Page 6 of Crossed

I dragged the table inside and then spent a few days sanitizing it until my fingers bled, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to give Quinten and I somewhere to eat that wasn’t the floor, determined to prove that I was better than our trash egg donor who didn’t love us enough to eventry.

“Quin.”

Quinten doesn’t look up, and dread starts to grip my insides, knowing I don’t have his normal scrambled eggs to offer because I just fucking burnt them all on the stove. It’s been his comfort food for the past six months, theonlything he’ll eat for breakfast, and if there’s anything I want to do, it’s comfort him.

“How about some chocolate chip waffles?” I smile wide, trying to entice him. I think there are some left. They might be a little freezer burned, but they’d do in a pinch.

He shakes his head, making a clicking sound in the back of his throat before saying, “You want eggs?”

It’s not a question. The phrasing is just part of his gestalt language processing.

“I want eggs,” I reply.

“I want eggs,” he echoes, then adds his own thought. “That sounds good.”

“You got it, dude.” My throat tightens as I bob my head, knowing I’ll have to run next door and ask Mr. Brochet for some, and he’s a skeevy, grumpy old man who doesn’t like to be bothered.

But I do it anyway, because if Quinten wants eggs, that’s what I’ll make sure he gets.

Chapter2

Cade

PARKER 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 theothercompanies 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 inmyoffice 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 doyouprescribe, Monsieur Errien? I had presumed youwereCatholic.”