Page 355 of Bad for Me

“You heading toward the church, by any chance?” I squeaked out, praying my voice didn’t sound as pathetic to him as it did to my own ears. “Maybe we could sit together. Good company is so hard to find these days.”

He shook his head, those gorgeous curls bouncing around chiseled cheeks like they were floating on a separate plane of existence from the rest of us. “Ah, no. I have to run home and grab my Sunday clothes. But I’ll be there soon enough!”

With a little wave and a parting wink, he jogged off the way he’d come, around the block and out of sight. If only putting him out of mind was as simple.

My walk to the church was quiet and lonely–I’d parked too far away from the usual crowd to spot any of the regulars who would flock around the entrance. Silently, I marched through the front doors, thanking the couple who held them for me as I passed through.

My usual seat was one about halfway down the rows, on the far left side of the pews, but damn near every seat in the house was taken. Frantic and worried the service would start with me still standing, I shuffled around, hoping to find just enough space anywhere to slide in before the music queued up.

Of course, the only spaces left to me were the ones in full frontal view of the altar–the ones nobody wanted because they made you feel like you were the center of attention, the cause of the sermon that Sunday. Knowing damn well the things I did in my day-to-day life would have sent me to hell, I had no desire to take that seat, but today was not my day, and it didn’t look like I had any other choice.

At least the company on either side was tolerable.

With Daniel Weathersby on my left and his daughter Judy beside him, I knew I wouldn’t have anyone talking my ear off mid-sermon. Weathersby was deaf, damn near, and his daughter was prim–too prim to be caught dead doing anything but helping her father understand what was being said. She’d sign the whole sermon for him, so he could still get his daily dose of the good word in. On my right was the biggest pair of gossips in the church–two of the ladies from the group chat. They’d keep busy with each other, and if I was careful enough, and they weren’t, I might overhear some juicy tea they didn’t mean for me to be privy to.

My panic was unfounded, it turned out, as I waited patiently, flipping through my bible for well on fifteen minutes before the music queued up and announced the start of the sermon. Just when I thought I was in the clear, however, the familiar robes of a Catholic priest made an appearance at the altar, and I glanced up into the most awkward situation I’d ever found myself in as an adult.

There, standing tall in his glorious fucking robes, every inch a holy man, was the fucking runner I’d tripped over at my car, the man I’d invited to sit with me during Sunday service, the same man who had occupied some very not-kosher thoughts in my mind on my walk to the church, whose lips I’d imagined pressed against me, whose hair I’d fantasized running my fingers through, whose eyes now stared into the soul of every person in his church. And then, those eyes found me in the front row, and I felt my whole body flush, reacting in a most unholy way to this man who was entirely off-limits to me.

Fuck.

I knew now why I thought he’d looked familiar. I had the hots for our new priest, Father O’Leary.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

* * *

Sunday sermonsfor the next month were awkward as fuck. I couldn’t bring myself to stop attending, because that would have raised some serious red flags. But Sundays were killing me, mentally, physically, and emotionally. Every time service started, I swore to myself I’d keep my mind clear and my thoughts clean, that I’d keep myself from entertaining thoughts about the man responsible for my eternal soul. And every Sunday, by the end of it, I was a hot, panting, needy mess, my panties soaked straight through with the evidence of my traitorous body’s reaction to this holy man.

So, I did the only other thing I could think of–I threw myself into work on the weekends and upped my volunteer work in the community. On Saturday nights, I drowned myself in work and seized every opportunity I could to put the little fantasy fling in my mind to rest.

But nothing worked. Drowning in dick didn’t help, stripping didn’t distract me, and not a damn thing I threw at this inconvenient infatuation changed a thing.

Deciding it was time to get back on the straight and narrow, I zipped up my proverbial big girl boots and stomped into the confessional the fourth week of Father O’Leary’s tempting tenure. Thankfully, I managed to escape the curious glances of the gossip girls, and with a sigh, I took a seat in the booth and put my hands in my lap, worrying the hem of my pristine white skirt as I waited for my personal obsession to show up.

The door on the other side opened and closed after a few minutes of silence, silence I’d spent ruminating on every single choice that led to this moment, and hating myself for each one of them. He cleared his throat, the raspy Irish lilt setting my skin to itching with a hunger I couldn’t stand, but secretly loved.

“You may begin.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” There was a pause where he said nothing, so I continued after his noncommittal ‘hmmm’like I would any other time. “It’s been about two months since my last confession.”

I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into this conundrum as vaguely as possible.

“I have been having some, uh, thoughts, about someone I shouldn’t. He’s not married or anything like that, but he’s, well–he’s unavailable. This man, he’s in a position of leadership, so to speak. I want to stop having these thoughts, but I’m not strong enough. Nothing I do works. I’m ashamed that I feel this way about him in the first place, especially when I have to be around him so often.”

I was beginning to ramble, but that was the effect these damn boxes had on you. They made you feel like spilling your secrets was a-okay. That you wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at you the wrong way when you walked out of them. It was like ipecac for your sins–word vomit escaped you whether you wanted it to or not.

He cleared his throat, and I didn’t want him to think we were finished, so I kept on it, unable to stop myself before the whole thing spiraled out of control.

Some things you couldn’t just take back, ya know?

“He’s good, a true devout man of the faith, Father, and I know it’s wrong–we haven’t even spoken one-on-one, really, but–”

The need to suck in some air to breathe forced me to stop, finally able to shut my damn mouth. But of course, my shame wasn’t complete yet. No, the cosmos had more in store for me. God himself saw the available lightning bolt and decided striking me down was too easy.

“So,” he began, his voice husky and deep, “you’re having impure thoughts?”

Something in his voice caught me off guard. Made me hesitate. I couldn’t tell what exactly had me stopping to really listen, but when I re-processed the whole encounter, I froze in embarrassed shock, my throat closing up on me as I sputtered incoherently for a moment.

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