by Claire Adams
Bethany, the friend who had gotten me my job and helped me find my apartment, was always trying to get me to go out. Even when I lived in Boston, she never gave up on trying to set me up with one of her boyfriend’s friends. In Boston, there was definitely no room in my life for socializing. Now that I was out of there and I had plenty of room for it, I had no idea how to go about it.
I turned down one of the main streets downtown and walked past a few bars that looked too “yuppie” or “hip.” I wasn’t in the mood to mingle with the business crowd; besides, I didn’t fit in.
I stopped and looked up at the pink neon sign of a place called After Hours. It looked and sounded like just what I needed. I pushed through the door and came face to face with a tattooed, bald, and muscled up God in a black t-shirt that said “Security” in bold, yellow letters.
He looked me up and down and said, “I’ll need to see your I.D.” I handed it to him and he used a flashlight to scrutinize it. Finally satisfied that although I only looked eighteen, I was in fact twenty-two, he handed it back and said, “Have fun.”
I waited until my eyes adjusted to the subdued light and looked around. The place wasn’t exactly hopping, and I was happy about that. There was a group of suits sitting on one side on a set of low, brown leather couches. A few couples and groups of women and men were scattered throughout at tables and in front of the bar that glowed with the same pink hue the sign out front had.
With a deep breath, I smoothed down my black skirt and ventured towards the bar. I took a seat on an empty stool and tucked my pleated, A-line skirt underneath my thighs. I reached for a cocktail menu and started reading through it. I was not really a drinker; I had no idea what to order.
The bartender was suddenly hovering over me. I looked up at another large man; this one had on a white t-shirt with a V-neck that showed his chest was as tattooed as his arms and neck. In spite of all the ink, he had kind eyes and wavy brown hair that gave him an innocent look. He was probably a serial killer. I’m a horrible judge of character.
“What’ll it be?”
“Um…something sweet with one of those pretty umbrellas on top,” I said. I realized as soon as I said it how stupid it sounded.
The bartender smiled and said, “Coming right up.” The guy next to me was still laughing when he was gone.
I looked at him and my breath caught in my throat. This one had on a green t-shirt and his arms were completely ink free, but incredibly sexy and muscular. His eyes were as dark green as his shirt and his sandy blond hair had that “just rolled out of bed” look that made a girl want to rake her fingers through it. I’d planned on chastising him for laughing at a stranger, but I couldn't find my words.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a smooth voice that I instantly knew I could listen to all day. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“But you did, anyways.”
“I did. I’m sorry.” He laughed again.
“You’re apologizing, but you’re still laughing.”
He looked directly at me and everything inside of me turned to hot liquid. “I’m sorry. You just sounded like you were ordering something from an ice cream truck instead of a bar.”
“I suppose you ordered a scotch neat,” I said, lowering my voice into a mock baritone.
He laughed again. “Almost, only I asked for it on the rocks.” I caught the little slur in his words that time. He’d already had a few.
Suddenly, I was reminded of my father. The bartender sat my pink drink down in front of me; I passed him a twenty and picked the drink up. The hot, drunk guy tried to slide my twenty back to me. “I got it,” he said.
“No, you do not. I can pay for my own drinks, thank you!” I looked at the bartender and said, “Keep the change.” Then I picked up my drink and carried it as far away from the laughing man as I could get. I tucked myself into a booth in the back where I could drink, watch people, and hopefully stay invisible.
The drink was delicious. I have no idea what it was, but it took me about three minutes to suck the entire thing down through a straw. I was about to try and get the waitress’s attention when suddenly I looked up into those jade eyes. He was holding a golden liquid in one hand and a pink one in the other. “It’s an apology drink,” he said.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’ve already forgotten the whole thing.”
He sat down. I scooted away from him. He sat the drink down in front of me. “I’m really sorry. It’s nice to know that not everyone practically lives in a bar.”
I was suddenly sweating. I never sweat. I didn’t know if it was the pink drink or the hot guy. Either way, it made me thirsty. I started sucking on the straw again. Hot guy downed his drink without taking his eyes off of me. I could feel the heat from them boring into my skin.
When I sucked down to the bottom of my glass he grinned and signaled the waitress. He had dimples…of course. “I think I’ve had enough, thank you.”
“Okay,” he said. When the waitress came over he ordered another scotch on the rocks. He turned to me then and I watched his full lips as he said, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want?”
Yes, I want to kiss those lips… Oh my God! What am I thinking? I don’t know this man.
“Maybe one more,” I said. He ordered me a raspberry Cosmopolitan. I at least knew what I was drinking.
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 mind…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.
