Page 19 of The Reaper

He took a deep breath. “Fuuuuck,” he moaned, exhaling. He lifted his hand, which also had a four-inch scar running from his wrist to his knuckles. I wanted to ask where he got them from, but I had a decent suspicion where. Time moved in slow motion. My senses were hyper-aware of his voice, his scent, his actions. His palm closed in on my face; our eyes locked; chests heaved. One more second and he would be touching me—and I was about to let him.

The door to the side of the church opened, the creaking hinges announcing someone’s arrival. Saved by the bell. Surprised that neither of us jolted from the intrusion, I staggered back, expecting he’d do the same now that the moment had passed.

He didn’t. Instead, he moved a step closer while glancing at the group of people entering the church, who were too busy admiring the palatial dome and hanging chandelier to pay attention to the sins unfolding feet away from them. Their smartphones attached to their selfie sticks would’ve captured us had they not been oblivious to our presence. He leaned in, dragging his neatly trimmed beard across my cheek until his mouth neared my ear—the one away from the unsuspecting crowd. “I can keep a secret,” he whispered, the tip of his tongue licking my lobe. “It’ll be our dirty little one, Father.” A low chuckle escaped his mouth before he walked away.

A loud cackle from the group sobered me, allowing me to recalibrate back to equilibrium. That could never happen again. I would not jeopardize my mission for an impulse.

“Hi, Father,” someone said when they finally noticed my presence.

I acknowledged them with a nod before heading toward one of the doors in the east wing of the church.

“Wait up,” one of the guys said. “Can we take some pictures with you?”

Wanting to make a great first impression, I stopped walking to face them. “Sure,” I said, smiling. These guys could be tourists for all I knew, highly likely judging by their Canucks NHL jerseys, who happened to beat Boston’s Bruins last night. Still, I obliged. “I’d be happy to,” I added, marching in their direction.

It’ll be our dirty little secret, Father.

Twelve: The Reaper

I’d never been so bored in my entire fucking life. After what seemed like ten lifetimes, I was eager to get the hell out of this place where anything resembling fun came to die. It took a little over two hours to finalize the new lease for an apartment I didn’t need, but after going through the bullshit of signing the contract and wiring funds for the deposit, I was out of the office before the ink was even dry. Figuratively.

“Mr. Smith,” the property manager called.

I forgot her name. Maybe it was Jane or Jennifer. She looked like a Jennifer. I didn’t bother learning it, since all I cared about was finding an apartment facing the bishop’s house. Five units and three floors later, I was being ushered inside an apartment parallel to Father Saint James’s bedroom window. The manager discussed terms and prices, but I was already tuned out, my mind spotting a location for my high-grade camera. She could have gouged the price of this unit tenfold and I wouldn’t have cared, not for what it was worth to me.

“John!” she yelled when I ignored her first call. Maybe her name was Julia. What-fucking-ever. It didn’t make a difference.

John Smith was one of the aliases I used to conceal my identity. It was common enough, perhaps the most common name for a white guy. We didn’t want our names to be remarkable, we wanted the opposite. The more we could get lost in the shuffle of common names, the better.

“Mr. John Smith,” she repeated when I still didn’t answer. I kept walking away.

Even through her exasperation, she couldn’t hide the amusement in saying my name out loud. Fact: John Smith was a common name, but I had yet to meet someone with that name. I stopped, turning to face her. Her red heels clicked across the brick courtyard. I shrugged then crossed my arms when she reached me. Emily, her name tag said. My guesses were way off. Good thing I wasn’t on an assignment.

“Did you hear me calling you?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. She was feisty for such a petite woman. She looked like one of the strippers I’d banged before. I preferred men, but sex was sex. Plus, you could always put a pillow over their faces. All they needed to have was a wet hole and you could color me pink.

“Did you see me walking away?” I answered her question with a question of my own. I’d had enough interactions with people and I’d spoken more today than I had all week.

Her mouth fell open. Jerk, she mouthed, but she may as well have said it out loud. “I was just gonna tell you that my boss said you can move in today,” she said. “Here are your keys.”

“K.” I grabbed them from her hand, turned my back, and walked away. I was going to move in today with or without their approval. I didn’t need keys, and I was only moving a few things with me.

She huffed and puffed. “What an ass.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

***

After loading the laptop into my backpack, I unpacked my night goggles and the Canon 5D Mark IV buried deep within the metal chest I kept for mission-related paraphernalia. I grabbed the case that held the toolset on my way out of my bedroom. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown, the caller ID flashed.

“Who the fuck is this?” I answered. Nothing but static noise filled the silence. I pressed my cell tighter to my ear, hoping to decipher the faint audio on the other line. My frustration grew. I ended the call, but my mind stalled. Very few people knew my number and I only used my cell for one purpose: to take calls from El Jefe for my new assignment. It wouldn’t be The Savior because he only texted.

My phone vibrated again. Unknown, again. I answered right away. “Who. The fuck. Is this?” I spat. Voiceless static, again. My grip on the phone tightened; I fought the urge to throw it on the floor. In the end, I turned off the device and tossed it in my bag.

I grabbed my motorcycle keys and headed back to my new hideout to focus on the priest, instead of the anxiety brewing inside me. Father Saint James would be my distraction until whatever pull he had on me passed. I’d been here before, and once the novelty and thrill went away, I was off to the next shiny new thing. My fixation with Father Saint James would be no different. I didn’t know if he was into anything—he was a man of God, after all—but one thing I knew for certain: my dick would be in him, and he would love every second of it.

I was hyper-vigilant cruising the city, especially after those two suspicious calls, even going as far as taking a different route. But aside from the occasional middle-finger salutes I received from those who couldn’t drive as well as me, everything appeared as normal. I parked my bike in the uneven brick alley behind the apartment, ignoring the sour odor coming from two giant garbage bins. I headed inside the complex using the back door, opting to use the stairs since the elevator was one snap away from falling apart. “Hi,” a random guy who was picking up his mail from the corner of the lobby said. I ignored him and jogged up the steps.

It took some jamming before the key slid into the hole, another reminder of how old this complex was. The door screeched, dragging on the wooden floor that was covered in marks outlining the opening and closing of it. It was a shithole. It made Motel 6 look like the fucking Four Seasons. The setting should’ve messed with my neatness compulsion, but the wreckage and chaos only heightened the stakes, making the prize of being inside Father Saint James much more satisfying. On cue, my dick perked up, urging me to hurry the fuck up and get on with it.

---