Priest E-Book

Sierra Simone

• Herausgeber: Sierra Simone
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Priest
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 473

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

There are many rules a priest can't break. A priest cannot marry. A priest cannot abandon his flock. A priest cannot forsake his God.

I've always been good at following rules.

Until she came. Then I learned new rules.

My name is Tyler Anselm Bell. I'm twenty-nine years old. Six months ago, I broke my vow of celibacy on the altar of my own church, and God help me, I would do it again.

I am a priest and this is my confession.

Leseprobe

PRIEST

A LOVE STORY

SIERRA SIMONE

Copyright © 2015 Sierra Simone

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

Cover by Date Book Designs 2015

08142024

CONTENTS

Content Note

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

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About the Author

CONTENT NOTE

This book contains references to clerical sex abuse, which doesn’t happen to a central character and occurs several years before the start of the book. It also references a sister’s death by suicide—also several years before the start of the book but is spoken about as a memory in Chapter 13.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I spent the majority of my life in the Catholic faith, and while I’m no longer Catholic, I still have the utmost affection and respect for the Catholic Church. While the town of Weston is real (and delightful), St. Margaret’s and Father Bell are inventions of my imagination and entirely fictional. That being said, this novel is about a Catholic priest falling in love. There is sex, more sex, and definitely some blasphemy. (The fun kind.)

You’ve been warned.

PROLOGUE

There are many rules a priest can’t break.

A priest cannot marry. A priest cannot abandon his flock. A priest cannot harm the sacred trust his parish has put in him.

Rules that seem obvious. Rules that I remember as I knot my cincture. Rules that I vow to live by as I pull on my chasuble and adjust my stole.

I’ve always been good at following rules.

Until she came.

My name is Tyler Anselm Bell. I’m twenty-nine years old. I have a bachelor’s degree in classical languages and a Master of Divinity degree. I’ve been at my parish since I was ordained three years back, and I love it here.

Several months ago, I broke my vow of celibacy on the altar of my own church, and God help me, I would do it again.

I am a priest and this is my confession.

ONE

It’s no secret that reconciliation is the least popular sacrament. I had many theories as to why: pride, inconvenience, loss of spiritual autonomy. But my prevailing theory at the moment was this fucking booth.

I hated it from the moment I saw it, something old-fashioned and hulking from the dark days before Vatican II. Growing up, my church in Kansas City had a reconciliation room, clean and bright and tasteful, with comfortable chairs and a tall window overlooking the parish garden.

This booth was the antithesis of that room—constrained and formal, made of dark wood and unnecessarily ornate molding. I’m not a claustrophobic man, but this booth could turn me into one. I folded my hands and thanked God for the success of our latest fundraiser. Ten thousand more dollars, and we would be able to renovate St. Margaret’s of Weston, Missouri, into something resembling a modern church. No more fake wood paneling in the foyer. No more red carpet—admittedly good for hiding wine stains but terrible for the atmosphere. There would be windows and light and modernity. I’d been assigned to this parish because of its painful past…and my own. Moving past that would take more than a facelift for the building, but I wanted to show my parishioners that the church was able to change. To grow. To move into the future.

“Do I have any penance, Father?”

I had drifted. One of my flaws, I’ll admit. One I prayed daily to change (when I remembered to).

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. Though I couldn’t see much through the decorative screen, I had known my penitent the moment he stepped in the booth. Rowan Murphy, middle-aged math teacher and police scanner enthusiast. He was my only reliable penitent throughout the month, and his sins ranged from envy (the principal gave the other math teacher a better schedule) to impure thoughts (the receptionist at the gym in Platte City). While I knew some clergy still followed the old rules for penance, I wasn’t the “say two Hail Marys and call me in the morning” type. Rowan’s sins came from his restlessness, his stagnation, and no amount of rosary-clutching would change anything if he didn’t address the root cause.

I know because I’ve been there.

And aside from that, I really liked Rowan. He was funny, in a sly, unexpected way, and he was the type of guy who would invite hitchhikers to sleep on his couch and then make sure they left the next morning with a backpack full of food and a new blanket. I wanted to see him happy and settled. I wanted to see him funnel all those great things into building a more fulfilling life.

“No penance, but I do have a small assignment,” I said. “It’s to think about your life. You have strong faith but no direction. Other than the Church, what gives you passion in life? Why do you get out of bed in the morning? What gives your daily activities and thoughts meaning?”

Rowan didn’t answer, but I could hear him breathing. Thinking.

Final prayers and a final blessing, and Rowan was gone, heading back to the school for the rest of his afternoon. And if his lunch break was almost over, then so were my reconciliation hours. I checked my phone to be sure, then pushed against the door, dropping my hand when I heard the booth open next to me. Someone settled in, and I sat back, masking my sigh. I had a rare free afternoon today, and I had been looking forward to it. No one besides Rowan ever came to reconciliation. No one. And the one day I had been looking forward to skating out early, to taking advantage of the perfect weather…

Focus, I ordered myself.

Someone cleared their throat. A woman.

“I, uh. I’ve never done this before.” Her voice was low and beguiling, the aural rendering of moonlight.

“Ah.” I smiled. “A newbie.”

That earned me a small laugh. “Yes, I guess I am. I’ve only ever seen this in the movies. Is this where I say, ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’?”

