Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
The words hit me, and for a moment, I want to argue. But instead I nod. “That’s all I’m asking.”
He waits, silent, and I realize he’s waiting for a thank you. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open Safari, searching for “Trinity Hope Church Edina.” The site loads with a nauseating burst of pastel and smiling faces. I click the “Contact Us” link and scan for a direct email.
Hunter watches me, that same faint smile ghosting his mouth. “You’re really going to do this?”
I don’t look up. “If it keeps us from burning down the house, yeah. I am.”
He stands, picks up his mug, and moves behind me, stopping just close enough for his hand to brush my hair. He lets it linger there, fingers sifting through the mess, then bends so his mouth is right at my ear.
“I’m proud of you, star girl,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath hitting my neck. “You’re going to make an excellent study in cock worship. Even if you do need a little divine intervention.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, but I ignore it. I keep scrolling, keep clicking, refusing to let him see how much power he still has over me.
He leaves the room, footsteps silent on the tile, and I listen as he disappears down the hall. Only when I’m sure he’s gone do I let my hands shake, just a little, above the screen.
There’s a number for the church office. I copy it into my contacts, then set the phone face-down on the table, as if that can stop the inevitable.
The house is quiet, the mess from last night already erased. The only proof that anything happened at all is the faint, bruised ache at the back of my throat, and the ghost of his voice inside my head.
I take a deep breath and reach for the coffee. It’s cold now, but I drink it anyway.
Tomorrow, I’ll make the call.
6
INTRODUCING THE WRONG PASTOR
Lachlan
People always expect a pastor’s office to look a certain way—bad art on the walls, a cheap couch from Costco, a stack of neglected Bibles with curling pages and a ribbon marker limp from lack of use. But here at Trinity Church, I’m allowed a little more dignity. The counseling room is narrow but well-appointed, paneled in old oak, its bookshelves lined with volumes more psychological than spiritual. The single window is a small miracle: a stained-glass panel rescued from the original church before they knocked it down. In the morning, it throws a ribbon of color across my desk, mostly amber with a thin bar of violet. The air is always a little stale, but the incense—Nag Champa, this week—sinks into the drapes and covers the smell of old carpet and unresolved grief.
I sit behind the desk, reviewing last week’s session notes on a battered legal pad. The page is an inkblot of concerns, none of them mine. A few lines are circled. At the margins, I keep a silent tally of days since my last major fuckup. Three. Not bad.
There’s a knock at the door. The knock, then a pause, then the door opening—it’s always in threes, my assistant’s little ritual. She keeps her hair pulled back in a severe knot, wears jewelry like armor, and never forgets to announce the names.
“Pastor O’Toole, your ten o’clock.” She stands aside, holding the door for the pair. Two silhouettes, backlit in the hallway. She leaves the door open an inch, a boundary and an invitation.
First through is the girl. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, but already she walks with an elegance that’s half nymphet, half sylph. Blonde hair falls in a silken curve against her collarbone; it’s the shade women pay two hundred dollars for and then tip extra because it looks natural. She’s dressed in a blue dress that might have been business-appropriate had it not been the slightly too-short hem that flares just above her knee. The neckline is conservative, but the architecture beneath is not: big, buoyant breasts that seem to move independently of her intentions. Her arms, pale and lightly freckled, are bare except for a single gold bracelet. Her eyes—when she lifts them—are as blue as the dress. I can’t help but follow the sightline, from the careful way she smooths her skirt over her thighs, to the small, nervous flex of her fingers against her knee.
She is followed, or maybe shadowed, by the man. The contrast is immediate. If she is lush femininity, then he’s alpha potential: all mass and momentum, the stillness of a loaded spring. He fills the doorframe without even trying. Dark-haired, eyes sharp and unreadable, jaw set in a way that says he’s used to getting his way. He wears a tailored suit, but the shirt is open at the neck, a calculated carelessness. There’s a hint of stubble, not enough to look unkempt, just enough to look dangerous. If I had to guess, I’d say ex-military, or maybe just the kind of billionaire who needs to remind people that he’s not soft.