Takeover: The Complete Series

by Lana Grayson

  I wished that one day, I’d be as great a man as he was. It’d never happen, but I could wish.

  We prayed, and I anointed him with the oil. Even that extra prayer taxed him. He took communion though his hand trembled to cross himself. The nurses waited as long as they could before they interrupted to place the oxygen at his nose.

  Death was ugly and terrible, but my friend, mentor, brother, father met it with every grace a man of God could hope to achieve.

  “Thank you,” he said. The nurses left us again, and he patted my hand. “Rafe, why are you here at my bedside? You have better, more important work at the parish. I know for a fact you owe a day at the diocese’s office too.”

  “Part of my duties are to attend the sick. I’m attending.”

  “You are not. You’re looking for guidance.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Depends if you’re receptive to the words of a dying man.”

  “I’ve always listened to you, Fath—Ben.”

  He laughed. Not the scratchy, joyful laugh I remembered, but one only a man facing his mortality could gloat over his closest friend and surrogate son.

  “Hardly. You know we have different paths to righteousness. Yours is…” Ben shook his head. “A self-inflicted difficulty.”

  “Not to me,” I said, sinking into the chair after I replaced my oils and stole in the case.

  “Especially to you. You make it so hard on yourself, and you’ve made it harder every day of your life. Save some room on the cross, Rafe. He died to make this easier for you.”

  “You sure you’re getting enough pain-killers?” I asked.

  “You sure you don’t want to anoint me again?” He snickered. “Tell me, son. What is it you wish to confess?”

  I didn’t react. “Who says I’m here to confess?”

  “Right. I’ve only been a priest for fifty years. What do I know?”

  I didn’t answer. Benjamin learned his patience during his years at the parish, and most of it was my fault. His temper had cooled as he endured my foolishness, stubbornness, and reckless interpretation of right, wrong, good, evil, and the failures of man.

  I was not one who willingly sinned, nor was I a man who harbored it. I strived to confront that darkness and expose it in every aspect of my soul, no matter the earthly consequences. But now?

  I never hid from temptation. I’d always sought it out. Studied it. Learned from it. The only way I could face the light of Heaven was to burn myself on the flames of Hell.

  I never met a temptation I couldn’t defy.

  Until last night.

  Until her.

  Until her admission, her whispered confession, and the moment of stolen peace, earned from her trembling fingers.

  I had instructed her to sin.

  I should have confessed then. Benjamin was the only priest who wouldn’t have immediately condemned me to Hell for destroying the precious bond between Confessor and Priest.

  But to reveal that wicked misdeed, I’d have to share everything else. How it felt when she spoke my name. How my heart raced, blood boiled, and cock hardened with her every baited whisper.

  That was my sin, and it was also my delight. The secret wickedness was meant only for me, and that soft, forsaken mew she whimpered within the confessional would forever belong to my soul.

  And it was my fault.

  If I wanted to save Honor, I had to first master the desires which burned through me. Unfortunately, I had no earthly or heavenly idea how to protect myself from such terrible beauty.

  “Father…” This sort of talk necessitated formality, titles, and respect. “You’ve had a long life in the clergy.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you learn to deny temptations?”

  Benjamin took a deep breath. “Is such a thing possible?”

  I was beginning to think no. “It must be.”

  “Each man is different, Rafe.”

  “I know. I thought I understood what made me unique—my personal strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Which are?”

  “Faith.”

  He smiled. “Faith is both your strength and weakness?”

  “My faith in the Lord is my greatest strength…but I have no faith in man.”

  “Or yourself?”

  “I am a man.”

  “Yes,” Benjamin said. “You are a very young, very passionate man. This life was never going to be easy for someone like you.”

  “But it is my life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Every day, men and woman are faced with temptations. They fear those uncertainties as much as they want their desires. It is that fear which traps them in sin.”

  Benjamin sighed. “Are you so different?”

  Yes. “I see no reason to fear what tempts us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would rather face it. Seize it, understand it. Then I would destroy it.”

  He silenced, leaning against the pillow in a quiet prayer. Benjamin eventually looked to me, his eyes hazy with drugs and face jaundiced by the illness raging through his body.

  “Do not put your Lord God to the test…” He groaned. “That’s in Deuteronomy. You don’t even have to read far into the book to find that command.”

  “I’m not challenging God. I’m challenging myself.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can fight the temptations that endanger the virtue of those around me.”

  “Virtue?” Benjamin tried to sit up. He didn’t make it, and his grimace of pain rolled through me. “Be careful, Rafe. You are a strong, fierce man, but temptation exists for a reason—to take advantage of those who would fall to their pride.”

  “I am not proud of this.” My voice steadied. “Pride means I’d underestimate the danger. I do not. But the only way I will overcome this is if I face it. Challenge it.”

  “This is a risky game.”

  “It’s the only game that matters.”

  And I meant it. Nothing meant more to me than my faith or my soul…except the sanctity of others. While other priests would run to avoid that confrontation, I met it head on.

  And so would she.

