Biker's Virgin

“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’d 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 afterward. 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 31-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.