Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story)

PRIEST

By
Claire Adams

This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
© 2016 Claire Adams

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CHAPTER
ONE

JACE

I stood in front of the floor-length
mirror in my room at the church where I’d served as parish priest for the past
two years. I stared at myself in my black cassock and thought about the days
ahead.

It wasn’t moving to a new church that
troubled me—it was moving forward with a crucial piece of my life no longer
intact. I’ve been devout in my faith since I was a child. But as I gazed at my
reflection…I was having doubts.

I looked at the man in the mirror and
instead of seeing Father Jace, I saw the reflection of a frightened little boy.
That little boy had been brought to where he was through the love and devotion
of a woman—and now she was gone and I was questioning everything about my life.

My grandmother used to say, “Be humble and
respectful to everyone, whether you are sure they deserve it or not.” She
taught me not to judge people too harshly and that if you worked hard and did
good things, you would always prosper.

When Grandma talked about prospering, she
wasn’t talking about money. She taught my brothers and me that prosperity was
about your family and your friends. The people that you kept within your inner
circle said more about you than anything, according to her, and I had come to
believe that myself.

She also always said that if you looked
hard enough, no matter how far you stray, it was always possible to find a path
back into God’s good graces. That one I used to believe without a doubt, but
those doubts had started to work their way in.

 
I
had strayed from my faith the moment they told me she was dead. I had spent
most of my nights since railing against God, instead of praying to Him. My
grandmother didn’t need my prayers for her soul. She was the purest soul that
ever existed. The irony is if she were still here, she would be the first to
tell me to hit my knees and pray hard for forgiveness.

I was holding out hope I’d be ready to do
that soon, but for the time being, I’d have to fake it. That day, repentance was
not on the agenda. I knew that when I had to stand there and helplessly watch
them lower her into the ground, instead of rejoicing for her soul, I would be
agonizing over the pain in mine.

I was angry, but I was not supposed to be.
I was a priest, but damn it, I was also human. My grandmother was dead. She was
the light that always beckoned me home, no matter how lost I’ve been. I was
angry and sad and confused, and no amount of praying would give me the answers
to my questions. How was I supposed to find my way any longer?

It was just after 12 o'clock. The old
church bells rang out, and from my second story room, I could hear the flock of
pigeons the bells sent into disarray as they cooed and flapped violently away
from the bell tower of the old church.

I heard the echo of each slow chime as I
made my way through the cavernous inner halls on my way to the vestry. The
sounds reverberated off the stones that held the sacred building together and
bounced off the stained glass windows and polished, oak pews.

With a heavy heart and a deep ache in my
soul, I draped the white stole about my neck in preparation for the mass I was about
to say, as was tradition. I begged God to give me on the last day the garment
of immortality that was forfeited by our sinful first parents.

I was on autopilot. I was a priest; it was
what I did, what I knew to do.

The mourners filled the church, and I
believed that I handled the mass with as much dignity as humanly possible. I
had a hard time suppressing my own grief as I watched the broken faces of my
brothers in the front pew. I managed to keep it together, and even remain pious
in my thoughts, until we reached the cemetery.

When I stepped out of the black car into
the brilliant sunlight and looked around at the vibrant colors of spring that
surrounded me, my anger returned with a vengeance. My grandmother was dead and
the sun was offensively bright and cheerful.

It was as if God and the elements were
conspiring to show me that the world would go on just fine without her. It
shouldn't, and that’s what I was so angry about. As far as I was concerned,
everything should be as dark and gray as my emotions were. The weather should have
been damp and cold, and the birds should not have been singing in the trees
overhead.

I walked through the cemetery like a
silhouette of myself. I wished that I was as insubstantial as the shadows.
Shadows don’t have to feel the tangle of emotions that were twisting around in
my gut. I stood near the freshly dug hole and waited for the coffin to arrive.

I was no longer apologetic to my Father in
Heaven. I was pissed.

******

“Touching service, Father,” a young
congregate said to me as she shook my hand after the funeral. I forced a smile
and nodded at her.

“My condolences for your loss, Father.
Your grandmother was a great lady,” the next one told me as he shook my hand.

“We’ll all miss her, Father…”

It went on and on. My head felt like it
might literally explode and shoot off my shoulders before the last member of
the congregation shook my hand and headed for their car. Finally, I was alone
with my grandmother and my brothers.

“How are you doing, Jace?” My brother Max
was at my side. He was the oldest and the one that would be counted on to hold
us together with Grandma gone.

“I’ve been better,” I said, wiping a stray
tear from my cheek. “How about you?” My other brother, Ryan, walked up as we
talked.

“I’m hanging in there. I’m not sure what
to do without her. She will be sorely missed.” I had no doubts Max would miss
her, but he’d been independent since we were taken from the house of horrors
that was our life and placed with Grandmother when he was ten. I was six at the
time, and Ryan was only six months.

