by K. Webster
“There’s a bathroom in the hall you can change in. Leave your clothes in there and I’ll toss them in the dryer.” He flashes me a warm smile. “You like coffee? I’m afraid I don’t have much else to offer you.”
I don’t tell him I hate coffee. When I was fourteen, I got it in my head that I would drink some of Mom’s black coffee. It was nasty and I vowed never to drink it again. I simply nod and fumble along until I’m in the bathroom. One glance in the mirror and I’m mortified. My hair is a frizzy soaked mess. The mascara I’d put on is smeared beneath my eyes and my lips are slightly purple from the cold. I look terrible. Of course he looked good enough to eat in his rain-soaked dress shirt that molded to his carved from stone body.
After peeling off my soaked clothes, I put on the dry ones that smell just like him. They’re huge and hang from my body. Even after tying the sweatpants as tight as they’ll go, they still slide down my hips. At least the socks are warm. I can’t do a thing about my hair but I do manage to clean away the smeared mascara. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I find him in the kitchen making coffee.
He hands me a Harley mug and I frown to see the coffee is more of a tan color than black. His gaze is on me, almost expectantly, so I bring the steaming cup to my lips. Each time he stares at me, heat floods through my body. A nervous, excited kind of heat. Lacy, do not crush on your preacher. Just because you like to screw up your life, don’t mess with his.
I take a tiny sip. “Oh,” I mutter in surprise. “This is actually yummy.”
A boyish grin turns up one side of his lips. It positively melts me from the inside out. So much for not crushing on the preacher. “I figured judging by the look on your face when I mentioned coffee that you weren’t a black kind of girl. Lots of cream and sugar. Is it sweet enough for you?”
He’s talking about coffee and here I am imagining dirty things. Again. All I can do is nod before stealing another tasty sip.
Don’t crush on him. Don’t do it.
“Hold on just a sec,” I tell him as I set down the mug. I rush back to the bathroom where I abandoned my things and fish out my phone from my purse. I tap out to the number I was given.
Me: Easton’s coffee makes me happy.
I’m just walking back to the kitchen when I hear his booming laughter. When I round the corner, he’s staring at his phone with a smirk on his lips.
“That’s a great start, Lacy.” His eyes twinkle with warmth. I wonder how to turn that warmth into heat—like the heat that has begun to burn in my belly.
Lacy, he’s good and he’s your preacher. Enough with the girlish crushes.
We sit down at the bar in his kitchen and I shiver when his knee brushes against mine.
“I heard you were in prison once,” I mutter. When I chance a glance his way, his gaze darkens.
“I made some mistakes. We all do.”
Because I’ve always been one to push by nature, I prod at his answer. “What sort of mistakes?”
Shame causes his cheeks to turn pink. “Young, stupid ones. I got involved with the wrong crowd. Trusted people I shouldn’t have. When they asked me to run some drugs to a friend’s out of state, I did it because it was good money.” He runs his fingers through his soaked hair and a strand falls in front of his eye. It gives him a dangerous look. “I got pulled over. Despite being a first-time offender, the amount of coke I had in my trunk had me looking at eight years.”
I frown and my heart clenches. Easton is a good guy who made a dumb mistake. It changed the course of his life forever.
Kind of like me.
Before I can stop myself, I reach up and brush the hair from his eye. His greenish blue eyes darken to more blue than green as he glares at me. The glare isn’t an angry one though. It’s as though he’s attracted to me and it’s taking everything in him not to maul me.
And he can’t maul me.
At least, I’m pretty sure he won’t maul me.
The fact that I’m in his space, a blonde little temptation, has guilt once again making my skin crawl. Why can’t I flirt with a guy my own age and with someone who isn’t bound to the church? It makes me as evil as Sean for wanting something I shouldn’t. I shudder and Easton frowns as though he worries I’m cold. I smile quickly and sip more coffee.
“Did you serve all eight years?”
He looks away, breaking our stare, and takes a sip of his coffee. I feel like I wait forever before he speaks again.
