18. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Roman
T wo Hours Prior
Despair is the only word that captures a bar at this hour.
Walking inside, the place is anything but classy. The bar reeks of stale beer and desperation, a suffocating mix that clings to your clothes the moment you step inside. The walls are stained with years of neglect, yellowed with cigarette smoke, despite the “NO SMOKING” sign hanging over the bar. Flickering neon signs, some letters burnt out, cast an eerie, uneven glow across the room, barely cutting through the dim lighting.
A few patrons—mostly men—are slumped over their drinks, lost in their own misery, while a couple of women dressed in too-tight clothes and heavy makeup hover nearby, their smiles tired and hollow. It’s the kind of place where dreams come to die, where hope is a foreign concept, and where the darkness in a person’s soul is reflected in every shadowed corner.
The cross around my neck feels like a weight, a constant reminder of the moral battle I fought just to walk through the door. Thirty minutes—thirty agonizing minutes—spent in the car, staring at that damn "Open" sign, wondering if I should even be here. I could feel the cross pressing into my chest with every shallow breath, like it was trying to keep me anchored, to pull me back from the brink.
But it wasn’t enough.
I was still reeling from what happened with Eden. The way she looked at me in the church, her eyes wide with a mix of desire and disappointment, as if she expected more from me, as if she thought I could be the man she needed me to be. And for a brief, blasphemous moment, I wanted to be. I wanted to forsake my vows, to let the world fall away and lose myself in her entirely. But then that familiar pang of guilt hit—God’s reminder of the promise I made, the ring on my finger a shackle that binds me to a life I willingly chose.
When she left, I was paralyzed by the conflict between what I wanted and what I knew I couldn’t have. I could still taste her on my lips and feel the ghost of her warmth in my hands. It was enough to drive a man mad. No prayer could silence the screaming thoughts, no scripture could drown out the memory of her skin against mine.
I sat there in the car, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, torn between the man I am supposed to be and the man I felt myself becoming. This place—this grim, hollow dive—wasn’t just a bar. It was a sanctuary for lost souls, a purgatory where men like me come to face their demons when the weight of the world becomes too much to bear.
No other encounter in my life has driven me back to a place as grim as this. The thought of Eden—how she looked at me, how she left me—was too much to bear. I needed to drown it out, to silence the incessant, pounding regret in my head, even if only for a few hours. The priest in me should have resisted, should have turned the car around and gone back to the rectory, but the man—the sinner—knew there was no turning back. Not tonight.
“Wanna drink, pretty boy?” The bartender’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I didn’t even realize I’d made my way to the bar.
“Scotch, on the rocks,” I reply automatically, reaching for my ID.
“You’re good,” She smiles, eyeing me up and down. “You’re the new priest, right? Took over for Kevin? I saw you at Mass.”
Perfect. My bartender is also one of my parishioners.
I nod, handing her my card. She opens a tab and gets to work on my drink.
I take a seat, the weight of the day settling into my bones. Around me, the air hums with the low murmur of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. The women nearby hover just close enough to make their interest clear, their gazes lingering, assessing. Any other man might find their attention flattering, might indulge in the fantasy of losing himself in a stranger's touch for a night, but not me.
I’d kill to be attracted to one of them—to want them enough to let go, to drown in the heat of their bodies and forget everything else. But the thought of touching anyone who isn’t Eden… it’s revolting. It turns my stomach in ways I can’t fully explain, as if my body rejects the idea before my mind even has the chance to consider it .
Eden has ruined me for anyone else. There’s no other way to put it. Her memory clings to me, haunting every thought, every breath. The feel of her skin beneath my fingers, the taste of her on my lips—it’s burned into my mind, seared into my soul. And nothing, no matter how tempting or convenient, could ever compare to the raw intensity of that connection. It’s as if she’s imprinted on me, leaving no room for anyone else.
I glance at the women around me, and all I feel is emptiness. They might as well be shadows, faceless and unremarkable, compared to the vivid, all-consuming presence of Eden in my mind.
And that’s the problem. Eden is all I can think about, all I can feel. She’s the one I want, the one I crave, and no amount of liquor or empty encounters can change that. The priest in me knows this obsession is dangerous, that it’s leading me down a path I swore to avoid. But the man—the sinner—can’t help but revel in it, drawn to the darkness like a moth to a flame.
All I want is to bend her pretty ass over my chair on the altar and pound into her until her voice is ringing through the church louder than any chorus could –
"You okay?"
I glance down, noticing the subtle shake, and set the drink back on the bar, trying to steady myself. Clearing my throat, I muster a faint smile. "It’s been a long day. Even priests have those," I admit, the truth heavier than I’d like.
