Chapter Eight
Illias
“There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able.”
Illias thought he had seen everything the quiet little bar had to offer after working there for nearly two months.
With the usuals that came in every night like clockwork and the college students that flocked to the only bar in town, Nirvana’s had a consistent crowd that didn’t provide much entertainment.
At least, that’s what Illias thought until his coworker, Jasmine, inadvertently started a pool tournament on a rather slow Friday night.
She acted as the unofficial score keeper.
While perched on one of the few high-top tables, she created a bracket sheet on her server pad and kept track of each game.
She called out violations to the official rules of billiards—Illias never knew there were actual rules until she spent nearly an hour explaining them—and illegal shots.
Watching the crowd boo or cheer in favor of each call provided some of the best in-house entertainment Illias could’ve asked for on a Friday.
Despite the majority of the night’s crowd surrounding the pool tables, there were still enough patrons to keep Illias busy at the bar.
He refilled drinks, placed orders, and ran the occasional plate of wings or fries out to the floor.
Between the busy minutes, Illias flirted with anyone that showed an inkling of interest. However, flirting with strangers wasn’t nearly as fun as it was prior to meeting Cantrell.
Flirting became a desperate attempt at finding a stand-in for the person Illias really wanted.
There was something about the priest that Illias couldn’t shake.
Like an invisible string that tied them together.
Illias ran his fingers through his hair with a small sigh.
He felt ridiculous for being hung up on someone he knew he would never have.
As much fun as it was to use the confession just to tease Cantrell, Illias knew he needed to be realistic.
Nothing would ever come of their little back and forth.
Cantrell wouldn’t suddenly decide to break his vows just for a little fun.
Much less consider anything beyond that.
Illias froze in front of the tabs. Did he want more than a simple one-off with Cantrell?
He scoffed at the thought then proceeded to pull the beer a customer asked for.
Illias Koller did not date. His track record of casual flings and situationships that went on for way too long was proof of that.
Besides, even if he did date, he barely knew Cantrell.
Still a small piece of Illias hurt when he thought about being with anyone else.
Almost like a thorn in his side. Not painful enough to warrant its immediate removal but enough to let him know it’s there. Planted between his ribs.
“Well look at what the cat dragged in!” Jasmine hollered over the music and overlapping voices of customers.
Illias flinched at the sound of her sharp voice slicing through his thoughts, causing him to slosh beer over the edge of an overfilled cup.
He swore beneath his breath as he sat it on the platform beneath the spout.
While glancing over his shoulder to see who Jasmine was so excited to see, Illias sidestepped to grab a roll of paper towels.
Cantrell and Illias made eye contact from across the bar.
Cantrell broke away first, a weary smile on his lips as he looked towards Jasmine.
She hopped down from the table and met the good Father halfway.
Illias watched them from the corner of his eye while he tended to the customers at the bar.
They chatted for a few minutes, before Cantrell started towards him and Jasmine back to the pool tables.
The stool Cantrell sat in was directly beneath the overhead lights that usually painted everyone in an awful, yellow hue.
Cantrell was the rare exception. His rough five o’clock shadow and fine-line wrinkles were highlighted by the light in a way that only he could make look good.
He was a tired kind of handsome. Dark hair streaked with grey and dark bags under his eyes.
The kind of man that Illias often found himself chasing.
Determined not to treat him any differently than other customers, Illias made his way over to Cantrell. “What can I get started for you, Father?”
Cantrell’s eyes dropped from the small TV playing football above the bar, locking on Illias’ immediately. “Tea, please,” his voice came out level, bordering on indifference, but the color in his cheeks was a dead giveaway.
“Anything else?” Illias dropped his eyes to Cantrell’s lips briefly.
Cantrell’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he spoke. “Just the tea.”
“You got it.”
Having been a bartender for a majority of his working adult life, Illias moved with a natural fluidity behind the counter.
Never missed a beat as he took drink and food orders, created drinks, and chatted with patrons.
The bar was his natural habitat. One he grew up in.
Where he learned who he was over whiskey that burned his throat and sat warm in the pit of his stomach.
Figured out what love was through lips kissed raw and the curious hands of a stranger.
After Illias finished tending to a handful of other customers, he returned to Cantrell with an iced tea.
Cantrell breathed out a quiet thank you, not meeting his eyes.
