Page 12 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Ten

Noah

* * *

I sat on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees, staring at the pile of clean laundry I hadn’t bothered to fold.

My chest felt heavy, like all the air had been sucked out of me since Henry left in the middle of the night.

I should’ve been showering, slicking my hair back, getting ready for work—but instead I sat there, moping, trying not to picture the empty space in my bed.

My phone buzzed against the arm of the couch. I glanced down and froze when I saw the name on the screen.

Mom

Guilt hit me instantly. I hadn’t called her for weeks. She didn’t deserve that. And after the wreckage of last night, maybe hearing her voice was exactly what I needed. I swiped to answer.

“Noah?” Her voice was warm, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

I frowned. “Hi, Mom. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Noah Benjamin Miller,” she said, using the full name that always made me feel like a little boy again. “Don’t lie to your mother. I had this sudden—” she paused, searching for the word—“this intuition that you were in pain. Am I wrong?”

My throat tightened. “I… there’s this guy,” I said, the words halting. “I like him, but he’s got a ton of issues and—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she interrupted, cutting me off in the brisk, no-nonsense tone I’d grown up with.

“Noah, you’re too good to be anyone’s second choice.

You hear me? You don’t need some damaged man to tell you your worth.

You’ve always stood on your own two feet, and you’ll keep doing it. Don’t let anyone drag you down.”

Despite myself, I smiled. The first real smile all day. She didn’t even know Henry, didn’t know the mess in my chest—but she knew me. And sometimes that was enough.

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmured, softer than I meant to.

She exhaled, her voice shifting, lighter now. “So, listen. Rosh Hashanah is coming up. Will you join us this year?”

I blinked, caught off guard. Normally I dodged that question, year after year, but my walls were thin today, paper-thin. “Uh… yeah,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ll come.”

Her delight was immediate, bubbling through the phone. “Oh, sweetheart, that makes me so happy. Your father will be over the moon.”

I rubbed my forehead, but my smile stayed.

“And speaking of family,” she continued, “Hannah’s bringing her new boyfriend over for dinner this Friday. Can you come too?”

“Can’t,” I said quickly. “I’ve got work.”

A pause, then a sigh. “One of these days, you’ll tell me what this mysterious work schedule of yours really is.”

“Maybe,” I said with a little laugh, though it came out tired. “Speaking of work, Mom, I really do have to go.”

“Alright, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I hung up and let the phone drop onto the couch beside me. Then I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For a minute, my mother’s voice had stitched me back together—but already the seams were loosening.

How was I supposed to drag myself onto a stage tonight and dance for men who didn’t know me, didn’t care about me, who didn’t even see the real me?

I curled up on the couch, dragging a pillow over my head like it could muffle the storm in my chest. Then I screamed into it, long and raw, until my throat burned.

The sound was ugly, broken, almost feral.

I flung the pillow across the room and it hit the wall with a soft thud, sliding down in defeat.

My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a mile, but all I’d done was sit here drowning in my own damn misery.

What the hell was the matter with me? Henry Forrester was just another closet case. I’d met a hundred of them—men who wanted to taste freedom for a night and then slink back into the shadows by morning. Men who couldn’t bear the weight of who they were. Men who left me emptier than before.

But Henry… Henry wasn’t like the rest. I couldn’t deny the pull between us, couldn’t shake the memory of his hands on me, the way his body gave in even as his conscience fought back.

He had a brilliant mind, a beautiful body, and all that Catholic guilt had made him burn hotter than anyone I’d ever touched.

For the first time in my adult life, I’d met someone I thought might actually stand shoulder to shoulder with me.

My equal. Not just in the bedroom, but in the quiet spaces too, in the way his eyes saw right into me.

And it was killing me—gutting me—to even think about letting that go. But I had to.

I couldn’t build a life out of someone else’s shame.

* * *

The bass thumped so hard I felt it in my bones, every beat rattling through my chest like a second pulse. Strobe lights flashed in rapid bursts, washing the room in neon pinks and blues, and the crowd pressed in tight around the stage, drinks sloshing in raised glasses.

A bachelorette party had practically taken over half the bar—sashes, tiaras, plastic diamond rings, the whole nine yards.

Normally, those nights made me want to roll my eyes into another dimension.

A bunch of drunk girls shrieking over mostly-naked men wasn’t exactly my scene.

But tonight? Tonight their wild energy was a balm, something loud and silly to drown out the storm still raging in my chest after Henry.

I rolled my hips in time with the music, leaning into the edge of the stage, sweat slick on my skin, and the women went wild. One of them screamed, “Take it off, baby!” so loud my ears rang, and I couldn’t help but grin.

Then, before I even registered what was happening, two of them staggered forward, heels wobbling on the sticky floor, and scrambled onto the stage.

“Oh, hell no,” I muttered, though my grin widened for the crowd’s benefit.

The taller one immediately wrapped herself around my arm like we were old lovers, while the other grabbed my waist and tried to grind against me, hair falling into her smeared lipstick.

“Ladies, ladies,” I said, laughing through the mic clipped to my waistband. “Rule number one—no touching the merchandise.”

They howled at that, the crowd egging them on.

“Oh, come on,” the one on my arm slurred, her breath hot with tequila. “Just one dance!”