“I did ten, vixen.”
Vixen?
Letting that comment slide for the moment, I gape at him. “Ten? How come?”
“Early on, I was angry. I’d abandoned God after growing up in the church, and didn’t know how to cope with my emotions. I was just an eighteen-year-old kid looking at eight years in prison. When some bigger guys thought they would teach me a prison lesson in the showers, I lost my head. Whatever they tried to do didn’t happen. But I ended up putting three of them in the hospital. I sort of blacked out with rage. To this day, I still don’t remember.”
“Oh…” I swallow down a sip of my coffee to formulate my thoughts. “So they added some time?”
“Five more years. Luckily, not long into my sentence, I cleaned up and got right with God. Stayed on the straight and narrow. Thanks to my friend Tom.” His eyes flicker from fondness to sorrow. It breaks my heart for him.
“Did something happen to him?” I whisper, my voice shaky. I don’t want him to be sad but I want to know more about him. He’s learned so much about me so far that I feel like it’s only fair.
“He died of a heart attack. For six years, Tom studied The Bible with me each day and prayed with me. My hardened heart was no longer something dirty and ugly. With his help, I’d polished it into something worthy and shiny. His approach was tough—tougher than my own dad—but that’s what I needed. And when I got out of line, he’d thump me in the head. I think I still have bruises,” he says, chuckling.
I smile too. “I’m sorry about your friend. So they let you out early?”
“My reviews after that initial screw up were all stellar. I was allowed to work on my college degree and ministered some to the other inmates thanks to Tom’s teaching and guidance. They let me off three years early.”
Ten years in the penitentiary.
Wow.
“How long have you been out?”
“A decade. I’m at peace now. The anger at my friends and myself are long gone.”
I work out the math in my head. He’s thirty-eight. Same age as my dad had he lived that long. Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m sorry that happened.”
He smiles and it’s reassuring. “It made me who I am today. I’m stronger because of it.” He stands from the bar stool and clutches my shoulder. His thumb is dangerously close to my breast. “I’d planned to watch The Walking Dead marathon today. If you’re not in any hurry, you’re welcome to hang out and watch.”
I laugh and it feels strange. Lately, I don’t do much laughing at all. “The Walking Dead? Preachers can like zombies?”
He smirks and I swear my insides combust. “Who says we can’t like zombies?”
I have no idea what I’m doing. None whatsoever. But inviting her back to my place and giving her my clothes seems like the worst possible idea ever.
Guilt.
It’s a familiar feeling. One that I’ve not had to deal with for quite some time. While in prison, I’d felt guilt for how I’d blamed my father. Tom helped me understand that Elias was troubled. There was nothing any of us could have done. We loved him and that was all we could do. Once I shed some of the anger, I’d wanted nothing more than to do right by my father. The first letter was the hardest to write. But every letter after got easier. It got easier because he wrote me back. His letters were filled with love, compassion, and guidance. He even expressed his own sorrows and guilt. It was as though on paper, he could truly open up to me. I felt closer to my father than I ever had been as we slowly fumbled our way to each other.
And no
w, after all these years, guilt is once again nagging at me. I shouldn’t have brought Lacy here with me. But something about her begged to be comforted and cared for. She needed a friend. Someone she could count on. Being there for someone is Christ’s way. But the darker thoughts roaming in my head are sinful. They’re far from Christ-like. I keep repeating prayers in my head but they get scrambled every time she speaks. My mind isn’t pure right now. There’s a tugging in my heart that I’m unfamiliar with. That, coupled with the guilt, has my mind spinning with every reason why having her here is wrong.
For one, the white shirt doesn’t hide her nipples very well and they poke through the fabric begging to be seen and tasted. God give me strength. The last thing I need is to stare at this teenager’s breasts all afternoon. And yet, here I am. Stealing glances whenever she’s not looking. It’s dirty and wrong. Sinful. Shameful as hell. It’s fitting that my sermon tomorrow is outlined to talk about temptation.
