Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(53)

Holding my breath, I drive around to the back parking lot to feign security against getting caught by anyone I might know. I’d like to think that no one I know would go into a place like this, but, my well’s run dry on that hope. When it’s your own father, everything else falls with it.

I exit the car and check three times to make sure the door is locked before I shakily walk toward the door. I’d pray, normally, in a situation like this. One where I’m scared to death. But, what’s the point now, honestly? So few prayers have been answered in the last few years that I’m beginning to believe in luck. And I don’t seem to have much of that, either.

Looking over my shoulder once before walking in, I take a deep breath. You’re allowed to be in here, I repeat to myself several times. You’re not breaking any laws. Once inside, a stereotypically huge dude extends his hand. Unfamiliar with the process, I stare at him in confusion.

“ID,” he demands, annoyed as if I’ve interrupted his busy schedule of being a wall.

I slap my plastic driver’s license in his hand, and he gives it a thorough once-over.

“Birthday?” he asks, quizzing me on my statistics.

I give him the correct answer, which does little to change the displeased look on his face. Walking into the main area, I’m surprised at how well-lit it is. And, I’m surprised that I’m surprised. I’ve never seen the inside of a strip club. Not on TV, the Internet, or in magazines. And, certainly not in person. But, I guess the negative discussion surrounding places like this always led me to believe it would be kind of dark and smoky. Walking past men who look about the size of the trucks they drove here, I slide into a table in the back.

“Coffee or Coke?” A young woman who can’t be that much older than I am—if she’s older than me at all—stands in front of me with her hip jutting out to one side, and her hand resting on it.

Lifting my eyes, I’m forced to immediately lower them. She’s barely wearing anything. I swear I see more clothing at the public swimming pool. Spandex “shorts” show the sides of her butt, and her bra-looking top reveals her entire midsection, which is speckled with star and fairy tattoos. When I’m finally able to train my eyes on her face, I notice that she also has a large tattoo across her chest. Twisting thorns and vines with roses every other inch.

“Coffee or Coke?” she repeats. It seems, as she stands there trying not to look bored, that I feel more naked than she does.

“Coke.”

“You been here before?” Her eyes wrinkle at the sides in amusement.

I stare back, unable to say anything.

She snaps some gum between her teeth. “Thought so. I’ll be right back with your Coke, sweetie. My name’s Destiny if you need anything.”

I run my hand over my face, trying to reason if that’s her real name, or not. If you worked in a place like this, would you want people calling you by your real name all day? Or, would you want to pretend? Use another name to make you feel like this was all just make-believe, and not your real life at all.

As she walks away, shaking her hips, I spot matching angel wing tattoos on her shoulder blades.

Cute.

If anyone asked my dad’s name, I wonder, staring at my hands, did he give it? Did he tell them that he was happily married with two children at home? Would he preach the gospel to them as they dangled their breasts in his face?

God, I hope not.

I hope that these women weren’t hearing about God from a man who seems to have disregarded anything he ever knew about that God.

Shaking my head, I push all thoughts of God out of my head. He has no place here; in this building, or in my life. I followed him for eighteen years, and am left with a broken relationship with my father, looked on in pity by the congregation that raised me, and pissed off as hell. I think I can take it from here.

“Destiny” returns with my Coke, offering a wink before she retreats to the back. Just as music plays throughout the space, I suppose indicating that someone is about to perform, my phone dings with a text.

Whipping it from my pocket in order to silence it, planning to ignore the message until later, I see that it’s from Kennedy. Momentarily, I forget where I am. I grin at her new contact name in my phone.

K. Sawyer: Hey. Sigh. So, I’m going to that party. Mollie’s making me. #peerpressure



Me: Behave.





You’re such a hypocrite.





K. Sawyer: I’ll probably get arrested and end up on the news.





Me: What?!



K. Sawyer: Chill out, son of a preacher man, I was just kidding. I’ll behave. #Seewhatididthere

I do see. Her humor, which she often guards on campus, especially in class, is really spot on. But, her words do something else to me this time. They remind me not of who I am, but who I was. Sure, I’m technically a PK, because that’s how I spent most of my life. But my father hasn’t actively pastored anyone in a year and a half. Despite stepping down three years ago, he remained partially active in the congregation while he was in therapy. When he stopped therapy, the congregation relieved him of his duties. Technically, he stepped down, but there wasn’t really a choice there.



K. Sawyer: Yo. You there?



Matt: Yeah. Heading to my own party, actually. Probably won’t stay long. It’ll be lame. Text me later.