by S. R. Grey
I chuckle, remembering how much she loved Holy Trinity Church, the congregation, especially. She knew everything going on with everybody, and always made it her mission to help when she could. Unfortunately, though I go to church, work for the church, I am sure not social like my grandmother used to be. I keep to myself during Mass, sit in the very back. I’d sit in the vestibule if I could get away with it. But Father Maridale would have my head. Speaking of which, that very same head is usually bowed in prayer—not unlike the ink angel that’s tattooed on my back—when I’m at my station in the back. I probably appear to be praying, however, try as I might I find I really don’t have much to say to God. At least, not yet.
Now, you’d think a man praying—or at least trying to—would warrant some respect. Apparently this is not the case in the minds of the Holy Trinity parishioners. My faux-praying sure as hell doesn’t stop them from turning around and craning their necks, all pretending to be looking at something other than me.
Well, they don’t fool me. I hear their whispers, feel their disapproving stares. I always dart for the doors the second Mass ends. I know what they’re thinking. They expect me to fuck up again, ruin the second chance Father Maridale—the leader of their flock—is giving me.
Shit, I can’t wait to prove every last one of those sanctimonious assholes wrong.
That’s why yesterday my simple plan had been to grab a beer and a burger down at the local watering hole, and then head home to catch some zees. But Missy, in her four-inch fuck-me heels, derailed that plan when she spotted me at the bar and started toward me, her purpose all too clear in her walk.
I used to see Missy periodically at parties before I got into trouble. She was never much of a party girl back then, despite her presence at some of the wilder bashes. But people change.
Over the past few weeks—until last night—my only interactions with Missy have been at church, and those usually involve catching her glancing back at me from the front pew. Not disapprovingly like the other parishioners, oh no. Missy always eyes me like I’m a piece of candy she wants to take a bite out of.
I shake my head, chuckle a little as I soap up my body. Missy sure got her wish last night…and then some. Fuck, I have to admit what she did to me felt good, really good, but what a mistake.
Hopefully, Missy will be more successful at keeping her mouth shut than she was last night behind the Anchor Inn. I groan a little at the thought of her making a big deal out of what happened. God, girls and their expectations, reading shit into anything physical that occurs. I hope Missy realizes our little tryst was a one-time deal. Somehow I doubt I’ll be so lucky.
I turn so the steaming water hits my back. I have the sneaking suspicion Missy, surely in church at this very moment, is probably looking back and wondering why I am not there. I can picture it perfectly: Missy—who always positions herself between her portly mom and some hot chick I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting—sitting there, not listening to Mass. Instead she’s surely thinking about last night and hoping it meant something, like I’m into her or something. Dream on, sweetheart.
Now, if the mystery-hot chick who sits next to Missy had been the one to walk into the bar last night, I’d be singing an entirely different tune today. First off, I never would have treated Hot Chick the way I treated Missy, even if she is hot as fuck. Hot Chick just seems too…I don’t know…fragile maybe.
She’s a slender, tiny little thing. Pretty too, in a classic but understated kind of way. I like her delicate features, her porcelain skin, and the mane of chestnut-colored hair that flows down her back. And I really like her heart-shaped ass and the shapely legs she shows off in pretty dresses. Not to mention her perky tits that she tries to hide under pastel cardigan sweaters. Damn, I like those too.
My dick reminds me of just how much I like Hot Chick’s assets as I finish showering. I think about lingering a few extra minutes, but there’s really no time for that, so I push down on my length and turn off the water.
Grabbing a towel from the bar by the sink, I dry off and give myself some time to cool down. I pad back into the bedroom, tamping down any lingering lust-ridden thoughts, and pondering how the fuck I’ve never run into this hot chick before, seeing as she seems to be around my age.
She must be new to Harmony Creek, I conclude, because I never once saw her back when I was living here. I would definitely recollect if I had met her.
