by Marata Eros
Anna, wife number four, leaps back as if I punched her.
I smirk, not bothering to contain my disappointment that it's Anna at my bedroom door and not Audrey.
I've never seen her get the beef injection from Weston.
Nope. I was long gone to college by the time this wife showed up.
I undress her with my eyes anyway. She's made up all wifely: heels the exact shade of her dress, and her wrists, neck, and ears dripping tasteful jewelry.
I know what she wears underneath all the finery.
Fucking Weston's a huge perv. A perv that's shootinʼ blanks.
She'll have standard wife lingerie. Crotchless panties, nipples bare, with a scrap of lace underneath her rack for some support but not much else.
He likes access to the wives.
I don't give a fuck about Anna. She makes my cock limp.
Now Audrey—she's a completely different thing. When she's around, my dick is a plank.
My sarcastic grin notches up. “What do you want?” I tighten my grip on the jamb and lean farther, deliberately making her uncomfortable.
She takes a step back, and her golden-blond hair falls forward like a curtain. “A police officer is here to see Father Weston.”
Weird. I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? Why do I care?”
“Father Weston is at Worship, and the officer wants to question Audrey.”
Hearing her name makes me salivate. A person of authority putting the screws to Audrey gets my testosterone juices flowing.
“Where?” I bark, clenching my fists.
Her eyes skate to that small show of violence, and she retreats further. “Downstairs,” she whispers as she casts her eyes at the floor.
I dip down and snatch my bath towel outside the door of my room and toss it behind me on the floor. I think about walking away from Audrey earlier. Leaving my towel where we had a little make out. My dick twitches.
I catch Anna's eyes taking in my sparse room, and I slam the door behind me, blocking her view, and she drops her eyes again.
I stride to the top of the curved, solid-wood bannister, and Anna calls out, “Kiev.”
I turn, and her lip is trembling.
Fucking weak, I think before I can stop the thought.
“Don't tell him anything.” Probably took all that she had to pull up her big girl panties to ask something of me.
Not part of the plan, whore of my father. I don't speak, I just shake my head and charge down the stairs.
*
I make the corner that leads into the kitchen almost at a sprint and stop dead.
Audrey robs me of breath.
Of everything I am.
The sight of her in that kitchen looking so much like a Chosen I want to hurl chunks.
Instead I flick my eyes at the cop sitting comfortably at the kitchen table.
Well, that is until I showed up in all my punk-ass tatted glory. Sweaty and beefy from a brutal self-torture work out. I'm pumped, on edge.
The man takes my measure, and the cop has found me dangerous.
He'd be spot-on with that assessment.
His fingers hover over the butt of his weapon, and Audrey looks up in apparent surprise, overflowing the cup of coffee he holds. The dark liquid flows over the rim, slopping onto the pristine table.
“Oh!” Audrey says and jerks the carafe back to stop the flow.
“That's okay, Mrs. Weston.”
She gives a guilty flinch at the name, and briefly it occurs to me she could be a Mrs. Weston.
But not with my father.
“What's going on, Audrey?” I ask, and the cop's eyes storm.
“Kiev Weston?” the cop guesses.
I nod. “Yeah.” I never hand out personal information like candy. That's for pussies. I fold my arms over my chest. He can deduce all kinds of shit.
Audrey turns, facing me fully, and I get a load of the shit Weston bought her, the artful makeup covers the slap he gave her.
I'll give him this, he sure knows what to put her in.
Her hair is dark brown, her eyes a rich, uncompromising blue that contrasts starkly against all that hair.
She wears a dress of pure white, figure-hugging, clenching those huge, perfect tits of hers exactly right. The neckline isn't too low, and that's what's sexy.
The knit dress is just tight enough to make a man wish but not slutty enough to steal the mystery.
And though my mouth has tasted her, my cock burns for entry.
Right now. Cop present, kitchen table as our bed, I'd bend her over in a nanosecond.
“I'm Officer Langley,” he says, setting his coffee cup on the stained tablecloth and standing, his hand out for a shake.
I suppress my automatic disdain and take his hand. I add enough strength to make his eyes tighten at the corners.
I drop his hand as if he's got a communicable disease and go back to crossed arms. I know my posture is defensive.
Why do I know?
Little known fact, Father Weston had paid for a great education for yours truly at the South Dakota School of Mines.
I have a degree in chemical engineering. But I had to take a few humanities credits, and old Freud had been a favorite.
Now there was a real perv. The original.
When my body language is speaking for me, I know what it’s saying. I don't do shit without knowing I'm doing it. I'm broadcasting exactly what I want him to know. To think.
The cop isn't gonna get dick.
Weston wanted me out of here. He's loaded off the backs of his parishioners. Thanks to him, Weston pays for only the best for his kids—his wives.
I went. It had been a relief to get out of the house.
Now I'm done, internships finally over.
The prodigal son returns. The thought causes a sad ache that pulses deeply. I hold my breath against it, viciously squelching any kind of self-pitying bullshit.
I should be moving on with my life. Taking that great education in a sought-after field and moving far away, making bank anywhere but here.
