Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Dad’s hardly one to talk. He’s big, mean, and littered with scars and bullet wounds from his years in the military. Still, he holds himself and his faith in high regard, regardless of outward appearance. I’m not surprised he’s giving the new priest a chance, even though Father Murphy looks more like someone who belongs behind Dad’s bars.
“We’re a small, isolated town. We don’t need a different side to faith. We need stability,” Bob says callously, sliding into the driver’s seat of his muscle car. “But maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t cast the first stone or however it goes.”
Father Murphy isn’t anything like our previous priest. He’s tall, handsome, and chiseled from marble. Maybe that’s what this town needs. Someone who’s seen the darker side of life in order to guide us—them— to the light.
As much as I want to count myself among the flock of blind followers, I can’t. It took one look at Reed Murphy to know my faith lies elsewhere. Still in God, but in a different pocket of His holy love.
“I’ll see you tonight for the game?” Dad changes the subject, and Bob nods his head. “I’ll invite Murphy over, too. Give us a chance to get to know the guy better without having to dip into his history.”
“Sounds swell. I’ll bring chips and dip.” Bob turns his head to the deep blue sky while he ponders what to say next. “A couple of steaks for the barbecue.”
“Now we’re talking. I’ll see you then, Bobby boy. Drive safe, y’hear?” Dad pats the roof of Bob’s car and turns toward me. “Ready to get out of here?”
“No, not yet. I want to go in and speak with Father Murphy,” I say.
Dad raises a brow. “About what?”
Bob’s engine roars to life, nearly drowning out Dad’s words. He revs a few more times before he takes off down the road.
“It’s private.” My response is enough for him to yield. I’ve done it a few times before, breaking away after church to speak with our previous priest in the confessional.
“Ah, of course.” He smiles and wraps a hand around my shoulders, walking me back up the stairs towards the church door. He’d never pry when it came to a conversation between me and God. He understands it’s none of his business as long as I’m not getting myself into actual trouble. “I’ll wait out here.”
“Of course,” I say, slipping through the door into the quiet church.
Father Murphy sits on a pew, his head fixed toward the ceiling. He’s sprawled out lazily on the firm wooden seat, hands folded over one another on his belly, and his massive physique testing the limits of his all-black vestments. If I had the time and Dad wasn’t waiting, I’d love to stand here and observe him.
Watch, like a fly on the wall, as he goes about his business. Drink in those shimmering hazel eyes and stand in awe at the sheer monumental size of him. He shifts in his seat and grabs something at his side. It’s the church’s golden holy communion chalice, and he brings it to his lips for a long glug before wiping away the remnants of red wine that spill down his cheek.
Naughty boy. Getting your kicks on the blood of Christ.
Before I say anything, I unbutton the top three buttons of my blouse until my cleavage and part of my bra are visible. In preparation—and Lord knows I prepared long and hard for this moment—I opted for the best bra I could find in my drawer. It’s dark blue, with a black lace lining in a floral pattern running along the sides. To finish off my outfit, I roll the waist of my skirt up until it hits mid-thigh.
“Father Murphy?” My voice is meek, almost scared, as I approach him.
“Ah, fuck.” Father Murphy gets a fright hearing my words and spills the wine over himself. He drops the chalice to the ground, using his feet to kick it under the pew. “Shit, you didn’t hear that,” he says before correcting himself again. “Or that.”
I chuckle at the silliness of his swears and his attempts to rectify the situation.
“I didn’t hear you cuss. Twice. Got it,” I giggle. “But what should I make of you drinking the communion wine while you’re all alone?”
He turns to face me fully, a worried look sprawling across his face. He doesn’t fumble to find words or answers to my question, instead remaining silent and stoic as he watches me walk.
“Nothing, I suppose,” I finally answer for him, “considering what I’m about to do…”
To him.
“And what exactly is it you’re looking to do?” He crooks a brow.
“I’d like to have a word with you—”
“Of course, what’s up?” Father Murphy’s eagerness cuts me off. He gets up from his seat, wiping away some of the wine splashed over him.