Illias opened his mouth but a patron across the bar called for him.
With a small frown, he turned on his heels and went to see what the customer wanted.
Of course, the one night that Cantrell decided to show his face was the night Illias was trapped behind the bar by himself.
However, that didn’t mean he was oblivious to the burning stare on his back the entire time he took care of other customers, adding a sway to his hips as he walked to keep Cantrell’s gaze—at least he hoped it was Cantrell—on him until he finished.
Illias caught a breather at last, but chose not to go straight to Cantrell.
Deciding to be a bit of a tease, Illias struck up a conversation with a regular named Ollie.
While he wasn’t necessarily Illias’ type; he still entertained Ollie on a regular basis simply for the fat tip he gave at the end of the night.
While they talked, Illias could feel eyes on him yet again.
Politely excusing himself from the conversation, Illias went over to Cantrell.
Illias tossed his bar towel over his shoulder and leaned against his hip on the edge of the counter. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you? You’re practically staring holes into my back.”
Cantrell’s face burned bright red as he stared down at the cup in his trembling hands. “I’m certain.”
“If you say so.” His eyes fell to Cantrell’s shaking hands. “Something making you nervous, Father?” Illias leaned forward, pressing the palms of his hands against the counter. “Do I make you nervous?” he asked more softly, only for Cantrell to hear.
Cantrell opened his mouth and closed it a few times like a fish out of water. Distress written across his face. Illias almost felt bad for the poor man. If it wasn’t for the blazing hunger in Cantrell’s eyes, Illias would’ve felt like an absolute dick for pushing so much.
“Cat got your—”
A wadded ball of napkin and receipts bounced off the side of Illias’ head, catching him off guard. He shot a glare over his shoulder to see Maverick, his boss, had finally emerged from his office. “What the fuck, Maverick?”
“If you want to flirt, do it off hours.” Maverick pointed at him. “And don’t even think of trying to get off work earlier, either, just because some idiot offered—ah, hey Cant—uh.” He cleared his throat and put on a civil smile that did little to hide his panic. “Father.”
“How are you, Maverick?” Cantrell asked, tension easing from his shoulders at Maverick’s appearance.
“Doing well.” He glared at Illias. “Sorry for accusing him of flirting, he’s been adventurous to say the least.”
“Has he now?” Cantrell’s eyebrow rose. Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes.
“I am sure the Father would rather not hear about my personal life,” Illias interjected, face burning at the thought of Maverick divulging his less than savory work habits.
Maverick waved him off, telling him to take care of the customers that started to crowd the bar.
Illias clenched his jaw but went to do his job.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Maverick and Cantrell.
Cantrell’s face, already pink from his interaction with Illias, grew darker the longer Maverick talked.
Illias felt a hint of pride alongside fiery arousal surge through him when he caught Cantrell looking at him. Eyes filled with want. Need.
Pretending to be engaged in the conversation he was having with a random college kid, Illias caught Maverick slap Cantrell on the shoulder before walking away.
The minute Maverick was far enough from the bar to be out of earshot, Cantrell lifted his half-empty tea glass as a way to flag Illias down.
With an excuse made for him, Illias dipped out of the conversation.
“Seems like you’ve been holding out on your confessions,” Cantrell said.
Illias rested his elbows on the counter and propped his chin on his hand. “Oh, so are my confessions not interesting enough, Father?” He tilted his head to the side. “Or do you just want to hear about how I screw other men while thinking of you?”
Cantrell stiffened. For a brief moment, there was a glimmer of jealousy, possessiveness, in his eyes. “The point of confession is to be honest with your priest about all of your sins,” he replied curtly, taking off his glasses to clean them on his shirt.
Illias pushed off the counter with a mock scoff. “Father, if you knew half my sins you’d be running for the hills.”
“I wasn’t always a priest, you know.” He slid his glasses back on then took a drink.
“Oh? Pray tell,” Illias countered with a slight laugh, crossing his arms. “What sins has the pious Father Cantrell committed?”
“If you’re so desperate to know, come by the church and I’ll tell you, but only if you tell me all of yours.”
Illias smirked. “You have yourself a deal, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A patron called for a refill.
“Tuesday,” Cantrell said quickly before Illias walked away. “Nobody confesses on Tuesday.”
“See you Tuesday then, Father.”