“If you need anything, call me, okay?”
“I’m fine, Colt.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to a priest?”
“You’d lie to your cousin,” he says, getting up and pushing his chair beneath the table.
He goes to pick up his plate, but I wave my hand, I’ll handle the cleanup.
“I’m excited to see your work. But most of all,” he kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad my favorite person is home.”
Any response is stuck behind the ball that’s grown in my throat. Colton doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge or reply to his comment, aware that shows of emotion make me uncomfortable.
Once I’m finished, I do the dishes, then head back to the small annex building attached to the church where I’m staying. The self-contained building is basic but fine for a few months.
There wasn’t any time to appreciate it last night because I just stripped off and got into bed, too caught up in memories of the jerk. The seriously sexy, angry, arrogant asshole of a man.
I was incredibly pissed he scared the shit out of me. Then came the satisfaction of getting the better of him. The only reason the fucker got out of my hold on him, and dodged a face full of mace, was the gun he pulled.
When I woke up this morning, the first thing I did was take down the giant crucifix in the bedroom. Then the one in the living room, and the tiny one in the bathroom, with a framed photograph of the Virgin Mary beneath it. I shut them all away in a drawer.
After showering and changing, I bring in the art supplies which I left in my car last night and set them up in the spare bedroom, it’s one of the brightest rooms with a small single bed and a wardrobe. Plenty of space for the two easels I brought with me.
I’m going to be here a while, I need to integrate, which means finding Marisol. Colt filled me in on how she helps keep the church clean, organizes parish events, and keeps him on the straight and narrow.
Given Colt said she is a bit of a gossip, she may be the best person to get information about the motorcycle club.
When I lived with the Eastwood's, it was across the city in one of the more affluent suburbs. A far cry from the cramped apartment with parents who cared more about their next fix than their kid.
They never abused or hurt me, if anything, I was only left alone. It took a long time for me to realize that physical abuse isn’t the only way parents can hurt you. The mental abuse, abandonment and inability to trust are just as damaging. It’s followed me through most of my life.
Instead of picking up a paintbrush, I head into the church. It’s a beautiful building with high vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. The benches are solid wood, varnished, and the floors are beautifully tiled.
The whole place is spotless, with an imposing crucifix and statue of Jesus above the ornate altar. As someone who doesn’t believe in God, I won't go near that.
After exploring a little more, I come to the confessional boxes, one for parishioners, and one for Colt. It’s small inside with a cushioned pad on the bench, and a partially obscured window between the booths to provide some anonymity for people coming to confess.
How many things has Colt heard here? How bad, or mundane or downright evil. It intrigues me that people would come and sit in this tiny space and tell someone all the shit they’ve done, knowing there will be no consequences but a few prayers.
If someone confessed to murder, would Colt be obliged to report it?
“Hello.”
“Shit,” I shriek, clutching my chest and ducking out of the booth.
The woman lifts a brow at my cursing.
“Oh Jesus, sorry. Oh, crap...”
“You’re best to stop talking, it might help.”
“I’m so sorry.” I wait for the judgment, the stink eye or being chastised, but the woman chuckles.
“Father Eastwood warned me about you.” She has a twinkle in her eye when she says it and a kind smile. “Kinsley, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Marisol.”
We shake hands, and I step out and close the door to the confessional.
