Page 6 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Five

Henry

* * *

The city bus rattled along, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and my knee bounced like it was trying to drum a hole through the grimy floor.

I kept telling myself this was a good idea—surprising Noah at work, showing him I wasn’t afraid of where he lived his life.

He’d smile when he saw me, right? That easy, mischievous smile that made me forget to breathe for a second.

Maybe he’d even pick up our conversation about books like we hadn’t been interrupted, as though this was perfectly natural: me visiting him, him welcoming me.

Or maybe I’d walk through the door of this place with the biblical name—Babylon, for God’s sake—and my brain would turn to static. I’d stand there like some lost Sunday school teacher, clutching my bag and sweating through my shirt.

I tried out lines in my head like a deranged rehearsal.

“So, Noah, I figured if you wouldn’t stay at the library, I’d bring the library to you.”

No. Too weird.

“Funny running into you here. What are the odds?”

Except the odds were one hundred percent because I tracked him down.

“Do you serve communion wafers with those drinks, or is that just a Sunday night thing?”

Good Lord. That one made me snort out loud.

I must’ve laughed harder than I realized, because the woman next to me—a middle-aged lady in a cardigan with a reusable grocery tote on her lap—snapped her head around.

She blinked at me, expressing a blend of suspicion and concern, like she’d accidentally sat beside a madman.

A beat later, she gathered her bag, stood up, and shuffled down the aisle to take another seat.

That did it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but nervous giggles still bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest. Holy hell. Maybe I was losing my marbles.

No—no, not losing them. Just… delayed. I was going through stuff I should’ve figured out as a teenager.

How to talk to people. How to flirt. How not to look like I’d been raised in a monastery and released into society on a trial basis.

Back when other kids were fumbling through crushes and heartbreaks, I was burying myself in theology textbooks, praying for certainty, praying for a future where my doubts would vanish if I just worked harder.

And here I was, nearly thirty, laughing like an idiot on a city bus because I had no idea how to talk to a man I liked.

I was still chuckling when I caught sight of the window. The bus stop I needed slid right past.

“Crap.”

I scrambled to my feet and pressed the plastic strip along the wall. A chime dinged, the bus wheezed to the curb, and a moment later I was out on the sidewalk, retracing my steps with the late summer heat pressing down on me.

A block later, Babylon appeared.

I stopped cold.

The building itself wasn’t much—dark brick, neon lettering in purples and reds glowing faintly even in the fading daylight. But hanging just above the entrance, catching the breeze like it was waving to me personally, was a rainbow flag.

Shit.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry.

Until recently, the rainbow had been something I only noticed from the corner of my eye: on stickers, shirts, banners in parades I’d never dared attend. Now it was right here, marking the doorway I was about to step through. A declaration. A threshold.

Well, if I’d only just admitted my sexuality to myself, I might as well make it official by walking through a rainbow-covered entrance. Baptism by neon light.

My feet carried me forward before my brain could protest. I reached the window and peered inside.

It looked… like a bar. Not much different from the Irish pub near campus, except here the crowd skewed heavily male.

Very heavily. In fact, from where I stood, I didn’t see a single woman.

Just men, leaning against the bar with cocktails, laughing in little clusters at tables, shoulders brushing shoulders in a way that was casual and intimate all at once.

My stomach lurched.

What was I going to say to Noah again? The communion wafer joke? God forbid.

I hovered there, a sweaty stranger peeping through the glass like I was casing the place.

A couple of guys walked up—handsome, confident, mid-twenties maybe—and slowed as they caught me staring.

One of them gave me a once-over that was more curious than hostile.

The other arched a brow, like well, are you coming in or not?

Then, without a word, they pushed through the door and disappeared inside.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Straightened my shoulders like I was preparing to defend a dissertation.

Then I did it.

I pushed the door open and stepped into a gay bar for the very first time.

The air hit me first—cooler than outside, tinged with citrus cleaner, cheap beer, and a faint musky cologne that seemed to cling to the walls.

The low thump of bass vibrated through the floorboards.

Neon lights painted everything in pinks and blues, cutting sharp shadows across the faces at the bar.

The music wasn’t loud enough to drown out conversation, but loud enough to make it feel like everyone was speaking in secrets.

Everywhere I looked, men. Laughing, drinking, leaning in close, brushing shoulders, tossing casual touches that sent a little zing through my chest. I wanted to both hide and gape.

I knew I didn’t belong—not yet. My shirt was too buttoned, my shoes too practical, my posture too stiff. I was standing on the threshold of something I’d never dared imagine, my pulse rattling in my ears.

And somewhere in here was Noah.

The room pressed in on me, warm and loud and humming with an energy I didn’t know how to carry in my chest. My eyes darted everywhere, desperate to land on Noah’s face, on the familiar curve of his smile, on something steady in this neon chaos.

But he wasn’t there—not at the door, not near the tables.

The bar stretched across the rear of the room, a glowing line of bottles lit from beneath, and that seemed like the safest destination.

Heart pounding, I wove my way through the crowd, sidestepping shoulders and ducking my head when I caught someone’s eye.

By the time I reached the polished wood counter, I felt like I’d just run a mile in full vestments.

“What’ll it be, gorgeous?”

I nearly jumped out of my shoes.

The bartender stood before me wearing… very little.

Tight blue jeans that looked painted on, a black leather harness framing a chest that gleamed faintly under the bar lights.

His hair was messy in an intentional way, his smile lazy, and practiced.

He leaned forward on strong arms, his biceps flexing.

“Uh,” I croaked. My mouth went dry. “Um. A glass of… red wine. Please.”

The grin widened. “Red wine, huh? Fancy. I’ll have to check if we’ve got a sommelier on staff.” He winked, already reaching for a bottle.

