13. All About Lachlan
ALL ABOUT LACHLAN
Lachlan
My apartment is too quiet as I work, the echo off the brushed concrete making even my soft footsteps sound like an intrusion.
There are very few doorways in this place—just angles and lines, cold surfaces, nothing to collect the dust of sentimentality.
There’s a crucifix on one wall, wood worn black around the edges from the hands of too many penitents, and a steel rack above the counter hung with a mismatched arsenal of cookware: Marine-issue, pre-seasoned and beat to hell.
Then again, my life has only belonged to two institutions: the Marines and the Church, so I suppose the decor is appropriate.
I roll my sleeves to the elbow, survey the prep.
Hunter and Stella are going to be here soon, and I need to move shit along.
Arborio rice in a heavy porcelain bowl, shallots diced fine, garlic cloves lined like a firing squad along the cutting board.
The wine is already breathing, a Montrachet I splurged on from the Bottle Shop downtown—never serve the cheap stuff to a rich man, especially if you’re planning to seduce his niece with it.
Not that I’m thinking of it as seduction.
More like a scene of total filth, but this time off church premises.
I grimace a little. Clearly, what we’ve been doing could get me fired.
Clearly, my reputation could be destroyed. So what the fuck am I doing?
Yet I can’t get the image of Stella out of my mind with her big blue eyes, golden hair, and generous tits.
I can’t forget the way she gasps whenever she’s entered, holding perfectly still as a cock violates one of her tight holes.
I can’t get over the image of Hunter violating her too, his mien dark and forbidding, even as he enjoys every second of the depravity.
Fuck.
I’m so fucked.
But they’ll be here any minute, so I focus on the task at hand.
It’s what being a Marine taught me. Do what you can, given the situation and resources.
I check the butter, slice off a perfect square, then set it back in the fridge like I haven’t already gone through half the stick taste-testing tonight’s first try.
Risotto isn’t fancy, not really. It’s the kind of food you make for yourself when you’re too tired to pretend you have a palate, but you want to feel cared for.
Every Marine knows how to cook rice in a pit.
This is just a more evolved form of that.
I let the onion and garlic sweat in a Dutch oven, swirl in the rice, then drown the mix in white wine.
The whole place fills up with the smell—alcohol baking off, then the wallop of rosemary and thyme, the bass note of the browning.
It’s warm, and for a moment, I let myself believe this is a real home, not just another transient billet I’ll abandon when the next call comes.
When the knock lands—three taps, deliberate—I wipe my hands on a towel and open up.
Stella stands in the hallway with her hair down, the gold of it almost glowing, making her into an angel.
The dress she wears is blue, but not the same blue as her eyes; this is deeper, more liquid, the neckline a sharp scoop that nearly halves her breastbone.
It’s a dress that is aware of its own effect, the hem daring you to look up.
She’s even taller in heels, her long legs elongated.
Just behind her is Hunter, a huge slab of dark suit and confidence.
He looms, not in an overt way, but in the way of someone who’s never been denied the right of first entry.
His hand is at Stella’s back, the placement casual but somehow reminding you that he’s claiming this little filly. His other hand holds a gift bag.
“Hey,” I say, stepping aside. “Welcome to my humble home.”
Stella moves first, her perfume coming in just a second before the warmth of her arm, then the brush of her skirt as she passes me. She glances once at the crucifix, and her mouth twitches in something between amusement and challenge.
“This apartment belongs to the church,” I say in a dry tone. “It’s part of the perks of being a pastor at Trinity.”
She smiles sweetly.
“Well, I like your place. It’s homey and the smell of dinner is delicious.”
Hunter follows, and as he crosses the threshold, he clocks the space—one of those unconscious habit of men who’ve spent time in dangerous places.
He notes the windows, the exits, the fact that the only sharp knives are within my reach.
Where did he learn that? Who the fuck knows?
Then he relaxes, just enough to make sure I’ve noticed.
“We brought wine,” he growls, setting the bag on the kitchen island. His voice is rich as a steakhouse martini, and he has the posture to match: one arm on the counter, legs spread just enough to block out the rest of the world.
I nod at the gift bag. “You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs. “It’s what you do.”
Stella slides onto a barstool at the island, her bare knees crossing. For a moment, she looks right at me, not at Hunter, and there’s something in her gaze that hits me straight in the heart, making my knees week. I have to look look away, which I do, to the rice. What the fuck is going on?
I stir. “Dinner in ten,” I say, my voice mostly steady.
“Smells amazing,” she says, and she means it. Her eyes close just a little as she breathes in, and the sight of her, chin tipped up, hair behind her ear, is enough to spike my pulse. I focus on the risotto.
Hunter claims the stool next to her, the one that’s just a shade closer than necessary. His presence is magnetic, even across the slab of concrete. He grins at me, all wolf.
“You ever cook for a living, Pastor?”
“Only in a previous life,” I reply. “Five years as a line cook, if you count MREs and boiling ramen.”
He laughs, a real laugh. “Marines?”
I nod.
He cocks his head, as if recalibrating. “Should have guessed.”
Stella blinks, then smiles at me. “You don’t have the neck tattoo, though. Isn’t that required?”
I find the grin somewhere inside myself. “Nah, that’s just from the movies, although some guys do it. Trust me, I picked up a lot of bad shit during my time in the service, but I didn’t pick that one up.”
She laughs, a bright, warm sound, and the room feels less empty.
The risotto finishes. I kill the heat, fold in butter, then plate three servings into shallow bowls. The action feels practiced—first hers, then mine, then Hunter’s last. I pour the wine, slide a glass each to the two of them, and then lift mine in salute.