Ryan’s eyes and face were swollen and red.
He still lived with Grandmother, and I had no doubts her death would leave the
biggest void in his life. She coddled him a little too much, and at twenty-five,
he was more dependent on her than a man really had a right to be.

“Hey,” he said with a chin tilt. Even at a
funeral he was still clinging to the cool-guy, motorcycle stud stereotype. I
opened my arms and it all fell away. He folded into them and sought the
strength of his big brother and priest. I could at least be one of those for
him.

As soon as I closed my arms around him,
his shoulders began to shake and he unloaded the grief that he’d been trying so
hard to hold back. “I know that I’m not supposed to think like this,” he said
between sobs, “But I’m so angry, Jace. We all still needed her. Why does God
let things like this happen? She was nothing but good. Why does he take the
good ones so soon?”

Ryan, out of all of us, had struggled with
his faith the most. It was the first time I didn’t have answers for him. I’d
been asking those questions myself.

“I wish I knew, Ryan. All we can do now is
have faith and trust that she’s at peace and we’ll see her again someday.” Such
a priest-like thing to say…but I was at a loss.

My brother seemed to accept it. He nodded
against my shoulder and then pulled back and looked at my face. His green eyes
were so much like mine, and his sandy-blond hair fell down across his forehead
the same way that mine did when it got too long.

He was a younger version of me, but even
priest compared to biker, he was a more innocent version. Ryan hadn’t known our
parents long enough for the scars to take hold of him. Grandmother was all he’d
ever known as a caregiver, and she did a stellar job.

“I have to take off,” Max said. “I have a
meeting across town at four. Maybe we can all have lunch Sunday?”

“If it’s a late lunch,” I said. “I’ll be
serving my first Mass at St. Luke’s on Sunday.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re moving to
Lexington tomorrow, I almost forgot. At least it’s only thirty minutes away.”

“Yeah, I’ll still see you guys a lot.
Let’s plan on three for lunch at Mike and Patty’s. Will that work for you,
Ryan?”

My little brother looked like I’d pulled
him out from under the water as he refocused his attention. “Mike and Patty’s
at three. I’ll be there.”

I hugged them both again and watched them
go before I made my way back to the car the church provided for me. I climbed
into the backseat and the driver said, “Back to the church, Father?”

“Yes. Actually, if you don’t mind, Mitch,
can we swing by Albert’s Grocery on the way?”

******

Two hours after my grandmother’s earthly body
was lowered into the ground, I sat in my upstairs room at St. Anthony’s parish,
still in my cassock and scarf, sipping scotch out of the bottle.

I’d gone into Albert’s Grocery under the
guise of buying my specialty tea. The driver had stayed in the car, so it was
easy to slip the bottle of scotch into my reusable bag and take it through the
self-check-out. A priest buying a bottle of scotch might cause some talk. A
priest sitting alone in his room drinking scotch was not only pathetic…he was
destined to be tortured by guilt.

At that point, I was willing to deal with
the consequences when they arose. Being numb had its benefits.

CHAPTER
TWO

DAPHNE

As I walked into my new apartment with my
arms laden with groceries, my phone began to ring. I kicked the door closed
behind me and rushed to dump the bags on the table.

I had just left work; it was my second day
at a new job, in a new town. I was afraid it was my boss. I was a little
overwhelmed, and I didn't doubt that I’d forgotten to sign out on the register,
or something silly like that. I finally fished the phone out of my work apron
and became instantly sick to my stomach.

It was my father.

I shuddered as I answered. I would have just
ignored it, but this was the fourth time he’d called that day, and I hadn’t
answered the other three. He was bound to keep calling until he passed out if I
didn’t pick up at least once.

“Dad, you have to stop this. You’re not
supposed to be calling me.”

“What do you mean I’m ‘not supposed’ to
call you? I’m your father. You’re my baby girl. Daphne, come home, baby. I need
you!” His words were slurred, and I could tell that he’d probably been drinking
all day. He makes me nauseous, especially when he’s drunk.

“I’m not coming home. I have a restraining
order, remember? Stop calling me, Dad, or I’ll have to notify the authorities.”

“Notify the authorities? When did you get
to be such a little snot face? I’m your father, Daffy!” I hate when he calls me
that, and he knows it. “Please, baby. Daddy’s sick. I need you.”

Daddy’s sick; how many times had I heard
that before? “Dad, I’m going to hang up now. When you sober up, you’ll remember
why you shouldn’t be calling me. I hope you’ve been going to see your counselor.”

“I don’t need a shrink. I need my Daffy.”
His voice got low then, and I could tell he was letting his mind wander as he
said, “Do you remember the good times we used to have together, baby girl?”

