Page 21 of The Reaper

“There’s no need for that. I could’ve handled it myself,” I said.

“Yeah right.” He chuckled. “They could’ve seriously hurt you. Plus, what were you planning to do? Pray their sins away?” he mocked.

“Do you always resort to killing?” I asked, ignoring the annoyance caused by his assumption that I couldn’t take care of myself.

“Only for the right people. Or, should I say, the wrong people.”

“Why aren’t you in jail?” That question kept me up at night. Well, him and that question.

“Because I’m good at my job,” he answered. “Fuck,” he whispered, looking away.

“Killing is your job?” As expected, he didn’t answer. But unlike the last time, he stayed. “What were you doing when you helped me that early in the morning, by the way?”

He answered with a shrug.

“This is where you’re supposed to flee, like last time,” I said, reminding him of our first meeting. It was a risky move but it paid off when he remained in his seat.

“What do you fucking want?” he asked. His lips were tight, eyes burning. His body language screamed agitation.

“I don’t need anything,” I lied. “You seek me in this place of worship.” He would need to try harder if he wanted to intimidate me. This was my territory.

“You’re different from all the priests I’ve met before,” he said, eyeing me.

“Different how? Because I care enough to ask questions?”

As predictable as Sundays falling after Saturdays, he met my question with a shrug followed by another wave of silence.

Why is he still here? I thought. Why do I want him to stay? Subtly, I took deep breaths and changed the course of our conversation. “Are you here for another confession?” I’d never asked anyone that question before. We were trained to never ask. It makes people feel judged. The man was like any other, and I wanted our conversation to keep going so I could gain his trust. “You were just here a week ago.”

He leaned back in his seat. “Church is open to everyone the last time I checked,” he said, smirking. He must’ve been waiting for the shift in our exchange judging by the twinkle in his eyes. “Have you thought about my offer?” He stared at my face, then my lips. He spread his muscular thighs apart, revealing a bulging crotch.

My gaze traveled down to his groin, and I was rendered unable to speak because my mouth suddenly dried up.

“See something you like?” He pulled the zipper of his pants, slowly dragging it down. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “All you gotta do is ask,” he whispered in a magnetic hum.

The zipper was halfway down. I should stop this. This was a church in the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in. Still, I let him proceed until it was all the way down.

His eyes were yet to leave my face. He paused, perhaps to gauge my reaction. He pulled a gun from his waistband, laying it next to him. That alone should’ve sounded the alarm in my head, but I’d seen guns before and knew my way around them. I held my breath as he unbuttoned the top, revealing black underwear with a white waistband. The length of his dick was outlined perfectly. He lowered them, exposing a trail of fine blond hair leading to a girthy cock. He lifted his sweatshirt, revealing ridges of smooth, lean abs. “Do you like this, Father?”

I groaned. My mind was in a haze. I shook my head and cleared my throat. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice an octave higher than usual.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, pulling his underwear even lower. His obliques were out of this world. Defined and veiny.

God, make it stop, I told myself, but I couldn’t seem to get the words out of my mouth.

“It’ll be our dirty little secret,” he repeated.

The church’s door creaked open, carrying a conversation inside. I expected the man to stop his display. But, to my surprise, he appeared more excited. Mischief in his eyes matched the sinister smile on his lips. He stroked the length of his dick through the fabric, the shape of its head visible, the pre-cum darkening the soft cotton.

The chatter became distinctive, the footsteps louder. The newcomers were mere feet away.

I summoned what was left of my self-control before someone opened a curtain and found us. “Stop.” It was supposed to be an order, but it sounded like a plea. “Stop,” I repeated with authority.

“What was that?” a voice outside asked.

“I think it’s coming from the booth,” the other voice answered. “Are you okay over there?”

“Yes,” I answered.

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