FATHER: Men of the Cloth - Tristan (Forbidden Priest Romance 1) Page 5

  “I’ve probably asked you this a time or two already, but should you ever decide to hang up the ’ol collar… Been thinkin’ lately I could use a partner. Someone to take care of the business end of things. Not getting any younger, and the dogs…well, never seems to be a shortage.”

  A corner of Tristan’s mouth hitched up. Yeah, he’d been asked that a time or two. “You’ll be the first person I call, Mr. Hopper. Promise.” He’d said that a time or two, as well.

  Bart chuckled. “All right, fair ’nuff.”

  Begging for a tummy rub, the puppy rolled onto its back and Tristan squattted down to oblige. Given the dog’s unimaginably brutal start in life, her sweet and friendly disposition left him in awe. But then, as he’d learned from his years volunteering at the shelter, dogs were remarkably resilient.

  “Can’t believe they’d fight a puppy,” he muttered in disgust. “Especially one so small.”

  “Used her as a bait dog, likely.”

  The idea turned Tristan’s stomach. He’d seen a lot of dogs come and go but this playful runt pulled at his heartstrings more than most. Talk about an indomitable spirit. Despite all that she’d suffered, the pup was still so trusting. So eager to please. So unconditionally forgiving. If he ever got his hands on the soulless fuckers responsible for her condition, this holy father wouldn’t think twice about dispensing some serious vigilante justice.

  Dog fighting was a rampant problem in rural Buckhorn County, and despite laws against the cruel and inhumane “sport” they were often difficult to enforce. For two decades Bart and his wife ran the area’s only pitbull rescue—the goal, finding homes for every abused dog that could successfully be rehabilitated. Tragically, four years ago Ruth was killed in a car accident. Called to administer last rites at her hospital bedside was where Tristan and Bart first met.

  It was shortly after that when Tristan started volunteering at the shelter. Every other day off he did whatever Mr. Hopper needed, whether it was assisting with rescues, organizing fundraisers or cleaning up dog shit, no task was too big or too beneath the priest.

  “Come here, sweet girl.”

  Tristan scooped up the bundle of fur at his feet and cuddled it to his chest, alternating between cooing endearments at it and depositing baby kisses on its head. Moxie couldn’t get enough of the attention and started squirming and yipping excitedly. She could hardly contain herself. With her tail whipping his arm, she kept lunging up to lick Tristan’s face while he kept twisting his head this way and that trying to evade her flicking tongue and atrocious breath.

  “Cut it out,” he laughed. “Stop wiggling, you little worm.”

  Bart watched their gregarious interaction with amusement and delight. “You ever consider adoptin’ one yourself?”

  Tristan put Moxie back down on the ground—much to the puppy’s displeasure. “Tending to my other responsibilities doesn’t leave me much time to care for a pet, I’m afraid.”

  “Everyone should have a dog. Not only for the companionship but the unconditional love they offer.”

  Demanding to be picked up, the little pitbull waged a relentless campaign of whining and jumping up on Tristan’s legs.

  “I agree. But it wouldn’t—Moxie, down—be fair keeping it cooped up inside the rectory all day. All my time and energy is spent doing God’s work. It’s what I’ve chosen to do. There’s just little room in my life for much else.” Aside from his everyday duties as a parish priest, he also oversaw St. Ben’s community food pantry and youth ministry outreach program and led a weekly Bible study.

  “Horse pucky. The Almighty isn’t so selfish as to expect to be the only thing in your life. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to be lonely. Isn’t there something in the Good Book ’bout that?”

  It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.

  “Genesis,” Tristan murmured. “But I’m not alone. Or lonely. I have my family, my friends… Then there’s my flock and of course God himself.” Why was he suddenly feeling so defensive?

  “But what about someone greeting you when you get home at night?”

  “Ah, like a dog you mean.”

  “I mean like a wife,” Bart winked.

  Tristan cringed inwardly. Aw hell, he should’ve known where the wily old goat was headed. “Please, Mr. Hopper, let’s not start that again.”

