Page 5 of The Reaper

“He’s gone to a different parish,” the man with the baritone voice said. “I’m Father Saint James.” His voice was too casual and sounded far too young to be a priest.

What the fuck? “Gone where? When?” I stood to leave. Why didn’t Father Oller tell me he was leaving? I never would’ve come back had I known he was gone. He was the only reason I kept showing up at this place. Well, that and the comfort I received whenever I unloaded my sins on him. He was my savior, giving me a sense of hope, however false, that I would be redeemed. It’d been a while since my last confession, but he had delivered mass two Sundays ago and surely would’ve said something if he was leaving.

“Stay,” Father Saint James urged. “He moved to the Philippines to fulfill his lifelong dream of leading a parish there,” he explained. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

Like that was gonna happen. I’d been seeing Father Oller every month for years and he never once asked for my name. Not that I would tell him anyway. I had no name, and the one they called me required an explanation I would carry to my grave. “I am nobody,” I said.

“Nobody?”

“Yes. Nobody.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

My sight focused on the small window separating us and I couldn’t help but notice his clean-shaven face. A set of red lips sitting on top of a cleft chin and square jaw. I didn’t dare look him in the eyes. I never did with Father Oller because it was better that way. I sat back in the seat I had vacated seconds ago, debating whether I should stay or go.

“It’s okay, my child. You’re safe here.”

My child. It sounded odd coming from him, but his voice was alluring, tempting the sins out of me—and heaven knew I had plenty. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I recited after kneeling. “It’s been three months since my last confession.”

It had been after my last assignment, which took me to Los Angeles. Confessing my sins to Father Oller after every kill had become as routine as the sunrise every morning, thinking it would wash away my wrongdoings. Who was I kidding? I was hopeless.

Pages were flipped on the other side of the wooden wall. Father Oller never used the Bible for me. He knew it by heart. Seconds later, Father Saint James read a verse in the book of Matthew about forgiveness or some shit like that.

I’d heard that verse before, from Father Oller, who never recited the same verse twice. He always had something meaningful to deliver. Too bad it was all lost on me. “I killed two men,” I confessed, cutting him off.

He was silent. The exact opposite of Father Oller’s reaction when I first told him about the men I had killed. Against my better judgment, I chanced a look at Father Saint James’s eyes.

He was staring back at me, but I couldn’t decipher if the intensity in his eyes was that of shock, fear, or both.

My gaze traveled back to his lips. They were supple and moist, inviting me to devour them. I shook my head to get rid of those thoughts. That had come out of nowhere! I had enough sins, and lusting over the young priest was a recipe for disaster. My jeans became tighter, reminding me of how long it had been since I’d fucked a man. Fuck! The head of my cock was pressing the zipper of my pants through my boxers, rubbing with every shift in my seat. I adjusted my dick to the side, releasing a shallow breath once relieved of the building pressure.

“Why?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Huh?”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Because they would’ve killed me if I hadn’t.”

“And why would they want to kill you?” Another question. His eyes were still glued to me, perhaps judging.

“You’re not supposed to ask all these questions.” Father Oller had asked me why a couple of times, but stopped when he realized he wasn’t going to get any answers. Not the real answers anyway. “You’re supposed to offer prayer or ask me to repent.”

“Do you repent killing these men?”

Another question. If I’d wanted an interrogation, I would’ve gone to … well, I didn’t know where I would’ve gone, but most definitely not here. Still, I thought about his question for a split second. Do I repent killing? I didn’t. Maybe. There was no room for guilt and conscience with what I did.

We were taking down monsters. The worst of humankind. Those who got away without paying for their heinous crimes. The rapists, the human traffickers, the abusers, and the list went on. Our actions were justified.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said when I didn’t answer.

“Sometimes.”

I was shocked by my admission. I had to get the hell out before I said something I’d regret. I lived in shadows with secrets that would stay with me until my last breath. I didn’t want to have to kill him like the others who’d had the misfortune of knowing too much. So, I bailed.

In a moment of introspection—the second I stepped out of the confessional—I realized that it was the way Father Saint James spoke that enamored me. The way his lips moved when he said don’t be afraid had me sinning, adding weight to the cross I bore.

The resounding muted thud of my boots echoed through the empty building as I made my way out. Halfway through the door, I chanced a look behind me just as the maroon velvet curtain parted. I’d been right. He ducked out of the booth, revealing himself to be much younger than the former bishop. His blond hair was perfectly combed to the side of his head. He was as tall as me, with a slightly smaller frame. He nodded when he noticed my stare before disappearing into a room next to the booth, but not before I stole a glance of his muscular round ass. Who knew they made priests like that?

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