by Salsbury, JB
I push to stand as Kathy invades his space, shoving my questionnaire at him. “Pastor Langley, can we please step into your office? I need to speak to you”—she turns at glares at me—“privately.”
“What’s going on?” He takes the pages, and I watch his eyes skim the questions. Other than the slight rise of his brows and roll of his lips, he doesn’t respond.
“As you can see, Ms. Ramcock here is unfit for volunteering at Grace Church.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from busting up laughing.
“Ms. Ramcock,” Ben says as his voice cracks and his lips twitch. “I’m, um…” He clears his throat, but I can tell he wants to laugh his ass off. “No felonies, that’s good. But misdemeanor charges here for…” He squints and his handsome face turns a dozen shades of pink.
“Sex toys,” I say for him. “It’s a stupid law, but yeah. I think they would’ve let me go for the more-than-two-dildos thing, but they said they couldn’t look past the butt plugs and nipple clamps.”
Donna covers her mouth, her eyes dancing with a mixture of mortification and humor. Kathy has never looked prouder, her shoulders back, chin high, arms crossed under her pointy boobs.
“Well.” Ben folds the pages and tucks them under his bicep—which, by the way, is swollen and tugging the fabric of his shirt magnificently. “We are all a work in progress. I don’t see why these things should keep you from volunteer work.”
“Excuse me?” Kathy hisses. “You can’t be serious. She’s broken the law.”
He casts a glance at her. “Have you ever had a speeding ticket, Ms. Morgan?”
Her mouth hangs open and she stutters before she says, “Yes. But that’s not the same—”
“No, I’d argue it’s worse. Making it illegal to own more than two sex toys is a stupid law. Not speeding, well, that saves lives.”
“I… I…” She blinks rapidly. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I think you need to read the rest of the questionnaire.”
“I will, but not with an audience.” He checks his watch. “You can go,” he says to her before turning to me. “Ashleigh, volunteer prep class is on Wednesday afternoon. Will that conflict with your schedule?”
“Hmm. Hump day?” I twirl my hair and pretend to think. “I can rearrange a few things and make it work.”
“Great. We’ll see you then.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Ben.” I lift a brow at Kathy. “See you then.”
Chapter Three
Ben
I sit in my car in my driveway as the sun sets behind the house, enjoying a few minutes of silence between the chaos at the church and the chaos that waits for me inside. After the visit from the DOEE, I’ve had a hard time concentrating. I was hardly there for my counseling sessions, and I couldn’t focus long enough to get any work done on this Sunday’s sermon. The only bright spot in my day was the visit from Ashleigh, but she lit a holy fire under Kathy that had the woman popping in my office all day, requesting a meeting. Thank God for Donna, who managed to push her off by scheduling her in at the end of the week.
I blow out a long breath and try to imagine I’m living a different life, the one I dreamt of when I was a younger man. Coming home from a long day to Maggie and Elliot, a warm meal, and a movie night cuddled up with my girls on the couch. Instead I’ll go straight from the car to the kitchen to prepare a dinner my daughter won’t eat. I have piles of laundry to do, bills to pay online, and the added bonus of first grade homework to help with. Then there’s bath time, story time… I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
The curtains in the front window are violently shoved aside and my daughter’s face presses to the window.
I sigh, wave, and push open the door while mumbling to the sky, “You were supposed to be here to help me with this, Maggie.”
I’ve been talking to her more and more lately. I don’t think she can hear me, but it’s the only thing I can do to vent my frustration at having been left to navigate this life alone.
“Daddy!” Elliot comes barreling out the door and throws her arms around my hips. “Did you know the period is also called the Red Devil or Aunt Flo?”
I bite back a groan and pat her back. “That’s great.”
She looks up at me with those innocent brown eyes that are the exact same shade as her mother’s. God, I miss her. “A period means you can’t have unprotected sex anymore ‘cause you can get pregnant!”
With her still wrapped around my legs, I walk-shimmy to the door, hoping to get Elliot inside before the neighbors hear.
“Blood comes out of the vagina, Dad!”
I’m able to get her inside and get the door shut, then I frantically search for Colette, who isn’t in the living room or kitchen. “Where’s Colette?”
“She’s outside, talking to her boyfriend.” She finally releases me and goes back to the couch, where SpongeBob is playing on the television.
I look outside to see Colette pacing the back porch, flailing her free hand as she speaks aggressively into the phone.
“How long has she been out there?” I set my things on the dining table.
“Since two SpongeBobs ago. Before he called, she kept saying, ‘He’s such a dick, he’s such a dick.’”
I rub my eyes and feel as though I’ve aged ten years since I left the safety of my car. “We don’t talk like that, Elliot.”
Her head jerks around to look at me. “What’s a dick?”
“We’ll talk about that later.” I turn around and throw open the sliding glass door.
Colette doesn’t look at me, but she holds up one finger as if to ask me to wait while she finishes her conversation. “You are a piece of shit.”
I shut the door, pluck the phone from Colette’s hand, and press it to my ear as The Dick calls her a stream of nasty names. “Colette’s going to have to call you back.”
