by Ella James
My foot rubs his leg underneath the table. “Good shit, preacher. Really good.”
His blush deepens, and it’s so damn cute.
He mumbles something.
“What?”
He lifts a brow, just barely glancing at me before looking back at his plate. “Rose-colored glasses, I think.”
“The numbers don’t lie, bro. I checked on my phone before you came on, and Wiki says your numbers are still growing like…a lot.”
“Growing.” That makes him grin, and I laugh.
“I missed you.”
Sundays are the only day that we don’t really text at all. He’s around so many people before and after the service, the risk of someone seeing is too big. And I think he’s just tired after that level of engagement.
“You more.”
My guy’s shy and quiet for the next little bit. I have to work to draw him out. I bring up Janis Joplin, and we start talking about her songs. That does it. He forgets himself, and we war out if “Piece of My Heart” or “Me and Bobby McGee” is the better song.
“So…” I’ve been waiting to ask this for a while. “Who exactly owns this place here?” I move my hand in a circle. “It can’t be the church…right?”
He smiles, a thin line. “Who do you think?”
“Pearl?”
He grins. “That is where she got her name. And what made me notice her first application. But no.”
I screw my face up. “Is it yours?”
He looks down briefly before his eyes meet and hold mine. He nods, just once. It’s a tentative motion, and his face takes on a look of caution.
“This is your house?”
14
Vance
One of his brows lifts, and I know what he’ll say as he says it. “One of.”
“Did you ever live here?”
He shakes his head. “Not this version of it,” he clarifies. “I lived here briefly two years ago, when my home was undergoing some renovations. After I moved back to my place—or the place I live right now—I sent that reno team straight here.”
I laugh. “You made this the Joplin house?”
He nods.
“Damn, man. You a big fan just like I am?”
His whole face bends in a look of vulnerability, and suddenly my heart quickens.
“No.” It’s murmured. “I like her music, but…”
I grab a deep breath as he puts two fingers to his forehead. “The designers needed a theme. I picked this…because of you.”
My throat is so thick, I can’t swallow. Then I can, and my brain struggles to process what he said. “That was in 2018?”
His eyes shut just for a moment. When he looks at me again, he says, “Yes.”
“How’d you know?”
His lips twitch—but it doesn’t matter. I already know the answer. “Instagram. One day on stories, I showed all my vinyl. You watched that day.”
He lifts his brows.
“What name are you now?”
His brows arch higher. “I’m still Pastor Luke.”
“But what’s your other name?”
He rubs his forehead. “vega615190.”
“Just a throwaway?”
“I made it to watch you. When you posted stories.”
“I wasn’t on there much.”
“I know.”
“What does vega mean?”
“It’s just a star.”
“Are the numbers random?”
His lips give another weak twitch—the ghost of a smile. “What do you think?”
“Gonna tell me what they mean?”
“Turn them around. Zero nine one five one six.” That’s the date we met up at my grandparents’ old cabin.
My whole body feels hot. I rasp out, “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t need to.” His mouth tugs into a grim line.
“You were dating then.” I didn’t mean to say that.
“Yes.” It’s barely whispered, but his eyes flash as he leans forward. “What would you have had me do?”
Tears sting my eyes so quickly it shocks me. “Nothing different.” It’s a hiss—because my heart is pounding. “That was what I wanted for you. Be with someone. So I didn’t have to—to feel tortured by not knowing if you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He blinks at me like he’s fucking clueless.
“Oh, gee, Luke. I don’t know.”
I’m at the top of the stairs before my head clears out, and I realize I fucked that up. My chest still feels tight. I turn around to sit down on the stair for just a second, and there he is, striding up toward me.
He drops to his knees on the stairs in front of me. He wraps an arm around my legs and presses his face to my knee. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For the hotel and…for that phone call,” he rasps. His eyes squeeze shut. “Starting this.”
I shut my eyes, too. I can tell him that I care about him—that’s just…me—but I can’t let him see how much that fucking phone call tortured me.
I swallow hard and lift my head to face him. “I don’t care who you’re with, Luke. Be with someone you can be with.”
His arms come around me. “I’m sorry. For everything.” His lips brush my forehead. “I just…couldn’t think past my own shit.”
I press a kiss against his temple. “That’s what fucks me up—because I know, and I want two things. I want you happy. But I also want you for me. When I go—”
His teeth score my jaw. “You’re not going anywhere. Lay back, Rayne.”
I lie on my back at the top of the stairs, and he takes my pants down. He looks into my eyes as he works both of us, pressing our cocks together. Soon we both come into his hands. He gets up to get tissue.
When we’re both clean, he grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Get dressed.” He walks briskly downstairs. When I come back down, clad in jeans, Chucks, and a flannel button-up, I find him leaning on the doorway to the foyer.
15
Vance
He steers my borrowed Prius wordlessly through traffic. I can feel the tension rolling off him. It’s in his death grip on the steering wheel and in his chest, expanding just a little too sharply with each exhalation.
