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CHAPTER NINETEEN
*Zane “Father” - Chaplain*
Her soft, tanned hand holds mine — the same hand that just killed a man. My heart feels like it might burst out of my chest, and my junk out of my pants, both because of her touch and her words, but also because… because I have no idea why. I hate it. That lack of control.
I stumble behind her. Every noise, every movement, makes my nerves jerk in response. My mind is loud, louder than the surrounding conversation and music. But at the same time, it makes no noise at all — the illusion of loud. I am unable to process thoughts or feel anything but my palm getting sweaty against hers, my pulse pounding, and my feet carrying me forward as she leads me into the bathroom. All I see… is Lace. Everything else around me fades.
In the deepest recesses of my conditioned mind, I am incredibly thankful she is clothed even though the leather and lace outfit leaves little to the imagination. Secretly, I wish more was revealed. I wish that I could see every inch of the tattoo showing through the cut opening in her tight pants like when we first got here, and all she wore was thin, stringy underwear. The battle between right and wrong wages in my mind, and tears prick at my eyes. I blink them away as she spins around and flashes a captivating smile.
“I will be right back. Whatever you do, do not run off.” Lace winks and leaves the men’s room like it was no big deal she was in there in the first place.
I stand stock still, doing nothing more than staring at the mirror while simultaneously avoiding my reflection.
When Lace gets back, she tosses a plastic, disposable pack of what appears to be a travel set of toiletries onto the counter. “You’ll feel a little better once you clean up,” she explains, retreating toward the door.
She disappears again, and my anxiety spikes. As much as I want to escape all this madness, as soon she is gone, I realize being alone is even worse. My mind begins to work overtime, flashing images from the assignment. A vice tightens around my heart, and I literally feel like the tool will compress so hard that the organ will explode, and I will die of a heart attack right here on the bathroom floor of a strip club.
I want to run, but I stand frozen. I want to scream but am speechless.
One small step at a time, I use every single item in the travel pack, taking advantage of the process to clear my head, even if only a little bit.
Wash hands.
Brush teeth.
Comb hair.
Apply deodorant.
When I leave, Lace is waiting for me just outside the door. She takes my hand again, walks me over toward the bar, and gives the bartender some sort of… look. The lady pours a glass of what appears to be water, slides it across the table, and slips a small pill onto the napkin beside it.
Lace hops up onto the barstool and pulls me between her legs. The motion instantly becomes one of those moments where I hate being a man; my penis — d-dick — stretches painfully. Chest heaving, I crank my head over my shoulder, seeking out Coty. Being killed tonight by him might possibly be better than the insanity going on inside my mind and with my body right now. Before my focus can get a full scan of the saloon, Lace has a palm on my face and is guiding my attention back to her. I captured enough to know that every HFL member aside from me is still in the office, though.
A cold, condensation-damp glass is placed in one of my hands, and she holds up the small, bar-shaped pill pinched between her thumb and pointer.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Xanax — a psych drug. Helps with anxiety and panic. Numbs you a little bit. Gives your mind some space to breathe.”
“L-like a medicine? One that is prescribed and not made in a basement?”
She chuckles. “Like the one I am on right now? You got it. This one is a prescription drug. No harm, right? Also… there are no basements in Florida.”
Lace brings the pill to my mouth and inches her fingers between my lips. My heart raps even harder, and I can’t tell if my body’s response is from the fact that I’m terrified about taking this pill, terrified because she’s touching me and Coty is going to kill me, or terrified because I like it — her.
As her fingers slowly begin to retreat, my pursed lips tighten and mouth salivates, tongue tingling behind every centimeter of her touch.
Breathing hard, I lift the water to my lips and swallow the pill. As soon as it’s down my throat, my panic returns tenfold. There’s no going back; the controlled substance is in me. Eyes closed, I stumble backward, tilt my head back, and pray silently.
Something wrapping around my wrist and pulling me forward again snaps me out of the prayer.
“God doesn’t frequent strip clubs, hun.” Her dark eyebrows curve inward, a soft smile spreads across her face, and her soft fingers brush against my cheek. “Focus on me.” When she sees the haze in my eyes clear, she continues, quieter than before. “Don’t worry about anything else right now, okay?”
She leans forward and drags her lips across mine, her brown eyes lightening under the bar lights and white-blonde hair falling over her shoulder.
Lace smells exactly like I always imagined the beach might — like sunshine and salt. Happiness and repentance. “Coyote is going to kill me,” I breathe the scents out with the words, knowing if I hold onto them too long I might drown.
“Once the Xanax kicks in, you won’t care,” she responds, sliding her tongue between my lips, wet and warm, like the seawater on a hot day.
