Chapter 33 Callahan
Callahan stared at his reflection and felt the blood drain from his face. The skin around his throat looked naked, exposed—wrong. The Roman collar was gone. He had tossed it onto the passenger seat last night in his rush to leave Dorian’s townhouse before the sun came up, and somewhere between the driveway and the rectory door it had vanished. He pressed two fingers to the hollow of his neck as if the stiff white band might reappear by prayer alone. It didn’t.
Rier would be awake by now. If Callahan went back to the car, Rier would hear the door, see him digging through the seats like a thief, and the questions would start. There was no time. He smoothed the front of his black shirt, swallowed the panic, and left the rectory through the side door.
The morning air was cold enough to sting. He kept his head down, hands buried in his pockets, and slipped through the back entrance of the church. The nave smelled of lemon polish and old incense. From the corner of his eye he caught Rier’s silhouette near the baptismal font, speaking to a young mother—the same woman whose children had been shrieking two nights ago. Rier’s gaze flicked toward him, a brief acknowledgment, nothing more. Callahan didn’t slow. He cut left through the narthex, pushed open the sacristy door, and closed it behind him with a soft click.
The single bulb over the vesting table threw a weak yellow glow across the shelves. He found the dusty box of spare inserts at the back, behind folded purificators and a half-empty bottle of altar wine. His fingers shook as he pulled one free and snapped it into place. The plastic edge scraped his skin, a small, sharp reminder. There. Fixed. No one would know.
He leaned against the counter and let his breath out slowly. Careless. Reckless. He had thrown the collar aside the way he had thrown aside every caution last night—driving across town in borrowed sweatpants and a baseball cap, crawling into Dorian’s bed, staying until the sky turned gray. And for what? A few hours of warmth, of skin against skin, of being wanted without reservation. The memory of Dorian’s sleepy smile when Callahan kissed his shoulder at four-thirty in the morning rose unbidden, and guilt followed it like a shadow.
The church had saved him once. After the scandal, after the drinking, after the night he almost put a gun in his mouth, Revived Faith had taken him in, scrubbed his record clean, given him purpose. He owed them everything. And yet here he was, risking it all because a young man with ink on his arms and a crooked grin had looked at him—really looked—and seen something worth touching.
He rubbed his eyes. God knew the war inside him. God, who had sacrificed His own son out of love, could surely understand a man willing to sacrifice a vow for the same reason.
“Callahan.”
The voice sliced through the quiet like a blade. Callahan turned. Rier stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes fixed on the fresh white insert at Callahan’s throat.
“How are you, Rier?” Callahan managed, aiming for calm.
Rier didn’t answer the greeting. “Care to explain why you arrived without your collar?”
Callahan’s tongue felt thick. “I misplaced it last night. Came in late from Saint Jude’s. It’s probably in my room.”
Rier’s mouth twisted. “In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never misplaced it once.” He stepped closer. “Perhaps you left it somewhere you shouldn’t have been.”
The air thinned. Callahan’s pulse thudded in his ears. “If you have something to say, Rier, say it.”
Rier’s gaze was cold and precise. “I wonder if you’ve forgotten your vows. Something—someone—has been distracting you. That grimy bar you’ve started visiting again. The way you flinch every time your phone buzzes.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Ever since the Koller boy came back.”
The name landed like a slap. Callahan felt heat flood his neck, the new collar suddenly tight as a noose. Rier knew. Or suspected enough to wound.
“You were never meant for this life, Callahan,” Rier said softly. “Wickedness doesn’t wash out. It only waits.”
Callahan straightened. He reached up, closed his fingers around Rier’s pointing hand, and moved it away from his chest. “The only wickedness I see here is yours,” he said, voice low. “The hot water at Saint Jude’s went out for three weeks and you called it an opportunity for humility. You told me the homeless didn’t deserve meals because they didn’t come to Mass.” He stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “One of us has walked in Christ’s footsteps, Rier. And it isn’t you.”
For a moment Rier only stared. Then he withdrew his hand and smoothed his sleeve. “As head priest, I’m prepared to be merciful,” he said, tone almost gentle. “You have until the end of the day to decide where your loyalties lie. Pray on it.”
He left without another word. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Callahan sagged against the shelves. The room tilted. Tears pricked hot at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t lose Dorian. He couldn’t abandon Saint Jude’s to Rier’s indifference. Either choice carved something vital out of him. He wiped his face roughly, straightened his glasses, and smoothed the front of his shirt again. The fabric felt like chains now, not armor.
