“Talk to me, baby,” I murmur.
“I…” Another pause. “I need you.”
Those words are dangerous. They unleash a host of emotions I’ve been intent on ignoring. But in this moment, the urge to care for him— for both of them— is too strong.
“Put our girl back on.”
Crackling and mumbling. “Our girl, huh?” Andrea asks. Of course, she heard; she’s right next to him. She doesn’t sound annoyed. Actually, she sounds pretty fucking smug. My stomach swoops.I brace for shame to swallow me whole, but it never does. Instead, I’m kind of… relieved.
“Park around back. I’m in the Chapel storage room. Text me when you get here and for the love of all things holy, donotlet him behind the wheel. You take his keys and you drive, got it?”
“Sir, yes,sir,” she drawls.
My damned dick stirs.
“Don’t start with me, baby girl,” I warn.
“Don’t start withme, Mr. Doesn’t-fucking-listen-for-shit.”
I roll my lips, unsure whether to argue or laugh. “Just get your asses over here.”
“Yeah, yeah, see you soon, Traitor.”
“If I’m such a traitor?—”
“Byyye.” And click.
Shaking my head at my phone, I groan, “Oh, to hell with me.”
Forty-One
CADE
God’s houseisn’t as glorious as they all make it out to be. It’s pretty bland and a bit outdated, if I’m honest. The trees could use some love— there’s more Spanish moss hanging from their limbs than actual leaves— and the siding needs to be pressure-washed and repainted. Even in the dull yellow glow of the street lights, I can see it’s filthy.
You don’t belong here.
Don’t I fucking know it.
“Know what, babe?” Andrea asks, taking the keys from the ignition and turning to me with a frown on her pouty lips. Fuck, they’d look good wrapped around my dick.
“Oh, nothing, just preparing to get eviscerated the second I step foot in Jesus’s mobile home.”
She snorts. “You didn’t get smited at bible camp.”
I shudder. “No, but it left some scars.”
Those pretty lips (that I wanna suck and bite some more) curve into a smirk as she shoves open the car door. “Aww, was it the dancing, snacks, or blatant hypocrisy that did you in?”
“Definitely the dances.”
She laughs and climbs out into the muggy night. I slump in the bucket seat.
“Come on, I’m getting chewed up,” she whines, slapping her bare arm and muttering, “Fucking noseeums.”
“I prefer to marinate in the car,outsideof the holy crematorium.”
“Which is it? A mobile home or a crematorium?”