Is God tempting me to see how I’ll handle the situation?
I’m strong.
If I could survive a decade behind bars, I can sure as hell survive this.
She follows me into the living room. I turn it on to the station and kill the lights in the room. With the storm going on outside, it makes for a good day to watch zombies on TV. I sit down on the sofa, offering her the recliner, but she plops down beside me. She drags the crocheted blanket Mom made while I was in prison down into her lap and leans into my shoulder.
“It’s cold.”
I laugh and lean back against the sofa. “That blanket is the warmest one I own. You’ll be hot within minutes.”
Her eyes widen at my choice of words. I silently curse myself for how they could be misconstrued.
“Just watch the show,” I murmur, my voice hoarse.
We watch for three back-to-back episodes. Lacy’s never seen the show before and had lots of questions. I patiently answered them all. And when she wasn’t asking questions, my mind was repeating scriptures about strength. I thought about how I’d deliver the sermon tomorrow. With passion and vigor. Yet, the guilt was still there eating away at me.
When we first sat down on the sofa, we’d both been stiff and awkward. Now, she lies on her side with her cheek on the armrest and her legs in my lap. I don’t know how we got into this dangerous position but neither of us has made any moves to change that. And now, I can’t get my mind to recall one single Bible passage in my head. All I can feel is how warm her feet are on my thigh.
My phone buzzes and I chuckle.
Lacy: The Walking Dead makes me happy.
Our eyes meet and hers are flickering with happiness just like she mentioned. It’s nice seeing the sadness gone from her pretty blues.
Me: Coffee and TWD. A girl after my own heart.
It’s meant to be a joke but as soon as I send it, I feel stupid. Her cheeks burn bright red. I’m giving her the wrong message.
Lacy: I call dibs on Daryl.
I laugh and the tense moment evaporates. From the app on my phone, I order us some pizza but then find myself drifting off to sleep. After last night’s bar hopping, I’m exhausted.
I wake with a start. I’m on my side with my cheek pressed against Lacy’s ribs. Her fingers are resting in my hair. It wouldn’t be so bad—even with her legs sprawled out over my thighs—except that I have my hand on her bare flesh.
One quick look and I’m frozen. The sweatpants she borrowed are pulled low on her hips. Her hipbones are showing and the area from her belly button down to the waistband of the pants seems like a huge naked divide. My palm is possessively splayed out on that part of real estate as though I own it. The thought of letting my lips own her there too has my cock jumping in my pants. Her skin is warm beneath my touch and I startle myself when my thumb caresses it. For one moment, I’m just Easton and she’s some sweet girl—a girl I’m quickly losing my mind to.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do when the doorbell rings. My gaze snaps up to Lacy’s and I find her staring at me sleepy eyed. Her eyes are soft and not filled with terror like mine.
I’m a preacher.
Christ has called me to do something good and impactful. I won’t let him, my family, or my congregation down. I won’t let this innocent girl down either by giving in to my lustful urges that have no place in my heart.
“You should answer that,” she murmurs, her voice raspy from sleep.
I grit my teeth. Despite all my internal pep talks, my body is still responding to her nearness. Dammit. Now I have to answer the door with a ten-inch boner on full display. I choke down my unease and launch myself away from her. By the time I’ve answered the door and paid for the pizza, my cock has settled.
We’re quiet as we eat but Lacy begins tapping away on her phone. Already, I’m hoping it’s a text for me. When my phone buzzes, I flash her a grin.
Lacy: Cuddles and pizza make me happy.
Sweet, adorable damn girl. I don’t even think she realizes just how tempting she is. A little vixen with a pouty mouth and breasts of a grown woman. She’s messing with my head. My head is screaming at me to remember who I am. Pastor Easton McAvoy.
Yet my heart…
It’s confusing me.
Thump after wild thump of my heart, I find it harder and harder to latch onto my vows I made to God. It’s as though her scent fills my nostrils and intoxicates me. Tempts and slowly destroys me. I’m going to have to seriously get myself together. I may even need to pray with my dad to find my way again.
