Page 6 of The Reaper

My red Harley motorcycle—one of the very few possessions I cared about—was where I’d parked it five blocks from the church. The priest had sparked a curiosity inside me and it needed to stop before it caught fire. After I pulled my black leather jacket from the bike’s small storage compartment, I shrugged it on, and adjusted my hard dick before donning my tinted black helmet. I needed to come, and I knew where to find a wet mouth and a willing hole.

The engine vroomed when I turned on the ignition and twisted the right handlebar for more throttle. The noise was music to my ears. After maneuvering to the side of the road, I sped up with one goal in mind.

Club Z, Boston’s last remaining bathhouse, hadn’t changed since the last time I was there two years ago. This was the third time I’d stepped foot in this place because it offered nothing but a quick release. And just like the last time I was here, I was greeted by a dark hallway leading to a small counter with an old bulky computer screen that belonged in a museum. Next to it was a jar full of condoms. “Twenty-five to get in and another twenty-five to get a private room,” the man behind the glassed-in counter said, leaning over and making a gesture of appraising me head to toe. “Yum.” He clicked his tongue, making the most annoying sound imaginable.

I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, fishing out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Without uttering a word, I tossed the money on the counter and stuck my hand in the jar. With a fistful of foil wrappers, I picked the one labeled XL before tossing the rest back.

“Really?” the guy asked, staring at the foil packet in my hand. “I’d do ya if I wasn’t working.” He mumbled something else, but I didn’t care. I was here for one reason, and that reason was behind the door at the other end of the hall.

Techno music greeted me when I entered the dark room. The thumping house beat bounced off the walls illuminated by red lighting. Its only purpose was to dim the place. I hadn’t made it past the entrance of the men’s locker room—the only locker room—when someone completely naked blocked my way. I sized him up like he was my next meal. His body was glistening from the shower, his hair damp. His muscles were outlined by the shadows of the barely there lights and, judging by the size of his cock, he’d be a great fuck. Not that I cared, since I was there for my own release. Nothing more, nothing less.

Another man in the same state of undress came from behind him, grabbing his impressive bulge. They started kissing—no, tonguing—each other, while carnal sounds escaped their mouths. The smaller man shifted his gaze to me before whispering something to the other man.

They parted, came closer, and pushed me against the wall. Where that would usually freak me out, I let them.

One man groped me and the other licked the side of my neck while snaking his hand under my sweatshirt. “Hot!” he whispered, feeling the valley of my abs.

“You’re so fucking hot, dude,” the other guy said. He rubbed the length of my fully erect dick through my pants with his cheek, slowly unzipping my jeans. “I’m gonna suck you so good. You’ll be dry by the time I’m done with you.” He was on his knees looking up, eyes glossy with lust.

I shoved his face on my crotch. “Less talk, more action,” I snarled.

The other guy slid his hand inside my boxers.

“Fuck!” I moaned. This was exactly what I needed.

“You like that, daddy?” he whispered, peppering my neck, ear, and cheek with kisses. His mouth moved to my lips.

I pushed him hard with one hand, and with my force and his size, he fell backward on the floor, his body sliding a couple of yards. “What the fuck are you doing?” I barked.

“The fuck, man, it’s just a kiss,” he said.

The bigger guy had stopped unwrapping his treat momentarily before freeing my cock from its confinement. “Hmmm.” He moved his face closer to my crotch.

I pushed him away before he had a chance to engulf me, putting my dick back in my boxers, zipping my pants before running away. “Goddamn it!” It wasn’t just a kiss. No one gets to kiss me. Fucking? I did that well. Kissing? No. Fucking. Way.

Five: The Priest

Ihunkered deep in the transept of the church, my mind occupied by the unnamed man from the confession booth who had retreated moments ago. Just when I thought I’d heard them all, I was reminded once again how vile the world could be. I wasn’t naive to think that men like him didn’t exist. In fact, I knew they loomed in every corner of the city, walking among us daily. I’d witnessed it more times than I cared for. What I didn’t expect was for someone to flat-out confess their sins and not feel a tiny bit of remorse about what they’d done. Quite often, the inner turmoil a person went through after committing a wicked act, an abominable cruelty, was palpable in their shaky voice, evident in their body language. But not him. I killed two men. He uttered those four words as if he was delivering the weather report.

Cool.

Calm.

Unaffected.

He was heavy on my mind minutes after he’d left in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend. I headed out and sat on the marble bench situated in the middle of the rose garden, thinking about how someone so dangerous could live freely with the liberty to kill and come out unscathed.

Not my problem. I shook my head and rid myself of those thoughts, a rabbit hole I didn’t have the luxury to dwell in, and focused my attention on the budding rose bushes surrounding me. The specs of color peeked out of their green buds, getting ready for their annual dramatic spectacle. Three days and three encounters later—with Father Oller, the Callahans, and the unnamed man—Boston was shaping up to be an epic mission. This assignment was one for the books and I was more than up for the task. A challenge I would take head-on, just like everything I’d done.

I wasn’t always successful, but it had never stopped me from trying. I tapped my phone; a smiling image of ten-year-old me with my arms wrapped around my older brother’s waist greeted me when it came to life. I didn’t know it back then, or maybe it was my young mind failing to understand, but he’d been a father figure for my entire life. I scrolled through my call history and pressed Jessica’s name.

“Father Saint James, hi. Is everything okay?” she asked, her tone laced with concern.

“Yes, everything is fine. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Oh, good,” she said, exhaling with apparent relief. Jessica was a worrier—my very limited interactions with her had proved that—and I needed to find better ways to communicate with her without sounding the alarm. She might be the only person who liked me so far, and I needed her on my side.

“I’m going to head out and explore since I don’t have anything left on my calendar today,” I said. It’d been a while since the last time I stepped foot in the city I’d once called home. That was by choice. I wanted to prove to myself that I was worthy, and it had taken me more than six years and two parishes to get here. This mission was my redemption. And if I was about to spend a considerable amount of time in this town, I might as well get myself reacquainted with the city like an old friend. I needed its trust like my next breath.

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