Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Supermassive Black Hole

  Matt.

  “Matthew?” his voice bellows from the front study. “Where are you off to?”

  Over the course of the meal yesterday, I was able to get by with basic conversation with my father. For the sake of my little sister, Ellie, I try not to be too venomous with him around her. She’s been through as much as I have—maybe more since she’s only in ninth grade, and still in the house—but I don’t need to make things more difficult.

  The second time he calls me, though, when my hand is on the door, I realize my peace is over. I shuffle, shoulders back, to the doorway of the office.

  “I’m going to the homecoming stuff. You knew about it.” I try to sound passive about it, despite my stomach turning in knots. Seeing Justine has not been on the top of my “to do” list, though avoiding it tonight is highly unlikely.

  Dad turns from his desk and rises to his feet, approaching me slowly. Like a hunter in the woods.

  “And you’ll be mindful of the guidelines you’re still required to follow?” He looks at me from over the rim of his bifocals, which is infuriating, since he’s taller than I am.

  I nod once. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Will you be mindful of the general laws of society you’re still required to follow?

  I don’t say it, but man, do I really, really want to.

  “You were quiet yesterday during dinner,” he says without question, though I know I’m expected to reply.

  “I’m tired. The schedule this semester is brutal. Especially with football.” My eyes fall as I say the last word. Once my biggest supporter, my father hasn’t seen a single college game of mine.

  Don’t let him see that it bothers you.

  “You’re still angry with me, aren’t you?”

  I snort through my nose, not caring how disrespectful it sounds. “Yes. Yes, I’m still angry at you for nearly destroying our family.”

  “And you’re still angry with God,” he states again with absurd confidence.

  My jaw clenches and my nostrils flare.

  “Matthew, you know this isn’t God’s doing.” He takes one step closer to me and rests his massive hand on my shoulder. “The devil has all kinds of tools to rip people limb from limb.”

  “Yeah,” I huff. “Then where is the God that is supposed to deliver us from evil? Huh? Or was he out carousing with you the whole time?”

  Dad clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t like your tone of voice, Son. You know that everything that’s happened will work out for the good of those who love Him and who have been called according to his purpose.”

  Romans 8:28 …

  Staring at the man I once revered as a hero, watching him quote the scripture he’s quoted no less than ten thousand times over the last three years, something breaks in me.

  Breaks away.

  I’ve been hanging by a thread through the last few years, clinging to the scriptures as instructed by him and those around me, but I can’t anymore. There’s no way a loving God would put his children through the actual, living hell that has been the last three years of my life. No ultimate power, in their right mind, would strip a good man—like my father was—down to absolutely nothing in front of his congregation. And, even if it was Satan, like my father insists, where is the grace? Where is the healing?

  “Yes, Sir,” I say as confidently as possible before leaving the house and getting into my two-year-old mustang.

  Revving the engine, I can think of one thing, and one thing only. Driving to the places my preacher father sold his soul to.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck God.

  Fuck everything.

  An hour later, in the seediest part of the city, I find what I’m looking for.

  The Pink Pony.

  Even if I hadn’t heard the name a hundred or more times when my dad first stepped down, it would have been easy to find. Billboards for this place pop up every two miles or so, as you drive down the highway with your family.

  Bible belt, my ass.

  This is one of the only places in the state that allows eighteen-year-olds inside its doors. They also don’t serve alcohol because of that, which is fine, since I’m going to get in enough trouble as it is.

  You don’t have to go in.

  Sitting in the parking lot, which is filled with oversized pickup trucks donned, ironically, with “mudflap girls”, my sweaty palms slide around the steering wheel.

  I do. I need to see what was so special inside these walls that was worth risking his family, his career, and his relationship with God.

  And my relationship with God.

  I know this place is frequented mainly by truckers who stop in on their long journeys delivering food and clothing to big box stores. I wonder if they have families themselves, but the thought is too nauseating for me to consider it for long.

  Holding my breath, I drive around to the back parking lot to feign security against getting caught by anyone I might know. I’d like to think that no one I know would go into a place like this, but, my well’s run dry on that hope. When it’s your own father, everything else falls with it.

  I exit the car and check three times to make sure the door is locked before I shakily walk toward the door. I’d pray, normally, in a situation like this. One where I’m scared to death. But, what’s the point now, honestly? So few prayers have been answered in the last few years that I’m beginning to believe in luck. And I don’t seem to have much of that, either.

  Looking over my shoulder once before walking in, I take a deep breath. You’re allowed to be in here, I repeat to myself several times. You’re not breaking any laws. Once inside, a stereotypically huge dude extends his hand. Unfamiliar with the process, I stare at him in confusion.

  “ID,” he demands, annoyed as if I’ve interrupted his busy schedule of being a wall.

  I slap my plastic driver’s license in his hand, and he gives it a thorough once-over.

  “Birthday?” he asks, quizzing me on my statistics.

