Preacher

by Madison Faye

  “Sorry,” I murmur.

  “You got any college under that belt, Lah-Lah?” Paul scowls.

  “That’s enough.” papa’s voice isn’t loud, or even that stern, but it’s got that edge to it that lets you know he’s done messing around with the subject. Paul’s being a jerk, even if I do deserve it after that dig about his one year in seminary school. High school graduation was a month ago, but I’m not off to school in the fall. Even with in-state tuition and the financial aid package I’d get at U of Georgia, it’s a little out of reach. I mean it’s not like my parents are loaded or anything. Canaan is a nice little town, but the people who live here aren’t rich. So the plan is to find some work here or close to here for a year, save a little while I live at home, and then go to college next year.

  “Well, Paul,” Gabriel says warmly, breaking the tension. “I’m not ashamed to say that I myself never went to school for what I do. No sir.” He smiles broadly. “Bring His word to His flock is a calling from a higher power than higher education. And if you believe you’ve been touched to carry out His word, well then sir, I believe it’s your duty to do so, no matter the schooling or not. Let His Word be your schooling.”

  My father is beaming. My mother wipes a tear away and clutches her hands over her heart. “Bless me, Gabriel, that was just beautiful.”

  I stare at him, my mouth tight and my brow arched, like I’m trying to look closer. It’s like he’s wearing this mask now that he wasn’t wearing before when… well, before. And part of me feels that if I look hard enough, I might just spot the edge of it and get a glimpse of what’s underneath.

  “Well then, let’s sit and eat!” papa finally exclaims. “Gabriel, sir, I hope you know you’re speaking the grace tonight, if you’d honor us.”

  “Of course,” Gabriel smiles. His eyes sweep the room, and I almost feel like I see that flicker from before. But then his gaze lands on me, and my goodness, there’s not a single chink in that armor. He just smiles serenely at me and nods. “The honor would be mine, sir.”

  By the time mama is clearing the dishes away, Gabriel has my family wrapped around his finger. I mean, mama’s been hanging off his every word. Papa’s been speechless the whole meal, which is in itself a miracle. Even Paul’s been staring at him in awe, like he’s drinking in every word. And the whole meal, there I’ve been too, just watching him—bible in hand, wholesome smile on his face, and a charming twinkle in his eye.

  …Okay, I’m beginning to admit that this might just be me. I’m beginning to think that there’s no way any man has this good of a “facade” or mask, and that my earlier opinions on Gabriel being a wicked, lecherous, carnally sinful fraud might be, well, me. It might be that my shameful attraction to a preacher is clouding my head.

  I sit there at the mostly empty table after helping Paul and mama clear away dinner, and I frown. I think back to the baptism pool, and my nose wrinkles in disgust… at myself. Did I even feel what I thought I felt? Who’s to say it wasn’t something in his pocket? Or just my wicked, shameful imagination?

  I cringe inwardly and chew on my lip. Lord help me from my sinful mind. I need to repent, immediately. I was re-baptized less than six hours ago, and I think it might have already worn off.

  My mother waltzes back into the dining room holding a pecan pie with a smile on her face. And I watch as Gabriel’s face lights up.

  “My-oh-my!” he drawls with this completely wholesome, pure smile on his face. “Is that pecan, ma’am?”

  “It surely is!” she laughs. “One of my specialties, if you’ll forgive my pride.”

  “Ma’am,” Gabriel chuckles. “Having just dined at your table with that delicious food you’ve prepared, I do believe the good Lord is willing to overlook any pride at all, given the talent of the cook.”

  Papa chuckles and stands. He ducks into the other room and comes back with a sheepish grin on his face and look towards my mother, something in his hand behind his back.

  “Preacher Gabriel, I hope you’ll forgive my one earthy sin.”

  Gabriel arches a brow. “Oh?”

  My father grins and brings out the jar of peach moonshine from behind his back. Gabriel chuckles, and his eyes light up a little.

  “Sir, once again, I believe I can speak with His authority that that would be just fine!”

  My mother scowls and grumbles. “Canaan is a dry town,” she mutters.

