Chapter 8 Dorian
“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.”
- 1 Corinthians 10:13 KJV
Dorian had been at Nirvana’s long enough to believe he’d seen every trick the place could pull. Two months of the same faces, the same orders, the same small-town rhythm. The regulars drifted in like tide, the college kids surged on weekends, and nothing ever really changed. Then Bianca, bored on a slow Friday, turned a couple of friendly games into a full-blown tournament, bracket and all, and suddenly the bar had a pulse again.
She perched on a high-top, scribbling scores on her server pad, barking rules like a ref who’d studied the rulebook in her sleep. The crowd booed her calls, cheered her calls, argued every scratch. It was the best free entertainment Dorian had seen in weeks.
Still, he stayed busy. Drafts to pull, wings to run, tabs to close. Between rushes he flirted automatically—smile, lean in, quick wink—because that was what he did. Except the game had lost its taste. Every stranger he charmed felt like a placeholder, a stand-in for the one man he actually wanted and could never have.
He hated how much space Callahan took up in his head. A priest, for fuck’s sake. Vows older than Dorian himself. Yet the thought of him lingered like a low-grade fever: the low voice through the confessional screen, the way his knuckles had gone white around that rosary, the accidental offer of punishment still hanging in the air between them like smoke.
Dorian dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. Ridiculous. He didn’t do pining. He did hookups, messy situationships that dragged on too long, easy exits. He didn’t date, and he definitely didn’t date men who wore collars. Still, the idea of anyone else touching him right now felt wrong in a way that settled under his ribs like a small, stubborn thorn—not sharp enough to demand removal, just there, reminding him with every breath.
“Well look at what the cat dragged in!” Bianca’s voice cut across the noise.
Dorian flinched, over-poured a beer, cursed under his breath. He glanced up, paper towels already in hand, and locked eyes with Callahan across the crowded room. Callahan looked away first, offering Bianca that tired half-smile that did something unfair to Dorian’s pulse. She hopped down to greet him, hugging him like an old friend, and Dorian pretended to be fascinated by the spill he was wiping while watching them from the corner of his eye.
When Callahan finally headed toward the bar, Dorian’s stomach tightened. The stool he chose sat right under the harsh overhead lights—the ones that turned everyone else sallow and ugly. Callahan, of course, looked better in them: the silver threading his dark hair catching the glow, the faint lines around his eyes deepened, the shadow of stubble sharpening the tired angles of his face. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept well in weeks. Dorian had a type, and apparently that type was exhausted priests with guilt in their eyes.
He sauntered over, cloth still in hand. “What can I get started for you, Father?”
Callahan’s gaze snapped from the muted football game on the TV to Dorian’s face. “Tea, please.” The words came out even, almost indifferent, but the flush climbing his neck betrayed him.
“Anything else?” Dorian let his eyes drop to Callahan’s mouth for half a second.
Callahan swallowed hard. His tongue touched his lower lip, quick and nervous. “Just the tea.”
Dorian turned away to fix it, adding ice with deliberate slowness, aware of the weight of that stare on his back the entire time. When he returned, Callahan murmured thanks without looking up. Dorian opened his mouth to say something else, but a customer waved him down from the far end. He went, hips swaying a little more than strictly necessary, hoping Callahan noticed. Hoping he suffered.
Later, when the rush eased for a moment, Dorian lingered near Ollie—a reliable regular who tipped fat and never expected more than conversation. He laughed at the right places, touched Ollie’s forearm once, felt nothing. Across the bar Callahan’s eyes tracked every movement, dark and hungry.
Dorian excused himself and drifted back. He tossed his towel over his shoulder, leaned a hip against the counter. “You sure there’s nothing else I can get you? You’ve been staring holes through my back all night.”
Callahan’s face went scarlet. His hands tightened around the glass, knuckles pale, slight tremor visible. “I’m certain.”
Dorian lowered his voice, close enough that only Callahan could hear. “Something making you nervous, Father? Do I make you nervous?”
Callahan’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. Distress and raw want warred openly on his face. Dorian almost felt bad. Almost.
A wadded ball of napkins and receipts bounced off the side of his head.
“What the fuck, Maverick?” Dorian spun.
His boss stood a few feet away, arms crossed. “If you’re gonna flirt, do it on your own time. And don’t even think about asking to cut out early just because—” He spotted Callahan and faltered. “Ah. Hey, Father.”
Callahan’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Evening, Maverick. I’m well, thank you.”
Maverick shot Dorian another warning look. “Sorry about him. He’s been… adventurous lately.”
Callahan’s eyebrow lifted. Something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Has he?”
Dorian felt heat crawl up his own neck. “I’m sure the Father doesn’t want to hear about my personal life.”
Maverick waved him off toward a fresh cluster of customers. Dorian went, jaw tight, but he caught glimpses: Maverick leaning in, talking low; Callahan’s flush deepening, his gaze sliding back to Dorian again and again, heavy with something that looked a lot like possession.
When Maverick finally clapped Callahan on the shoulder and walked away, Callahan lifted his half-empty glass. Dorian abandoned the college kid mid-sentence and returned.
“Seems like you’ve been holding out on your confessions,” Callahan said quietly.
Dorian braced his elbows on the counter, chin in hand. “What, my sins not spicy enough for you anymore, Father? Or do you just want details—how I fuck other guys while pretending it’s you?”
Callahan went very still. For one bright second jealousy flashed plain and fierce across his face. Then he removed his glasses, cleaned them slowly on the hem of his shirt. “The point of confession is honesty,” he said, voice clipped. “All of it.”
Dorian pushed off the counter with a soft laugh. “Father, if you knew half the things I’ve done, you’d run.”
“I wasn’t always a priest, Dorian.”
The words landed between them like a struck match.
Dorian’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “Oh? Do tell.”
Callahan slid his glasses back on, met Dorian’s eyes steadily. “If you want to know, come to the church. But only if you’re prepared to tell me everything in return.”
Dorian felt the hook catch. “Deal. I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
A customer shouted for a refill.
Callahan’s voice followed him. “Tuesday.”
Dorian turned back.
“Nobody confesses on Tuesday,” Callahan said, the corner of his mouth twitching—the closest thing to a smile Dorian had ever seen from him.
Dorian’s grin spread slow and sharp. “See you Tuesday, Father.”