Page 7 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
In Kensley’s limited experience,most men of faith were also creatures of habit, and he found that true about many of his parishioners. They chose their service day and time, and that’s when they showed up: Wednesday evening, Friday evening, or four different services on Sunday. Some folks came on both a weekday evening, and on Sunday morning.
In Kensley’s fourteen years with this church, and in his ten serving as a priest, Drew Burton was the first man to show up to every evening service at six: Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Kensley looked forward to finding Drew in the crowd, usually in the same general area as the first time. For two weeks, Drew attended three nights a week, and Kensley was unable to speak to him again until the third Wednesday.
Drew often lingered in the vestibule, observing the community bulletin board like someone genuinely interested in what was going on around him. Kensley wasn’t sure why he disbelieved it. Drew was there for a reason, and Kensley hadn’t forgotten their first conversation. Drew being at a crossroads in his life and needing some sort of guidance. He’d also yet to take Kensley up on his offer of counseling.
As the service let out and the congregation departed to areas of the city Kensley probably wouldn’t recognize anymore, he once again found Drew staring at the bulletin board. As Kensley approached, he tried to follow Drew’s gaze. The center of the board had a large yellow poster advertising this weekend’s spaghetti dinner fundraiser. Proceeds benefited the Orange Street Orphanage, which needed funds to add a new wing.
The fundraiser was Kensley’s project. He wasn’t able to physically volunteer at the orphanage, but he did his best to organize help for them and their growing number of children. Kensley loved children. Even as a boy, he’d imagined growing up to be a father and having a family. When he accepted that he was omega male, he’d briefly entertained the idea of finding a husband and bearing his own—briefly. Omega men were not forbidden from having children, but it was frowned upon by society at large, because it was “abnormal” and against nature; the same as alpha women who could impregnate another woman.
They were safer, in general, as members of an Order, serving Heavenly Father, and tucked away from most of the world, for most of the day/week/month/year. Kensley hadn’t wanted to give up his dream of a family to join the Order.
He hadn’t been given a choice.
“Good evening, Brother Drew,” Kensley said.
Drew didn’t startle or tense, he simply turned to face Kensley, smiling warmly. “Good evening, Elder Thorne. You led a lovely service tonight.”
“Thank you. I see you noticed our spaghetti dinner fundraiser. Are you a fan?”
“Of spaghetti or fundraisers?”
Kensley chuckled. “Both. It’s for a very worthy cause, and there are door prizes. It’s downstairs in our large meeting hall, Saturday evening at six.”
“I’ve passed the orphanage more times than I can count, but I’m not much for sitting around with strangers and stuffing my face with pasta. Is there another way I can help with your fundraiser? Something more impactful than a direct donation?”
“You can volunteer to help on Saturday,” Kensley blurted out. He was intrigued by Drew, and he wanted to get to know Drew more, but he had no idea about the man’s social life, or if he’d want?—
“All right, I’ll help. Um, I can’t really cook all that well, but I suppose spaghetti is kind of foolproof.”
“Nothing is foolproof to a well-armed fool.”
“Is that from the Holy Scriptures?”
“I don’t think so. It’s something my brother used to say.” Kensley’s stomach curled up. He never spoke about King to near-strangers, but something about Drew was familiar. He didn’t feel like a stranger, and Kensley couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew it was dangerous.
Drew’s gentle smile never wavered. “It’s a fair statement, but I could probably scorch a pot of marinara sauce without really trying, so is there something I can do that doesn’t require cooking?”
“How about serving? The food, not as in an usher or anything. We’ll have bowls of salad and baskets of bread on the tables when diners arrive, but they have to come up to our hot station to get their spaghetti and sauce. You’d be serving on the hot line.”
“That sounds like something I could reasonably do without making a mess.”
“You don’t strike me as a naturally messy person. You seem very deliberate.”
“You know that from ten minutes of total conversation?”
“Part of my position here is observing people. You have a lot of layers, Brother Drew.”
“Don’t we all?” Drew’s near-teasing tone kept Kensley from reading any deeper into the comment. “So what time should I be here on Saturday?”
Kensley was grateful they were back to the fundraiser and off their personalities. “No later than five-twenty. I want to have a meeting with all my community volunteers at five-thirty, before we open the doors to diners.”
Something flickered in Drew’s eyes. “How many other outside volunteers do you have for this dinner?”
The new sharpness in Drew’s tone unsettled him. but Kensley had no reason to lie. “Only three besides you. A husband and wife pair who own a popular Italian restaurant uptown are doing the majority of the cooking, and I have another young man on the busboy crew who will watch the tables and remove empty plates, or refill empty bread baskets.”
“Right. And what will your job be, if I may ask?”
“I’ll be doing a bit of everything. Greasing the gears, so to speak, so the fundraiser runs smoothly. This isn’t the first I’ve spearheaded for our cathedral, and I doubt it will be the last. But as much as I love the support from my fellow priests, it is wonderful to gain volunteers from the community, so thank you for helping.”