I hung up and dropped the phone on the
counter. My hands were shaking, and I thought I might have to throw up. I moved
to get away from him. I was probably going to have to change my phone number—again.

I pulled off the apron and picked up my
purse and keys. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go for a walk…clear
my head…have a beer, maybe—anything to get my mind off of him.

******

It was after eight p.m. on a weekday
evening and people still littered the streets. Couples mostly—something I was
depressingly aware I had never been a part of at the ripe old age of
twenty-two. They were all dressed up on their way to eat at a nice restaurant
or meet friends for a drink at a bar.

I walked in their midst, completely alone
in the crowd. I desperately needed something different in my life besides work
and church.

Bethany, the friend who had gotten me my
job and helped me find my apartment, was always trying to get me to go out.
Even when I lived in Boston, she never gave up on trying to set me up with one
of her boyfriend’s friends. In Boston, there was definitely no room in my life
for socializing. Now that I was out of there and I had plenty of room for it, I
had no idea how to go about it.

I turned down one of the main streets
downtown and walked past a few bars that looked too “yuppie” or “hip.” I wasn’t
in the mood to mingle with the business crowd; besides, I didn’t fit in.

I stopped and looked up at the pink neon
sign of a place called After Hours. It looked and sounded like just what I
needed. I pushed through the door and came face to face with a tattooed, bald,
and muscled up God in a black t-shirt that said “Security” in bold, yellow
letters.

He looked me up and down and said, “I’ll
need to see your I.D.” I handed it to him and he used a flashlight to
scrutinize it. Finally satisfied that although I only looked eighteen, I was in
fact twenty-two, he handed it back and said, “Have fun.”

I waited until my eyes adjusted to the
subdued light and looked around. The place wasn’t exactly hopping, and I was
happy about that. There was a group of suits sitting on one side on a set of
low, brown leather couches. A few couples and groups of women and men were
scattered throughout at tables and in front of the bar that glowed with the
same pink hue the sign out front had.

With a deep breath, I smoothed down my
black skirt and ventured towards the bar. I took a seat on an empty stool and
tucked my pleated, A-line skirt underneath my thighs. I reached for a cocktail
menu and started reading through it. I was not really a drinker; I had no idea
what to order.

The bartender was suddenly hovering over
me. I looked up at another large man; this one had on a white t-shirt with a
V-neck that showed his chest was as tattooed as his arms and neck. In spite of
all the ink, he had kind eyes and wavy brown hair that gave him an innocent
look. He was probably a serial killer. I’m a horrible judge of character.

“What’ll it be?”

“Um…something sweet with one of those pretty
umbrellas on top,” I said. I realized as soon as I said it how stupid it
sounded.

The bartender smiled and said, “Coming
right up.” The guy next to me was still laughing when he was gone.

I looked at him and my breath caught in my
throat. This one had on a green t-shirt and his arms were completely ink free, but
incredibly sexy and muscular. His eyes were as dark green as his shirt and his
sandy blond hair had that “just rolled out of bed” look that made a girl want
to rake her fingers through it. I’d planned on chastising him for laughing at a
stranger, but I couldn't find my words.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a smooth voice
that I instantly knew I could listen to all day. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“But you did, anyways.”

“I did. I’m sorry.” He laughed again.

“You’re apologizing, but you’re still
laughing.”

He looked directly at me and everything
inside of me turned to hot liquid. “I’m sorry. You just sounded like you were
ordering something from an ice cream truck instead of a bar.”

“I suppose you ordered a scotch neat,” I
said, lowering my voice into a mock baritone.

He laughed again. “Almost, only I asked
for it on the rocks.” I caught the little slur in his words that time. He’d
already had a few.

Suddenly, I was reminded of my father. The
bartender sat my pink drink down in front of me; I passed him a twenty and
picked the drink up. The hot, drunk guy tried to slide my twenty back to me. “I
got it,” he said.

“No, you do not. I can pay for my own
drinks, thank you!” I looked at the bartender and said, “Keep the change.” Then
I picked up my drink and carried it as far away from the laughing man as I
could get. I tucked myself into a booth in the back where I could drink, watch
people, and hopefully stay invisible.

The drink was delicious. I have no idea
what it was, but it took me about three minutes to suck the entire thing down
through a straw. I was about to try and get the waitress’s attention when
suddenly I looked up into those jade eyes. He was holding a golden liquid in
one hand and a pink one in the other. “It’s an apology drink,” he said.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’ve
already forgotten the whole thing.”

He sat down. I scooted away from him. He
sat the drink down in front of me. “I’m really sorry. It’s nice to know that
not everyone practically lives in a bar.”

I was suddenly sweating. I never sweat. I
didn’t know if it was the pink drink or the hot guy. Either way, it made me
thirsty. I started sucking on the straw again. Hot guy downed his drink without
taking his eyes off of me. I could feel the heat from them boring into my skin.

