactly who you are, who you work for, your entire tiny network. Go near her again, and I will destroy you.” I stand, sneering at him. “You should be grateful I’m showing you mercy.” I remove the knuckles and slip them into my pocket. “After all, I am a man of God.”

  1

  Delilah

  I lift the glass of wine to my lips, chugging half of it in several large gulps. Awkward doesn’t come close to describing the way I’m feeling. My father cuts a piece of steak off, shoving it in his mouth, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room.

  Sabrina, also known as ‘that whore’— a direct quote from my mother — sits across from me in a dress worthy of Elizabeth Taylor. She picks through a green salad, and I roll my eyes. The woman looks like Skeletor. She could do with a decent steak.

  “Aren’t you going to eat, Delilah?” my father asks.

  “I’m not hungry,” I mumble, taking another gulp of my wine.

  “You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. You’ll get drunk.” God. Yes. Please. This shit may just about become bearable.

  I offer a polite, yet hostile smile. “Your concern is touching.”

  Clearing his throat, he swipes a napkin over his mouth and steeples his fingers in front of him. Sabrina jumps up like a trained dog and swipes his empty plate, scuttling away with it.

  “I have to say. I’m surprised you called.” His eyes meet mine, the exact shade of grey as my own. His thinning salt and pepper hair is neatly combed, his shirt immaculate, cufflinks gleaming. “I didn’t think you’d accept my invitation for dinner.”

  Lifting the wine to my lips again, I mumble, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He releases a sigh, and behind his glasses, scowl lines sink into the corners of his eyes. “I know that your mother —”

  I hold my hand up, placing the glass down on the pristine white tablecloth. “Please spare me the speech.” My mother is no prize, but even so, at the age of fifteen, I was disgusted to find out that my dad had been banging his secretary for two years. He moved to London, married that piece of trash, and I was lucky if I heard from him once a month. This is the fourth time I’ve seen him in as many years, and the last time we spoke was at least six months ago.

  I’d rather not be here, but he is paying for my degree and expects me to attend when summoned. That’s the one thing my father is good for: money. He’s one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, so his time and attention is hard fought, but his guilt money? Not so much.

  “I’m changing my degree,” I blurt. He frowns, his lips pressing into a hard line. Butterflies flutter gleefully in my chest, and I fight a smile. I’ve pictured this moment so many times. Dreamed about it. Me; telling Henry Thomas that his only child will not be following in his egotistical footsteps. “To philosophy.” Ah, and there it is. The shock, the horror, and finally the pure, trembling rage.

  “What?” His voice is flat, but I hear the slight quiver in it. It takes everything in me not to smile.

  “I really found myself in Thailand, and I don’t want to be a doctor anymore.” It’s a lie. I didn’t find myself. I simply questioned why I was trying so hard to please a man who doesn’t give a shit. Truthfully, I don’t know what I want out of life. I never have.

  His face turns a worrying shade of red. “You’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”

  “No, you wanted me to be a doctor.”

  “That’s enough, Delilah,” he snaps. “I realise that I’ve made mistakes, but —”

  “But nothing! You save peoples lives, and that’s amazing, but you can’t even show your own daughter a fraction of the attention that you give to strangers.” I shake my head. “I don’t
want to be like you.”

  The red is tingeing on purple now, and his entire frame is trembling. “This isn’t a joke. Your future is on the line here.”

  “No, it’s not a joke.”

  There’s a long beat of silence, and I can feel his rage encroaching through the room. There’s a part of me that regresses right back to being a little girl, terrified of my father’s wrath.

  And then he says those words. “I never thought you would be such a disappointment, Delilah.”

  A knot lodges in my stomach, and I swallow down the uncomfortable feeling. All at once I’m ten-years-old again. Picking up the wine glass, I drain the remnants and push to my feet. The room tilts and sways a little.

  “Good talk, Dad.” I head towards the door.

  “Delilah!” he shouts, and I still out of habit. “I will not pay for this. You will not throw your life away.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  I walk out of the room, and with each step I take, the tension in my stomach eases. I’ve gone against the grain, defied my father, upset the status quo. I have no plan from here on out. A year ago, I was resigned to the path my life would take, but now…now there are just so many possibilities. I embrace the chaos of the unknown with open arms, bathing in the rebellion of it all.

