Page 6

Four

“Stop staring at my son.”

Too late.

I can’t stop looking at his beautiful and tormented son. Especially not when he’s running his fingers through his hair, squeezing the loose blonde strands in pure frustration; his veins practically summoned to rise to the surface from the taut squeeze. I wonder what has him more pissed off—the fact that I got in the way of him releasing years of anger at his dad or that I didn’t allow him to swoop in to save me from him.

I don’t need saving. Not from God, Harlan, or anyone.

The door to the basement opens and slams within seconds, and the vaulted ceilings in the sanctuary exacerbate its echo as it closes, something flashes in front of my eyes. It happens so quickly I can barely make out what it is exactly, but I can feel the remnants of whatever it was latch onto me. A cool breeze entangles itself on my skin, beckoning me to close my eyes as if that will help me see it. It can’t be the drugs. The high I get, even from lacing my weed, doesn’t last this long. Whatever I think I saw, whatever I know I feel, is begging me to listen… so I do.

As my lids fall shut, the bitter cold moves past the surface of my skin trickling into my veins and spreading to the top of my head. I wince from the sting it’s leaving on every inch of my body. I’m tempted to open my eyes, but just as the soul-consuming chill escalates to an unbearable level, it stops and a shadow appears; dark as the cloak my lids created over my eyes, but it’s there. I can sense it moving, blending in with the darkness while still making its presence known to me. Desperate to know what it wants, I stand still, ignoring the onslaught of threats leaking into my ear from my stepdad's mouth and fighting the physical pull his hand has wrapped around my arm.

The shadow moves back and forth before settling in what feels like the center of my entire body, paralyzing me.

“Araceli,” a voice calls from deep inside of me, its tone unrecognizable, menacing. “Help him sail,” it cryptically instructs, “help him sail.” It repeats the same phrase over and over. Each time the volume lowers until it dissipates, my lids spring open, and I’m met with a now empty sanctuary space except for me, and Harlan’s dad.

“Look at me,” he barks, finger snapping at me like I’m a fucking dog.

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“No.” I keep my head turned opposing him, secretly hoping that whatever that presence was would come back to tell me what I need to know or to kill him—either or.

“Araceli Rainey,” he roars, and the sound of his last name paired with my first causes bile to rise in my throat. “I said—”

I swallow, fighting it from rising to the surface. It’s telling that interactions with my stepdad are capable of causing this kind of response within me. Yet, just moments before, I’m pretty sure I encountered an apparition of some sort, and all I’m left feeling is the desire for more instead of the fear I should feel. Since this is a holy place and all, apparitions are the Devil’s doing, according to Daddy fuck-face over here.

“I can hear you just fine,” I interrupt, and I can tell by the grumble he’s making deep in his throat that’s not the answer he was looking for. “Or do you demand I look at you because it’s your way of establishing dominance over me since you have no control over your pathetic life? All because of Him.” My brow lifts in condescension as I point to the ceiling, finally turning to face him. Our eyes clash just like our temperaments. His anger mirrors my own, though we’re on two different frames of mind. Still the hatred and resentment linger. A vexed hand wraps around my arm pulling at me. His pulse throbs above my skin as he squeezes me tighter and for once in his dreadful life, he’s speechless. I revel in the silence but it’s short lived. As more people filter out of the sanctuary, he allows his mask to slip, gracing me with the presence of the monster I’m forced to call stepdad.

Not letting go of me, his free hand travels to my chest. His slimy fingers taking their sweet ass time making their way to my necklace that he’s using as his excuse to stare at my cleavage for.

“Like what you see?” I don’t bother holding back my disgust.

His gaze finally settles on my necklace. “What did I tell you about wearing this demonic shit?”

Unbelievable. Here he is worried about a piece of metal contorted into a pentagram around my neck, and not the fact that he’s alternating glances and so blatantly staring at his stepdaughter’s tits—in a church, no less.

You insufferable hypocrite. Apparently, the Devil does walk among us.

I guess I’m lucky that he at least has the decency to keep his hands solely on my necklace while we’re in the church. That courtesy only recently commenced at home after Harlan returned from college.

He yanks my chain so hard that it digs into my skin as it becomes a prisoner to his taut fist.

“Let. Go.”

Ignoring my seething demand, he takes a step closer, now wrapping the pendant and chain in his palm.

“Where did you get this? ”

Two can play this game. If he refuses to let go, then I refuse to answer.

A light bulb illuminates in his small-minded head, his wheels turning in real time. “You didn’t…” He fumbles his speech a bit before clearing his throat to strengthen his words. “You didn’t go there, did you? After I forbade you!” he shouts in fear. “Witch,” his voice trembles, still loud but there’s fear there.

