Page 2 of Give It a Day (Song-Smith #1)

Kayla

Inexplicably nervous—maybe because when the hell has our family ever gone to church?—I step out of the limo we came in. My parents pretty much forced me to, rushing me when I’ve been in dire need of washing up and getting dressed properly.

In any case, I don’t know why we’re at a church. I protest as much, but my parents coax me out of the car and lead me up the church steps.

I haven’t seen a church since… ever .

Darkhaven doesn’t even have a church, and the one we’ve traveled to is miles and miles away.

For hours—after taking a private jet and then taking another limo to get here—I’ve been sitting with my parents, hoping they wouldn’t smell the cheap motel’s residual cigarette smoke on me, or see the sticky gunk that might be at the bottom of my heels.

Even though I wish I was closer to my family, or that we talked to each other because this lifestyle is so lonely and cruel, I’m glad they didn’t ask me where I’d just gotten from, because I’m not really willing to tell them that I may or may not have slept with one of the bikers from a neighboring town whose guts we hate. But that’s beside the point…

My parents rarely talk to me anyway, unless it’s to ask me to get them out of yet another sticky situation. I wonder if this is another one .

I have to carefully analyze the situation I’m in.

While I approach the wide doors, I can see a few people by the marble altar.

One of them is standing right by the clothed table, which is decorated with golden and jeweled ornaments, and from where I’m at—walking up the church steps—the standing, tall figure looks to be a man around my age, who’s on his phone. This generation .

As if sensing my eyes on him, his piercing gaze locks onto mine.

His dark hair is in a neatly styled short cut, framing the sharp lines of his chiseled face. The dark colors of his suit really… suit him. Then he catches me staring for far too long, so he puts his phone down, and shoots a brow at me.

Okay, handsome, relax. I’ll keep looking at you later.

There are two other people near him, seated on the front pew, who are giving each other quite curious glances.

I’m curious as well, looking around the otherwise empty church.

Or maybe, it’s more fitting to call it a cathedral?

It’s a very grand place with old brick walls that look like they’ve been repaired again and again over the years.

The bright sunlight coming from the stained-glass windows cast darker colors like blue and purple across the floor. Quite pretty…

It’s definitely a beautiful place, even if it’s a bit creepy. But I still don’t know why I’m here. From a seedy motel to a luxurious church-slash-cathedral, I’m practically getting whiplash.

There’s a pit forming in my stomach because of all this, but I’m going to stay in denial about it until I hear someone confirm what I’m afraid is about to take place. And if I get that confirmation, then I will flee.

“What are we doing here…?” I whisper to my parents, who are striding down the aisle, much faster than my feet want to take me.

Mom and Dad sure look gorgeous from head-to-toe, decked out in the most expensive brands with matching expensive accessories.

And I’ll always idolize my extravagant parents despite the sticky situations they put me through, because for fuck’s sake, they have to love me, right?

They must. But ri ght now, I can’t afford to be distracted over my mommy and daddy issues.

I need to keep analyzing the situation, so I can assess if it’s a problem I have to solve.

As I walk even closer toward the altar, I can see that man in a suit clearer.

He’s now put his phone away in his pocket.

He’s quite a tall drink of water—at least six feet, broad shoulders, and dressed to the nines.

With his short jet black hair, really pretty eyes, straight nose, and sharp jawline, he looks like he came straight out of a photoshoot and waltzed in here for a little breather.

Seated in a pew beside him are the two other people who look like they’re six-foot supermodel’s parents.

His similar features to theirs are really telling.

The dad has the same nose and jawline. The mom has the same hair color and stunning eyes.

When I jog up to my parents, I ask again, with more urgency, or rather, desperation , “What are we doing here?”

But in usual fashion, my parents are ignoring me, aside from my mother patting my arm, as if to comfort me. But for what? Please don’t tell me what I think this is.

Man in a suit. Church. Altar. The only thing subduing my panic is there’s thankfully no sign of a church leader person—what are they called again? They wear a white scarf thing over all black with a white collar, you know, for matching fashionably.

I make a face as I hide behind my parents, who are now standing still and facing the other three people in this godforsaken place.

