Chapter 6
Six
Nathan
Nathan had spent a week distracting himself from the memory of the wiry man with the white stripe in his hair.
He hadn’t expected anyone to stir up his old attractions to men, but he’d dealt with them before.
Nathan kept busy visiting the sick, bringing communion to the elderly, all the tasks Father McDonagh preferred not to do.
He’d also stopped by the police station to complain about the back room in Tristan’s bar, but that had been both infuriating and fruitless. The officer had brushed off his concerns, insisting that a few poker games weren’t a big deal.
And maybe they weren’t? Nathan had began his crusade with righteous zeal, but a week later he was growing tired, as it was obvious no one else cared, not even Father McDonagh.
It was Tuesday again, normally the night Nathan would visit the bar and relax, but after his confrontation with Tristan and Hunter, the place was no longer relaxing.
He’d walked down from the rectory, but when he reached the front door, he turned around and left.
The watering hole was no longer a welcome respite.
Arriving back home at the rectory, he expected Father McDonagh to be gone, off to wherever he went on Tuesdays, but to his surprise, there was a light on in the living room. Through the windows, he could see Father McDonagh standing with another man.
Wearing a brown hooded robe, Nathan recognized him as a member of the Franciscan order from his garments. He faced Father McDonagh, who was in vestments, although they were unfamiliar to Nathan. An unusual teal color, the robes were covered in embroidered symbols Nathan didn’t recognize.
He was about to head up to the door and let himself in when the Franciscan raised his hands, and a sphere of bright turquoise light appeared between them. It shed a shower of sparks as the man pushed his hands toward Father McDonagh.
The sphere entered the pastor’s chest, and as it did, his eyes lit up a bright turquoise, matching the color of the sphere.
Nathan gawked for a heartbeat, then turned and ran.
His mind was a blur as he did so, not paying any attention to where he was going, desperate to get away and unable to process what he’d just seen. Autopilot took over, his body going where it wanted as his mind screamed about the impossible moment he’d witnessed.
More than impossible. Absolutely ridiculous.
Nathan wasn’t a mystic. He didn’t believe, like some priests, that demons walked the world or that the occult was the devil’s hold on the earth. He believed in a distant, caring god, a god that handed down rules and hoped people would follow them.
Magic wasn’t real.
And yet, the image of Father McDonagh and the turquoise sphere had been seared into his memory. No matter how he looked at it, there was no logical explanation, no reason for what he’d seen.
Maybe he was hallucinating, although he had trouble believing that. His mental health had always been stable. He’d never so much as heard someone whispering his name while falling asleep. And yet…
Either he’d witnessed something otherworldly, or he was having a psychotic break. Neither of those were great options.
Nathan was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he almost didn’t notice when his body came to a stop. Forcing himself to focus, he found he was standing once again in front of Jim’s Garden Bar.
“What is wrong with me?” he muttered to himself. “Why am I here?”
But he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue with his unconscious, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. And he really wanted to get drunk.
So, despite his reservations, he opened the door and stepped into the bar. The jukebox greeted him with a slow, melancholy country song. It calmed him. Nathan didn’t love country music, but the gentle lilt of the melody eased his soul.
Walking over to the bar top despite his shaking legs, Nathan slid into place, staring down at the swirls of the worn varnished wood underneath his fingers. Everything felt a little unreal.
“I didn’t think I’d see you back here, Father.” Tristan’s voice held a note of challenge as it floated over from the other end of the bar.
Under normal circumstances, Nathan would have been sheepish, or maybe defiant. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have come back at all.
But these were not normal circumstances.
“I needed a drink,” he mumbled, still not looking up.
“The usual?” Tristan’s tone was softer now. The sound of his steps let Nathan know he was coming closer, but Nathan still couldn’t bring himself to look up.
“No. Bourbon. On the rocks.”
Tristan hummed, but said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan watched Tristan’s disembodied hands pour a healthy dose of light caramel liquid over a couple of large cubes of ice and slide it in front of him.
He reached out, wrapping his hand around the cold glass. The chill was a tiny shock, a reminder that the world was real and he was in it. Thank goodness. He lifted the drink and took a sip.
