Page 18 of Sin

“It’s a big house, and you’re in school most of the time. Show up for the obligatory Sunday services and a couple of your mother’s church socials. Suffer through a few dinners where you pretend he runs the show, but make sure you stay under his radar.”

He mulls my words over for a minute. “I guess I can do that. It’s pretty much what I’ve been doing anyway for the last three years. Your father and I have never developed a close relationship.”

That’s Cassidy’s polite speak for “your father is a cold asshole.”

“Believe me. You haven’t been missing anything,” I tell him, and settle back in the seat. It’s been a long day, and I don’t want to spend any more of it talking about my father. Not when Cassidy is close to me and I have at least another thirty precious minutes of alone time with him.

I turn to him, hungry for more knowledge about him. “Tell me about being a doctor,” and then I listen as he talks about his intended profession with a passion and intensity that I fight the entire way home not to try to taste on his lips.

Chapter 9

Sin

Every Sunday, I don’t think this dog-and-pony show my father puts on can get any worse, but each week my dully photogenic and psychotically charismatic father dials the hate up a little bit higher and riles the crowd up a little bit more. I once broke my arm in a mosh pit with less aggression than these pews.

The camera presence is especially heavy today, and they keep focusing on Cassidy and me for multiple close-ups. I’m used to it. It always seems like I get as much screen time as my father during these tapings. Even though I’m featured weekly on TMZ and the other gossip sites for my misbehavior, no matter how bad the scandal, my father insists on my presence every Sunday.

Sam, one of the church’s social media interns that I hooked up with a couple of times, told me it’s because I help the ratings in the younger demographics, and the streaming numbers skyrocket when I show up. “Everybody loves a bad boy,” he’d told me right before he blew me in the choir pews and brought me closer to seeing God than I ever had before in my father’s church.

The focus on Cassidy worries me, though. I heard my father tell the camera man he wanted several close-ups of Cassidy.Maybe it’s just like my father said, and he’s trying to frame him as an angelic counterpoint to me in the media, but in my gut, I know my father is up to something.

Cassidy and I are both bolting for the door when my father stops me on my way out. My senses go on high alert at seeing him. His reddened face, his dead eyes. I know all too well how close he is to danger mode. “I need to talk to you,” he says, grabbing my arm in a punishing grip.

Not wanting Cassidy anywhere near my father when he’s this close to blowing, I turn toward him and tell him to get a ride home with his mother.

“Come with me,” my father drags me into the nearest empty room, forgetting that I’m bigger and stronger than he is now.

As much as I want to prove that to him, now that Cassidy is safely away from him, I’m curious to find out what has my father in such a state that he’s willing to let his still-lingering congregation see a glimpse of his true self.

Once the door is shut, he pushes me against the wall. “My builder called me,” he grinds out, practically frothing at the mouth in frustration. “The city won’t issue the permits to let me break ground on the new Gideon Brandt Worship Center in November because my conservancy runs out in October. You need to extend the option for me to control the trust.”

I notice that not once in that sentence did he acknowledge that the trust was mine and not his to use as he pleased. It irks me, and I decide to have a little fun.

“Or,” I push him hard so he stumbles back a few steps, “on my birthday, I call a demolition crew and have them blow the Citadel sky high.” My hands spread out in an imitation of a big explosion. “Kaboom. No more big fancy church for the Reverend Gideon Brandt to preach at every Sunday.”

He goes redder in the face at my threat.“You wouldn’t do that,” he thunders.

“Wouldn’t I?” I lean back on my heel and rest against the wall. “No worries, though. I saw aFor Leasesign on a space off I-65 the other day. It’s in a shopping center between a taxidermy and a locksmith. It will make a great new home for the Citadel.”

“I’ll have them prove you’re unfit,” he seethes. “I’ll have them lock you up.”

As much as I’m enjoying watching my father unravel in front of me, I know I’ve gone far enough. Any more threats to him and his precious Citadel, and he’ll become a wild cannon. One, I won’t have accidentally detonate in the direction of Cassidy.

“Relax,” I grab a flask out of my pocket and take a draw, “I don’t want to spend my time managing another boring old trust. I’d rather party.”

His rage deflates now that I’ve reverted back to the broken son that he thinks he has a reasonable amount of control over. “Then you’ll have my conservancy extended?”

“I’ll contact my lawyers about extending your control for another five years,” I lie, knowing I only have to string him along a few more months, and then he’ll be in jail.

He nods as if it’s his due. “See that it’s taken care of,” he orders. “God has plans for the Gideon Brandt Worship Center, and his will must be realized.”

Translation: my father wants another pointless ugly building named after him. As much as Gideon’s a dangerous snake when he gives up his pretense of religiosity and lets his evil out plain and clear for me to see, I almost prefer it to the hypocrisy of couching his diabolically selfish needs as God’s will.

I tell him I’ll get it done, and satisfied he’s bent me to his will, he sweeps out of the room.

I watch him go, and I dream of when he realizes that I’m not as broken as he thinks I am. The day I deliver my mother’s revenge on him.

I stop at the house to change into boardshorts and a tank top. I’m planning on heading to Sea Side, the exclusive, hot new hangout that’s built on a manmade beach, has a wave pool, and flies their DJs in straight from Ibiza. Their Sunday Funday rivals spring break in Cancún.

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