Knowing he’s referring to Frida and The Last Stop, I swoop in to correct him. “She’s not a witch,” I correct him. “Just because she doesn’t believe in all that you do doesn’t make her a bad person. If anything, it makes her smarter than—”

He maintains the hold on my arm with one hand, and with the other that’s been playing with my necklace, he proceeds to yank it off. With the pentagram secured under his thumb, he uses the symbol he detests to his advantage as his clammy palm makes contact with my cheek. The sting on my skin is amplified by the pentagram’s sharp edge.

“How dare you bring this into my church and on today of all days.” His voice trembles, “On the day before she was…”

“She was what?” I interject, dying to hear what brainwashed bullshit he’s about to say.

His fist clenches as it lifts upward; he wants to hit me. This time with a closed fist.

“Go ahead,” I challenge him. “Do it.” I stand my ground, but he doesn't bite. Coward.

Lowering his fist, he looks over his shoulder, remembering that we’re in a holy place, and he can’t act like the demon he is constantly pretending he’s not.

“On the day she went home to Him.” He finishes his sentence, and it’s just as delusional as I thought it’d be.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I mutter. “She was murdered.” Slashed to death and found in a cornfield with a Petrine cross drawn on her forehead from her own blood. Last time I checked, that's the furthest thing from a welcome home party, but who am I but a heathen in my stepdad’s eyes? What the fuck do I know?

Phony muses of sadness break from his lips as he sighs. I know it’s fake since he rarely, if ever, brings it up anymore. It’s as if her life and death never happened to him. He’s only using it as a tool to punish me for having my own beliefs.

Just as quickly as it came on, the pretend show of emotion vanishes as he settles back into his usual angry self. “None of this witchcraft will bring her back. All you're doing is embarrassing her memory and yourself. Well, and quite frankly, all of us.”

“I never said it would, but it represents a part of her that you conveniently forget. Who she was before you poisoned her with your dick.”

His head shakes, blown away by the brutal honesty of my words.

“You little fucking…” his voice trails off. The hinges open from outside the vestibule separating the main entrance from where we stand in the sanctuary. He grumbles to himself, frustrated that it’s preventing him from going off on me the way he wants to. Another set of hinges whine, this time to the sanctuary itself. He shields me from the door, lowering his mouth to my ear. “The best thing I ever did for your mother was poison her with the truth. The real truth. Not the lies your father filled her head with. She was sick and he made her worse. At least she wasn’t as thick-headed as you. She learned real quick that my way is the best way.”

My insides twist at the mention of my birth father.

Before I have the opportunity to retort, two men dressed in all black approach us. Their long-hooded trench coats give me a rush of déjà vu to the shadowed figure’s presence from before. There’s an emblem on the right sleeve of both their coats, but I can’t make it out with how they’re standing. They are both silent, neither of them saying a word. Their presence alone is enough to make my stepdad’s jawline knot from the tension spreading. He waves to the two men, offering them a fake as fuck smile but neither return the gesture. If anything, they seem disgusted to be in Pastor Rainey’s presence as he looks to be in theirs.

“We aren’t done here,” he mumbles to me, keeping his eyes on the men. “I forgot I have a business dinner to attend.”

“Business dinner, huh?” I eye the men standing there. The taller of the two has his hand cupped in front of his mouth, mumbling something to the other.

“They don’t look like pastors or congregants to me,” I challenge him.

“You’re right,” he answers with an unexpected burst of vigor that contradicts the physical chokehold these two strangers visibly have on him.

“They’re here to discuss the Holy Harvest tomorrow. Which you will not be attending.”

Relief grips me and I can’t help but smile. Little does he know this punishment makes it that much easier for me to go to Heathen’s Cross, like I intended to do anyway.

“You will spend the entirety of the day and evening tomorrow in your room. Under lock and key,” he tacks on, only adding to my glee.

Though that is short-lived, and as my grin fades, one beams onto his face as he reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He takes one out, lighting it, not bothering to miss my face as he exhales. With each wisp of smoke carrying notes of tobacco and menthol, I can feel the scabs on my back start to hurt all over again. His favorite punishment for when I “sin”—using my back as a fucking ashtray. I want to run away or slap him in front of his guests, but the only reason I haven’t done either is because I want my fucking necklace back.

“Fine by me.” I inhale, trying to remain on an even keel and not give him the reaction he so pathetically craves out of me. I jut my neck forward, holding my hand out. “Necklace,” I remind him.

