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Story: Lust (Seven Deadly Sins #2)
CHAPTER TWO
SYDNEY
S heila’s ire at my lateness was wiped out by my having finished the jobs she set out at the start of my shift, and I feel lighter and confident that I’ll keep my job as I leave Novel Notions. Darkness has fallen outside, and a light drizzle begins to fall as I walk down the street. Thankfully, I only live ten minutes away. Having forgotten my umbrella this morning, I’m hopeful I won’t get too wet. That hopefulness is tossed out the window twelve minutes later as I strip off my drenched coat and scarf as they drip all over the hall floor. My clothes beneath haven’t fared much better, and the cold, wet clothes stick to my skin. I’ve never understood how you can get wetter from a light misty drizzle than when it absolutely chucks it down. I do remember reading somewhere that running in the rain makes you wetter than walking. I’ve no idea how true that is.
There is no logic in somethings in life.
I hang my coat and scarf on the coat hooks in the hall and place a small hand towel beneath them to catch the drips, then I jog upstairs to shower. I had one this morning, but my bones are cold, and I need to warm up before heading to Pa’s for dinner.
Once dressed in a slim fitted, knee length plain black dress and having dried my dark brown shoulder length hair, I order an Uber. Pa doesn’t like me using taxis or Ubers, but it’s still raining, and I don’t fancy sitting through dinner in wet clothes. I’ve just finished applying a light coat of pale pink lip gloss when my phone pings, alerting me my Uber is here. Slipping on a pair of black ballet flats, I head downstairs, swiping my other, dry, coat from the hall, my umbrella and my still damp handbag before leaving.
Since moving out after my relationship with Paul ended, Pa has insisted on us having Sunday dinner together every week. On the odd occasion it’s been moved to a Friday, like today, or Saturday night. Pa is going away first thing tomorrow, something that has become more common recently. He’s always attended conferences, that’s nothing new, but when I asked why there seem to be more these past couple of years, he told me it was because the church is constantly changing these days, and he needs to keep up to date.
I get the Uber driver to drop me just out of sight of Pa’s house to avoid any lecture on the dangers of getting in cars with strangers like I’m still five years old. I pull my umbrella free, opening it and holding over myself as the Uber drives away. I stay in place for several minutes to allow the umbrella to look expectantly wet for someone who walked in the rain before walking the last few feet to Pa’s. There’s a small tug of disappointment in myself at the deception, but I console myself with the argument that God wouldn’t want me to become ill. It’s flimsy but all I’ve got.
I raise the cast iron knocker and give it a few heavy raps. Minutes later the door opens to reveal Pa, dressed in his usual, casual ensemble of black trousers, black shirt and white collar. He may not be in church now but he’s never off the clock. God’s work is never done, he would say.
He looks at his watch as he steps back to allow me in. I step inside, twisting so the umbrella remains outside. I give it a good shake before collapsing it and placing it in the umbrella stand next to the coat rack.
“Five minutes early,” I say as I peel my coat off and hang it.
“Very funny, child,” he replies, and when I turn to face him, he’s wearing a rare smile. Pa is a serious man, and I don’t remember a time when he’s appeared less so or carefree.
I follow Pa through to the kitchen where he hands me a cup of tea at the perfect temperature for me to drink. He busies himself with checking the roast chicken he has in the oven. Even though it’s not a Sunday, he still insists on having a roast dinner. I internally roll my eyes.
“Roast chicken again, Pa,” I say, rinsing my now empty cup and placing it in the sink before collecting place mats and cutlery to lay the table.
“Yes, Sydney. If you weren’t here with me, I imagine you would be eating some awful takeaway or microwave meal,” he says accusingly and laced with disapproval.
“I do cook, you know, Pa. Somebody made sure of that.” My words are in jest but there’s some heat there too.
“You are no good to your future husband if you cannot provide a healthy meal at the end of a long day.”
And there it is.
I tramp down the desire to bite back at his blatant misogyny. It’s not his fault. He was raised that way, and the church has only cemented his belief that a woman’s place is in the home. There aren’t many things I disagree with Pa on, but this is the top of the short list.