His jaw tics, and he’s eagle-eyeing the road—exactly like a sports car fiend who’s trying to get somewhere fast in a Prius. Finally, as we get off main roads and onto tiny side streets, I catch his eye. I grin at Mr. Tesla making do in my borrowed Prius.
“What?” he says flatly.
“You in this car.”
“What about it?” He arches an eyebrow—still grumpy.
“I don’t know. You look too big for it, for one.”
“Yeah, okay, pot.”
I grin, stretching my legs out, and his gaze falls to my crotch. That makes him smirk…then scowl.
“Whatcha got your panties in a wad for?” I ask.
He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. Then he takes a sharp right into a driveway hidden between trees, and I clutch the door handle. “What the fuck?”
That makes him chuckle, and the chuckling seems to ease his mood. Trees hang over the long drive, reminding me a bit of his house. “Where are you taking me?”
I can see the bay glint half a second before a brick house takes shape between the trees.
“Looks castle-like.”
“You’re going in the dungeon.”
“Dungeon? What? I’ve been a good dude.”
He grins, shaking his head. “Maybe too good.”
We go through a gate, and he parks under a big tree beside a three-car garage. Standing by the car’s hood, he holds his hand out for me.
So this place is private. We clasp hands, and I glance over at the house. Clearly, no one’s here.
I sort of want to ask where we are, but more so, I want to find out—so I let him lead me through a winter-brown garden and to some stairs near hidden in the underbrush. He kicks some vines away and drops my hand as we st
art down a long, steep, wooden staircase. The creaking stairs lead down a cliffside toward a dock where there’s a big, white motor boat. It looks pink because of the glow of the sunset.
When we get to the dock, I see the Golden Gate out in the distance. Luke waves me on the boat first, then fires up the motors, and we idle away from the dock. He steers toward the bridge while I stand by him. Then he comes in closer to land, kills the motors, and stares at the water.
He scrubs his hands through his hair. “Sometimes it’s good to get out.” He lets out a long breath.
“Yeah?”
He sucks in a deep breath, not meeting my eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, his jaw still tight. His eyes on the orange and pink water look unfocused.
I sit in the chair beside the captain’s, and he presses something on the captain’s screen. Then he turns around and disappears inside the hull.
When I get down into the small space—so much smaller than his yacht; there’s just a bed, a table, cabinets, and a kitchenette—he’s lying on his back in said bed with his arm draped over his face.
“I can take you back home,” he says flatly.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Do you want to be alone?” I swallow, and he whispers, “No.”
There’s room for two on the bed. I stretch out beside him. When he doesn’t move toward me, I wrap my arm around him and scoot in close. I sniff his jaw, where he smells like his good cologne. Then I gently kiss his throat.
“How long would you follow me?” he rasps.
“What do you mean?”
His body tenses against mine, and then he turns away.
I wrap my arm around him, let myself relax against his hard back.
“Eventually…you’d get tired of this.” The words are barely whispered, yet their meaning throbs all through me.
“I’ve been far too slow to tire of you, Skywalker.”
“Why do you do this?” The question rings through the small space. “Why did you stay here?”
“You already know the answer.” It’s because I love him.
“I don’t know why.” His low voice sounds reedy.
“Why isn’t a valid question. I love you because I’m me. Because we’re both alive. As long as we are, I can’t not. That’s not in my code. In every world where you’re you and I’m me, I love you. That’s just how it is.”
“Please don’t say that.”
I tighten my grip on him. “Is it torture for you?” I whisper. “That’s the way that I feel. It’s a torture that I love.”
“Please forgive me.”
I press my lips against his shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive, Sky. Some things just are.”
I lean up on my elbow in time to see him close his eyes. I urge him onto his back, and I kiss both of his eyelids. Then I kiss his mouth like it’s a sacrament—because it is that. He is exaltation and contrition, ecstasy and penitence. This knotted, barbed wire thing—this quiet war between us—this is worship.
We don’t take the stairs back up until the first gold arms of dawn are reaching over the bay. When we reach the car, a police officer steps out from behind it.
16
Vance
The home is owned by Luke’s great aunt, a blind, deaf woman who suffered a stroke two years ago and is cared for by nursing staff. When they saw the unknown Prius, someone called the police.
Luke tells the officer we’re old friends, and the Prius is my car while I’m in town. That we were fishing. The woman doesn’t even glance my way. She is elated to be face-to-face with Pastor Luke. She stumbles over her words, laughs about his dimples, then remarks on his height and the color of his eyes. For a while, she talks about her favorite sermons. Finally, she asks him to sign a receipt she has in her pocket. Luke invites her on a behind-the-scenes tour of the pulpit and offers Pearl’s phone number, which the woman punches into her phone.
“Oh my goodness. You have no idea how awesome this is. I’m so glad you parked here!”