She leans against the bar, studying me with an air of seasoned wisdom. "In my experience, any man sitting at a bar this late on a Monday night has a head full of regrets, Father," She says, her tone direct but not unkind. "So, why not drown those thoughts in that glass and save the repentance for behind church doors? "
Her blunt honesty stings, but I can’t help but appreciate it. I stare at the drink in front of me, the amber liquid reflecting the dim light.
"It’s not a sin to drink, Father," She adds with a sigh. "You’ve already given your life to the Big Man upstairs," She continues, tapping the ring on my finger. "No need to punish yourself further by denying the few pleasures left to you, courtesy of Christ’s sacrifice."
She starts to step away, her attention drawn to another customer waving her down. But something compels me to stop her.
"What’s your name?"
"Renee," She nods. "You might know my daughter, Zoey."
I blink, surprised. The light, bubbly airhead who hovers around Eden before and after Mass seems a world apart from the woman standing in front of me. There’s little of Zoey’s grace in her mother’s demeanor—Renee is rougher around the edges, the kind of woman who’s seen life’s harsher side.
"My husband remarried. Cheated, then found a pretty replacement," She says bluntly, a flicker of bitterness in her eyes. "So, I linger in the back of the church now. Seems I don’t really fit in with the rest of the congregation anymore. Not that I care.”
My thoughts drift to the front pews of Saint Michael’s, always filled with Idlewood's wealthiest residents, their smiles polished but empty, their faith as much about appearances as it is about salvation.
Money and power—two forces that seem to hold sway even in the house of God .
A buzz in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts. I take a long drink from my glass before glancing at the screen. An unknown number flashes. I hesitate but answer anyway.
"Hello?" I say, the noise of distant chatter filling the line.
"Forget what I told you about Zack," Aiden's voice snaps, raw and shaking.
My grip on the glass tightens as I recall our brief, tense conversation—the one where Aiden spilled his guts about the vile things Zack and his friends had done to Eden. It had taken everything in me not to strangle the boy right then.
"Aiden, how did you get my number—"
"It was in my dad's phone," He hisses. "What the hell did you do to my sister in that church?" The accusation drips from his words like poison.
"Is Eden alright—"
"Alright?" Aiden scoffs, his disbelief sharp through the line. "She just fucking showed off the scars she gave herself to the whole damn group and then dropped a bomb on all of us – she told us why she came home from college. News flash, it’s worse than I could’ve imagined," He vents, the words spilling out in a chaotic rush.
He must be high. Or drunk, maybe? Or both. Great.
"What did she say?" I press, a gnawing sense of dread creeping in. The little I know of her past before she moved back is just that—a little. But I remember what she’d said that night when I found her in the park.
She was raped.
"I'm not fucking telling you," Aiden snaps, his tone bristling with defensiveness. "But I do know she barely lets anyone get close to her, and now she's out there, pressed up against a tree, locking lips with Luca—"
Aiden’s words hit me like a punch to the gut, igniting a fury that surges through my veins. The thought of Eden, my Eden, with another man—his hands on her, his lips claiming what should be mine—sends a wave of rage crashing over me. My fists clench, and my heart pounds, each beat fueling the jealousy that's quickly turning into something darker, something primal. How dare she let anyone else near her? The possessiveness I’ve tried to control now roars to life, demanding action. She belongs to me, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone else touch her.
"Tell me where you are. Now." I interrupt, cutting off his rant.
"So you can tell my parents?" Aiden scoffs. "I thought confessing what happened with Zack might ease my conscience, not give you a reason to fucking pummel him. Whatever sick fantasy you have with my sister, it ends now," He threatens, the thought of her being taken from me turning my stomach.
"Is that right?" I respond, my gaze hardening as I glance over at Renee.
"Tread carefully, Father," Aiden warns, his tone venomous. "I’d hate for anyone to hear a rumor about just how personal you get with your altar servers behind closed doors.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone in disbelief, fury surging through my veins. I’m ready to wring his fucking neck.
"Renee," I call out, catching the bartender's attention just as she tops off someone’s glass.
"Yea?" She asks, her eyes narrowing in curiosity .
"Where’s your daughter tonight?" I ask, keeping my voice steady, though my mind is anything but that.
Her face twists in mild confusion. "Somewhere her daddy wouldn’t approve of, that's for sure," She laughs, though there’s no humor in my expression mirrored back at her. "Why?"
"One of my cousins is friends with her and mentioned they were going out tonight. I’m worried he might’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not sure where they are."
She shakes her head, amused. "You’re a terrible liar, Father. But I have faith that when you do lie, it’s for a good reason."
I sigh, shaking my head in frustration. "I need to know where Eden Faulkner is," I admit, watching as Renee's body stiffens.
"David Faulkner's girl?" She asks, saying his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
I nod, and her gaze hardens, something dark flickering in her eyes.
"You tight with the Faulkners?" She probes, her tone laced with suspicion.
"No," I reply, my voice firm. "But I need to find her before her father does."
She gives me a long, assessing look, a genuine smile slowly forming on her lips.