I quickly change the subject. “What is your conference about this weekend?”
He stills for a split second before lifting the pan from the hob and turning to me. “The usual discussions around how to encourage the younger generation back into church and God’s love.”
I nod as he drains the potatoes. “And what are your thoughts on how to do that?”
“We have a few ideas. But let’s not talk about that. Tell me about your day. How was work?”
I frown at his obvious dismissal and switch of conversation, especially as he is usually more than happy to preach to me and is rarely interested in my work, other than to point out his displeasure.
“We were busy. But that’s to be expected at this time of the year.”
“Hmmm.” He places the drained pan of potatoes on the pan holder and grabs the masher. “Want to mash?”
“Sure,” I say, getting to my feet and assuming that is the limit to conversation about my work.
We work in silence, me mashing and Pa dishing up, then while he dishes the mash, I make the gravy. After saying grace, we eat with intermittent and random conversation between mouthfuls.
While I clear the table, Pa disappears to his office to collect some mail. It’s most likely rubbish as I changed my address with everyone that matters. Returning, he hands it to me, and I flick through the small pile. As I thought, most of it will go in the bin, but there is one letter that draws my attention. I slot them in my handbag to go through more thoroughly once I’m home.
“I better get going. There are some things I need to do before work tomorrow. Is Reverend Swan over seeing your services this weekend as usual?” I ask, walking back down the hall to the front door, Pa following.
“No, unfortunately he is unwell.”
“Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious,” I say turning to look at Pa as I unhook my coat and slide it on.
“He will be fine.”
He offers nothing more, leaving me to still wonder who will be taking his services this weekend. As if he can hear my thoughts, he says, “I’m sure Reverend Stone would appreciate your help Sunday morning.”
Reverend Stone?
Before I can ask Pa who he’s talking about, the house phone rings. “I need to take this call. I will speak to you when I return on Sunday night.” He leans in and kisses the top of my head before rushing to answer the call before it rings off.
I leave, stepping out to find the rain has stopped. It’s just after nine, and I decide to walk home. Halfway home, it begins to rain again, which is the same time I realise I left my umbrella at Pa’s.
I look up to the sky, raindrops splattering my face. “Message received.”
The walk home is wet. That’s the only word for it.
Comfy PJs and a hot cuppa are my top priorities once I’m home, and I curl up on the sofa to watch TV. I flick through the channels and swear that every channel I land on shows couples making out or having sex. I switch it off after coping an eyeful of dick—a pierced dick—on channel 4’s dating show Naked Attraction .
With no possibility of escaping anything sexual, I rinse my cup and head to bed.
My dreams are filled with visions of naked men and women in positions I never imagined, their faces alight with pleasure and bodies writhing, seeking more. I can hear their grunts and groans as though in the room with them. My attention focuses on a naked woman sitting on the edge of the bed with a man nestled between her open legs, his hands gripping her thighs so tight her skin blanches white. Her back arches, a hand landing on the bed behind her to keep her upright and the other comes to the top of the man’s head, grasping a handful of his hair as she lets out panted breaths. As she throws her head back, mouth falling open, a long-drawn-out moan falls from her lips before becoming a piercing cry…
My eyes snap open as my own back arches, my body convulsing, as pleasure sweeps through me, and I realise the piercing cry is my own. My hand is between my thighs and a slick wetness coats my fingers.
I yank my hand away like I’ve been burned and throw the covers off me, jumping from the bed.
“No, no, no.” I drop to my knees, hands clasped together in prayer and head bent. “Heavenly Father, forgive me my sins. I acknowledge my transgressions and repent of my actions and thoughts. Please wash me clean and bestow upon me your mercy and grace.” I repeat the prayer three times, each one more urgent as I beg forgiveness.
Finished with my prayers but certain I haven’t done enough to earn God’s forgiveness, I shower, scrubbing my skin until it’s red raw.
By the time I return to my bedroom, the sun is coming up and any chance of going back to sleep is lost. I dress, my raw skin irritated by the soft cotton, but it’s a just punishment. I busy my mind and body with chores before heading to the supermarket.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2 (Reading here)
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46