  I give him the correct answer, which does little to change the displeased look on his face. Walking into the main area, I’m surprised at how well-lit it is. And, I’m surprised that I’m surprised. I’ve never seen the inside of a strip club. Not on TV, the Internet, or in magazines. And, certainly not in person. But, I guess the negative discussion surrounding places like this always led me to believe it would be kind of dark and smoky. Walking past men who look about the size of the trucks they drove here, I slide into a table in the back.

  “Coffee or Coke?” A young woman who can’t be that much older than I am—if she’s older than me at all—stands in front of me with her hip jutting out to one side, and her hand resting on it.

  Lifting my eyes, I’m forced to immediately lower them. She’s barely wearing anything. I swear I see more clothing at the public swimming pool. Spandex “shorts” show the sides of her butt, and her bra-looking top reveals her entire midsection, which is speckled with star and fairy tattoos. When I’m finally able to train my eyes on her face, I notice that she also has a large tattoo across her chest. Twisting thorns and vines with roses every other inch.

  “Coffee or Coke?” she repeats. It seems, as she stands there trying not to look bored, that I feel more naked than she does.

  “Coke.”

  “You been here before?” Her eyes wrinkle at the sides in amusement.

  I stare back, unable to say anything.

  She snaps some gum between her teeth. “Thought so. I’ll be right back with your Coke, sweetie. My name’s Destiny if you need anything.”

  I run my hand over my face, trying to reason if that’s her real name, or not. If you worked in a place like this, would you want people calling you by your real name all day? Or, would you want to pretend? Use another name to make you feel like this was all just make-believe, and not your real life at all.

  As she walks away, shaking her hips, I spot match
ing angel wing tattoos on her shoulder blades.

  Cute.

  If anyone asked my dad’s name, I wonder, staring at my hands, did he give it? Did he tell them that he was happily married with two children at home? Would he preach the gospel to them as they dangled their breasts in his face?

  God, I hope not.

  I hope that these women weren’t hearing about God from a man who seems to have disregarded anything he ever knew about that God.

  Shaking my head, I push all thoughts of God out of my head. He has no place here; in this building, or in my life. I followed him for eighteen years, and am left with a broken relationship with my father, looked on in pity by the congregation that raised me, and pissed off as hell. I think I can take it from here.

  “Destiny” returns with my Coke, offering a wink before she retreats to the back. Just as music plays throughout the space, I suppose indicating that someone is about to perform, my phone dings with a text.

  Whipping it from my pocket in order to silence it, planning to ignore the message until later, I see that it’s from Kennedy. Momentarily, I forget where I am. I grin at her new contact name in my phone.

  K. Sawyer: Hey. Sigh. So, I’m going to that party. Mollie’s making me. #peerpressure

  Me: Behave.

  You’re such a hypocrite.

  K. Sawyer: I’ll probably get arrested and end up on the news.

  Me: What?!

  K. Sawyer: Chill out, son of a preacher man, I was just kidding. I’ll behave. #Seewhatididthere

  I do see. Her humor, which she often guards on campus, especially in class, is really spot on. But, her words do something else to me this time. They remind me not of who I am, but who I was. Sure, I’m technically a PK, because that’s how I spent most of my life. But my father hasn’t actively pastored anyone in a year and a half. Despite stepping down three years ago, he remained partially active in the congregation while he was in therapy. When he stopped therapy, the congregation relieved him of his duties. Technically, he stepped down, but there wasn’t really a choice there.

  K. Sawyer: Yo. You there?

  Matt: Yeah. Heading to my own party, actually. Probably won’t stay long. It’ll be lame. Text me later.

  I lied. I lied to the nicest, most honest girl I’ve ever known.

  That was quick.

  Without waiting for her response, I turn off my phone and put it back in my pocket just in time to watch a girl in what looks like a shredded one-piece bathing suit and high—very high—heels take the stage.

  Strolling slowly, like a predator, around the shiny silver pole at the front of the stage, her fingertips caress it slowly. Sweat forms on my upper lip and I swallow hard, fighting the urge to flee.

  You’re allowed to be in here.

  The music picks up, mainly pop stuff from stations I wasn’t allowed to listen to in high school, but always did once I got in my car. I began to covet my time in the car. Obviously, when my little sister, Ellie, was in the car with me I’d keep it on the Christian-only stations, but not when I was alone.

  Now, though, the music sounds different. Looks different, as this girl, identified at the beginning of the song as Leanne—a normal name—twists and turns her body in seductive ways around the pole. Keeping her back and legs straight, she slowly bends over, her backside facing me as she leaves it lifted in the air.

  It’s not a normal one-piece bathing suit. She has nothing covering her backside except a floss-like piece of fabric. I know it’s called a thong, but I never planned on seeing one in person unless my future wife wore one. Sure, magazines are one thing, and some of the guys in high school and I joked around with them, but it’s different in person. It’s … personal. But, I force myself to sit and wait for the moment of understanding. Why my father would do this, and so much more, at the risk of absolutely everything. Leanne curves her back and slithers like a serpent up the pole, her breasts cradling the metal on either side as she slowly makes her way to standing.

