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  Her limbs twisted.

  Her body broken.

  Her face shattered.

  Blood spilled everywhere.

  I hold my breath, and it feels like forever until I breathe again.

  But no matter how hard I try … I can’t get her voice out of my head. She keeps whispering my name.

  Frank.

  Frank…

  “Frank!”

  I open my eyes and blink a couple of times, unsure of where I am or what time it is. My vision is blurry, and my face feels like it’s been inside an oven. I wait a few seconds, and she yells my name again. Only now, it’s a completely different voice.

  “Frank, get up!”

  I lick my dry lips. “Mother …” I mutter.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes again, trying to forget about what I just dreamed. My head throbs like a hammer struck it several times. And my stomach constricts like someone sucker punched me. God, I hate waking up like this.

  “Christ, look at you,” she mumbles, wiping my shirt with something, probably a wet cloth.

  I’m way too out of it to even care.

  “Get up,” she snaps, patting me like I’m some kind of dog.

  “What?” I grumble.

  “You look despicable. Wash yourself.”

  “What did I do now?”

  “Look around!”

  I open my eyes and lean up on my elbows. Only now do I see all the empty bottles lying on the floor along with some socks, shoes, and a belt scattered around the room. A splash of liquor stains the carpet … and I think a bit of puke as well.

  “Look at you …” Mother wipes a cloth along my forehead and cheeks. “You look miserable.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a laugh, but even that hurts.

  “I can’t believe you did it again.”

  The disappointment in her voice really cuts deep. I hate when she talks to me like that. She’s my mother. Well, sort of. Technically, she’s just the woman who raised me because we’re not related by blood. Her real name is Margaret. I call her Mother because everyone here does. She’s the one who organizes everything at the church, and she’s been my caretaker for all these years. Even though I’m thirty, I still need her more than anything in this fucking world. She’s the only thing that keeps me tethered to this place.

  “C’mon, get up,” she nags, pulling on my arm.

  I do as she asks and sit up in my bed. I place my hand against my forehead to stop the headache, but it’s no use.

  Mother walks to my sink and fills a glass with water. She rummages in her pockets and takes out a few pills. “Take these.” She holds both out to me.

  I know she won’t leave me until I do what she says, so I just take them.

  “Where were you last night?” she asks.

  “I guess that’s obvious,” I muse, grinning a little, but she smacks me with my own Bible.

  “Frank Romero! How many times do I have to tell you to stop drinking!” With every word, she gives me another slap. “You drunk!”

  “Okay, okay, I get it!” I hold my hand up to stop her from slapping me again. “I’m not drunk anymore.” That’s a lie, but I don’t care. Anything to get her to stop.

  “Then man up and get your filthy ass cleaned up,” she growls, looking at me with those deathly eyes. They always terrified me when I was young. They still do.

  If anyone ever told you old ladies were timid and gentle, they were lying.

  I let out a long-drawn-out breath and get up from the bed, only just noticing I’m still wearing yesterday’s pants.

  “You have ten minutes to get dressed,” she says firmly, putting the Bible back on my nightstand. “And not a minute more.”

  “Why? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” I scratch the back of my neck and yawn.

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Frank. Did you even look at the time?”

  Now that she mentions it … no, I haven’t.

  She frowns. “It’s nine ‘o clock.”

  “So?” I shrug. I still don’t get the point.

  “On a Sunday.”

  It takes a while for it to click.

  My eyes widen as I say, “Oh …”

  “Exactly.” She taps her feet on the floor. “The church is filled with people already. They’re all waiting. The only thing missing is you, Frank.” She opens the door.

  Flustered, I reply, “Sorry.”

  “Save it,” she spits. “Just make sure you’re”—she looks me up and down—“presentable.” Then she walks out and closes the door behind her.

  I quickly wash my face with water, rinsing off the puke and stench. I look like a mess, and I’m not talking about all my tattoos. No wonder people think I’m a hack. I act like one, so that’s what you’re gonna get.

  I dry my face with a towel and take off all my dirty clothes, almost stumbling over them. Snatching the clothes off the hook, I comb my hair and slap myself to wake the fuck up.

  I’m still so damn hammered that I can barely walk straight, but I finally manage to dress. Right before I walk out the door, I put on my robe and make sure the white piece of my collar is visible. One last look at the mirror has me blowing a kiss and winking at myself. Damn, I’m so hot I could bake an egg on myself.

  Speaking of, I’m gonna grub out on some bacon and eggs when I finish.

  I’m tempted to skip town so I can have a proper breakfast instead of doing this sermon, but I know Mother would never forgive me. And boy, do I love her to death.

  Before I walk out the door, I snatch the small bottle of liquor I saved underneath my nightstand and tuck it into my chest pocket. Call it a good luck charm. Or a fuck-it charm. Whatever floats your boat. As long as I have my drink, I’m good.

  As I open the door from the chancel, all the people sitting in the pews look up at me, and I pause. Their eyes fall on me like spikes piercing my body, and it’s at this moment I feel most judged.

  Some would say not to let this feeling overwhelm me, but sometimes, the voices in my head need to shut up for a moment.

