Page 5

Three

Where are you? My jaw tenses as I crank my neck to stare at the clock above the sanctuary doors. She’s going to be late. Just like I knew she’d be and just like my dad warned her of.

Fuck, Araceli, not tonight of all nights. My gaze ping-pongs up and down from the door to the clock. Service is about to start and of course, Araceli is nowhere to be found. Thoughts run wild in my head, conjuring up one scenario after the other, trying to think of what the fuck trouble she’s gotten herself into now and whatever mess I’ll get sucked into this time because of it.

But that’s Araceli; warnings, rules, really anything that reeks of convention means nothing to her. She’s forever unfazed and forever getting in trouble, which arguably is her problem. However, with this newfound role I’ve been forced to take on as her stepbrother, I now have the uncanny ability and need to make her problems mine—to protect her. If I’m being honest, it gives me a common ground with her or, at the bare minimum, something we can talk about…to spend time together. Ever since Araceli’s mom died, she’s become more erratic and numb all at once. Building walls that create a fortress she can escape to, and when that isn’t enough, she usually finds herself in trouble with drugs or anything she can get her hands on .

Heat spreads down the lower half of my body, and for a moment, my mind tricks me into thinking my cock is the epicenter of the added warmth. It wouldn’t be the first time I get a thickening blood rush to my cock stewing over Araceli’s poor decisions…and behavior. But what would be the first time it is happening while I’m sitting in the fucking pews. Guilt trickles in, as it always seems to do, stealing my focus and pulling me and my focus abruptly back to reality.

With my eyes now on my leg, I see the source of the added heat. A petite palm with white manicured fingertips squeezes my thigh.

“Are you okay?” a feminine voice whispers.

Dark hair waves in my periphery, similar to my stepsister’s, but not quite as dark, as silky, or as tempting to touch by swirling around my finger…or pull.

The image of Araceli in the graveyard from last night suddenly invades my mind, causing the blood to increase, painfully so. Ah. I hate her. I really fucking do.

In dire need of a distraction from the Araceli show playing on a continuous loop in my mind, I turn to face Tori, one of my dad’s best friend’s—and wealthiest congregant—daughter. Ever since I got caught trying to buy drugs for Araceli at university at the beginning of my junior year—which led to me being expelled—Dad’s been trying to set me up with Tori. He’s always going on about how she’s the pinnacle of a God-fearing woman and ‘wife material in the making,’ as he likes to put it, since she never misses a service or youth group meeting. But looks can be deceiving. I wonder how my dad would react if he knew the only reason she likes to be here and volunteers at church functions is because her favorite thing to kneel to is me . There’s something about sneaking around and sucking off the pastor’s son that really gets her going. Probably because she falls into the delusion of thinking any sexual act outside of sticking a cock inside a warm, tight hole doesn’t count as sex. I’d beg to differ. But who am I to judge, she gets to feed into her delusions while I get off, fantasizing about whose lips I actually wish were wrapped around my cock.

Tori’s grip tightens, sliding ever so slightly closer to my groin, and suddenly the thought of Araceli on her knees sucking me off flashes in my mind.

My cock twitches in response.

Ah, I can’t do this now. Araceli’s your stepsister. You’re in church. Get with it, Harlan.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I deadpan, adjusting my posture and shimmying my leg over to the side so she can get the hint and get the fuck off me…and hopefully this boner in the making can diffuse itself.

A soft giggle irritates my nerves as Tori flutters her eyelashes at me. Her lips part, but the boisterous and unified “amen” sounds silencing her. I’m grateful for the interruption, for once, even though it means Araceli is officially late and another service is upon us.

“Welcome, my faithful friends.” My father speaks into the microphone as he walks onto the stage that he had built like he's a rockstar not a pastor. He waves a thank you to the parishioner who led the opening prayer, that I was completely zoned out for, and raises his hands to wave at all of us sitting in the pews.

