Chapter 21 Callahan
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave...”
— Song of Solomon 8:6 KJV
Callahan eased his car into the farthest corner of Nirvana’s lot, where the neon bleed didn’t reach. Shadows swallowed the vehicle whole. Good. Let them hide him a little longer.
He walked toward the entrance anyway, pulse already unsteady. Nothing sinful in coming here, he told himself. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t touching. Except the wanting itself felt like touching—fingers sliding under cloth, tracing the warm line of Dorian’s stomach where the crop top ended. Callahan bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted metal and pushed through the door.
Inside, the bar roared with Saturday life. Pool balls cracked like gunshots. Some tired country song scraped out of ancient speakers. Grease, hot sauce, and spilled beer hung thick in the air. Callahan threaded between bodies until he found the single empty stool beneath a flickering light. He sat, folded his hands on the scarred wood, and waited.
Dorian was already moving behind the bar, laughing at something Bianca said, hands gesturing wide. Even from here Callahan could see the strip of skin flashing each time Dorian reached for a glass. That dark trail disappearing beneath frayed denim. Callahan’s mouth went dry. He looked down at his own knuckles instead, noting the faint blue lines of old ink beneath the rolled sleeves. Tattoos he had hidden for decades under black wool and long-sleeved clerical shirts. Now they were on display like some ridiculous advertisement: Look, the priest has a past.
Dorian noticed him first. He sauntered over, hips loose, and set down the usual iced tea without being asked.
“Here’s your usual, Father.”
Callahan glanced up. The crop top had ridden higher; the waistband sat low enough to reveal the sharp cut of muscle disappearing into shadow. Heat flashed across Callahan’s face.
“Thank you,” he managed, voice thin.
Dorian leaned an elbow on the bar, rag in hand, wiping a circle that didn’t need wiping. “Surprised to see you so soon. Even more surprised you haven’t used that number yet. Must be burning a hole in your pocket.”
A customer shouted for Dorian farther down the rail. He straightened, flashed a quick smirk, and was gone.
Callahan exhaled shakily. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the crumpled napkin—red ink, Dorian’s looping scrawl. The address sat there like a live coal. He should throw it away. He should have thrown it away the moment it was pressed into his palm.
Bianca appeared suddenly, vaulting onto the counter beside him with practiced ease.
“Father Callahan! I’ve worked here years and never knew you had ink. Always long sleeves, even in July. What’s with the gun show tonight?”
Callahan’s gaze flicked involuntarily toward Dorian again, then away. “Age makes the heat harder to bear.”
She grinned, wagging a finger. “Lying’s a sin, Father. Somebody’s got you dressing to impress.”
He opened his mouth to deflect, but Bianca was relentless—teasing, light, merciless. Every joke landed closer to the truth than he could stand. He prayed for patience, for detachment, for anything that would keep his eyes from drifting back to Dorian.
Across the bar, Maverick sat on his usual stool, paperwork spread in front of him. Dorian lingered nearby, refilling Maverick’s drink with unnecessary focus. Callahan caught the low murmur over the music.
“Why do you look like you want to rip Jazz’s head off?”
Dorian’s shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But when Dorian’s gaze cut sideways, it landed squarely on Bianca—still perched beside Callahan, laughing.
Understanding struck Callahan like a slap. Jealousy. Sharp, possessive, unmistakable. The knowledge should have frightened him. Instead it pooled low in his belly, hot and dangerous.
He stood abruptly. “I’m sorry, Bianca. I just remembered—early morning at Saint Jude’s tomorrow.”
She pouted theatrically but slid down. “Fine, busy man. Night, Father.”
He left a ten under his glass and walked out without looking back.
In the parking lot the night air felt cooler against his flushed skin. He unlocked the car, slid inside, and sat for a long moment with his hands on the wheel. Then he pulled out his phone.
Callahan
Jealousy isn’t a good color on you. I think you’re due for a confession.
His thumb hovered. He typed the second message before the guilt could stop him.
Callahan
Perhaps a private one at your place? Tuesday at 8PM?
He hit send and immediately dropped his forehead to the steering wheel with a groan. Reckless. Utterly reckless. Vows fraying thread by thread.
The phone buzzed against his thigh.
HIM
Sounds perfect. See you then.
Callahan stared at the glowing screen, then lifted his eyes to the little plastic Madonna dangling from the rearview mirror. Her serene face swayed gently in the stale air of the car.
Mother, pray that I do not burn this time.