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Authors: Sierra Simone

Priest (3 page)

BOOK: Priest
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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, de-saturated. 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 a crazy 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
crazy 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.

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
Arkham Knight
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 all 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 Aidan 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 2003 with side bangs and dyed-blonde 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 Aidan 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?” Aidan was speaking quietly too.

“Fuck yes, I’m going.”

“Going where?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t care, priest boy.”

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

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

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

“It’s supposed to be like the world’s best strip club,” Aidan 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—douchenozzle—I know people. Being connected is a more reliable form of currency than a salary.”

Aidan’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 Aidan leaned closer again.

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

Aidan, 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?” Aidan asked, reaching for remote.

“You know, TinkerBell, 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 savage 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.

BOOK: Priest
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