I don’t wave back or acknowledge his presence. It’s bad enough he forces us here to save face, me especially, since he hopes one day this will all be mine—it won’t. The property, maybe, but the church will end whenever the good lord decides to take him. Hopefully, sooner than later.

I look back one more time, but of course she’s not here. Thankfully, my father is too busy buttering up the people to notice that my neck is contorted, looking back and all around to see where the fuck Araceli is.

“Can you feel it?” Dad roars excitedly.

People clap and coo in response as if they’re at a rock concert. I face forward, surrounded by the abundance of parishioners. All of them look ahead in eagerness awaiting my father’s annual Devil’s Night Service to commence. I don’t know how he does it, regurgitating the same tired spiel every year on the eve of the Holy Harvest. It’s an event he created shortly after my stepmother was found murdered in a cornfield just up the road, with a satanic branding on her skin. He’s used our family’s tragedy as a way to not only spread the ‘good word’ as he calls it, but as a ploy to get more people attending Sacred Promises. More people means more money. How God fits into the equation, I’m not entirely sure. It’s something that I’ve questioned, secretly, for as long as I’ve been able to string together a coherent thought, but unlike Araceli, I won’t say it out loud. Questioning the beliefs he’s chosen to shove down our throats isn’t worth the violence and threats that come with it.

“Can you feel his presence tonight?!” Another roar erupts, this time cueing the band behind him to start playing the dramatic instrumentals my dad requires to begin each service so he can get into character. As soon as the drummer takes the lead and the guitarist follows, everyone around me becomes entranced, feeding into my dad’s schemes. Everyone is so enamored by the music, I’m sure all of them don’t pay attention to the focus he has on the clock above the sanctuary doors, as he notes that Araceli is now five minutes late.

A sadistic scowl washes over his face as quickly as it vanishes. I doubt anyone staring at him would even notice—but I do. I know that look all too well. The one he gives when his pastor mask slips, and we’re blessed with who he really is. A monster. A cruel, relentless, manipulative monster.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but he’s here tonight. Watching us all.” Another dramatic pause. “So, I will ask you one more time, do you feel his presence?”

The convincing tone of my dad’s voice has me and others looking around but, as always, all we see is each other.

“That’s right, you may not see Him with your eyes, but you can’t tell me you don’t feel Him in your heart. ”

Oh, for fuck’s sake Dad, get on with it.

“He is watching over all of us.” More clapping erupts. “Protecting us all. Especially today on this day that the unsaved call Devil’s Night.” He forces a dramatic shiver to visibly run throughout his body and somehow that gets everyone amped up.

It’s such bullshit. Theatrics. All of it. Yet jealousy, even if it’s fleeting, nips at my conscience. Sometimes, I wish I felt the way they all feel. Maybe life would be easier and less painful, but I don’t. No matter how hard I try, I don’t feel or see anything when I’m here. Nothing but my own thoughts and internal questions. Maybe I really am broken like Dad says Araceli is, but maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, to be broken like her, because then that would mean we’re alike. It would mean there is something that bonds us, and if it’s a powerful enough connector, maybe she’ll pay attention to me how I wish she would. The only time Araceli looks at me is when she wants something. It would be nice for a change if when she looks at me, she sees what I can be, and not who I’m forced to be.

“But it is on this day, the day before what nonbelievers call All Hallows Eve…” he stops, and suddenly, all that excitement in his face drops as a bang echoes from the outside of the doors that lead into the church.

Adam’s apple bobbing, Dad clears his throat, trying to muscle through the disruption. “As I was saying, it’s today, the day before the wretched holiday ,” he air quotes for dramatic effect, “that it’s essential to stay grounded in our faith. It’s why…” Another pause. This time, the hinges on the sanctuary doors squeal, filling the vaulted ceiling with what one would assume to be an ear-piercing cry judging by the look on Dad’s face.

Necks snap to look back as footsteps squeak against the marble floor, taking their sweet and bratty time stomping their way over.

