Priest

Anybody could walk in right now, walk in the front door, and see their priest with a woman bent over the piano, kneeling as if he was praying to her cunt, kneeling with his face buried in her ass. Messy and passionate and raw and creative—a cyclone forced into an eggshell. That he’d declare battle and then wait a few more days to fire his opening salvo? By this point, it was almost two in the morning, and Jordan stood quickly, because phone calls at this time of night were generally of the bad kind—car crashes, unexpected turns for the worse, hospice patients finally gasping their last breaths.