by Jess Bentley
“To sell her? To Dustin? That's your big suggestion?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You got a better one, I suppose?”
I grind my molars. The truth is, I don't have a better suggestion. It doesn’t look like anyone's going to be dying and sending us a mysterious check in the mail this week. And he did try to make this suggestion. I just didn’t really want to listen for some reason.
“Why don’t you just give him a call?” he suggests reasonably. “You can make a decision with all the facts. Find out if he is even still interested. Maybe he doesn't even want her anymore.”
“What's that supposed to mean? He doesn't want her anymore?”
Owen scoffs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He knits his fingers together, looking at me like he's explaining something to a child. This only angers me further.
“I said maybe,” he reminds me patronizingly. “You should look into it. You should make a decision, since apparently everything is your decision.”
I stalk away. I need to not look at him for a few moments.
What is happening to me? Fighting with my own brother? Over some girl?
Over some woman?
She's clouding my judgment. She's making me look like a fool. I won’t be treated like this, not by anybody.
Without another word, I yank open the door to the barn and walk out into the night air. It's cooler out here, the dewy moisture hanging in the air. I glance off to my left and see low, brownish clouds on the horizon. Then just now, the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance.
That must mean rain. That has to be rain. We need it so badly.
I wonder if it’s a sign.
Back in my office, I pick up the old-fashioned telephone off the wall and pull on the twisted cord so that I can sit behind my desk.
I dial 411.
It takes the operator a little while to pick up. Do people even use these kinds of telephones anymore? I don't think they do. I should probably be grateful it still works.
“City and name?” the operator asks me in a nasal voice.
“Longboard County,” I answer, reaching for the words. “Dustin's Roadhouse.”
She gives me the number and I memorize it temporarily, then jam my thumb on the cradle to hang up and start again.
I hear a ringing tone, then the click as someone picks up the line.
“Dustin's,” a lady's voice sneers. I hear the puff of air as she probably blows out a long plume of cigarette smoke. In the background I hear some kind of crappy southern rock playing, and voices. Lots of voices.
“Is Dustin around?”
“Who's askin’?”
“Silas Redken,” I growl, irritated by her sass. I had forgotten how women in the outside world talk to men. Pure impudence.
“Oh,” she drawls, “the great Preacher Silas! Yeah, sure, your holiness. I'll just run along and fetch him for you!”
I hear the phone bang on the countertop, her last insult to me. She dropped the receiver in the sort of act of defiance that would get her publicly punished here.
The minutes drag on. I'm not entirely sure she told him. It wouldn't be that strange if she would just leave the receiver on the counter and let me listen to the disgusting goings-on at the bar. I can't believe that Owen spends any time there. Definitely not one of his finer qualities.
“Yeah, what,” a male voice finally says, just as I'm about to abandon the call.
“It’s Silas,” I say again.
“Yeah, well, no shit,” he snaps back. “To what do I owe the honor?”
I take a deep breath. He's probably still mad about that time twenty years ago that I wiped his own bar with his the left side of his face. Back when I did things like that.
“Owen says you guys had a conversation. I wanted to follow up.”
“Oh,” he says, the smirk clear in his voice. “You mean the piece of ass? Yeah, he told me all about her. You thinking to offload her?”
“More or less.”
“Well is it more? Or is it less?” he answers back. Clearly he's enjoying this conversation little bit more than I want him to. “I just want to be completely clear with you, preacher. So we’re totally on the record here. Are you calling to offer me a piece of juicy, untouched ass?”
I have to take several deep breaths to keep from hanging up on him.
“I'm calling to see if we could start a negotiation, yes,” I finally manage to say.
“Man, I love it when you holy types stoop to our level, you know that?” he sneers, and I hear him sucking his teeth. “Isn't hypocrisy supposed to be a sin or something?”
“Everyone has a purpose,” I answer, more for myself than for him. I remind myself that this may indeed be her purpose. She may indeed be what we need to continue. What's one life, if her service improves the lives of dozens of others? Isn’t that noble?
“Yeah, that's a funny word for it. Purpose. So what's this piece of church purpose going to cost me?”
“Six thousand,” I venture.
He sucks his teeth again. The line nearly goes dead, and I suppose he's pressing the phone against his shirt so he can talk to someone else.
“No, eight thousand,” I correct myself.
“Eight thousand?” he practically coughs. “It must be the tightest fucking pussy that ever was! You’ll never see eight thousand. I don’t care if she keeps house like Mrs. Brady and fucks like Jenna Jameson in a nun outfit. None of these bitches —”
“She's worth it,” I cut him off.
The phone goes dead again. My heart is throbbing like it's going to burst.
“Bring her here. I need to see this miraculous virgin pussy for myself,” he snarls, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for just a second, then hang it back in the cradle.
I guess I just made a deal.
Chapter 76
Angel
In the morning, I hear boots on the front porch. I creep to the door of my room and press my ear against it, eager to find out what's going on.
I hear Brother Owen's voice. What must he think of me? I just couldn't even tell them that I couldn’t see them. They probably thought I did it on purpose. They must be so angry.