“Close. First, we make the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…” I could hear her echoing the words with me. “Now you tell me how long it’s been since your last confession, which was⁠—”

“Never,” she finished for me. She sounded young, but not too young. My age, if not a little younger. And her voice carried the accent-less rush of the city, not the leisurely twang I sometimes heard out here in rural Missouri. “I, um. I saw the church while I was at the winery across the street. And I wanted to—well, I have some things that are bothering me. I’ve never been particularly religious, but I thought maybe…” She trailed off for a minute and then abruptly inhaled. “This was stupid. I should go.” I heard her stand.

“Stop,” I said and then was shocked at myself. I never gave orders like that. Well, not anymore.

Focus.

She sat, and I could hear her fidgeting with her purse.

“You aren’t stupid,” I said, my voice gentler. “This isn’t a contract. This isn’t you promising to come to Mass every week for the rest of your life. This is a moment that you can be heard. By me…by God…maybe even by yourself. You came in here because you were looking for that moment, and I can give it to you. So please. Stay.”

She let out a long breath. “I just…the things that are weighing on me, I don’t know if I should tell them to anyone. Much less to you.”

“Because I’m a man? Would you feel more comfortable talking to a female lay minister before you talked to me?”

“No, not because you’re a man.” I heard the smile in her voice. “Because you’re a priest.”

I decided to guess. “Are the things weighing on you of a carnal nature?”

“Carnal.” She laughed, and it was breathy, rich music. I suddenly found myself wondering what she looked like—whether she was fair or tanned, whether she was curvy or slender, whether her lips were delicate or full.

No. I needed to focus. And not on the way her voice made me suddenly feel much more man than priest.

“Carnal,” she repeated. “That sounds like such a euphemism.”

“You can be as general as you would like to be. This is not meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“The screen helps,” she admitted. “It’s easier to not see you, with, you know, the robes and stuff while I’m talking.”

Now I laughed. “We don’t wear the robes all the time, you know.”

“Oh. Well, there goes my mental image. What are you wearing, then?”

“A long-sleeved black shirt with a white collar. You know the kind. The kind you see on TV. And jeans.”

“Jeans?”

“Is that so shocking?”

I heard her lean against the side of the booth. “A little. It’s like you’re a real person.”

“Only on weekdays, between the hours of nine and five.”

“Good. I’m glad they don’t put you in a crisper between Sundays or something.”

“They tried that. Too much condensation.” I paused. “And if it helps, I normally wear slacks.”

“That seems significantly more priestlike.” There was a long silence. “What if…do you ever have people who have done really bad things?”

I considered my answer carefully. “We’re all sinners in the eyes of God. Even me. The point is not to make you feel guilt or categorize the magnitude of your sin, but to⁠—”

“Don’t give me that seminary horseshit,” she said sharply. “I’m asking you a real question. I did something bad. Really bad. And I don’t know what happens next.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and for the first time since I’d been ordained, I felt the urge to go to the other side of the booth and pull the penitent into my arms. Which would have been possible in a more modern reconciliation room but would have probably been alarming and awkward in the Ancient Booth of Death.

But in her voice—there was real pain and uncertainty and confusion. And I wanted to make it better for her.

“I need to know that everything will be okay,” she continued quietly. “That I will be able to live with myself.”

A sharp tug in my chest. How often had I whispered those same words to the ceiling in the rectory, lying awake in bed, consumed with thoughts of what my life could have been? I need to know that everything will be okay.

Didn’t we all? Wasn’t that the unspoken cry of our broken souls?

When I spoke again, I didn’t bother with any of the normal reassurances or spiritual platitudes. Instead I said honestly, “I don’t know if everything will be okay. It may not be. You may think you are at the lowest point now and then look up one day and see that it’s gotten so much worse.” I looked down at my hands, the hands that had pulled my oldest sister from a rope after she hung herself in my parents’ garage. “You may not ever be able to get out of bed in the morning with that security. That moment of okay may never come. All you can do is try to find a new balance, a new starting point. Find whatever love is left in your life and hold on to it tightly. And one day, things will have gotten less gray, less dull. One day, you might find that you have a life again. A life that makes you happy.”

I could hear her breathing, short and deep, like she was trying not to cry.

“I—thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

There was no doubt that she was crying now. I could hear her pulling the Kleenexes from the box put inside the booth for just that purpose. I could catch only the faintest suggestions of movement through the screen, what looked like glossy, dark hair and what could have been the pale white of her face.

A really base and awful part of me wanted to hear her confession still, not so I could give her more specific counseling and assurance, but so that I could know exactly what carnal things this girl had to apologize for. I wanted to hear her whisper those things in her breathy voice, I wanted to take her into my arms and kiss away every single tear.

God, I wanted to touch her.

What the fuck was wrong with me? I hadn’t wanted a woman with this kind of intensity for three years. And I hadn’t even seen her face. I didn’t even know her name.

“I should go now,” she said, echoing her earlier words. “Thank you for what you said. It was…it was unnervingly accurate. Thank you.”

“Wait—” I said, but the door to the booth swung open and she was gone.

* * *

I thought about my mystery penitent all day. I thought about her as I prepared my homily for Sunday’s Mass. I thought about her as I ran the men’s Bible study and as I prayed my nightly prayers. I thought about that glimpse of dark hair, that throaty voice. Something about her…what was it? It’s not like I’d been a corpse since taking the robe—I was still very much a man. A man who’d liked fucking a lot before he’d heard the call.

