Fic: Make Something Of Me, part 1/2
Title: Make Something Of Me
Author: gmth
Pairing: Drake Parker/Josh Nichols
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 17,500
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Summary: Josh is a priest with just one weakness. Unfortunately, it's a big one.
Warning: AU/AR. Drake and Josh are not stepbrothers in this fic. Contains adult concepts and language. Includes religious themes and concepts some may find offensive or blasphemous. I researched Catholic rituals as best I could, but there's a possibility I missed a few things; I also did a few things deliberately to suit the plot. No disrespect toward Catholicism or Christianity in general is intended.
Author's note: HUGE thanks to lilysaid for the plot bunny and for her kind indulgence in doing reality check/beta duty while I was writing this. Crossposted.
The rituals are always the same. It's a comfort to Josh, knowing that. There's safety in the knowledge that he never has to wonder what to say, or what to do with his hands, or even how to dress. He says and does and wears the same things every time, in the same order, the same way it has been done by millions of others for nearly two thousand years before he was born.
"The Body of Christ."
The bride murmurs an "Amen" and opens her mouth. Josh represses a shiver as he deposits the host on her tongue, careful not to brush his fingers against her bright red, overly-painted lips. At the rehearsal the night before she and her mother-in-law to-be had had a screaming match in the church narthex, and Josh had narrowly avoided an elbow to the jaw when he tried to pull them apart. As he straightens, Josh glances quickly at the front pew. The mother-in-law's expression is stony, her lips pressed together into a hard, thin slash of pink. Josh takes a step to his left as the deacon bends to offer the chalice. This bride certainly has an interesting life ahead of her.
"The Body of Christ."
The groom's face is pale, his upper lip shiny with sweat. He's been none too steady on his feet, and he's not so much leaning against the altar railing as slumped across it. When he opens his mouth to receive the host, Josh can smell beer on his breath. He and his buddies had spent most of the morning in the church parking lot, keeping their previous night's hangovers at bay by getting drunk all over again. All of the groomsmen look like they could use a hot cup of coffee and a bottle or two of aspirin. The only male member of the wedding party who doesn't look like death warmed over is the guitarist. He might even be enjoying himself, if the emotion coming through in his voice is any indication.
"The Body of Christ."
Josh says it a hundred times as the wedding guests shuffle past. Each says "Amen," each receives the host, each walks away with the same blank expression on his or her face. The annoyances of the day before eventually blur and fade into the numbing pleasure of repetition, and by the time the ceremony is over Josh has forgotten the bride's and groom's names.
The guitarist is one of the last to leave after the photographer is finished. He's just snapping the latches on his guitar case closed as Josh crosses the nave on his way to the sacristy. "Father," he says, nodding politely and hoisting the case up off the pew. Josh stops, changes direction as the guitarist approaches him with a hand outstretched. He passes through a patch of sunlight spilling through the stained-glass window, and for a moment his hair glows bright auburn. "I'm Drake Parker."
Josh grasps the offered hand and shakes it. The other man's grip is surprisingly firm. "Nice to meet you," he says. "I enjoyed your music."
Drake smiles. "Thanks. I'm glad to hear you say that." He shifts the guitar case to his other hand and digs around in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "I was hoping," he says, withdrawing a creased white business card in the shape of a guitar pick and offering it to Josh, "you would keep me in mind if any other couples getting married here ever want a guitar player?"
***
There's already a long line snaking down the hallway when Josh approaches the confessional. The penitents are silent as he walks by, counting them off in his head as he passes, and he gives a weary sigh when he reaches the head of the line. It's going to be a long morning.
Inside the confessional, he leans his head against the wall beside the screen and closes his eyes as the parade of penitents begins. Their sins are always the same. "I lied to my husband." "I was unkind to my neighbor." "I stole from my job." Josh gives them all penance and sends them on their way, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that wonders how much God really cares about Mrs. Housewife telling her husband his awful tie looks good or Mr. Accountant slipping a box of paperclips into his pocket on his way out of the office.
It goes on for ages. Josh's ass is sore from the hard wooden bench by the time the flood eventually slows to a trickle, then completely numb by the time it stops altogether. He glances at his watch. He'll give it another five minutes, just to be sure, but he hopes that will be it for today. His stomach is starting to growl, and by now lunch will be on the table at the rectory. A rustle of sound on the other side of the wall squashes his dreams of eating his soup while it's still hot just as the second hand sweeps past the twelve for the fifth time.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been three weeks since my last confession."
Josh sits up. He recognizes the voice at once; it's the Mystery Boy. He's been here three or four times before, but Josh has never seen his face. He's not even sure the Boy is a member of his congregation. As far as he knows, their only interaction has been here, behind the closed doors of the confessional.
The sudden tension in the small space becomes a palpable thing. Josh can almost smell it.
"It happened again, Father," the Boy says without preamble. His voice is trembling. "With a guy from my school."
Josh says nothing. He can hear the Boy's uneven breathing through the screen that separates them, and the desperation driving it makes his chest feel hollow.
"We stayed after last week to help one of our teachers with something, and when we were finished we walked home together. We were over by the baseball fields in the park and we..." He breaks off with a hiccup-y sob, but masters it with his next breath.
"Go on," Josh says quietly. He dreads what's to come, not because he fears what the Boy will say, but because he hates what he knows he must say in response.
"We stopped. In the dugout."
"To rest?" Josh says with feigned innocence.
"No," the Boy replies. "To... you know what I mean, Father. Don't make me say it. Please."
"You're here to confess. You haven't confessed anything yet. It's not a sin to walk through the park."
The Boy sniffs wetly. "To... we touched each other," the Boy whispers. "We kissed and we... got each other off."
Josh squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, silently raging against the helplessness coiling in his gut. This is wrong. So wrong. This poor, confused kid has come seeking help, and Josh is powerless to offer it; must, in fact, offer censure instead. "You know it's an affront to God," he says, amazed at his own ability to keep his voice steady.
"Yes."
The knife in Josh's belly twists again. "This isn't the first time you've come to me with this. Why do you keep doing it if you know it's a sin?"
"I don't know. I - I can't help it."
"You're not trying hard enough," Josh says, clenching his hand into a fist so tight it hurts. He's glad the screen is between them so the Boy can't see his face. "The next time you get the urge, I want you to pray instead. Pray to God, and to Jesus, and to our Holy Mother, and to all the saints for as long as it takes to gain the strength to resist. God will answer you. And once He does, I want you to keep praying to show your gratitude for His help. Do you understand?"
The Boy does not speak, but Josh can tell from the moving shadows on the wall he's nodding his head in response. Josh wipes his clammy palms on his leg as he assigns the Boy penance, but he can't shake the feeling that his hands are still unclean. He sits in the confessional for a long time after the Boy bolts, whispering a prayer of his own that brings him no comfort. When he finally returns to the rectory lunch is already over, but by then it doesn't matter anymore. His appetite is long gone.
***
Brent and Liza are adorable together. They're sitting next to one another on the other side of Josh's desk, their chairs pulled so close they're practically in each other's laps, their hands clasped and resting lightly on Liza's thigh. They've been meeting with Josh for over an hour now, and Josh doesn't think Brent has stopped looking at Liza for longer than a minute the entire time. He hasn't seen a man look at a woman with that kind of adoration in his eyes since he was a kid watching his father look at his mother.
He smiles. "I think you're going to be very happy together," he says, flipping open the church's calendar book.
They exchange soppy looks. "Yeah," they say in unison. "We will," Brent adds.
"So, let's see here." Josh slides his finger back and forth across the page a few times before coming to a rest. "You're getting married on the 15th." He glances up for confirmation, and Liza nods happily. "Okay, let's talk about what kind of ceremony you want."
They have all the details decided already, of course. Josh is willing to bet they've been planning it since their first date. "One thing though, Father," Liza says. "We were kind of hoping we could have a guitar mass." Brent nods and they both turn to Josh with identical anxious expressions on their faces, right down to the number of furrows in their wrinkled brows. They're starting to freak him out a little, actually.
"I have no objection to that," Josh replies.
"That's great," Brent says, giving Liza's hand a squeeze. "So, how do we go about arranging it?"
Josh stares at Brent with his mouth hanging slightly open. "Um." He hasn't the foggiest. "The church's music director would usually handle those kinds of details," he says, "but she's just left us to have a baby. The diocese has been sending in temps to help us out until we get somebody new in here." He thinks hard for a moment. To his knowledge, there's never been a guitar mass at St. Jude's, not since he's been there, at least. The only time he can remember there ever being a guitarist in the place was --
"Ah!" He snaps his fingers and pulls open his desk drawer. "Just a second here..." He riffles through the drawer's contents, shuffling boxes of pens and staples until he finds what he's looking for. "Here we go." He offers Brent the business card he's pulled out of the drawer, then thinks better of it and snatches it back before Brent can grab hold of it. "This guy played here at a wedding a few months ago and he's very good," Josh says, grinning at the slogan he's just noticed on the card: Drake Parker, World Class Guitarist. 'Pick' me and you'll never 'fret.'
He jots Drake's name and phone number down on a piece of paper and hands that to Brent instead.
***
"Father Nichols!"
The hem of Josh's alb swirls around his legs as he turns. Drake is striding up the hallway toward him, his guitar case strapped to his back. A warm smile lights his entire face. He's an exceptionally good-looking man, Josh realizes with a jolt, and he clutches the Bible he's holding a bit closer to his chest.
Drake grabs Josh's hand and pumps it in another of his powerful handshakes. Their palms slide smoothly across one another when he lets go, sending little shocks skittering along Josh's skin. "Good to see you," Drake says. "I just wanted to thank you for setting me up with this gig." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the other end of the hallway where Brent and Liza stand next to their parents in the receiving line. "They hired my band to play their reception too, so that'll cover the rent this month." His grin grows impossibly brighter at the prospect.
"Oh, sure, yeah, no problem," Josh replies with a laugh that sounds uncomfortably close to a giggle. He wants to cringe when he hears it. He's not sure why he's suddenly talking and feeling like a nervous teenager on his first date. "Glad to help," he says, pulling it back together. "You were very good."
"Yeah," Drake says, and Josh can tell by the easy way he accepts the compliment he's no stranger to praise. "Hey, I was thinking. I'd like to say thanks in a better way, and maybe get you to think about recommending me again. How about I buy you a beer some time?"
"Oh, that's not necessary," Josh says quickly, waving the idea away with his free hand, and to his horror he can feel his cheeks starting to heat.