When I sucked down to the bottom of my
glass he grinned and signaled the waitress. He had dimples…of course. “I think
I’ve had enough, thank you.”

“Okay,” he said. When the waitress came
over he ordered another scotch on the rocks. He turned to me then and I watched
his full lips as he said, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want?”

Yes,
I want to kiss those lips… Oh my God! What am I thinking? I don’t know this
man.

“Maybe one more,” I said. He ordered me a
raspberry Cosmopolitan. I at least knew what I was drinking.

He turned to me then, and that gentle
motion let me get a whiff of his subtle cologne. It was masculine and kind of
earthy. It only served to add to his appeal.

After two of those pink drinks, I was
feeling bold and let myself slide a little closer to him in the booth. He
showed me his dimples again and slipped his arm around me.
What the hell am I doing?
God, if his warm, muscular arm didn’t
feel good on my back. His big hand gripped my shoulder and my bare thigh was
touching his blue jeans under the table.

I
don’t do this. I’ve never done this. Jesus Christ, I’m going to have so much to
confess this week!

The waitress came back with our drinks. He
paid for them and then he picked up his glass and held it up.

“To us,” he said. He was really slurring
his words now. I was buzzed enough that he no longer made me remember my father,
however. Instead, I focused once again on his sexy lips and wondered what they
would taste like.

“To us,” I said with a smile. I took out
the straw and downed the drink like a shot. Each one tasted better than the
last.

“So, why is a pretty girl in a place like
this all alone?”

“Having a rough day,” I said. My words
were slurring as much as his now.

He nodded. “I can relate to that.”

“What’s got your goat?” I asked him. He
laughed. “You’re laughing at me again?”

“You’re just really cute. It’s just been a
really bad week at work,” he said.

“Oh yeah, me, too. What do you do?”

He looked like he was thinking about it.
Even drunk, I knew if you were telling the truth, you didn’t have to think
about it. Finally, he said, “I do my best to help people…most of the time. This
week, things haven’t really gone my way. What do you do?”

“I’m a waitress,” I said. “Speaking of, I
could use another drink.” He smiled and motioned to the waitress with two
fingers. In minutes, she brought us each another drink.

I tried to pull out my money but he beat
me to it again. “Thank you,” I told him. “I need to pee.” He chuckled and stood
up out of the booth. I think he stood up too quickly. His body swayed, and he
caught himself on the table. Then, as if he were steady as a rock, he held his
hand out to me.

I reluctantly took it. I was afraid if I
touched him, I would want more. I wasn’t wrong. His hands were warm and strong.
I wanted to kiss him. My mouth went completely dry, and I’m sure my face was as
red as it was hot. I dropped his hand and headed for the ladies room.

I somehow managed to get my underwear down
and pee and then I made it to the sink to wash my hands. I was feeling pretty
proud of myself for not falling on my face when I walked out of the bathroom
and some chick body slammed into me.

“What the fuck?” My sainted mother would
be turning over in her grave.

“Jeez, chill out. It was an accident; I’m
sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” I don’t know what
happened to me—my mouth just wouldn’t quit. I am the furthest thing from a
fighter that ever lived.

“Well, maybe I’m not now, if you’re gonna
be a bitch about it.”

“Who are you calling a bitch, you ghetto
tramp?”
Dear God…who am I?

I’m pretty sure she was about to swing her
fist at me when suddenly, my green eyed savior was at my side. He looked at the
ghetto girl and said, “I’m sorry about that. She had a terrible day. She’s
usually a real sweetheart, aren’t, you dear?”

I shot him a look and actually thought
about telling him to screw off…but I realized that was the drunk in me talking
and I was about to get my ass kicked.

“He’s right. I’m sorry I took it out on
you.” She snorted and walked away. I flipped her off behind her back. My
“protector” grabbed my hand and folded my finger down.

“I’m headed home. Maybe you should walk
with me. You seem like you could use some air.”

“I’m fine,” I protested, heading back to
the booth. Before I could stop myself, I barreled into the waitress with a full
tray of drinks and the crash that followed caught the attention of the entire
bar. “Oh shit! I’m sorry!” Someone was at my elbow and I thought it was the
green-eyed God. It turns out it was the bartender and his friend, Mr. Security.

“You need to leave, Miss.”

“Me?” I’d never been kicked out of
anywhere in my life. “Really?”

“Yes, really. You’re cut off. I’ll call
you a cab.”

“I can call my own cab!” I tried to storm
out in a manner befitting a bad-ass who was getting kicked out of a bar. It was
hard when you had to grab onto tables in order to walk in a straight line.

As soon as I pushed through the doors and
tasted the fresh air, I felt sick. I doubled over and suddenly felt an arm slip
through mine.

“Walk with me?” he said. I looked up into
his green eyes and suddenly forgot my nausea.