Page 38 of Preacher Man
I sat down on the bed and held the shirt against my face, choking on a sob before it could escape.
The tears came fast.Hot.Unstoppable.
I pressed my face into the fabric like it could bring him back.
Like maybe if I held on tight enough, I’d stop feeling so empty.
I’d stop feeling so left behind.
My voice cracked as I whispered into the silence, “Is he ever coming back?”
ChapterEleven
Ethan
The cabin they gave me at Sweetwater Ridge Youth Camp was nicer than anything I’d lived in since the seminary.Pine-paneled walls, a real mattress that didn’t squeak every time you turned over, a little writing desk by the window that looked out over a trailhead lined with wildflowers.
If it had been any other time in my life, I might’ve been grateful.
I might’ve sat on the porch in the evenings with a cup of tea and watched the sun dip behind the pines, thinking holy thoughts about God’s creation and counting my blessings.
But all I could think about was him.
Jake.
His voice.His laugh.The way he always leaned back on two legs of a chair like it wasn’t reckless and infuriating.The way his eyes got all heavy-lidded and hungry when he looked at me, like I was something he wanted, not something he pitied.
I should’ve been focused on the kids.
They were good kids, too.Sweet.Curious.Unburdened by the guilt that weighed me down every second of every damn day.They asked about everything—prayer, sin, whether Jesus had a dog (I said probably), if God was really a man or something more (I didn’t know how to answer that one).
They reminded me of what faith looked like before it got twisted by shame.
But it didn’t matter.
Because at night, I went back to the cabin.Alone.And thought of him.
This morning, I sat at the little desk in a clean T-shirt, damp boxers still bunched around my thighs, a journal open in front of me.The page was smeared where my hand had dragged across it while I wrote, sweaty and unfocused.
I keep trying to tell myself it’s just temptation.That this is Satan’s whisper.But if it’s evil… why does it feel like love?Why does it make me feel whole?
I set the pen down and scrubbed my hands over my face.
Last night I’d been journaling in bed, trying to untangle this mess between God and Jake and everything in between.But the ache in my chest had pulled me under.Then I’d fallen asleep.
And that’s when the dream came.
It was like my brain had cracked open and poured out every filthy thought I’d tried to push away since the day I met him.
We were in my office again.The door locked, sunlight slanting through the blinds in golden stripes across Jake’s naked back as I bent him over the desk.
He was moaning my name, hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white.I’d never heard anyone sound so needy, so wrecked.His body moved with mine, hips meeting every thrust like he was starving for it.For me.
“Harder,” he panted.“Please, Ethan.I need to feel you.”
And I gave it to him.
Every inch, every thrust, claiming him like it was the last thing I’d ever do.My hands gripped his hips, my mouth on his shoulder, biting, licking, worshipping.