"Yeah, I know. I want to. Unless, oh --" Drake scratches the back of his neck and lowers his voice. "Are you guys allowed to drink? You know, when you're out of uniform or whatever?"
Josh can't help but smile. "Sure."
"Great, then what do you say? Maybe one night next week?"
Josh is tempted. He hasn't been out for a beer with a friend since he was in seminary, and something tells him Drake would be an interesting companion. He'd probably be fun to talk to, and he's certainly easy on the eyes. He remembers the warmth of Drake's hand and shifts uneasily on his feet. "I -- I have committee meetings every night next week."
"So how about the week after?"
"I don't think so. It's really not necessary."
"You sure?"
Josh isn't, but he nods anyway. "But thank you."
"Okay." Drake shrugs and flashes another of those award-winning smiles. "I gotta get going, then." He takes a few steps backwards as he speaks. "Thanks again, Father, and keep me in mind for other weddings, all right?"
Josh signals that he will, and Drake gives him a thumbs up before turning around and walking off. Josh watches him move through the crowd, head held high, guitar case bobbing up and down on his back with each step. He punches his way through the double glass doors, climbs into his car and drives off, and when Josh finally turns away he feels a bit like a kid whose ice cream cone just fell onto the sidewalk.
***
The baby sleeps peacefully through the entire ceremony until Josh pours the water on her forehead. Then she spits the pacifier out and starts to scream like he's pouring acid on her face instead. The pacifier bounces off Josh's shoe and rolls across the floor, and one of Helen's countless nieces rushes forward to collect it. Helen and her husband both come from huge Catholic families, and half the church is filled with her relatives.
"...in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
The baby continues to cry until the ceremony is over and someone finally plugs her mouth with a clean pacifier. Afterwards, Helen passes the baby to one of her sisters and gives Josh a hug while the rest of her family mills around and the children chase one another through the narthex.
"How's everything going?" she asks.
Josh knows she's hoping he'll say things are falling apart without her. "Fine," he says instead.
"How long has this one been here?" She jerks her head toward the replacement organist, who is still seated on the organ bench, gathering sheets of music into a neat little stack.
"About a month now, I think."
"Hmm." Helen purses her lips. "I'm sure you noticed she screwed up the ending of 'Little Child The Savior Came.'"
"Did she?" Josh replies. "I didn't notice." In fact, the hymn had sounded exactly the same to him as it always had when Helen played it.
She nods. "Oh, yes. I don't know how you missed it. It was so obvious."
Josh clears his throat over Helen's words as the replacement organist slips past, hoping against hope she hadn't heard. There are two spots of pink high on her cheekbones, and Josh feels the tips of his ears growing warm. This isn't the first time Helen's big mouth has caused a problem for him.
"So, have you had any luck getting a new music director in here?" Helen asks.
The baby starts to cry again, and Helen's sister calls out to her for help. She holds up one index finger in response and gives Josh an expectant look.
"No," he says. "Not yet."
***
"C'mon, Sammy!" Sammy's foster father claps his hands as the boy runs past, dribbling the basketball furiously, then cups them around his mouth again to amplify his voice. "Get past 'em, kiddo, that's the way! You can do it!" A moment later he's groaning his disappointment as the center for the opposing team snatches the ball away and runs up court. Sammy starts to cry and stomps away to the sidelines, and the coach has to call a time out.
"That kid sucks!" an angry voice in the crowd bellows, and a chorus of voices around him echo their agreement. "Put him on the bench!"
Sammy's foster father turns to the crowd and flips them off, screaming obscenities at the man who started the ruckus. The group of mothers seated around Josh makes scandalized noises as the man rises to his feet and starts shouting back, and Josh realizes it won't take much more of a catalyst to set this powder keg off in a big way. Pee wee basketball is serious business.
"Gerald," he says, climbing out of the bleachers and taking Gerald by the arm. "Come on, calm down."
"I want my kid to get a chance to play!" Gerald yells, wrenching his arm out of Josh's grasp, but he allows Josh to steer him to a quiet corner of the gym while the coach finishes dealing with Sammy. The red-faced man in the crowd sits back down, glaring at them as they go, and the tension in the crowd dissipates.
"Don't worry, he'll get to play," Josh says in his most soothing voice. Privately, he agrees with the loudmouth in the crowd. St. Jude's can't afford to lose this game if they want to go to the playoffs, and Sammy is the worst player on the team. But the church league rules say all of the kids should have an equal chance to play, and Gerald is notorious for his short fuse. Josh keeps his thoughts to himself.
The whistle blows for play to continue. A cheer goes up from the crowd and Gerald races back to the sidelines, shouting and clapping his hands. When the final buzzer sounds St. Jude's has lost by a single point, scored when a forward from Our Lady of Grace hits a free throw after Sammy tries to trip him.
Father Schneider's smile is teetering just on this side of being an obnoxious smirk when he and Josh meet mid-court to shake hands. "Good game, Father," he says. "Your boys played well." There's an undercurrent of malicious glee in his voice, and Josh has to struggle not to react to it.
He forces a smile of his own in case anyone is watching. "Yours, too."
"Sorry we won't be seeing your team at the playoffs this year."
No, you aren't, you miserable son of a -- Josh cuts the thought off before it crosses the line into something he'd have to confess. He takes a deep breath. "Yes. Well," he says, trying not to grit his teeth. "There's always next year."
Schneider releases Josh's hand and leans in close. "Too bad about number fourteen," he says, nodding in Sammy's direction. "Doesn't quite have what it takes, does he."
Josh glances at the sidelines where Sammy is standing with Gerald. They're talking to the forward Sammy fouled in the last seconds of the game, and Josh feels his eyes widen in surprise. Standing behind the boy, with one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, is Drake.
"Would you excuse me?" he says to Father Schneider, and walks away without waiting for a reply.
It seems to take a very long time to cross the twenty or so feet that separates them. Josh uses the time to compare the boy's profile to Drake's, and a knot of apprehension tightens in his chest. Their jaw lines and noses are exactly the same shape, their eyes and mouths set at identical angles. With a sinking heart, Josh realizes this must be Drake's son. He looks at the hand Drake is resting on the boy's shoulder. There's no wedding band on it, but Josh knows better than anyone that means absolutely nothing. It never occurred to him before to wonder if Drake is married and has kids, but the thought of it now feels like expecting a new car for Christmas and getting a pair of old socks instead.
"Hello," he croaks when he reaches the group, and Drake looks up sharply in surprise.
"Hi, Father." His face comes alive with one of his thousand-watt grins as he reaches for Josh's hand. "I didn't know you were here."
"Oh sure, I try to never miss a game when my kids are playing." Drake's hand feels deliciously familiar in his own. He glances at Sammy and smiles, trying to put off the moment when he has to face Drake again and let go. When the time comes, he reluctantly pulls back and looks down at the boy with Drake's eyes. "You played very well," he says, trying for warmth and failing. His smile feels more like a grimace.
Sammy and his foster father wander away as the boy peeks up at Josh from under his bangs. "This is my nephew, Alex," Drake says, ruffling the boy's hair, and Josh feels a rush of relief like the one he'd felt in college when a huge mid-term he'd forgotten about was postponed for a week.
"Hey, Alex," Josh says, and this time the warmth isn't feigned. "Nice to meet you." He studies the boy's beautiful face for a moment and then looks up at Drake. "He looks just like you."
Drake snorts. "He looks more like my sister."
"My mom had to work tonight, so Uncle Drake came to watch me play," Alex says proudly. He reaches up to grope for Drake's hand, but Drake responds with a gentle push between his shoulder blades.
"Yeah, and you were awesome," Drake says, and the look on his face leaves Josh in no doubt as to his feelings for the boy. "Why don't you go get your stuff? I'll wait for you here." He turns to watch as the boy runs off toward the locker room, and Josh notices one of the back pockets on Drake's jeans has a white spiral bullseye pattern on it. The jeans ride low on Drake's hips, secured in place by a white belt that has caught up part of his shirttail, and are so tight Josh can almost read the date on a dime in Drake's pocket. He clears his throat and forces his eyes back to Drake's face when Drake turns around.
"He seems like a great kid," Josh says.
"Yeah. He is," Drake says, crossing his arms. "Hey listen, is kids' basketball always this insane? I mean, wow. For a minute there, I thought there was going to be a riot."
Josh shrugs. "It can get a little crazy sometimes. Folks around here take this stuff pretty seriously."
"My sister told me it can get kind of intense," Drake says. "But Jesus Christ, these people are --" He stops in mid-sentence and shoots Josh a guilty look. "Sorry about that, Father."
Josh ignores it. A bead of sweat is trickling down the side of his throat, tracing an itchy line on his skin as it slips under his collar, but he resists the urge to scratch it. For reasons he doesn't want to think about too deeply just then, it feels vitally important not to draw Drake's attention to his neck. "So, uh, how have you been?"
"Pretty good, I guess. I can't complain."
"Played any weddings lately?"
"Nah. But my band did pick up a steady gig over at Slim's on Magnolia."
A pretty woman walks by, flashing a flirtatious smile in Drake's direction. Josh steps to the side to block her from Drake's view; a moment later he realizes what he's done and takes half a step back. "Sounds great."
"Yeah. The money's okay, and the crowd over there loves us. Hey, you should come by and see us some time."
"Oh, I don't --"
"C'mon, don't turn me down again. You'll love it, I promise." Drake's voice is animated with a sudden excitement. "We're really good. And I can buy you that beer I promised you."
"Well --"
"We're there every Thursday night. First set starts at eight."
He makes it sound like the decision's already been made, and Josh can't think of any legitimate reason to refuse. He nods and says, "Okay, Thursday night," and Drake grins and pats him on the arm.
"Great, I'll see you then," he says happily as Alex darts back into view.
***
But Josh doesn't go to Slim's that Thursday night. Or the next. Or the next. He can't go, he decides, because little emergencies keep popping up that must be dealt with right away. Like the peeling paint in the church stairwell, for example. For all he knows it might be lead-based, and it would be irresponsible not to take care of it immediately. The following Thursday the rectory cat starts throwing up, and Josh can't let the poor creature suffer alone. The Thursday after that, there's a documentary on the history of avocado farming he doesn't want to miss. The excuses are easy to make, and once they start piling on top of another it becomes harder and harder to find his way out from under them.
