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“Do you want to hear about it?”
Glancing out the window, I notice the sun lowers at a rapid pace, and a helicopter is waiting for us. “I want you to share with me whatever you’re comfortable telling me.”
He tugs me so I’m standing between his open legs, ignoring my half-naked body.
That scar on Lachlan’s cheek is the gateway to his deeper secrets.
“Tell methatstory, please.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lachlan - Age 18
IfollowFatherEamonoff the church altar, his steps hurried to get to the sacristy—our preparatory room in the back. His service ran long thanks to another passionate homily. I consider telling him to cut them back. I watched the crowd in the pews getting restless. Some older folks even dozed off. Some left. It was the early mass where some parishioners stop for what they think will be a 7:30 a.m. quickie before work.
Classes for me don’t start until nine a.m. Not that I care if I’m late. I have enough credits to graduate high school, and even if I didn’t, if the school tried to fail me out, my da would make sure I got a diploma. Delivered by the principal herself to our house.
I doubt Mrs. Horse Face would try that. Hofstadter, whatever. No one in my family has tested her because my brothers before me, Kieran and Riordan, were angels. Okay, they weren’t, but they weresmarterthan me about getting caught.
Me, I don’t give a shit.
Sorry, Jesus, I repent inwardly, looking up at the wood and brass coffered ceiling.
“Fidgeting crowd today, Lachlan.” Father Eamon noticed, apparently.
“Maybe too much coffee,” I offer instead of telling him he’s long-winded.
Personally, I drink in his sermons. Younger than the other priests here at St. Agatha’s, Father Eamon is a personal inspiration to me. Young, energetic, charming, and dare I say, handsome. He showed up here, just at the right time. I expected my da to laugh at me when I told him I wanted to be a priest, since most of our pastors were older men, ordained later in life.
It made sense for some wrinkled old dude to give up sex and other vices after a lifetime of getting some. Someone young, like Father Eamon? That’s the real sacrifice. He’s my assurance that I’m not crazy for wanting to dedicate my life to the church.
Give up what my older brothers brag about. Sex.
I have no interest in girls. I’m not into dudes either. I wondered for a while if I was, but nope. Even all the dick I saw in gym locker rooms did nothing for me. My blood gets moving here in the church with the smell of sweet candles, incense, and lacquer to keep the pews shiny. The history and tradition are so rich and fulfilling.
A ringing sounds, and Father Eamon pulls a cell phone from his pocket. He winks, answering it. “Good morning, Mrs. O’Rourke.” He speaks with the same brogue we all do. “I’ll drive Lachlan to school myself. I apologize, my service ran longer today.” He pauses, his eyes still on me with a widening smile. “I see. That’s fantastic news. Do you want to talk to him?”
My heart races as I step to take his phone. I don’t have one. Turned it down when my da offered one to me. No reason for it. I’m either at school, home, or church. My da works all the time, and Ma is home with my younger brothers and sister. We live on the other side of town near the water. Da built us the biggest house. He’s sort of the king around here. Even the mayor bows to him.
“Ma?” I say into the phone and detect the smell of something familiar on the plastic screen. Whiskey. “Is everything all right?”
“Aye, Lachlan. I couldn’t wait for you to get home. The postman brought our mail early. It came, Lachlan. Your acceptance to Fordham.”
It’s hardly a surprise. Kieran is on track to graduate salutatorian. And Da gives plenty of money to the school. I act grateful anyway. “That’s great news, Ma.”
Fordham has the Theology program I need to get into seminary when I graduate. With plenty of sons to work for my da, Ma convinced him to support my decision to be a priest.
Who doesn’t want a priest in the family? It’s like a ticket straight to the front of the line. Da’s money and power won’t do him any good in the afterlife. In fact, considering how many people he’s killed, he needs me living a life of celibacy and sobriety to balance out his evil.
The sound of yelling and a shattering crash spin me around. I race back to the sacristy and my brain struggles to process what I’m seeing.
“Ma, I gotta go.” I end the call and shock rushes through me when I find a man yelling at Father Eamon, swinging a knife at him.
“How dare you touch my boy, you sick pervert!”
“Charles, you’re mistaken.” Father Eamon blocks his face, but his robe sleeves are blood-soaked.
“Hey!” I yell and charge the man I recognize as the father of Michael Foster, an altar boy my age.
