Chapter 2 Dorian
“For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.”
— Luke 8:17 (KJV)
The alarm shrieked like a fire bell in Dorian’s skull. He slapped the nightstand twice before his fingers found the phone and killed the noise. Silence rushed back in, thick and accusing. He lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling fan that hadn’t turned in years, and let last night settle over him like a damp sheet.
He’d gone too far. Way too far. The memory of that man’s face—eyes wide, mouth tight, the sudden scrape of chair legs as he bolted—played on loop. Dorian groaned and dragged both hands down his face. How fucking embarrassing. He’d read interest, leaned in hard, and the guy had run like Dorian had pulled a knife instead of a proposition.
He rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting cold hardwood. The bathroom light buzzed and flickered before steadying. The shower coughed, spat, then finally gave him a weak stream of hot water. Dorian stepped in and let it hit the back of his neck. He kept seeing those steel-blue eyes, the faint smirk that had almost answered him before everything shattered. All talk, no game, he told himself. Cross necklace, turtleneck in a bar—should’ve been a clue. Guy probably got off on the thrill of being wanted, then panicked when it got real.
The water turned icy without warning. Dorian yelped, fumbled for the knob, and stumbled out. Towel knotted low on his hips, he crossed to the closet. He hadn’t owned church clothes in years. After some digging he found black jeans without rips and the one white dress shirt that hadn’t yellowed. He tucked it in, cinched a plain belt, and checked the mirror. Wet curls stuck to his forehead; the skin under his eyes looked bruised. Good enough.
His phone lit up with “Here Comes the Sun.” Mom.
“Hey, Mom,” he answered, forcing brightness.
“Hey, honey.” Lauren’s voice was soft, careful. “Just making sure you’re still coming.”
“Getting dressed right now.”
“Good. Arthur will be with me—is that okay?”
Dorian’s jaw flexed. He pictured Arthur’s thin lips, the way disapproval used to radiate off him like cheap cologne. For her, he thought. Only for her. “That’s fine. I’ll meet you there. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up, inhaled until his ribs ached, then let it out slow. It will be fine. It has to be.
The parking lot of Revived Faith Catholic Church was already half full when he pulled in. Sunlight bounced off the white stone, turning the whole building into a glare. Dorian sat in the car a minute, fingers drumming the steering wheel. Then he got out and let the crowd swallow him.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of incense and lemon polish. Whispers brushed his ears like insects. He slid into the pew beside his mother. She kissed his cheek, warm and quick; Arthur gave the usual stiff nod. Dorian nodded back, throat tight.
Music swelled from hidden speakers. Everyone stood, sat, knelt in practiced waves. Dorian followed on autopilot, muscle memory dragging him along. When the priests processed in, he glanced back out of habit—and froze.
Callahan.
Vestments flowing, head high, eyes forward. Same man, same sharp jaw, same exhausted shadows under his eyes now visible in merciless morning light. Dorian sank lower in the pew. A priest. He’d asked a priest to fuck him in a parking lot.
I’m definitely going to hell.
The thought arrived with a strange, bitter amusement. How was he supposed to have known? A cross necklace wasn’t a collar. Plenty of guys wore them. And Callahan had never once told him to stop—had leaned into the conversation, even asked questions. That had to mean something.
His mother nudged him. Communion. Dorian’s stomach flipped. He shuffled into the line, pulse loud in his ears. When he reached the sanctuary and knelt, Callahan’s gaze met his. Recognition flashed, then something rawer. The priest’s face drained of color before a flush climbed his throat. His fingers trembled placing the host on Dorian’s tongue.
“The body of Christ.”
Dorian swallowed. “Amen.”
The small cup tilted to his lips. “The blood of Christ.”
Their eyes locked again. For a second Dorian pictured something far less holy—kneeling for different reasons, mouth open, taking something warmer than wine. Heat surged low in his gut. “Amen.”
He returned to the pew on unsteady legs. When he risked another glance, Callahan’s gaze was fixed across the nave, intense and unguarded. Hunger. Plain as day. Dorian looked away fast, cheeks burning. Repressed, he reminded himself. Not available.
Mass ended. People milled, chatting. Lauren caught his wrist. “Come say hi to the new priest before we go.”
Dorian forced a smile. “Sure.”
Callahan stood near the sanctuary steps, vestments pristine, surrounded by lingering parishioners. Up close in daylight he looked older—fine lines at his eyes, fatigue etched deeper—but the impact hadn’t faded.
“Father Callahan!” Lauren beamed.
“Lauren.” Callahan’s voice was warm for her, careful. “How’s Arthur feeling?”
“Better, thank you.” She stepped aside. “This is my son, Dorian.”
Callahan’s eyes flicked to him, polite mask in place. A quick sweep down Dorian’s body and back up. “Pleasure to meet you. Your mother speaks highly of you.”
Dorian met the calm tone with one of his own. “Likewise, Father.”
Lauren squeezed his arm, delighted. “He’s coming back to church regularly.”
“That’s wonderful,” Callahan said. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope we’ll see you often.”
Dorian let his gaze linger, slow and deliberate. “Every Sunday.”
Callahan shifted, throat working. “Routine is good for the soul.”
Arthur appeared. “Sorry, Father, we’ve got plans.”
“Of course. God be with you.”
Lauren and Arthur headed down the aisle. Dorian stayed a beat longer.
“You’re giving next Sunday’s sermon?” he asked.
Callahan clasped his hands. “I am.”
“What’s the topic?” Dorian’s mouth curved. “Resisting temptation?”
Callahan’s face went scarlet. “Perhaps.”
Dorian leaned in just enough. “I look forward to hearing it.” A pause, deliberate. “And seeing you, Father.”
The priest’s ears burned brighter. He muttered something about duties and retreated. Dorian watched him go, pulse thrumming.
He walked out into the sunlight wondering if Callahan flushed like that everywhere—wondering how long it would take to find out.