3. The Whore of Babylon
Chapter three
The Whore of Babylon
Celeste
If we hadn’t been in church, I would’ve beaten Sister Margaretta’s old judgmental ass.
No hesitation.
No holding back.
But we were in church and this cathedral was the only place that kept my mother calm these days. Her dementia was getting worse every week, if I had to suck it up and wear red every Sunday for the rest of my life to keep her peaceful, so be it.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t fantasize about snatching Sister Margaretta’s habit right off her head like I was in some Real Housewives reunion episode.
I can’t believe her ass was trying to make a scene and embarrass me over a dress. Girl, bye.
It had taken everything in me not to glare at Margaretta’s bony back as she stomped off.
Indecent, my ass!
My red dress wasn’t even that revealing. Sure, it hugged places I’d rather it didn’t for a religious setting but I’d had exactly five minutes to find something wearable after my mother threw tea all over my white dress this morning.
And okay, maybe it did show a little cleavage, but it wasn’t like I was trying to tempt anyone.
She was close to calling me the whore of Babylon.
Rage simmered within, but alas, I was trying to be the bigger person—and trying not to catch charges on a Sunday.
Thank God for Father Cassian.
That man was delicious, but his stepping in raised his already high rank with me higher.
Girl. . .stop fantasizing over the priest.
After Father Cassian’s sermon on temptation and hopeful prayer, the choir began to sing, and their voices were a heavenly cascade that rose around us.
The high ceiling dome amplified every note. There was just this. . .purity to their sound that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, but in a good way.
All anger left me after that.
Next to me, my mother swayed gently from side to side. Her movements were perfectly in time with the music. Her lips moved soundlessly, mouthing words she probably no longer fully remembered but the hum that escaped her was soft and steady.
I was learning more and more that music seemed to anchor her wandering mind.
The lollipop twirled slowly between her fingers, like a metronome keeping pace with the choir’s rhythm.
Mom, are you back?
I watched her with a mixture of love and heartbreak.
She turned to me. “I’m glad we’re here. Thank you, Celeste. I love you so much.”
She remembered my name today!
In a brief moment, her illness dissipated and her usual confused expression was replaced with a deep sense of serenity that almost brought tears to my eyes.
That’s why I’d brought her here today.
For that look and those words.
Here, within these towering walls of marble, stained glass, and light, she was calm.
Centered.
Almost like herself again.
The music swelled.
The sopranos lifted the melody higher, weaving it through the streaming sunlight.
For a few seconds, even I was caught up in the sacredness of it all.
Of course, I wasn’t a devout Catholic like my mother—I’d walked a different path. One full of twists and detours that led me away from the traditional rites of the Church and more toward the broader concept of God as the Universe.
Where my mother found her peace in the incense and Latin hymns, I found mine in the infinite expanse of stars on a clear night or the quiet whispers of the ocean against the shore.
For me, Faith wasn’t about reciting prayers or kneeling in pews.
It was about feeling connected to something bigger than myself, something that pulsed through every living thing, binding us all together.
I wasn’t rejecting God, rather expanding the definition.
When I thought of Him as the Universe, it wasn’t about a singular, omnipotent figure sitting on a throne in the clouds. It was about the energy that flowed through everything—the spark of life in a blooming flower, the stillness of a forest, the rush of wind against my skin.
It was about the interconnectedness of all things.
The intricate dance of chaos and order that kept this world spinning.
Plus sometimes, I felt that organized religion—while meaningful for many—often felt like a rushed attempt to fit the infinite into human terms.
And while there was beauty in tradition and ritual, it didn’t fully resonate with me.
I craved a relationship with the divine that wasn’t bound by rules or dictated by centuries-old texts.
Yet, here, listening to the choir, seeing my mother at peace, and watching the sunlight paint the cathedral in shimmering glory, I felt the faint stirrings of something greater.
Something I couldn’t quite name.
God is here for sure.
The choir’s voices layered together and reached a heartwarming crescendo that vibrated through me.
“Amen.” My mother closed her eyes and a small smile graced her lips.
She looked so serene, so far from the struggles of our everyday life, that my chest tightened with gratitude.
For this moment, at least, the chaos of her mind had been stilled.
Amen. Indeed.
I glanced toward the altar, where Father Cassian stood with his head bowed as if in his own private prayer.
The sculpted lines of his face were softened by the glow of the stained glass and his expression was unreadable but compelling, nonetheless.