I don’t need to turn around to see who it is. I can tell from the tension spreading along my father’s jaw to his shoulders that Araceli is here. The already pale skin on his face vanishes, reducing itself to a ghastly white. It’s amazing how, just seconds ago, he was talking about being grounded in faith, and here he is, practically trembling at the sight of an eighteen-year-old girl who terrifies him, all because he doesn’t understand her. Neither of us do. Her differences, jarring as they may be, compared to the illusion of holiness my father tries to maintain for our family, don’t scare me like he warns me they should. It intrigues me. Tempts me even.

“I apologize. Call it old age, but sometimes I lose track of my thoughts,” Dad jokes. A rumble of forced laughter follows as he fumbles through his tabbed bible, looking for the passage he wants to read from.

I pay no attention to what he’s saying. I can’t. My attention— my entire fucking body —is distracted by notes of cinnamon and pumpkin as she nears where I’m sitting. Araceli’s signature scent no matter the time of year.

The aroma intensifies the closer she gets. Instead of filling the air with subtle notes of perpetual autumn, it's overshadowed by the earthy musk of Marijuana. Relief entangles itself in my core. I’ve grown to prefer the smell of weed hanging off her. At least then I know she settled for a high she didn’t have to achieve by swallowing or injecting something worse.

Her silhouette burns in my periphery as she takes a seat in the pew on the other side of the aisle. The urge I have to turn my head and fully take her in is immense. I can feel my father’s gaze searing its way onto me as he fumbles and fails to get his wits about him. It’s like he can sense my torment, and it gives him the push he needs to continue.

“As I was trying to say. I feel compelled to read from Corinthians.” His voice bleeds through the expensive speaker system he recently had installed. “1 Corinthians, 10:21 in particular.” He takes a purposeful pause to stare into the souls of each attendee, Araceli in particular. “You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of…”

Araceli interjects, clearing her throat and it’s all the invitation I need to abandon my self-control—that’s hanging by a thread as it is—so I can finally look over to her.

“Yes?” Discomfort lines my father’s voice.

Araceli sighs. Her lips move to speak, but I can’t process a lick of what she’s saying. She consumes my attention. The look of disinterest in her brown eyes. The coy grin spread upon her plum-stained lips. The dress that blends in with her black hair is so fitted to her frame that it looks painted on. The pentagram she wears in defiance around her neck falls perfectly in the line of her cleavage. Sinful. Delicious. All of it is a fuck you to my father.

“… demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons.” She completes the prayer.

Shocked, my father shoots her an apprehensive glance. He’s waiting for her to pull the rug out from underneath him and tack on a cunning remark like she usually does.

“That’s right,” he nods his head, thinking he’s in the clear, “very good.”

She crosses her legs and a chuckle follows. “It would be if the fucker were more clear.”

No she did not.

No she fucking didn’t.

I’m used to her challenging—no, fighting—Dad tooth and nail with bible verses but during service… not even I thought she had it in her. Judging by the stunned look on Dad’s face, and a few rumblings from everyone else tuning into this disaster in the making, no one else did either.

“I think I misheard you.”

“You heard me just fine, so would he, if he existed,” she spews with an eye roll to match.

“Excuse me?” Dad’s question is rhetorical. His mask is about to slip, and a version of Pastor Rainey that no one in this church other than Araceli and I have seen is about to be unleashed.

“Well, despite the fact that you conveniently found a verse to recite that has the word demon in it just to stay on trend with the whole ‘demons are lurking everywhere, beware’ vibe you got going here, Dad .” The venom in the word ‘Dad’ is undeniably ripe and full of disdain. “Who is He to say what a demon is? Are they wicked based on their own accord, or because they don’t fall in line with His word?” Her question is also rhetorical but no doubt a challenge.

I turn in my seat, eyes ping ponging between my father and stepsister. He’s frazzled while she’s calm and collected. Flustered, he doesn’t respond. Instead he realizes that we aren’t at home where he can yell and hit us. We’re in front of the people who keep the lights on, so if he wants to sell the good word he better get back to playing the part and put his mask back on.

