Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(52)

Eden: I will :)



“What do you think?” Mollie emerges from her closet wearing a denim mini-skirt, knee-high boots and a baby doll t-shirt bearing the logo Harvard Sucks across her wonder bra-assisted breasts.

I think I don’t know what I’m about to get myself into.





CHAPTER NINETEEN





Supermassive Black Hole


Matt.




“Matthew?” his voice bellows from the front study. “Where are you off to?”

Over the course of the meal yesterday, I was able to get by with basic conversation with my father. For the sake of my little sister, Ellie, I try not to be too venomous with him around her. She’s been through as much as I have—maybe more since she’s only in ninth grade, and still in the house—but I don’t need to make things more difficult.

The second time he calls me, though, when my hand is on the door, I realize my peace is over. I shuffle, shoulders back, to the doorway of the office.

“I’m going to the homecoming stuff. You knew about it.” I try to sound passive about it, despite my stomach turning in knots. Seeing Justine has not been on the top of my “to do” list, though avoiding it tonight is highly unlikely.

Dad turns from his desk and rises to his feet, approaching me slowly. Like a hunter in the woods.

“And you’ll be mindful of the guidelines you’re still required to follow?” He looks at me from over the rim of his bifocals, which is infuriating, since he’s taller than I am.

I nod once. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

Will you be mindful of the general laws of society you’re still required to follow?

I don’t say it, but man, do I really, really want to.

“You were quiet yesterday during dinner,” he says without question, though I know I’m expected to reply.

“I’m tired. The schedule this semester is brutal. Especially with football.” My eyes fall as I say the last word. Once my biggest supporter, my father hasn’t seen a single college game of mine.

Don’t let him see that it bothers you.

“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you?”

I snort through my nose, not caring how disrespectful it sounds. “Yes. Yes, I’m still angry at you for nearly destroying our family.”

“And you’re still angry with God,” he states again with absurd confidence.

My jaw clenches and my nostrils flare.

“Matthew, you know this isn’t God’s doing.” He takes one step closer to me and rests his massive hand on my shoulder. “The devil has all kinds of tools to rip people limb from limb.”

“Yeah,” I huff. “Then where is the God that is supposed to deliver us from evil? Huh? Or was he out carousing with you the whole time?”

Dad clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t like your tone of voice, Son. You know that everything that’s happened will work out for the good of those who love Him and who have been called according to his purpose.”



Romans 8:28 …



Staring at the man I once revered as a hero, watching him quote the scripture he’s quoted no less than ten thousand times over the last three years, something breaks in me.

Breaks away.

I’ve been hanging by a thread through the last few years, clinging to the scriptures as instructed by him and those around me, but I can’t anymore. There’s no way a loving God would put his children through the actual, living hell that has been the last three years of my life. No ultimate power, in their right mind, would strip a good man—like my father was—down to absolutely nothing in front of his congregation. And, even if it was Satan, like my father insists, where is the grace? Where is the healing?

“Yes, Sir,” I say as confidently as possible before leaving the house and getting into my two-year-old mustang.

Revving the engine, I can think of one thing, and one thing only. Driving to the places my preacher father sold his soul to.

Fuck him.

Fuck God.

Fuck everything.





An hour later, in the seediest part of the city, I find what I’m looking for.

The Pink Pony.

Even if I hadn’t heard the name a hundred or more times when my dad first stepped down, it would have been easy to find. Billboards for this place pop up every two miles or so, as you drive down the highway with your family.

Bible belt, my ass.

This is one of the only places in the state that allows eighteen-year-olds inside its doors. They also don’t serve alcohol because of that, which is fine, since I’m going to get in enough trouble as it is.

You don’t have to go in.

Sitting in the parking lot, which is filled with oversized pickup trucks donned, ironically, with “mudflap girls”, my sweaty palms slide around the steering wheel.

I do. I need to see what was so special inside these walls that was worth risking his family, his career, and his relationship with God.

And my relationship with God.

I know this place is frequented mainly by truckers who stop in on their long journeys delivering food and clothing to big box stores. I wonder if they have families themselves, but the thought is too nauseating for me to consider it for long.