  “Well I’m not drinking in town, Christina,” papa grins. “Just in the comfort of my own home.” He frowns. “But preacher, if you object…”

  Gabriel’s grin says it all, but he opens his mouth anyways. “Jedediah, I believe I could share a glass with good company, and He’d know that was okay.”

  Papa beams and grabs three glasses for Gabriel, Paul, and himself. It’s not a sexism thing—mama strictly doesn’t drink, and I’m only eighteen. He pours the amber liquid into them and passes them around before making a quick toast once again welcoming Gabriel into our home. They clink their glasses, Gabriel profusely thanks my parents again for having him, and then they drink.

  That’s it. I mean, that’s the “sinner” in him. The man is having some booze with my father and brother after a Sunday dinner, in a dry town. That’s his big, dangerous, wickedness. I mean, yes, I know it’s technically wrong. But who cares? Whatever brand of sinner I had him pegged for before, I was clearly wrong. And clearly, everything that I felt was all in my head.

  If one of us is the sinner here, it sure as heck isn’t the preacher.

  He even stops after a second glass. He stands and warmly shakes my father’s hand before turning to shake Paul’s. He crosses the room and even gives my mother a big hug before he steps back and looks at us with such warmth and emotion.

  “Thank you kindly, really. This has been…”

  My goodness, is he brushing away a tear?

  “This has been just lovely. Christina, I believe I can say with authority that that was the single best meal I’ve had in years. Truly, bless you all for your hospitality.”

  They all love him. And clearly, I’ve been wrong. Clearly, he’s no wicked man. It’s just me, thinking sinful, sinful thoughts about him.

  “Preacher Gabriel?”

  He smiles at me with an utterly neutral, un-wicked face. “Yes?”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Obliged, thank you. And thank you both, Jedediah and Christina. I’m most humbled by your generosity. Paul, I am at your disposal should you ever want to discuss His word and His mission.”

  Another round of big handshakes later, I’m stepping out onto the front porch with Gabriel and shutting the door behind us.

  “I’m sorry for earlier,” I blurt out.

  Gabriel turns with a curious smile. “For?”

  “For… slipping,” I say quietly. I look up into his eyes, the glow of the porch light and the almost full moon above illuminating us. I stare into his face, hoping for just one little crack—one little slip up so I can tell myself I’m not totally insane, or not totally damned for lusting after a man of God. “In the tub, I mean,” I add softly.

  Gabriel just looks at me. He blinks once, and then… dear Lord.

  …Then, the mask falls.

  He takes a step closer to me, and I swallow thickly. My pulse quickens, and my skin tingles with the dewy humidity of the early summer air. His look hardens, and I gasp quietly as I see that raw, wicked flicker of fire in his eyes.

  “I’m not.”

  He growls the words out. His accent even drops a bit, and that sing-song, hokey good-ole-boy routine vanishes like smoke.

  I gasp again when he takes a step towards me, my heart racing.

  “W—what?”

  His eyes blaze, and he takes another step closer. I back away, until with a gasp, I feel the porch post at my back. Gabriel slinks against me, until his large, muscled frame is maybe two inches away from my heaving chest.

  “I said, I’m not,” he growls darkly. “And if you want to drop by for another…
baptism…” the meaning behind his words absolutely drips off his tongue, so much so that even I understand what he’s saying.

  “Well, Delilah,” he purrs in this low tone that makes my stomach knot, my skin tingle, and Lord help me, my thighs clench sinfully. He leans in so, so close, and I gasp as I feel his perfect lips just almost brush my ear.

  “You know where to find me,” he rasps.

  I’m going to Hell. Instantly, my body reacts to him in the most sinful, horrible ways. My skin yearns for his touch. My nipples harden in spite of the heat of the night. And a wet, damning heat pools between my legs. I am so going to Hell.

  Gabriel’s lips move the half inch closer, and when they actually do brush across my ear with a low, dark growl, I whimper.

  Lord save my soul.

  There’s a low chuckle from his lips before he pulls back. And there it is—there’s the blazing heat as hot as Hell itself in his eyes. There’s that wicked grin, barely holding back the forked tongue.