And I still noticed women, certainly, but I had become quite adept at steering my thoughts away from the sexual. Celibacy had become a controversial tenet of the priesthood these last few years, but I still abided carefully by it. Especially in light of what had happened to my sister. And what had happened to this parish before I came.

It was paramount that I was the apex of restraint. That I be the kind of priest who inspired trust. And that involved me being incredibly circumspect both publicly and privately when it came to sexuality.

So even though her husky laugh echoed in my ears the rest of the day, I firmly and deliberately tamped down the memory of her voice and went on with my duties, the only exception being that I prayed an extra rosary or two for that woman, thinking of her plea. I need to know that everything will be okay.

I hoped that wherever she was, God was with her, comforting her, just as he’d comforted me so many times.

I fell asleep with the rosary beads clenched in my fist, as if they were an amulet to ward off unwanted thoughts.

* * *

In my small, aging parish, there are usually one or two funerals a month, four or five weddings a year, Mass almost every day, and on Sundays more than once. Three days a week, I lead Bible studies, one night a week I assist with the youth group, and every day save for Thursday, I hold office hours for parishioners to visit. I also run several miles each morning and force myself to read fifty pages of something not related to the church or religion whatsoever.

Oh, and I spend a lot of time on The Walking Dead Reddit. Too much time. Last night I stayed up until two a.m. arguing with some neckbeard about whether or not you could kill a zombie with another zombie’s spinal column.

Which you can’t, obviously, given the rate of bone decay among the walkers.

The point is, for being a holy man in a sleepy bed-and-breakfast town in the Midwest, I am fairly busy, so I can be forgiven for being surprised that next week when the woman returned to my confessional.

Rowan had just left, and I was also getting ready to stand and leave when I heard the other door open and someone slide into the booth. I thought maybe it was Rowan again—it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d doubled back because he’d remembered some new menial sin that he’d forgotten to tell me about.

But no. It was that husky, knowing voice, the voice that had inspired my extra Rosaries last week.

“It’s me again,” the woman said with a nervous laugh. “Um, the non-Catholic?”

My words came out deeper than I’d meant them to, more clipped. A tone I hadn’t taken with a woman in a long time. “I remember you.”

“Oh,” she said. She sounded a little surprised, as if she hadn’t actually expected me to remember her. “Good. I guess.”

She shifted a bit, and through the screen I saw hints of the woman behind—dark hair, white skin, a flash of red lipstick.

I shifted a bit too, unconsciously, my body suddenly aware of everything. The custom-tailored slacks (a gift from my businessmen brothers), the hard wood of the bench, the collar that all of a sudden was too tight, much too tight.

“You’re Father Bell, right?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I saw your picture on the website. After last week, I thought maybe it would be easier if I knew what your name was and what you looked like. You know, more like I was talking to a person and not to a wall.”

“And is it easier?”

She hesitated. “Not really.” But she didn’t elaborate and I didn’t press, mostly because I was trying to coach myself away from the host of implausible desires that crowded my mind.

No, you can’t ask her name.

No, you can’t go open the door to see what she looks like.

No, you can’t request that she only tell you about her carnal sins.

“Are you ready to begin?” I asked, trying to redirect my thoughts back to the matter at hand, the confession.

Follow the script, Tyler.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m ready.”

TWO

Poppy

So I have this job. Had this job, I should say, because I do something different now, but up until a month ago, I worked in a place that could be considered…sinful. I think that’s the right word, although I never felt sinful working there. You’d think that would be why I’m here—and in a way it is—but it’s more that I feel like I should be confessing it to someone because I don’t feel like I should confess it. Does that make any sense? Like I should feel awful about what I’ve done and how I’ve earned my money, but I don’t feel awful in the least, and I know that’s wrong somehow.

Also, I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re wondering.

You know what else I should feel guilty about? The fact that I’ve wasted everyone’s time and money. My parents in particular, but even you, this person I don’t know. I’m detaining you and making you listen to all of my fucked-up-ery and thereby wasting your time and your church’s money. See? I’m a wreck, wherever I go.

Part of the problem is that there’s this slice of myself that has always been there with me, or maybe it’s not a slice, but a layer, like a ring of a tree. And wherever I go and whatever I do, it’s there. And it didn’t fit into my old life in Newport, and then it didn’t fit into my new life in Kansas City, and now I realize it doesn’t fit anywhere, so what does that mean? Does that mean that I don’t fit in anywhere? That I’m destined to be alone and detestable because I carry this demon on my back?

The funny thing is that I feel like there’s this other life, this shadow life I’ve been offered, where that demon can run free and I can let that ring, that layer, consume me. But the price is the rest of me. It’s like the universe—or God—is saying that I can have it my way, but at the cost of my self-respect and my independence and this vision of the person I want to be. But then what’s the cost of this way? I run away to a small town and spend my days working a job I don’t care about and then spend my nights alone? I have my self-respect, I have good deeds, but let me tell you, Father, good deeds don’t warm your bed at night, and I’m filled with this awful kind of despair because I can’t have both and I want both.

