Crossed: Chapter 2

P ARKER ERRIEN.

I knew the name before I even came to town. My superior, Bishop Lamont, mentioned him frequently enough that I know Parker is the catalyst that inspired me being sent here. But this is the first time I’m meeting him in person.

He’s a decently attractive man with porcelain skin, light blond hair that’s graying around the edges, and an air of pompous ego that I’m salivating to grind into dirt. He waltzed into my office in the back hallway of the church twenty minutes ago, acting as though he owned the world, which I suppose, at least in this little spot in the universe, he does.

Parker runs Errien Enterprises: a holding company that owns seventy percent of the other companies between here and the neighboring towns. Parker’s name graces the sides of almost every affluent building in Festivalé. It goes without saying that he’s filthy rich, best friends with the mayor, and one of the biggest local donators to the Notre-Dame Cathedral, and he’s the quint- essential king of Festivalé.

And he has my superior, Bishop Lamont, in his pocket.

But I can feel the evil bleeding from his soul, and I wonder what it is a man like Parker has to do to ensure his throne can never be touched. How many people he pays off, how many sins he’s willing to commit.

I find it very difficult to believe I was brought here to truly turn the town around, and my assumption is that in Parker’s eyes, I’m just another pawn for him to puppeteer.

After all, my predecessor, Father Clark, was vocal in his last days. I heard him on the phone raging in Bishop Lamont’s ear about how Mr. Errien was not his master and he wouldn’t bow down to anyone other than God.

Parker will be very disappointed to learn that I’m no different.

“I heard you were old school,” Parker says, eyeing me as I sit behind my large walnut desk.

My fingers are steepled beneath my chin, elbows digging into the arms of my cushioned chair.

“Uptight even,” he continues.

Still, I don’t respond.

He scowls. “Do you speak English, Mr. Frédéric?”

I quirk a brow. “Depends on if there’s anyone worth speaking to, Monsieur Errien.”

A dark look coasts across Parker’s gaze as he settles back into the seat, his legs spreading wide. I’m sure he thinks it’s an act of dominance, lazing about in my office like he owns it, but all it does is show that he’s a man who doesn’t know what to do with the dick between his legs.

“Is that some type of Catholic thing?” he snarks. “Priests who think they’re beyond reproach?”

The muscle in my jaw twitches. “And to what religion do you prescribe, Monsieur Errien? I had presumed you were Catholic.”

His brows jump to his hairline. “Of course I am.”

Humming, I stand up, moving around the edge of my desk until I’m hovering close enough that he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes.

“I am a man of God, Monsieur Errien, which means I am more subject to reproach,” I say. “Despite the fact that I forgive many things a lesser person would not, for the sake of our future… relationship, I think we should establish boundaries.”

“I’d agree.”

“Perfect. I’ll start.” I smile. “It doesn’t matter how much money you throw around or how many others drop to their knees and worship you as some sort of false deity because of said money. I will not tolerate disrespect.”

Parker’s teeth grind together, loud enough for me to hear it. “Neither will I.”

I chuckle, leaning forward until my shadow looms over his frame. “Don’t come into my office, into His place of worship, and flaunt your disregard, implying that my faith is something to mock. Here, in this house, I am the power.”

“You’re only in this position because I wish for it,” Parker spits back. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Straightening, I run my hand down the front of my black button- down and lean against the lip of my desk. “That’s true. And the church is forever grateful for your more than generous donations. I know that you and Father Clark didn’t see eye to eye on cleaning up the streets of Festivalé, so I suggest you take a moment of reflection and search deeply for the gratitude you should be feeling, knowing I’ve heard your pleas and support your cause.”

He scoffs, but I don’t miss the minuscule way his shoulders slump, his arrogance cowering in the way false confidence usually does when hit with a strike of dominance.

“Do we understand each other?” I press.

He doesn’t reply other than a sharp nod, and a grin tips up the corners of my mouth. I let the silence thicken the air and puncture his skin until he shifts in obvious discomfort.

“Where did you say you were from again originally?” he finally asks.

“I didn’t.”

“And how long have you been a priest?”

“Long enough.”

The starched collar chafes around my neck at his question, and I clear my throat.

Parker hums, tapping his thick fingers against the wood of his chair, his eyes calculating in a way they hadn’t been before.

It was probably a mistake to be so harsh with him, but being here, in this town, has thrown me off- kilter. My temper is short and my fuse is lit.