It scares him how easily he can lie to himself. But it scares him even more how often he finds himself thinking about Drake. He sneaks up on Josh when Josh isn't expecting it. He might be eating breakfast, or jogging down the bike path, or putting on his vestments in preparation for mass, and when he blinks he realizes Drake is there in his head with him, and has been for hours. Just sitting there quietly, a small smile curving his full lips, a constant, silent companion. If Josh closes his eyes, he can almost reach out and touch him. It's a comfort, in a way; Josh never realized how lonely he's been all these years. But in another way, it's a torture. It makes him feel even more alone.
He always forces himself to stop when he realizes it's happening. He tells himself to quit being ridiculous, he hardly knows the man, and even if he did Drake is a man and Josh is a priest....
He wonders if Drake has noticed he hasn't shown up as he promised. He wonders if Drake is disappointed.
One Sunday morning, he looks up at the congregation and thinks he catches a glimpse of Drake sitting in the back of the church. He fumbles over the familiar words and focuses on his prayer book to anchor himself, and when he looks up again Drake is gone. Halfway through the Nicene Creed, Josh decides it's time to put an end to this. Now. This week.
Enough is enough.
***
The lights in Slim's parking lot aren't nearly bright enough for comfort in this part of town, but Josh welcomes the shadows. It's harder than he thought it would be to go inside. The music is loud enough to hear in the parking lot, even through the closed windows. He can feel the vibrations through the floor of the car, and it makes his legs feel wobbly. He smoothes his hand down the front of his T-shirt with a nervous swallow, wondering for the fifth time in five minutes if it was a mistake not to wear his collar. It's a handy shield, sometimes. It answers questions before they can be asked.
He glances at the dashboard clock. It's only a few minutes after eight. He doesn't want Drake to think he's too eager. Maybe he could go get a burger, or browse that little bookstore a few blocks over for a while. It's got a great religion section, and they have a coffee shop inside, too. He could come back in about an hour. It's been over a month since he promised to come see Drake perform. Another hour won't make any difference.
"Chicken," he says to himself, tapping his fist on the steering wheel. "Get a grip." Enough stalling. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. A group of giggling girls is walking by, and Josh slides through the door behind them.
He hears Drake before he sees him. His voice fills the whole club. Josh's fingers tremble as he pushes a folded five-dollar bill into the bouncer's hand. The air in the place is thick with the smell of sweat and beer, making Josh's stomach churn unpleasantly as he rounds the corner into the main room.
Drake is standing on stage in the center of a blaze of light from above. The moment he comes into view, his right arm pumping aggressively and fingers flying across the strings, the spotlight reflects off the guitar's tuning keys and flashes into Josh's eyes. Josh stops short. Drake's mouth is obscured by the microphone, his eyes hidden behind the damp curtain of his bangs, but even this obstructed glimpse of his face calms Josh's stomach and sets his heart to racing, instead.
There are still a few empty tables down in front by the stage, but Josh heads for the bar. The bartender is busy and Drake finishes two songs before Josh can get anyone's attention, but he resists the temptation to turn back toward the stage until he's got a drink in his hand. Eventually he orders a beer and settles down on a barstool with his back to the rail, feet looped through the bottom rungs. The music vibrates through the seat, through his whole body, the rhythm of the bass stirring something primitive in his belly. Drake's voice is rougher than Josh has heard it before; fuller, somehow, than it ever sounded at St. Jude's. He wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and reaches over his shoulder to grab the beer the barmaid is pressing against his back.
"Hi."
A very pretty blonde in a low-cut blue shirt bounces onto the next stool and gives Josh a coy smile. "Hello," he says, sitting up a bit straighter and drawing his knees together.
"I don't remember seeing you here before." She cocks her head so her hair falls across her eyes, then sweeps it away with a laugh.
"I've never been here before."
"That's probably why I haven't seen you, then." With an accompanying upper body undulation Josh is sure the bishop would condemn, she crosses her legs so the tip of one pointed shoe is dangerously close to his calf. He pulls his leg in even further. "Did you just move here or something?"
"No."
"Ohh." She nods as though he's said something very insightful. "Yeah, me neither." Twirling a few strands of hair around her index finger, she leans in far too close. "I'm Terri," she says. "You're really cute. Wanna buy me a drink?"
The crowd erupts into applause and Josh looks up, startled. Damn. He missed the end of the song thanks to this vapid --
"I don't think so," he says, bracing the elbow farthest from her on the bar railing and leaning back against it. "I'm just here for the music." He gestures toward the stage with his beer bottle. "But it was nice to meet you."
It's a dismissal, and she knows it. "Okay," she replies, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders that says your loss more clearly than words ever could, she hops off the stool and disappears into the crowd. Josh sighs his relief against the lip of his beer bottle and takes a sip, eyes wandering back to the stage.
Drake is just setting a glass of water back into place on a little stool near the curtain. "All right," he says, his moistened lips gleaming in the light. "This next song is for someone very special to me." He grabs the guitar and steps back from the microphone to count off the beat to rest of the band, and they launch into a ballad. A few people in the crowd start to clap as they recognize the opening chords.
Josh feels himself snap to attention the moment the music starts. Drake's eyes drift slowly shut as he starts to sing, his posture relaxing as the lyrics unfold until it seems like the muscles in his arms are the only ones in his body with any tension left in them. His fingers caress the guitar strings with an effortless grace that seems almost unbearably intimate. It's like watching him with a lover, someone he's touched a thousand times before and knows exactly how to please. Josh feels his mouth going dry. He wants to look away. He feels like he's intruding on something private, but he can't stop staring.
The chorus is a cappella, which is something of a relief when Drake's hand falls away from the body of the guitar. But then he wraps his free hand around the microphone and eases his hips forward, tapping one foot in time so the guitar bounces gently against his groin with each beat. Josh gives his lower lip a nervous swipe of the tongue, eyes locked on the guitar, trying desperately not to let his imagination drift to the spot just out of sight behind it that is surely benefiting from the friction. By the time Drake's hand returns to begin strumming again, Josh is pressing the icy beer bottle against the V of his jeans to keep himself under control.
He turns his head. Watching Drake play like this makes the empty places in Josh's chest burn around the edges with a cold fire that takes his breath away. He hasn't felt this way since the night of his high school graduation when he and Mindy had been making out in the backseat of his dad's car. She'd scrambled on top of him and straddled his open fly, tits pushed painfully over the top of her bra, and leaned forward to kiss him while he fumbled between their bodies to get himself into position. They'd been working toward that moment for two long years, and Josh had felt like some kind of mindless animal that understood nothing but hungry and want and now and hurry. But just as she was finally poised to sink down on his cock, the trembling in her thighs was stilled by a sharp knock on the window and the blinding beam of a cop's flashlight playing over their faces. He'd driven her home in silence, feeling like he'd left all his insides back there in the parking lot behind B.F. Wang's. Years later he convinced himself that emptiness had had nothing to do with Mindy and everything to do with himself, because being in the presence of Someone Else had made him whole and he'd never feel that way again.
Or so he'd thought.
The song ends and Drake tosses the hair out of his eyes with a smile. "Thanks," he says, tilting his head slightly in response to the applause. "I want to introduce the person who inspired that song and who means more to me than just about anyone in the world. Where are you?" Drake shades his eyes with his hand and squints in to the crowd, and Josh freezes, his heart pounding. Drake couldn't possibly be talking about --
"Ah!" Drake's face splits into one his brilliant grins as he points to someone near the stage. "There you are! Come on up." A dark-haired woman with deep dimples on either side of her smile climbs up on stage, and Drake enfolds her in a huge hug. "Love you," he says as he releases her, and even from this far across the room Josh can see the warmth in Drake's eyes as he looks at her. He feels like a load of bricks has been dropped on his head.
He's gone before the next song begins.
***
It's a relief, in a way.
That's what Josh keeps telling himself. It's over. He kept his word, even if Drake has no idea he was there, and now he can close the book on the craziness and get back to his work. If he lets himself think about it, he realizes he was getting pretty, well, stupid about the whole thing. He let himself get in way over his head. It's actually kind of funny, the way he's been acting, and he tries to laugh it off later, but the laughter keeps getting stuck in his throat.
He spends most of the weekend on his knees, praying for... something. He's not sure what. Forgiveness, maybe, for letting his mind wander in directions it had no business going. Or perhaps strength, because he'll need it to keep the promise he now makes to himself: he's never going back to Slim's. In fact, he decides, grinding his teeth, he's never going to contact Drake in any way, shape, or form again. Ever.
First thing Monday morning, he tosses Drake's business card in the trash can next to his desk. He can see it out of the corner of his eye all day, and when he swivels his chair in the other direction to take a phone call he can feel the damn thing's presence. Later on, when he has other stuff to throw away, he walks out to his secretary's office and casually drops it in his garbage can.
The card is still there on Tuesday. Apparently, the janitor didn't think it was worth it to empty a waste basket with only one small item at the bottom, or maybe he didn't see it was in there. In any case, it doesn't really matter. Josh retrieves it, smoothes out the wrinkles, and shoves it into the back of the drawer.
Wednesday night is the worst. He snaps at a few of the regulars at the bingo game and drops a tray of brownies Ms. Hunter brought for the bake sale, and by the time he gets back to the rectory he feels as itchy as a junkie jonesing for a hit. He just doesn't know -- or won't admit to himself -- exactly what he wants a hit of.
The bed is a sticky mess when he wakes up on Thursday, and he can still feel the ghostly touch of callused fingers stroking his skin. Stupid dream. He rolls the sheets into a ball and lobs them into the corner, then pulls the blankets up over his head to block out the light. When the housekeeper knocks on his door, he shouts he's not feeling well and Father Gilbert will have to take over for him today. He spends the day in hell, struggling with a decision that should be easy but feels more like life or death. It's not until much later, when he's smearing shaving cream across his face, that he realizes it never once occurred to him to pray for help with his dilemma.
In the end, it's really not a choice at all. As hard as it was last week to stop making excuses and go see Drake in the first place, it's even harder now to stay away.
***
"Thank you." Drake leans closer to the microphone so his amplified voice booms out over the applause. He lifts his hands from the keyboard with a flourish as the sound of the final chord fades away. "And right now I need a drink," he says, "so we're gonna take a quick break. But don't go anywhere. You know you don't want to miss the rest of the show."
