Page 12 of Desert Thorns

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“I bet that doesn’t keep you from stumbling sometimes.”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t. We, too, fight against our flesh.”

Now I wanted to know what he struggled with, but that was too intimate a question. We hardly knew each other.

Funny how it felt like I’d known him a lifetime.

“How does this whole monk thing work?” I asked. “Can you just quit when you’ve had enough?”

“Depends. Before taking the Solemn Vows, yes. After, no. They are absolute and irrevocable.”

“What are the Solemn Vows? Sorry for all my questions, but I have no idea about the monastic way of life.” Yet it intrigued me. I loved to learn about different cultures and lifestyles.

Brother Samuel performed another mirrors-and-over-the-shoulder check before changing lanes. “They consist of three vows: obedience, stability, and conversatio morum. Obedience means we do God’s will like Christ did. We also obey the abbot and all of our brethren for the love of Christ. The vow of stability is a promise to remain in the same community for the rest of our lives.”

Whoa, the mere thought of being caged in the same place till death sent a shot of panic through me. I needed constant change. Maybe because I’d grown up traveling the mainland, waking up in another place every other week.

“Conversatio morum is difficult to translate but means something like ‘fidelity to monastic life.’ It’s a commitment to celibate chastity, poverty, and communal simplicity of life.”

See, that’s why I could never be a nun. I’d already miserably failed in the celibate chastity department, and, knowing myself, would continue to do so until I got married one day.

The same old guilt and shame rose, and I stuffed them down. “Taking those vows sounds like a difficult decision. When do you take them? Like, how do you know you’re ready?”

“A novice has to stick around for at least four years before he can take the Solemn Vows. This should be enough time to figure out if being a monk is his vocation.”

“Did you take them?”

“Yes. I’m working towards becoming a priest, but like Father Cruz, I’ll stay with Saint James for the rest of my life. So I took them.”

I took in Brother Samuel’s side profile. Bet the female share of the Saint James congregation would go through the roof once he became a priest.

He exited the highway, and we rolled into the maze of skyscrapers, parks, neon signs, and digital billboards. His mouth flattened into a thin line when we passed a tall glass building—the headquarters of Lincoln Grady Distillery. There had to be another reason why he’d become a monk. Something that cut deeper than just not wanting to be like his parents.

“Take a right here.” I pointed at the ramp leading to an underground parking garage next to Golden Palace. Should I bring my Ruger with me in case Craig thought it was funny to wait here for me? I’d stuffed it between my clothes and Bible in my duffle bag without thinking.

Nah, Rome wouldn’t allow the guy inside without a search warrant. He’d never liked Craig. I should’ve listened to him when he told me my ex was a walking red flag. Maybe growingup as the son of a Mafia don had trained him to smell people’s bull. I, for one, was horrible at figuring out their true agenda. I just wanted to befriend everyone and hear their stories and what drove them. And I’d figured Rome didn’t like Craig because he was a detective.

Brother Samuel parked the F-150 next to a Rolls-Royce and a Mercedes-Benz SUV, then once again opened the door for me. He was such a gentleman. Did this have something to do with the way he’d been raised?

“What’s your real name?” I asked as we walked to a steel door with a STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT sign. I punched in the access code, then held my right eye to the iris scanner. Rome didn’t mess around when it came to security. Anything else would be futile for a guy who moved in the circles he did. Although I was certain he did it for everyone else’s safety, not his own, because the way he rode his Yamaha screamed “death wish.”

“Kingsley.”

I looked up at him. “I like that name.” So much that I wanted to call him Kingsley rather than Brother Samuel. Bet he wouldn’t appreciate that. So maybe I’d just do it in my brain.

Kingsley.

Yup, that’s exactly what I would do.

We ended up in a bleak concrete hallway that led to yet another steel door with a number pad. A different code was required for this one.

Deafening Reggaeton and the smell of Pine-Sol met us when I opened the door. Instead of the usual purple neon lights, the club was fully illuminated. All four bars stocked with all sorts of liquor were unoccupied, and so were the red velvet lounges in the VIP section. The dance floor was the centerpiece of the club and the only part with a soaring ceiling. Balconies allowed guests to look down on the dancing crowd.

Bado, who was part of the cleaning crew, was in the middle of mopping the black marble floor, sweat beading on his ebony skin. I couldn’t help but move my body to the music and dance up to him. He laughed and moved along with me. Then he unearthed a remote control from his breast pocket and aimed it at the DJ table on one of the balconies. The music cut off.

“What are you doing here, girl?” Bado looped his beefy arms around me and squished me against his thick chest.

“I need to talk to Rome,” I squeaked. “Is he here?”