I can’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Coupled with the question he asked on the boat—if I would eventually get tired of this…as if he might want to stretch this thing between us longer—it makes me wonder if he wanted us to get seen…or at the very least, if his feelings about being outed are becoming more ambiguous. Wishful thinking on my part, I’m sure.
He doesn’t speak or even look my way as he drives us toward my place. I’m surprised when he swings into an alley several blocks away from it and says, “Switch with me, please.”
We do a Chinese fire drill, and he shows me where to drop him off, in front of a bookstore about three blocks away. “Talk to you soon,” he says as he gets out, but I can’t help wondering.
By the time I get home, about ten minutes later, I’ve got three texts from him.
Sorry I didn’t say much.
Then, It ended okay I guess.
Followed by, Can you let me know you got back?
Relief flows through me as I lean against the front door and text, Yeah. I’m here.
That’s good.
You good? I ask.
He sends me a thumbs up symbol.
I get to the church at 9, and Pearl is waiting for me, looking expectant. For some reason, seeing her by the mural makes my stomach do a slow roll.
“Hey.”
“I got that other brand of paint for the medium green.” She waves her hand at said paint, grinning like she’s just told me I won the lottery.
“Cool. Thank you.”
“For sure. We’re headed out in just a minute, but I hope you have a good day. There’s a retirement party for Maura from staffing in atrium H at noon. You should hit it up. Maura’s daughter Cynthia has a bakery, so Maura always brings these amazing petit fours.”
Pearl smiles as she walks off, backwards at first, but then she turns around. Turns out, Luke and his entourage are off to Dallas. I overhear it when some people walk through my atrium. He sends only one text that whole day:
Dallas for two nights. I think I forgot to mention.
I leave my atrium at five and walk to atrium A, where my centaur waits. I’ve got all the tools I need there, but I haven’t spent enough time with him since he got to Evermore.
I sculpt until my body aches and trembles, and I hurt like I’m more human than I feel today. At 9:30, I set down my riffler and pull my phone out of my pocket.
Nothing.
I take my time driving home. When I get into the garage, I close the door, then open it and pull back out and drive to a spot overlooking the bridge. I put my seat back, rubbing my aching arms and knotted shoulders. I blow my breath out. Please.
I cross my arms over my chest, tug at my hair. I feel the vibration in my pocket a few times before I realize it’s my phone.
My heart gives a hard kick, like it’s starting up again.
I answer. “Hi.”
“V.”
There’s a static sound, like something’s rubbing against his phone’s mouthpiece.
“Hi.”
I hear a door shut.
“Vance.” His voice is husky. “Getting into my room…setting down these bags. We’re at the Omni for a pastor conference. Gotta give a little talk tomorrow on member retention. Good stuff.” I think I maybe hear him blow his breath out, like he’s tired or something, but I can’t tell. There’s a breath of silence—as I close my eyes and try to forget everything but the sound of his voice. “How are you?” he asks. “How was your day?”
“Oh, it was fine.”
He blows his breath out. This time, I can hear it clearly. “I messed up.”
“It’s good.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I like when you text me, but it’s obligation free.”
“Nothing worthwhile’s obligation-free.”
I suck air in through my nose. “This is.”
“I don’t want it to be.”
“No?”
I swear, I hear his fucking dress shoes clink against tile—or granite.
“Are you pacing, my Skywalker?”
“It’s not funny.”
“What, so you forgot to tell me? I’m not mad. It fucking scares me, and that’s stupid. In a few weeks, I’m back in Chelsea doing life like it always was.”
He’s quiet for a long time. So quiet that I think I’ve lost the call. I look down at my screen.
“Sky?”
Crickets.
I turn on the car’s interior lights and hit the FaceTime icon on my screen. The call rings. He answers. Fuck, he looks broody and gorgeous.
“Dammit, you look broody, bro.”
“Not your bro, dude.” The words sound like they’re dragged from his chest.
“That’s okay.” I smile at the phone, held up over my face. “You can be my dude.”
His eyebrows narrow. “Where are you?”
“Where does it look like?” I grin, and his face screws up as he tilts the phone.
“Are you in the car? Are you laying down in a seat?”
I laugh as I raise the seat up. “Nah.” Just to distract him, I turn the phone out toward the bridge.
“So you’re out that way,” he says.
“Hey, a guy can bridge-gaze.”
“You should get some sleep,” he says after a moment.
“So should you, jetsetter.”
His eyes shut. I think he’s in an armchair. “I’m wiped.”
“Does that mean tired in preacher talk?”
He tilts his head back against the chair. “It means I don’t want to sleep without you.”
“I can hang on the line.”
His lips tug into a thin line, and his eyes find mine through our screens. “I remember that like it was yesterday.”
“Did you hang up? Or was it me?”
He shakes his head. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, the call was gone.”
“Same here. Made me fucking crazy.”
“Did it?” He gives the phone a troubled frown.