Josh's stomach swoops with butterflies as Drake jumps down off the stage. He sits up a little straighter on the barstool and runs his fingers nervously through his hair. A small knot of people forms around Drake the moment his feet touch the ground, and he stops to talk and laugh and exchange high fives with several of them for what seems like forever, all the while taking purposeful baby steps towards the bar. Josh swipes at the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and stills the leg he's been bouncing non-stop since he first saw Drake sit down in front of the keyboard. Drake is closer now, not quite close enough to try to get his attention, but near enough so Josh can hear his voice. He takes a deep breath.
"Hi again."
Josh nearly drops his beer. The blonde who approached him last week bops into view in yet another cleavage-revealing blouse in a different shade of blue, her lips stretched into a wide smile. "Remember me?" she says.
Josh peers over her shoulder to check on Drake's progress. "Sure," he says, darting his eyes back to her face. "You're the girl who didn't just move here, right?"
"Terri," she says with a laugh. "Hey, I like your necklace." She grabs for it and pulls it forward to study it closer, and Josh gives a small squeak of pain as the chain cuts into the back of his neck. "What's this, a lowercase T? Is that your initial? 'Cause it's mine, too, wouldn't that be a wild coincidence?"
"It's a cross," Josh says quietly, taking it back from her and tucking it into the collar of his T-shirt.
"Ohh. Okay, I didn't --"
"Hey, you finally made it!"
This time Josh starts so violently his beer splashes onto his jeans, and he plops the bottle down on the bar behind him before he ends up hurting someone. He feels the heat rushing in to light up his face as Drake sidles up beside Terri, and sends up a silent prayer that the club is dark enough that neither of them will notice.
"Hi, Drake," Terri sings, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips.
"Hey, Terri," he replies, but his eyes are on Josh as he offers his hand. "Good to see you, Father."
Terri's perfectly plucked brows draw together in confusion. "This is your father?"
"No," Drake and Josh say together. "He's the religious kind of Father," Drake explains.
"You mean like a rabbi?" Terri says, and Josh starts to wonder how she ever managed to drive herself to the club that night.
"No, a priest," Drake replies, rolling his eyes. He gives Josh a cockeyed half-smile that's impossible not to return. "This is Father Nichols."
"Call me Josh."
"Ohh, I get it. You're a priest." Terri looks Josh up and down and then slowly shakes her head. "Wow, too bad. What a waste."
Josh is never sure how to respond when women say things like that to him. It's happened several times before, and he's yet to decide if it's meant to be a compliment or an insult. Luckily, Drake rescues him before he has to figure out what to say. "Why don't you get lost for a while, Terri? I want to talk to Father -- to Josh -- in private."
"Okay," she says brightly. "See you later." She gives each of them a cheery little wave and sashays away.
"So, you finally decided to show up," Drake says with a grin. "I thought you forgot all about me."
"No, I --" I thought about you constantly. "I've been really busy." Josh picks up his beer again just to have something to do with his hands. "I was here last week," he says, regretting it immediately, and he raises the bottle to his lips in the vain hope it will capture the words before Drake can hear them.
It doesn't work, of course. "Really?" Drake's eyes widen with surprise. "Why didn't you say hi?"
Josh shrugs. "I couldn't stay long," he says, trying not to think of the dark-haired woman in Drake's arms and failing miserably. "Something came up, and, well. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I guess. So, what do you think of the show?"
"I think you're amazing," Josh says, his voice inexplicably rough.
"Hey, Drake," the bartender says, cutting off any reply Drake might have made, and Josh quickly clears his throat. "What'll it be, man?"
"The usual," Drake replies, working two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, which is a feat of awesome proportions given how tight they are. "And his next one is on me," he says, jerking a thumb in Josh's direction.
"You got it," the bartender says.
"There's really no need --"
"Relax," Drake says, leaning against the bar railing. "I get a discount, so it's not like it's all that much to begin with."
"Oh. Okay." Josh feels a strange wave of disappointment at this news as he takes a sip of his beer. "I didn't know you played keyboards," he says, trying to shake it off.
"Yeah. I do a little of everything." A girl with pierced eyebrows walks by and says hi to Drake, and he nods in her direction.
"Listen, I have something I want to talk to you about," Josh starts, but before he can manage another word Drake's drummer appears at his side.
"You ready, man?"
"Soon as I get my drink," Drake says. He turns back to Josh. "What's up?"
Josh shakes his head. "Never mind, it looks like you're busy."
"Yeah, it's always a little crazy in here on Thursday nights." The bartender returns with Drake's drink, and he hands over a few folded bills. "Can you hang out for a while?" he says, scooping his glass off the bar. "We'll be done here by midnight, maybe we can talk then."
Midnight is still two hours away. Josh had no intention of staying that long. He hasn't been up so late since last year's Christmas Eve midnight mass, and in any case it just doesn't seem right for a priest to be hanging out in a bar until all hours.
Drake brushes the bangs out of his eyes with his free hand, and Josh feels his insides dissolve in a rush of heat. "Yeah, okay," he rasps. "That sounds good. I'll talk to you then."
***
The room Drake leads Josh toward at midnight is not much bigger than an oversized phone booth. Drake's eyes are glazed with the high of the applause, and he and the members of his band spend a good fifteen minutes or so talking about the highlights of the set while Josh waits patiently in the hallway. He feels like he should be tired, but he's not. Drake's energy is contagious.
By the time he's finally able to squeeze inside, Drake's clothes are in a wrinkled heap in one corner of a small couch that looks like it's seen better days. "C'mon in, Father," Drake's voice filters out from behind a bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. Josh can see Drake's feet poking out from the bottom. "I'll be right out."
"Nice place," Josh says wryly, looking around. The walls are plastered with posters, mostly of bands Josh has never heard of, though there's no shortage of scantily-clad women in the mix. The floor is littered with empty beer bottles, candy wrappers, guitar picks, and broken drumsticks, and the air smells like a mixture of stale beer and urine. Josh wrinkles his nose.
"Yeah, I know, it's a pit," Drake says, stepping out from behind the sheet wearing only his jeans. The tiny room suddenly feels even smaller. Josh turns halfway toward the open door, but his eyes are quicker than his feet and when he blinks he can still see the afterimage on the back of his eyelids: the smooth, hairless planes of Drake's chest; the dark, taut nipples; the flat belly; the trail of coarse hair running from his navel to the waistband of his jeans and beyond, a trail Josh wants to trace with his fingers, the tip of his tongue...
Warmth blossoms between his legs at the thought. Horror-struck, Josh lunges for the guitar propped in the corner and throws himself on to the couch with the guitar across his lap.
"Oh, you play?" Drake says, pulling a clean shirt on over his head.
Josh ducks his head to hide his flaming cheeks. "No," he replies, his voice unsteady. He strokes the strings with the side of his thumb and they make a discordant twang. "I - I've always wanted to, though."
"Maybe I can give you lessons some time."
"You do that kind of thing?"
"Once in a while, yeah. When I'm really strapped for cash."
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Josh risks a glance in Drake's direction. He's bent nearly double, combing his hair in a small mirror hanging low on the wall. Josh takes a deep breath. "I may know of some steady work for you."
Drake straightens and turns. "Seriously? What kind of work?"
"There's a church I know of that needs a music director."
"Oh, yeah? Which one?"
"Saint... Jude's."
Drake's lips twist into that quirky half-smile again. "Your church?"
Josh nods. He realizes he's gripping the neck of the guitar tightly enough for the strings to cut into his fingers, and releases his hold just a bit.
"So I'd be working for you?"
"Yeah. Well, technically you would be, but I don't know anything about music, so you'd really be working with me instead of for me."
Drake crosses his arms. "What kind of stuff does a music director do?"
"Oh, you know." Josh tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a cough. "You'd play at mass, mostly the organ, which, do you know how to play the organ? I figure if you can play the keyboard you can learn how to play the organ, right? So there's that, and then you'd work with the choir and choose the music for services each week, just basic stuff. It's part-time work and the pay isn't all that great, but it'd be steady, at least..." He lets the sentence trail off as he hears the pleading note in his own voice. This was a stupid idea, he realizes that now. He has no clue how he's going to handle it if Drake rejects the offer.
"Doesn't a church music director have to be, I don't know, religious?" Drake asks skeptically.
"Well, no, not necessarily," Josh replies. "I mean, you would have to be a Catholic, yes. But if you aren't already, you can become one. Not that I'm trying to convert you or anything, but if -- "
"That part's not a problem," Drake cuts in, waving the issue away. "My mom got real religious for a while after my dad died. She had both me and my sister made into baptists over at Our Lady of Grace when we were little. My sister still goes there."
"You were...made into Baptists?" Josh asks weakly.
"Yeah, you know, with the water on the forehead and the prayers and stuff."
"Ah. Okay. Right."
"But I dropped out when I was in high school, because, well. For personal reasons."
"That doesn't matter," Josh says. "You'd just need to become a member of my church. The rest will follow, if it's meant to."
"So what's involved with joining your church?"
"Does that mean you're interested?" Josh's voice sounds hopelessly over-eager to his own ears.
"Maybe."
"All you'd really have to do is take Communion with us. Oh, and you'd have to make a good confession first, of course. To get ready for Communion."
"A confession? Oh, I don't know about that, Father --"
"Josh."
"Father Josh. I don't think I'd be comfortable --"
"You don't have to confess to me," Josh says quickly. "Any priest will do. You could even go back to Father Schneider over at Our Lady of Grace."
Drake starts to laugh but then quickly gets himself under control. "Yeah, no, I don't think so. But there's probably another priest somewhere in this town, right?" He smiles. "Thanks, Father. Josh. This is definitely something to think about."
Josh sets the guitar down and rises gingerly to his feet. All clear now, thank God. He knows it's time to go, but he doesn't want to leave just yet. Despite Drake's assurance to the contrary he's not sure Drake will actually give the idea a passing thought once they leave the club, and Josh has no excuse to return. "So your dad died when you were little, huh?" he says, blurting out the first thought that crosses his mind. "I lost my mom when I was eight."
"That's rough."
"Yeah. For you, too."
"Yeah. My mom handled it okay, though. Like I said, she got real involved in the church and then in this single parents club."
"Huh. Weird coincidence. My dad was in one of those for a while, too."
"Oh, cool. Hey, maybe they knew each other. Was it the one over here on Madison?"
"Nah, I grew up on the other side of town. My dad still lives over there. He's the weatherman for Channel Seven."
"No way, really? My mom loves weathermen."
Josh grins. "Oh yeah? Maybe we should get them together some time."
