120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  Reverend Christian Mohr.

  In addition, he had very blatantly stated on a scrap of paper he had every intention of coming to her place to retrieve said bowl, and he would expect it to be in the condition bought as.

  A crack could easily destroy the whole bowl if not properly taken care of. But if he was one of those guys who simply had to preach to her . . . ?

  Well, he damn well better expect a slammed door in his face. Sara being polite enough to actually invite him inside her apartment was not about to happen. She was not going to let any Man of the Cloth come near to her, as this one likely desired too. She would take the bowl directly to him. And if she could not find Mr. Mohr right away, she would just leave it as an offering on his church steps. She sure as Hell would not be walking inside his church.

  Sara hadn’t confirmed his religion from the old woman. Their small town of only thirty-five hundred people had three very different denominations—Lutheran, Catholic, and Presbyterian; three very different church buildings to hold those three very different denominations, and the buildings listed in consecutive order as showy, old, and the third a near shack. If Mr. Mohr, Father Mohr, or whatever a Man of the Cloth desired to call himself these days, was a Catholic priest, at least Sara’s sins could be forgiven right away. She wouldn’t have to wait until Judgment Day to gain forgiveness.

  A Man of the Cloth should be able to give Sara absolution before the end of the day, at the very latest tomorrow night; say, around eight o’clock—as the slip of paper had read.

  Somehow, she could not check her smile. Reverend, priest, or simply Man of the cloth, there wasn’t much Mr. Mohr could do about what she’d done eight years prior. Sara had hid her secret well. And no one ever would be able to find it if she played her cards right and did not tempt fate’s hand for the second time.

  Chapter Four

  Christian Mohr turned the page of his bible, but his heart was not in the Scripture, any more than his actions had not been in the deeds. He set aside the worn book and slanted his head toward the window. It was raining. A few hours ago it had been a truly stunning afternoon with the promise of an even better tomorrow.

  October was his favorite time of year—until lately, that is. Now the cold rain mocked his calling and had him second-guessing what he was still doing with his time in Preacher’s Bend. Rain always mocked a man of his demons set at heart.

  Christian was fully aware he had demons inside the heart. He wouldn’t say otherwise. They came during time of weakness, and they never left his body—or his thoughts—until gained their pound of flesh from his soul. Every waking minute he could remember her face, feel the touch of her skin, smell the scent of her rose water perfume, as if it was only yesterday he’d held her in his arms and kissed her lips, still very much in love.

  His frown came quick. Love was never what it had been. Yesterday was gone. Today it had been sunny. Tonight, the rain came, washing away the path of a man’s footsteps; washing away any past mistakes.

  The moment he’d turned around and faced Ms. Ruby he’d felt his day as if a gift from God. He knew damn well she’d accidentally bumped into him. And what did he do for her apology? He’d turned into a man not worthy of life. He made the poor woman afraid of him.

  The only thing to do with such a magnanimous mistake and to make up for any fear he’d caused was to buy the bowl. He knew it had caught Ms. Ruby’s interest, as well her eye. That small piece of the past would now give him reasonable excuse to see her again. And he surely wanted to see her again. As a man, he had his reasons. As a minister, his reasons were a little clouded.

  Sara Ruby. Just the name brought incredible shame to his soul. Why he let slip off the tongue that he was following her, was beyond mere thought. He hadn’t been. A lousy one-liner that burst into flames the moment it came out of his mouth.

  Nevertheless, Christian had been following her—in a way. Ms. Ruby had done a supposedly terrible injustice to the men in this town. Not an injustice to him, per say, though he certainly a man. Yet, to single-handedly close the only male entertainment in Preacher’s Bend was to have single-handedly pissed off all the men desiring that entertainment. Not quite Christian’s cup of tea—but who was he to judge what other men found entertaining. He’d meant only to protect a rather vulnerable woman, until she could better protect herself.