  “I will only say this once…” Benjamin leaned close, taking my hand. “I understand you, Raphael. I have, ever since you were the lost little boy that came looking to join my flock. You are a devoted priest, and every man finds the Lord in his own way. But…” His voice dropped. “You are young. You are attractive. You are a man who would draw attention, even if you were not wearing a cassock.”

  “I understand that, Father.”

  “You don’t. I know you are a faithful man. But the diocese?” He frowned. “You wanted a home, and so I spoke with the bishop and made it happen. Three years is a long time in a single parish, especially for a man…like you.”

  “I know, Father.”

  “When I am gone, you will be moved. Frequently. To avoid any…”

  “Scandal?”

  “Sacrilege.”

  Right. Like what occurred last night. Like the thoughts and desires and need that still surged through my body and blood.

  Maybe it was for the best. Maybe a change in diocese would shield Honor from my intentions, my presence.

  Or maybe she was sent to me because I was the only one who could save her?

  Maybe we’d save each other.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “You’ve taught me well.”

  “You still have many lessons to learn. Unfortunately, they’ll be the toughest you’ll face. Please…don’t do this alone. I know you, and I know how you sink into your head. If you find yourself struggling—”

  “I won’t falter.”

  “If you do…don’t internalize. Pray, seek guidance, and don’t be afraid to retreat. Life is not all action, and sometimes having faith means accepting what you can’t fight. During those times, let the Lord lead those battles for you.” Benjamin swallowed, his voice fading. “Where you lead, others will follow. The righteo
us choose their friends carefully, but the way of the wicked leads them astray.”

  I didn’t need proverbs thrown at me. I’d spent the night reading anything that might have given me wisdom. When that hadn’t worked, I’d prayed in silence. When that made it worse, I depended on a cold shower to rid myself of Honor’s candied apple scent and mewed groan, captured by her bitten lip.

  If I were a weaker man, I’d have tasted that lip.

  Bitten it myself.

  Caused that tiny gasp that cried for me as she slid her fingertips over that sacred secret.

  I faked another smile for my friend. “Thank you, Father. You’ve…relieved me.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He waved a hand. “Go, you have an evening mass. You know I hate when you’re late to your own celebrations.”

  “I’ve been on time to all three this week.”

  “I’ll nominate you for Pope.” He coughed. “Go. I’ll be here when you come back.”

  He always said that, but I had no idea how much longer it’d be true. I squeezed his hand.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Stay out of trouble.”

  “Always.”

  Never.

  Becoming a priest was never meant to be an easy path. We abandoned most earthly concerns to serve all of humanity, and the cost was too high to fail.

  But I was close to failure now.

  That meant I had to work harder, not just to protect myself, but to shield Honor from any further evil that would target a girl too innocent to realize when the world conspired beyond her control.

  She was young—only a senior in college. And her family had endured enough tragedy without me inflicting any spiritual scars.

  I drove back to the church, heart pounding as I thought of her. I wished the elevated pulse was my only concern. I had no idea how to soothe my uncomfortable, persistent erection. The only logical and sinful way to relieve the strain was forbidden to me. I wasn’t celebrating Mass distracted.

  I slipped into the back of church and splashed cold water on my face. It was the best I could do in the church bathroom. But it worked well enough, especially as I only had ten minutes to prepare for the one evening Mass we held each a week.

  Usually Mass comforted me, put me at peace. It didn’t matter if I celebrated it with the full congregation on Sunday, the fifteen or so people who attended during the evening’s mass, or the few lonely times when it was just me and the Lord.

  Tonight, I didn’t enjoy the Mass.

  I felt it. I believed in it. I concentrated on the words, read out the prayers, and delivered my homily as a dire warning.

  The most important prayer and speech I’d ever given, and the congregation wasn’t in attendance to hear it.

  But I could. And I’d learn from every word of it.

  “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man - 1 Corinthians 10:13,” I recited to the church, the altar, the world, myself.

  And to the woman hidden in the back of the sanctuary.

  She waited. Watched. Honor threaded her rosary through her fingers as she stared at me, too torn to step foot within the sanctuary to take the gift of the Host that I offered to all penitent souls.

  I caught her gaze. We both stilled, silent.

  And she turned, leaving the church. Honor ran before the Mass had concluded and I could follow and find her, bless her as I blessed the others.

  She left before she accepted forgiveness for the mistake last night.

  I wouldn’t allow that. Not when she’d returned to me and sought that promised absolution.

  It was mine to give, and she would receive it.

  Honor Thomas was my greatest temptation, but I was her darkest sin.

  Together we would heal.

  Or together we would be damned.

  3

  Honor

  How many chocolate chip cookies did it take to redeem a sinner’s soul?

  Probably more than the two dozen I baked for the weekly women’s group meeting. Good thing I also brought a carafe of coffee.

  But was it really penance if I made the cookies and coffee because I knew the women’s group had a loose definition of medium roast and dessert? I had only attended one meeting so far, but once was enough to know I should serve my community with a plate of freshly baked guilt.