He knows this. No amount of anger that Araceli can evoke from him can change that. Turning on his charm, he engages with the crowd, trying to do damage control. “What my daughter meant to—”

“Step,” she corrects him.

“No, Araceli, you are my daughter. Just like we are all daughters and sons of His.” Dad’s argument sealed with a pointed finger to the ceiling.

“Whatever,” she mumbles, loud enough for me and others around her to hear.

“What my daughter ,” now he purposely harps on the word, “and I have rehearsed is how the world will tell you that his word isn’t true. How every time we read or speak the truth, the demons or temptations, whatever it is trying to pull us from His truth, will be out there. All it takes is one moment of temptation. Just one taste of what the enemy has to offer, and even the best of men, can be transformed into evil incarnate.”

Dad’s words linger. The weight of them causes yet another rumble of applause to sound but to me, it sounds like freedom.

“Everyone, please give my sweet daughter a round of applause for helping drive home my point this evening.”

Like mindless sheep they clap. A standing ovation somehow occurs and the look on my father’s face towards Araceli reeks of ‘I win’.

Araceli holds her ground, sitting with the pentagram pendant hanging from her neck clasped in her hand, twirling it in her grip so that Dad is forced to look at it when he looks at her.

Tori's hand kneads my thigh, forcing my attention back to her and away from Araceli. “I’m so sorry you are stuck with her,” she whispers her condolences.

Stuck… with Araceli. Now there’s a thought.

I peel her hand off my thigh and bring it to her lap. “It’s fine,” I reassure her.

She glances over in Araceli’s direction then to me again. “She’d be fine if she cut the witchy shit.”

No, she’d be boring. Like you.

We settle into our seats, and the rest of the hour continues at a snail’s pace. Finally, the burden of sitting through another service ends. Conversation buzzes around us, people talking as they file out of the sanctuary. Tori tugs at my arm, saying something, but I’m too busy looking at Araceli’s scowl as she tries to avoid my father. A congregant waves at him, forcing him to nod and play nice, but the second he’s free, he storms over to Araceli, which is my cue to get over there.

“Dad,” I say, loud enough that anyone around us can hear, diffusing whatever he is about to say or do to her.

Stepping in front of her, shielding me from her, and faking a smile, he answers me. “Yes, son?” His voice is calm, but his raised brows are a strong indicator that he wants me to go.

“Everything good?” I ask him.

Araceli steps out of the shield Dad created around her, and it takes everything I have not to let my eyes roam her body in front of him.

“Yep, everything is fucking peachy,” she singsongs, ripe with sarcasm.

“Language,” Dad mutters to her before turning his attention to me. “Yes, everything is fine. Isn’t it, Araceli? ”

Our gazes clash before she answers.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvincingly.

“I was just about to have a quick chat with Araceli, and I was about to tell you to go help Tori take inventory of the supplies we had delivered today for tomorrow’s Holy Harvest.” He averts his gaze to Araceli. “I want to make sure everything goes off without incident.”

I stand still looking at her, not wanting to move. Afraid of what he’ll do to her once I leave and the sanctuary has cleared out.

“I’m fine,” she says to me, lying.

Almost forgetting Dad is there, I step closer to her. Feeling the brotherly urge to protect her from him, I reach for her hand, wanting to take her with me, away from him. Despite how ten minutes ago I was fantasizing about her lips wrapped around my cock, or just now wanting to bury my face in her cleavage, pentagram touching my skin and all.

Sensing this, Dad steps in front of her. “Boy, I swear to everything that is holy, you get the—” he stops to adjust his tone, settling on ‘heck’ and not ‘hell’ because God forbid he say such profanity like he does at home in church, “—away from her now. I will handle her.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

A breath hitches in my throat. My fists tighten at either side. Anger like I’ve never felt before emerges as I stare into those dark pits he passes as eyes.

“Tori is fine on her own prepping for the Harvest. I can wait until you’re done talking to Araceli and walk her home.”