  Once outside, I shoot a text to Izzy. Ten minutes later, her electric blue Mini Cooper comes screaming around the corner of my father’s cobblestone street. She slams to a halt beside me and winds down her window. A cloud of smoke exits the car, and she giggles, her copper red hair falling over her face.

  “How did it go down?”

  “Like I forced him to eat dog shit.”

  She laughs and slaps her hand over the steering wheel. “Get in. I have tequila shots with your name on them.”

  I get in her car, nearly choking on the scent of cigarette smoke. She cranks her radio and peels away from the expensive London street, leaving it all in the rearview mirror.

  Isabelle pats my thigh. “I’m proud of you, Lila! Now you can become a stripper, meet a bad boy and elope, have his love child…”

  I smile at my wild friend. Isabelle is beautiful, uninhibited, free — with a hunger for life that I’ve envied from the moment I met her. We happened upon each other two years ago, in Thailand of all places. She was travelling with a group of friends, and I was alone on a gap year because I’m always alone. I wanted to experience the world. They wanted to hit every full moon party they could find for a year. Izzy’s changed my life really. She brings out the side of me that I try to keep buried: the rebel, the anarchist. She makes me embrace something that I’ve always believed to be bad, but it’s not. It’s good. So, so good.

  We pull up outside an Irish bar that Izzy likes, though I have no idea why. The clientele are mostly shady characters. But they do have pool tables, so I suppose there’s that. Izzy walks straight up to the bar, slamming her hand on it.

  “Tequila shots!” she practically shouts at the barman. “Four.” Her gaze lifts over my shoulder, a slow smile making its way over her lips. “Make that six.”

  “If you’re ordering tequila…” A voice behind me starts. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Tiffany. She’s glaring at Izzy, her hands on her hips. Wild blonde hair spills everywhere, and the buttoned shirt she’s wearing falls open at the collar, hanging off her shoulder. “Every time, I tell her I do not do tequila. Then she tells me to man up, I do it, and I’m dying the next day.”

  I laugh. “You are aware that I share this pain?”

  Izzy slides shots in front of us. “Come on. We’re celebrating Lila’s freedom.”

  “Oh, you told your Dad, Lila?”

  “Yep.” I lift the shot glass of golden liquid. “To doing a shit degree that there is no way to make a career out of.”

  We clink glasses and knock them back.

  “I cannot believe you won’t be in classes with me anymore. It sucks,” Tiff says, wrinkling her nose against the vile taste.

  “Tiff, we’re living together this year. You’ll see more of me.” I met Tiff last year in a biology class. She’s sweet and caring and fun. The three of us just spent the summer in Vietnam, and in a week’s time, we’ll all be moving in together for the academic year. The only difference being that I’ve moved from medical sciences to philosophy. From a mapped future to the spontaneity of the here and now, and nothing more.

  A Corona is shoved in my hand courtesy of Izzy before she strolls over to one of the pool tables. She waves at a guy, and he lifts a hand to her in greeting. He’s wearing a leather jacket and a smile that spells trouble.

  “Isabelle,” he greets when they get close. “Want to play?” Somehow I don’t think he means pool. She picks up a pool cue, propping it against her hip.

  “Sure. Who’s your friend, Max?”

  My attention turns to another guy leaning against the wall, and when it does, I find him looking at me. He’s all lean muscles, tattoos and attitude. His dark hair matches the deep chocolate of his irises, which are currently focused on me like I’m prey. He looks like a Hollister model that’s done jail time. Bad. Dangerous. Rebellious. And gorgeous. Izzy always jokes that I love a bad boy, and she’s not wrong. This one is calling to me. Pushing off the wall, he moves closer, his every motion screaming of arrogance.

  “I’m Nate,” he says, his focus entirely on me, though I’m not the one who asked the question.

  “Lila,” I breathe. His lips quirk to one side before falling back into that troublesome smile.

  “Want to play, Lila?” He hands me the pool cue, and our fingers brush as I take it from him. My pulse quickens, and my skin tingles. I do, very much.