“You’re already dancing,” I shot back, wiggling my brows at her. “But my boss doesn’t pay me enough to let you break the rules. So unless one of you’s planning to stuff a fifty in my waistband…” I trailed off, holding my hands up like I was just the messenger.

That got another round of shrieks and laughter.

The shorter girl tried to pout, but it looked more like her face was melting. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m loads of fun,” I said, spinning away from her. “Fun you’re not allowed to have.”

They finally gave up, wobbling their way off the stage—until one of them misjudged the step. She let out a squeal and went down like a felled tree, tiara bouncing off her head and skittering across the floor.

I cracked up before I could stop myself, giggles spilling out as the bouncer, a mountain of a guy named Tony, strode over. “Alright, ladies,” he said in a voice like gravel, “time to call it a night.”

The girls protested, slurring out excuses, pointing fingers, clinging to each other like they were auditioning for Drunk Bridesmaids: The Musical. The whole scene was ridiculous, and I was still half-laughing when my gaze shifted past them, just beyond the flashing lights and raised drinks.

And there he was.

Henry.

For a split second, I froze—every muscle in my body tightening like I’d been caught in a spotlight I couldn’t step out of. What the hell was he doing here? Did he really think he could just walk in, bat those guilt-ridden eyes at me, lure me into another night, and then vanish again before sunrise?

Hell no.

But then I caught the look on his face.

Not lust. Not arrogance. Fear. His pale blue eyes darted like a trapped animal’s, his shoulders hunched, as if just being in this room was a battle.

And something in me cracked. It had to have taken every ounce of courage he had to step foot in Babylon, a place that screamed queer at the top of its lungs.

And for one aching moment, sympathy stabbed through my anger, sharp enough to leave me breathless.

The music thundered to a close. The announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system: “Give it up for Solomon, everybody! And next up, you know him, you love him, the man, the myth, the muscles—Hercules!”

The crowd erupted as Hercules bounded onto the stage in little more than a loincloth, flexing like some gay Greek god made flesh.

I pasted a grin on my face, gave the crowd one last playful wink, and slipped off the stage.

My pulse was still hammering as I headed for the dressing room, every step heavy with the knowledge that Henry was out there.

* * *

Backstage, I sat hunched on the ripped vinyl couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the scuffed linoleum like it might offer me a way out.

The air was thick with cologne, sweat, and the faint tang of cheap whiskey—every dancer’s perfume mixed into one.

My name was still on the lineup, second set looming, and I was praying against it like a man begging for divine intervention.

Maybe the DJ would forget. Maybe the sound system would blow.

Hell, maybe the ceiling would cave in. Anything to keep me from stepping back out there and seeing if Henry was still in the crowd.

Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted.

If he’d left, I’d feel gutted. If he was still there, I’d come apart.

My chest was tight either way. The other dancers moved around me, snapping g-strings and spraying themselves down with body glitter.

I just sat there with my heart pounding, knowing the second I walked out, I’d find my answer.

The announcer’s voice cut through the haze, harsh and final: “Put your hands together for Solomon!”

My cue.

I took a deep breath and adjusted the silver waistband clinging to my hips. My palms were clammy. I’d been hiding out in the dressing room for the past hour, willing Henry to take the hint and get the hell out.

But as I stepped back onto the stage, my chest squeezed.

Half the bar had cleared out, the drunk bachelorette party long gone, leaving behind a scatter of crumpled napkins and lipstick-smudged glasses.

The lighting was dimmer now, softer, like the night itself was winding down.

Music thumped, low and sultry, vibrating through my bones.

And then I saw him.

Henry. Standing right there in front of the stage like he’d been waiting for me. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, but his posture was still stiff—like he was bracing against some invisible storm.

I tried to play it cool, moving my hips in rhythm, making my face blank, pretending he was just another customer.

I’d done this a thousand times—ignore, compartmentalize, seduce without feeling.

But it only lasted a few seconds. My heart was punching against my ribs, and I couldn’t stop looking at him.

That was when some drunk guy staggered forward, grinning wide, and shoved a twenty into the waistband of my thong. The man’s fingers grazed my skin, and I forced out a fake laugh, stepping back. But I saw it. The flicker in Henry’s eyes. Like something had cracked inside him—anger? Jealousy? Shame?

Before I could even process it, a couple more men came up, tossing bills at my feet, reaching, watching. It was the usual scene, a Thursday night ritual. But Henry never moved. He didn’t even blink. He just stared at me like the whole world was collapsing around him.

And then—tears.

I froze mid-step as they started rolling down his cheeks, catching in the dim bar lights. Henry Forrester, the man who buried every ounce of softness beneath layers of Catholic armor, was standing there unraveling in front of me.

My throat tightened. I couldn’t do this anymore—not the act, not the mask. I hopped down from the stage, landing right in front of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of his soap under the stale beer air.

Before he could pull away, I wrapped my arms around him. His whole body trembled against mine, rigid at first, then melting like he didn’t know how to hold himself up anymore. I leaned in, pressing my lips close to his ear.

“Please don’t go,” I whispered. My voice cracked, raw and unguarded. “Let’s talk after I’m through with work.”