  Why a smart, handsome young man like him wasn’t married was something that baffled Bartholomew Hopper to no end and a question he asked Tristan at least monthly. Apparently the whole celibate priest thing didn’t seem particularly relevant.

  “The best years of my life were spent with my Ruthie,” Bart told him for the umpteenth time. “Never underestimate the love of a good woman, son. It can see you through anything. Even the fires of hell.” The man made no secret of his past struggles with alcoholism and accredited his second wife for turning his life around. “Trust me on that one.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan mumbled. “I, uh… I should go pick up that dog food order now. Inventory’s running low.”

  Bart conceded with a good-humored chuckle. “All right, I can take a hint.”

  Clapping the father on the back, he walked him to the work van as the barking little pitbull bounded circles around them.

  eight

  For a Tuesday, Mo O’Malley’s was surprisingly packed. And loud. And bustling with the kind of energy Tristan usually enjoyed. But not tonight. Tonight he found the people and the pub’s lively vibe annoying as hell. Tonight he was feeling like someone pissed in his Cheerios.

  He’d had a shitty past few days and working at Second Chances today only added to his irritation. He thought he’d developed a thick skin over the years seeing all the damaged dogs the shelter brought in, but for some reason little Moxie really got to him. The way she looked up at him with that one blue eyes of hers—with so much damn hope.

  Save me. Love me.

  “You look grouchy as a Grizzly poked out of a deep sleep.”

  Brian Whitmarsh, his closest friend since grade school and the only other person outside Tristan’s grandmother able to read him like a book, set two frosted mugs on the table and took the seat across from him.

  Confirming the assessment, Tristan emitted a surly growl, then swiped the beer from the table and polished off the thick head of foam in a single swallow. Despite the haggard expression and dark circles under his eyes, he looked pretty damn good for someone running on emotional fumes and only four hours sleep. But then, as Brian could attest, the fucker always looked good.

  The moment the paragon of male virility walked into the bar there wasn’t a female with a heartbeat or pair of eyes who hadn’t glanced his way at least once. And not because they were surprised to see a priest enter an establishment known for its strong spirits, rowdy dart games, and favorable ratio of women to men. Like most nights he went out Father Cleary was donning street clothes, what he referred to as going clerical incognito. He was still encased in head-to-toe black but wore slim fit Levi’s with Doc Martens and a long-sleeved shirt that covered his illustrated forearms. Without the white tab insert, no one would ever suspect the hard-body with the rugged good looks was a man-of-the-cloth. Even when decked out in full-on clergy garb he didn’t meet people’s expectations of what a priest was supposed to look like.

  When it came to his own appearance Tristan didn’t hold any false modesty. He didn’t need to consult the Magic Mirror to tell him he was… Well, if not the fairest of them all then at least a close facsimile. While he didn’t purposely strut his assets, neither did he hide his light under a bushel.

  Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit.

  He ate right (or tried to), downed his vitamins (when he remembered), and worked out not to show off his hard won abs but to stay fit and strong. He was aware he possessed above average looks, that people considered him physically attractive. Pretending otherwise would be disingenuous. Besides, being an object of admiration posed no particular hardship, and in all honesty he
found the attention from women flattering. After all, the priest was a man first.

  He accepted his looks as a leopard does his spots, without much thought, and made his peace with it long ago. As had Brian. Being best buds with someone who turned heads wherever he went could be a bit of an ego-deflator, but over the years he’d learned to accept the fact his handsome homeboy was always going to be the one noticed first, by the opposite sex in particular. Far as actually hooking up with women went, Brian’s small consolation and biggest advantage was that as an ordained Catholic priest, Father Cleary posed zero competition.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  Brian reached across the table for the complimentary snack bowl. “You hungry?”

  “Nope.”

  “Want to get take-out for later then?”

  “Nope.”

  Cracking open a peanut, “You on the rag?”

  Tristan shot him a black look.

  “Want me to—”

  “I said no, damnit.”