I laughed nervously, not catching the joke at first. “Oh, no, just… just the regular kind is fine.”

As he poured, he slid the glass across to me with a flourish. “You got it. One ‘regular kind’ of red wine, coming right up. But careful—this stuff’ll make you even more handsome, and I’m not sure the room can handle it.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said earnestly, digging for my wallet. I set down a bill. “That’s very kind of you.”

The bartender chuckled, low and amused, like he was watching a puppy chase its own tail. He leaned a little closer. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I blinked. “Oh. Henry.”

“Henry,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting it. “Classic. Strong. Rolls off the tongue.”

“Mm, yes, it… it does.” I nodded, sipping too quickly at the wine.

“Don’t worry,” he said, lips quirking into a smirk. “I’ll take good care of you tonight.”

It was only then, with his eyes locked on mine and that wicked smile still curling his mouth, that the lightbulb finally flickered on. He was… flirting. With me.

“Oh,” I blurted, nearly choking on the wine. My face heated so quickly it felt like I’d been slapped.

“Matt,” he said suddenly, as if delivering a punchline. “That’s me. And I’ll remember Henry.” He gave me a wink, then slid down the bar to fill a row of cocktail orders, leaving me reeling in the aftershock.

I gripped my wine glass like it was a lifeline, my heart still doing its nervous tap dance.

Was this even the right place? Could there possibly be two bars named Babylon in LA, and I’d walked into the wrong one? Because nothing about this felt like it belonged to Noah.

I scanned the room again, forcing myself to look past the crowds of men, past the pulsing colored lights.

My gaze snagged on a small stage tucked into one corner.

A man wearing nothing but a black jockstrap was grinding against a speaker while some throbbing beat played.

His body moved with the kind of liquid confidence I’d never possessed.

He was handsome, I could admit that—sharp jawline, a body built for spectacle.

But compared to Noah? Not even close. Noah’s smile alone outshone this entire room.

“Give it up for Dino!” a man’s voice boomed over the sound system, snapping me out of my daze.

Applause rose from the crowd as the dancer hopped off the stage, blowing kisses.

I turned back to the bar just as Matt reappeared, still wearing that knowing smile.

He leaned in like we were in on a secret together, murmuring something I couldn’t quite catch over the applause.

My head spun from the sensory overload, the music, the lights, the unfamiliar weight of being noticed in this way.

And then, before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Does a guy named Noah work here?”

Matt’s smile faltered. His eyes flicked away for just a second, and in that second, I had the strangest, sinking notion I’d disappointed him.

The DJ’s voice boomed again: “And next up, say hello to our very own Solomon!”

Matt tilted his chin toward the stage.

I turned just in time to see him.

Noah.

He strode onto the stage with the confidence of someone born for the spotlight, wearing nothing but a white thong so sheer it might as well have been smoke.

My jaw went slack, and my brain short-circuited.

His skin gleamed under the lights, every muscle shifting like poetry as he moved.

The crowd erupted around me, whistles and cheers filling the room.

But all I could hear was the pounding of my heart, each beat louder than the music.

Noah was Solomon. And I was sitting in Babylon, red wine trembling in my glass, watching the boy I’d come to surprise walk out in barely anything at all.

The crowd erupted, hungry and wild, but I didn’t hear them. My ears rang with the rush of my own blood as Noah moved across that little stage like he was made of rhythm itself.

He rolled his hips against the beat, every slow grind deliberate, teasing.

His hand slid over his chest, down his stomach, lingering at the thin white fabric clinging to him.

He turned, the lights catching on his skin, his back flexing as he bent low, then rose again with a snap that made men in the front row cheer like it was a sermon and they’d just seen the light.

I couldn’t breathe.

My mouth had gone dry, my palms slick, and my chest tight with something between awe and panic. Noah was so hot, so impossibly sexy, and I—God help me—I couldn’t look away.

What the hell was I doing here?

I’d spent my whole life dreaming of service, of devotion, of an altar and a chalice and a quiet life in the fold of God’s will.

And here I was, planted in a gay bar called Babylon, staring at a man I barely knew while he danced nearly naked, my body burning with desire I couldn’t even begin to control.

My throat constricted. My vision swam.

Before I could think twice, I grabbed my wine glass and downed it in one desperate swallow. The sweetness turned bitter in my mouth, but I didn’t care. I needed something, anything, to drown the ache, to steady my shaking hands.

It didn’t work.

The room pressed too close, the lights too bright, the music too loud. I pushed through the crowd, murmuring apologies that nobody heard, my heart battering against my ribs as though it wanted out.

The door. I just needed the door. Air. Space. Silence.

And then it happened—like the universe wanted to punish me one more time.

My eyes locked with his.

Noah froze mid-step, his body stilling as if the music had cut out. His gaze pinned me, sharp and unflinching, and in that single moment the world collapsed to just the two of us: me, raw and unraveling; him, caught in the spotlight, suddenly unmasked.

Panic shot through me like lightning.

I tore my eyes away and bolted, shoving past bodies, stumbling for the exit. The cool evening air slapped my face as I burst through the door and onto the sidewalk, lungs heaving, heart still hammering.

Run. Just run.

I sprinted down the block, my shoes striking the pavement, the city spinning in my periphery. My mind screamed—shame, lust, disbelief all tangled into a knot I couldn’t untie.

And then—

“Henry!”

I skidded, the sound of my name cleaving through the chaos.

I turned.

There he was. Noah, standing on the sidewalk in that damn white thong, his chest still slick with sweat, calling out to me under the glow of the neon Babylon sign.

For half a second, something inside me reached for him—wanted to stop, to turn back, to let myself be seen.

But shame was faster.

I spun and ran, faster this time, leaving him behind in the neon glow.