Preacher

by Madison Faye

  “Lizzie, I need to insist that—”

  “Could you unburden me from this sin, preacher?”

  “Lizzie—”

  “Cleanse my soul?”

  “Ms. Purcell—”

  “It’s so hot, Preacher Gabriel, being this close to the fires of damnation!”

  She reaches for the front tie to her dress, and I groan. “Lizzie—”

  “Or maybe that’s just you, Gabriel,” she purrs. She yanks the tie open, and suddenly she shrugs the dress open and off her shoulders to pool at her feet.”

  Goddamnit.

  She’s got a whole little number underneath, too—this black lace ensemble of matching panties and bra, complete with garter-belts. To any moral man, this should be game over. This would be hello sin-town. I should be ripping my boxers off and tripping over myself to get my hands all over her.

  …None of that shit happens, because this is not who I want. Not by a country fucking mile.

  “Ms. Purcell,” I say quietly. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

  “Uh-uh, Gabriel,” she purrs. “You might say you’re a man of God, but I know a hungry sinner when I see one. Come on, preacher… it’s all for you. Whatever you want, it’s all for the taking—”

  “I want you to put your clothes on and go home, Ms. Purcell.”

  She stiffens, and finally, that smug, coy smile fades from her lips.

  “Excuse me?” she bristles.

  “Go home, Lizzie,” I say gently. “I’m flattered, truly, but—”

  “Asshole.”

  She whirls, grabbing her dress off the ground and furiously yanking it back on. I just roll my eyes at her back as she huffs and splutters.

  “You have got some nerve,” she hisses.

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, I know your game, sir!” She spits. “Lead the women in town on? Look extra handsome and make them think you’re there for a good time, just so you can lord some morals over them when they finally cave and come to you?”

  I wrinkle my brow at the crazy standing in front of me. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m onto your games, sir!” she crows. “And I’m going to tell the whole town about—”

  “I’m not sure we want to get into a ‘sharing’ war, Ms. Purcell,” I growl tightly. “Do you?”

  She bristles, but her lips purse shut.

  “Asshole,” she finally mutters before she whirls on her heel and starts to march across the field.

  I just blink and stoop down to grab my mug of watered down, lukewarm whiskey. I knock the rest of it back and shake my head. The town is going to kill me.

  I shuffle back to my chair and slump into it. I need to focus. With a frown, I glance around and finally spot my pants on the ground behind me. I snatch them up and dig out my cell phone. I need to call Kane.

  My brother answers after the fourth ring.

  “Brother Gabriel,” he drawls with amusement in that deep, rasping voice of his. “How are you, my brother in Christ?”

  I roll my eyes and chuckle. “What are you, a method actor now? Get out of character and talk fucking normally. I’ve been church-talking all damn day.”

  Kane sights. “Alas, brother, I am but a humble servant of the…” he trails off with a snicker. “What’s up, man?” he chuckles in his more normal speech.

  I shake my head and take a drink. It’s funny how we both got here—both of us playing the same game in different parts of the country. I was sixteen and Kane was twenty when Jasper found us in downtown Charleston hustling bar patrons. We did it all, man—conning college frat boys at the pool tables, bullshit games of “find the marble” with three cups for the tourists at White Point Garden. Mail fraud, check fraud, hotel scams. You name it, and we were well on our way to being blackbelts at it back then.

  But then, we met the grand-fucking-master.

  Jasper saw right through our little scams and parlor tricks. But what he saw was raw talent, I guess. Kane and I had been on the streets for about a year by then after our parents took off, and for whoever reason, but probably because of the dollar signs he could see in us, Jasper was like the uncle we never had, and he took us in. Took us in, took us under his wing, and gave us a masterclass in scamming and conning.

  I mean, Jasper was the Harvard Law School of conning. We went in with bachelor’s degrees in card tricks and pick-pocketing and came out with doctorate’s in parting fools from their money. Jasper ran a lot of schemes, but his main gig was the traveling preacher routine. And man, the dude pretty much wrote the book on it. For Kane and I, it was like learning to shoot hoops from Michael fucking Jordan.

