Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story) Read online

  He turned to me then, and that gentle motion let me get a whiff of his subtle cologne. It was masculine and kind of earthy. It only served to add to his appeal.

  After two of those pink drinks, I was feeling bold and let myself slide a little closer to him in the booth. He showed me his dimples again and slipped his arm around me. What the hell am I doing? God, if his warm, muscular arm didn’t feel good on my back. His big hand gripped my shoulder and my bare thigh was touching his blue jeans under the table.

  I don’t do this. I’ve never done this. Jesus Christ, I’m going to have so much to confess this week!

  The waitress came back with our drinks. He paid for them and then he picked up his glass and held it up.

  “To us,” he said. He was really slurring his words now. I was buzzed enough that he no longer made me remember my father, however. Instead, I focused once again on his sexy lips and wondered what they would taste like.

  “To us,” I said with a smile. I took out the straw and downed the drink like a shot. Each one tasted better than the last.

  “So, why is a pretty girl in a place like this all alone?”

  “Having a rough day,” I said. My words were slurring as much as his now.

  He nodded. “I can relate to that.”

  “What’s got your goat?” I asked him. He laughed. “You’re laughing at me again?”

  “You’re just really cute. It’s just been a really bad week at work,” he said.

  “Oh yeah, me, too. What do you do?”

  He looked like he was thinking about it. Even drunk, I knew if you were telling the truth, you didn’t have to think about it. Finally, he said, “I do my best to help people…most of the time. This week, things haven’t really gone my way. What do you do?”

  “I’m a waitress,” I said. “Speaking of, I could use another drink.” He smiled and motioned to the waitress with two fingers. In minutes, she brought us each another drink.

  I tried to pull out my money but he beat me to it again. “Thank you,” I told him. “I need to pee.” He chuckled and stood up out of the booth. I think he stood up too quickly. His body swayed, and he caught himself on the table. Then, as if he were steady as a rock, he held his hand out to me.

  I reluctantly took it. I was afraid if I touched him, I would want more. I wasn’t wrong. His hands were warm and strong. I wanted to kiss him. My mouth went completely dry, and I’m sure my face was as red as it was hot. I dropped his hand and headed for the ladies room.

  I somehow managed to get my underwear down and pee and then I made it to the sink to wash my hands. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for not falling on my face when I walked out of the bathroom and some chick body slammed into me.

  “What the fuck?” My sainted mother would be turning over in her grave.

  “Jeez, chill out. It was an accident; I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.” I don’t know what happened to me—my mouth just wouldn’t quit. I am the furthest thing from a fighter that ever lived.

  “Well, maybe I’m not now, if you’re gonna be a bitch about it.”

  “Who are you calling a bitch, you ghetto tramp?” Dear God…who am I?

  I’m pretty sure she was about to swing her fist at me when suddenly, my green eyed savior was at my side. He looked at the ghetto girl and said, “I’m sorry about that. She had a terrible day. She’s usually a real sweetheart, aren’t, you dear?”

  I shot him a look and actually thought about telling him to screw off…but I realized that was the drunk in me talking and I was about to get my ass kicked.

  “He’s right. I’m sorry I took it out on you.” She snorted and walked away. I flipped her off behind her back. My “protector” grabbed my hand and folded my finger down.

  “I’m headed home. Maybe you should walk with me. You seem like you could use some air.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested, heading back to the booth. Before I could stop myself, I barreled into the waitress with a full tray of drinks and the crash that followed caught the attention of the entire bar. “Oh shit! I’m sorry!” Someone was at my elbow and I thought it was the green-eyed God. It turns out it was the bartender and his friend, Mr. Security.

  “You need to leave, Miss.”

  “Me?” I’d never been kicked out of anywhere in my life. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You’re cut off. I’ll call you a cab.”

  “I can call my own cab!” I tried to storm out in a manner befitting a bad-ass who was getting kicked out of a bar. It was hard when you had to grab onto tables in order to walk in a straight line.

  As soon as I pushed through the doors and tasted the fresh air, I felt sick. I doubled over and suddenly felt an arm slip through mine.

  “Walk with me?” he said. I looked up into his green eyes and suddenly forgot my nausea.

  “Sure,” I said. I would probably regret it in the morning…or before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACE

  I moved to Lexington on Saturday and had to attend church and be introduced to the congregation on Sunday. I woke up Sunday morning with a raging hangover because I drank an entire bottle of scotch Saturday night.

  My intentions had been pure; I was only going to have one drink. But one drink led to the other, and another. The truth be told, the only reason I stopped drinking was because I ran out.

  I had thought about going out for more, but I was too drunk—and thank God I’d had the sense to realize that. Imagine the headlines: “New Priest Arrested for Public Intoxication.” Grandmother would be rolling over in her grave. That’s not to mention what the Good Lord was thinking of me.

  I still felt as if I was strong in my faith. I definitely had the same fear of God that I’d had before. And of course, I still loved, God even though I was still angry with him. I just hoped He still loved me.