She sighs, glancing around the bar as if weighing her next words. "The reservoir. There's a sunset spot and a swimming hole. That’s where Zoey said they were headed. But listen," She leans in, her voice low and serious. "Whatever ties you've got with the Faulkners, leave my girl out of it."
"What do you know about them?" I press, sensing there’s more beneath her warning .
She shakes her head. Her eyes are hardened with icy contempt. "When I was married to Zoey's father, I saw the twisted shit David and his elitist buddies pulled right under the church’s roof. I was ready to go to Father Kevin and the police," She whispers, her voice trembling. "Two days later, I got served divorce papers. Then, I was attacked at knifepoint by some masked thug after work. Lost my job too, courtesy of one of his wife’s cronies. Zoey didn’t speak to me for months. I nearly drank myself to death in this very bar. The only reason I go back to that damn church is to keep an eye on my girl. The Faulkner’s are bad news. I’d stay away from them.”
Her words sink in, and I stare at her, grappling with the weight of what she’s just revealed.
"How do you know I’m not bad news?" I ask, my voice low, testing the waters.
She flips my left hand over, her fingers tracing the smooth skin. "You're not branded," She mutters, almost to herself. "Not yet anyway."
Without another word, she closes out my tab, her face unreadable as I drop a twenty into the tip jar.
“Look at the fucking body on that pretty thing,” A drunken voice snarls beside me. I snap my head in his direction. My stomach churns as I spot my phone in the large man’s hand.
On the screen was a picture of Eden. She stood by a fire, holding up her shirt, exposing her scarred skin. I could see her full breasts pressed tightly together in the same black lace bra she’d had on at the church. Beneath the image, Aiden’s anger bleeds through in the caption:
This is your fucking fault !
I must have left my phone open after trying to search directions to the reservoir, and this nosey fuck had taken my phone when he’d seen the text come through.
The sight of Eden’s skin, her pain, being devoured by this creep’s hungry eyes makes me sick. I lunge for my phone. The thought of anyone but me seeing her like this is unbearable.
“This your pretty little plaything?” He sneers, leering at me as he holds the phone just out of reach. “Nice set of tits on that one,” He grins, his hand grazing his filthy crotch. “Mind sharing?”
Shoving him hard in the chest, I swipe my phone back, watching with grim satisfaction as he stumbles into a nearby table. Shutting off the screen, I shove it into my pocket, downing the rest of my drink.
“I’m not in the fucking mood for bullshit.”
His eyes flicker to the deep scar running down my wrist, then to the black ink snaking up and down my arm. For a moment, the bar is silent, patrons watching with bated breath. My cross, now untucked, gleams on my chest. I’m sure I could pass as some version of a Hell’s angel.
“You’re that pretty boy priest they just brought into Saint Michael’s,” The man slurs, sizing me up. “Tell me, where does it say in the Ten Commandments that you can keep a picture of a girl with tits like that in your phone—”
Before he can finish, I drive my fist into his jaw, relishing the crunch of bone against my knuckles. His head snaps back, and he slumps against a support beam, the room erupting in gasps as his friends scramble away from the pool table in the center of the room .
“Take it outside!” Renee yells, her voice cutting through the tension, trying to keep the bar from descending into chaos.
"Hey," One of the man’s friends shouts, grabbing my shoulder, readying to throw a punch. "What the hell do you think you’re doing—"
I twist his arm, forcing him forward and over my shoulder. He crashes to the floor with a thud, and I stomp down hard on his hand.
I hear the switchblade click open before I feel it. I sidestep just in time, the blade grazing my side. Curling my hand around the man’s wrist, I slam his head against the bar counter, watching the light go out in his eyes as he collapses.
"Father," Renee’s voice cuts through the chaos, pulling my attention to her. Her eyes are wide with fear. "Don’t give David a reason to trail this back to Eden."
Fuck.
This whole town is incestuous. All it would take is this bastard on the ground opening his mouth, and David would be up my ass. And worse, he’d go after Eden.
Pain explodes in my face as the man who’d taken my phone clocks me right in the eye, the force sending me backward.
The man’s companions lie unconscious on the floor, but he’s still standing, holding his sore jaw and sneering at me. "You fucking religious fuck!" he yells. "I hope I see that pretty thing walking down these streets so I can make her pay for what you—"
I grab a beer bottle from the bar and smash it across his head. He crumples to the floor, ale splashing over both of us. With all three men out cold, I fumble for my wallet, slapping two hundred-dollar bills on the counter for Renee .
I glare at her as I back toward the door, the bar eerily silent now, the kind of quiet that ensures most of this will be swept under the rug.
"So long as I’m around, David isn’t harming her or anyone else," I hiss, clutching my throbbing eye.
I nudge the door open and slip out into the night. Moments later, I’m in my car, punching the address for the reservoir into the console.