  That was years ago, now. After Kane and I split off to do our own things, Jasper got picked up for mail fraud by the damn FBI. He did a few years in McCreary Federal Correctional Institution up in Kentucky before he ran afoul of the Aryan brotherhood there and got his throat cut in the showers. It’s a damn shame, not to mention a complete waste of brilliance and talent. But it’s also a sobering reminder of what happens if you slip up in this game.

  “Not much, man,” I drawl. “How’s the wild west?”

  Kane and I make sure we never cross territories or visit ones that the other has been too, for obvious reasons. Mostly, I stick to the northern midwest and the south-east, and Kane takes the west coast, the south-west, and some of the Gulf coast. He’s in Arizona now, I think.

  “The wild west is pretty fucking great, man,” he chuckles. “Hey, I found a new one for you.”

  “Oh?” I can hear him grinning, and I take another swig of whiskey.

  “Yeah, check this out. It’s an arthritis medication.”

  Yes, we really are this shameless and awful. Hey, it pays the bills.

  “Oh really?”

  “Oh, dude,” he grins. “Mix up some menthol oil and some low-dose lidocaine with a clear gel, like hand sanitizer.”

  “And?”

  “It gives a tingling, slightly numbing sensation, lasts a while, and smells nice.” He chuckles. “Shit, man, people swear by this thing, too.”

  I laugh and shake my head and take another drink. “I’m assuming this has no basis in medical fact.”

  “None whatsoever,” Kane grins into the phone. “And I charge twenty-five bucks for a six-ounce bottle of the shit.”

  I whistle. “Jesus.”

  “A-fucking-men, brother. Business is booming.” I can hear the “crssshht” sound of a beer can opening. “So how’s… where are you, Florida?”

  “Georgia.”

  He whistles. “Fuck, man. That’s gold country right there.”

  I nod, taking a drink before I frown. “Hey, Kane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever think this job is… you know?”

  “Don’t get soft of me, Gabe,” he says with a small laugh.

  “Naw, not like… listen—”

  “No, you listen,” he sighs. “You want a conscience? Go sell used cars, or become a politician.”

  I frown. “I’m not sure that’s a great example.”

  “No, it’s a fantastic example, because those sneaky lying fucks have more scruples than we do, and we both know it.” He sighs and takes a drink of beer. “Gabe, you want to be honest? Be honest with yourself. Don’t ever buy your own bullshit, bro. We are what we are, just like Jasper taught us.”

  “How to be con men.”

  “How to be businessmen, Gabe. How to live on the road.”

  “How to dull our souls.”

  He sighs. “Gabe, Jasper’s in a pauper’s grave because he never knew when to pump the brakes, and he never knew how to save, or how to keep it going. That’s where we’re better. C’mon, man, where are the second thoughts coming from? You’re in fucking Georgia. Jesus Christ, Gabe, that’s like panning for gold at Fort fucking Knox.” He chuckles. “You prick, I can’t believe I let you have the south-east, and here you are bitching about it.”

  I grin. “Naw, it’s nothing. Just… I dunno. Thinking,
I guess.”

  I take another sip and look out over the field again, my thoughts drifting to the obvious: Delilah.

  “You getting laid these days?”

  I roll my eyes. “Kane, relax.”

  He laughs. “I’m telling you, you’re denying yourself God’s greatest gift to mankind.”

  I snort. “Sex?”

  “Fuck yes! Well, bluntly, the blowjob might be His greatest gift, but fucking is a close damn second.”

  I chuckle and down the last of my whiskey. “I gotta go, man. It’s late here and I’ve gotta get this tent up. Plus, I’ve got a sermon to work through for tomorrow.”

  “Hit ‘em with the pillar of salt one. Man, that’s my favorite of yours. And you’re in Georgia—they’re going to eat that shit up.”

  I grin. “Thanks, man. And thanks for picking up.”

  “Anytime, man. And hey, Gabe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay the course, man. You can think about your life goals when we take a break in the winter. For now, earn. Make that cash. Make hay while the sun shines, yeah?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Later on, man.”

