Page 8 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
“I haven’t helped yet.”
Kensley blinked hard. “Then I thank you for your promise to help. And I do hope I can count on you to show up as promised.”
Drew nodded. “You have my word. But if it makes you feel better, ask me again Friday after service.”
“I’ll do that.” He would definitely try.
And Kensley would fail to speak to Drew on Friday evening. Kensley didn’t attend the service at all, thanks to the appearance of his cycle. An especially irritating part of being omega male, it left him indisposed for about twenty-four-hours every two months, while his body angrily demanded it become pregnant.He hated it for the cramps and slow, constant flow of fluid. Since he was considered “unclean” during this period, he wasn’t allowed to leave the abbey.
By the afternoon of the fundraiser, he felt better, and a long shower had him back to top form. He dressed and headed over to the cathedral to assist with the last steps of setup for a fundraiser so close to his heart. The tantalizing scents of onion, garlic and tomato reached him before he descended the stairs into the basement.
Their commercial kitchen and public dining hall was down here. Until twenty years ago, their church used to offer free meals to the hungry and homeless twice a week, but city-wide violence attributed to rival mob factions had stymied that service. Now they were down to planned fundraisers and minimal public outreach. He hated it, because he believed a huge part of his job was to touch the community as often as possible, and to spread the good word of the Holy Scriptures.
All Kensley could really do was touch the community members who came to him, and to believe in…well, whatever.
The restaurant owners were hard at work in the kitchen, preparing several gallons of their famous sauce from scratch. The giant pots for spaghetti were full of water and already on the heat, since it took a long time for that much water to boil. He also followed his nose to several ovens where garlic bread was slowly toasting. Other volunteers were mixing huge bowls of chopped lettuce, tomatoes, bell peppers, and red onion.
Everything seemed to be on track.
He pulled a stack of black tablecloths out of the linen closet and began setting up the long banquet tables. Jonathan and Hosea, two of the junior priests, joined him a few minutes later and added vases of fresh carnations to the clothed tables. The pair of teenagers had only been in the Order for about two years, and they frequently volunteered for Kensley’s meal-basedfundraisers. He was sure it was for the chance to interact with the public outside the stricter structure of their services. Kensley enjoyed these evenings for the same reason. Even though they were all omega and all there for the same reason, it was still an isolating existence, void of real friendships or physical contact.
Their trio worked like a well-oiled machine. At five-twenty, Drew, a new volunteer named Billy who was working off community service hours, and an elderly woman who’d looked familiar, but Kensley didn’t immediately recognize, entered the banquet hall. Drew seemed to take in every detail all at once, just like at services, and the habit suggested a career in law enforcement. Maybe Drew’s need for personal counsel was due to job stress?
He really wanted to ask, but this was not the time for socializing. They had a job to do and money to raise.
At five-thirty, he made sure their volunteer chefs could step away for a few minutes and assembled everyone for a quick meeting. After introductions all around (the elderly woman’s name was Gloria, and she had once worked at the Orange Street Orphanage), Kensley went over the order of the evening: the meet-and-greet; how to handle the door prizes; who was serving and who was busing tables as folks ate. At five-forty-five, Jonathan went upstairs to set up the sign directing guests to the banquet hall downstairs.
Baskets of hot bread and cold salad were placed at intervals on the tables. Drew did every task asked of him with quiet precision, that ever-moving gaze always aware of the people around him. It was both bizarre and somehow reassuring. The church didn’t hire security guards or private police for events, because in the long history of Holy Order Ninth Cathedral, no violent crime had ever occurred on their grounds. But with Drew here, Kensley had the odd sense of having his own security guard.
He didn’t mind the feeling at all. He understood the violence of men more than he believed in the protection of Heavenly Father.
As much as Kensley wanted to station himself right next to Drew for the evening, this was his event to host, so he had to socialize. Drew, Gloria and Hosea were positioned behind the main serving station to offer up plates of spaghetti and sauce, and to watch the drink station. Drew seemed perfectly comfortable in a blue apron, holding a ladle of marinara sauce. And as the first guests arrived, Kensley slipped into his role as Elder Thorne, welcoming all and encouraging them to sit where they wished. Random seating was part of the door prize gimmick.
Tickets to the dinner were not sold in advance, it was cash at the door, and by five minutes to six, the hall was nearly full, and Kensley was mentally calculating how quickly they could set up another table and eight chairs. A group of four men entered at once, and Kensley only noticed because fundraisers like this were often heavily attended by couples or families. Not clusters of men dressed in suits like they were about to walk onto a Wall Street trading floor, but hopefully that meant thick wallets.
By six, they were at capacity, and Kensley clapped to silence the room. He welcomed his guests, reiterated tonight’s charity, and then went through the motions of praying for the food, and for “loose pockets” in relation to the donation buckets by the exits.
Now it was time to eat.
Bishop wasn’t happy with his position scooping delectable-smelling sauce over piles of cooked noodles for people whocould have easily donated the entry fee ten times over, without expecting anything in return. But he did it, because it was his job. For the vast majority of his life, Bishop did something because it washis job.
Didn’t mean he ever had or currently did enjoy it. His adult life had never been about joy; it had always been about survival. And it still was: his survival and Kensley’s.
The buffet line passed through quickly, and Bishop counted close to two hundred guests who eventually sat with plates of food. A constant din of chatter filled the banquet hall, a kind of white noise that was irritating but not distracting. He remained aware of Kensley’s location, whether he was laughing with an elderly woman, or bringing someone a refill of their iced tea.
Kensley was more animated here than during any of the services Bishop had attended. Elder Thorne, the dour senior priest, was calm, quiet, and rarely smiled. Brother Kensley, a young man with a huge heart who wanted to connect, shined in this environment. This was not a man who was meant to hide behind pulpits and robes and strict traditions. He needed companionship and joy and engagement with other people, especially people his age, his omega designation be damned.
Bishop snorted then hid the noise behind a soft cough. In some ways, being born omega male or alpha femalediddamn the person, often to a life of service to a religion they did not respect, for their “own safety.” He hated that he’d been party to convincing Kensley that joining the Order was best for him.
He was safe, sure, but Bishop seriously doubted he was happy.
At six-thirty, with the meal well on its way, Kensley interrupted with the first door prize. “Everyone, please reach beneath your chair,” he said in a loud, strong voice that tickled up Bishop’s spine in an enticing way. “Two tickets have been randomly placed beneath two chairs, and whoever finds themcan come up to claim a prize off the door prize table. And I promise, we checked for bubblegum before we set up today.” That got a titter of laughter and a lot of squirming and reaching.
Bishop hadn’t paid much attention to the door prizes, which at a quick glance, were donations such as gift cards, a basket of specialty cooking items, and some handmade crafts. The kinds of things he assumed parishioners would donate for a good cause. A man with a shock of white hair who leaned heavily on a cane, and a teenage girl in a floral dress found the tickets, and they came up to claim their prizes. Bishop watched, but unless Gramps had a knife hidden in his cane, Kensley was safe.
The meal resumed. At least a dozen people returned for second helpings. Bishop had eaten before leaving his apartment, but the scent of the pasta sauce was still incredibly enticing to someone who lived off frozen dinners and sandwiches. Eating out was difficult and delivery was risky, so he shopped at stores out of town and made his groceries last. Even though his face had changed, he still had enemies everywhere, and this version of Bishop Anders, moving through life as Drew Burton, didn’t want to be noticed.
There was safety in living anonymously.
