Page 16 of The Reaper

“Yes. We’ll give you more details when you’re settled.” He stood and headed to the door. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Wait—you had everything arranged before I even said yes?” I asked. “Don’t I have a choice?

“Choice is an illusion, Father Saint James.” He stopped walking, but he didn’t look back at me. “It’s a mirage. They like us to believe we have a say, but our future is determined the moment you put on your robe for the first time. We don’t have a choice.”

“Andrew did,” I said. “You did.”

The archbishop glanced at me, shaking his head. “You’re young. You have so much to learn. It would be a shame if your quest ends here.” He opened the door, signaling that this meeting was over. “Don’t blow this chance. Andrew wouldn’t want you to,” he whispered near my ear as I passed him. He knew what he was doing. “Only you can do this mission.”

I turned to speak, but Archbishop Lloyd had already shut the door.

***

I shook my head to rid myself of thoughts of Archbishop Lloyd and focused on what Andrew used to tell me. You’re born to do this. I thought about my training and all the sacrifices I’d made. I couldn’t go back now, it was too late.

“You’re not a failure and your career isn’t over,” I told the man in the mirror. And if I had to delude myself into thinking otherwise, I had to keep my eyes on the mission alone. One day at a time. The conclusion of my legacy depended on this assignment. I am worthy of being a priest.

I nodded to myself and took a deep breath. I pulled the shower glass door open and stayed under the spray of warm water for a long time, washing away the day’s worries.

Tomorrow was a brand-new day.

Ten: The Reaper

Security spotlights lit up the church, while the wall of cherry blossom trees cast shadows on the bishop’s home, cloaking it under darkness. The rain had stopped, but the shushing of the wind remained. The church appeared deserted, but it still took me a minute to find a perfect place to park, a site giving the optimal view of Father Saint James’s bedroom. My wheels skidded to a stop when a spot opened across the street, parallel from his house. From the road, the lights on the bishop’s house were off. That was odd, considering it wasn’t late in the evening. He could be out and about, or sleeping, both options shouldn’t make a difference to what I was aiming to accomplish.

I killed the engine and hopped out of the car to secure my backpack, which contained the classified shit, in my trunk, and to pay my priest a visit. I slid on my black leather gloves before pulling a black ski mask over my head. I checked both directions of the street and crossed the distance to my target.

The ground was covered with layers of delicate pink and white petals from the trees surrounding the perimeter, victims of the recent rain. If it hadn’t been so warm, it could easily have been mistaken for snow. It wouldn’t deter me if it was, because once I had my teeth in something, there was no stopping me. And the higher the stakes were, the more elaborate my plans became.

The darkness worked to my advantage, and many people weren’t out due to the sudden changes in weather. What a difference a day made. The clear sky from yesterday was a stark difference from this damp and drizzly night. The evening cloaked my presence, allowing me to move somewhat freely. Since I had a dry run of breaking into Father Saint James’s home yesterday, this would be a piece of cake.

I placed my hand above my forehead, away from the glass so I didn’t leave a mark, and peeked through the window, searching for signs of the priest. Dancing shadows of the trees outside were the only movement inside. I crept along the back of the house, skimming the kitchen. Like the living room, there was no Father Saint James in sight. I tapped the screen of my watch to reveal the time. It was 9:45 p.m. Where could he be?

Wait—there, a faint light. I tiptoed, craning my neck to investigate the source. The office door was ajar, and the glow looked like that of a computer left on.

The window I used to enter the premises the first time was closed, forcing me to be creative. Thankful that I came prepared, I pulled two small metal rods out of my pocket and made my way to the back door. I crouched down, keeping an eye on the church—one could never be too cautious—pausing when chatter filled the air. Voices accompanied by skateboard wheels skidding across the ground floated from the street, loud then gradually soft again, and once they were gone, I went to town on the lock.

It only took one attempt. I slowly twisted the knob. The door creaked, causing me to stop. If his lit computer was any indication, he had to be here somewhere. I waited for a few seconds and, when nobody came to check, I crept inside.

I sneaked into the living room via the kitchen hallway and, once again, stopped in my tracks as the sound of running water, coming from the main bedroom, caught my attention. I leaned against the wall, pressing my ears to the partition, before peeking in.

The bedroom was dim, steam issuing from the open ensuite. That’s where you are. Lifting my boots quietly, I stepped heel to toe toward the bathroom in a feather-like manner.

Father Saint James hummed while he lathered his body with soap. It was easy to make out his shape through the mist, and the contours of his physique directed all my blood to my stirring cock. I released an inward groan when he twisted his body to rinse off, his ass pressing against the glass door. My mouth watered. I pulled the glove from my right hand and placed it in my back pocket. I snaked my hand under my belt and into my pants. Slick moisture covered my palm. I rubbed circles around the tip of my cock, spreading the pre-cum leaking out of the slit all over its head, falling into a lustful trance.

My senses were awakened when the running water stopped. I stepped back, looking around for a place to hide. I was just getting started and there was no way I was leaving now. Not until I was satisfied. The shower door slid open, followed by the sound of wet footsteps slapping on the tiles. I beelined to the closet, closing it from the inside.

Fuck. I groaned, enclosed with the scent of my newest obsession. The image of Father Saint James naked and glistening had my mind in a frenzy. I pulled my hand out of my pants because one more stroke and I would fucking bust a nut. Through the sliver of the closed closet door, I peeked through.

He was still in the bathroom, facing the mirror. Disappointment spread inside me—he was covered with a robe. My patience was being tested, and heaven knew it was short, almost non-existent.

I was rewarded when Father Saint James made his way out of the bathroom, the robe loosely wrapped around his waist. The lower part of his body was covered, but I couldn’t miss the well-defined chest peering from within the thin shiny fabric. His pecs were glistening wet, making him even more alluring. He massaged the back of his neck, stretching it left and right, moaning as he applied pressure on his traps muscles where it met his shoulder. His Adam’s apple protruded from his brawny neck, moving up and down as he swallowed. He released a deep breath before turning around.

Slowly, he loosened the fabric belt around his waist and disrobed, one arm at a time. My breath caught; it was a sight to behold. My speculation from the first time I saw him had been spot-on, at least where his ass was concerned. His butt cheeks were round and firm, melon size, with dimples on each. His back muscles flexed and relaxed, tapering down to a trimmed waist. Had I known about the show waiting for me, I would’ve brought my phone to capture one of the most seductive and erotic moments I’d ever seen—and I’d seen plenty.

I kneeled, unbuttoning my pants, then pulled my zipper one tooth at a time to prevent it from making noise. My boxers followed, stopping mid-thigh. The girth of my cock swelled, pre-cum dripping onto the wooden floor. I almost lost it when Father Saint James turned to hang the robe on the hook next to the closet. I held my breath, my heart skipping a beat at the prospect of being caught in such a compromising position. Not having my gun—or any weapon—with me should’ve rang all sorts of warning bells. But based on my thorough investigation earlier, I knew the priest didn’t have a weapon. Well, except what he was packing between his legs.

From this vantage point, Father Saint James was a vision. Who fucking knew priests could be this beefy: bulging biceps, chiseled sixpack, and obliques for days. My tongue would have a field day licking the soft happy trail leading to the promised land. Fuck me, Jesus. Father Saint James adjusted his dick and, in an instant, it reacted from his touch, nearly doubling in size, his equally impressive balls hanging below. Being the holy man he was, he stopped before his cock turned into a full-mast salute.

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