Part 2
Author: gmth
Pairing: Drake Parker/Josh Nichols
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 17,500
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Summary: Josh is a priest with just one weakness. Unfortunately, it's a big one.
Warning: AU/AR. Drake and Josh are not stepbrothers in this fic. Contains adult concepts and language. Includes religious themes and concepts some may find offensive or blasphemous. I researched Catholic rituals as best I could, but there's a possibility I missed a few things; I also did a few things deliberately to suit the plot. No disrespect toward Catholicism or Christianity in general is intended.
Author's note: HUGE thanks to lilysaid for the plot bunny and for her kind indulgence in doing reality check/beta duty while I was writing this. Crossposted.
The rituals are always the same. It's a comfort to Josh, knowing that. There's safety in the knowledge that he never has to wonder what to say, or what to do with his hands, or even how to dress. He says and does and wears the same things every time, in the same order, the same way it has been done by millions of others for nearly two thousand years before he was born.
"The Body of Christ."
The bride murmurs an "Amen" and opens her mouth. Josh represses a shiver as he deposits the host on her tongue, careful not to brush his fingers against her bright red, overly-painted lips. At the rehearsal the night before she and her mother-in-law to-be had had a screaming match in the church narthex, and Josh had narrowly avoided an elbow to the jaw when he tried to pull them apart. As he straightens, Josh glances quickly at the front pew. The mother-in-law's expression is stony, her lips pressed together into a hard, thin slash of pink. Josh takes a step to his left as the deacon bends to offer the chalice. This bride certainly has an interesting life ahead of her.
"The Body of Christ."
The groom's face is pale, his upper lip shiny with sweat. He's been none too steady on his feet, and he's not so much leaning against the altar railing as slumped across it. When he opens his mouth to receive the host, Josh can smell beer on his breath. He and his buddies had spent most of the morning in the church parking lot, keeping their previous night's hangovers at bay by getting drunk all over again. All of the groomsmen look like they could use a hot cup of coffee and a bottle or two of aspirin. The only male member of the wedding party who doesn't look like death warmed over is the guitarist. He might even be enjoying himself, if the emotion coming through in his voice is any indication.
"The Body of Christ."
Josh says it a hundred times as the wedding guests shuffle past. Each says "Amen," each receives the host, each walks away with the same blank expression on his or her face. The annoyances of the day before eventually blur and fade into the numbing pleasure of repetition, and by the time the ceremony is over Josh has forgotten the bride's and groom's names.
The guitarist is one of the last to leave after the photographer is finished. He's just snapping the latches on his guitar case closed as Josh crosses the nave on his way to the sacristy. "Father," he says, nodding politely and hoisting the case up off the pew. Josh stops, changes direction as the guitarist approaches him with a hand outstretched. He passes through a patch of sunlight spilling through the stained-glass window, and for a moment his hair glows bright auburn. "I'm Drake Parker."
Josh grasps the offered hand and shakes it. The other man's grip is surprisingly firm. "Nice to meet you," he says. "I enjoyed your music."
Drake smiles. "Thanks. I'm glad to hear you say that." He shifts the guitar case to his other hand and digs around in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "I was hoping," he says, withdrawing a creased white business card in the shape of a guitar pick and offering it to Josh, "you would keep me in mind if any other couples getting married here ever want a guitar player?"
***
There's already a long line snaking down the hallway when Josh approaches the confessional. The penitents are silent as he walks by, counting them off in his head as he passes, and he gives a weary sigh when he reaches the head of the line. It's going to be a long morning.
Inside the confessional, he leans his head against the wall beside the screen and closes his eyes as the parade of penitents begins. Their sins are always the same. "I lied to my husband." "I was unkind to my neighbor." "I stole from my job." Josh gives them all penance and sends them on their way, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that wonders how much God really cares about Mrs. Housewife telling her husband his awful tie looks good or Mr. Accountant slipping a box of paperclips into his pocket on his way out of the office.
It goes on for ages. Josh's ass is sore from the hard wooden bench by the time the flood eventually slows to a trickle, then completely numb by the time it stops altogether. He glances at his watch. He'll give it another five minutes, just to be sure, but he hopes that will be it for today. His stomach is starting to growl, and by now lunch will be on the table at the rectory. A rustle of sound on the other side of the wall squashes his dreams of eating his soup while it's still hot just as the second hand sweeps past the twelve for the fifth time.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been three weeks since my last confession."
Josh sits up. He recognizes the voice at once; it's the Mystery Boy. He's been here three or four times before, but Josh has never seen his face. He's not even sure the Boy is a member of his congregation. As far as he knows, their only interaction has been here, behind the closed doors of the confessional.
The sudden tension in the small space becomes a palpable thing. Josh can almost smell it.
"It happened again, Father," the Boy says without preamble. His voice is trembling. "With a guy from my school."
Josh says nothing. He can hear the Boy's uneven breathing through the screen that separates them, and the desperation driving it makes his chest feel hollow.
"We stayed after last week to help one of our teachers with something, and when we were finished we walked home together. We were over by the baseball fields in the park and we..." He breaks off with a hiccup-y sob, but masters it with his next breath.
"Go on," Josh says quietly. He dreads what's to come, not because he fears what the Boy will say, but because he hates what he knows he must say in response.
"We stopped. In the dugout."
"To rest?" Josh says with feigned innocence.
"No," the Boy replies. "To... you know what I mean, Father. Don't make me say it. Please."
"You're here to confess. You haven't confessed anything yet. It's not a sin to walk through the park."
The Boy sniffs wetly. "To... we touched each other," the Boy whispers. "We kissed and we... got each other off."
Josh squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, silently raging against the helplessness coiling in his gut. This is wrong. So wrong. This poor, confused kid has come seeking help, and Josh is powerless to offer it; must, in fact, offer censure instead. "You know it's an affront to God," he says, amazed at his own ability to keep his voice steady.
"Yes."
The knife in Josh's belly twists again. "This isn't the first time you've come to me with this. Why do you keep doing it if you know it's a sin?"
"I don't know. I - I can't help it."
"You're not trying hard enough," Josh says, clenching his hand into a fist so tight it hurts. He's glad the screen is between them so the Boy can't see his face. "The next time you get the urge, I want you to pray instead. Pray to God, and to Jesus, and to our Holy Mother, and to all the saints for as long as it takes to gain the strength to resist. God will answer you. And once He does, I want you to keep praying to show your gratitude for His help. Do you understand?"
The Boy does not speak, but Josh can tell from the moving shadows on the wall he's nodding his head in response. Josh wipes his clammy palms on his leg as he assigns the Boy penance, but he can't shake the feeling that his hands are still unclean. He sits in the confessional for a long time after the Boy bolts, whispering a prayer of his own that brings him no comfort. When he finally returns to the rectory lunch is already over, but by then it doesn't matter anymore. His appetite is long gone.
***
Brent and Liza are adorable together. They're sitting next to one another on the other side of Josh's desk, their chairs pulled so close they're practically in each other's laps, their hands clasped and resting lightly on Liza's thigh. They've been meeting with Josh for over an hour now, and Josh doesn't think Brent has stopped looking at Liza for longer than a minute the entire time. He hasn't seen a man look at a woman with that kind of adoration in his eyes since he was a kid watching his father look at his mother.
He smiles. "I think you're going to be very happy together," he says, flipping open the church's calendar book.
They exchange soppy looks. "Yeah," they say in unison. "We will," Brent adds.
"So, let's see here." Josh slides his finger back and forth across the page a few times before coming to a rest. "You're getting married on the 15th." He glances up for confirmation, and Liza nods happily. "Okay, let's talk about what kind of ceremony you want."
They have all the details decided already, of course. Josh is willing to bet they've been planning it since their first date. "One thing though, Father," Liza says. "We were kind of hoping we could have a guitar mass." Brent nods and they both turn to Josh with identical anxious expressions on their faces, right down to the number of furrows in their wrinkled brows. They're starting to freak him out a little, actually.
"I have no objection to that," Josh replies.
"That's great," Brent says, giving Liza's hand a squeeze. "So, how do we go about arranging it?"
Josh stares at Brent with his mouth hanging slightly open. "Um." He hasn't the foggiest. "The church's music director would usually handle those kinds of details," he says, "but she's just left us to have a baby. The diocese has been sending in temps to help us out until we get somebody new in here." He thinks hard for a moment. To his knowledge, there's never been a guitar mass at St. Jude's, not since he's been there, at least. The only time he can remember there ever being a guitarist in the place was --
"Ah!" He snaps his fingers and pulls open his desk drawer. "Just a second here..." He riffles through the drawer's contents, shuffling boxes of pens and staples until he finds what he's looking for. "Here we go." He offers Brent the business card he's pulled out of the drawer, then thinks better of it and snatches it back before Brent can grab hold of it. "This guy played here at a wedding a few months ago and he's very good," Josh says, grinning at the slogan he's just noticed on the card: Drake Parker, World Class Guitarist. 'Pick' me and you'll never 'fret.'
He jots Drake's name and phone number down on a piece of paper and hands that to Brent instead.
***
"Father Nichols!"
The hem of Josh's alb swirls around his legs as he turns. Drake is striding up the hallway toward him, his guitar case strapped to his back. A warm smile lights his entire face. He's an exceptionally good-looking man, Josh realizes with a jolt, and he clutches the Bible he's holding a bit closer to his chest.
Drake grabs Josh's hand and pumps it in another of his powerful handshakes. Their palms slide smoothly across one another when he lets go, sending little shocks skittering along Josh's skin. "Good to see you," Drake says. "I just wanted to thank you for setting me up with this gig." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the other end of the hallway where Brent and Liza stand next to their parents in the receiving line. "They hired my band to play their reception too, so that'll cover the rent this month." His grin grows impossibly brighter at the prospect.
"Oh, sure, yeah, no problem," Josh replies with a laugh that sounds uncomfortably close to a giggle. He wants to cringe when he hears it. He's not sure why he's suddenly talking and feeling like a nervous teenager on his first date. "Glad to help," he says, pulling it back together. "You were very good."
"Yeah," Drake says, and Josh can tell by the easy way he accepts the compliment he's no stranger to praise. "Hey, I was thinking. I'd like to say thanks in a better way, and maybe get you to think about recommending me again. How about I buy you a beer some time?"
"Oh, that's not necessary," Josh says quickly, waving the idea away with his free hand, and to his horror he can feel his cheeks starting to heat.