Hints of vanilla and cinnamon hit Nathan’s lips, accompanied by an undercurrent of turpentine. He swallowed, relishing the burn as the liquor traveled down his throat. On any other night, he would find this disgusting. Right now, it was the only thing keeping him sane.
“Rough night, Father Roy?”
The voice was so close it startled Nathan into looking up. Next to him sat Tyrone, an elegant Black man in his fifties who was a regular at the bar. They often chatted on Tuesday nights.
Tyrone wasn’t a parishioner at St. Stephen’s, so Nathan felt more at ease with him than with one of his congregants. He didn’t have to worry about making a mistake that would set a contingent of angry old ladies on him.
“I don’t even know.” Nathan buried his face in his hands, unequipped to communicate what he’d seen.
Tyrone’s soft hand rubbed circles on his back. It calmed him, slowing his breath and his heart rate. Nathan realized he’d been on the verge of hyperventilating ever since he left the rectory.
Saying nothing, Tyrone sat patiently as Nathan breathed in and out, the tightness in his chest loosening. He didn’t know the man well, not at all outside of the bar, but he appreciated the grounding quality of his presence.
It struck him that Tyrone had the kindness Father McDonagh lacked, and he wondered if he’d ever considered going into the ministry.
After struggling to find the words for a minute, Nathan spoke.
“I saw something tonight that I can’t explain. It seemed, uh, supernatural in origin. Which is not a thing I believe in.”
Tyrone hummed softly before taking a sip of his martini, but still said nothing. The silence hung over them like a heavy fleece blanket, but the man didn’t push.
“It might sound strange, coming from a priest, but I’ve never been big on a God of direct action.
I’ve always believed God helps those who help themselves.
He respects our free will. The most He’ll do is open our minds to possibilities.
He doesn’t coerce us or pressure us. I don’t believe in devils and demons.
I don’t believe in the occult. And yet, what I witnessed…
I don’t even know what it was, but still. I’m…”
Nathan trailed off before gulping down another mouthful of bourbon. The drink was the opposite of his preference, but forcing it down his burning throat gave him a sense of control he was sorely lacking.
After a moment, Tyrone cleared his throat and gave Nathan a pat on the shoulder. “I don’t know what you saw, and you don’t want to tell me.”
Nathan opened his mouth to speak, but Tyrone stopped him with a gentle shake of his head. “I don’t need to know, Father. What I’ll say is, I’ve witnessed a lot of crazy shit in my lifetime. Some unusual, some cruel, and some I cannot explain. In those instances, you have one of two paths.”
Nathan turned his head to contemplate Tyrone. The older man’s expression was one of certainty, tinged with compassion. He desperately wanted to hold on to that sense of certainty. It seemed peaceful.
“What paths?”
“You can forget about it and move on. No one will believe you, so it’s not worth pursuing. Chalk it up to this strange universe we inhabit.”
Taking in Tyrone’s words, Nathan nodded and surveyed the rest of the quiet bar. No one was within earshot other than Tristan, who was drying glassware at the opposite end of the bar top.
It had barely been an hour, and already he doubted he could go on like nothing had happened.
“What’s the other option?”
“You didn’t strike me as someone who lets things go.” Tyrone chuckled low in his throat. “Your second choice is to investigate further. To follow the thread wherever it leads. And accept the consequences.”
Nathan sighed, fixating on the final ounce of brown liquor hanging out at the bottom of his glass. He wished the bourbon could fix everything. Sometimes it felt like alcohol could. When he was two drinks in, at least. But it always went downhill after that.
“Did you do that? Follow the thread to the end?”
“I did.”
“And what happened?”
Massaging the bridge of his nose, Tyrone pushed forward his now-empty martini glass and gestured to Tristan for a refill.
“I found answers. Perhaps not all of them. But some.”
“That’s good, right?” Nathan couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. For once, couldn’t his instinct lead him to the simpler way?
Giving Nathan a tight smile, Tyrone shrugged. “It’s nice to know the truth. Or however much of it I learned. But there were consequences. And, given the chance, I’m not sure I would choose truth again.”