Then I remember, I can open the door. I can. I don’t have to cower in here. I just need to do it.
My mother spins around, her mouth falling open she hears my door opening. I'm not supposed to do this, in her mind. Just taking a step into the living room is an act of audacity that is sure to enrage her.
But she has to be pleasant and controlled in front of Brother Owen. There's nothing she can do, and she knows it.
I watch her hands balling into fists next to her sides. Brother Owen takes a half step toward me.
“Are you feeling well? Mary suggested you were ill after work yesterday,” he says, but I know he doesn't believe any of this.
Still, I see the glint in his eye, the coldness. He's already decided that I don't have an excuse good enough for what I've done. It won't even make a difference that it wasn’t my fault.
“I feel much better, thank you,” I answer, pointing my chin in the air. I don't want to seem too defiant, but I don't want to come off like a child either.
“Silas has requested your presence. Please come with me,” he announces curtly.
I quirk an eyebrow at my mother. I'm not going to ask for permission. I'm not going to say anything. I simply follow him out the front door and into the sunlight.
My dress swishes painfully around my ankles as I try to keep up with him. I should have made the skirt just a little bit fuller to give myself more room for my legs to move. But normally I wouldn’t have to stretch like this. Owen is much taller than me, and I almost have to jog to keep up with him.
I hitch my skirt up slightly to avoid the long, almost evaporated puddles in the ruts of the path.
“I listened to the rain last night,” I observe, trying to start a conversation with him.
“Finally,” he mutte
rs. It's almost a growl. He does not want to talk to me.
I can't blame him, can I?
I assume we are going to the barn, but he veers left and we arrive shortly at Father Daddy's small shack. The front room is his office, and I'm a little sad that we’re not going back to our place. I thought we were perhaps going to do more training, but I guess not. He pulls the door open, his gaze dark and furious. With one hand he gestures that I should enter.
The office is small and crowded, with a desk at one end and two chairs in front of it. The dark wood paneling makes it feel very closed in, like a root cellar. I almost expect to see bunches of sweet potatoes hanging from the ceiling.
“We made a decision,” Father Daddy announces. I squint into the gloom and wait for my eyes to adjust so I can see him. He sits in his chair behind the desk with his fingers steepled, balanced under his chin. I can't see his expression clearly, but the room is practically seething with his anger.
“I didn't mean to do it,” I begin. “Mama just said I —”
“It doesn’t matter now. Is that your best dress?”
“Well, yes…” I stammer. “Is it all right? Where are we going?”
“We need you to make a good impression,” is all he says.
“Am I being sold?”
My question hangs in the air. Father Daddy scowls and turns away, and I feel like I can hear him snarling under his breath.
“We need to make sure you're still intact,” Brother Owen says behind me.
I flinch, looking over my shoulder. “Intact? What does that mean?”
He hardens his gaze. It makes me feel so cold, as though he was so warm before, and now he just turned to stone.
“I need to look at your flower,” he explains in a low growl. “I need to see that it is untouched.”
I gasp, my hands flying up to cover my mouth. “Of course it is untouched!” I hear myself squeak. “No one has ever… you should know… I can't believe you would even say that to me!”
I whirl around, looking for Father Daddy's eyes. I need that connection. “You know! Tell him!”
He stands slowly, holding his hands out apologetically. “We just need to be sure. We just need to make sure the trip is not for nothing.”
I hold my breath. What choice do I have?
“What do you want me to do?”
Owen gestures toward the chair with his chin.
“Sit there, please.”
I shuffle toward the chair, my hands trembling. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Humiliated? Embarrassed? Afraid? I turn to sit down.
“Wait… pull up your dress,” Brother Owen commands me.
My cheeks fiery hot, I bend over to gather the hem of my dress and raise it, then sit with my hips and legs exposed. Brother Owen kneels between my feet, his hands on my knees. The pressure is gentle, but insistent.
I look toward Father Daddy as Brother Owen pushes my knees apart. He peers down, touching my most intimate spaces and prodding me gently, pulling me open. I feel tears stinging, burning in my eyes as they overflow and course down my cheeks.
“That's enough,” Father Daddy growls. He shakes his head and turns away. “Stop. That's enough.”
Brother Owen pushes my legs back together and pats my knee sympathetically.
“She's fine. She's intact.”
Father Daddy snorts with disgust.
“Can I go now?” I sniff pathetically.
Father Daddy leaves the desk and comes around to the front. He plucks both my hands off the chair and lifts me to standing, then to my surprise he gathers me in a warm, crushing embrace. I melt into him, barely holding back sobs of frustration and anger that I can't even explain.
“Thank you, my Angel,” he whispers into my hair. “I know that was difficult for you. Thank you for being strong.”
Brother Owen stands to the side. He scrubs his hand over his face.
“Make sure you're ready by Friday,” he says, his voice tense. “Make a new dress if you want to. That would be nice.”
I nod against Father Daddy's wide, comforting chest.
“Everyone does things for the Family,” Father Daddy whispers to me. “There are times when we have to do difficult things, because that's what is needed of us.”