"Yeah, I know. I want to. Unless, oh --" Drake scratches the back of his neck and lowers his voice. "Are you guys allowed to drink? You know, when you're out of uniform or whatever?"
Josh can't help but smile. "Sure."
"Great, then what do you say? Maybe one night next week?"
Josh is tempted. He hasn't been out for a beer with a friend since he was in seminary, and something tells him Drake would be an interesting companion. He'd probably be fun to talk to, and he's certainly easy on the eyes. He remembers the warmth of Drake's hand and shifts uneasily on his feet. "I -- I have committee meetings every night next week."
"So how about the week after?"
"I don't think so. It's really not necessary."
"You sure?"
Josh isn't, but he nods anyway. "But thank you."
"Okay." Drake shrugs and flashes another of those award-winning smiles. "I gotta get going, then." He takes a few steps backwards as he speaks. "Thanks again, Father, and keep me in mind for other weddings, all right?"
Josh signals that he will, and Drake gives him a thumbs up before turning around and walking off. Josh watches him move through the crowd, head held high, guitar case bobbing up and down on his back with each step. He punches his way through the double glass doors, climbs into his car and drives off, and when Josh finally turns away he feels a bit like a kid whose ice cream cone just fell onto the sidewalk.
***
The baby sleeps peacefully through the entire ceremony until Josh pours the water on her forehead. Then she spits the pacifier out and starts to scream like he's pouring acid on her face instead. The pacifier bounces off Josh's shoe and rolls across the floor, and one of Helen's countless nieces rushes forward to collect it. Helen and her husband both come from huge Catholic families, and half the church is filled with her relatives.
"...in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
The baby continues to cry until the ceremony is over and someone finally plugs her mouth with a clean pacifier. Afterwards, Helen passes the baby to one of her sisters and gives Josh a hug while the rest of her family mills around and the children chase one another through the narthex.
"How's everything going?" she asks.
Josh knows she's hoping he'll say things are falling apart without her. "Fine," he says instead.
"How long has this one been here?" She jerks her head toward the replacement organist, who is still seated on the organ bench, gathering sheets of music into a neat little stack.
"About a month now, I think."
"Hmm." Helen purses her lips. "I'm sure you noticed she screwed up the ending of 'Little Child The Savior Came.'"
"Did she?" Josh replies. "I didn't notice." In fact, the hymn had sounded exactly the same to him as it always had when Helen played it.
She nods. "Oh, yes. I don't know how you missed it. It was so obvious."
Josh clears his throat over Helen's words as the replacement organist slips past, hoping against hope she hadn't heard. There are two spots of pink high on her cheekbones, and Josh feels the tips of his ears growing warm. This isn't the first time Helen's big mouth has caused a problem for him.
"So, have you had any luck getting a new music director in here?" Helen asks.
The baby starts to cry again, and Helen's sister calls out to her for help. She holds up one index finger in response and gives Josh an expectant look.
"No," he says. "Not yet."
***
"C'mon, Sammy!" Sammy's foster father claps his hands as the boy runs past, dribbling the basketball furiously, then cups them around his mouth again to amplify his voice. "Get past 'em, kiddo, that's the way! You can do it!" A moment later he's groaning his disappointment as the center for the opposing team snatches the ball away and runs up court. Sammy starts to cry and stomps away to the sidelines, and the coach has to call a time out.
"That kid sucks!" an angry voice in the crowd bellows, and a chorus of voices around him echo their agreement. "Put him on the bench!"
Sammy's foster father turns to the crowd and flips them off, screaming obscenities at the man who started the ruckus. The group of mothers seated around Josh makes scandalized noises as the man rises to his feet and starts shouting back, and Josh realizes it won't take much more of a catalyst to set this powder keg off in a big way. Pee wee basketball is serious business.
"Gerald," he says, climbing out of the bleachers and taking Gerald by the arm. "Come on, calm down."
"I want my kid to get a chance to play!" Gerald yells, wrenching his arm out of Josh's grasp, but he allows Josh to steer him to a quiet corner of the gym while the coach finishes dealing with Sammy. The red-faced man in the crowd sits back down, glaring at them as they go, and the tension in the crowd dissipates.
"Don't worry, he'll get to play," Josh says in his most soothing voice. Privately, he agrees with the loudmouth in the crowd. St. Jude's can't afford to lose this game if they want to go to the playoffs, and Sammy is the worst player on the team. But the church league rules say all of the kids should have an equal chance to play, and Gerald is notorious for his short fuse. Josh keeps his thoughts to himself.
The whistle blows for play to continue. A cheer goes up from the crowd and Gerald races back to the sidelines, shouting and clapping his hands. When the final buzzer sounds St. Jude's has lost by a single point, scored when a forward from Our Lady of Grace hits a free throw after Sammy tries to trip him.
Father Schneider's smile is teetering just on this side of being an obnoxious smirk when he and Josh meet mid-court to shake hands. "Good game, Father," he says. "Your boys played well." There's an undercurrent of malicious glee in his voice, and Josh has to struggle not to react to it.
He forces a smile of his own in case anyone is watching. "Yours, too."
"Sorry we won't be seeing your team at the playoffs this year."
No, you aren't, you miserable son of a -- Josh cuts the thought off before it crosses the line into something he'd have to confess. He takes a deep breath. "Yes. Well," he says, trying not to grit his teeth. "There's always next year."
Schneider releases Josh's hand and leans in close. "Too bad about number fourteen," he says, nodding in Sammy's direction. "Doesn't quite have what it takes, does he."
Josh glances at the sidelines where Sammy is standing with Gerald. They're talking to the forward Sammy fouled in the last seconds of the game, and Josh feels his eyes widen in surprise. Standing behind the boy, with one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, is Drake.
"Would you excuse me?" he says to Father Schneider, and walks away without waiting for a reply.
It seems to take a very long time to cross the twenty or so feet that separates them. Josh uses the time to compare the boy's profile to Drake's, and a knot of apprehension tightens in his chest. Their jaw lines and noses are exactly the same shape, their eyes and mouths set at identical angles. With a sinking heart, Josh realizes this must be Drake's son. He looks at the hand Drake is resting on the boy's shoulder. There's no wedding band on it, but Josh knows better than anyone that means absolutely nothing. It never occurred to him before to wonder if Drake is married and has kids, but the thought of it now feels like expecting a new car for Christmas and getting a pair of old socks instead.
"Hello," he croaks when he reaches the group, and Drake looks up sharply in surprise.
"Hi, Father." His face comes alive with one of his thousand-watt grins as he reaches for Josh's hand. "I didn't know you were here."
"Oh sure, I try to never miss a game when my kids are playing." Drake's hand feels deliciously familiar in his own. He glances at Sammy and smiles, trying to put off the moment when he has to face Drake again and let go. When the time comes, he reluctantly pulls back and looks down at the boy with Drake's eyes. "You played very well," he says, trying for warmth and failing. His smile feels more like a grimace.
Sammy and his foster father wander away as the boy peeks up at Josh from under his bangs. "This is my nephew, Alex," Drake says, ruffling the boy's hair, and Josh feels a rush of relief like the one he'd felt in college when a huge mid-term he'd forgotten about was postponed for a week.
"Hey, Alex," Josh says, and this time the warmth isn't feigned. "Nice to meet you." He studies the boy's beautiful face for a moment and then looks up at Drake. "He looks just like you."
Drake snorts. "He looks more like my sister."
"My mom had to work tonight, so Uncle Drake came to watch me play," Alex says proudly. He reaches up to grope for Drake's hand, but Drake responds with a gentle push between his shoulder blades.
"Yeah, and you were awesome," Drake says, and the look on his face leaves Josh in no doubt as to his feelings for the boy. "Why don't you go get your stuff? I'll wait for you here." He turns to watch as the boy runs off toward the locker room, and Josh notices one of the back pockets on Drake's jeans has a white spiral bullseye pattern on it. The jeans ride low on Drake's hips, secured in place by a white belt that has caught up part of his shirttail, and are so tight Josh can almost read the date on a dime in Drake's pocket. He clears his throat and forces his eyes back to Drake's face when Drake turns around.
"He seems like a great kid," Josh says.
"Yeah. He is," Drake says, crossing his arms. "Hey listen, is kids' basketball always this insane? I mean, wow. For a minute there, I thought there was going to be a riot."
Josh shrugs. "It can get a little crazy sometimes. Folks around here take this stuff pretty seriously."
"My sister told me it can get kind of intense," Drake says. "But Jesus Christ, these people are --" He stops in mid-sentence and shoots Josh a guilty look. "Sorry about that, Father."
Josh ignores it. A bead of sweat is trickling down the side of his throat, tracing an itchy line on his skin as it slips under his collar, but he resists the urge to scratch it. For reasons he doesn't want to think about too deeply just then, it feels vitally important not to draw Drake's attention to his neck. "So, uh, how have you been?"
"Pretty good, I guess. I can't complain."
"Played any weddings lately?"
"Nah. But my band did pick up a steady gig over at Slim's on Magnolia."
A pretty woman walks by, flashing a flirtatious smile in Drake's direction. Josh steps to the side to block her from Drake's view; a moment later he realizes what he's done and takes half a step back. "Sounds great."
"Yeah. The money's okay, and the crowd over there loves us. Hey, you should come by and see us some time."
"Oh, I don't --"
"C'mon, don't turn me down again. You'll love it, I promise." Drake's voice is animated with a sudden excitement. "We're really good. And I can buy you that beer I promised you."
"Well --"
"We're there every Thursday night. First set starts at eight."
He makes it sound like the decision's already been made, and Josh can't think of any legitimate reason to refuse. He nods and says, "Okay, Thursday night," and Drake grins and pats him on the arm.
"Great, I'll see you then," he says happily as Alex darts back into view.
***
But Josh doesn't go to Slim's that Thursday night. Or the next. Or the next. He can't go, he decides, because little emergencies keep popping up that must be dealt with right away. Like the peeling paint in the church stairwell, for example. For all he knows it might be lead-based, and it would be irresponsible not to take care of it immediately. The following Thursday the rectory cat starts throwing up, and Josh can't let the poor creature suffer alone. The Thursday after that, there's a documentary on the history of avocado farming he doesn't want to miss. The excuses are easy to make, and once they start piling on top of another it becomes harder and harder to find his way out from under them.