And this?
Her. My house. Cuddling.
This can’t ever happen again.
“Eat up,” I tell her, my voice raw with a need for something I’ll never allow myself to have. “Rain has stopped. Time to go home.”
Lacy: The piano makes me happy. I didn’t realize how much I missed playing it.
Lacy: Mom’s laugh makes me happy. She’s so beautiful when she smiles.
Lacy: OMG. Coach Long’s AP Calculus class makes me happy…when it’s over.
Lacy: Quiet Friday nights alone make me happy.
Lacy: Listening to you on Sundays as you preach makes me happy.
Lacy: Our Saturday TWD dates make me happy.
It’s been almost two months since I started helping Lacy. And my gallant efforts to not put myself in a tempting situation were thwarted. Each Saturday, I invite her over. A talk with my dad and extra prayers, though, have helped me get my focus back. I’m able to ignore my body’s cravings for hers and instead reach out to her heart. It’s been broken and through Christ’s love, I want to be the one to help mend it. At first, she didn’t talk much. But since then, we’ve peeled away her childhood. All of her broken relationships. Her feeling of abandonment by her best friend Olivia. Worries over her future. The guilt she feels, even though she shouldn’t, about Sean Polk being in prison. The one we don’t talk about much is the loss of Mikey.
“How far along were you?”
My words catch her by surprise and she stops mid-chew. The commercials during the episode are loud, so I hit the mute button. She swallows and picks her purse up from the floor. I watch her dig around until she finds her wallet. Inside is a folded photograph. When she hands it to me, I learn that it’s a sonogram picture.
“Thirteen weeks.” Her voice cracks. “I don’t know what the sex was but my heart tells me it was a boy. So I named him Mikey.”
I study the grainy picture and wonder how that must have felt for her. She wears the grief and sorrow always just under her surface. It makes my chest ache for her. When I hand the photo back to her, our fingers brush against one another. Our Saturday dates aren’t ones I tell anyone about, not even my dad. After her session with me each week and a prayer, we always come to my house after. As friends, of course. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way my skin buzzes whenever she’s near. Or the way my heart skips in my chest when she laughs. No amount of prayer can counteract the physical way my body reacts to her.
I drag my gaze to the
television as I try to work out my thoughts. I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing with this girl but it’s not right. Besides the fact that I’m willingly disobeying God’s will and everything I stand for, there’s more to the situation than that. She’s underage and I’m a convicted felon. It’s a recipe for disaster. And yet, I can’t help but want to spend time with her. For the first time since I’ve been out, I’ve felt a connection with someone. I had a connection with Tom. A father of sorts. We were inseparable until the Lord called him home. But now, the lonely ache that gnaws at me has lessened. There’s a person who wants to spend time with me just as much as I want to spend time with her.
My phone buzzes beside me and I eagerly pick it up. I’ve come to love knowing what makes her happy.
Lacy: This makes me happy.
I frown and glance over at her. She’s lying back against the arm of the sofa and her legs are sprawled out across me. Since today is hot, she’s not covered in the blanket. The light green summer dress hugs her body in a delicious way. The hem of it is on the shorter side and rides so far up her thighs that I get a peek at her white panties beneath. My cock is instantly hard. I grit my teeth and try to look away but I can’t. Today, she’s too damn pretty.
I close my eyes for a moment and say a quick prayer.
You’re stronger than this, Easton.
And I am. But the moment I open my eyes, they dart greedily back over to her.
Her lashes are painted dark with mascara and they bat innocently against the tops of her cheeks. She’s wearing a shiny pink lip gloss that makes her lips seem plumper and more bitable than usual. And her hair—God that hair—is down today in soft, silky waves. Without thinking, I reach over and toy with a golden strand that sits just above her breast.
“This makes me happy too,” I tell her. I’m honest to a fault sometimes. I should be telling her she’s getting the wrong ideas and that this can’t happen—whatever this is. And yet, all I can do is secretly revel in the fact that she’s happy with me.