  While I have no intention of touching any of the women in here, and the signs by the bouncer and all around remind anyone patronizing the place that they’re not allowed to touch, people, as usual, seem to like to push boundaries. Men with protruding stomachs and trucker hats edge their way as close as possible to the stage. None of them seem particularly embarrassed or shameful to be in here. There are a few men who, like me, seem comfortable sitting in the back. Watching them, though, makes me feel a little dirty.

  I know why I’m here, but why are they here? If they’re not hoping to get a face-full of tanned and tattooed backside, why bother coming? Looking to my left, I try to subtly study one such man. Mid-forties, I guess, wearing decent enough clothing to suggest that perhaps he worked in the business district today. Some high-ish level corporate job, judging by his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves. He looks exhausted, leaned all the way back in his chair drinking coffee that I’m certain he wishes were spiked with something strong.

  The funny thing is, despite the pale and worn look on his face, his eyes are alive as they view the stage. The girl. A straight look stays on his face, but his eyes dance wildly, and it’s almost like I can see his brain lighting up. Turning my gaze back to the stage, I tilt my head and try to see what he sees.

  The dancer presses her spine against the steel rod and turns her hips, grinding down the pole until she’s nearly seated. Her index finger traces the thick fullness of her bottom lip. Soon, with her eyes closed and head tilted back, her hand moves down her neck, over her breasts, and across the tight skin of her stomach. My heart races, and a warm feeling starts at the back of my head and works its way through my body, heating my cheeks and causing me to shift in my seat. Moving in the same hip-curving way she did on the way down, the dancer stands and faces the pole. She grips near the top of it and hoists herself up, legs winding around it in an almost inhuman way.

  Suddenly, it hits me.

  I don’t have to date this girl, or ask her father for her hand in marriage. I don’t have to struggle with celibacy or how far to take things before our wedding night. I can just sit back and appreciate the curves of the female body from a safe twenty-foot distance. I won’t touch them and they won’t touch me. I’m just looking. I feel high, and all I’m doing is looking. Watching. Studying. All the times I’ve ever snuck off and done things guys at CU are warned not to do—even though it’s our own body—don’t compare to the feeling surging through me at this moment. And all I’m doing is watching.

  I watch all night, ordering several more Cokes from Destiny, and then the girl who came in at shift change, though I didn’t catch her name.

  I never make it to the party, but stumble home sometime after midnight, feeling what I’m guessing it might feel like to be drunk, and climb into bed before anyone can question where I may have been. Lying in bed with my eyes closed, I can’t shake the images of the night from my mind.

  And I don’t think I want to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Royals

  Kennedy.

  “Well, here we are,” I murmur, pulling down the long, exclusively gated driveway of Trent’s parents’ house.

  I’m careful with most of the people I know to not call it their house. They did nothing but be born into such a life, and, in my head anyway, I’m careful to remind myself of that.

  “Oh, how sweet,” Mollie coos sarcastically, “they’ve got valet.”

  Rolling my eyes, I pull up behind a shiny Land Rover, and wait for my turn to hand my keys over to some underpaid college student who is probably going to pee in my back seat.

  “If they wanted to show off,” I say as Mollie and I ascend the front steps, “they could at least be responsible about it. Why not hire some sort of cab or bus service to drive the soon-to-be-drunk kids home?”

  Mollie shakes her head. “Put your bonnet away, Grandma, we’re heading into a party now. Can you handle it?” She places her hands on her tiny hips, wearing the next-to-nothing outfit she selected yesterday.


  “Do I look okay?” I ask, suddenly very aware of the butterflies in my stomach.

  A combination of seeing Trent, being somewhere I’m not supposed to, and the weird way my text conversation with Matt ended has me feeling off balance. Still, I managed to only amass a few dress code violations in an effort to attend this party without looking Amish. I selected dark-washed skinny jeans, and paired them with knee-high brown boots. A burnt orange tank top clings desperately to my stomach, but a thin, brown, three-quarter length sweater covers me somewhat.

  Mollie reaches forward, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and rolling it up an inch. Once a sliver of my stomach is visible, she sighs, contented. “You look amazing. Trent’s going to kick himself for letting you go.”

  I roll my eyes. “That was like a hundred years ago, Moll.”

  She smiles broadly. “And, as soon as he sees you, it’ll feel like only yesterday. Bastard,” she whispers, opening the oversized front door to the Kratz estate.

  Once her back is to me, I unroll my tank top, covering my stomach and letting it hang a full two-inches below the button of my jeans.

  “Mollie! Kennedy!” Tara hollers from mid-way up a grand staircase. “Get over here you dirty hookers!”

  We meet her halfway and hug our foul-mouthed friend. Tara’s always had a penchant for profanity and wild hair colors. I’ve seen her hair almost every color of the rainbow, so her rather basic jet-black throws me off balance.

  “Look at your hair!” I smile, pulling back form our hug. “Are you going conservative on us?”

  She snorts. “Hardly.” Turning around, she lifts the back of her hair, revealing that a significant portion of the underside has been shaved, and what hair is left has been dyed bright pink.

  “Awesome!” Mollie runs her hand up the back of Tara’s buzzed hair and motions for me to feel it.