Mmmhmm. God knows He was wrong for this. Got this fine man on the altar turning us on. So cruel.
If the Vatican ever needed a poster boy to get more young women into church, Father Cassian was the person for the job.
His face looked like it had been sculpted by the same artist who did Michelangelo’s David.
And his body?
A sin in itself.
His cassock couldn’t hide the broad shoulders or the way his muscular arms strained against the sleeves.
What sort of priest has boulders for biceps? I mean seriously!
He could’ve been an action movie star, fighting bad guys and saving the world one explosion at a time, but no—he had to stand behind the pulpit and look like temptation incarnate.
God definitely did His thang when He made him. Mmmhmm. Let the church say Amen!
I smirked.
Even in this sacred moment, I couldn’t help but think he belonged less in a cathedral and more in some heart pounding movie scene, running through a burning building or saving someone from a speeding car.
Yet here he was, still and solemn in a way that left me breathless.
The choir began their final refrain, letting their voices dip into a softer, almost mournful tone. The sound curled through the air, lingering like the incense and filling every corner of the space with its haunting beauty.
My mother hummed the last few notes and opened her eyes.
The music faded into silence.
Everything went still.
Peaceful.
Holy.
I’m really glad we came.
My mother’s calm was a gift—a fleeting moment where she seemed moored to the present instead of drifting in the fog of her dementia.
Too bad we can’t just sit in this Cathedral all day and night. What craziness will happen when we get home? Will she hit me with a broom, thinking I’m some stranger again? Can I do this anymore?
I shifted in the pew, adjusted my dress, and lowered my gaze to my hands folded in my lap.
Don’t be like that. . .
Guilt weighed on me, heavy as a stone.
This morning had been chaos, just like most mornings these days.
Mom had woken up convinced I was an intruder.
She’d screamed, thrown her very hot fucking tea on me, burning my neck. Then, she raced away like an Olympic track star and locked herself in the bathroom.
I had no idea she could run that damn fast. She must have been terrified.
It had taken nearly an hour of coaxing to get her out, only for her to suddenly remember me and apologize with trembling hands.
That wasn’t even the worst of it.
Last week, she’d nearly wandered out of the house in the middle of the night. I’d found her standing at the front door, barefoot, muttering something about going to meet her father at the train station.
Keep in mind that her father has been dead for thirty years.
And again. . .she didn’t recognize me.
My chest tightened at the memory.
That night, I’d cried into my pillow until my throat was raw. A part of me wanted to believe that all the sacrifices I’d made to care for her were worth it.
But another part of me, the part I tried to bury deep, wasn’t so sure anymore.
I cleared my throat and focused back on the pulpit.
Father Cassian began to speak beautiful Latin phrases of faith and redemption.
The congregation responded in unison.
And the whole time, my sister’s words from months ago boomed in my head.
“She’s getting worse, Celeste. You can’t do this by yourself. I would help, but I have Rodney and the kids to think of. It’s time to think about a home. A good one, where she’ll be safe.”
I’d shot Denise’s idea down immediately.
Mom deserved better.
Our father had left long ago.
She’d raised us by herself, worked her fingers to the bone as a secretary for an old racist boss to give us everything. She loved us fiercely even when she had nothing left to give.
Just putting my mother in a home had felt like the cruelest betrayal, like throwing her away when she needed us the most.
But lately. . .the cracks in those thoughts had been coming.
Maybe I could put her in a home. But then. . .what if she comes back to reality in there for a few minutes and she feels all alone and thinks that we don’t love her? I don’t even want her to have that experience.
I sighed quietly and glanced at my mother again.
She was still swaying even though there was no music.
Her smile was faint but real.
For a brief second, she looked like the woman who used to braid my hair before school, the woman who taught me how to ride a bike, the woman who laughed so hard at her own corny jokes that tears streamed down her face.
But now there were the other moments.
The ones that came more and more often now—the confusion, the anger, the fear.
The way she looked at me sometimes, as if I was a stranger.
The way she called me by my sister’s name, her mother’s, or worse, forgot my name entirely.
And it shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.
It would break my heart in two.
This is becoming too damn much. Am I wrong to think that?
Resentment was a monster I hated acknowledging.
But it was there, clawing at the edges of my mind...
You’ve given up everything for her. Your career, your freedom, your peace. And for what? She doesn’t even recognize you most of the time.