  He never meant to terrify her. The look in her eyes when he refused to take her hand had spoken volumes of her fears.

  She was hiding something from all others. Christian knew exactly what that was. He was no Saint. He had his own sins to bear.

  As his gaze drifted away from the window and his thoughts slowly pulled from the past, he knew that for Sara Ruby to be able to defend her body from her enemies was closer to never, than it sooner to nearer. She was a sinner of the worst kind. Gorgeous, thin, quite brilliant in her field, and truly determined to get her way—at all cost—she had no clue what was good for her. Nor was she at all concerned who her enemies were.

  In fact, the woman was incredibly naïve—albeit beautiful—in the eyes of man.

  Problem was she had no real fear to check the naivety.

  This made her even more dangerous for Christian to deal with and protect.

  He pushed away from the table and made his way to his small kitchen. A tiny space, not more than ten feet by six, but served him well enough, he set a firm hand to his refrigerator door. A hasty pull on the handle found access to the beer he’d placed inside the humming appliance. He would have called the monstrosity an energy guzzler, but it was the only thing he’d paid for all on his own. The rest of his appliances came from elders of the community who felt sorry for him over the years.

  Shoot! There was nothing to feel sorry for. He liked living simple. He liked sparse furnishings and old appliances that ate the soul out of a huge electric company. It brought him closer to God. Well, as close as God would allow Christian to come—for now.

  Right now, the Almighty and Christian were at a crossroad. God wanted Christian to do his will, chose the right path, which he had been—was doing. And Christian wanted God to grant him peace from his thoughts; let him chose his own path. They were not exactly seeing eye-to-eye for the moment. Any peace he’d wanted hadn’t come his way and he was damn sick of holding his breath for it to happen.

  The one can of beer was all he took out of a near empty refrigerator. There were more inside of it, but this one sufficed to the task.

  He went back to the desk, set the beer can on top of the clutter he’d already spent hours working on, and sat down in his worn chair. Christian then stared at the can, resting his chin on folded knuckles, his elbows propped on the desk.

  A beer can did him no harm, but he wasn’t taking any chances with it being nearer him. He leaned forward, readjusted its position at a full arm’s length away, and waited for God to strike him dead.

  Nothing happened.

  Then how was it a lousy beer can could mock him as much as the rain was? Drawing his thoughts away from the can, Christian leaned to his left, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out the bound journal. Every Friday night its pages gained an entry from his hand.

  This was expected tradition, and who was he to break with tradition when spared most all else trouble. Every Reverend who had ever stepped foot inside this humble town, good or bad, was to write his life story inside this particular book. They called it the Book of Secrets, for it surely held all those of the men before him, and those who would come after Christian when it was time to move on. All the sordid thoughts, the trials and tribulations, even the unanswered prayers were scripted within the leather-bound book. A written confessional of every sin imaginable was on its yellowed pages. Due to its age, that was a whole lot of sin scripted out from mortal man.

  With the beer can placed beside his worn Bible, tonight’s entry into the journal would be considerably long. Christian’s life was a mess right now. The worse it got, the more words he would put to pen.

  He g
athered his breath, picked up his pen, and started to write. Pencil would have been better. However, using a pencil would’ve been far too easy to erase one’s mistakes—physically, and literally. The point of the book was to confess one’s mistakes, not erase them as easily as fog on hot summer day.

  Confession was one thing. Visible reminding and easy access was the golden rule of this process. It might be called the Book of Secrets, but Christian was not yet ready to share all of his.

  The sentences flowed from his brain to yellowed paper bounded by time and craft. This was the easy part. The hard part would be able to finish at least three full pages . . . without any of the words containing beer, Bible, God . . . or Sara Ruby.

  Last Friday night, these were the only things his journal entry contained: God, Bible, beer and Sara Ruby. And not necessarily in that order, or to the same degree of the other; and his very reason for such a crappy sermon on Sunday morning, and a truly flowery lecture from the church elders late Sunday afternoon.