It scares him how easily he can lie to himself. But it scares him even more how often he finds himself thinking about Drake. He sneaks up on Josh when Josh isn't expecting it. He might be eating breakfast, or jogging down the bike path, or putting on his vestments in preparation for mass, and when he blinks he realizes Drake is there in his head with him, and has been for hours. Just sitting there quietly, a small smile curving his full lips, a constant, silent companion. If Josh closes his eyes, he can almost reach out and touch him. It's a comfort, in a way; Josh never realized how lonely he's been all these years. But in another way, it's a torture. It makes him feel even more alone.
He always forces himself to stop when he realizes it's happening. He tells himself to quit being ridiculous, he hardly knows the man, and even if he did Drake is a man and Josh is a priest....
He wonders if Drake has noticed he hasn't shown up as he promised. He wonders if Drake is disappointed.
One Sunday morning, he looks up at the congregation and thinks he catches a glimpse of Drake sitting in the back of the church. He fumbles over the familiar words and focuses on his prayer book to anchor himself, and when he looks up again Drake is gone. Halfway through the Nicene Creed, Josh decides it's time to put an end to this. Now. This week.
Enough is enough.
***
The lights in Slim's parking lot aren't nearly bright enough for comfort in this part of town, but Josh welcomes the shadows. It's harder than he thought it would be to go inside. The music is loud enough to hear in the parking lot, even through the closed windows. He can feel the vibrations through the floor of the car, and it makes his legs feel wobbly. He smoothes his hand down the front of his T-shirt with a nervous swallow, wondering for the fifth time in five minutes if it was a mistake not to wear his collar. It's a handy shield, sometimes. It answers questions before they can be asked.
He glances at the dashboard clock. It's only a few minutes after eight. He doesn't want Drake to think he's too eager. Maybe he could go get a burger, or browse that little bookstore a few blocks over for a while. It's got a great religion section, and they have a coffee shop inside, too. He could come back in about an hour. It's been over a month since he promised to come see Drake perform. Another hour won't make any difference.
"Chicken," he says to himself, tapping his fist on the steering wheel. "Get a grip." Enough stalling. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. A group of giggling girls is walking by, and Josh slides through the door behind them.
He hears Drake before he sees him. His voice fills the whole club. Josh's fingers tremble as he pushes a folded five-dollar bill into the bouncer's hand. The air in the place is thick with the smell of sweat and beer, making Josh's stomach churn unpleasantly as he rounds the corner into the main room.
Drake is standing on stage in the center of a blaze of light from above. The moment he comes into view, his right arm pumping aggressively and fingers flying across the strings, the spotlight reflects off the guitar's tuning keys and flashes into Josh's eyes. Josh stops short. Drake's mouth is obscured by the microphone, his eyes hidden behind the damp curtain of his bangs, but even this obstructed glimpse of his face calms Josh's stomach and sets his heart to racing, instead.
There are still a few empty tables down in front by the stage, but Josh heads for the bar. The bartender is busy and Drake finishes two songs before Josh can get anyone's attention, but he resists the temptation to turn back toward the stage until he's got a drink in his hand. Eventually he orders a beer and settles down on a barstool with his back to the rail, feet looped through the bottom rungs. The music vibrates through the seat, through his whole body, the rhythm of the bass stirring something primitive in his belly. Drake's voice is rougher than Josh has heard it before; fuller, somehow, than it ever sounded at St. Jude's. He wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and reaches over his shoulder to grab the beer the barmaid is pressing against his back.
"Hi."
A very pretty blonde in a low-cut blue shirt bounces onto the next stool and gives Josh a coy smile. "Hello," he says, sitting up a bit straighter and drawing his knees together.
"I don't remember seeing you here before." She cocks her head so her hair falls across her eyes, then sweeps it away with a laugh.
"I've never been here before."
"That's probably why I haven't seen you, then." With an accompanying upper body undulation Josh is sure the bishop would condemn, she crosses her legs so the tip of one pointed shoe is dangerously close to his calf. He pulls his leg in even further. "Did you just move here or something?"
"No."
"Ohh." She nods as though he's said something very insightful. "Yeah, me neither." Twirling a few strands of hair around her index finger, she leans in far too close. "I'm Terri," she says. "You're really cute. Wanna buy me a drink?"
The crowd erupts into applause and Josh looks up, startled. Damn. He missed the end of the song thanks to this vapid --
"I don't think so," he says, bracing the elbow farthest from her on the bar railing and leaning back against it. "I'm just here for the music." He gestures toward the stage with his beer bottle. "But it was nice to meet you."
It's a dismissal, and she knows it. "Okay," she replies, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders that says your loss more clearly than words ever could, she hops off the stool and disappears into the crowd. Josh sighs his relief against the lip of his beer bottle and takes a sip, eyes wandering back to the stage.
Drake is just setting a glass of water back into place on a little stool near the curtain. "All right," he says, his moistened lips gleaming in the light. "This next song is for someone very special to me." He grabs the guitar and steps back from the microphone to count off the beat to rest of the band, and they launch into a ballad. A few people in the crowd start to clap as they recognize the opening chords.
Josh feels himself snap to attention the moment the music starts. Drake's eyes drift slowly shut as he starts to sing, his posture relaxing as the lyrics unfold until it seems like the muscles in his arms are the only ones in his body with any tension left in them. His fingers caress the guitar strings with an effortless grace that seems almost unbearably intimate. It's like watching him with a lover, someone he's touched a thousand times before and knows exactly how to please. Josh feels his mouth going dry. He wants to look away. He feels like he's intruding on something private, but he can't stop staring.
The chorus is a cappella, which is something of a relief when Drake's hand falls away from the body of the guitar. But then he wraps his free hand around the microphone and eases his hips forward, tapping one foot in time so the guitar bounces gently against his groin with each beat. Josh gives his lower lip a nervous swipe of the tongue, eyes locked on the guitar, trying desperately not to let his imagination drift to the spot just out of sight behind it that is surely benefiting from the friction. By the time Drake's hand returns to begin strumming again, Josh is pressing the icy beer bottle against the V of his jeans to keep himself under control.
He turns his head. Watching Drake play like this makes the empty places in Josh's chest burn around the edges with a cold fire that takes his breath away. He hasn't felt this way since the night of his high school graduation when he and Mindy had been making out in the backseat of his dad's car. She'd scrambled on top of him and straddled his open fly, tits pushed painfully over the top of her bra, and leaned forward to kiss him while he fumbled between their bodies to get himself into position. They'd been working toward that moment for two long years, and Josh had felt like some kind of mindless animal that understood nothing but hungry and want and now and hurry. But just as she was finally poised to sink down on his cock, the trembling in her thighs was stilled by a sharp knock on the window and the blinding beam of a cop's flashlight playing over their faces. He'd driven her home in silence, feeling like he'd left all his insides back there in the parking lot behind B.F. Wang's. Years later he convinced himself that emptiness had had nothing to do with Mindy and everything to do with himself, because being in the presence of Someone Else had made him whole and he'd never feel that way again.
Or so he'd thought.
The song ends and Drake tosses the hair out of his eyes with a smile. "Thanks," he says, tilting his head slightly in response to the applause. "I want to introduce the person who inspired that song and who means more to me than just about anyone in the world. Where are you?" Drake shades his eyes with his hand and squints in to the crowd, and Josh freezes, his heart pounding. Drake couldn't possibly be talking about --
"Ah!" Drake's face splits into one his brilliant grins as he points to someone near the stage. "There you are! Come on up." A dark-haired woman with deep dimples on either side of her smile climbs up on stage, and Drake enfolds her in a huge hug. "Love you," he says as he releases her, and even from this far across the room Josh can see the warmth in Drake's eyes as he looks at her. He feels like a load of bricks has been dropped on his head.
He's gone before the next song begins.
***
It's a relief, in a way.
That's what Josh keeps telling himself. It's over. He kept his word, even if Drake has no idea he was there, and now he can close the book on the craziness and get back to his work. If he lets himself think about it, he realizes he was getting pretty, well, stupid about the whole thing. He let himself get in way over his head. It's actually kind of funny, the way he's been acting, and he tries to laugh it off later, but the laughter keeps getting stuck in his throat.
He spends most of the weekend on his knees, praying for... something. He's not sure what. Forgiveness, maybe, for letting his mind wander in directions it had no business going. Or perhaps strength, because he'll need it to keep the promise he now makes to himself: he's never going back to Slim's. In fact, he decides, grinding his teeth, he's never going to contact Drake in any way, shape, or form again. Ever.
First thing Monday morning, he tosses Drake's business card in the trash can next to his desk. He can see it out of the corner of his eye all day, and when he swivels his chair in the other direction to take a phone call he can feel the damn thing's presence. Later on, when he has other stuff to throw away, he walks out to his secretary's office and casually drops it in his garbage can.
The card is still there on Tuesday. Apparently, the janitor didn't think it was worth it to empty a waste basket with only one small item at the bottom, or maybe he didn't see it was in there. In any case, it doesn't really matter. Josh retrieves it, smoothes out the wrinkles, and shoves it into the back of the drawer.
Wednesday night is the worst. He snaps at a few of the regulars at the bingo game and drops a tray of brownies Ms. Hunter brought for the bake sale, and by the time he gets back to the rectory he feels as itchy as a junkie jonesing for a hit. He just doesn't know -- or won't admit to himself -- exactly what he wants a hit of.
The bed is a sticky mess when he wakes up on Thursday, and he can still feel the ghostly touch of callused fingers stroking his skin. Stupid dream. He rolls the sheets into a ball and lobs them into the corner, then pulls the blankets up over his head to block out the light. When the housekeeper knocks on his door, he shouts he's not feeling well and Father Gilbert will have to take over for him today. He spends the day in hell, struggling with a decision that should be easy but feels more like life or death. It's not until much later, when he's smearing shaving cream across his face, that he realizes it never once occurred to him to pray for help with his dilemma.
In the end, it's really not a choice at all. As hard as it was last week to stop making excuses and go see Drake in the first place, it's even harder now to stay away.
***
"Thank you." Drake leans closer to the microphone so his amplified voice booms out over the applause. He lifts his hands from the keyboard with a flourish as the sound of the final chord fades away. "And right now I need a drink," he says, "so we're gonna take a quick break. But don't go anywhere. You know you don't want to miss the rest of the show."