I want a good life, and I want passion and romance. But I was raised to see one as a waste and the other as distasteful, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop feeling like “Poppy Danforth” has become synonymous with waste and distaste, even though I’ve done everything I possibly can to escape that feeling…

* * *

“Maybe we should continue this next week.”

She’d been quiet for a long time after her last sentence, her breathing shaky. I didn’t need to see inside her booth to know that she was barely holding it together, and if we were in a modern reconciliation room, I would have been able to take her hand or touch her shoulder or something. But here, I could extend no comfort other than my words, and I sensed that she was past absorbing words right now.

“Oh. Okay. Did I—did I take up too much time? I’m sorry, I’m not really used to the rules.”

“Not at all,” I said softly. “But I think it’s good to start small, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmured. I could hear her gathering her things and opening the door as she spoke. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. So…there’s no penance or anything that I should do? When I googled confession last week, it said that sometimes there is penance, like saying a Hail Mary or something.”

Debating with myself, I also stepped out of the booth, thinking it would be easier to explain penance and contrition to her face rather than through that stupid screen, and then I froze.

Her voice was sexy. Her laugh was even sexier. But neither held a candle to her.

She had long dark hair, almost black, and pale, pale skin, highlighted by the bright red lipstick she wore. Her face was delicate, fine cheekbones and large eyes, the kind of face that peered out of fashion magazine covers. But it was her mouth that drew me in, lush lips that were slightly parted, letting me see that her two front teeth were ever so slightly larger than the rest, an imperfection that for some reason made her all the sexier.

And before I could stop myself, I thought, I want my dick in that mouth.

I want that mouth crying my name.

I want⁠—

I looked toward the front of the church, toward the crucifix.

Help me, I prayed silently. Is this some sort of test?

“Father Bell?” she prompted.

I drew in a breath and sent another quick prayer that she wouldn’t notice that I was transfixed by her mouth…or that the flat-fronted wool slacks I wore were suddenly growing a little too tight.

“There’s no need for penance right now. In fact, I think coming back here to talk is a small act of contrition in and of itself, don’t you?”

A small smile quirked her mouth, and I wanted to kiss that smile until she was pressing herself against me and begging me to take her.

Holy shit, Tyler. What the fuck?

I said a mental Hail Mary of my own while she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “So maybe I’ll see you next week?”

Crap. Could I actually do this again in seven days? But then I thought of her words, so full of pain and bleak confusion, and I once again felt the urge to comfort her. Give her some kind of peace, a flame of hope and vibrancy that she could take with her and nourish into a new, full life for herself.

“Of course. I’m looking forward to it, Poppy.” I hadn’t meant to say her name, but there it was and when I said it, I said it in that voice, the one I didn’t use anymore, the one that used to have women dropping to their knees and reaching for my belt without me having to do so much as say please.

And her reaction sent a jolt straight to my dick. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating, and her pulse leapt in her throat. Not only was my body having an insanely unprecedented response to hers, but she was just as affected by me as I was by her.

And somehow that made everything so much worse, because now it was only the thin line of my self-control that kept me from bending her over a pew and spanking that creamy white ass for making me hard when I didn’t want to be, for making me think about her naughty mouth when I should be thinking about her eternal soul.

I cleared my throat, three years of unflagging discipline the only thing that kept my voice even. “And just so you know…”

“Y-yes?” she asked, biting into that full lower lip.

“You don’t have to drive up from Kansas City just to come here for confession. I’m sure any priest there would be happy to hear you. My own confessor, Father Brady, is really good, and he’s based in downtown Kansas City.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, like a bird. “But I don’t live in Kansas City anymore. I live here, in Weston.”

Well, shit.

* * *

Tuesdays. Fuck Tuesdays.

I said early morning Mass to a mostly empty sanctuary—two hat-wearing grandmothers and Rowan—and then I went for my run, mentally cataloging all the things I wanted to get done today, including putting together an informational packet for our youth group trip next spring and writing my homily for this week.

Weston is a town of river bluffs, a topography of fields sloping toward the Missouri River, punctuated with punishingly steep hills. Runs here are brutal and vicious and clarifying. After the first six miles, I was covered in sweat and breathing hard, turning up my music so that Britney’s voice drowned out everything else.

I rounded the corner onto the main drag through town, the sidewalks mostly clear of people browsing antiques and art shops since it was a weekday. I only had to dodge one elderly looking couple as I forced myself up the steep road, my thigh and calf muscles screaming. Sweat dripped down my neck and shoulders and back, my hair was soaked, each breath felt like punishment, and the morning sun made sure that I was greeted by waves of August heat rolling off the asphalt.

I loved it.

Everything else bled away—the upcoming renovation to the church, the homilies I needed to write, Poppy Danforth.

Especially Poppy Danforth. Especially her and the knowledge that the mere act of thinking about her made me stiff.

I hated myself a little for what had happened yesterday. She was clearly a well-educated, intelligent, and interesting woman, and she had come to me, despite not being Catholic, for words of help. And instead of seeing her as a lamb in need of guidance, I had been unable to fixate on anything other than her mouth while we were talking.

I was a priest. I was sworn to God not to know another’s body while I lived—not even to know my own body, if we were getting technical about it. It wasn’t okay to think the kind of thoughts I had about Poppy.

I was supposed to be a shepherd of the flock, not the wolf.

Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal sins in a starring role.

Guilt wormed through me at the memory.