Nathan was about to respond when the door to the back room swung open again. Hunter sauntered through, his long, ropy muscles showing through a scandalously tight black t-shirt. Nathan’s breath caught at the sight, and his neck and chest flashed with heat.
He hated how instant his reaction was to the man, how out of his control it was. His own body was betraying him. It was embarrassing and infuriating.
Hunter’s eyes flashed when he saw Nathan, but he didn’t approach, instead leaning against a nearby wall, his skin pale in the blue light of the nearby jukebox.
“He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”
Tyrone’s voice cut through the world-stopping moment Nathan was stuck in.
“I’m a priest, Tyrone, I—”
“Oh, please. I’m fifty, not dead. Hunter’s not my type—I enjoy a broader frame and a less disturbed energy—but the guy’s gorgeous.”
The warmth spread to Nathan’s cheeks as he took in Tyrone’s words. Sweat gathered in the small of his back. He shifted in his seat, searching for the comfortable position that was now eluding him.
“I’m not gay. Besides, I took a vow—”
“I’m sure you did, Father.” The amusement in Tyrone’s velvet voice was the sound of Nathan’s secrets being exposed. Such a sweet sound for such a violent act. “But I’ve seen your face every time Hunter’s in the room. A vow is just a thing you say. It’s worth as much or as little as your belief.”
“I…” Hunter turned toward Nathan and smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye.
The universe fell apart.
Nathan’s inner voice was frantic, screaming at him that he wasn’t gay, that attraction to men was a sin, that he was a priest and that his vows meant something. That what he was feeling was human failing, and he had to deny himself to achieve salvation.
This was a temptation. That’s all. Just another test, like meat during Lent or the baked goods of every little old lady he visited at home.
Just another test like putting up with Father McDonagh.
But Nathan wasn’t like Father McDonagh. He believed in service and in his vocation. And just like he’d done with Father McDonagh, Nathan could endure it until he got what he wanted.
But before he could say anything, before he could convince Tyrone of his unassailable faith and belief, Hunter walked toward them.
His steps were slow, moving like a cat through the shadows, sleek and beautiful.
So beautiful.
Coming to a stop in front of Nathan, Hunter leaned a hip against the bar and glanced down at the bar top, raising an eyebrow.
“Whiskey’s not your typical drink, Father. Something happen? Trip on your own self-righteousness on the way in the door and need something to take the pain away?”
Nathan downed the last of his drink. Somehow, he wanted to both kiss and strangle the man at the same time.
“I need bourbon if I’m going to be hanging out with petty criminals who are swindling their neighbors.”
Hunter rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face. His stupid, beautiful face.
“If I’m a petty criminal, what does that make you? A stereotype? The parish priest getting drunk on communion wine?”
God, he hated this man. Why did he have to have such soft brown eyes? And a perfect slim-but-muscular body?
Stop it. Nathan didn’t care about the body of some small-time crook. He was a priest.
“I don’t care what you think of me. I’ll shut the whole operation down. Sooner than you think.”
Nathan stood up for emphasis, and immediately the room spun around him. He grabbed at the bar top, steadying himself even as Tyrone placed a supportive hand on his back.
“I don’t think you’ll be shutting me down, Father,” Hunter said, his voice dripping with fake concern. “At this point, I’m not sure you can leave the bar in one piece.”
Between his embarrassment at his own attraction and Hunter’s obnoxiousness—as well as the whiskey he’d drunk far too quickly—Nathan’s control over his words was slipping.
“Screw you! I can leave the bar just fine. And I’ll be back with people to take care of all of this. We’ll put an end to the illegal gambling. You won’t be so annoying and insulting and frustratingly handsome. You’ll see. I’ll get you.”
Wait. Had he just said all that out loud? Had he called Hunter—Nope. Not going to think about it.
Swaying once more, Nathan swatted away Tyrone’s hand as he headed for the door.
Did he stumble once or twice on the way? Sure. But it was worth it for the dramatic exit. He knew what he was doing. He’d get back at that jerk.
Hunter would see. Nathan would put a stop to all of it.
Then the test would be over, and he could go back to being just a Catholic priest.