by Salsbury, JB
“Dad? Did you hear me?”
“God didn’t invent curse words.”
“But you say God is the creator of all things.”
I did say that, didn’t I? I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Not every question has an answer.”
She scowls. “So you don’t know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“If you don’t know, then maybe it’s okay to say curse words.”
I push the speed limit to get to her elementary school, bypassing the normal drop-off line and stopping right in front of the office. “We’re here!”
She stares out the window. “This isn’t drop-off.”
It is today, kid. “That’s okay. Have a good day, honey. I love you.”
She grabs her backpack and eases out of the car.
“I’ll see you at home tonight.”
“Why can’t you pick me up? Colette is always late,” she says through the open door.
“You know I have to work. Colette promised she’d be on time today.” Same thing she’s been promising every week since school started.
Elliot closes the door and I wait until she’s in the office before I drive away. The older she gets, the more curious she gets about life, and I hate that I don’t have a partner to talk this stuff over with, another parent to help carry the weight of parenthood. Bethany was always so good at answering Elliot’s questions, no matter how ridiculous they were. If I knew it wouldn’t make me look pathetic, I’d call her every day just so Elliot could dump her bucket of questions on Bethany. I always trusted Bethany to be honest and age appropriate with her, and I’ve really missed that part of having her around.
When I pull into the church parking lot, it’s fairly empty, but I know it’ll fill up by this afternoon. Wednesdays are busy with different Bible studies and recovery meetings. We have a support group for just about anything life can throw at a person—illness, death, marriage, divorce, and a group for every age.
If the DOEE reps pick any weekday to show up and evaluate our church, it’d be today.
Feeling a million years old, I grab my messenger bag and my gym bag with the hopes of squeezing in an hour workout between the four o’clock Holy Yoga class and Zumba to Zion at six thirty. Donna is on the phone when I walk into my office, and I greet her with a smile before she holds up one finger.
“Room one-twelve says they can’t get the air on,” she says, most likely talking to Aaron in maintenance. “Okay, I’ll let them know. Thank you.” She hangs up and stands from behind her desk. When her eyes land on me, they widen. “Whoa, bad night?”
Donna has been my secretary for eight years. She’s more like a sister than an employee.
“What gave me away?”
“When are you and Elliot going to get away for an extended vacation?”
“We were in Los Angeles for Jesiah’s show three weeks ago.”
“I said extended vacation.”
I drop my chin and shake my head. “You know I can’t leave, especially not now with the whole DOEE thing.”
She looks around, and once she’s sure we’re alone, she mumbles, “Something doesn’t feel right.”
I step closer to her. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, who would file a complaint with the DOEE for something so dumb?”
“My brother and his music are controversial.”
“But you’re not. You never have been. And there’s no way you acted inappropriately on stage. That’s just not you.”
“I agree. I have nothing to hide. So let them do their investigation. They’ll come up with nothing and hopefully move on to somewhere they’re actually needed.”
She squints. “You’re not worried at all?”
“I don’t like anyone questioning my integrity. My reputation is on the line here, but I know the kind of man I am. They’re going to be looking for dirt, but they’ll find nothing. So let them dig.”
“I wish I had your confidence.” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve heard horror stories of these guys digging up people’s pasts and interviewing everyone in the church, coercing them into saying things.” Her voice rises an octave as she panics.
I place my hand on her shoulder. “Donna. Breathe.”
She does.
“I have nothing to hide.”
“I know.” She smiles apologetically. “Just seeing them sniff around gives me the heebies.”
I lift my brows. “They’re already here?”
“That creepy Mr. Gunthry was in right at eight, asking for the church’s agenda for today.”
“That’s great. Maybe he’ll get all the information he needs today and they’ll be out of our hair for good.”
“I’m praying that’s the case.”
Me too.
* * *
I’m on my last set of bicep curls when the music in my earphones cuts off and is replaced by my ringtone. I rack my weights and grab my towel, wiping the sweat from my eyes to check the caller ID.
A picture of my brother with his tongue between his fingers takes up the entire screen. Last time we were together, he hijacked my phone and left the disgusting selfie behind. He said he knew if it were there, I’d answer him right away because I wouldn’t want anyone else to see it. He’s not wrong.
I hit Accept. “Jes, what’s up?”
“Yo, dickstain.”
“You do know there’s a special place in hell for people who insult pastors, right?”
“I don’t remember seeing that in the Bible, no. Besides, who says dickstain is an insult? It’s just a word, a string of letters. The only thing that makes a word bad is a person’s perception of it.”
That sounds suspiciously familiar. “Let me ask you a question, have you ever discussed your theory on bad words with my daughter?”
“Naw, bro. I pass Elliot’s questions off to Bethany. I cannot handle that tiny chick’s questions.”
I move to the treadmill and set the speed to a brisk walk. “That tiny chick is your niece and I don’t believe you. The two of you have curiously similar opinions on curse words.”