I’m going to hell, I thought. There’s no way I’m not going to hell.

Because as guilty as I felt, I didn’t know if I could control myself if I saw her again.

No, that wasn’t quite right. I knew that I could—but I didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to give up the right to carry her voice and body and stories in my mind.

Which was a problem. As I came up on the final mile of my run, I wondered what I would tell a parishioner who was in the same situation. What I would offer as my honest insight into what God would want.

Guilt is a sign from your conscience that you’ve strayed from the Lord.

Confess your sin to God openly and sincerely. Ask for forgiveness and the strength to overcome the temptation should it arise again.

And lastly, remove yourself from the temptation altogether.

I could see the church and the rectory only a short distance away. I knew now what I would do. I would shower and then I would spend a long hour praying and asking for forgiveness.

And for strength. Yes, I would ask for that too.

And the next time Poppy came in, I would have to find a way to tell her that I couldn’t be her confessor again. The thought made me depressed for some reason, but I’d been a priest long enough to know that sometimes the best decisions were the ones with the most short-term unhappiness.

I stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, feeling lighter now that I had a plan to follow. This would be so much better; everything was going to be fine.

“Britney Spears, huh?”

That voice. Even though I’d only heard it twice, it had been seared onto my memory.

It was a mistake, but I turned anyway as I pulled out my earbuds.

She was running too, and by the looks of it, she’d run just as far as I had. She wore a sports bra and very, very short running shorts, that only just covered her perfect ass. Sweat dripped from her too, and she was absent the red lipstick, but her mouth looked even more amazing without it, and the only thing that saved me from staring hungrily at it was the fact that her toned thighs and flat stomach and perky tits were on such ready display.

Blood rushed to my groin.

She was still smiling at me, and I remembered that she had said something.

“Sorry, what?” My words came out harsh, breathless. I winced, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I just didn’t peg you for a Britney Spears fan,” she said, pointing to where my iPhone was strapped to my bicep and clearly displaying the cover of Oops!…I Did It Again. “Retro Britney too.”

If I hadn’t already been roasting from the run and the heat, I would have flushed. I reached for my phone and tried to subtly change the song.

She laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll just pretend I saw you listening to—what is it that men of God listen to when they run? Hymns? No, don’t tell me. Chanting monks.”

I took a step closer, and her eyes flicked across my shirtless torso, sweeping down to where my shorts hung low on my hips. When she met my eyes again, her smile had faded a little bit. And her nipples were hard little points in her running bra.

I closed my eyes for a minute, willing my swelling dick to settle down.

“Or maybe it’s totally opposite, like Swedish death metal or something. No? Estonian death metal? Filipino death metal?”

I tried to think unsexy thoughts as I opened my eyes. I thought about my grandma, the threadbare carpet by the altar, the taste of boxed communion wine.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” she asked, and that brought me crashing back to the present. Was she insane? Did she think that my uncontrollable hard-ons around her were a sign of dislike?

“You were so nice the first time I came in. But I feel like I made you mad somehow.” She glanced down at her feet, a move that only highlighted how long and thick her eyelashes were.

Her eyelashes made me hard. That was a new benchmark for me, I had to admit.

“You didn’t make me mad,” I said, relieved to hear that my voice sounded more like normal, in control and kind. “I’m so grateful that you found enough value in your experience to come back to the church.” I was about to follow that up with my request that she find a new place to say her confessions, but she spoke before I could.

“I did find value in it, surprisingly. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I saw on the church’s website that you have office hours just to talk, and I was wondering if I could visit sometime? Not for a confession necessarily⁠—”

Thank God for that.

“—but, I don’t know, I guess to talk about other things. I’m trying to start a new phase in my life, but I keep feeling like something is missing. Like the world I’m living in is flattened somehow, desaturated. And after I spoke to you both times, I felt…lighter. I wonder if religion is what I need—but I honestly don’t know if it’s something I want.”

Her admission awakened the priestly instinct in me. I took a deep breath, telling her something I had told many people, but I still meant it every bit as much as the first time I’d said it. “I believe in God, Poppy, but I also believe that spirituality isn’t for everybody. You may find what you’re looking for in a profession you’re passionate about, or in travel, or in a family, or in any other number of things. Or you may find that another religion fits you better. I don’t want you to feel pressured to explore the Catholic Church for any reason other than genuine interest or curiosity.”

“And what about an unbelievably hot priest? Is that a sound reason for exploring the Church?”

I must have looked horrified—mostly because her words were nipping at my strained self-control—and she laughed. The sound was almost stupidly bright and pleasant, the kind of laugh bred to echo across ballrooms or next to a pool in the Hamptons.

“Relax,” she said. “I was joking. I mean, you are hot, but it’s not the reason I’m interested. At least”—she gave me another up and down look that made my skin feel like it was covered in flames—“it’s not the only reason.” And then the light changed, and she jogged away with a small wave.

I was so fucked.

THREE

I went straight home and took the coldest shower I could stand, staying under the water until my thoughts were clear and my erection finally, finally relented. Although, if recent events were any indication, it would return the moment I saw Poppy again.

Okay, so maybe I couldn’t expunge this desire from myself, but I could exercise more self-control. No more fantasies. No more waking up to find that I’d fucked my mattress dreaming of her. And maybe talking to her would be exactly the thing I needed—I would see her as a person, a lost lamb seeking her God, and not just as sex on legs.