  According to those who live in Preacher’s Bend, who came to church on a regular basis, discounting the hypocritical Easter/Christmas attendees, Christian was not to have told his flock they were all going to burn in Hell. He’d meant it to come out in a good way—an entirely different way than said. The sins of man forgiven by the Creator, and all that . . .

  They’d taken it as another, however.

  Every single member of his church thought he or she was told they were physically going to Hell by what Christian stated with conviction upon the pulpit. Some of them were headed its way, oddly enough. Christian could do nothing on his own to save the souls of those particular folks. They’d made their beds and would have to lie in those beds come Judgment Day, same as everyone else. He’d only meant to scare them a little; perhaps have taught a few, not a lot, a rather valuable lesson on pointing an accusing finger at the wrong individual. He firmly believed a man should never raise his finger unless to point it at a mirror.

  As was said, they’d taken his sermon truly out of context.

  Good Lord! His ears were still ringing from Harriet Thorn’s livid ranting on why he dared say what he had, and then put thought to get away with it. He was supposed to follow the Scripture . . . word for word. He thought he had.

  Apparently, he’d not followed it according to an incredibly angry woman who threatened no more goodies brought over until he gave her something she can actually leave her pew smiling about. Perhaps Harriet Thorn should have behaved in her younger years, and would then have had something to smile about. Yet that was between God and Harriet, not Christian and a threat to have his apple pie taken away if ever he pissed her off.

  According to the laws of a man’s punishment, surely not befitting the crime in any sense of the word, Harriet had openly informed him he’d done exactly this. He pissed her off.

  Christian smiled by remembrance alone.

  A damn funny sentence heard, coming from an old woman. He pissed her off.

  Harriet was an incredible cook. One of the best this county had ever seen. She baked until blue in the face, and a pie once a month for the Reverend of Grace Lutheran Church was something he actually looked forward too. More often than not, he was willing to accommodate the old bat’s wishes if it meant his cupboards stocked.

  Not this time, however. No. Sunday morning, around nine a.m. to be precise, Reverend Christian Mohr made Mrs. Harriet Thorn so mad she threatened abandonment of his supplied larder on a permanent basis.

  Perhaps if he’d had a commanding presence in his life while growing up, he would’ve noticed the threat for what it was. An empty stomach with constant complaint was hard to deal with while trying in vain to get any work accomplished.

  However, Christian was not going to grovel or cave in to Harriet’s demands, and he was not going to retract his sermon next Sunday morning either. Though his lesson learned, he hadn’t chanced starving to death and had done his grocery shopping on the way home from Church today. His freezer was now stock-plied with MSG loaded, no nutritional value whatsoever, microwave dinners—all thirty-one of them; one for each night’s meal, unless he could finagle a home-cooked supper out of a kind-hearted soul who felt sorry for him.

  He might be able to spout out a demanding performance upon the pulpit, but Christian could not cook a damn thing to save his own skin. Besides, how in Heaven’s Bells did Harriet think he could even do such a thing? Retract a sermon. He hadn’t made those words up. They’d been right in front of his face, dead center to left within his Bible—same as hers.

  Those words clearly stated that unless you checked your anger at the door, God was going to do it for you.

  How clearer could that have been to the old woman?

  This was the only reason he even stopped at Harriet’s yard sale. He went there to apologize, and to put a firm hand down, and then show her exactly where he’d gotten the idea.

  She, in turn, made him a deal he simply could not refuse, and proceeded to give him a sound piece of advice he dared not refuse, as well. Harriet had made it a point to hold out the punishment for a full week. Hence, the bare refrigerator and a man’s growling stomach at the worst possible time.

  She’d told him that if he wanted to point out Scripture, when she could damn well read it herself, he had better buy something off her tables before getting back into his car to head home.

  He did. He then gave that something to Sara. He surely did not want a bowl from days gone by, or from the house of an angry woman. A man had his pride to consider.