  Call it a weakness, or perhaps it’s just text book daddy issues, but guys like him…I can’t seem to say no to. It’s almost like I enjoy the thrill, followed by the heartbreak — because they are always, always heartbreak. Boys like that can’t be tamed, and only a foolish girl tries. So, what does that make me? An idiot, a glutton for punishment, or perhaps I’m just a junkie for that little rush they provide, for the moment they look at you as though you’re the only girl in the world? It may be fleeting, but so is life, made up of hundreds of thousands of moments. For every good one, there’s a bad one, and that’s what men like Nate are: a double-edged sword that I seem willing to cut myself on.

  I line up the breaking shot, bending over the table in front of him. “What are you going to give me if I win?” Glancing over my shoulder, I flash him a smile. His eyes shift from my arse to my face.

  “What do you want?”

  “Call it a drink?”

  He cocks a brow. “If you girls win, I’ll buy you a drink. If I win, I want a kiss.”

  Izzy lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

  “What is this? High school?” Tiff pipes up from the nearby bar stool she’s adopted.

  I shrug. I haven’t lost a game of pool since I was sixteen. He’s not getting that kiss.

  Fifteen minutes later and my five-year winning streak comes to a grinding halt. I’m a woman of my word, so Nate gets his kiss.

  * * *

  Six months later…

  I move through the hot press of sweaty bodies, grinding and writhing against one another. Music pulses and throbs through the thick, cloying air, like a living thing, infecting everyone in the packed club.

  My tight dress rides up my thighs with every step, and several stray sets of hands brush my waist, my hips, my bare legs. Through the crowd, I spot Tiff at one of the tables. She waves, beckoning me over.

  “You came.” She throws her arms around my neck, a drunken smile on her face.

  “Yeah. Where’s Izzy?”

  “Last I saw she was with Charlie.”

  I roll my eyes. Izzy’s new beau is Charles Stanley, the son of some high-ranking general. He’s the good guy, the star rugby player, the smart kid. He’s not her usual type, but then Izzy isn’t picky. She falls in love, then gets bored and does it all over again. She says the soul doesn’t have a type, nor does it
commit beyond a single moment, it simply feels. It seems that it currently feels Charles Stanley. Then again, beneath that golden exterior, there’s a streak of rebellion, a party animal. And Izzy does love a party.

  Glancing around the room, I spot Nate standing at the bar; his elbows braced behind him and a bottle of beer hanging from one hand. That dangerous aura of his is like a magnet to me, and everyone around him. Our eyes meet, his lips pulling up in the small, sexy smile that made me fall so hard for him in the first place. Turning his head, he speaks to someone beside him, his gaze remaining fixed on me. Money exchanges hands, and when I track the movement that I realise it’s Charles.

  “There you are!” My attention snaps from the guys to Isabelle. She’s wearing a white dress that barely makes it past her arse. Her gaze shifts over my shoulder to where I was looking. “That boy is all the best kinds of wrong, Lila.” I roll my eyes. She grins and then pets my crotch like it’s a damn cat. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “I swear to God, Izzy, if you are talking to my vagina…”

  She laughs. “Well, I’m happy for you too.”

  “Yeah, well, you remember that when I’m sobbing into ice cream.”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “Got to take the rough with the smooth. It’s the circle of life.”

  “Did you just quote Lion King at me?”

  “Hey, the entire point of Disney is to promote great life mantras. I’m not ashamed.”

  “Your hippy shit is getting out of control.”

  She shoves a drink in my hand. “You’re just trying to dull my sparkle.” She sniffs. “Now drink up, buttercup.”

  I eye the pink liquid. “Did you spike it?” Wouldn’t be the first time. Just last month she made brownies, and I foolishly thought she’d randomly taken up baking.

  “You’re no fun, Lila. Not since you found the street life.” She laughs, her eyebrows bouncing up and down conspiratorially. She tips her own drink back and then grabs my hand, tugging me towards the dance floor, along with Tiffany. They dance together, and I watch them, but my focus is elsewhere. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Charles and Nate slap hands before Charles starts walking towards us. Nate meets my gaze and nods.