Perfect legs.

I pulled a pair of slacks over my boxer briefs and put on a fresh black shirt, rolling the long sleeves up to the elbows as I usually did. I didn’t hesitate before I reached for the collar. It would be a much-needed reminder. A reminder to practice self-denial and also a reminder of why I practice self-denial in the first place.

I do it for my God.

I do it for my parish.

I do it for my sister.

And that was why Poppy Danforth was so upsetting. I wanted to be the epitome of sexual purity for my congregation. I wanted them to trust the Church again; I wanted to erase the marks made on God’s name by awful men.

And I wanted some way to remember Lizzy without my heart shredding apart with guilt and regret and powerlessness.

You know what? I was making a big deal out of nothing. It was all going to be fine. I ran a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath. One woman, no matter how hot, was not going to unravel everything I held sacred about the priesthood. She was not going to destroy everything I’d worked so hard to create.

* * *

I don’t always go home on my Thursdays off, even though my parents live less than an hour away, but I did this week, mentally and physically strained from avoiding Poppy during my morning runs and also from taking approximately twenty cold showers over the space of two days.

I just wanted to go someplace—without the collar—and play some video games and eat food that my mom had made. I wanted to have a beer (or six or seven) with Dad and listen to my teenage brother mope about whatever girl he was being “friend-zoned” by this month. Someplace where the Church and Poppy and the rest of my life was muffled and I could just relax.

Mom and Dad’s didn’t disappoint. My other two brothers were there as well—even though they both had places and lives of their own—drawn by Mom’s cooking and that unquantifiable comfort that comes with being at home.

After dinner, Sean and Aiden whipped my ass at the latest Call of Duty while Ryan texted the latest girl on his phone, and the house still smelled like lasagna and garlic bread. A picture of Lizzy watched us all from above the television, a pretty girl forever memorialized in the 2000s with side bangs and dyed-blond hair and a wide smile that hid all the things we didn’t know until it was too late.

I stared at that picture for a long time while Sean and Aiden chattered about their jobs—they’re both in investments—and while Mom and Dad played Candy Crush in their side-by-side recliners.

I’m sorry, Lizzy. I’m sorry for everything.

Logically, I knew there’s nothing I could have done back then, but logic didn’t erase the memory of her pale, bluish lips or the blood vessels that had exploded in her eyes.

Of walking into the garage looking for flashlight batteries and instead finding the cold body of my only sister.

Sean’s low voice seeped into my grim reverie, and I gradually came back to the moment, listening to the squeaking of Dad’s recliner and Sean’s words.

“…invitation only,” he said. “I’ve heard rumors of it for years, but it wasn’t until I got the letter that I thought it was actually real.”

“Are you going to go?” Aiden was speaking quietly too.

“Fuck yes, I’m going.”

“Going where?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t care, priest boy.”

“Is it the invitation-only Chuck E. Cheese? I’m so proud of you.”

Sean rolled his eyes, but Aiden leaned in. “Maybe Tyler should know about it. He probably needs to work off a little excess…energy.”

“It’s invitation only, dickhole,” Sean said. “Which means he can’t go.”

“It’s supposed to be like the world’s best strip club,” Aiden continued, unfazed by Sean’s insult. “But no one knows what it’s called or where it is, not until you’re personally invited. Word is that they don’t let you come until your annual clears a million a year.”

“Then why is Sean getting invited?” I asked. Sean, although three years older than me, was still working his way up through his firm. He made a very healthy salary (fucking incredible, from my standpoint) but he was nowhere near a million dollars a year. Not yet.

“Because, douche nozzle, I know people. Being connected is a more reliable form of currency than a salary.”

Aiden’s voice was a little too loud when he spoke. “Especially if it gets you choice puss⁠—”

“Boys,” Dad said automatically, not looking up from his phone. “Your mother is here.”

“Sorry, Mom,” we said in unison.

She waved us off. Thirty-plus years of four boys had made her immune to pretty much everything.

Ryan sloped into the room, mumbling something to Dad about wanting the car keys, and Sean and Aiden leaned closer again.

“I’m going next week,” Sean confided. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Aiden, younger than me by a couple years and still very much a junior in the business world, sighed. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

“Better me than Mr. Celibacy over here. Tell me, Tyler, you got carpal tunnel in your right hand yet?”

I tossed a throw pillow at his head. “You volunteering to come help me out?”

Sean dodged the pillow easily. “Name the time, sugar. I bet I could put some of that anointing-of-the-sick oil to good use.”

I groaned. “You’re going to hell.”

“Tyler!” Dad said. “No telling your brother he’s going to hell.” He still didn’t look up from his phone.

“What’s the use of all those lonely nights if you can’t condemn someone once in a while, eh?” Aiden asked, reaching for the remote.

“You know, Tinker Bell, maybe I should find a way to take you to the club. There’s nothing wrong with looking at the menu, so long as you don’t order anything, right?”

“Sean, I’m not going to a strip club with you. No matter how fancy it is.”

“Fine. I guess you and your St. Augustine poster can spend next Friday night alone together. Again.”

I threw another pillow at him.