The dude stutters. “Who the fuck are you?”
I hit End and hand the device back to her.
Her face flushes with anger. “Why did you do that?”
“You can’t be outside screaming profanity into your phone while you’re supposed to be watching my daughter.”
“Seriously? She’s six. She can handle it. I promise you.”
My molars clench together. “That’s not really the point. You’re being paid to watch her, so when you’re on the clock, you should be watching her. Deal with your personal life on your own time, please.” The fact that I have to explain this is upsetting in itself. “And you need to watch your language when you’re around Elliot. Her brain in like a sponge.”
She tilts her head. “They’re just words.”
I smile tightly. “I understand, but she’s my daughter and I’d rather her not be walking around using words like dick.”
“Ten-four, boss.” She shoves her phone in her pocket. “See you tomorrow.”
She pushes by me, and I take a few seconds to breathe and bring down my blood pressure. I run a hand over my hair and add getting a haircut to my list of things to do.
When did life get so complicated?
The voice in my head reminds me—the day I lost Maggie.
When we found out she was pregnant, the doctors did a good job of making us aware of all the things that could go wrong with the baby, but they never warned us it was possible for Maggie’s heart to simply stop working. I remember standing there holding our newborn daughter while a team of nurses surrounded Maggie’s body, trying to restart her heart.
I didn’t get the chance to tell her one more time how much I loved her.
To thank her for the tiny life she gifted me.
Never had the opportunity to say goodbye.
“Dad, what’s for dinner?”
I blink away from the past and down at my living, breathing miracle. “Tacos.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Ew. I hate tacos.”
With a long sigh, I scoop her up and head back inside. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
* * *
The sound of ripping and crumpled paper is becoming the soundtrack of the night as I sit at my kitchen table, surrounded by reference books, an open Bible, and a million dead ideas for Sunday’s sermon. I drop my pen and cup my head in my hands, rubbing my temples.
Preparing sermons used to come so easily. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve felt as though each one was like pulling teeth. I check my coffee mug. Empty. My phone says it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I’ve been working on this since Elliot went to bed at eight, and I have nothing to show for it.
I fix my eyes on a photo of Maggie. I remember the day I took the photo. It was the year we got married. We went to the Grand Canyon and camped for the weekend. We ate hot dogs and I played the guitar under the stars every night. I remember the way she’d look at me, that glimmer in her eyes that let me know she was ready for me to take her to bed. She was always shy about asking for what she wanted, but she didn’t have to ask. I could read her so well.
“What’s wrong with me, Mags? I can’t focus. It’s like my heart’s not in this anymore…” I hear my voice fill the empty kitchen and feel stupid for thinking my answers lie in an old photo.
I sit back, roll my head on my shoulders, and see Ashleigh’s folded up questionnaire from today sitting at the far end of the table. I grab it, open it, and read each question, grinning again when I read her fake name.
Ashleigh Ramcock
Have you been involved in any form of sexual immorality in the past 5 years whether premarital, homosexual, or extramarital?
Yes. Two out of three. I’ll leave which ones to your imagination.
Are you currently under a charge or have you ever been convicted of or pled guilty of a crime involving actual or attempted sexual misconduct?
Never a crime between two or more consenting adults, capiche?
These are the questions we ask volunteers? Kind of personal, and frankly, I’m uncomfortable reading them. Uncomfortable and… is it hot in here?
Have you ever been the victim of any form of child abuse?
What the hell kind of question is this? If I had, would that compromise my ability to greet? Lame.
If yes, are you willing to discuss with your pastor?
I’d be willing to do a lot more than discuss with my pastor.
In the past 5 years, have you struggled with any addictions such as alcohol, gambling, or pornography?
Define addiction.
I would’ve paid to see the look on Kathy’s face when she read these answers. Answers that were clearly for her benefit.
Ashleigh is an interesting woman.
I noticed her when she started showing up to church with Bethany. She stood out like some kind of sex goddess in a sea of… well… a small-church congregation.
When Bethany dated my brother, I saw more of Ashleigh outside of church, and the more I get to know her, the more interesting she becomes. She’s a walking enigma. From the outside, it’s easy to assume she’s a party girl—with her miniskirts and stripper heels—yet she never misses a Sunday service.
We hung out a little bit in Los Angeles when we were there at the same time, visiting Bethany and Jesiah. I even left her alone with Elliot when I had rehearsals with Jes’s band. Elliot seems to like her, and she’s a pretty good judge of character.
Yeah, Ashleigh is good people.
I might even be excited to see her around the church more often.
She’s always good for a laugh.
God knows I need it.
Ashleigh
Ladies’ nights at the club are always a nightmare. On the first Tuesday of every month, the twenty-dollar cover charge for women is waived and our cosmos and lemon drops are five bucks a pop.
The rush hits early and we blast through bottles of vodka, which means the tips are good. The DJ spins a mix of techno with girl power songs, and a flood of men show up for the easy pickin’s.
