Free The Tenth Order by Nic Widhalm

needed to be seated, then, noticing the bartender’s odd looks, made his way to bar and lowered himself to a faded red stool.
    “Morning,” Hunter said.
    “Morning,” the bartender replied, his lips twitching.
    Hunter glanced around the dingy room. “You’ve got a nice place here. Been open long?”
    The bartender’s amusement spread into a long, lazy grin. He put down the glass he had been cleaning and moved closer. “Yeah,” he said. “Been in my family for sixty years.”
    “Shit. Sixty, really? Man, I wish my family had left me something like this.”
    The bartender, whose grin had grown even wider when Hunter said “shit,” just shook his head. “Jesus, Lou is never going to believe this.”
    “Believe what?” Hunter smiled in reply to the bartender’s grin, not really aware of the joke but enjoying the unusual sense of camaraderie.
    “A priest. In my bar. Saying ‘shit.’” The bartender slapped his hands on the counter and laughed.
    Hunter, realizing he was the butt of a joke, felt his grin vanish. “Uh, yeah. Guess I’m not used to being in a bar, you know? Parish life…they keep us on a short leash.”
    “I’ll bet,” the bartender laughed, wiping his eyes.
    “So,” Hunter looked around awkwardly. “What does a priest have to do to get a drink?”
    The bartender finally stopped laughing and shook his head. “Father, it’s on the house. Name it.”
    “Oh no, that’s cool.”
    “I insist. My brother’s never going to believe this.”
    “Well, if you insist…” Hunter didn’t press the point, the thought occurring that he had no way of paying for the drink if the bartender changed his mind. “Brandy, if you’ve got it.”
    “Brandy? Father, I know you don’t get out much but—”
    “Beer then,” Hunter said quickly, hoping to stave off more questions. Just take whatever he’ll give you and shut up .
    “Sure. Beer it is.” The bartender walked over to the cooler, still shaking his head and chuckling. When he returned Hunter thanked him politely, then turned and began to drink, hoping the bartender would take the hint and give him some privacy. The bartender, his smile disappearing when he realized his joke was done, frowned, then went back to the sink and continued cleaning.
    As Hunter nursed his beer— A domestic? I’m not funny enough for imported?— he took another glance around the bar. In the corner, converging around a slightly crooked pool table, was a pair of college students who looked like they’d been at it all night. The two boys had wide, dark smudges around their eyes, and leaned more than played on the table. One of the two, a kid wearing a burgundy sweatshirt with the initials DU, was rubbing his temples and speaking softly to his friend.
    Not far from the students was an old man seated by himself at a small table, drinking something brown with ice. The man’s hands shook slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips, and he closed his eyes as he took each sip. He reminded Hunter painfully of his father.
    There were a few more guys crowded at the end of the bar, wearing construction gear and looking like they were already running late for work, and in the opposite corner of the pool table…Hunter’s mouth suddenly went dry.
    In the opposite corner of the pool table was the most beautiful woman Hunter had ever seen.
    She sat by herself, but had the easy confidence of all beautiful women who know they don’t have to sit by themselves. She was wearing a modest green blouse and black skirt, but somehow she made the conservative outfit uncomfortably sensual. Hunter’s gaze was drawn repeatedly to the way the shirt hugged her breasts; the tight, seductive lines the skirt formed as it outlined her slim legs. Auburn hair ran halfway down her back, falling full and thick along her graceful neck. And her eyes— deep black pools that drew Hunter like…
    Black? Hunter shook his head. No . The woman turned while he was staring, catching his eyes , and Hunter