Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(57)

I throw my head back and laugh hysterically. I don’t particularly find Steve funny. No one finds Steve as funny as he does, but I’m at some sort of emotional breaking point. Jesus Freaks is a term I’ve used mainly in my head, very little in conversation, and never in high school. Two-thirds of the kids I graduated with were non-practicing Jews, and the other third were comprised of strict, stereotypical Catholics and a few Episcopalians, like myself. Leaving out the Jesuit and other private primary and secondary schools, there isn’t a Jesus Freak in a hundred-mile radius of here.

Except for now, maybe.

“I recognize that laugh.” Trent’s milky-smooth voice rounds the corner just before the rest of him does.

Frick.

Fuck.

Keeping half an eye out for Mollie, and praying she returns to my side shortly, I smile sweetly at Trent. “Hey you.”

He tilts his head to the side, the tight curls of his hair begging my fingers to take a stroll down memory lane. “Hey you? That’s all I get?”

Rising on my tiptoes, I give him a quick hug. “Better?” I ask, lowering back on my heels.

“For now,” he winks.

For ever, douchebag.

“How you been?” he asks, leaning against the bar, effectively dismissing Steve from the conversation.

“Busy. Work, School, you know.”

And church. So. Much. Church.

“I saw your interview,” he says with a smile that causes me to clear my throat.

Normally, I’d wonder why it’s all the jerks, like him, that are so handsome. But, thanks to my time at CU, I know that’s not necessarily true. There are plenty of handsome, kind men who have no plan to get into a girl’s panties any time soon. They might want to, sure, because they’re human, but they’re not planning it.

A plan always runs through Trent’s eyes, and now is no exception.

“You did?” I ask, kicking myself for even engaging in his particular conversation.

He nods. “You looked great. Sounded great. Those public speaking classes in high school paid off, huh?”

“I guess.”

“You look a lot like your dad.”

“Not really,” I spit out, huffing.

Trent puts his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I mean, you’ve got your mom’s hair and stuff, but your face is a lot like his. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Kennedy. You know I think you’re gorgeous.” He extends his hand and runs a few of his fingertips down my face.

And I feel completely violated.

Six months ago, a touch like that would have been commonplace. Both from me to guy friends or boyfriends, and from them to me. Now, though, after several months in Jesus Bootcamp, and lecture after lecture on respecting the opposite sex and myself, I find his physical advance horrifyingly invasive. The worst of it? I can’t say anything. I can’t say anything because I’m in “Rome”, as it were, and this is how they behave. It’s how I behaved before going to Carter University. I didn’t see anything wrong with it then, so why should I now? What’s changed?

Everything.

Taking a breath to try to regain some sort of equilibrium, I place my hand over Trent’s as it sits, warm, on my face. I give it a small squeeze, closing my eyes to fully feel it, before drawing his hand away from me, and back down to his side.

“Trent,” I whisper, clearing my throat again.

“What?” he whispers back.

“What?” I ask indignantly with a chuckle. “What? Trent, we broke up almost two years ago and have hardly talked since. What’s with all the gorgeous and hand touching the face and … all of that?”

He licks his lips and puts his hands in his pockets.

Where they better stay.

“When I saw you on the news …”

Here we go.

“I realized something.”

“Yeah?” I cross my arms in front of me. “What was that? That you had a renewed drive to conquer my virginity, perhaps?”

I arch my eyebrow and wait for whatever he’s surely prepared as a response. I still find it necessary to remind him of the main reason we broke up. He was a disrespectful ass.

Trent chuckles the cocky chuckle he’s had forever. The dismissive, snotty chuckle of someone who throws money around like a fix-all. “Wow. For a good Christian girl, you are awfully judgmental, don’t you think? Guess that means you fit right in with the rest of them, after all.”

I ignore the truth in his statement because I know he didn’t craft it that way. He just pieced together buzzwords in an effort to get to me.

“What happened to you? You used to be such a nice Jewish boy.” I grin, throwing a minor stereotype right back at him. “You didn’t respect me, so I broke up with you. And, your little Christian girl quip does little to show me you’ve changed.”

“You’re right,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

Say what?

“What?” I stare at him, intentionally contorting my face to look extra-confused.

Trent reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. He leads me to the stairs that go to the second floor.

“Ha! I’m not going upstairs with you.” I anchor my feet to the floor.

And, by the way, where is Mollie?

“I just want to talk to you in private for a minute.”