I’m mid-pour on my ten thousandth lemon drop of the night when two big hands cup my hips from behind. I roll my eyes. Tending a busy bar means sometimes it’s necessary to touch the other bartenders while moving around the cramped space. A hand on the back to let them know I’m there or I’m reaching for a bottle or glass so they don’t whirl around and knock me on my ass, that kind of thing. But this? What Anthony, the other bartender, is doing right now? He takes advantage of the touching.
His lips come to my ear. “You doing all right, babe?”
I pop the top on the martini shaker and swing my elbow toward his ribcage in the process of shaking. “Great.”
Why is it that when I have a little history with a guy, he assumes he can call me babe for the rest of my life?
Our on again off again arrangement has fizzled out over the last couple years. I learned the hard way that fishing from the company pier was bad idea. Sleeping with guys I work with never pans out well for me. But what can I say? I’m weak when it comes to the opposite sex.
Thankfully his hands come off my hips when he leans across the bar to take the screaming drink order of a group of women. He’s an attractive guy—dark hair, tan skin, dark eyes, and a nose that has one of those kickass bumps in the bridge, making him look like a Greek god. He even has a great body. But every perfect guy has a flaw if I dig deep enough, and I didn’t have to dig deep with Anthony. He’s incapable of loving anyone but himself.
I hand off the drinks to the server, who puts them on her tray and moves along for the next. I frown when Stormie slaps down her tray.
“My feet are killing me.” Stormie tilts her head and glares. “Are you still not talking to me?” Her face is made up artfully—strong, dark brows, eye shadow that makes her dark eyes seem black, and… is she wearing my new Morphe highlighter? “I said I’m sorry, okay? It’ll never happen again—”
“Are you wearing my highlighter?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, so no sex in communal spaces and now I can’t borrow a swipe of your makeup?”
“That makeup was in my room.”
“So?”
“So you went into my room and stole my shit.”
“Borrowed.”
I cross my arms under my leather-haltered tits. “In that case”—I toss a cocktail napkin her way—“I want it back.”
“Fine.” She uses the napkin to swipe her cheeks then wads it up and tosses it at me. “There. It was ugly anyway.”
I gasp as she takes her tray to the other service bar on the opposite side of the club. “Bitch.”
Anthony reaches over my shoulder, pressing the full length of his body against mine from my ass to my head. “’Lotta sexual tension between you and Storm. I’d be happy to help you ladies work that shit out.”
This time I don’t pretend, I just elbow him in the ribs. “You wish.”
He chuckles and winks.
“You mind backing out of my personal space? I’m trying to work.”
He holds up his hands and backs off. “What crawled up your ass?”
I roll my eyes and go back to making drinks, throwing myself into the mundane task of mixology so that I don’t overthink Anthony’s question. Because it’s the same question I’ve been asking myself lately.
What the hell did crawl up my ass? And when did it start?
I’m not used to feeling unsatisfied with my life. The few times I have, I quickly filled the aching emptiness with whatever form of instant gratification was closest at hand. This most recent niggle in my chest doesn’t seem to go away with excessive drinking or sex. Not that I’ve been interested in sex lately. And what the hell is that about?
I should just force myself to do it. If I pretend it’ll make me feel better, maybe it will deliver. I sneak a peek at Anthony, who’s flipping bottles and earning the applause of the bar. He’s so full of himself, but it’s not like I need him for conversation.
Would a night of meaningless sex do the trick? Bring me back from this wretched crabbiness I can’t seem to shake?
It’s worth a shot.
Around midn
ight, when the customers start to stumble out to waiting Ubers, I catch Anthony alone at the register. “I have a proposition for you.”
He does a double take, closes the register, and turns to face me, his eyes slipping from my lips to my boobs then lazily up to my eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Let’s have sex.”
The corner of his mouth curves up on one side. “Is this a trick question?”
“It’s not a question.”
His eyes narrow. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Oh, just, um… not at my place.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll meet you at your place after we lock up.” I grab a rag and turn to go wipe down the bar, but he snags my elbow. I peer over my shoulder.
“All night you’ve been acting like you’d rather put my balls in a blender than fuck me again. What changed your mind?”
“Does it really matter?”
“No.” He releases me. “Just curious.”
“You can tell me no.” Why is part of me hopeful that he’ll turn me down?
He grins wide. “No fucking way I’m turning you down, babe.”
“Cool.” He doesn’t seem to pick up the disappointment I hear in my own voice. “Meet you at your place then.”
I grab a glass and fill it with a shot of vodka, then throw it to the back of my throat and feel it burn as I tell myself tonight will be fun. Liberating. Most importantly, it’ll get me back on track.
Chapter Four
Ben
“If we aren’t allowed to say curse words, then why did God invent them?”
Fighting traffic on the way to drop Elliot off at school, I slump a little in my seat so she can’t see my face. I’m way too tired for her questions this morning. I dreamt that Maggie fell off a cliff, her fingers the only thing holding her to the rocky ledge, and I scrambled to get a hold of her while screaming for her to hold on. Her face was calm, and she kept repeating for me to “let go.” I woke up at four in the morning in a cold sweat, the bedsheets clinging to my skin, and there was no way I could fall back to sleep. Now it’s eight fifteen and all I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep for a year.