  I probably couldn’t bribe my Lord and savior with any form of chocolatey cookie—even if they were made from scratch. I didn’t even use the egg beaters. I did everything by hand, and I doubted it made the least bit of difference to my soul. But at least I felt somewhat prepared to face St. Cecilia’s parish if I came bearing treats.

  Besides, it gave me something to hold so the women didn’t see me shake. My hands hadn’t stopped trembling since I pulled into the church’s lot. Every hallowed step echoed in the stone halls and chiseled that fracturing courage in my soul.

  I was scared, and that wasn’t what the church taught. I shouldn’t have been nervous in the hall, shouldn’t have twisted when I cast a side-long look at the confessional.

  And yesterday I shouldn’t have run from the evening Mass.

  Mass was supposed to be a gift to the faithful, a way to commune and meditate on matters beyond ourselves. I’d even corrupted that. I’d attended to try and understand why I acted the way I did in the confessional, but Father Raphael’s sermon, his prayers, his soothing baritone had stirred too many feelings in me.

  The feelings weren’t holy. They weren’t pure. Those shivers delighted me and nearly made me squirm in the back pew. When I closed my eyes in prayer, I imagined him there, with me, beside me.

  Over me.

  Even now, I fantasized about it. I took a breath. It didn’t soothe me nearly as much as that last touch, that secret sin within the shadows of the confessional. In that moment, everything had calmed, quieted, and blessed me in a simple peace.

  If only I could feel that way again. Was wanting that peace a sin?

  Was anything I wanted not a sin? Even self-doubt and insecurity was dangerous. I was supposed to be filled with grace. Instead I had cookies and coffee.

  And waiting outside the women’s meeting did nothing when my mother was already inside.

  Laughing.

  Grinning.

  Preaching the good news of her sobriety to anyone who would listen…and those who hadn’t asked to hear.

  “There she is!” Mom grinned and patted the wooden folding chair at her side. “Honor, baby, I saved you a seat.”

  The vivacious and grinning woman was thirty pounds heavier, ten decibels louder, and three hundred and ninety days soberer than the mom I remembered just a few years ago. Her skin had cleared, though the dark was still a bit splotchy over her arms and legs. She chose vibrant outfits to cover up instead. Her hair grew back, styled with more enthusiasm than gel. She wore bright red lipstick—so she could smile and our Lord could see it all the way from Heaven, she said.

  The chairs on either side of her remained unclaimed. It didn’t surprise me. The dozen or so other women clustered tightly on the opposite end of the circle, politely nodding as Mom enthralled them with a story from rehab. The radio played a quiet song, and Mom yelled over it, waving with an animated gesture to ninety-year-old Mrs. Ruthie.

  “There she is.” Mom pointed at me.

  Ruthie grunted. “Eh?”

  “There! That’s Honor. That’s my baby.” She frowned and shouted louder, her voice echoing through the small room. “My daughter! All grown up.”

  If Ruthie could see past her cataracts, she was certainly blinded by the brim of her burgundy hat—complete with a lace nest and beads. She nodded just the same.

  “Lovely girl.” Ruthie said. “Just lovely.”

  Mom patted her hand over her heart. “She looks just like her father, God rest his soul.”

  That comment gained the attention of the women in the circle. I should have remembered most of them, though my family had stopped attending most of the public events when I hit high school, when M
om’s addiction got worse.

  They appraised me, murmuring about my curly hair or the polite shade of my lipstick. At least I wore the professional, responsible, knee-length skirt, though it meant nothing. I could just as easily pull up the pleads and shed whatever virtue I had left.

  They murmured something about my father. I knew I looked like him. So did Mom. She mentioned it every day, every time she looked at me. She saw Dad in the mocha shade of my skin, the dramatic arch of my eyebrows, and our shared, silly smile.

  I was better than a picture to her, she said, but I doubted she really remembered Dad towards the end. Most of that time was still a blacked out blur to her. Another life.

  She didn’t even remember the day Dad died.

  I did.

  Mom gave me a kiss on the cheek. I shrugged her away as I nearly tipped the cookies and coffee.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Just dropping this off.”

  “You brought cookies!” Susan, one of the youth group troop moms clapped her hands. “Your mom was right. What a blessing you are, coming home and helping her and us like this!”

  Now I wished I had baked a cake. I offered her a cookie and passed the tray around as she murmured her praise. The leader of the woman’s group, Judy Galbraith, scrunched her nose and gave me a sheperding smile. She loved cookies almost as much as she enjoyed moderating the parish’s drama, and, as head of four separate organizations, she earned plenty of both.

  “Oh, what a sweetheart.” Judy seemed relieved to have another Thomas to address. “Look at you. Getting involved in your community. Just like your…mother.”

  I recognized the tone. I would have thought a redeemed member of the parish would be welcomed home. Mom wanted so much to join the groups and sing the praises and help the community that she sometimes forgot just why she’d left in the first place. St. Cecilia’s didn’t. The collective memory was a little too long.

  They all meant to do the right thing, but their philosophies sometimes did more harm than good. To them, some people belonged in the community. Others were remembered as lying in the gutter when the parish offered a blanket and a few dollars. Mom insisted on giving back, and the women had no idea how to accept her gratitude.