  I make my way to the pulpit while fiddling in my pocket, looking for the small piece of paper I scribbled on yesterday. I remember writing down a sermon or something of the sort. But when I get to the pulpit and place the paper on it, all I find are random words and gibberish; sentences that don’t make any sense. Well, so much for a great sermon.

  “Uh … good morning, everyone,” I say with a half-assed smile.

  Some people shuffle around in their seat, some cough, and others look bored.

  It’s the same shit every day, only worse. Every time I’m here, I see another empty seat. People just don’t care anymore.

  And me? I feel like shit, and looking at them, I honestly don’t know why I’m still here.

  Why I’m even trying to put up a front.

  I clear my throat and try to ignore my raging headache and starry eyesight.

  “So … hope you’re all having a great day so far,” I say, the speaker slightly squeaking on me. I adjust it a little and continue my babbling. “Or I hope at least one of us is.”

  People look annoyed.

  I guess that’s only natural because I am too.

  “Let’s talk about God. We’re all here for God, right?”

  Of course, no one answers.

  “Yeah, thought so.” I chew on my lip for a moment.

  “God. God. God. They say He’s all around us. Everywhere. Anytime. Looking down upon us to keep us safe. To watch over us. Or so they say.”

  Everyone’s still staring at me, so I guess I’ll continue.

  “God. You know … I haven’t found Him lately. And I bet a lot of you haven’t.” I pause. “Have you ever wondered if He abandoned you?”

  No one answers, but from the looks on their faces, I can tell half of them agree. The other half I prefer to ignore.

  “If God wasn’t the One looking out for you? Who do you turn to?”

  No one answers, which I expected.

  “No on
e,” I say. “No one but yourself. You are the only one who can save yourself.”

  Some people clutch their purses tight, and others cover their mouths in shock. Like what I’m saying is so strange. Like none of them have ever thought it. Of course, they have. They’re just afraid to admit it.

  “And you know what? God doesn’t care about me. Or you. Or about any of us.”

  Some jaws drop.

  “Why else would He make us suffer so much? Why would He give us so much pain? Why wouldn’t He just take it away?” My nails almost dig into the wood. “He wouldn’t. Because God doesn’t do easy. God doesn’t give us anything we need. God wants us to fight for it. God wants us to do the work. He’s not here to have pity or make your life better. That’s your job.”

  “Frank!” I turn my head to see Mother whisper-yelling at me from the side, but I ignore her.

  “I’m not here to tell you what to do. Nor is God. I can only tell you that life will never be easy. It’s always going to be tough, and shit’s going to come at you and ruin your goddamn life.”

  More audible gasps.

  “And you know what? That’s okay. Because life is about pain. And suffering. It’s about repentance.”

  As I speak, my eyes fall on a girl sitting in the crowd. A beautiful girl with wavy, dark brown hair just past her shoulders, sharply defined cheekbones, and thick eyebrows topping big blue eyes. She looks like she’s in her twenties … pretty, and definitely eye-catching. So much so that I can’t even remember what I was saying.

  All I can think of is her … and then I notice the little boy sitting next to her, watching his feet dangle below the pew. She grabs his hand and squeezes.

  Her eyes … I can’t stop looking.

  For some reason, my brain stops functioning.

  Even if only for a second, the worries disappear. And I don’t know why, but somehow, someway … she feels familiar to me.

  Which is strange because I’ve never seen her here before.

  A cough from another churchgoer pulls me from my thoughts, and I clear my throat and continue.

  “We go through life because we must. All for the sake of the afterlife. For heaven, we do it all. Heaven … Boy, I think we’d all love to be there right now.” I look at the girl and wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s ever thought of heaven. If she realizes right now that when I picture her naked in front of me, that would be heaven.

  Luckily, no one can see inside my head.

  Instead, everyone’s gone quiet now.

  I mutter, “And as far as I see it … you can live out your life to the fullest or give up. God doesn’t give a shit anyway. He just wants you to make a choice. And whether you choose to accept is up to you. We’re all going to die anyway.”

  Mother suddenly barges up to the pulpit and turns off the microphone then glares at me profusely. She doesn’t need to say a word. I turn around and stumble off, grabbing the small bottle of liquor in my pocket and drinking it down in one gulp.

  I don’t give two shits that everyone in here can see me drink.

  I’m already going to hell anyway. Might as well make it a fun trip.

  2

  I rummage underneath my bed and take out two Playboy I’ve been hiding from Mother. With a grin on my face, I plop down on my bed and sift through the magazine until I find a pretty picture of a naked lady and start rubbing myself.

  What?

  I never said I was a saint. Far from it, actually. I’ve done some very bad shit in my life. People would be afraid of me if they knew. But that all happened before I became a preacher.

  Not in the official sense, of course. I’m not ordained. I just like to give back to the people, and I do it by preaching.

  However, preachers have needs too.

  And boy … my needs have been piling up since I saw that girl in church on Sunday. Something about her electrified my body. Like it suddenly came alive again after a long sleep.

  For some reason, I can’t get her off my mind.

