"Shit … shit … shit. What did I do?" I stare at the horrific scene in front of me.
My eyes widen, and I don't know what to do. However, when I see him stirring, I know he's going to be pissed. At best, he's going to take his anger out on me. At the worst, he's going to call the police. Should I call an ambulance?
Dade groans and starts moving. No, I need to get out of here.
I toss most of the stuff Dade pulled from the duffle back inside and dart off into the night. Rain was never a part of our plan, didn’t think it through in great detail, to be honest, but I knowwe're supposed to meet up in the next day or two once we know Dade's not following either of us.
The slickness of wet grass under my feet makes it hard to run at my top speed. I sprint across our front yard, duck under a fence, then trek through a ton of our neighbors' backyards. There's a light on inside a small house beside a church in the distance.
I just know I'll be safe there.
With every step I take to the church, I swear I can hear Dade chasing me. I move faster, but so does the storm. Rain soaks my entire body by the time I make it to the door.
After a few furious and frantic bangs against the wooden frame, I see a yellow light come on through the decorative glass panel. The door lock clunks, and the heavy door opens. A man greets me.
And … my god, what a man.
Six feet tall, with a hard-defined jawline covered with sexy stubble, neat dark brown strands slicked back over his temples. Piercing dark blue eyes fill with sorrow as he speaks. His voice is deep, but his tone is soft, safe.
"Oh no. What are you doing out in this storm? Come inside, please." He welcomes me into what appears to be a cozy living room with a roaring fireplace. There's a stool beside it that lets me sit without drenching his furniture with rainwater.
"I thought this was a part of the church?" I say through chattering teeth.
"It is a part of the church," he says with a soft smile. "This is my home. I'm Father Michael Mitchum, and who might you be?"
"I'm Sarah Holmes. I just need a moment to dry up, and then I'll be out of your hair." I tell him, and suddenly there's recognition in his eyes.
Ma and I have shown up to service a few times, but stopped going regularly when the glares of pity and judgment became too much. The entire town knows that Ma is Dade's punching bag, and that I catch the odd stray blow when I try to stop them.
"There's no rush, Sarah. The storm's supposed to carry on through the night. It's not safe out there. Especially on foot. What in the world made you brave this weather in nothing but jeans, a t-shirt, and a duffle bag?"
"I had to clobber my mom's boyfriend and left him bleeding on the floor of our house. I need to get to a phone and make sure she doesn't go back there either. He's going to lose his shit, I'm sorry. He's going to be really angry that I clocked him with a clock."
Father Michael grins at that.
"It sounds like you've had quite the evening. I want you to relax and dry off by the fire. Don't you worry about a thing, Sarah. You'll be safe here."
Father Michael's words are as warm and comforting as the fire. I stare at him as he moves around the home. It's small, but open. The wood paneling on the walls gives the space a cozy, log-cabin feel. Down a short hallway, I can see the edge of a huge bed.
In an instant, flashes of the Father taking me into his arms and into his bed force blood to rush to my cheeks. What is wrong with me? I can't bear to look at him while such salacious images run through my mind.
How can I think about him this way? He’s apriest,for fuck’s sake, girl.
I must shake these impure thoughts. There's no way in heaven or hell that Father Michael is interested in me in my current state, or in any state, but especially when I look like I've crawled out of a swamp.
Still, I can't stop picturing his strong arms and hands holding me while we shelter from the raging storm.
I try to distract myself with my favorite mental game: dreaming up odd movie and book titles. Like right now,The Virgin from the Swamppops into my mind, or maybeThe Swamp Virgin. Shorter, pithier … hotter!
2
MICHAEL
Sarah is a burst of sunshine in the darkness of the night. Her wavy dark blonde hair is soaked to the bone, sticking to her thin white t-shirt that's practically see-through at this point.
Breathe, Mike. It's just a soaking wet woman who needs shelter from the storm.
I desperately try to keep my intrusive thoughts to a minimum. Now is not the time to ogle the young woman, no matter how much her hazel eyes lure me into studying her face. The length of her neck begs for my touch, my lips, but I take a deep breath and walk out of the room.