  So Sunday morning, I woke up riding waves of nausea that would have rivaled a tsunami. Miserable didn’t describe the feelings that were tearing through my body. My head hurt so badly that my brain felt as if it would swell beyond my skull’s capacity and cause it to explode. I was so dehydrated that my mouth actually hurt. It was the only thing that got me out of bed that day or I may have skipped Mass and called in sick.

  I had to have a drink of water. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and my feet were met with a cold, sticky floor. I looked down and realized I’d left the bottle on the floor and the half an inch or so of liquor left had seeped out and I was stepping in it. I was a pathetic mess; if my grandmother could have seen me, she would have been so ashamed.

  I finally made it to the kitchen for a bottle of water and then to the shower. After my shower and a handful of aspirin, I was feeling better. Not normal, but better. I dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white button down shirt. I made sure my shoes were shiny and my hair was combed respectfully. I used deodorant and mouthwash, and when I walked into the vestry at St. Luke’s, I almost felt as if I belonged there. I at least looked the part.

  I was met there by the priest who had been caring for the parish temporarily until I was put in place—Father Byrnes. The other priest had just taken off, and as far as I knew, no one knew where he had gone. I wondered briefly if his grandmother died, then I said a prayer for him and one for me, too.

  “We are so happy to have you here, Father Jace.” Father Byrnes was a much older man and his hands felt like parchment paper as he took one of mine between them.

  “Thank you, Father Byrne. I’m happy to be here.” I wasn’t lying. I’d really been excited to be a part of this parish. I had heard great things about the people there and that they had an active congregation, which I was looking forward to. The church held dinners and dances to raise funds for parishioners in need. Whatever was leftover was given to the Children’s Hospital. That hospital would be a regular stop for me every week once I took over the parish. I loved kids, so I was looking forward to that, as well.

  But, then my grandmother died and I lost my min
d…and God help me, I couldn't stop drinking. I went through the motions of Mass that Sunday with Father Byrne, and then I tolerated the meet and greet with the congregation afterwards. They’d surprised me with a potluck, which was good, I guess. I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d eaten anything of substance.

  It was excruciating, however, because as nice as everyone was and as blessed as I knew I was to be there, all I wanted to do was go back to my dark apartment and drink myself into another stupor. I was so ashamed.

  Monday’s hangover wasn’t quite as bad as Sunday’s, and by Tuesday, I was actually getting good at maintaining my blood alcohol level high enough to keep from getting the hangover at all.

  The guilt ate away at me each time I began to sober up, so I made sure that I didn’t. I knew I had to stop. I should have called my brother, Father Byrne, or my Bishop in Boston. But each time I reached for the phone, I thought about the shame I was about to bring on myself and I chose instead to keep my binge a secret and deal with the Lord one on one about it.

  I agreed to sit in for Father Byrne at confession on Wednesday…and then on Thursday it would be my turn to confess and I would have to make some hard decisions about what I was willing to say out loud. But today it was Tuesday, so I decided to think about it later.

  I wasn’t worried that I’d suddenly become an alcoholic. Before all of this, a glass of wine once a week was the most I ever drank. I didn’t crave alcohol and I didn’t even particularly like it. There was just something about my grandmother’s death that triggered old memories from when I was a kid…bad memories that I’d suppressed for a very long time.

  Grandma let us talk about them as much as we needed to, but things were so warm, comfortable, and safe living with her that we could soon put those feelings in a box and seal them. We didn’t have to take them out and look at them unless we chose to.

  I never chose to, but since Grandma died, I was forced to. The alcohol helped me forget and it also numbed the pain that came with losing her. I had so much repenting to do…on Thursday, but not until then.

  I was out of scotch.

  I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and ran my fingers through my hair. Once I slipped on my black, leather boots I checked my reflection. There was no sign on my forehead that said “Fallen Priest.” I looked like any other thirty-one-year-old guy. I grabbed my keys and went in search of a dark, quiet bar.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAPHNE

  I held onto his arm as we walked. The night air was cool and refreshing, and I think I may have been sobering up…a little bit. We hadn’t walked far before he stopped at a two-story house that looked like it had been converted into walk-up apartments.

  “This is me,” he said. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “Oh no! I don’t…I mean, I…” I was suddenly afraid that “coffee” didn’t mean “coffee.” I don’t do random hook-ups in bars, but I was just drunk enough not to trust myself not to accept if he offered.

  He laughed. “Coffee is the only thing on my mind,” he said. “Trust me.” When he looked at me with those soft, warm, green eyes, I did trust him. It might also be the four drinks on an empty stomach.

  “Okay, maybe a coffee before I head home.”

  Famous last words.

  “Good,” he said, unlocking the bottom door. He let us in and we held onto each other and the wall as we made our way up the stairs to the second floor.

  The heat and feel of his body on the narrow staircase overwhelmed all of my senses. If I’d had any left, I would have gone home right then. When he let go of my arm to unlock his apartment door, I was trembling.

  He pushed the door open and said, “Welcome to my humble abode. Excuse the mess; I’m just moving in.” I stepped inside and looked around. There were boxes everywhere, but it wasn’t really a mess. It was more of an organized chaos.

  “Where are you moving in from?”