  “—move to another table?”

  The priest shuttered his eyes and expelled a breath. “Shit, Bri. I’m sorry.” Dropping his head, he clutched it as if he had a migraine then raked his fingers through his hair—an unconscious gesture done whenever he felt overwhelmed and underwater. “It’s just… It’s been… I’ve had a helluva past few days.”

  “I heard.”

  Tristan’s head rose along with his hackles. “Heard what?”

  “That you-know-who’s back in town.”

  “Said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  His oldest friend smiled knowingly but said nothing more. They sat drinking their beers in companionable silence, every few minutes opening a peanut or two. Brian knew Tristan well enough to know to give him space when he was like this, which thankfully wasn’t often. He’d come to learn there was a pattern to the priest’s black moods, coincidentally coinciding with the return of a particular someone to town. Whenever Tristan got wind that Kady was back in Carkeek, his demeanor went from affable to implacable.

  Brian could hardly blame him, though. Not after what she did to the boy. Still, he felt torn. He’d always liked Kady. Everyone did. The girl was a sweetheart, perhaps even a little too nice for her own good. That’s why he never understood how she could’ve betrayed his friend that way. It was so out of character for her. Probably why he’d always suspected there was more to the story. He also admitted to harboring a harmless crush on the girl. Hell, practically every guy who knew her did. With porcelain doll features and a petite but curvy figure, Kady was, to put it mildy easy on the eyeballs. Not even Tristan’s own brother was immune.

  Reese seemed to have it the worst of all of them. Though it went without saying that Tristan’s girl would be off limits, Reese took every opportunity to flirt with her, even acting borderline skeevy at times. Considering how close the two were, Brian found the behavior strangely disrespectful. But the gregarious and popular star athlete had a way of treating everything like a joke, so it was hard to tell when Reese was serious or just messing around. And if Tristan was bothered or even aware that his twin had a jones for Kady, he never let on.

  Reese. Damn. Brian mentally shook his head. How long had it been now? How many years since— “Sorry, what?” He lifted his eyes from his beer glass to find Tristan staring at him.

  “I asked where you went.”

  “I was just thinking about…” He hiked a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Uh, work. Got a lot going on this week.”

  After letting a few more minutes of quietude slip by, Tristan dipped his big toe into the gossip pool to test the waters. “So, uh… what else did you hear?” Though he’d made a valiant attempt to sound nonchalant, he didn’t have his best friend fooled for a second.

  “Thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” Brian’s reminder came with a side of smart-ass.

  Tristan supersized it with a fuck-you frown. “I don’t.” About the latest town gossip, he was trying real hard not to act like he gave a shit when it was obvious from his impatient leg jiggling that he so fucking did.

  “What I heard was…” Brian popped a nut in his mouth. “She went by the church to see you.”

  “ ‘Went by’ is a damn understatement. Ambushed me in the confession booth is what she did.”

  Brian’s lips quivered. “I understand the two of you, uh, somehow ended up in the same stall together.”

  Tristan’s neck flushed. “That was an accident.”

  “You were having a heated exchange of words. So it was reported.”

  “Jesus,” the priest groaned. “How much? How much was overheard?”

  “Enough.”

  “Damnit. The reconciliation area is supposed to be private. Shit said in the box is confidential.”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t been yelling…”

  “I wasn’t yelling!”

  Heads from nearby tables pivoted in their direction. Tristan lowered his head and his voice to a harsh whisper. “I wasn’t yelling.”

  “You were according to the person who was…” Brian made air quotes with his fingers. “…lighting a prayer candle.”

  “Aw, hell.” The church’s votive shrine wasn’t that close to the confessional yet apparently near enough that someone could eavesdrop if so inclined.

  “Only two things needed to start a rumor. A sharp set of ears and a loose wagging tongue.”

  “So what’s everyone talking about exactly?”

  “Well for starters… it was news to some that Father Cleary uses the F-word. Like, a lot.” Brian watched the priest’s head drop into his hands. “Yeah, shocker. There were actually a few parishioners unaware their beloved reverend has a potty mouth.”

