Page 3 of Take Me to Church
This man is tall. Definitely taller than average. He's also one step beyond fit. Solid bands of muscle push and stretch at the black fabric of his T-shirt, fighting against the constraints of the shoulders and the sleeves. Every inch of him is toned and tight, built-up just past muscular and easing into bulky. Like his body is more for work than for show.
I force my focus back to his face, still fighting the rules of impropriety I was forced to live by up until a year ago.
That's when I see it.
The thin white line of a scar runs from his hairline to his eyebrow, cutting across the tanned skin of his forehead in an almost perfectly straight line that separates the dark hair of one brow in half.
I know someone with a scar like that, or at least I did, a long time and a whole different life ago. "Christian?"
I want to believe it's him, that the man in front of me is the same gangly boy I remember idolizing when I was little, but that would be impossible. Christian moved away years ago to be a preacher at a church in Georgia. Out carrying on the same misogynistic view my father is so fond of, eating up the life their way of thinking offers the men who keep it going.
The man’s sinfully perfect lips slowly curve in a smile that probably sends women all over Memphis stumbling. “You remember me.”
Oh shit.
ItisChristian.
“Of course I remember you.” The confession slips out, taking advantage of the shock loosening my lips.
Shock and a little awe.
I’ve imagined Christian as a man more times than I can count—and definitely more than I should admit—and not once did my brain come up with what’s standing in front of me.
Which is probably a good thing.
My contact with the opposite sex was greatly limited growing up, especially once I hit puberty, so my isolated teenage brain didn’t have many options to work with when the hormones started to hit.
But it had Christian. My older brother’s best friend.
He was at my house more often than not for a few years, giving me plenty of memories to work with. Memories like the time he snuck me a snack after I was sent to bed without dinner for not bowing my head long enough during grace. Or the time he hid me away when my father was on a rampage, looking for someone to belittle and degrade.
Or worse.
Unfortunately, it's also easy to conjure up other memories. Less factual ones. Ones my brain strung together late at night when I was in bed alone, lacking any sort of understanding of what exactly I was doing when I slipped my hand into my panties, pressing against the ache there as I thought about the boy from my memories.
The boy who is all grown up.
My skin heats with embarrassment as all those fantasies an innocent girl created come flooding back—sweet scenes of holding hands and closed mouth kisses I naïvely believed were in my future. But the thoughts take a turn as I stare down the man Christian has become. A man whose kisses are probably anything but sweet.
It’s suddenly very hot.
His gaze skims down my body, quick and assessing, lingering just a second on the thin black line inked down the inside of my forearm. "What are you doing in Memphis?"
"I ran away." I blink, willing away the thoughts I should not be having. "I left a year ago."
Christian gives me an approving nod. "Good for you."
I glance around the office, forcing my eyes away from where he continues to study me, hoping I can get my wayward brain back on track. "I thought you went to Georgia to become a preacher."
Christian’s expression hardens instantly, the clench of his jaw so tight I can see the muscle there twitch. "Is that what they said?"
I suddenly feel foolish. Like the past year hasn't taught me anything. "They lied."
"Of course they lied." Christian snorts out a bitter sounding laugh. "That's what they do." He rounds the desk, dragging my attention away from the artwork lining the only space not eaten up by bookshelves or windows. "I'm glad you got away."
"Me too." One hand goes to my hair, smoothing it down as he continues to come closer. "I just wish I could've left sooner."
Maybe if I'd walked out when I first made the decision to leave I wouldn't be here begging for my sister's freedom. Maybe we both could have escaped. Started the lives we deserve to live instead of being trapped in an existence someone else decided for us.