He exhales another stream of nicotine drenched smoke, ignoring me. “See you at home.” He moves towards the men, my necklace still in his possession, forcing me to follow after him.

“But—” I begin, but he whips around, blowing yet another puff of smoke directly in my face. My lids close and flutter, trying to prevent the smoke from burning them. It works, barely.

“Oh I almost forgot,” he trails off teasingly, eyeing me up and down with a sadistic grin. “Please, for the love of God, bathe when you get home. You look like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt.”

He slips my necklace into his pocket and mumbles something to the men standing there, resembling obedient mastiffs with their towering size. I blink again as I peer at them because they aren’t wearing the black hooded trench coats anymore. They’re in suits. “Your hands are filthy,” he chuckles, breaking my concentration on the men.

I peer down at my hands, almost forgetting how dirty they were from the book Frida gave me. Standing upright, I wrap my hands around my purse strap, wanting now, more than ever, to keep said book safe so fuck-face doesn’t take that too.

“Fine.”

He nods, taking another puff of his cigarette, leading the way out of the main sanctuary as the two men follow.

I wait until they’ve left so I can fish through my bag for my joint case, needing a reprieve, but I open it and it’s empty. Fuck . The one I smoked before I went to Frida’s was the last one I had pre-rolled.

I’m about to head home when I remember that anything my stepdad has ever confiscated from me—with the exception of my necklace he’s decided to hold hostage tonight—he keeps locked in his office. Including the pain pills he caught me with, which were prescribed to me by a doctor; a doctor that Frida was able to get me an appointment with because I needed something to take the edge off the physical pain he’s inflicted on me—but of course, it’s locked .

But I know someone who should have a key, and that’s Harlan.

I head to the door that leads down to the basement. My hand curls around the brass knob, and as it glides in my palm, that chill from earlier remerges, freezing me in place. I wait for the voice to speak to me again, but all I can hear is a moan cut through the air coming from downstairs.

The door flings open faster than I’m able to move it myself, and the coldness wraps itself around me as if to push me to move downstairs.

Curiosity fuels me as I make my descent down the steep old staircase. With every step I take, a creek sounds in response, though no noise can compete with the breathy whimpers or the chant-like hum that accompanies them.

The closer I walk down the pitch-black hall—with the only light coming from the inventory room that Harlan was told to go to—the chanting becomes clearer. Nausea strikes my stomach. The voice is feminine, and the chant… the fucking Lord’s prayer. Gross. Yet, the nausea is quickly replaced as a primitive and unexpected moan overshadows the repetitive prayer.

A flutter forms in my stomach just as one pulses at my center as I step into the small inlet directly across from the open door. My black dress and hair blend in with the recessed space, camouflaging me. Got to love these old churches, even the ones that have been renovated to look modern. They have so many hidden nooks and crannies that are worth exploring… and misbehaving in.

With my hidden vantage point, I stare through the open doorway. Harlan is sitting down, his side facing me, going to town on this girl—who I assume is Tori. She is lying with her back flat on the small table, with her back arched and her legs spread wide. She has a bible in her hands open to a page that she’s reading over and over again, trying to cleanse herself from what my stepbrother is doing to her—and from what she is very clearly enjoying.

Lucky bitch.

Seeing him fucking someone with his tongue in church…is do ing something to me. Something unexpected that’s never happened before any time I’ve looked at Harlan. Not only am I becoming unbearably wet. I’m disappointed that it’s not me. Jealous even. Which is something I haven’t felt before with Harlan. I mean sure, jealous that he is treated better than me in our house, but this kind of jealousy is new. It’s festering in my gut, but the more it twists and turns my core, the more I can’t look away. I remain hypnotized, unable to look away from the attentive, harsh strokes of his tongue. He’s consuming her with such passion… such anger.

So much anger.

I don’t blame him. Living as a Rainey is anger-inducing, and vices are the only way to get through that. For me, it’s escapism through drugs, and for him, shockingly, it’s through eating pussy like he hasn’t had a meal in years… or ever.

As much as I want to stay here and watch his little bible thumper finish in his mouth, I’ve seen enough to aid my self-care session that I’ll need to have tonight. It’s not my pussy being eaten anyway, so I’m getting bored.

Stepping out of the inlet I’ve been hiding in, I reach for my phone to text him, because, after all, I came down here for him to do me a favor.

My thumbs swipe at the keyboard, my pulse rising as the crescendo of an orgasm echoes around me.

Me: When you’re done eating, be a good big brother and get me my pills from Daddy’s office.

A grin hits my lips as I fire off another text.