  “Boston,” he said, making his way to the small, open kitchen. I watched him make a pot of coffee. He filled out his jeans so nicely.

  “Oh,” I said, not telling him I’d just moved from Boston, too. The next obvious question would be why and I was definitely not going to discuss that with a stranger.

  “I have to pee.” That was the second time I’d spoken to this man about my bladder. That was another good reason for me to never drink again.

  He laughed. I really liked the sound of it. I also loved the dimples and the little laugh lines around his eyes. “Follow me,” he said.

  He led me a few steps down a short hall and we turned into what I could only assume was his bedroom. The bathroom was through the bedroom. Strange set up—and convenient if you were trying to get into a drunken girl’s pants.

  I narrowed my eyes to let him know I was onto him. Unfortunately, my bladder was too full to back out. I wobbled into the bathroom and closed the door. There were still boxes on the counter in there, too. I thought about snooping through them, but he was probably still standing there waiting for me. I didn’t want to get caught.

  I locked the door and pulled up my skirt. I started to sit down and suddenly remembered my panties. I pulled those down and sat. I did my business, washed my hands, and found the hot guy standing in the same spot waiting for me. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly blurted out,

  “I don’t usually drink!”

  He smiled knowingly and stepped towards me. “Neither do I,” he said. He was really close. Too close…yet, I didn’t want him to back up…not even a little bit. “I don’t usually do this, either.”

  Before I could respond, he’d dipped his head down and our lips connected. He kissed me, tentatively at first, like he was waiting for me to pull away, or slap him. I didn’t do either.

  The feel of his lips as they brushed across mine sent little jolts of electricity through me and started a fire in my belly. I did just the opposite of pulling away—I leaned into it and kissed him back. His lips were soft and full and tasted like sweet alcohol. I wanted more.

  I let my lips fall open and I felt his tongue begin to probe my mouth. He tasted and licked and even sucked on my tongue as I melted into him. His strong arms were the only thing holding me up as my already woozy head became intoxicated by the touch and smell and taste of him.

  When he pulled back to catch his breath and he looked at my face, I could see another chance for me to protest in his eyes. I knew that I should. But I didn’t want to. I wanted him. I’d never felt the kind of passion and need swelling up inside of me that I felt that night.

  I moved back towards him, and this time when our lips met, there was nothing at all tentative about it. This was a hot, passionate kiss.

  His hands were no longer content to sit chastely on my waist. They were roaming the curves of my body causing me to quiver all over. I wanted to feel them on my bare skin.

  I wanted to feel him. I briefly wondered if I should tell him that I was a virgin, but as his hands covered my breasts and his fingers began to massage my nipples through my shirt, all rational thought became a thing of the past. The decision to walk out of there without my virginity was as good as cemented.

  He ran his hands up to my face and cupped it. Then he pulled out of the kiss and drew his thumb across my lips, tracing the outline. It was intimate and sweet and they parted again of their own accord, a desperate sign of my desire.

  I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't do this; I’ve never done this. I was just winging it. My body was driving me at that point. It was instinct.

  He actually wimpered when I took his thumb between my lips. I brought my hand up and pressed the rest of his fingers to my lips and starting with the little one, I pressed each slowly against my mouth and kissed it, letting my mouth fall open a bit more with each one. He was watching me in a drunken state of awe, silent.

  When I finished with his fingers, I pressed his open palm to my lips and drew them down to his wrist. I drew my tongue down along his arm and he moaned. His head dropped back and cl
osed his eyes. I was encouraged, so I kept going. I licked back up the hard muscle of his arm until I reached his hand again. I took his index finger into my mouth and I sucked on it and then bit down very gently. His chest was heaving against me as I gave his wrist one last kiss and let go. He opened his eyes and locked them into mine.

  “Dear God…” It was said in a reverent whisper, and it caused my entire body to convulse. I had my hands pressed into his hard chest now, and he was still staring at me. His eyes were a mixture of lust, desire, and something else that I couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe it was because I was drunk…maybe because I knew I would regret it myself…but he looked a little bit guilty.

  I fleetingly wondered if he was married, but the thought was gone as he pulled me into him again and kissed me hungrily. Kissed may not even be the right word. It was more like possession. He possessed my mouth and devoured it as I willingly gave myself over to him.

  I boldly slid my hands underneath his t-shirt as we kissed and slowly moved it up his body. When it got to his arms, he broke the kiss to pull it off over his head. The light from the moon was shining in through the window, and he looked like he should be posing for the cover of a romance novel.

  His body was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Every muscle was hard and defined, like he’d been sculpted out of concrete. I let my hands roam across his chest, and my fingers happily traced the taut contours all the way down to the hard ripples of his abdomen.

  “You’re beautiful,” I breathed out before I even realized I was speaking. He smiled, proving my point. He reached up and ran his hands through my long, blonde hair.

  Then he put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “No, you’re the one who is beautiful.” The feel of his warm breath and the vibrations of his voice sent goosebumps racing down my arms and my spine.

  I stood on my tip toes and kissed him again. This kiss was even harder and more urgent. His teeth scraped along the outside of my bottom lip, and I whimpered.