  I hang up and reach for the bottle once again to float the watered-down ice in my cup. I take a long drink, and my mind mellows as I sit back in the chair. I know tonight was a mistake. I know going there at all was bad, but cornering her like that, and dropping my armor, and letting her see me—the real me, the wicked me—was a real bad idea.

  But fuck me, that gasp; that whimper. The way she panted when my lips brushed her ear, and the way her body arched as if it were dying to touch mine. I groan, remembering the scent of her skin from so close—honeysuckle and vanilla. The memory of her scent makes my mouth water, and remembering the feel of her soft, wet body in my hands in that tub, and then the way she arched into me on that porch has my cock throbbing in my boxers.

  My balls swell with cum, and I look down and grunt at the huge, obscene tent in the boxers. I’m so fucking hard that it’s pulling the waistband away from my grooved abs. I grit my teeth, and something fierce and wild sizzles inside of me.

  Fuck it.

  I knock back the rest of my drink, put the cup aside, and I slip my hands into my boxers. I shove them down, and my fat, swollen cock springs free to slap heavily against my abs. I think it’s pretty well established that I’m not actually a religious man. But if I were, I’d probably make a note to send a thank you card to the big guy upstairs for the blessing between my thighs.

  I groan and wrap my hand around my thick, throbbing hard shaft. I hiss in pleasure as my grip tightens and my hand slides up and down my length. I close my eyes, and once again, my fantasies slide back to Delilah. I think of her in that tub, bent over and looking back over her shoulder at me, begging me to fuck her little pussy.

  I reach down and cup my heavy, cum-filled balls, and I roll them under my fingers. My cock twitches and pulses, the vein throbbing down the length of it as I grunt and slowly stroke. Precum beads at the tip and trickles down over my shaft and my fingers, making it slick and glistening in the moonlight. I picture sweet little Delilah being my filthy little plaything. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me with her mouth open and eager, begging to swallow my cock.

  I picture her on her back, legs up and knees by her tits as I crouch between her legs and run my tongue from her clit to her little asshole. I jerk my fat cock and imagine the honeysuckle taste of her pussy on my tongue. I imagine her squealing and moaning for more and gasping as I stand and press the swollen head of my cock against her tight little virgin ass.

  Faster and faster, my hand shuttles up and down my throbbing, trembling shaft. I hiss out loud in pleasure, and my abs tighten. My balls draw up tight, and just as I picture sweet, innocent little Delilah riding my cock and coming all over my balls, I lose it completely. I hiss, and the cum begins to pump from my balls. My cock twitches and lurches in my grip, and with a groan, I feel my cum spurting from the tip in thick, heavy ropes.

  Hot and sticky, my cum splashes down over my hand, my balls, and my abs, until I’m gasping and dropping back into the chair.

  Shit.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me, and I don’t how it is that this girl is getting under my skin and fucking with my head. But I do know that there’s no getting her out. I know I’m in trouble.

  I know I want her.

  …God help me.

  Chapter Six

  Delilah

  The midday sun is hot and scorching as we pile out of Papa’s pickup in the field on the edge of town. And yet, in spite of the muggy heat, I shiver when I look across the field at the Winnebago.

  Gabriel’s lair.

  I swallow, and my face burns hotly. I squirm, shifting on my low heels and smoothing down my dress. It’s a Monday afternoon, but it feels like half the town has closed down to come to Gabriel’s first “church” service. There, standing tall next to the Winnebago, is a big, two-masted off-white tent—like a small circus tent, really.

  …You know, the type of tent where you go to see wild beasts. Much like the one we’re about to go see, named Gabriel.

  My face flushes again, and I swallow back heat as best I can. My mind flashes to last night, and the way he… well, the way he invaded my mind. The way he touched me without really touching me. The way he put sin into my head and kept me up all freaking night praying that the wickedness would leave by dawn.

  I hope—I pray—that it has. But when I look across the field at the tent, and when I think about the man I know is inside, my stomach flutters. My thighs clench, and I bite my lip, trying to push back the evil, carnal thoughts that he burrowed into my head and my very soul since last night. I frown, and my mouth tightens. Once more, I tell myself what I’ve been telling myself all sleepless night: that Gabriel Marsden is the devil.

