Page 20 of The Sin Eater
“Your grandma teach you to pray?”
“She gave me her car. Be nice to me and I’ll take you for a ride.” My grin makes it plain that I’m not just talking wheels.
His sexy chuckle makes my mouth water, at least until he asks, “Where did the praying thing come from, then?”
“You’re a persistent motherfucker.”
He nods. Leans back. Gives me a slow smile. “I can be.”
He ain’t going away. Not that I really want him to. He’s got this safe-harbor vibe that I like, even if I don’t know what the fuck to do with it. I need to give him enough to stop the questions without getting to the words I can’t say. “Okay, so here we go. I was born in Bumfuck, Arkansas. Mom sold real estate and Dad did people’s taxes. I’ve got a sister named Chastity and a brother named Benjamin, and yes, they’re all Bible names because Mom’s a big believer.”
“Just your mom?”
“Dad has his own ideas.” Which we can talk aboutnever. “Anyway, we were raised with certainfamily traditions”—I put extra weight on those last two words—”that I sometimes try to uphold. We prayed at home, like the whole family on their knees every night.”
“What happened if you didn’t want to get down on your knees or whatever?”
I let my grin go sly. “Oh, baby, I’ve always liked going down on my knees.”
His cheeks turn pink so fast I damn near choke on a laugh.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
I give a one-shoulder shrug and keep grinning. “You walked into that one.”
He rubs his face with an open palm, and I take a moment to admire his thick, strong fingers and imagine some of the places those fingers could go. My dick starts to swell and I give myself a mental slap.Down, boy. No sex for you.
I used to wear a cock cage whenever I did penance, until I learned the hard way—yeah, that’s a pun—that I could still orgasm despite the cage. After a while, just wearing the thing turned me on. “To answer your question, though”—because nothing will make my dick soften faster than talking about my past—“I don’t make a habit of getting on my knees to pray every night, but every so often, after everyone’s gone home, I’ll roll out a body and say the prayers for the dead. It’s like, the last kindness I can do for them.”
He nods, and if he’s not completely buying what I’m selling, he’s a lot closer than he was. “That’s actually kind of cool,” he says, which sets my cheeks on fire.
Thank fuck, svamp shows up, this time with our cocktails. I take a long swallow of my drink, the cola’s sweetness cut by the bite of whiskey. Before svamp can get too far away,I wave at him, asking for another round.
Later I’ll congratulate myself for having told the absolute truth while lying my ass off. After one more long swallow that just about drains my glass, I can finally meet Damon’s gaze. “Don’t give me too much credit. I can say the prayers”—and eat the bread and do the penance—”without actually believing the crazy.”
“How?”
“Do you believe in a god?”
Damon runs a thumb down the side of his pint glass. “Not really. My grandmother sent us to vacation bible school once, for all the good that did.”
“Aw man, bad memories.” I laugh like I’ve told a joke. I haven’t. Our vacation bible school teacher liked to use his belt. “I think I do things because deep down, I’m afraid of being punished if I don’t. That’s not the same thing as believing in the words.”
I’m staring at the table so hard I might drill a hole through it. Somehow, I opened my mouth and let more of the truth out than I’d ever intended. It’s one thing to chase those thoughts around in my own head. Saying them out loud is a whole ’nother level.
We desperately need a subject change.
“Anyway... “ I wonder if I should ask him about baseball, maybe that game against Oregon State in his sophomore year when he hit a walk-off grand slam. Oh yes, Damon Clemens has quite a web presence, including an out-of-date Wikipedia page. I quickly discard the idea since it won’t take more than a minute to reveal that I don’t know jack shit about baseball.
Fortunately, svamp arrives to rescue me. He plunks the nachos and my drink on the table and gives us an expectant look. Damon lets me order first—Cobb salad, dressing on the side—then he asks for their double smash burger and fries. With a satisfied nod, svamp leaves us to our increasingly awkward conversation.
“I wouldn’t have picked you as a salad man,” Damon says.
“I’ve been living off Dick’s burgers. This was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
“I can see why. A little Dick’s goes a long way.”
My answering laugh is three-quarters relief. “So other than stalking me after hours, how was your day today?”