“Maybe she’s just smarter than you.”
I love my brother, but his not-so-gentle approach with others is often, well, difficult to take. I try not to be too hard on him. On the outside, he might be the biggest rock star in the world, but inside, he’s as fucked up and broken as the rest of us. All the money and success in the world can’t fix that. “Did you call for a reason?”
“Yeah, but by the sound of your breathing, I’m guessing I called at a bad time. Happy to see you’re making good use of your hand though.”
“I’m on the treadmill, asshole.” I check the door, making sure it’s still closed and I’m still in the gym alone. I locked it, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did.
“Walking on the treadmill, wow. So you’ve come up from eighty-year-old woman to sixty-fiveish-year-old woman.”
“No, I’m planning on running once my idiot little brother tells me why he’s calling.”
“You know there’s a special place in hell for pastors who call their little brothers idiots.”
I groan.
He chuckles. “Listen, I need you to come to Los Angeles and record with me.”
I must have stopped walking because suddenly my feet are tripping over themselves on the moving belt. Thankfully, I catch myself before falling. “Record with you? Are you serious?”
Last year, Jesiah’s band was in a horrible tour bus accident that left their guitar player with more broken bones than not. He’s had dozens of surgeries, and it’s been questionable as to whether or not he’d ever play guitar professionally again. Jes told me Chris wanted to give it a shot with this next album.
“Dead serious.” He clears his throat. “A lot happened on that tour before the accident. Arienfield isn’t open to Chris coming back. Chris has bigger things to deal with right now anyway.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Great, so you’ll come record. Plan on stayi
ng for a couple weeks. I’ll have Dave send over the details—”
“Jes, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“What? Why the fuck not?”
“Because I have a job.” One I could possibly lose because I stood on stage with you and strummed a guitar for a few hours. Imagine the field day the DOEE would have if they found out I was on my brother’s new album.
“Yeah, what do you get paid? Maybe thirty grand a year?”
Ha. That would be an improvement. I make closer to twenty-seven. “It’s not about the money.”
“It should be. You got a kid and she’s growing up fast.”
Yeah, like I need a reminder. I see it every day.
“Before you do something stupid by turning me down, let me tell you that you’ll get paid forty grand for recording, plus a percentage of sales on the album.”
I’m still stuck on the forty-grand part. “That’s uh…” Wow.
“Enough to get you and Elliot out of that dumpy little house.”
“Jesiah.”
“What? Look, I know you have memories there and shit like that, but come on, dude, time to move on. That house is like a death trap, as in literally a trap full of constant reminders of Maggie’s death.” He gets quiet, probably waiting to see if I’ll lay into him for being an insensitive prick or if I’ll break down in tears. For the first time in a long time, I do neither. “You’re living in a grave, bro. Not only physically but emotionally.”
A sharp pinch twists in my chest.
“If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for Elliot.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growl. The mention of my daughter’s name ignites a little anger and I fight to suppress it. “She loves that house and she loves the reminders of her mom.”
He clears his throat and mumbles, “Uh huh. Except…”
I close my eyes and mentally wrap both fists around my heart, holding it together against the blow I feel coming.
“She never knew her mom, so all your reminders do is remind her of what she never had.”
“You know my daughter for a year and suddenly you think you have a PhD in child psychology?”
“Don’t need one. This shit is common sense.”
Fuck him. “I’m sorry, Jes. The answer is no.”
He sighs. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I have to get back to work.”
We say our goodbyes and I stare at myself in the wall-length mirror. My brother thinks he’s an expert on grieving? Laughable. What the hell does he know about loss? Or being a dad? Nothing. That’s what.
I dial the treadmill up to a sprint and burn off my frustration and confusion in sweat and muscle fatigue.
Ashleigh
This is stupid.
I should fire up my car, turn around, and leave. I don’t even know how I ended up getting to the church almost twenty minutes early. I’ve never been early for anything in my entire life. And yet, here I am, sitting in my car, staring at the front door of the church while people come and go. Who knew the church saw so much action during the week? I thought Jesus was a Sunday only kind of guy.
After unwrapping another stick of spearmint gum, I shove it in my mouth to join the three others. My knee bounces and my jaw aches from the wad of gum I’m working between my molars.
A group of three people walk out of the church, stopping to chat while others pass them to go inside. Are all these people here for the volunteer class? If there’s some kind of approval process and these are the people I’m up against, I may as well go home and get drunk now. Doing that would be much more productive.
No, I’m not giving up on this.
Especially after last night.
After driving all the way to Anthony’s house, I made it in the door and to the couch, where he offered me a drink I refused. I just wanted to get to the good part, the part where I’d feel better. He sat close to me, put his hand on my thigh, and kissed my neck.
I tried. I really tried. I closed my eyes and pretended Anthony was someone I didn’t know and would never see again. I focused on the way his tongue felt, warm and wet as he licked up my neck. My hands stayed clenched at my sides and I tried to force myself to relax. When his lips met mine, I shot up from the couch, apologized, and left.