“I know,” I say, surprised at how strong my voice sounds.
I push myself back from him and look up, grateful that he meets my eyes. It's there, our connection. I feel it pulsing, like a still-connected phone call.
His hands cup my chin and he leans down and kisses me on the mouth. His lips are gentle at first, almost chaste. Then he kisses me deeper, opening my mouth with his tongue pressed against my teeth, sucking gently at my upper lip, breathing me in. I slide my hands around his neck and hold tight, succumbing to this perfect embrace.
As he kisses me, I feel Brother Owen move up behind me. He strokes the back of my neck, then leans down to bite me gently. I hear a moan escape my mouth as I'm pinned between them, submerged in the sensations of both of their bodies at once. Being enveloped this way turns my whole body on at once, and I let them hold me, slightly suspended above the floor.
With my eyes closed, all I feel is a slight strong sensation of vertigo as Father Daddy picks me up and lays me across the desk. Without saying anything, he dives down, pushing up my skirts and bearing his face between my legs. At the first warm intrusion of his tongue against my sex, I'm moaning too loudly, wrapping my thighs around his shoulders and pulling him closer, closer to me. As close as he can get.
Brother Owen takes his place on the other side, looming over my head from behind the desk. I hear the brittle sound of him unzipping his trousers and feel the velvety touch of his manhood across my lower lip. Automatically I open my mouth, aching to be joined with them. Brother Owen covers my face with his manhood, entering my mouth from above, stroking himself as he presses the tip of his erection against my hungry tongue.
Father Daddy circles and nuzzles my sex enthusiastically, his warm breath filling me with joyous light and sound. The three of us rock together, somehow arranging this complicated pattern of passion until we all cry out, together, enjoying the same explosion of fireworks. We are united and completed with a volcanic transformation.
Brother Owen's seed dribbles sweetly from one corner of my mouth as he withdraws. He leans over and brushes his lips against my damp forehead, stroking my cheek with his fingers as I pant, my body trembling with pleasure.
Father Daddy's hands encircle my hips and pull me forward. He lifts me back to standing and smooths my hair, holding me close against him again so that I hear his heartbeat. I want to stay here forever, right here, just like this.
“I think your training is almost complete,” Father Daddy murmurs. I hear the pride in his voice.
“Yes, certainly,” I hear Brother Owen sigh.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I murmur happily against his chest. I feel him twitch slightly.
“What did you call me?”
I look up at him, startled. “Oh… I didn't mean… you know. Daddy. It just sounds right.”
He doesn't say anything, but the expression on his face is a combination of emotions that I understand viscerally. He liked it. I can tell.
I pivot slowly, reaching back to take Brother Owen's hand. He allows himself a mysterious smirk.
“Thank you, Brother,” I smile. “That was just what I needed.”
“It was just what we needed, too,” Brother Owen agrees. “You should be getting back to your mother now. Don’t forget to be ready on Friday night.”
I shrug my agreement. It doesn't seem so bad now. Somehow, I'm sure I will find the strength.
Chapter 77
Angel
The next few days go by about as slowly as possible. Mama seems even more absent than usual, and I take an extra shift in the reclamation shed just to keep my mind occupied.
Tulip must feel bad about what she said to me because she seems sort of stiff and tense. And I suppose her ceremony is this week too. It’s a
big deal for her but I do not want to ask about it. I’d rather just let that information flow past me without thinking about it, like a leaf on the river.
When Friday comes, I'm careful to groom myself the way that Brother Owen suggested. I bathe again in the afternoon after work, tying my hair back with a little bit of fabric fashioned into a ribbon. I made myself a dress out of a shower curtain with tiny blue flowers all over it. Hydrangeas, I think they are, little puffs of color like cotton candy.
It looks all right, I suppose. I watch myself in the mirror, turning from side to side, trying to see what I'll look like to strangers. What are they expecting? Fancy clothes? Makeup? We are not allowed to wear makeup. My freckles are about the only adornment I've got.
My last chore for today is preparing dinner. I fry up some pork chops in the cast-iron skillet, dropping some green beans to lightly cook in the fat. It's a nice, simple, homey meal. The sort of thing I will be preparing for my family, when I have one.
Looks like I might be having one sooner rather than later.
“You all right?” Mama asks me from the kitchen doorway. She leans against the framing with one shoulder, her arms folded, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
I turn around in surprise, biting my lips together and trying to rearrange my face into a neutral expression.
“All right? Of course I am all right.”
“What's that you're wearing?”
I glance down. How am I supposed to explain this?
“Angel? Are you planning on answering me?”
“Just have a seat. I’ve got your dinner right here,” I say, trying to change the subject.
But it doesn't work. Though she pulls out a wooden chair, scraping it along the floor before she sits, she keeps her eyes on me. She’s scrutinizing everything I do now, trying to figure out exactly what's going on before I tell her. She considers herself quite shrewd and is a large fan of mystery novels that we sometimes get in the donations. I found that out now. Mary likes the romances. Agatha likes the thrillers and horror stories, my mother prefers mysteries. No wonder she thinks she's so smart.
