Page 40 of Son of a Preacher Man

I won’t.

His father had nothing to worry about. Jonathan was dead. It could never happen again, and he would keep his promise.

They brought him to a dingy wood cabin, of which there were two—one for the girls and one for the boys. The camp lodge was in the middle. Jarrid went no farther than the porch, dropped his duffel bag at his feet, and patted him on the shoulder. “Forty-two days, my son. I’ll be praying for you.”

Sure, you will.

It was just an act for the benefit of the camp’s director, Reverend John. A cursory glance was all Seth needed. Rotund belly. Skin, sallow and pockmarked. Dark hair dripping in greasy pomade. The fetid odor of cheap whiskey and stale tobacco clung to his clothes. He was certain this vile, middle-aged man was no Christian.

The musty cabin contained four sets of bunk beds, eight lockers, a desk, and a door which he presumed led to a bathroom. A framed print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hung over the desk, the paper brittle and yellowed with age, a water stain in the corner.

“I’ll leave you to get acquainted with the others. They can explain the rules to you,” he said, tipping his chin toward a couple of blank-faced boys sitting together on a bunk. Turning to leave, the reverend paused. “Be ready to get dirty and lie in blood, because some sins don’t wash away with water and prayer.”

What. The. Fuck?

“He ain’t kidding. You’ll find out soon enough.” Lanky, with wiry copper hair and freckles, the boy’s long arms reminded him of limp pool noodles. He looked like the type of kid who wore checkered button-ups to school and used a pocket protector. “Name’s Jeffrey.”

Figures.

“Seth.”

“Daddy’s a twisted individual.” The soft voice decidedly effeminate, Jeffrey’s bunkmate extended his hand. “Casey.”

Seth shook it. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, that’s what he insists we call him,” Jeffrey supplied with a roll of his buggy blue eyes.

Taken aback, he scoffed, “Not me. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, trust me, honey.” Casey rubbed his fingers along Seth’s thigh. “You will. He’s your mother, father, and God while you’re here. You’ll obey unless you want…”

“Sadistic motherfucker.” A burly dude with the body of a linebacker came out of the bathroom. Fastening his pants, he glanced up. “Who’s this?”

“This is Seth, Austin,” Casey informed him. “Now we have an even four.”

Lumbering over to his locker, he grunted. Raised welts, angry and red, crisscrossed his back. Austin reached for a clean shirt and closed the door.

That’s when he noticed it. Three of the lockers had a glass jar on top of them, filled with exactly what, Seth couldn’t say. The goop inside resembled pasty, rotten chocolate pudding.

Wait, are those maggots?

He pointed. “What the fuck is that?”

“Shit,” Austin replied, matter-of-factly. “They make you go in a jar as a reminder of how gay men have sex.”

“That’s disgusting.” Seth thought he might puke.

“That’s the point.” Austin nodded. “Aversion therapy.”

“I’m not gay.”

“None of us are, baby.” Casey winked, and unzipping Austin’s pants, he pulled him to his mouth.

Jesus Christ.

Jeffrey cleared his throat. “Rules.”

“And what are they?”

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