I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(10)

Father Maridale would kick my ass all the way back across the state line if he knew what I’d done with the head of the bake committee. Head. I can’t help but laugh, because that sure does sum it up. Oh, if only the congregation of Holy Trinity Catholic Church knew how Missy spent her Saturday night. In an alley behind the Anchor Inn bar, down on her knees, worshipping my cock.

I shed the gray sweatpants I’m wearing, toss them into an overflowing laundry basket in the bathroom. Laundry, yet another thing I’ve neglected since getting out of prison. A whole month back in Harmony Creek, and I’m still adjusting to the little things a guy living alone needs to stay on top of.

Speaking of which…11:15…shit.

Mass started fifteen minutes ago. Guess I am not going to make it today. A part of me feels shame for my indiscretion with Missy last night, but that part also feels relief. I don’t have to face Missy—or her mom—both of whom sit perched every week in the front pew.

I step into the tub and adjust the shower head; turn it on full blast. The pulsing water feels good and cleansing, I just wish it had the power to wash away my latest sin. I didn’t go out looking for trouble, I truly didn’t. I’d like to think my worst days are behind me. I’m determined to lead a better life, which includes staying clean. Sure, I drink a beer or two some evenings, usually while relaxing out on the porch swing in the back, watching the day fade into night while the frogs sing to each other down at the creek. But drinking is my only vice these days.

Okay, and maybe swearing. No, definitely swearing. But that’s it. Just drinking and swearing. And the drinking I keep to a minimum. Drugs? I’ve given them up completely. And I can’t remember the last time I got into a fight.

No, wait, that’s a lie. I do remember. It was two years ago in prison. And here’s what happened…

This new inmate—some skinhead who thought he was the biggest, baddest motherf*cker to step into the joint—started up with me one morning in the exercise yard. He kept shooting his mouth off. That was his first mistake. The second was taking a bullshit swing at me when I laughed at his sorry ass and walked away.

Bad f*cking move.

I could go into details, tell you all I did, but let’s just say when I was done with him, dickhead was begging for mercy and crying for his mother. No joke. And no real surprise. It’s been my experience the biggest talkers fall the hardest and cry the loudest.

After spending a week in the infirmary, the skinhead gave me a wide berth whenever we crossed paths. If he had to address me, it was all “yes, sir,” “no, sir,” and then he’d get the f*ck out of my way. Yeah, he’d been schooled.

I was never the biggest guy in prison—even standing at six two—but I was one of the strongest, one of the toughest. And, sadly, while serving time I learned a dozen ways to really hurt a guy.

But that’s all in the past. I’m trying to change my ways, make smarter choices, be a better person. I even have a job working for the church, doing maintenance and fixing shit. I like it, it’s good for me. The work keeps me busy. And I need that kind of structure. If idle hands really are the devil’s workshop, then I’m safe for now.

I spent most of last week working on—and fixing—an air-conditioning problem in the rectory. And on Friday I sealed more than a dozen leaks plaguing the stained glass windows in the church. Maybe even more impressive—at least to me—is that I’ve gotten up and dragged my ass to Mass three Sundays in a row. It’s a personal best, and Grandma Gartner would be proud if she were here today. Sadly, she’s not.

I chuckle, remembering how much she loved Holy Trinity Church, the congregation, especially. She knew everything going on with everybody, and always made it her mission to help when she could. Unfortunately, though I go to church, work for the church, I am sure not social like my grandmother used to be. I keep to myself during Mass, sit in the very back. I’d sit in the vestibule if I could get away with it. But Father Maridale would have my head. Speaking of which, that very same head is usually bowed in prayer—not unlike the ink angel that’s tattooed on my back—when I’m at my station in the back. I probably appear to be praying, however, try as I might I find I really don’t have much to say to God. At least, not yet.

Now, you’d think a man praying—or at least trying to—would warrant some respect. Apparently this is not the case in the minds of the Holy Trinity parishioners. My faux-praying sure as hell doesn’t stop them from turning around and craning their necks, all pretending to be looking at something other than me.

Well, they don’t fool me. I hear their whispers, feel their disapproving stares. I always dart for the doors the second Mass ends. I know what they’re thinking. They expect me to f*ck up again, ruin the second chance Father Maridale—the leader of their flock—is giving me.

Shit, I can’t wait to prove every last one of those sanctimonious *s wrong.

That’s why yesterday my simple plan had been to grab a beer and a burger down at the local watering hole, and then head home to catch some zees. But Missy, in her four-inch f*ck-me heels, derailed that plan when she spotted me at the bar and started toward me, her purpose all too clear in her walk.

I used to see Missy periodically at parties before I got into trouble. She was never much of a party girl back then, despite her presence at some of the wilder bashes. But people change.