The Business Brothers left around ten, driving back to their tie racks and home espresso machines, and Ryan was still out doing whatever thing he had needed the car so badly for. Dad was asleep in his recliner, and I was stretched out on the couch, watching Jimmy Fallon and thinking about what movie to pick for the middle school lock-in next month, when I heard the sink running in the kitchen.

I frowned. The Business Brothers and I (and a complaining Ryan) had done all the dishes after dinner expressly so that Mom wouldn’t have to. But when I got up to see if I could help, I saw that she was scrubbing the stainless steel in vicious circles, steam clouding around her.

“Mom?”

She turned and I could immediately see that she’d been crying. She gave me a quick smile and then shut the water off, swiping at her tears. “Sorry, hon. Just cleaning.”

It was Lizzy. I knew it was. Whenever we were all together, the whole Bell brood, I could see that look in her eyes, the way she was picturing the table with one more setting, the sink with one more set of dirty dishes.

Lizzy’s death had nearly killed me. But it had killed Mom. And every day after that, it was like we kept Mom artificially alive with hugs and jokes and visits now that we were older, but every now and again, you could see that a part of her had never fully healed, never really resurrected, and our church had been a huge part of that, first driving Lizzy to kill herself and then turning their backs on us when the story went public.

Sometimes I felt like I was fighting for the wrong side. But who would make it better if I didn’t?

I pulled Mom into a hug, her face crumpling as I wrapped my arms around her. “She’s with God now,” I murmured, half-priest, half-son, some chimera of both. “God has her, I promise.”

“I know,” she sniffled. “I know. But sometimes I wonder…”

I knew what she wondered. I wondered it too, in my darkest hours, what signs I missed, what I should have noticed, all the times she seemed about to tell me something, but then sank into a fog of silence instead.

“I think there’s no way we can’t wonder,” I said quietly. “But you don’t have to feel this pain alone. I want to share it with you. I know Dad would too.”

She nodded into my chest and we stayed like that a long time, swaying gently together, both of our thoughts twelve years away and in a cemetery down the road.

* * *

It wasn’t until I was driving back home, listening to my usual cocktail of brooding hipster songs and Britney Spears, that I made the connection between Sean’s club and Poppy’s confession. She had mentioned a club, mentioned that most people would classify it as sinful. Could that be it?

Jealousy slithered inside of me, and I refused to acknowledge it, clenching my jaw as I maneuvered my truck onto the interstate. I didn’t care that Sean would get to see this club, this place where Poppy had possibly exposed her body. No, I didn’t.

And that jealousy had nothing to do with my sudden, out-of-the-blue decision to find her the next day and follow up on her request for a conversation during my office hours. It was because I was worried about her, I reassured myself. It was because I wanted to welcome her to our church and give her comfort and guidance, because I sensed that she was someone who was not easily lost, not easily broken, and for something to send her into a strange confession booth and bring her to tears…well, no one should have to bear those kinds of burdens alone.

Especially someone as sexy as Poppy.

Stop it.

* * *

It wasn’t too hard to find Poppy again. In fact, I did literally nothing except jog past the open tobacco barn on my morning run and collide into her as she rounded the corner. She stumbled, and I managed to stop her fall by pinning her between my chest and my arm.

“Shit,” I said, yanking the earbuds out of my ears. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

She nodded, tilting her head up and giving me a small smile that gave me chills; it was so perfectly imperfect with her two front teeth peeking behind her lips and a sheen of sweat covering her face. At the same time, we both realized how we were standing, with my arms wrapped around her and her only in a sports bra and me without a shirt. I dropped my arms, immediately missing the way she felt there. Missed the way her tits pushed against my naked chest.

Next time: only sideways hugs, I told myself. I was already seeing another cold shower in my future.

She put her hand on my chest, casually, innocently, still giving me that small smile. “I would have fallen if it wasn’t for you.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been at risk of falling at all.”

“And yet I still wouldn’t change a thing.” Her touch, her words, that smile—was she flirting? But then her smile widened, and I saw that she was just teasing, in that safe, playful way that girls do with their gay friends. She saw me as safe, and why shouldn’t she? I was a man of the cloth, after all, bound by God to be a caregiver of his flock. Of course, she would assume that she could tease me, touch me, without bothering my priestly composure. How could she know what her words and voice did to me? How could she know that her hand was currently searing its outline onto my chest?

Her hazel eyes flickered up to mine, green and brown pools of curiosity and intelligent energy, green and brown pools that reflected grief and confusion if you cared to look long enough. I recognized it because I had worn such a look for years after Lizzy’s death; except in Poppy’s case, I suspected that the person she was grieving—the person she’d lost—was herself.

Let me help this woman, I prayed silently. Let me help her find her way.

“I’m glad I saw you,” I said, straightening up as her hand fell away from my skin. “You said earlier this week that you wanted to meet?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I did. I mean, I do.”

“How about my office in, say, half an hour?”

She gave me a mock salute. “See you there, Father.”

I tried not to watch her run away, I really did, but I promise I only looked for a second—an infinitely long second, a second long enough to catalog the gleam of sweat and sunscreen on her toned shoulders, the taunting movements of her ass.

Definitely a cold shower then.

FOUR

Half an hour later, I was back in my uniform: black slacks, Armani belt (a hand-me-down from one of the Business Brothers), long-sleeved black shirt with the cuffs rolled up to the elbows. And my collar, of course. St. Augustine gazed austerely out over the office, reminding me that I was here to help Poppy, not to daydream about sports bras and running shorts. And I wanted to be here to help her. I remembered her soft crying in the confessional and my chest tightened.