“I have some ideas for your homily this Sunday,” he says, changing the course of our conversation.

My spine bristles.

“I’d expect nothing less,” I reply, waving my hand toward the door. “Unfortunately, duty calls and I don’t have time to hear it. If you require confession, you may speak to Father Jeremiah, the curate who’s taking them today.”

Parker shoots to a stand, buttoning his suit jacket before placing his palm in the air between us, ever the businessman. I stare down at it, but I don’t take the offering of a handshake. He’s insulted me, and I have no intention of letting him find comfort within these walls.

Not today.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he muses. “And regardless of the title you may hold here, Mr. Frédéric, I’d suggest you remember why you hold it.”

“No need for formalities, Parker.” I smile. “Please, call me

Father.”

His jaw tightens but he nods. “Have a good day, Father.” And then he’s gone.

I let out a slow breath, moving my head to the side until a sharp crack rings in my ears, the tension morphing into relief. Maneuvering back around my desk, I sit down, picking up a pen and tapping it in a methodical rhythm against the wood, my eyes trained on the door where Parker just left. I shouldn’t have goaded him, should have bit my tongue and smiled, allowing him to think he holds the power.

But there’s something off about him. A darkness in his eyes that reminds me of my past. Of Sister Agnes when she’d beat me black and blue.

“Cade Frédéric!” Sister Agnes screeches, her voice echoing off the concrete walls in the dining hall.

I cower behind the longest table in the back, trying to conceal myself in the corner, keeping to the shadows and hoping that she can’t see. If she finds me, she’ll surely take the belt to me again, and I still haven’t healed from last week when I stole that new boy’s toy. This time, I didn’t do anything.

Not really.

Footsteps draw near, and I hunch down farther, sliding from being on my knees to on my belly, trying to keep myself as flat to the floor as I can. My eyes are peeled for a sign of her, and my heart shoots to my throat when I see her plain black shoes stomping into the room. She moves closer, and with every step, my stomach sinks, regret for losing control of myself and smashing those plates in the kitchen hitting me full force.

But I was just so…angry. And I needed to get it out.

Her footsteps halt right in front of the table where I’m hiding, and her knees crack as she crouches down, her habit making her seem even more threatening than if she was in plain clothes.

Her lips pinch. “Come out from under there this instant.”

My stomach drops and I crawl out from beneath the table, my head down and my hands clasped behind my back, but I don’t say a word. I don’t like to speak English with her. I stumble over my words and forget proper phrasing. Every time I mess up, she adds another lashing.

She reaches forward and grips my ear tightly, twisting until it feels like she might rip it off altogether. I hiss but know better than to fight against the pain.

“I see you’ve made a mess of things again, child. Always getting into trouble. Do you know how much money you’ve cost us this time? Dozens of dishes, shattered in the kitchen. So much destruction for a five- year- old.”

“Je suis désolé,” I mumble.

She twists my ear harder. “English, child.”

“S- sorry, Sister. I’m sorry,” I stutter.

She lets go of my ear, pain radiating down the entire left side of my face as she does.

“What caused you to do it this time?” She looks down her nose at me.

“André’s p-parents came back for him.”

She crosses her arms. “And that made you angry?”

I nod. It did make me angry. And jealous. “Oui.”

Sighing, she says, “It isn’t your fault, Cade. You’re sick.”

Swallowing, I nod again. “I know.”

“Come on.” She grips my arm and drags me behind her through the dining hall and into the kitchen. Dozens of shattered dishes litter the ground, and she places me in the center of them before walking over to grab a thick wooden spoon.

When she’s standing directly in front of me, she leans in close, her gaze meeting mine. It’s quick, but I swear I see her pupils dilate and a flash of black coast across her eyes. It makes my shoulders tense and my mouth run dry.

“There’s a monster in you, child. And God wants me to beat it out.”

Sighing, I come out of the memory and glance down at the calendar that takes up the majority of the empty space on my desk, a reminder that my duties are ingraining myself into the spaces here, getting to know the parish, overseeing the curate— Father Jeremiah, the apprentice of mine whom I’ve yet to meet. I’m here to lead people back onto the path of Christ. To help Festivalé become a righteous land instead of a sinful pit.

I already know I’ll be doing none of those things today.

Instead, I follow Parker, needing to know more about the man who has the ear of the bishop and the stink of corruption.