But with education, time, and introspection come scheming. Like a natural outcrop.
After living through the horror of a childhood in The Community, I earned every minute of the expensive education Weston had paid for.
But I owe something to the half siblings I have, the other people who're being duped.
I can stop this. After all, I'm uniquely qualified.
But right now, this cop has entered our house, and that's either a great turn of events, or it's gonna accelerate my plan in a direction too soon.
Time to feel out Langley.
*
Langley spreads his hand inoffensively away from his body. “I'm not here to cause trouble. We're responding to a call.”
That's interesting.
I look around for a partner, and my eyes pick him out inside a squad car languishing out front. The Weston mess doesn't qualify for two cops.
Yet.
He pulls a little notebook out of his shirt, his pen poised. His deep hazel eyes search mine.
I don't pull my gaze away for a moment, knowing I'm giving him great blank face. “Where's your dad, son?”
“Worship,” I answer instantly. One word, clipped. You could shave off a nose with my tone.
His exhale is rough, and he turns to Audrey.
I tense without meaning to, and his eyebrow lifts, but he addresses her. “How old are you, Mrs. Weston?”
Fuck.
Audrey's large turquoise eyes roll upward to meet his. “Nineteen,” she says in a voice low enough we both strain to hear it.
I'd known she was young but fuck—hearing her say it makes that familiar rage burn through my veins, making one on my forehead pop.
“When did you marry Mr. Weston?”
“Father Weston,” she automatically corrects.
He tilts his head, acknowledging her words but not altering a single thing.
I watch her throat tighten. With a nervous swallo
w, I fight an unfamiliar sensation.
I want to comfort this wife.
I want to do her, but yeah, I am starting to feel something.
Fuck.
“Why?” She shoves a thick tendril of chestnut hair behind her hair, and I spring an erection.
Great timing.
“Why does my age matter?” She shifts a nervous glance at him then tosses one my way that says, What do I say?
I shoot back a sharp one of my own. Nothing.
Langley's emphasis on “marry” tells me exactly what he thinks of The Community.
In that, we agree.
I shift my weight, my fingertips biting into my biceps. “Yeah, well, she's over eighteen... you can go now. Case closed.”
Get out, get out.
He shifts all his attention my way. He stares at me so long I can count the emerald flakes in his mostly brown irises.
But I've had attention I wanted to die from being the recipient of. His stern look—his attempt at intimidation—doesn't move me.
We're having a staring match, and I don't notice Audrey stands beside me until her small hand touches my tense arm.
“Kiev,” she pleads, “he's just doing his job.”
Langley's observant gaze moves between us. Noting where her hand lies, then noting my protective stance as I shift in front of her.
“That's right, Mrs. Weston. I'm doing my job. Serving and protecting.”
Jackass.
His warning is as clear as the blue in Audrey's eyes. I'd stake my life that he's sniffing around for more than an anonymous tip and a hunch.
Langley plucks a business card from his breast pocket, replacing his small notepad and pen as he does.
He slides the glossy rectangle across the kitchen table, narrowly missing the caffeine stain.
“If you ever need anything, Mrs. Weston, you can phone me here—direct.” He taps a local non-emergency cell number with a finger and draws back.
Audrey makes no move to take it.
He turns, securing his hat like a cowboy from long ago, and walks toward the door.
We follow him, Audrey gripping my forearm and me dragging her along because I'm that unwilling to let this cop out of my sight until he's out the door.
Langley has his hand on the old bronze entrance knob and turns at the last instant.
“I'll be seeing you again,” he says to Audrey.
But his eyes are for me, and my sense of vague unease grows.
Sounds like a promise.
Chapter Eleven
Audrey
“What did he say to you?” Anna grabs my arm and pulls me close, her voice a harsh whisper.
“Kiev?”
“No, the cop.”
“Oh, right.” My heart slows down. “He said someone gave a tip that I was underage.” Laws. Legalities. It’s coming back to me in flashes. None of this is right.
“Who would do such a thing?”
I shake my head. “Someone who doesn’t know me very well, I’d guess. Because I’m not underage.”
Anna nods, biting her lip before walking away. Kiev is still hanging around the entryway, no doubt watching the cops leave. I want to turn and go to him, question him, and finally get some answers.
“Kiev?” I softly call, turning to go back to the front door. My breath hitches when I see him, taking the time to slowly run my gaze up and down his body. He just finished working out. I can tell not only by what he is wearing but also by the sweat dripping down each ripped muscle, by the thick veins that cover his body. I want to run my fingers over each one, feel him against me.
There is no use denying my attraction.
“Do we have to tell Father Weston about this?”
Amusement shows on Kiev’s handsome face. “As much as I’d love to see the bastard squirm, I’d keep my mouth shut.” His eyes move to a point behind me. “Unless wife number four decides to talk, I think keeping this from dear old dad is a good idea.”
Something gleams in Kiev’s eyes. He’s a hard one to read, projecting only what he wants to be seen, but I’m starting to get to know him, starting to be able to pick up on the subtle hints of what he’s feeling. The truth is on his face only for a fugacious moment, but it’s there.
