Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Cantrell
“Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.”
Worn ragged from an early morning at Saint Anthony’s, along with his run in with Illias, Cantrell sat in one of the pews bathed in the sunlight pouring in from the windows.
Eyes closed, he tilted his head back to bask in the warmth that encouraged the drowsy feeling that encompassed his body.
Had someone not cleared their throat loud enough that it ricocheted off the walls—scaring Cantrell half to death and jolting him up straight—he would have fallen asleep.
Cantrell turned to his left and his heart, already thudding against his ribs, turned into a hummingbird.
“Illias,” he breathed out, unsure if it was relief or dread that washed over him when he saw Illias instead of Rier. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “My apologies, I must have dozed off. How may I help you?”
There it was. That cocky, self-assured smirk that drove Cantrell mad. “Figured I’d take you up on your suggestion from this morning,” Illias said as though it was the most casual thing in existence.
And it should have been. A member of the congregation seeking confession shouldn’t have lit a flame beneath Cantrell’s skin, yet his body was set ablaze beneath Illias’ hungry gaze.
Perverse desire threatened to snuff out rational thought.
Cantrell’s Adam’s apple pressed against the Roman collar around his neck; a reminder to keep himself in check.
He was a priest, Illias’ priest, the one he trusted with the most vulnerable parts of himself, and Cantrell didn’t want to ruin that.
“I’m happy to know I’ve encouraged you to seek salvation,” he forced the words out, praying they came out kind rather than panicked. “Please, after you.”
Illias turned on his heel, leaving Cantrell behind.
He rose from the pew slower than he should have, eyes trained on Illias’ plump backside.
The dark jeans Illias wore hugged him in all the right places.
Cantrell’s body warmed at the thought of peeling those too-tight jeans down until Illias was on full display.
Cantrell twitched beneath his cassock. God forgive me.
Cantrell brought his rosary to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the prayer beads, then hurried across the nave to the confessional booth.
He paused in front of the door, whispered a quick prayer, then stepped inside.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Illias didn’t wait for the opening line from Cantrell. “It’s been a while since my last confession, I haven’t been keeping track. I admit to the following sins. Well, sin, really.”
There was a light coyness to his words which roused an old desire lying dormant beneath the surface of all that Cantrell was. All that he tried to be.
Cantrell willed himself to remain steadfast, to not bend so quickly to temptation. No matter what was said, he was a priest first and foremost. A man second. He would endure—he had no choice. “Proceed, my child.”
“I’m sure you remember my first confession, don’t you, Father?”
“I do.” The memory was more vivid than he cared to admit, playing in his mind when he could not sleep.
“I’m afraid your advice didn’t help much. I tried to turn to scripture but all I could think about was his voice in my ear, reciting the most perverted lines from the Bible as his hands explored my body. And I tried not to give in like you said, but Father—”
A low groan sounded from the other side of the wall. Cantrell’s breath hitched at the noise. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on his rosary, willing himself to focus on his position as Illias’ priest. Nothing more.
“I couldn’t help but to touch myself. To succumb to the desires of the flesh.”
The sound of Cantrell’s own words from their previous confession repeated back to him was dizzying. Lust crowded his mind, curled in his gut, clawed up his throat, until it consumed him whole. His body ached with it.
“What should I do, Father?” Illias asked, feigning an innocent tone that made fire lick up Cantrell’s spine.
His voice caught in his throat. What could he say when his body and mind were tormented by the same sin?
When he himself struggled not to give in at the darkest hours of night?
The dull corner of the cross on his rosary dug into the palm of his hand, bringing him back to his senses.
“Self-pleasure is a sin in the eyes of God. The Bible warns against submitting to these types of temptations. That it may lead us down a dark and dangerous path of sin.” A path I left long ago that you are beckoning me towards.
“I advise that you refrain from such an act and reflect on your past sins so as to not repeat them again.”
There was a soft, breathless chuckle that hinted at what kind of man Cantrell was dealing with. “I will certainly try, but I make no promises.”
The little brat. Cantrell bit his tongue before it got the better of him. “For penance, you are to recite the prayer from Psalms 51 and contemplate on how to align yourself with the Lord’s path through two rosary prayers.”
“Is that all?” Illias quipped, a slight pout in his tone as if expecting more.
Cantrell clenched his jaw, focused on the pain of the cross’s points digging into his palm. God Almighty, how Illias tested him. Provoked him. Pulled him ever closer to the precipice of temptation. Has he always been this easy? This weak?
“If punishment is what you seek, I can provide it.” The words left him before he truly thought of the implication behind them. Fear that he opened a door that he would not be able to close wrapped around his lungs and held tight.
“Perhaps another time.”
Cantrell could almost see the smirk that Illias wore so well. The one that lured him that night. He spoke in a tight, rough voice, “I absolve you of your sins, may you go in peace.”
“Have a blessed night, Father.”
Cantrell listened to the hushed sliding of the booth door as Illias left.
He waited until the familiar soft thud of the church doors met his ears before he let out a long sigh.
He bent at the waist, bringing the rosary to his lips.
God save him. He listened to more than his fair share of men and women admitting to feelings of lust and self-pleasure.
None had tempted Cantrell. None made him crave the sweet taste of sin.
So why, pray tell, did Illias’ confession evoke such a feeling?
Slowly, he unfurled his fingers from around the cross of his rosary.
The palm of his hand was red and angry with small fading points of white where the corners had bit into his skin.
Testament to his steadfastness. He did not give into the temptation dangled in front of him like the apple in front of Adam. All was not lost. Not yet.