If she is new to town I bet she lives south of Market Street—the main thoroughfare running through town. South of Market is where all the important people live—the mayor, members of the town council, prominent business owners, and the like.
I should know; my family once lived there. Back before we moved to Vegas, back when I was a different person, on a different path.
Whatever.
In any case, Hot Chick sure looks like she’d fit in down there south of Market—all prim and proper in her girly-girl dresses and pastel sweaters. I guess what I’m saying is that she’s someone who wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of me. Maybe the person I was a long time ago would’ve had a chance, but the damaged man I’ve become doesn’t deserve someone good and wholesome like that. I’m doomed to make due with the Missy Metzgers of the world.
It’s almost noon and Mass should be letting out, which is great. By the time I get over to the church everyone will be gone. I’d rather not go at all, but I have to stop by and pick something up. Now that summer vacation has officially begun, Father Maridale has all these painting projects for me to start on. Most are over in the school next to the church. I’m supposed to get started tomorrow bright and early. But I don’t yet have a key, so I need to pick one up. Unfortunately, that entails a visit to the church, and a face-to-face with the priest who saw enough good in me to hire my sorry ass last month.
Standing before the closet in my bedroom, I decide it’d be prudent—especially since I missed Mass—to dress respectably. I flip through the hangers, and stop when I come to the nicest pair of pants I own. I run a finger down the sharp creases of the tailored, black dress slacks my mother bought me to wear before the judge who ended up granting me my freedom.
I sigh and pull the pants off the hangar.
Also thanks to Mom, I now own a nice collection of button-down shirts, in a vast array of colors. I just grab the first one I see—white, crisp, and cotton. Perfect, I’ll be in black and white, just like Father Maridale. The sinner and the saint, matched.
While I dress in these so-not-me clothes, I think about how much they must’ve cost. But it’s not like my mother can’t afford pricey things these days. Like I said before, people change…and some get lucky.
For Abby, it’s the latter that applies. I guess the cost of some fancy duds is a small price to pay when all you want is for your son to look the part of a respectable young man.
What a joke. None of this stuff is my style. I am jeans and T-shirts, hoodies and Converse. Comfortable, that’s me. But today, like at the courthouse over a month ago, I’ll go back to playing a part. All white cotton-tucked, black slacks belted, and leather dress shoes shined to a fault.
After I finish dressing for my role, I comb my fingers through my hair, hair that’s grown a lot since getting out of prison. That’s right—no more buzz cuts for me. My hair’s a little less unruly than usual and, shit, that’s good enough.
Downstairs, I grab my keys, then head out to my newest acquisition—a truck I bought following my return to Harmony Creek. She’s a beast, not a bitch, a good work truck, a no-frills F-150. Some guy who lives up by the Agway offered it to me for far less than its worth. He needed the money, and I needed something to drive—thanks to the court reinstating my license. Since the deal on the truck was too good to pass up I dipped into some of the money I inherited from my grandmother. The truck is a few years old, and the white paint has a few dings and scratches, but mechanically she’s pristine. And that’s really all that matters.
I depress the clutch, turn the key. She starts right u
p. I push the gearshift into reverse and back out of the gravel driveway. There’s never much traffic out where I live, so I’m able to back right out onto Cold Springs Lane.
I shift into first and roll up to a stop sign. Still no traffic as I turn left onto the state route that takes you straight into Harmony Creek central. I live a few miles outside the east boundary of town, where it’s all farm-on-farm. Country-styled houses, barns, and, this time of year, endless fields of newly planted corn. Since the church sits directly where country bleeds into town—where the state route becomes Market Street—it’s not going to be a long drive. But today I’m in no rush. So I take it slow, shift gears lazily, and focus on savoring this late-spring day.
Being locked up for four years has a way of making you appreciate all the little things you once took for granted. Things like how a slate-gray, rain-promising sky, like the one above me right now, really brings out the emerald green of the low-lying hills in the distance. This is how I imagine a place like Ireland must look every day. It’s stunning if you really let yourself see.