  “Fuck off. What else?”

  “You mean what’s the other gossip spreading like wildfire regarding your little tryst this morning… with your former fiancée… the one you haven’t spoken to in over ten years? You mean that juicy tidbit?”

  “It wasn’t a tryst and I didn’t know she was coming.”

  “Kady was seen tearing out of the church as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.” Brian didn’t need to ask the reason why. He was aware his friend the holy father could be a jerk when he wanted.

  “I don’t care about that. Just tell me what’s being said about—”

  “You’re still in love with the girl.”

  The assertion slammed Tristan like an avalanche. Hard. Cold. And without warning.

  “What… did… you… say?” He was clenching his jaw so hard his lips barely moved when he spoke. It took all he had just to keep his volume at a normal level.

  “The rumor going around town is that you’re—”

  “I heard you, goddamnit.”

  “Language, sir.” His thunderous bass laugh matching his six-foot-six frame, Mohammed O’Malley, the pub’s genial and gregarious Turkish-Irish proprietor and namesake, plunked a shot glass and bottle of Jameson on the table in front of him.

  “Compliments of the little lady in the short skirt and high stilettos,” he explained, tossing his head in the direction of an hourglass redhead sitting at the bar.

  “That didn’t take long,” Brian marveled. Tristan had scarcely been there fifteen minutes and already the women were honing in on him. Oh, to have a problem like that.

  “She’s in town visiting family,” O’Malley volunteered for no particular reason. “Tom Kleinfled's niece or cousin or some such relation. You know, the councilman accused of embezzlement?”

  The woman was positioned behind Tristan but in Brian’s direct line of vision. As Brian glanced over at her, his eyes bugged out of their sockets like a cartoon character. Despite the strong endorsement, Tristan resisted the urge to check her out for himself. Didn’t matter if she looked like a Victoria Secret model, nothing could come of it.

  “I don’t touch hard liquor, Mo. Just like I don’t—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Tristan, I know, I know. You don’t have to remin
d me every single time. I get that you don’t touch pussy.”

  “I was going to say women.”

  “Sure you were,” Brian quipped, shooting O’Malley a knowing wink.

  “Come on…” Clapping his favorite priest on the back, the former pro defensive tackle packed quite a wallop and Tristan lurched forward on impact. “I’m only asking you say hello to the poor girl. As a bare minimum, smile. She’s been trying to snag your eye since you sat down.”

  Brian snorted. “Making her different from every other woman in the place how?”

  With a shake of his head Tristan grabbed a handful of nuts. “Sorry, Mo, not tonight. Not in the mood to socialize.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything but go over and thank her for the drink. Three minutes tops.”

  Picking up the empty glass Tristan twirled it in his fingers. “You mean this drink, Mo?”

  “Aw come on, T,” Brian cajoled. “Where’s the harm?”

  “Where’s the harm?” he parroted incredulously.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have your back.”

  Tristan cocked a sardonic brow.

  Brian parried with a roguish grin.

  They both knew exactly what he was up to. It wasn’t the first time Brian tried employing the old bait and switch routine. He’d learned over the years that one surefire way for picking up women was to allow his handsome buddy to lure them in with his looks, then he’d take over and act the consoling party once they discovered Tristan was a holy father. Hell, there had to be at least one perk to being friends with a real life Adonis. The fact that Tristan was sworn to celibacy meant Brian had a chance of taking home the goods. Biggest obstacle to that plan was Tristan. He resented having to always play wingman.

  “Nice try, Bri.”

  “What can I say, T? Haven’t been laid in three months.”

  “Cry me a fucking river,” the priest muttered. Try five years, bro.

  Like a dog with a bone O’Malley wouldn’t let the matter of the redhead drop. “She’s got humungous knockers…” he sing-songed, “Sure you don’t want to see for yourself? See why our horny homie here is drooling like a Saint Bernard?”