Page 3

Tarynn

S unday morning breakfasts are early and brutal, but I would never think of complaining. I worked until last call, which was two in the morning, and then did clean up. I didn’t get out of the diner until three and didn’t get home until half an hour after that. I was so exhausted that I’d fallen into bed and pretty much gone right to sleep, but it was already four by then and now it’s seven.

My alarm went off and I dragged my bleary eyed self to the breakfast table.

My mom looks as chipper as ever. She’s relentless in her passion in life and that’s to support my dad in everything and anything he does. I’m not sure if she used to have hobbies or dreams of her own, but as long as I’ve been alive, she’s been a ghost in her own life. I didn’t realize that until I was older, of course, but now that I’ve noticed, I can’t unsee the many ways she doesn’t seem to have a single ambition of her own. She’s passionate about the church, my dad’s soup kitchens, his mission trips, the church retreats. From Christmas concerts and care packages in the winter, to summer picnics, she’s a year round five star church wife.

I can’t say that she’s ever supported me the way she does my dad. She was never involved in the school or my sports events, book and science fairs, or any of my school fundraising efforts. They came to school plays and major events, like other parents did, but it always felt more about being seen than actually seeing me.

My mom might have her failings, but she’s not a bad mom. She’s just… I don’t know. Out of touch, I guess. She lives in her own fantasy world, and it was hard to relate to her when I was a kid, but when I became a teenager? Forget it. I got used to solving my own problems and keeping just about all my real thoughts private.

Like clockwork, my dad appears, already showered, short brown hair styled, sporting a clean shave. He alternates between three suits—gray, black, and brown. Today, it’s gray. He’s used the same aftershave all his life. Something that comes in a milk white bottle and smells like strong cloves.

After so little sleep, I find it extra stomach churning.

The breakfast table is sparse, as usual. Fresh squeezed orange juice sits frothy and fragrant in a vintage glass pitcher with little orange slices painted around the rim. There’s a hardboiled egg for each of us, one piece of flax toast, a banana, and a small bowl of plain oatmeal.

My dad doesn’t believe in excess in anything, especially not food. He thinks a minister has to be disciplined in all areas of his life. My mom believes what my dad believes.

We eat in silence, which isn’t unusual. My dad chews his food thoroughly, always eats like it’s a gourmet meal, and never fails to thank my mom for her thoughtful preparation, in which she thanks him for his hard work in putting nutritious food on the table. It’s the same thing every darned meal.

After we’re finished eating, I know that my dad will head straight out the door. He’s always the first at the church and the last to leave. He’ll don his shoes that he saves just for Sunday. He polishes them, without fail, every Friday evening. He’ll gather up his Bible, kiss my mom goodbye, get into his silver sedan and back carefully down the driveway. All the way to the church, he will drive exactly the speed limit.

I swear that my dad hasn’t broken a single law in his life, ever.

Sunday school starts at nine-thirty, but my mom will want to be there as early as possible. She doesn’t drive, so it will be up to me to take her in the old blue station wagon that my parents have designated for my use. It’s not mine. It’s registered under my dad’s name, like just about everything else I own.

While I spoon tasteless oatmeal into my mouth and swallow down an egg with no seasoning whatsoever, my brain battles against what Crow said last night. I need more time to think about it, but his words shook something loose inside of me. It feels jagged and broken, like it’s cutting me apart and I’m bleeding out invisibly. He makes me want the one thing I know I can’t have.

Freedom.

My whole life is reliant on my parents. I don’t want to lose them, but is it right that they should dictate everything? I’m an adult now, surely I should have a choice in what I do?

I raise my head slowly. My dad’s eyes meet mine across the table. My parents sit together there. I’m always on the other side, marooned like I’m not truly a part of them.

I get my red hair from my dad’s side. His might be a mousy brown, but it was sandy when he was younger. It was my grandpa that had the strawberry hair. I barely remember him, but what I do recall makes me cold. He had the same pale gray eyes as my dad.

My dad clears his throat as if my looking up is the sign he’s been waiting for. He cuts off anything I was about to say and smiles at me proudly. “I’ve made arrangements with the church so that you can clean again. You’ll quit that job at the diner immediately.”

My spoon clatters against my bowl loudly, which makes my mom jerk in her chair like it was a bomb going off right next to her and not a harmless utensil.

“I like my job,” I say cautiously, aware that I almost never talk back to my parents.

Believe me, if you had a mother who constantly told you to respect your father as the head of the household, and a father who repeatedly reminded you to respect both parents as the Bible dictates, you’d put up and shut up too. There’s only so many times a person can hear the same lecture before they either adjust their behavior accordingly, or go insane.

My dad scowls. He doesn’t do that anywhere but in the house, where others can’t see. “I put myself out there and made it seem like I’m playing favorites for my own family. You’re not going to embarrass me like this.”

“Maybe I can do both. Arrange my shifts around—”

“I’ve heard things about that place,” he states woodenly, cutting me off. “There are bikers and criminals who go there late at night. Do you think I’d let any daughter of mine associate with loose women with even looser morals, and men who have chosen to eschew a law abiding existence?”