  “That’s what I thought,” he growls with a quiet chuckle. He arches one brow and flashes a cocky grin at me. “Not as pious as you thought, are you?”

  “I—I—” I gasp. “I’ll tell,” I hiss.

  Gabriel chuckles. “Tell what, exactly?”

  “That you’re…” I stammer, blushing fiercely, and feeling more damned by the second by just how hot this man makes me, as wicked as he is. Or maybe worse, because of how wicked he is.

  “I’ll tell them you’re a wicked man,” I hiss.

  “And I’ll tell them you’re a dirty little girl who gets hot and bothered by a preacher.”

  My jaw drops, and I gasp.

  “I do no such thing, sir!”

  He grins. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

  I blush fiercely, and his eyes blaze into mine, holding them captive. He leans in again, and all I can do is swallow the whimper and reach back to grip the porch post with my nails as his lips brush my ear once more.

  “Goodnight, Delilah,” he purrs right into my ear.

  And then he pulls away, and he’s gone, waltzing off the porch and out into the night, leaving me gasping and sputtering and… damned.

  Gabriel Marsden is no man of God. He’s no heavenly herald, or angel, or saint.

  He’s the Devil himself.

  And the problem is, I think I might already be damned. Because I just stand there breathless, watching him walk into the night, and desperately, achingly, sinfully wanting more.

  …God help me.

  Chapter Five

  Gabriel

  Fuck, that was bad. That was… shit. That was really bad.

  Goddamnit.

  I shouldn’t have been drinking like that, and I don’t just mean the two dinky-small pours of peach moonshine. I managed to head two towns over before dinner at the Somerset house to find some booze, what with Canaan being a dry town. Yeah, no fucking way was I walking into dinner with that girl after what happened without numbing it all a little bit with alcohol.

  So I had a couple or five drinks before heading over there. And it helped, I know. I was a damn pro in there—unflinching, unblinking, and utterly in control, like a master actor. I looked that girl right in the eye and didn’t even flinch as I imagined ripping her soaking wet white sundress off in that baptism tank and sinking my fat cock deep into her sweet little cunt.

  I smiled at her father before turning back to her and just imagining those soft, pouty lips wrapping tight around my swollen head, or that pretty pink tongue dancing over my fucking balls. I imagined my cum on her lips. I imagined her on all fours, her hair in my fist while I push every inch of my fat cock up her tight, eager little ass. And I didn’t break once.

  …Like I said, I should be winning Oscars for this shit.

  Going over there was a mistake, I know that now. I mean I knew it before, given what happened with Delilah. But now that it’s over, I truly know how dumb it was. Because beyond her, those people were… well, amazing. Kind, and giving, and truly likable. Those people welcomed me into their home, and fed me, and smiled at me, all while I was sitting there lusting over their daughter.

  And now I just feel like an asshole for ripping this town and these people off for the next week. Well, as much of an asshole as I’m capable of feeling like, I guess. Which isn’t much, but, it’s something.

  I scowl as I amble back out of town on the side of the road. The air is thick and muggy with the Georgia summer heat, and I can feel my clothes sticking to me like a second skin before I’m even five minutes from the Somerset house.

  When I finally make it back to the field where I’ve set up, and walked across it back to the Winnebago, I strip down to boxers, grab some ice and the bottle of cheap whiskey from inside, and drop into a lawn chair next to the baptism tank. The scene of the fucking crime. I dump some booze over the ice in a coffee mug, give it a swirl to take the heat off to it, and knock it back with a grimace. This shit tastes like, well, shit. But it’ll do.

  I kill the outside lights on the Winnebago and by the tank and sit back in my lawn chair. I pour another drink and grit my teeth as I look out over the moon-lit field stretching out before me.

  I’m spiraling here, badly. This isn’t me—the getting sideswiped by a girl part, I mean. Or getting tangled up or having any doubts as to what I’m doing with my life. I’m focused these days—no bullshitting around. I move to the place, I set up shop and get their money, and I move on before anyone starts looking too hard at the sermons I sling or the miracle cures I sell.