  Christian’s head so stuck in the past last Sunday morning, he knew quite well he’d went on and on over trivial matters upon the pulpit. With his three worst demons staring him in the face right at this very moment, this past was catching up to his heels yet again. He never put much thought to it that a man’s sins could overtake all else, but he’d been proven wrong—in spades . . . a whole seven dollars and fifty cents wrong.

  A man’s past never truly releases its firm grasp from the soul, unless that soul is fulfilled by something far better.

  Christian’s past was so empty and so unfulfilled he didn’t dare close his eyes and expect a miracle to come his way, or for anything to change. He was . . . what he was. A thirty-two-year old man, widowed, and filled with sin beyond any confessional capabilities a tiny leather-bound journal could hold.

  Pen in hand, he went back to the task of writing, while listening to the soothing sound rain made when falling on the earth. A man’s heart was easily settled by the sound of the rain. Christian’s heart, however, had been broken in two the day Beale died. There was no more settling to be done. No more settling he even wanted done.

  There was only acceptance to what lay ahead and deliverance from sins, if God willing.

  Chapter Five

  Sara stared at the window. Her trapped thoughts caught on watching a droplet of water connect with another before sliding down the pane as a whole. The pouring rain only made things worse. The sound it made had her unsettled; afraid of what might come her way tomorrow, and of what she might have to be dealt with when not ready for any more trouble.

  Sara was fearful of what she could not control. Falling rain was one of those uncontrollable things. Rain could wash away what one wanted to stay hidden; easily uncovered the truth by truly violent nature or even deadlier calm. Rain, in fact, could kill.

  Sara stared at the window for a few seconds more, then pulled her sight from it. Her attention slipped over to the bowl. Seven dollars and fifty cents of pure Hell stared back at her from across the room. Seven dollars and fifty cents of a past she had to let go and forget—soon.

  Yet, how was this even possible? She certainly couldn’t go out searching through pouring rain, in hopes to locate a certain Mr. Mohr, when she had a convertible the top no longer worked. Her car parked in the underground garage and only drivable on sunny days until fixed.

  And the phone company accidentally disconnected her line late yesterday afternoon so she couldn’t exactly all h
im. This disconnection done by the man who ran the local branch . . . and, who’d been a regular at the club. After a few minutes arguing the inexcusable fact out with the man’s secretary, by way of pay phone in the back of the grocery store, and a few choice adjectives to get her point across, Sara had gotten his secretary to admit her boss might have made a mistake, and first thing Monday morning she would certainly look into it.

  Mistake, her ass! He’d done it on purpose. They were all doing odd little things to Sara . . . on purpose. Undelivered mail, removed antennae from the roof of her car, cut cable lines from her apartment, a flat tire, a huge ten mile detour on a road she’d driven to work every day for the past eight years—and no construction equipment on sight.

  However, none had ever made her second guess her every move as a mere stranger had; namely, the words and deeds of one well-connected Reverend Mohr.

  Mohr, Sara was afraid of. Not by profession, or what he might have caught in an unguarded reaction from her, but by the way he was connected to, well, you know . . . the Big Kahuna up in the sky; the big Numero Uno, who Sara was more than simply mad at for all of twenty-five years.

  She rose from her couch and walked straight for the bowl, picking it up in hand; turned it over and looked at the crack once more. It did not seem as bad a crack when inside the apartment as it had when out in the open and held under natural sky. It was too bad she didn’t own this piece. It would have fit her collection perfectly. She could’ve easily hid the crack by way of cunning display. If anyone ever asked to see it more closely, she could tell him or her it was too delicate to remove from the shelf.

  Yet, it was not as though she had tons of people in and out of her apartment, checking out her antiques with a microscope. Sara wasn’t so great at keeping friends once made. Foster Care fucked that up for her.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she set the bowl on the table near the door. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, she was going to take it to the man . . . if ever it stopped raining.