Chapter 11 Callahan
“For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:10 (KJV)
Callahan had not come to Nirvana’s to witness this.
Dorian stumbled out of the bathroom, shirt half-tucked, hair wild, lips swollen. A raw, red mark glared on the side of his neck. Another man followed seconds later, zipping his fly, smirking as he told Dorian he’d call. The stranger brushed past Callahan without a glance.
Something hot and foul rose in Callahan’s throat. He tasted bile. The urge to press his own mouth to that same patch of skin, to erase the stranger’s claim with his own, nearly buckled his knees. He clenched his fist until the nails bit half-moons into his palm. He was not allowed. He had no right.
“Care to explain?”
Dorian’s hand flew to cover the mark. His eyes slid away. “Not particularly.”
Callahan seized Dorian’s bicep and pulled him back into the bathroom. Dorian cursed, staggered, caught himself against the sink. Callahan shoved him into the nearest stall and kicked the door shut. He pinned Dorian to the metal with both hands on his shoulders, keeping a careful distance between their bodies.
Lord, forgive me, he thought. But I have missed this.
“Did I not give you a penance?” The words came out low, edged.
Dorian swallowed hard. “Yes, Father.”
“Then why did you and that man come out of there together?”
“We didn’t—” Dorian’s voice cracked. “We didn’t finish anything.”
“Did he touch you?” Callahan’s grip tightened. “Did you let him?”
“Does it matter?” Dorian fired back, chin lifting. “Does it bother you, Father?”
Callahan leaned in until their breaths mingled. “Does it bother you that it wasn’t me?”
The defiance drained from Dorian’s face. Color flooded his cheeks. He looked away.
“You don’t think I know desire when I see it?” Callahan murmured. “Before I was a priest, I was a man, Dorian.”
Dorian’s gaze snapped back. “You still are.” His finger hooked the thin chain at Callahan’s throat, tugged until the small silver cross pressed cold between them. “Father.”
Callahan’s eyes dropped to Dorian’s mouth. One heartbeat. Two. He could damn everything for one taste.
“And man is weak,” he whispered. “Do not expect me always to be strong.”
“Maybe I don’t want strong.”
“I am old enough to be your father.”
“Good thing I—”
The outer door slammed open.
“Dorian!” Maverick’s voice cracked like a whip. “I swear to God, if I catch you screwing around one more time, you’re fired. Get your ass back to the bar.”
“Two seconds!”
Maverick muttered something venomous and left.
Dorian exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping him. He still toyed with the cross. “Duty calls.”
Callahan cleared his throat but did not step back. “Probably for the best.” A pause. “Will I see you Sunday?”
Dorian’s smile was small, almost shy. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Guilt stalked Callahan into Saturday.
He buried himself in work at Saint Jude’s—sorting donations, listening to stories, signing forms—until the shelter’s clamor finally quieted. When he returned to the church, the silence felt accusatory. He tried to focus on the shelter binder, but the memory of Dorian’s breath against his lips kept intruding.
He pushed back from the desk so hard the chair nearly toppled. He needed the chapel. Needed to kneel and beg forgiveness for the hunger that gnawed his bones.
Halfway down the stairs he stopped.
Dorian sat alone in a pew near the sanctuary, arms draped along the back, face tilted into a shaft of colored light. The stained glass painted his skin gold and crimson.
“Dorian.” The name left Callahan louder than intended.
Dorian lowered his head. “Didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.” He shrugged, casual, but his leg bounced. “Hope that’s all right.”
Callahan clasped his hands to keep them still and slid into the pew beside him. “Of course. What brings you here?”
“You.” Dorian met his eyes, then sighed. “I needed to talk.”
Callahan waited.
Dorian stared at the crucifix above the altar. “I’ve done some stupid things. Last night, for instance.”
Callahan’s chest tightened.
“I don’t even know why,” Dorian went on. “Then I walked out and saw you standing there. You looked—” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Like you wanted to tear that guy apart for touching me.”
Callahan’s tongue felt thick. Because I did, he thought, and the confession sat heavy behind his teeth.
He lifted a trembling hand. Just this, Lord. Just once.
His palm settled against Dorian’s cheek. The stubble rasped pleasantly against his skin. Warm. Alive. He guided Dorian’s face toward his own until their foreheads nearly touched.
Hazel eyes met gray.
“Father,” Dorian whispered.
The thread snapped.
Callahan surged forward and fastened his mouth to the marked skin. Dorian inhaled sharply but did not pull away. A soft, broken sound rose in his throat as Callahan sucked hard, tasting salt and faint traces of cologne. He wanted the stranger gone. Wanted only his own claim.
His hand slid down Dorian’s jaw to rest over his pulse—racing, alive. Another needy whine vibrated under his palm. Callahan grazed the skin with teeth.
Dorian flinched.
Callahan drew back, panting. The mark had darkened to violent purple; faint crescents from his teeth ringed it.
Horror flooded him.
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “Forgive me.”
He fled.
His shoes echoed down the side aisle. He clutched his rosary like a lifeline, whispering the Our Father under his breath, words stumbling over one another. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
He dropped to his knees before the statue of Mary cradling the infant Christ. The small chapel was empty, thank God. Sunlight slanted through a high window, gilding her serene face.
He kissed the crucifix on his rosary, crossed himself by rote. His heart still hammered. His body still throbbed.
The memory of Dorian’s helpless sounds looped behind his eyes. He saw him bound across the confessional desk, flushed and pleading for salvation only Callahan could grant.
Callahan bowed forward, shielding himself from the statue’s placid gaze. One hand pressed to his lap. The lightest pressure tore a shudder from him. He bit down on the wooden beads to stifle the sound.
Breathing hard through his nose, he rocked into his own touch. Shame burned his face, but the pleasure coiled tighter. Faster than he wanted, shamefully fast, he came with a muffled groan against the rosary.
He eased the beads from his teeth. They gleamed wet in the colored light.
Mary looked down at him, unchanging.
Mother, forgive me, he thought.
I have fallen.