Chapter 17 Callahan
“For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.”
— 1 Corinthians 6:20 KJV
After years of rigid dedication to the cloth, Callahan had almost forgotten what it was like to starve. He had forgotten the specific, gnawing ache of being hungry for another human being’s attention, the way it hollowed out the stomach and made the hands shake.
As a young man, he had tried to satiate that hunger with a rotation of pretty men and handsome women, a blur of skin and sweat that never quite reached the bottom of the well. The appetite only grew, demanding something sharper. Something that fed the feverish, dark corners of his mind.
That was when he met her. Zoe Vincent.
She was a tall, slender woman made of sharp edges, with a penchant for pain that matched his own unspoken needs. Somewhere between the first look and the feeling of her teeth sinking into the pulse point of his neck, Callahan had fallen in love. But he failed to cherish her. He was blinded by a selfish desire for more. Always more. Nothing was ever enough to plug the leak in his soul.
He paid the price. She left him more hollow than she found him, a husk of a man shivering in the wake of her absence.
He tried to drown her memory in cheap whiskey and by crawling into bed with whoever would have him, but the gaping hole in his chest remained. It wasn’t until Father Davidson found him—the current head of Revived Faith and overseer of Saint Jude’s—that the bleeding stopped. Davidson had offered a hot shower, a cot, and the listening ear Callahan hadn’t known he needed. He guided Callahan through the tremors of withdrawal and toward the priesthood.
The church had nullified the hunger. Callahan traded his wild tendencies for late-night Bible study and the quiet rhythm of early morning Mass. It was a boring life compared to the chaos of his youth, but for the first time in years, he was content. Safe.
Then Dorian came along.
The boy walked in and stoked embers Callahan had thought long extinguished. He exposed parts of Callahan that were still empty, still desperate, making him question why he had promised himself to God only to damn himself to a life of solitude.
“Callahan.”
The voice pierced the fog in his head. Callahan blinked, glancing over the rim of his reading glasses. Rier stood in front of the desk, a blurred outline of bureaucratic disapproval.
“Have you prepared the sacristy and the rectory office for the bishop’s arrival?”
Callahan dropped his eyes back to the book he had been staring at for the past hour without reading a single word. “I have.”
“And what of the candles in the nave?”
Callahan suppressed a sigh, leaning back against the stiff padding of his office chair. He removed his glasses, picking up a microfiber cloth to wipe a smudge from the lens. “What of them, Rier?”
“They’re low. I would like you to replace them.”
“I replaced them on Wednesday after Mass.” Callahan inspected the glass against the light of his desk lamp. “If they’re low, it is because you did not snuff them when I left for Saint Jude’s.”
Rier bristled. He straightened his spine, puffing out his chest like a bird trying to appear larger than its predator. “The candles are your responsibility, Callahan. Had you not left in a hurry—”
“I told you I received a call—”
“From one of your volunteers, yes, I’m aware.” Rier’s lip curled. “But had you simply taken the time to complete your tasks here, there wouldn’t be an issue. You didn’t, and so now you must.” He regarded Callahan with ill-disguised disgust. “I advise you to remember who the head priest is, Callahan. I’d hate to call for your dismissal for lack of responsibility.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and stale. Callahan clamped his tongue between his teeth. A smart comment sat right on the tip, acidic and ready, but it would only result in an argument he didn’t have the energy to win.
Rier took the silence for submission. He turned on his heel and left the office to do only God knew what.
Callahan let out a long breath, tossing the cleaning cloth onto the desk. He dog-eared the page of his book and closed it. Reading was pointless now; his nerves were jumping under his skin.
Maybe a walk, he thought. Just to the nave and back.
He pushed himself up from the chair, his knees cracking in protest after sitting for so long. He left the safety of the office and headed down the hallway toward the sanctuary.
The nave was dim, the air cool and smelling of beeswax and old incense. Callahan moved down the center aisle, intending to check the candles Rier had complained about, but stopped short.
Someone was sitting in the pews.
A figure was hunched over, head bowed, dark curls hiding the face. Callahan approached with caution, his shoes silent on the stone floor, until he heard a faint, wet sniffle.
All hesitancy left him. He moved with calm urgency, recognizing the slump of those shoulders.
“Dorian,” he said, pitching his voice low so it wouldn’t echo off the vaulted ceiling.
Dorian jerked upright. He sniffed hard, wiping aggressively at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry, I, um, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
His voice was rough, thick with congestion. He had been crying for a while.
“No need to apologize.” Callahan slid into the pew beside him, leaving a respectable distance between them. “Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”
Dorian ran his fingers through his hair, gripping the roots. “God, where do I even start?” He let out a shaky breath. “My mom invited me over for brunch a few weeks ago. I, um, didn’t want to go at first because every time I’m around Arthur we fight. But I’m trying to be a better person and do right by my mom, you know?”
“You agreed to go over?” Callahan asked. He sensed the familiar, jagged pattern of the Koller family dynamic.