“These aren’t good Christian people,” my mom echoes, her plain face pinched with worry.

In her mind, I’m probably one step away from getting up on stage and taking off all my clothes to wrap myself around a pole after giving blowies in a backroom. My parents would faint straight away with horror if they even knew I knew a word like blowie.

Like I said, I keep my private thoughts private. I went to public school and attended two years of college. Even without all the smutty books I sneak, I’m no longer as sheltered as they’d like to believe.

They’re not entirely wrong about the diner. I’ve learned more there in a month than I have in all my life. Case in point—the word blowie. I heard one of the club women offering it to one of the men round the back when I went to take out the garbage mid-shift last week.

“Criminals are in jail,” I point out meekly.

“Not in this town,” my dad grumbles. “They pay off the police. They run Hart as they see fit. You’ll come work at the church and that’s final.”

Something rises up in me, vile and scorching hot. Normally, I would swallow it back and meekly acquiesce, but I feel anything but normal right now. With Crow’s dark eyes swimming in my brain, I feel bold. I shiver as I think about the way they fixated on me and softened just slightly, like he liked what he saw.

He seemed nervous, as if I scared him somehow. He was just as awkward as me. I’ve never seen him utter a word to anyone in all the time that he’s been in the diner. I don’t know what prompted me to speak to him last night, but I didn’t expect that we’d actually have a real conversation. He looked like he was fighting with himself about it the whole time. I found that strangely endearing.

All while pretending I wasn’t having an internal meltdown at how good he smelled, like leather and gas and cedar, or how I wasn’t unnerved by his raw masculinity. I hope that he couldn’t tell that I wanted to touch some of that ink he had on display, to learn the contours and texture of his skin. Do tattoos change it? I wanted to trace that scar that ran down his face and keep going, brushing over his lips, his nose, his throat, learning his hard, masculine plains.

I wanted to trace the whole outline of his profile with my fingers.

With my mouth.

“I need to give two weeks’ notice.” My voice is reed thin when I want it to be strong.

I imagine Crow standing in the corner of the room, fierce and intimidating, and so oddly beautiful in his own unique way. He’d stare me down again. Hold me completely in his thrall. He’d silently urge me on, give me strength. If he could see me now, bowing my head and trembling, his faith in me would be shattered.

He’d be so disappointed in me. He’d think I was pathetic.

“You don’t owe a place like that anything,” my dad states, pushing his chair back and gathering up his dishes. “You’re starting this afternoon, after the service.”

Something inside of me snaps and I shoot to my feet, but it’s clear my dad has already made up his mind. He doesn’t even turn around.

It’s a cardinal sin in my family to leave food uneaten, but I don’t finish my breakfast. I don’t even clear my dishes away. I run down the hall, past my room and straight into the bathroom. The house is a small bungalow, nondescript and old fashioned. My dad doesn’t believe in showy displays of wealth, so while he’s kept up the house and my mom keeps the yard as neat and tidy as she does the inside, the house hasn’t seen a remodel since the nineties.

There’s a main bathroom and a small half bath off my parents’ room. The other bedroom besides mine is the guestroom, and my dad has a home office in the basement. People often come over here to speak with my dad during the week, but he always receives them in the living room.

I crank the shower on and step under the spray, letting the rushing water cover the sound of my sobs.

I’ve been angry before. What kid doesn’t grow up at odds with their parents at some point, but this is different. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m living a life that’s not really even mine. Everything I do is about keeping up appearances. It’s like my dad is a powerful mage and my mom and I have to bend, scrape, and freaking bow to his every whim.

I’m so fucking tired of it.

Yes, that’s right.

I scream that foul word in my mind because I would never dare to say it out loud.

Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you!

I don’t feel the least bit better.

I need to leave.

I throw a hand against the wall to keep myself from falling over.

It’s true. I do need to get out of here. Not out of Hart, but just, this house. If I’m ever going to have a chance to be happy or even figure out what it means to be me , I need to stop cowering and bowing to my dad. I need to be able to make my own decisions. I want to choose what to have for breakfast and dinner. I want to decide how to spend my time. I want to work where I’m happy and do something with my future that I actually want to do.

My dad wanted me to be a doctor so I could minister to a person’s body like he does to the soul. He’s literally said that before. It’s just some grand delusion in his mind. I know that other parents have lofty goals and dreams for their children, but good fucking god.

I freeze, the blasphemy rattling through me.

And then, cautiously, I repeat it under my breath.

“Good. Fucking. God.”

I can just see my mom breaking out into hysterics, wringing her hands, fretting to my dad that I’m entering my rebellious era.

Well, better late than never.

I have money saved. My parents have always paid for pretty much everything. I have zero expenses. I’ve saved every cent from every job I’ve ever had. I worked for two years at the church before I went into college, since I wanted to take some time off and be sure that’s what I truly wanted to do with my life before I got into it. I worked during every summer, also at the church. I never made more than minimum wage, but it added up. I still have the thousand dollars my mom’s parents gave me when I graduated high school.

I let myself dream for half a second about a place that’s entirely mine, about going to hair school, about getting my own car.