I follow the curve of the road and lightning flashes, forking behind a stark red barn in the distance. A light rain begins to fall, and, as I flip on the wipers, two bay mares in a field to my right seek shelter.
This countryside is serene; it takes my breath away. I took all of this for granted for far too long. I didn’t know what I had four years ago, what I’d had all along. I used to long to leave, but now I’m just grateful to be back. I missed this place. It’s the closest thing to home that I’ve got.
That’s why I’d be crazy to mess things up this early in my return.
So why did I do something so stupid last night?
I don’t have an answer to my silent question as I close in on the church. But guilt—the relentless bitch—punches me in the gut and forces me to delve deeper.
Why couldn’t I resist temptation? Why was I weak?
But it’s like the fucking die was cast the minute Missy leaned over the edge of the bar. An image fills my mind, one of her low-cut red top. It left little to the imagination. So I took a chance. But nobody warned me that the die was loaded. I should have suspected. I should have turned away. Hell, I should have paid my tab, gotten up, and left. But I did none of those things.
Instead, I stayed.
I blame my poor decision a little on being caught off guard. Last night Missy looked vastly different from how she looks in church. Her dishwater blonde hair, usually up in one of those fancy twist things, hung all loose and tumbling down her back. In addition to the cleavage-bearing top that started it all, Missy had on a very short skirt, showing off her tall, thin legs. And she was wearing a lot of makeup. Missy is the same age as me—twenty-four—but with all the heavy, dark shit she’d caked around her eyes she looked a lot older. Not that it was bad necessarily. She looked good, I guess, different.
I have to admit her sultry appearance piqued my interest, in a purely lust-filled way. Still, I didn’t want to start something up with Missy, and I knew that’s what she was looking for. We’d never messed around in the past, even though she was the kind of girl—easy—I often went for back in the day.
But the last thing I need is to get sucked back into that lifestyle, which is why sticking around last night turned out to be such a huge mistake.
But it started out innocently enough—
No wait, who am I kidding? It started out dirty and it got downright filthy. Not immediately, though.
After Missy was done flaunting her cleavage in my face, I nodded a curt hello and took a bite of my burger. Maybe she’ll catch the hint and leave me alone, I remember thinking. Of course, that didn’t happen.
Missy sat down on the bar stool beside me, adjusted her skirt, and popped open her purse. She pulled out some makeup thing and proceeded to slowly apply another coat of the glittery shit that was already pretty much plastered on her lips.
“Mmm,” she hummed, smacking her sparkling lips together. “I was hoping I’d run into someone interesting tonight. It’s good to see you somewhere other than church, Chase. So, how are you adjusting to, uh, life after…” She trailed off, leaving her face in a frown.
“Prison?” I snapped, finishing what she obviously couldn’t say. “It’s okay to say prison, Missy. I won’t get mad and bite.”
I guess that was kind of a lie, since I’d done just that. And Missy made sure I knew it.
With an exaggerated sniffle and a pout, she muttered, “Jeez, I was just trying to be polite about it. I was hoping I’d think of a nice word for prison.”
I almost choked on my beer. “Don’t bother,” I shot back. “There’s nothing nice about prison.”
So I was being kind of a dick, but I just wanted Missy to leave. No such luck. The head of the bake committee’s indignation was matched only by her blatant attempt to draw my attention back to her huge tits. It pretty much worked too. But the more I saw of those enormous things the more convinced I became they were fake. No way could someone so skinny have tits that big.
Missy crossed her arms across her chest, not to hide, but to emphasize. She leaned forward and feigned a pout. “I think you at least owe me a drink for being so harsh, Chase Gartner.”
Harsh? Oh, please.
But lest I sound harsh, I muttered a soft and tender “sure,” while I signaled the bartender to bring another beer for me and one of whatever frothy-shit drink Missy was imbibing.