And that something in his eyes scares me as much as it excites me.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Run along, Little Bride,” he says, his eyes narrowing. I shiver and remember him standing in the hallway, wet after a shower and no towel. “You don’t want to be seen talking to me.”
I nod and walk away, feeling his gaze on me. It’s been years since I wore anything formfitting, and this tight white dress leaves me feeling exposed.
But I kind of like it, knowing that it’s Kiev who is watching me walk away. I join Anna in the kitchen, expecting her to say something about the police officer, but she doesn’t. We go about our chores for the day in silence.
Father Weston arrives back at the house in time for dinner. After the wives are finished eating and cleaning, he calls me into his office. My heart skips a beat, and I look around for Anna. Maybe she told him about the police. I know it’s not my fault the law arrived, but I fear I will get in trouble for this.
I don’t want to be punished.
“Take a seat, my dear wife,” Father Weston says and shuts the office door behind us. I swallow my beating heart and sit on the edge of a leather armchair that faces his desk.
“The Lord has spoken to me,” he begins, putting his hand on the chair as he stands behind me. Unease grows inside me. Please don’t be The Reckoning. “It’s time for you to fulfill the duties of being Chosen.”
He walks around with a broad smile.
I stare at him, seeing a small resemblance to Kiev. The similarities aren’t great, and I’m thankful for that. I force a smile back at him, widening my blue eyes to mirror his excitement.
“Tonight.” He leans in, his warm breath on my neck. “We welcome new members home.”
*
I sit on a white couch, my hands clasped around a glass of lemonade, the liquid warmed from my body heat. Regardless, I bring it to my lips and take a sip, soothing my dry throat.
The family in front of me sits on the edge of their seats, hanging on every word Father Weston gives them.
I scan the interior of the house, and it feels weird to be somewhere I can only deem as normal. The house I live in now might be decorated and fashioned with everything it needs to look beautiful and grand, but there are no TVs, no computers or phones. Nothing to clue us in to the outside world. Nothing to keep us connected.
No way to call for help.
The family in question is a young couple with two kids, twin girls turning three in one week. The girls sit on the floor, playing with a Golden Retriever named Benny. He’s been the family dog for six years and puts up with both toddlers petting, pulling, and sitting on him. And he’s going to an animal shelter tomorrow.
Dumped off, forgotten, unwanted.
Because pets aren’t allowed in The Community.
“The house was appraised for over two hundred thousand,” the husband tells Father Weston.
I was introduced, but I don’t want to remember their names. I don’t want to know anything about this innocent family that’s been bespelled by Father Weston’s lies. It wasn’t that long ago the roles were reversed, and it was my family sitting there, listening to everything Father Weston had to offer.
Rachel was at his side, dressed to the nines in white. I remember thinking she looked like an angel, she was so beautiful. Now I’m filling in for her, sealing the deal on how great everything is.
Great enough to sell the house, the car, all the possessions.
Great enough to rob the children of a normal childhood—of a worthy education. Great enough to give up the family dog after six years of loyalty.
Great enough to give up everything.
Because how do they get out of it? How do they start over again when they have nothing, have nowhere
to live, have no money to buy food or pay for electricity, water, medication?
Once a family’s in The Community, it’s damn hard to get out.
I keep quiet, speaking only when asked a question. Father Weston’s hand is on my thigh, squeezing it when he talks. And he’s talking as if he knows me, as if there is actually love between us.
I want to throw up.
This social call goes on for another hour. All the while, Father Weston tells the couple how lucky they are to be saved since the end is near.
When I was fourteen and listening to Father Weston speak of the end of the world, I imagined it going down in flames, the smell of charred flesh strong around me as pieces of crisp skin floated through the air along with the ashes.
But hearing him talk now about the end of days, it hits me how elusive it all is. Why is the world ending? How is it going to end? And most importantly, how will we survive the end of the world? My mind flashes to the zombie movies I used to watch—and love. The Community is self- sufficient, but it has no defense against an army of the undead.
I shudder when the air kicks on, and Father Weston slips his arm around my waist. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. The wife notices and looks away. Fuck. I need to take a lesson for Kiev and learn how to hide what I’m feeling.
Father Weston is alive with chatter on the way home, telling me how great it is to carry out the Lord’s work.
I smile and nod along, watching the dark scenery pass us by, realizing for the first time how far out in the middle of nowhere The Community is.
Maybe we would survive a zombie apocalypse.
The house is dark when we get home, and even quieter. Father Weston locks the door behind us.
“You looked stunning tonight, my wife.” He takes my hand and pulls me in for a kiss. It takes everything I have not to stiffen and push him away. I conjure up the image of Kiev and pretend it’s his lips I’m kissing.
“Get some rest,” Father Weston tells me and breaks away. “You’ll need it.”
I ascend the stairs and make my way to my room.
Rachel slips out of her room as soon as I open my door. She must have been watching for the car to return. I step inside my room, waiting for her to go downstairs, then turn and hurry across the hall.