“To bad shit,” Hunter says, before anyone else can. The words crackle in the air.
“To bad shit and new friends,” I say, and clink glass to glass.
Stella lifts hers, but says nothing, just sips. Her lips leave a perfect crescent on the glass. She sets it down gently, and I see the tips of her fingers are shaking just the tiniest bit.
We eat in silence for a minute, the only sound the scrape of spoons on porcelain and the low hum of the fridge cycling.
The wine is cold, and it cuts the butter on the tongue; the acid wakes up the rosemary, brings out the heat in the cracked pepper.
I can tell from Stella’s face that she’s never had anything like it.
Hunter is less impressed. He eats with the efficiency of someone used to power lunches, but he doesn’t miss a thing.
After a while, he sits back and studies me over the rim of his glass. “So, O’Toole. You get a lot of parishioners like us?”
The question lands like a shot across the bow, but I’m ready. “No, not at all.”
He nods, satisfied, then turns to Stella. “You going to ask him, or should I?”
She sets her fork down, folds her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to, but I know I should. Do you know my parents, Lachlan?” she asks, and then, as if catching herself, corrects: “My dad, really. Thomas Moreland. He and his fiancee, Andie, are regulars at Trinity.”
She says the name “fiancee” with a soft click, like she’s not used to it. I clock the shift, and so does Hunter, who just nods for her to go on.
I consider the question. “I know the names. Not sure I’ve ever met them, but Pamela probably knows them. She’s the senior pastor.”
Stella nods, and there’s a faint flush climbing her cheekbones.
“Yeah, and the whole thing is weird, to be honest. They went for pre-marital counseling at Trinity with Pamela, and I can imagine what they spoke about because my dad’s getting married to my college best friend.
I know it sounds like a porn reel, but it’s real life. I set them up without meaning to.”
Hunter laughs, low and rumbling. “Stella’s life is just one long string of porn reels.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, she glances at me, and there’s a vulnerability there I haven’t seen before. “What about you?” she asks. “Family?”
I shake my head. “None left, and that was before the Marines.”
Hunter sips his wine, sets the glass down with a click. “So why the church?”
I answer honestly, because what do I have to lose? “After everything I’ve experienced, I wanted to believe in something. The Corps will teach you about God, but mostly by subtraction. I wanted to figure out if there was a way to live that didn’t rely on violence. Or at least, not only on violence.”
He nods. “I get that.”
Stella toys with her wine glass, then asks: “Are you allowed to hear confession?”
“Yes, if there’s a need,” I say. “Also, I’m not Catholic.”
She grins at that. “Well, you could have fooled me with the celibacy.”
Hunter barks a laugh, and I let myself join in. The sound is rough, but it breaks the tension.
We finish dinner. I take the bowls, rinse them in the sink, let them clatter just a little. Behind me, Stella and Hunter talk in low tones; I don’t listen, not because I’m not interested, but because I respect their privacy, especially in this small space.
When I turn, Stella is watching me, her chin resting on her hands, elbows on the counter. Her dress has shifted higher up her thighs, and she doesn’t seem to care.
Hunter says, “Stella’s had a rough week. She’s still a little sore.”
She elbows him, hard, but he just grins wider.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice wobbles on the last syllable.
Hunter looks at me. “She’s been taking my cock in her ass on a regular basis. I’m sorry you’re so achy, baby, but practice is what will make it better.”
Stella’s cheeks explode in color. She glares at him, but there’s laughter trembling at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s not sure whether to be furious or delighted.
I find myself grinning, then laughing outright, and for a second, it’s the three of us, howling like idiots in a kitchen that hasn’t seen this much joy in its short, sterile existence.
I refill her glass, then Hunter’s, then my own.
The conversation shifts, but the energy is different now—looser, rawer, like a jazz set after midnight when the band is too drunk to pretend they’re not just playing for each other.
Stella asks me if I believe in the devil, and I say only as a metaphor for human desire.
Hunter asks if I’ve ever been tempted by a congregant, and I say temptation is just a proof of life.
He stares hard for a moment because obviously, I didn’t give a straight answer.
But he doesn’t call me out on it, and the conversation moves on.
Stella wants to know what I’d do if a parishioner confessed to something really bad—murder, or incest—and I say the only sin that matters is the one you can’t live with afterward.
Half the wine is gone, and the night is thick outside the window, the streetlights painting slow-moving bars across the concrete floor.
I realize, with a jolt, that I want them to stay.
Not just for the sex that will almost certainly follow, but for the way they fill up the space with something other than silence.
I gather the glasses, set them in the sink. When I turn, they’re both watching me: Stella with a look that’s sweet invitation and all sensuality; Hunter with a smile like he’s already won whatever game we’re playing.
I run a hand over the back of my neck, and Stella’s gaze follows the movement.
“So what happens now?” I ask, letting the words land between us.
Hunter grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”
But it’s Stella who speaks, her voice soft but sharp yet sensual at once. “I think you should decide, Pastor. You’re the only one here with a moral code. I think we’ve established that Hunter and I have none. Zero, despite your best efforts at counseling,” she giggles.
The challenge is real, and so is the desire. I feel it slide through me, electric and alive.
I consider the options, the risks, the consequences. I consider how much I want to taste her, and what it might cost me. I consider the promise I made to myself to be better than what the world expects from men like me.
But when Stella stands and crosses the room, the sway of her hips is too much, and my cock jerks. When Hunter gets up and blocks the door with the bulk of his body, and when the two of them close the distance, I know exactly what’s going to happen.
And I know I won’t regret it, not for a second.