My T-shirt sleeve rode up when I raised my right arm, thus exposing a tat I had inked in prison—the number 72. Missy’s heavily lined eyes zoomed in on my bicep, like a laser beam. She squinted and pursed her lips.
Let her look, I thought.
I was just thankful it wasn’t the words that reminded me of the last night with my father that had drawn her attention. Those words are inked around my left bicep, not my right.
The 72, though, sure had captured Missy’s attention. She stared and stared. I had a feeling she’d muster up the nerve and ask me what the meaning was behind the number. I wasn’t about to tell her the number seventy-two is an homage, of sorts, to the cell block I called home for four long years. I had the seventy-two tattoo done shortly before I left prison. It was like that place had gotten so into me that I needed a permanent reminder. And there was a guy there who did some really nice work. He’d done another piece for me back when I’d first been incarcerated.
That early ink was just a revision of the wings on my back. The wings now rain feathers—just a few—down and around the angel. A couple feathers fall all the way to my lower back. The falling feathers are there to remind me every day that my wings are damaged and broken.
Sorry, Dad, I’ll never soar.
I don’t make it a habit to discuss the meaning behind my tats with anyone. Ever. The number, the words, the angel, the wings, the falling feathers—these are mine, all mine. I hold the meanings behind each piece close to my heart. And I sure as shit don’t ever plan on sharing any of it with the head of some fucking bake committee.
Missy must have felt my angry gaze boring into her last night, as I thought these same exact things. She wisely diverted her eyes away from my bicep and asked no more questions, choosing instead to focus on the rest of me.
“You have an amazing body, Chase,” she cooed, switching up her pick-up strategy. “Look at you.” She squeezed my shoulder as her eyes traveled over my back, then returned to my chest. “Don’t you look and feel all hard and ripped. Wow, you must work out. Like, a lot.”
It was a lame come-on, and I’d heard it before, so I mumbled “whatever,” while I turned my head to roll my eyes. Mercifully, the arrival of our drinks brought an end to that line of conversation.
As we drank, Missy switched gears yet again and began to go on and on about the church, singing the praises of Father Maridale. In that assessment, I had no argument. The kindly priest with the shock of white hair who shepherds the flock at Holy Trinity is giving me a chance, something no one else was willing to do.
F
ather Maridale knew my grandmother for over thirty years, and during the past few, while I was in prison, she must’ve somehow convinced him I wasn’t a completely lost cause. How she did it, I’ll never know. But I know Gram never stopped believing in me…even after I let her down…time and time again. If only she had lived long enough to see me walk out of those prison gates, two years earlier than I was supposed to. That would have made her happy, joyous even, especially since it was my mother who made it all happen.
Yeah, that’s right. My mother, who’d given up on me six years earlier, finally came through in the end. I know part of it was because Abby had finally hit the jackpot, but I like to think she helped me because she loves me, despite the fact we still butt heads.
Anyway, my mother didn’t come into all her newly found wealth at some casino. Nope, not even with all that trying. Remember, the house always wins in the end. But the house had nothing to do with my mother’s fortunes. It was steady boyfriend number eight, a man named Greg, who turned out to be Mom’s winning ticket. And, in a way, I guess he ended up being mine too.
See, Greg has a ton of cash, and for my mother he was willing to share, especially after they got married. A week to the day after steady boyfriend number eight became husband number two my mother hired a big-shot attorney. She called me up, told me about him, and said he was going to get me out of prison. I thought she was bluffing, a true Vegas gal. But, to my surprise, she was telling the truth.
The attorney she hired was good, and he got right to work. His strategy was to appeal to the governor and convince the court I’d been deprived of due process. Mr. Big Shot Attorney came to see me in prison the day after I talked to Mom. He arrived armed with a stack of legal pads and enough righteous indignation for the both of us.
He asked a shitload of questions…
Was I ever read my rights? I didn’t recall.