  And I can’t tell a soul. I know what he is, and it’s not that I’m worried about him trying to “take me down with him” or anything like that. It’s that I know his words about me aren’t lies. They’re… well, they’re true.

  …I’ve been sinful. I’ve harbored wicked, carnal thoughts. I am not pious. And I know if I try and tell anyone the truth about Gabriel, the truth about myself will inevitably come tumbling out. And so, I’m silent and blushing as I follow mama and papa and Paul across the field towards the Beast’s service.

  It really does feel like half of Canaan is here, and no sooner have we found seats in the last row of folding chairs, than the organ music begins to play from speakers hanging in the corners of the tent. The lights inside dim, and suddenly, in a billowing white robe, the Devil himself takes the pulpit on the small stage at the front.

  …To cheers.

  I scowl and bite my lip as the crowd of townspeople get to their feet and freaking clap for him. Gabriel grins at them all, giving them that dazzling, handsome smile. And God help me, when his eyes sweep over me, and stick on me, a flush of heat teases through me. I deliberately look away, but when I count to five and raise my head again, I gasp.

  He’s still looking right at me, grinning wolfishly.

  Finally, he turns back to the rest of the congregation and raises his hands.

  “Brother and sisters!” he calls out loudly, but easily. His booming, deep voice fills the tent like a circus ringmaster, and we are his popcorn-eating, peanut throwing crowds.

  “Thank you all for coming out today for my first service in this great town in God’s own country.”

  Cheers, of course.

  “Today, I wish to talk to you about the sins of the flesh.”

  I stiffen. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  “Carnal sin, brothers and sisters,” he sighs with a dramatic shake of his head. “I’m talking to you about harboring the wicked temptations of Satan himself. Lust, and the coveting of the flesh. The weakness of all men, and the Beast’s very best roadblock to keep you from the gates of heaven.”

  The crowd murmurs, and Gabriel delves right in. And honestly, I�
�m almost impressed. For half a freaking hour, the man with the wicked smile, the sinful words, and lips that brushed my ear last night and sent heat through my core in the most carnal way imaginable talks to the crowd about the dangers of, well, him. He warns of temptation, and innuendo. He cautions against giving in to the seduction of the heart and the flesh, and the whole freaking time, he’s looking right at me with those eyes of his just smirking and blazing with heat.

  I sit there in his tent, squirming and brimming with mortifying heat. I know Gabriel’s tent isn’t really a church, not with a man like him at the pulpit. But still, it feels even more terrible to be fighting off the feelings he’s laid inside of me while surrounded by a sermon about God and temptation.

  When it’s finally over, I run—not walk—back to the truck. I’m not chancing a little run in with Gabriel after the service, and when my bewildered family catches up to me, I explain it away with stomach cramps. Which is a lie. Lovely, one more sin to add to my growing repertoire of damnation.

  I need church. I need a real church.

  Somehow, I keep myself busy—which means my mind is occupied—the rest of the day. I help Papa change a tire on his truck. I proofread some of the pamphlets Paul is putting together to source more donations for his church. I dive deep into baking with my mother, until the entire kitchen is covered in flour and smells divine. I even put headphones on and go for a long, muscle-aching run, even with how sticky and hot it is outside.

  All of it to clear my mind of Gabriel Marsden.

  By dinner time, the afternoon’s horrible thoughts, not to mention the ones from last night, are a distant memory. Mostly. I finish doing some dishes in the kitchen and head upstairs to my bedroom, and once the door is closed, I collapse onto my bed.

  It’s exhausting keeping your mind from thinking about what it wants to think about all day.

  But no sooner does my head hit the pillows does the wall I’ve built around those thoughts come crumbling down. In seconds, actually. I blush, and my core clenches as I start the endless replays of Gabriel moving to me last night. I bite my lip, and I remember the feel of his huge body moving against my smaller one. I remember the way he smelled like aftershave and peach moonshine. The way the touch of his lips on my ear sent feelings and desire through me I’ve spent my whole life pointedly ignoring and pushing away.