Josh's stomach swoops with butterflies as Drake jumps down off the stage. He sits up a little straighter on the barstool and runs his fingers nervously through his hair. A small knot of people forms around Drake the moment his feet touch the ground, and he stops to talk and laugh and exchange high fives with several of them for what seems like forever, all the while taking purposeful baby steps towards the bar. Josh swipes at the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and stills the leg he's been bouncing non-stop since he first saw Drake sit down in front of the keyboard. Drake is closer now, not quite close enough to try to get his attention, but near enough so Josh can hear his voice. He takes a deep breath.
"Hi again."
Josh nearly drops his beer. The blonde who approached him last week bops into view in yet another cleavage-revealing blouse in a different shade of blue, her lips stretched into a wide smile. "Remember me?" she says.
Josh peers over her shoulder to check on Drake's progress. "Sure," he says, darting his eyes back to her face. "You're the girl who didn't just move here, right?"
"Terri," she says with a laugh. "Hey, I like your necklace." She grabs for it and pulls it forward to study it closer, and Josh gives a small squeak of pain as the chain cuts into the back of his neck. "What's this, a lowercase T? Is that your initial? 'Cause it's mine, too, wouldn't that be a wild coincidence?"
"It's a cross," Josh says quietly, taking it back from her and tucking it into the collar of his T-shirt.
"Ohh. Okay, I didn't --"
"Hey, you finally made it!"
This time Josh starts so violently his beer splashes onto his jeans, and he plops the bottle down on the bar behind him before he ends up hurting someone. He feels the heat rushing in to light up his face as Drake sidles up beside Terri, and sends up a silent prayer that the club is dark enough that neither of them will notice.
"Hi, Drake," Terri sings, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips.
"Hey, Terri," he replies, but his eyes are on Josh as he offers his hand. "Good to see you, Father."
Terri's perfectly plucked brows draw together in confusion. "This is your father?"
"No," Drake and Josh say together. "He's the religious kind of Father," Drake explains.
"You mean like a rabbi?" Terri says, and Josh starts to wonder how she ever managed to drive herself to the club that night.
"No, a priest," Drake replies, rolling his eyes. He gives Josh a cockeyed half-smile that's impossible not to return. "This is Father Nichols."
"Call me Josh."
"Ohh, I get it. You're a priest." Terri looks Josh up and down and then slowly shakes her head. "Wow, too bad. What a waste."
Josh is never sure how to respond when women say things like that to him. It's happened several times before, and he's yet to decide if it's meant to be a compliment or an insult. Luckily, Drake rescues him before he has to figure out what to say. "Why don't you get lost for a while, Terri? I want to talk to Father -- to Josh -- in private."
"Okay," she says brightly. "See you later." She gives each of them a cheery little wave and sashays away.
"So, you finally decided to show up," Drake says with a grin. "I thought you forgot all about me."
"No, I --" I thought about you constantly. "I've been really busy." Josh picks up his beer again just to have something to do with his hands. "I was here last week," he says, regretting it immediately, and he raises the bottle to his lips in the vain hope it will capture the words before Drake can hear them.
It doesn't work, of course. "Really?" Drake's eyes widen with surprise. "Why didn't you say hi?"
Josh shrugs. "I couldn't stay long," he says, trying not to think of the dark-haired woman in Drake's arms and failing miserably. "Something came up, and, well. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I guess. So, what do you think of the show?"
"I think you're amazing," Josh says, his voice inexplicably rough.
"Hey, Drake," the bartender says, cutting off any reply Drake might have made, and Josh quickly clears his throat. "What'll it be, man?"
"The usual," Drake replies, working two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, which is a feat of awesome proportions given how tight they are. "And his next one is on me," he says, jerking a thumb in Josh's direction.
"You got it," the bartender says.
"There's really no need --"
"Relax," Drake says, leaning against the bar railing. "I get a discount, so it's not like it's all that much to begin with."
"Oh. Okay." Josh feels a strange wave of disappointment at this news as he takes a sip of his beer. "I didn't know you played keyboards," he says, trying to shake it off.
"Yeah. I do a little of everything." A girl with pierced eyebrows walks by and says hi to Drake, and he nods in her direction.
"Listen, I have something I want to talk to you about," Josh starts, but before he can manage another word Drake's drummer appears at his side.
"You ready, man?"
"Soon as I get my drink," Drake says. He turns back to Josh. "What's up?"
Josh shakes his head. "Never mind, it looks like you're busy."
"Yeah, it's always a little crazy in here on Thursday nights." The bartender returns with Drake's drink, and he hands over a few folded bills. "Can you hang out for a while?" he says, scooping his glass off the bar. "We'll be done here by midnight, maybe we can talk then."
Midnight is still two hours away. Josh had no intention of staying that long. He hasn't been up so late since last year's Christmas Eve midnight mass, and in any case it just doesn't seem right for a priest to be hanging out in a bar until all hours.
Drake brushes the bangs out of his eyes with his free hand, and Josh feels his insides dissolve in a rush of heat. "Yeah, okay," he rasps. "That sounds good. I'll talk to you then."
***
The room Drake leads Josh toward at midnight is not much bigger than an oversized phone booth. Drake's eyes are glazed with the high of the applause, and he and the members of his band spend a good fifteen minutes or so talking about the highlights of the set while Josh waits patiently in the hallway. He feels like he should be tired, but he's not. Drake's energy is contagious.
By the time he's finally able to squeeze inside, Drake's clothes are in a wrinkled heap in one corner of a small couch that looks like it's seen better days. "C'mon in, Father," Drake's voice filters out from behind a bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. Josh can see Drake's feet poking out from the bottom. "I'll be right out."
"Nice place," Josh says wryly, looking around. The walls are plastered with posters, mostly of bands Josh has never heard of, though there's no shortage of scantily-clad women in the mix. The floor is littered with empty beer bottles, candy wrappers, guitar picks, and broken drumsticks, and the air smells like a mixture of stale beer and urine. Josh wrinkles his nose.
"Yeah, I know, it's a pit," Drake says, stepping out from behind the sheet wearing only his jeans. The tiny room suddenly feels even smaller. Josh turns halfway toward the open door, but his eyes are quicker than his feet and when he blinks he can still see the afterimage on the back of his eyelids: the smooth, hairless planes of Drake's chest; the dark, taut nipples; the flat belly; the trail of coarse hair running from his navel to the waistband of his jeans and beyond, a trail Josh wants to trace with his fingers, the tip of his tongue...
Warmth blossoms between his legs at the thought. Horror-struck, Josh lunges for the guitar propped in the corner and throws himself on to the couch with the guitar across his lap.
"Oh, you play?" Drake says, pulling a clean shirt on over his head.
Josh ducks his head to hide his flaming cheeks. "No," he replies, his voice unsteady. He strokes the strings with the side of his thumb and they make a discordant twang. "I - I've always wanted to, though."
"Maybe I can give you lessons some time."
"You do that kind of thing?"
"Once in a while, yeah. When I'm really strapped for cash."
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Josh risks a glance in Drake's direction. He's bent nearly double, combing his hair in a small mirror hanging low on the wall. Josh takes a deep breath. "I may know of some steady work for you."
Drake straightens and turns. "Seriously? What kind of work?"
"There's a church I know of that needs a music director."
"Oh, yeah? Which one?"
"Saint... Jude's."
Drake's lips twist into that quirky half-smile again. "Your church?"
Josh nods. He realizes he's gripping the neck of the guitar tightly enough for the strings to cut into his fingers, and releases his hold just a bit.
"So I'd be working for you?"
"Yeah. Well, technically you would be, but I don't know anything about music, so you'd really be working with me instead of for me."
Drake crosses his arms. "What kind of stuff does a music director do?"
"Oh, you know." Josh tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a cough. "You'd play at mass, mostly the organ, which, do you know how to play the organ? I figure if you can play the keyboard you can learn how to play the organ, right? So there's that, and then you'd work with the choir and choose the music for services each week, just basic stuff. It's part-time work and the pay isn't all that great, but it'd be steady, at least..." He lets the sentence trail off as he hears the pleading note in his own voice. This was a stupid idea, he realizes that now. He has no clue how he's going to handle it if Drake rejects the offer.
"Doesn't a church music director have to be, I don't know, religious?" Drake asks skeptically.
"Well, no, not necessarily," Josh replies. "I mean, you would have to be a Catholic, yes. But if you aren't already, you can become one. Not that I'm trying to convert you or anything, but if -- "
"That part's not a problem," Drake cuts in, waving the issue away. "My mom got real religious for a while after my dad died. She had both me and my sister made into baptists over at Our Lady of Grace when we were little. My sister still goes there."
"You were...made into Baptists?" Josh asks weakly.
"Yeah, you know, with the water on the forehead and the prayers and stuff."
"Ah. Okay. Right."
"But I dropped out when I was in high school, because, well. For personal reasons."
"That doesn't matter," Josh says. "You'd just need to become a member of my church. The rest will follow, if it's meant to."
"So what's involved with joining your church?"
"Does that mean you're interested?" Josh's voice sounds hopelessly over-eager to his own ears.
"Maybe."
"All you'd really have to do is take Communion with us. Oh, and you'd have to make a good confession first, of course. To get ready for Communion."
"A confession? Oh, I don't know about that, Father --"
"Josh."
"Father Josh. I don't think I'd be comfortable --"
"You don't have to confess to me," Josh says quickly. "Any priest will do. You could even go back to Father Schneider over at Our Lady of Grace."
Drake starts to laugh but then quickly gets himself under control. "Yeah, no, I don't think so. But there's probably another priest somewhere in this town, right?" He smiles. "Thanks, Father. Josh. This is definitely something to think about."
Josh sets the guitar down and rises gingerly to his feet. All clear now, thank God. He knows it's time to go, but he doesn't want to leave just yet. Despite Drake's assurance to the contrary he's not sure Drake will actually give the idea a passing thought once they leave the club, and Josh has no excuse to return. "So your dad died when you were little, huh?" he says, blurting out the first thought that crosses his mind. "I lost my mom when I was eight."
"That's rough."
"Yeah. For you, too."
"Yeah. My mom handled it okay, though. Like I said, she got real involved in the church and then in this single parents club."
"Huh. Weird coincidence. My dad was in one of those for a while, too."
"Oh, cool. Hey, maybe they knew each other. Was it the one over here on Madison?"
"Nah, I grew up on the other side of town. My dad still lives over there. He's the weatherman for Channel Seven."
"No way, really? My mom loves weathermen."
Josh grins. "Oh yeah? Maybe we should get them together some time."
Part 2