  I take another swig of whiskey, when the sound of footsteps almost makes me choke. I swallow down the booze as I whirl and look up to see a woman sauntering out of the field, from the side, which is how I never saw her coming.

  I jump to my feet, frowning. “Uh, ma’am?”

  The woman is dressed to kill, that much is pretty damn clear. She’s in sleeveless dress cut so low that her full breasts are all but spilling out of the top. The thing is short, too. It’d be short for a place like New York or LA. Here in Canaan, I can’t believe they haven’t run her straight out of town yet for wearing it.

  Her lips are a dark red, her eyes smoky, and her long dark hair is done up elaborately.

  “My my my, preacher,” she purrs thickly. She bats her eyes as they slide over me up and down, and I suddenly remember I’m in my fucking boxers.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” I mutter, glancing around for my jeans. “I was about to retire for the evening—”

  “Oh, don’t get all fussed over me, Mr. Marsden,” she croons out. “Really, I’m not offended. It’s a hot one out.”

  I give up looking for my pants and shrug. “That it is, Mrs., uh…”

  “It’s Miss, actually,” she says with a flirty wink. “Purcell. Lizzie Purcell.”

  I frown, ignoring her obvious flirting. The name sounds… familiar, but I can’t place it.

  “Purcell…” I say slowly.

  She giggles. “It’s the same Purcell as the name on the bank downtown,” she tosses out casually. “That’d be my daddy’s bank, actually.”

  “Ahh, right, right.”

  I frown as she grins and steps closer to me.

  “My my, Preacher Gabriel, the good Lord has been kind to you, now hasn’t he?”

  I smile, but I don’t take the bait. This is far from the first time I’ve seen this act. And it feels like it’s played by the same damn actress every time. It’s always the richest or at least the most prominently known woman in town—the mayor’s wife, the sheriff’s daughter, that sort of thing. It’s usually a couple days into my stay, too, when they come all dolled up and seductive, looking to take a walk on the wild side with the mysterious stranger preaching hellfire and damnation.

  It’s almost like they can smell the sinner hidden under the robes and the bullshit bible verses.

  In another life, years ago, I fell into this trap time and time again. But age, and a few brushes with almost getting my nuts shot off by an angry father or husb
and or whoever, have taught me to stay the fuck away from women like this. And that’s without even counting for the fact that every single inch of my head is being taken up by Delilah Somerset.

  I smile calmly at Lizzie. “And what can I do for you this fine evening, Ms. Purcell?”

  She sighs. “Well, preacher,” she purrs, batting her eyes. “It’s my mortal soul.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Ahh, of course, Ms. Purcell. Well, my tent is open to all, tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  She pouts. “Well, Mr. Marsden, I’m just not so sure this can wait until morning. You see, my soul is awfully burdened.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, right, okay.” All I want is peace and quiet. And whiskey. And Delilah slowly riding my cock up and down, I suppose, if we’re getting detailed. I have zero patience or bandwidth for playing stupid flirty games with bored rich girls like Lizzie Purcell.

  “Well, what seems to be weighing you down, Ms. Purcell?”

  “Sin, preacher.”

  It’s so very hard not to roll my eyes again. It’s like it’s the same script, every fucking time with these types of women—the types who want to try and seduce the traveling preacher man.

  “Yeah, well, that’ll put a weight on your soul. Tell you what, Ms. Purcell—”

  “Please, call me Lizzie.”

  “Well, Lizzie, I think first thing tomorrow, you should come on over with some friends, and we can join our prayers together as one and beseech the good lord to unburden you from this sin.”

  “It’s carnal, preacher,” she murmurs thickly. “Carnal sin.”

  “The world is full of temptation, Lizzie.”

  “Tell me about it,” she purrs, her eyes sliding over me again shamelessly. Where the fuck are my pants?

  “I surely will,” I smile thinly. “Tomorrow.”

  She pouts. “But preacher,” she says softly. “I was surely hoping you could… unburden me tonight.”

  “Lizzie—”

  She starts to walk towards me, her eyes hooded. “My, my,” she purrs, biting her lip as her eyes slide over me again. “My word did the good Lord do right by you, Gabriel.”