“The fuck you will,” he laughs through his threat. There he is. The pastor mask fading and prick bag Dad is here to play. He stares her up and down, disapproval ripe on his brows. “She’s more than capable of walking alone.” His gaze falls to her hands, inspecting them. “And not wander off anywhere she shouldn’t be going. Just directly home once I’m done with you, isn’t that right, Araceli? ”

She turns her head to the side, refusing to answer or look at him.

“Answer me you little—” He begins to point his finger at her, hovering over her collarbone. The way his fingertip bounces back and forth repeatedly it’ll be a matter of seconds before he makes contact. He won’t hit hard like he has at home, but he’ll still find a way to make it hurt.

I puff out my chest, feeling years of suppressed rage boiling over.

Sensing that, Araceli steps between Dad and I. “Stop!” Araceli shouts, a few lingering eyes stare at us. Dad motions to them that it’s alright and they move. “Just go, Harlan,” she clips, shooing me away like I’m a fly in her presence.

I look at her pleadingly.

“It’s fine,” she says, softer. Even though it’s not fine. It’s never fine.

“Fine,” I bite back.

“That’s a good boy,” Dad says with a nauseating amount of condescension. “Now let me deal with her. Tori is already in the basement waiting for you.”

“Ooh, who’s Tori?” Araceli chimes in, wiggling her hands sarcastically like she always does when she’s deflecting or jealous, but in this case, I’d say it’s a combination of both.

“Tori is a fine Christian girl. Not like you’d know anything about that. Now that’s all you need to know,” Dad boasts. “Isn’t that right, Harlan?”

Yeah, “fine at sucking dick” is what I want to say, but I don’t.

As I walk away to the door that leads to the basement, argumentative mumblings rumble my eardrums between them. Forcing myself to ignore it, I open the door and walk down the steps. As I reach the bottom step, something catches my eye. It moves quickly. It is so quick that I brush it off as a shadow, convinced that my eyes are playing tricks on me since they haven’t fully adjusted to the dim space. Though, the faint thud of footsteps rustling on the floor convinces me someone is there. I squint, trying to focus on the inky air in front of me, and I swear that I can see someone tall dressed in all black walk past me, but it’s hard to tell. “Hello?” I call out, cautiously I move forward and a voice calls back.

“Hello.” Tori appears with a clipboard in hand, doing exactly as my dad told her, and disappointment lodges in my gut at the sight of her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I thought I saw something.”

“There’s no one here. Just you, me and Jesus,” she laughs, bending forward to show off her cleavage. The turtleneck she was wearing before is gone, and a lacy bra is in its place.

“Come over here,” she whispers, flexing her pointer finger. I follow, looking at her delicate features, wishing they were Araceli’s instead. In the same way, I pretend the dark hair grazing her shoulders is Araceli’s, and the cross around her neck is a pentagram like Araceli wears.

Tori begins to bend her knees, our usual arrangement obviously on her mind. I click my tongue, pointing to the table off to the side.

“Sure, whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Not me,” I correct her. “You. Table. Now.” I sound like a damn caveman.

“Ooh, this is new.” Tori squeals as she walks over to the table. “How do you want me?”

Silent. Every time Tori speaks, her voice pulls me from the fantasy I’ve thrust upon her, using her as a stand-in for Araceli.

“Just lay back,” I instruct her, seating myself in the chair in front of where she is sitting on the table. “Lay back,” I demand, repeating myself. She listens, this time spreading her legs for me.

My fingers skim her lace thong from beneath her skirt, gliding it to the side. Her pussy glistens for me.

“Wait!” Tori shouts, leaning over and reaching for her bible. She opens it to a random page while propped up on her elbows and thankfully it blocks my view of her .

Well Dad, looks like that fine Christian girl you wanted me with is about to be my tongue’s punching bag. When I have her pussy engulfing my mouth—pretending it’s my sister’s after what her defiant outburst did to me—I’ll be the demon he’ll have to worry about, not her.