I couldn’t do it.
I could not have meaningless sex.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And why do I feel like whatever lies in store for me behind those church doors might be my answer?
“Fuck it.” I grab my purse and practically throw myself out of the car.
My heels click on the asphalt as I stomp through the lot. I feel the eyes of all the church people around me. They’re staring. Judging. I turn to the group of three—two men and one woman—and wink before pulling open the door and stepping into the air-conditioned anteroom.
Where to now…
I assume the volunteer class will be in Kathy’s office.
Awesome.
As if a holy force propels me forward, I walk with purpose down the hallway to the left. How early am I exactly? I check the time on my phone when something slams into me from behind, sending my phone skidding down the tiled hallway.
“Shit!” I bite my lip to try to cut off the curse word, but it’s too late, it’s already out.
“I’m so sorry,” I hear from behind me.
The voice calms my nerves but gives me butterflies at the same time.
I scoop my phone off the floor, noticing the screen has a new spider web crack. “Damn.”
When I finally look up to see Ben, something inside me splinters just like my phone.
He’s not wearing his usual pastoral uniform of a conservative collared shirt and slacks. No, he’s showing off some major skin. Loose-fitting exercise shorts showcase a set of muscular calves covered in a sprinkle of dark hair. His T-shirt is baggy, but it’s sleeveless, and his arms… holy shit, his arms. Ripped muscles coiled and wrapped in tan skin glisten with sweat under the fluorescent lights.
“Did I break it?” Fresh from a workout, his face is flushed, and he smells like Irish Spring when he steps close to look at my phone.
“It was already cracked.”
His wet hair spiked at the tips with sweat gives his usual straightlaced image a bit of an edge. Damn if that doesn’t have my insides clenching. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard I opened the door. I should be more careful.”
“It’s cool. Really.”
He licks his lips, drawing my attention, even though his is still on my phone. “At least let me pay to get it fixed.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
When his brown eyes slide up to mine, I freeze, because maybe it’s just the light but they don’t look brown at all. They’re a mix of tan, green, and slivers of yellow. “I want to.”
“Really?”
He blinks rapidly, breaking the spell, and steps back. “It’s the right thing to do.”
I smirk. “Do you always do what’s right, Pastor Ben?”
His brows pinch together. “I try to.”
“That’s too bad.” I stuff my broken phone into my purse. “I’m here for volunteer class. I assume it’s…” I point in the direction of Kathy’s office.
His expression grows serious. “About that. I was reading over your questionnaire last night and—”
“Were you?” I tilt my head and try not to smile too much. The thought of Pastor Ben reading my answers to such personal questions, late at night and naked in his bed… well, the visual does things to me.
“I was. I feel like Grace Church owes you an apology. Those were very personal questions that have no bearing on you becoming a greeter. I’m embarrassed to admit that I leave these types of things to Kathy rather than give them my personal attention. I can see that’s a mistake.”
I shrug. “No sweat. I had fun with it.”
His lips quirk. “I noticed that, Ms. Ramcock.”
I suppress a delicious shi
ver at hearing that word come from his mouth. His voice is so deep, it has a rumbly edge that would be perfect for the bedroom. I can imagine how hot it would be to hear him growling those words against my nipples—
“Anyway,” he says, violently pulling me from the fantasy. “I went ahead and threw out your questionnaire and informed Kathy that Ashleigh Kendrick has my stamp of approval for volunteering.”
Maybe it’s the way he said my name with such care, or that he trashed my questionnaire as if to say he refuses to judge my character off a stupid sheet of paper. Whatever it is, hearing that he gave me his personal stamp of approval unravels something in my chest.
“You did that for me?”
He checks our surroundings then leans in. “Listen, I know Kathy can be a little intense. I hope you’ll stick it out regardless.” Oh my God, he’s licking his lips again. He can’t possibly have any idea what that does to me. “I’m looking forward to seeing you around here more often.”
“Really?” The word is barely a whisper. I expected Ben to be grateful for more warm bodies greeting people at the door, but him being excited to see more of me? I never expected that.
“Of course.” His smile is warm and genuine. “We’re friends, right?”
Annnd game over.
Cue the screeching brakes.
I smile and nod, hoping to hide the disappointment that has settled like a brick in my empty stomach. “Friends. Yes.”
He shrugs his well-rounded shoulders. “Your best friend being married to my brother makes us practically related.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Because then I can’t have dirty fantasies about you. I’m all for kink, but I draw the line at the incestuous kind.
He checks his watch. “You should probably get to class.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, and I’ll let you know how we’re going to repair your phone.”
I take a moment to truly appreciate his broad, muscled chest, slick, powerful arms, and his lickable face. “You, Ben Langley, are a solid dude.”
His gaze simmers on my lips and, in his attempt to look away, settles for the briefest moment on my chest. He’s so fucking hot when he’s flustered.