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I clearly need to get it through my thick skull what a bad idea it is to try and get to know Mrs. Avery Matheson.
Several years ago, I decided to become a priest. The truth of why I did needs to stay buried. It will be going to the grave with me, and I’ll be trying to repent for it for the rest of my life.
At thirty-four, I’m considered an anomaly in the priesthood. Many men aren’t exactly jumping at the chance to give up sex and live a life of celibacy.
That’s exactly what I did. I needed this when I signed up for the job. I fucking volunteered for this shit. I needed to be sworn not to sleep with whomever I damn well pleased whenever I fucking wanted.
It didn’t stop all of the urges I have, but at least it severely curbed this immoral appetite of mine. The drive to fuck, to take, to be depraved. It’s what’s inside me. No matter how much I want to pretend I’ve turned a corner since becoming a priest, I know it’s not true.
Since joining the priesthood and committing myself to the Lord, I have mostly been on a path to redemption. Except for six months ago, when I had a slip while I was a priest in Boston. My first major conflict in the years since I made the decision to join the priesthood.
I almost fucked a real-life helpless adult film star who came into my church. Another mistake to add to the list. The reason why I am now in Charleston.
The memory of my weakness that day with Bambi still haunts me.
She came back to the church only once more and looked at me with hope in her eyes that maybe we could try again. That’s the moment I realized what I had done to her was worse than the others who had come before me. I had given Bambi the opportunity to hope again, but I was not the man destined for her to put her faith in.
I couldn’t stay in that Boston church after seeing her again. It didn’t matter that I put a stop to the madness—I couldn’t face the shame I felt being there. Having to see Patrick, who helped me during my darkest hour all those years ago, on a daily basis was making me spiral.
Being in that church was a constant reminder that I almost abused my power in this role. After a few months of torture, I began my search for a new parish to call home. After I got the call from St. Peter’s that they would take me, I packed up my belongings and left.
I had almost fallen back to the ways of my shameful past. I didn’t deserve to be in Boston any longer with Patrick.
The worst part about that afternoon with Bambi was that I knew I was going to enjoy it. My judgment snapped with that woman, not because of who she was but what she represented.
I needed to get out of Boston altogether and start anew. That was the only way my soul could heal from my sin.
I was young and had a good reputation, so coming to St. Peter’s in Charleston, where they were desperate for new life, was easy for me to do. I decided this would be my true redemption moment. I could revert to the Father Lachlan I so desperately wanted to be, even if I knew the price I was paying.
I’m not a good man, I’m not a good priest, but fuck, I deserve redemption. My soul isn’t lost yet. I’m not like Bambi; I can still be saved. I could put away the dark parts of my soul and focus on being in the light. I will not let the breathtaking Mrs. Avery Matheson fuck this up for me. With her toned, tan legs and blonde hair that reached her perfect handful tits, she’s my wet dream come to life; but I can’t let her be anything real when it comes to my existence.
Fuck. Giving up seeing tits every day is the hardest part of this job. Tits that would bounce in my face as a wet pussy rode my cock hard and fast. I enjoyed the view no matter what size they were. Plastic or real. I am an equal opportunist when it comes to tits.
Fuck. Breasts. I need to remember I’m a priest and at least call them something more respectable than tits.
Shit.
I’m hard as a rock right now. I need to beat off before finding a glass of whiskey somewhere. A large glass of whiskey… or two.
I can’t be trusted to be alone with my thoughts any longer than I already have been today.
After changing into casual clothes, a dark-green Henley and straight jeans, I make my way to my new favorite bar, Jackson’s. It’s still in the bustle of being downtown, but few tourists know about this spot. It’s a hidden patio off of a main restaurant. The restaurant doesn’t advertise it, and if you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a walkway to the back of the building.
My best friend, Grayson, told me about the place. He moved to Charleston years ago to play hockey. As a professional hockey player, he was talented but stayed in the league longer than usual. His coach had convinced him that he needed to stay to lead the team of new recruits when he first contemplated retirement.
When he did finally retire, he opened up a charter boat cruise service. He told me he knew it was his time to hang up his skates. Enjoying life was important to him now. I know he used his six-foot-four height and blue eyes to his advantage with women. We just didn’t get into it much. It wasn’t our type of friendship after all of these years.
He thought I was a fucking idiot for becoming a priest. Some days, I didn’t disagree. Other days, I knew I needed this after everything that happened.
Grayson was one of the main reasons I picked Charleston to move to after the incident with Bambi. He said it reminded him of Boston. The Boston of the South was his sales pitch. Being located closer to one of the only friends I still had was reason enough for me.
I’m going down the narrow alley to get to Jackson’s. As I finally reach it, I see that my usual spot at the far end of the bar is open. I have to claim it to avoid seeing any of my new members of the congregation.
Hopefully, no one will recognize me here. I do not want anyone from the church to come up and “welcome me” into the community. I need to start becoming more familiar with the parishioners so I can dodge them during times like this. When I’m just trying to be human and not a humble servant.
I hate fundraising for the church. I hate fake niceties. It’s all so deceiving and pretentious, just like this entire parish is, Greg included. In fact, he may be the worst one. There’s just something about him that I don’t like. I haven’t been at St. Peter’s long enough to figure out what it is about him that rubs me the wrong way.
The way he looked at Avery Matheson earlier today made me want to snap his neck. Greg knew what he was doing, backing her into a corner to donate more fucking money to the church.
