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Chapter 1
Marigold
The blonde-coiffed head of my stepmother swivels in my direction. Her perfectly painted lips form a frown while her heavily lashed eyes stare pointedly toward my décolletage. She gently touches the hem of her collar. Her message is received.
“Jesus Christ,” I can’t help but mutter. I’ve committed no sin, saying the Lord’s name, because at this very moment we are in church.
As my father’s deep baritone voice drones on, I make subtle moves to adjust the fabric of my dress to better conceal my ample cleavage. I’m sitting in the very front of the sanctuary, on a pew next to my stepmother and just behind the bully pulpit. All eyes are on me. After all, I am the preacher’s daughter. Even though I try my best to dress modestly, I just can’t help that my curves always seem to overflow. I always seem to be a bit too much, no matter how hard I try to fit in.
My stepmother, Loretta, glances over in my direction and lets out a small but satisfied, “Hmph.”
I suppose that means I’ve covered up to her satisfaction. She’s always like this, such a pill, so I manage to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
I grit my teeth, however, trying not to squirm in my hard wooden seat on the church pew. I’ve already played the hymns that punctuate this Wednesday evening's service. There’s nothing else to look forward to.
Playing the piano is the only part of church that I actually enjoy, not to mention one of the few skills I possess my fatherapproves of. Now that I can’t look forward to dancing my fingers across the piano keys, it seems like this sermon will never end.
I hope it appears that I’m paying attention, but my eyes wander over the faces of the members of our congregation. Very few of them appear as bored as I feel on the inside. On the contrary, most people are positively rapt, hanging on to every word my father utters. They’re looking at my dad like he’s the second coming, but they might feel differently if they actually had to live with him.
There’s always so much pressure on me. I have to be a good girl. The least that I can do is keep up appearances. I fold my hands in my lap and try to fix my eyes in a blank stare at the back wall of the packed sanctuary.
There’s a creak and a bang as the back doors of the sanctuary swing open. My body jerks involuntarily at the startle and my heart begins to race as three men walk in. When they let the door slam closed behind them, everyone who didn’t react at the first sound turns around to peer at the interruption.
There are three of them, and not a single one belongs here. They seem to recognize their outsider status, as the men make no move to seat themselves in a pew. Instead, they stand along the back wall of the sanctuary, arms crossed and imposing.
My father shows no signs of intimidation. I don’t even see him flinch, but I can tell that Loretta’s body has stiffened beside me. Some congregants are stealing glances, their faces tight with discomfort when turning back around to face the pulpit.
The three men don’t seem to notice the unwelcoming atmosphere. I stare at them, all leaning nonchalantly against the back wall. They’re dressed casually,too casually,in worn dark jeans and black leather jackets.
The tallest of the group has olive skin and thick, tousled black hair, slightly graying at the temples. He’s slightly older than his companions and oozing charm and confidence. His full lips are pursed into a smirk and his eyes twinkle as they rove around the sanctuary.
Standing next to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerously Handsome is a complete wall of a man with auburn hair. I wonder if he’s the leader since he has such an air of authority about him, but perhaps it’s just something that comes along with being the biggest and strongest guy in the room. He scans the rows of pews with a sense of purpose before locking his gaze on my father, still rambling from his perch on the pulpit.
I subtly shift my eyes to inspect the last of the three men, who is certainly last butnotleast. He’s an absolute Adonis, with deep-set eyes, a chiseled jaw, and messy long blonde hair hanging down to his shoulders. Colorful tattoos snake out from the neckline of his clothing. They’re a stark contrast to his golden skin and I find myself wondering how far down his body those tattoosgo.Do they decorate the entire length of his body? When I glance back up at Adonis’s face, he’s staring at me with such intensity that I worry he can read my mind. I feel my cheeks flush with shame. I wasn’t having the most ladylike thoughts at that very moment, but there’s no way he could tell. Right?
He smiles at me, the beautiful Adonis, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. My eyes dart away. It’s too much. Looking at him is like looking at the sun.
My father, the honorable Reverend Earl Bennett, continues to drivel and I’m trying to be the good preacher’s daughter. I clench my thighs together, ankles still crossed like a lady, to ward off my impure thoughts. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.
I shouldn’t be thinking about those men this way. They all look dangerous. Each one is the kind of man that my father has always warned me about. Godless and wild. Crude and cruel. The kind of man that would brutalize a woman. The kind of man I could end up with if I stray from the path my father has set me on.
I wouldn’t dare, but I’m still a twenty-two-year-old woman. I have urges. My eyes wander and my gaze roams over each hard body in turn. The boss guy has huge hands. I imagine that they’re calloused and rough, like the hands of a real working man. Then there’s the dark one with the pillowy lips. Would they feel assoft as they look when pushed against mine? My focus shifts to the tattooed Adonis once again. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through his disheveled blonde hair.
I feel another blush burning into my cheeks when I once again realize the nature of my thoughts. I'm indulging in my fantasies again, and to complicate matters, I couldn't settle on one of the guys. I was fantasizing about all three of them.
My father is finally wrapping up his sermon, and he calls for everyone to bow their head for prayer. I bend my neck obediently, grateful for the excuse to hide the pink all over my face.
When the prayer is over and we all lift our heads, I steal a glance down at the other end of the pew. I only look for a second, but he sees me. My father’s underling, the junior pastor, seated in his spot of honor, bobs his head and curls his lips into a smile. He looks like a sleazy, used-car salesman with his slicked back hair and blindingly white smile. His name is Thaddeus Fraley and I donotsmile back. The man’s mere presence makes my skin crawl.
Unfortunately for me, Thaddeus feels the exact opposite. It has always been obvious, but recently Thad officially requested permission from my father to begin our courtship.Courtship.With Thaddeus.The very thought of courtship with Thaddeus brings the taste of bile to the back of my throat, but my father was pleased. Pastor’s daughter marries the protégé, securing the family’s dynasty. Of course, my dad would love that.
Finally, my father finishes the service, and we are dismissed. Dutifully, I stand next to my father and stepmother in front of the pulpit for the customary procession of shaking hands and bidding farewell to the congregants.
Loretta seems tense, but my father behaves as usual, taking time to connect with each member of his flock. They are our money ticket, after all. Tithes handle our luxurious lifestyle and I’m constantly commanded to be grateful for the prosperity God bestowed upon my father. The least I can do is to be obedient.
Everyone offers me a pleasantry, but fewer people present their palms, leaving me with idle time to spy on the men still standing inthe rear of the sanctuary. They’ve made no move to join the line of parishioners. All three are just standing there as if they were waiting for someone.
There’s only one straggler left, engaged with both my father and stepmother in some tedious conversation. My curiosity gets the better of me. I slip out of my spot in line and start walking towards the back doors, right next to where the men are lingering.