I would help her if it killed me.

Poppy was one minute early, and the easy but precise way she walked through the door told me that she was accustomed to being prompt, took pleasure in it, was the kind of person who could never understand why other people weren’t on time. Whereas three years of waking up at seven o’clock had still not transformed me into a morning person and, more often than not, Mass started at 8:10 rather than 8:00.

“Hi,” she said as I indicated a chair next to me. I’d chosen the two upholstered chairs in the corner of the office, hating to talk to people from behind my desk like I was a middle school principal. And with Poppy, I wanted to be able to soothe her, touch her if I needed, show her a more personal church experience than the Ancient Booth of Death.

She sank into the chair in this elegant, graceful way that was fucking mesmerizing…like watching a ballerina lace up her slippers. She had on that igniting shade of lipstick again, bright red, and was in a pair of high-waisted shorts and a blouse that tied at the neck, looking more ready for a Saturday yachting trip than a meeting in my dingy office. But her hair was still wet and her cheeks still had that post-run flush, and I felt a small swell of possessive pride that I got to see this polished woman slightly unraveled, which was a bad impulse. I pushed it down.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” she said, crossing her legs as she set down her purse. Which was not a purse but a sleek laptop bag, filled with strata of brightly colored folders. “I’ve been thinking a lot about seeking something like this out, but I’ve never been religious before, and part of me still kind of balks at the idea…”

“Don’t think of it as being religious,” I advised. “I’m not here to convert you. Why don’t we just talk? And maybe there will be some activities or groups here that match what you need.”

“And if there’s not? Will you refer me to the Methodists?”

“I would never,” I said with mock gravity. “I always refer to the Lutherans first.”

That earned me another smile.

“So how did you end up in Kansas City?”

She hesitated. “It’s a long story.”

I leaned back in the chair, making a show of settling in. “I’ve got the time.”

“It’s boring,” she warned.

“My day is a praxis of liturgical laws that date from the Middle Ages. I can handle boring. Promise.”

“Okay, well, I’m not sure where to start, so I guess I should start at the beginning?” Her gaze slid over to the wall of books as she worried her lower lip with her teeth, as if she was trying to decide what the beginning really was. “I’m not your typical runaway,” she said after a minute. “I didn’t sneak out of a window when I was sixteen or steal my father’s car and drive to the nearest ocean. I was dutiful and obedient and my father’s favorite child right up until I walked across the stage at Dartmouth and officially received my MBA. I looked at my parents, and I finally really realized what they saw when they looked at me—another asset, another folder in the portfolio.

“There she is, our youngest, I could picture them saying to the family next to them. Graduated magna cum laude, you know, and only the best schools growing up. Spent the last three summers volunteering in Haiti. She was a shoo-in for dance at Juilliard, but of course she chose to pursue business instead, our level-headed girl.”

“You volunteered in Haiti?” I interrupted.

She nodded. “At a charity called Maison de Naissance. It’s a place for rural Haitian mothers to get free prenatal care, as well as a place for them to give birth. It’s the only place besides the summer house in Marseille that my boarding school French has come in remotely useful.”

Dartmouth. Marseille. Boarding school. I had sensed that Poppy was polished, had guessed from her mention of Newport that she had known privilege and wealth at some point in her life, but I could see now exactly how much privilege, how much wealth. I studied her face. There was a thriving confidence there, an old-fashioned bent toward etiquette and politeness, but there was also no pretentiousness, no elitism.

“Did you like working there?”

Her face lit up. “I did! It’s a beautiful place, filled with beautiful people. I got to help deliver seven babies my last summer there. Two of them were twins…they were so tiny, and the midwife told me later that if the mom hadn’t come to MN, she and the babies almost certainly would have died. The mother even let me help her pick out names for her sons.” Her expression turned almost shy, and I realized that this was the first time she’d gotten to share this pure form of joy with anyone. “I miss it there.”

I grinned at her. I couldn’t help it; I just rarely saw anyone so excited by the experience of helping people in need.

“My family’s idea of charity is hosting a political fundraiser,” she said, matching my grin with a wry one of her own. “Or donating enough to a pet cause so that they can take a picture with a giant check. And then they’ll step over homeless people in the city. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s common.”

She shook her head vehemently. “It shouldn’t be. I, at least, refuse to live like that.”

Good for her. I refused as well, but I also had grown up in a household of religion, of volunteering. It had been easy for me; I didn’t think this conviction had come easily to her. I wanted to stop her right then, hear more about her time in Haiti, introduce her to all the ways she could help people here at St. Margaret’s. We needed people like her, people who cared, people who could volunteer and give their time and talents—not just their treasure. In fact, I almost blurted all this out. I almost fell to my knees and begged her to help us with the food pantry or the pancake breakfast that was so chronically short-staffed, because we needed her help, and (if I was being honest) I wanted her at everything; I wanted to see her everywhere.

But maybe that wasn’t the best way to feel. I steered us back to her earlier and safer topic of conversation. “So you were at your graduation…”

“Graduation. Right. And I realized, looking at my parents, that I was everything they had wanted. That they had groomed me for. I was the whole package, the manicured, sleekly highlighted, expensively dressed package.”