“Yeah. And, um, Arthur apologized to me.” Dorian let out a watery, incredulous laugh. “Like actually fucking apologized, can you believe that? He couldn’t muster a single ‘sorry’ my entire childhood, but after I hit him, he decides he wants to make things right.” He shook his head, staring at the altar without seeing it. “It’s unbelievable.”
He glanced at Callahan, eyes red-rimmed and searching. “Do you know what it’s like to be made to feel like absolute shit by a man who claims to love you like his own son?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t say I do. I lost my father when I was very young.” Callahan looked down at his own hands, resting on his knees. “My mother was not an affectionate woman. Before she passed, she called me her ‘sweet boy.’ I was thirty at the time, far from a boy, but on her deathbed, she saw me as nothing more than the baby she brought into this world.” He tilted his head, holding Dorian’s gaze. “Sometimes it takes extremes for people to realize their mistakes.”
Dorian’s hands dropped between his legs, shoulders slumping as if the fight had drained out of him. “I’m just so tired of being angry all the fucking time,” he admitted. “And when I get the one thing that I thought would make it better, it doesn’t. My mom is being so nice and understanding about the whole thing but I just… I don’t feel like his apology meant anything.”
Fresh tears soaked his lashes, spilling over to trail down his cheeks. “Is there something wrong with me?”
Callahan reached out on instinct.
He placed a hand on Dorian’s jaw. The skin was rough with stubble, warm and damp. He swiped away the tear that stained the cheek with his thumb.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Callahan said softly. “You’ve held on to this anger for so long that letting go of it means truly acknowledging what hurts.”
“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore,” Dorian whispered, leaning almost imperceptibly into the touch. “I’m so sick and fucking tired of feeling like this.”
Callahan brushed his thumb along the ridge of Dorian’s cheekbone, catching another tear before it fell. The sensation of the wetness against his skin sent a jolt through him, sharp and electric.
Dorian’s lips parted. His eyes were wide, dark, and glistening.
The urge to lean forward and capture those lips in a kiss tugged violently at the base of Callahan’s spine. It was a physical force, a magnetic pull that terrified him. Taste him, the dark voice in his head whispered. Just once.
Shame, cold and gripping, crashed over him.
What are you doing?
Callahan’s hands flew from Dorian’s face to his shoulders. He pushed him away, perhaps a little too hard.
“I’m sorry—I don’t know why I just tried to—I’ll go. I’m sorry.” Dorian scrambled to stand, face flushing a deep, humiliated red.
Callahan grabbed Dorian’s wrist. “Don’t go.”
What am I doing? his mind screamed. Let him leave. Save yourself.
“Sit,” Callahan commanded, his voice trembling slightly. “Talk.”
Dorian hesitated, looking at the hand wrapped around his wrist, then settled back into the pew. Callahan released him, his palm burning from the contact. He threw a nervous look toward the choir loft and the entrance, but Rier was nowhere to be seen.
“Dorian,” Callahan started, lowering his voice until it was barely a murmur. “What is it that you’re after here?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Have you—” Callahan rolled the words around in his mouth, tasting the danger of them. “Are you looking for an outlet? Something to distract you from dealing with what’s truly bothering you?”
Dorian kept his eyes trained on his lap, twisting the silver ring on his left hand. “I’m not used to being on my own this long,” he said, voice barely audible. “I’ve always had someone. And I know that I have Elara, but it’s not the same. I still feel so alone. Ever since moving back.”
“Dorian.” Callahan frowned, placing his hand over Dorian’s fidgeting fingers to still them. “I am your priest. If someone were to find out what we’ve done, what we are doing… I could lose my position.”
“No one will find out,” Dorian blurted, angling his body toward Callahan. The desperation in his eyes was naked, raw. “I’ll be discreet. I’ve been in situations like this before. It’s nothing new to me.”
Callahan’s heart hammered against his ribs. Situations like this. The implication hung between them—secrets, hidden rooms, stolen moments.
“You must know there is only so far this can go.”
It shouldn’t go anywhere. It should stop here. Before I lose everything I’ve worked toward.
“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me.” A pitiful chuckle caught in Dorian’s throat. “Literally anything to just not…” He closed his eyes, dropping his shoulders. “Think for a little while.”
When he opened his eyes again, the look he gave Callahan lingered somewhere between please have me and I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position.
Callahan chewed the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. May God strike him down, but he couldn’t find it in him to dismiss the idea. The hunger was back, and this time, he didn’t want to starve.
“Then… we will discuss more at a later time.”
A loud buzzing noise cut through the heavy silence. Dorian flinched, shifting to pull his phone from his back pocket. His expression soured as he looked at the screen.
“Fuck. I have to get to work,” he grumbled.
He stood up, sliding the phone away. “Thank you for talking with me, Father. I’ll see you around,” he said, his tone shifting into something casual, breezier, as though neither of them had just stood on the precipice of ruin.
“Any time.” Callahan managed a gentle smile, though his pulse was still racing. “Oh, and Dorian—”
Dorian stopped, half out of the pew, and glanced over his shoulder.
“Please, come talk to me if you ever need a listening ear. No matter what it is.”
Dorian gave him an exhausted, genuine smile. “I will. Goodnight, Father.”