I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(11)

Over the past few weeks—until last night—my only interactions with Missy have been at church, and those usually involve catching her glancing back at me from the front pew. Not disapprovingly like the other parishioners, oh no. Missy always eyes me like I’m a piece of candy she wants to take a bite out of.

I shake my head, chuckle a little as I soap up my body. Missy sure got her wish last night…and then some. Fuck, I have to admit what she did to me felt good, really good, but what a mistake.

Hopefully, Missy will be more successful at keeping her mouth shut than she was last night behind the Anchor Inn. I groan a little at the thought of her making a big deal out of what happened. God, girls and their expectations, reading shit into anything physical that occurs. I hope Missy realizes our little tryst was a one-time deal. Somehow I doubt I’ll be so lucky.

I turn so the steaming water hits my back. I have the sneaking suspicion Missy, surely in church at this very moment, is probably looking back and wondering why I am not there. I can picture it perfectly: Missy—who always positions herself between her portly mom and some hot chick I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting—sitting there, not listening to Mass. Instead she’s surely thinking about last night and hoping it meant something, like I’m into her or something. Dream on, sweetheart.

Now, if the mystery-hot chick who sits next to Missy had been the one to walk into the bar last night, I’d be singing an entirely different tune today. First off, I never would have treated Hot Chick the way I treated Missy, even if she is hot as f*ck. Hot Chick just seems too…I don’t know…fragile maybe.

She’s a slender, tiny little thing. Pretty too, in a classic but understated kind of way. I like her delicate features, her porcelain skin, and the mane of chestnut-colored hair that flows down her back. And I really like her heart-shaped ass and the shapely legs she shows off in pretty dresses. Not to mention her perky tits that she tries to hide under pastel cardigan sweaters. Damn, I like those too.

My dick reminds me of just how much I like Hot Chick’s assets as I finish showering. I think about lingering a few extra minutes, but there’s really no time for that, so I push down on my length and turn off the water.

Grabbing a towel from the bar by the sink, I dry off and give myself some time to cool down. I pad back into the bedroom, tamping down any lingering lust-ridden thoughts, and pondering how the f*ck I’ve never run into this hot chick before, seeing as she seems to be around my age.

She must be new to Harmony Creek, I conclude, because I never once saw her back when I was living here. I would definitely recollect if I had met her.

If she is new to town I bet she lives south of Market Street—the main thoroughfare running through town. South of Market is where all the important people live—the mayor, members of the town council, prominent business owners, and the like.

I should know; my family once lived there. Back before we moved to Vegas, back when I was a different person, on a different path.

Whatever.

In any case, Hot Chick sure looks like she’d fit in down there south of Market—all prim and proper in her girly-girl dresses and pastel sweaters. I guess what I’m saying is that she’s someone who wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of me. Maybe the person I was a long time ago would’ve had a chance, but the damaged man I’ve become doesn’t deserve someone good and wholesome like that. I’m doomed to make due with the Missy Metzgers of the world.

It’s almost noon and Mass should be letting out, which is great. By the time I get over to the church everyone will be gone. I’d rather not go at all, but I have to stop by and pick something up. Now that summer vacation has officially begun, Father Maridale has all these painting projects for me to start on. Most are over in the school next to the church. I’m supposed to get started tomorrow bright and early. But I don’t yet have a key, so I need to pick one up. Unfortunately, that entails a visit to the church, and a face-to-face with the priest who saw enough good in me to hire my sorry ass last month.

Standing before the closet in my bedroom, I decide it’d be prudent—especially since I missed Mass—to dress respectably. I flip through the hangers, and stop when I come to the nicest pair of pants I own. I run a finger down the sharp creases of the tailored, black dress slacks my mother bought me to wear before the judge who ended up granting me my freedom.

I sigh and pull the pants off the hangar.

Also thanks to Mom, I now own a nice collection of button-down shirts, in a vast array of colors. I just grab the first one I see—white, crisp, and cotton. Perfect, I’ll be in black and white, just like Father Maridale. The sinner and the saint, matched.

While I dress in these so-not-me clothes, I think about how much they must’ve cost. But it’s not like my mother can’t afford pricey things these days. Like I said before, people change…and some get lucky.

For Abby, it’s the latter that applies. I guess the cost of some fancy duds is a small price to pay when all you want is for your son to look the part of a respectable young man.

What a joke. None of this stuff is my style. I am jeans and T-shirts, hoodies and Converse. Comfortable, that’s me. But today, like at the courthouse over a month ago, I’ll go back to playing a part. All white cotton-tucked, black slacks belted, and leather dress shoes shined to a fault.

After I finish dressing for my role, I comb my fingers through my hair, hair that’s grown a lot since getting out of prison. That’s right—no more buzz cuts for me. My hair’s a little less unruly than usual and, shit, that’s good enough.