  No matter how many days pass, I can’t stop thinking about her, wondering who she is, and why she’s started visiting my church. Why she’s here. If she ever has the same naughty thoughts as I have about her.

  I admit it. I’m not ashamed to say I’m infatuated with the very thought of having her right here in my bed.

  Is it wrong? Hell yeah, but I don’t care.

  Right now, I just wanna blow off some steam, and beating my meat seems like the perfect way to do it.

  So I grease the pipe with some gun oil from my nightstand and start to rub one out.

  However, the longer I stare at the pictures on the magazine, the less in the mood I’m feeling. I don’t know what it is, but random nude chicks just don’t do it for me anymore. And whenever I think of her, my cock springs right back into action.

  So I close the magazine and my eyes and focus on the image I have of her in my mind; her sultry eyes focused solely on me as she strips down, removing her clothes piece by piece. So sensually, so carnal that I touch myself.

  I groan from the thought of having her bounce on my length, her tits jiggling in my face, and I come so damn hard it spurts all over.

  “Fuck …” I hiss, biting my lip.

  God, oh God.

  You and I both know I needed that more than anything.

  I grab some tissues and pat myself down to clean up the mess. Right then, the door opens, and Margaret’s eyes widen at the sight of my sloppy joe.

  “Oh, God,” she mutters as she slaps her hand in front of her eyes.

  She’s never sworn before, so I can’t help but laugh.

  “Lord Almighty,” she mutters, turning around and slamming the door behind her.

  “Sorry,” I say, hoping she can still hear.

  “Pray to God I forget this as soon as possible.”

  I laugh again. “I’ll beg him for mercy, I promise.”

  “Of course, you will.”

  I don’t even have to see her roll her eyes because I know she’s doing it.

  “Can’t you just not do that?” she asks.

  “No,” I reply, grinning like a fool as I get up from the bed and throw away the tissues. “Preachers have needs too.”

  “I don’t wanna hear it!” she quickly interjects, making me shake my head.

  “I came to tell you someone’s waiting for you in the confessional. Multiple people are waiting, actually.”

  “Great,” I huff, grabbing my pants and pulling them on.

  I hate that fucking confessional. It’s too … official, and I’m not a priest. But since the people asked Mother specifically to put a confessional in the church, she couldn’t refuse, despite my hesitations. The people wanted this, so she gave it to them.

  Maybe the people in this neighborhood like the privacy the confessional offers. And if that’s what people want, we’ll give it to them. Anything to help, right?

  “They’ve been waiting for a while now,” Mother adds.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I reply, staring at my tattooed body in the mirror as I put on my shirt and collar right. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

  “My what?” she scoffs.

  I open the door and see her standing with her arms folded. “Nothing,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going in there with you,” she says, frowning.

  “Like I’d want you in there,” I retort. “We’re not stuffing a clown’s car. This is a church.”

  Her eyebrows are so low I swear they’re permanently stuck. “You know, half the time I really don’t know what you’re saying.”

  I smile and pat her back as we both walk through the corridor. “That’s a good thing; trust me.”

  “Well, I’ll see you when you’re done, okay?” She raises her brow. As if keeping tabs on me is anything new for her.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I’m going.”

  We each go our own way. I straighten my collar before I go up to the main area and look around. A few people are in
the pews, praying or silently sitting there, overthinking their sins. For those who glance my way, I give them a fake smile and a nod as I walk past and enter the confessional.

  The wooden bench underneath my ass feels so damn hard that I find it hard to stay seated, but I guess we all make sacrifices for the greater good. Besides, I’ve got to keep up appearances of being a semi-okay preacher.

  But dammit … I hate how confined this space is and how ancient it makes me feel to look at the latticed wood between me and the other side.

  Especially when an older lady sits down and closes the curtain then stares at me profusely like she can gape straight into my soul. Scary shit.

  She makes the sign of the cross and begins her talk. “I’ve been doing a terrible injustice toward one of my boys,” she mutters. “I should’ve punished him harder, but I just couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to, but I felt so disgusted; I didn’t even want to confront him even though he’d earned it.”

  “What has your boy done?” I ask.

  “He’s been … well, how do I say this …” She smashes her lips together and frowns, looking down at her feet.

  I lean in closer. “Done what?”

  “He’s been doing … inappropriate things.”

  “Like what?” I ask, cocking my head because I can’t believe where this is about to go.

  “When he’s in the shower or in his bed, I’ve heard him make noises.” She looks away in disgust, her eyes clearly in despair.

  And I honestly don’t know how to respond.

  “Like dirty noises. And he’s still a boy. He shouldn’t be doing those things.”

  I snort, trying to hold back the laughter, but I just can’t.

  “Are you … are you laughing?” she asks after hearing my sniffling.

  “You’re confessing about not punishing your boy hard enough because he was jerking off?”

  Her eyes widen, and her face tightens. “Excuse me?”

  “Is that seriously what you came here to do?” I ask, raising my brow at her. “You do realize wanking is absolutely normal for boys his age?”

  Her jaw drops and nothing comes out of her mouth, which I’m thankful for.