It spirals from there. The car rapidly transforms into a motorcycle. Not something huge or flashy like Satan’s Angels ride, but small and vintage with nice square lines. My dad would hate that so much. My mom would probably have a legitimate meltdown.

I imagine myself telling them to get fucked.

It’s such a delicious word that I repeat it in my head, over and over. I know it’s juvenile, but I do it anyway.

Get fucked, get fucked, get fucked.

I want to get fucked. I immediately think about Crow. What would he look like right now if he could see me, naked and soaking wet? What would he have thought last night if he knew how hot he made my body? How shivery and wet he made me in delightfully sinful spots.

I slowly bring my hand up, gliding it along my wet skin. I flatten my palm against my smooth belly. I don’t have one of those banging bodies like the popular girls did in school. I was no cheerleader or athlete. I’m barely coordinated. I could never have been a dancer, even if my parents wouldn’t have been appalled at the idea. I was the nerdy, brainy, quiet kid. I’ve been that kid all my life, hoping to go unseen.

Crow saw me last night.

I cup my breast, imagining his gaze lingering there, darkening with desire. I brush my thumb over my nipple, gasping at the sensation.

I’m twenty-four years old and not only has a man never touched me, I have never touched my own body.

I’ve allowed myself one sinful pleasure. The first time I did it, at fourteen, it was an accident, and I was certain I was destined for hell. I couldn’t stop myself after that, no matter how I tried. Once a month, sometimes more, I’d indulge for those few minutes of pleasure, trying to push away the guilt that would often linger for days.

It took years, but eventually I just stopped caring. The pleasure felt nice. If I was bound to be cursed and end up in hell with the devil claiming my soul. then surely, I would have been struck down and cursed already.

I pinch my nipple, the breath leaving my lungs at the sensation. In my head, it’s no longer my hands touching my breast, but a determined, inked set. His hands would be calloused, but not overly. He’d work on his bike, but they’re also the hands of an artist. Someone who makes wonderful images on living canvases. He’d be both tender and rough at the same time. He’d respect my boundaries, but push me past them.

I’m not so bold that I picture what his cock would look or feel like. I can’t even imagine him fully naked at this point. In my head, he’s dressed entirely in black and I’m the one naked. His whole attention would be on me. He’d look at me the way no man has looked at me. He’d be my first, and that would awe him. He’d treat me gently, but unravel me at the same time. He’d be far more experienced, but he’d like teaching me.

If there’s any day I might be going to hell for, it’s probably this one, but I can’t stop myself. I detach the showerhead from the wall. It’s the same one that’s been there since I was a kid. It’s an ugly thing, but when I slip it between my legs, that doesn’t matter.

I let out a whimper that I smother by biting down hard on my bottom lip. I thrust my hand out against the pale blue plastic tub surround and throw my head back.

It’s not hard to pretend that the warm water is Crow’s tongue. His hot, wet mouth.

It’s such a sinful thing, to taste someone else down there, but he’d like it. He’d beg to get on his knees and be able to lick me. He’d use dirty words, and they’d make me so, so hot. So hot and wet. His tongue would lap up every drop of me. He’d tell me I taste like heaven, and even though that’s also blasphemous, it would be beautiful because I know how sincere he’d be.

I’ve never put my fingers inside myself. I’m only tempted now because I’m aching so badly that I want to be filled. The thought is too intimidating. What if I don’t like it? What if I hurt myself? How could I explain to my parents that I’ve messed up my insides by trying to masturbate?

I shove that thought out of my mind and ride the showerhead instead. I grind down on it, moving the spray so it’s centered right on my clit. I move it back and forth, slowing myself down and then speeding up until finally the orgasm spirals into a hot burst of pleasure that rips through me. I pant through it, perfectly silent.

I rip the showerhead away the second I’m finished coming. I can never bear it for long, far too sensitive to keep going. I only ever allow myself one orgasm. One to take the edge off. One, because I’m twenty-four fucking years old and I have fucking needs like every other person on this planet and that is nothing to be ashamed of.

I replace it back into the hook on the wall with trembling hands.

I’ve never imagined anyone else touching me before. I’ve never wanted anyone to have access to my body that I’ve ever met. Sure, I’ve thought about men, but they’ve always been nameless and faceless. I never allowed myself to even have so much as a crush. I knew how futile and pointless that would be, and I had enough torture going on in my life without adding to my pain.

I soap my hair, every movement sending phantom tingles arrowing down between my legs. I know my face is on fire. At least, I can pass it off when I get out of here as the heat of the shower and the anger from the argument at breakfast.

My mom won’t ask.

She doesn’t care what I want or how I feel. My dad’s word is law and as far as she’s concerned, that’s the end of it.

Is this going to be my life forever?

This time, it’s not my own voice I hear in my head, but a deeper, darker one, a velvet soft rasp, but hard and sure of itself without being condescending. It will be if you don’t stop living in fear. You’ll never be free if you don’t learn how to stand up for yourself.

Somewhere between washing out the shampoo and applying conditioner, I formulate the early stages of a plan, but once it’s there, it’s like the dark swirling black ink that covers Crow’s skin.

Utterly, irrevocably permanent.