He thought of the day he had first worn clerical black—how light it had seemed then, how safe. Dorian had chipped away at those chains one conversation, one lingering glance at a time, until they lay broken in his hands. He looked at the two ends: one leading back to the life he had pledged, the other toward a life without stipulations, without shame. He knew which he wanted. He knew which he would choose.
They were not the same.
The great oak doors at the front of the church creaked open. Callahan stepped out of the sacristy in time to see Dorian standing in the narthex, sunlight cutting across his faded Motley Crue shirt and ripped jeans. He looked too alive for this place, too bright. His smile faltered the instant he met Callahan’s eyes.
Callahan’s heart twisted. He jerked his head toward the restroom corridor and mouthed, Hurry.
Dorian moved without hesitation, boots silent on the marble. Callahan listened—only one set of footsteps retreating toward the chapel upstairs. He counted to ten, then followed.
Inside the restroom Dorian leaned against the sinks, arms crossed, studying him. The fluorescent light made the tattoos on his forearms look darker, the rips in his jeans more deliberate. Callahan’s mouth went dry. Even now, with everything crumbling, the hunger stirred.
“You look like hell,” Dorian said quietly.
Callahan managed half a smile. “Accurate.”
Dorian pushed off the counter and closed the distance. Heat rolled off him—coffee and the faint trace of last night’s sweat. “You’ve got that look again, Father.”
“What look?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
Callahan’s breath caught. He should step back. He didn’t. Dorian’s hand settled over his heart, steady and warm.
“Is that what you want?” Dorian asked, voice low. “To eat me?”
Callahan’s control snapped. He backed Dorian into the nearest stall, the door banging shut behind them. The sound ricocheted off tile. Callahan froze, waiting for footsteps, for Rier’s voice. Nothing came.
Dorian locked the door and leaned against it, eyes dark. “It’s okay. No one’s here.”
“We shouldn’t,” Callahan whispered, but he was already crowding closer, hands finding Dorian’s waist. “We’ll get caught.”
“No riskier than the confessional,” Dorian murmured, arms sliding around Callahan’s neck.
Callahan groaned softly. The memory of Dorian in the dark grille, hand moving under his jeans, voice breaking on Callahan’s title—it flooded him with heat. He kissed Dorian hard, pressing him against the metal wall. Dorian opened for him immediately, tongue sliding against his, a small hungry sound in his throat. Callahan gripped his hips, pulled them flush, felt Dorian already hard against him.
Dorian broke the kiss first, lips wet, breathing ragged. “Still starving, Sir?”
“Ravenous,” Callahan said against his mouth. He slid a hand down, cupped Dorian’s ass, squeezed. Dorian jolted, a soft laugh escaping.
“Turn around for me, pet.”
Dorian tilted his head, defiant even now. “Is that how you ask?”
Callahan’s hand moved to Dorian’s throat—not tight, just enough pressure to feel the swallow beneath his palm. “Be a good boy,” he said softly. “Turn around.”
Dorian’s pupils blew wide. He started to obey.
The outer door creaked. Footsteps passed—slow, deliberate—then faded.
Callahan eased his grip. “Change of plans.” His voice was rough. “Go home. Send me a picture of every toy you own.”
Dorian’s cheeks flushed deep red. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good pup.” Callahan brushed a thumb across his cheek, gentling. “I’ll come to you when I can.”
Dorian searched his face. “Rier?”
Callahan nodded once. “He knows. Gave me until tonight to choose.”
Dorian’s expression shuttered. Then he straightened. “There might not have to be a choice.” He kept his voice low. “I talked to Arthur this morning. He’s drawing up papers to turn Saint Jude’s into an independent nonprofit. He’ll make Revived Faith an offer they can’t refuse.”
Callahan stared. The words didn’t land at first. Then they did, and something huge and fragile swelled behind his ribs. “You’d do that?”
“It’s not just for you,” Dorian said, but his eyes said otherwise. “It’s for both of us.”
Callahan couldn’t speak. He kissed Dorian again—slower this time, pouring gratitude and terror and love into it until Dorian melted against him.
They left the stall carefully. Callahan checked the nave—empty—then led Dorian toward the front doors. At the threshold Dorian paused.
“If this costs you Saint Jude’s—”
Callahan stepped close, tucked an errant strand of hair behind Dorian’s ear, cupped his cheek. “It won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
Dorian pressed a quick kiss to the center of his palm. “I—”
Sharp footsteps rang out across the marble. Rier’s voice rolled down the nave like judgment itself.
“So, you’ve chosen damnation after all.”