Come on, what’s the word for those creepy men. Really, Kaye? It’s been that long since I’ve thought of religion that I don’t even know what they’re called. Oh, a puh-something. Punisher? Priest! Duh.

Maybe I should go to church more often, if it weren’t for the confessionals tempting me to spill all of the secrets of our very legal, very non-violent family business.

Not that I would spill all our family secrets, all at once at least, but it sure would be nice to have someone to talk to about all the terrible things I’ve had to do to keep our family afloat.

Blood, blood, blood. Our family business’ metaphoric ship stays afloat in a sea of blood.

God, it’d be so good to have some of that tasty church wine while I’m here.

I could drown my sorrows with it. And the church wouldn’t charge me, right?

‘Cause then, I could drink barrels . The church would share, right?

Not like I ever cracked open a bible, let alone ever held or seen one, except for now, since I spot one open on the polished marble altar.

The holy book is parted in the middle, surely for aesthetic purposes, which I kinda vibe with.

Yet I frown at the misery eating up inside me while my parents continue to ignore me. But they sure take their sweet time to politely greet and make small talk with the dashing dude’s parents.

Speaking of, the six-foot supermodel dude in the suit has been watching me. Well, more like eyefucking me.

Two can play that game . I stare right back at him and drink him down like the tall drink of water he is.

I don’t have shit to distract me in this boring house of god. And it’s kinda dusty in here, even though it’s a glamorous place of worship.

And in contrast to this place’s symbolic holiness, I’m usually either dealing with the most violent thing you can think of, or trying to forget the violent thing by drinking my kidneys to the point of near-ruin, and then, to top it all off, having someone fuck my brains out.

So for now, pretty boy will do as a distraction.

I make it very obvious that I’m checking him out, but I imagine his elevator eyes are much more powerful than mine, especially with those striking gray eyes of his.

Taking my time, I take in all of his beautiful features—his silky hair, his smooth skin, his stormy eyes, his high cheekbones, his broad shoulders, that fitted suit of his…

The urge to bite my bottom lip grows with every passing second, but I’m not pulling that shit in front of him.

Then he sorta tilts his head back, studying me with eyes getting heavy-lidded, jutting his jaw out just a tiny bit as he sticks his tongue out a little, enough to lick his soft-looking lips. Then his hooded eyes give me a shimmer of mischief. Damn, that’s hot .

Clenching my jaw, I silently admit defeat in our little game.

He has outdone me with his well-crafted look of lust. Jesus, someone could cut the tension with a knife.

If I wasn’t so distracted by Mr. Dashing Dude with Fuck-Me Eyes, maybe I would’ve noticed sooner that someone came up from behind me, clearing their throat.

I silently startle at the sudden appearance of a…priest? I take a quick glance over my shoulder, and he’s dressed like one and looks creepy. So that checks out.

But not wanting to cause a scene, I look around, confused.

I’m here wearing a band shirt and leather tights because I came from a club, a bar, and then went straight into a stranger’s sexy arms in his cheap motel of choice.

I hurried from that gross motel bed to get here.

My outfit is most definitely not church appropriate, but everyone else is pretty… formal.

Formal clothes. Hot man in a suit. Church. Altar. Creepy priest. Fuck, it’s getting really difficult to stay in denial of what’s about to happen…

When I turn away from the priest and look down at my shirt, tights, and heels, I glance up to find Mr. Fuck-Me Eyes quirking his brow at me, as if pointing out my unconventional church outfit. Rub it in, why don’t you, pretty boy?

I glare at him under my lashes to say exactly that without making a scene.

In response, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, either amused or impressed—it’s hard to tell with his otherwise stoic vibe, like he’s gracing us with his mere presence and that he has better things to do than be here, but somehow, there’s a bit of interest in his piercing gaze, which is wonderfully directed at me.

Keep staring, pretty boy.

He leans slightly toward his mother and whispers something, earning a disapproving look from her. What the hell did he tell his mom?

Mama’s boy.

As fun as it is to mentally criticize Pretty Boy, I’m getting nowhere, clearly distracted and losing grasp of my denial. Fine, fuck it, let’s try one tactic.

Fawn and fake it. I put on a cute, confused smile to sell the look that I’m this lost little lamb. “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there some sort of mistake?”