I gritted my teeth.
Stop. So what? She can’t help it.
I clenched my hands in my lap and put my view back on Father Cassian.
Just focus on the hot priest.
I did and had to stop myself from licking my lips.
Yes. A sinful distraction? Yummy.
I blushed.
How did someone like him end up here, devoting his life to God instead of doing porn or some other job to show off that hot body? And I know he has a big one. He looks like it. All that thickness going to waste. . .seems more like a sin to me.
My smirk deepened.
Whew, Lord.
I crossed my legs and sat back, fanning myself discreetly with the program.
God was testing me today and I wasn’t sure I was going to pass.
I’d already masturbated to him twice.
And I couldn’t have been the only one who felt this way. Women in their Sunday best angled their hats and tilted their chins just enough to catch his eye. A few times I witnessed their smiles lingering a second too long when he passed by.
Even Sister Karen looked flustered when she handed him a piece of paper earlier, her cheeks turning the same shade as her red rosary beads.
Father Cassian stepped closer to the microphone, and his deep voice rumbled through the cathedral like a velvet caress.
I didn’t even pay attention to what he was saying because it might have made me wet.
Stop being naughty, girl. You cannot fuck this priest so you might as well stop ogling him like he’s candy that you want to lick and suck on.
I cleared my throat.
He said something else and his gaze swept over the congregation but when his eyes landed on me, my stomach flipped.
And. . .I swore with everything that heat blazed in his eyes.
Now you’re just daydreaming and making stuff up in your head.
I smirked some more.
The choir began singing something.
Father Cassian continued to watch me and then. . .and I swear that it happened. . .he licked his lips.
Hold up.
I widened my eyes.
Lick them lips again! I double dare you. Triple dare you! I will come up on that altar and we will raise the devil in this Cathedral today.
I held in my laughter and lowered my gaze to my hands.
See. This is why Sister Margaretta was trying to kick your ass out of here because you don’t know how to act.
I shook my head and forced myself to not laugh.
Stop lusting after the priest, girl.
That was next-level messy and I was not that sort of person.
But how could I not at least think about it?
Every time he looked my way, it felt like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had, exposing parts of me I’d buried long ago.
The service continued, but my attention wavered.
Every time Father Cassian moved, it was as if the entire space shifted with him. His broad shoulders, draped in gold and black vestments, seemed to cut through the air like a blade, commanding attention without effort.
The deep baritone of his voice soared over us all.
It wasn’t just sound—it was power, woven with something else I didn’t want to name.
Something primal.
Something that made my breath hitch every time he spoke.
Something that made my body hum.
Every word he uttered felt like a hand, brushing over my skin, leaving trails of heat that sank into places I didn’t dare acknowledge.
And. . .if I allowed myself to be truthful. . .this wasn’t just attraction—it was something deeper, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.
This was a force that scared me as much as it thrilled me, like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step could send me plummeting into the abyss—but also knowing the fall might feel like flying too.
In fact. . .my body reacted to him in ways I couldn’t control.
The way his jaw tensed when he read from the Gospel.
The way his fingers, strong and capable, gripped the edge of the pulpit as though grounding himself.
I imagined those same hands gripping my breasts.
My ass.
Mmmm.
I swallowed hard, trying to force the thought away, but it was no use. My mind betrayed me, conjuring images of him without the collar, without the vestments, without anything at all.
Just a man.
Stripped bare of duty and restraint, looking at me the way I sometimes caught him looking—like he saw more than just a parishioner.
It was all forbidden.
Perhaps, the forbiddingness of it was its own kind of aphrodisiac—a dark whisper in the back of my mind that reminded me of every line I wasn’t supposed to cross.
He was untouchable.
Bound by vows that placed him above earthly desires.
But that only made the attraction even stronger, the temptation sharper.
The more unattainable he seemed, the more my body ached with the need to bridge the impossible distance between us.
My cheeks burned as I pressed my hands into my lap, as though the pressure could keep me grounded.
The choir returned to singing and their voices swelled, lifting the congregation in a hymn of devotion, but my thoughts were far from holy.
My eyes followed him, tracing the lines of his face—the strong jaw, the dark stubble that he probably shaved each morning as part of his routine, and those lips, pressed into a stern line as he focused on his duties.
What would it take to make those lips soften?
To make them part, not in prayer, but in desire?
He was untouchable.
Off-limits.
And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if he weren’t.