Page 5 of Friar
The house was oppressively silent, a stark contrast to the deafening noise of the clubhouse.There, everything had been alive -- bodies moving, music throbbing, laughter and conversation creating a constant wall of sound.Here, even my breathing seemed too loud, too disruptive in the carefully maintained quiet.
The stairs were my next challenge.I navigated them like a familiar dance, placing my weight on the edges near the wall where the boards were less likely to complain.
Halfway up, I paused, hearing Uncle Pete’s familiar snore drifting from their bedroom.I held my breath, counting to thirty before daring to move again.
When I finally reached the landing, relief flooded through me, making my knees weak.Just a few more steps to my room.
My bedroom door opened silently -- I’d oiled the hinges myself after one too many late-night interrogations about why I was using the bathroom “at such an hour.”The room beyond was exactly as I’d left it, yet it seemed to belong to a stranger now.The floral quilt Aunt June had made.The lace curtains filtering the growing dawn light.The framed Bible verse on my nightstand.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted.The adrenaline that had carried me home draining away and leaving only the headache and nausea in its wake.
No time to rest.I had to erase all evidence before Aunt June came knocking with her cheerful morning greeting and expectations of prompt appearance at breakfast.I stripped quickly, shoving the forbidden clothes -- now reeking of smoke, spilled beer, and masculine cologne -- deep into my hamper beneath the “acceptable” clothes I’d discarded yesterday.I’d have to find a way to wash them separately before Aunt June did the laundry tomorrow.
I pulled on the modest pajamas I should have been wearing all night -- soft cotton pants and a high-necked shirt with tiny flowers printed on it.They felt foreign against my skin.I checked myself in the small mirror hanging on the back of my door.My eyes were still bloodshot, lips still swollen.No hiding that.My hair was a disaster of tangles and what looked suspiciously like a hickey was forming just below my left ear.
Panic surged through me.I grabbed a scrunchie from my dresser and pulled my hair into a messy bun, arranging strands to fall strategically over the mark.The clock on my nightstand read 6:15.Uncle Pete would be up in fifteen minutes.I had to hurry.
I crept to the bathroom across the hall.The water hissed as I turned on the shower, adjusting it to as hot as I could stand.Steam quickly filled the small space as I scrubbed at my skin with Aunt June’s plain, unscented soap.I washed away the lingering touch of calloused hands, the phantom pressure of lips against my neck, the smell of whiskey and leather and smoke that seemed embedded in my pores.
The hot water helped clear my head slightly, though my temples still throbbed with each heartbeat.I used extra shampoo, working it through my tangled hair twice to remove all traces of the clubhouse.As I rinsed, I watched mascara-stained water swirl down the drain, evidence of my sins disappearing in black spirals.And perhaps a sign I’d gotten a little heavy-handed with my makeup.
After drying off quickly, I brushed my teeth three times, desperate to remove the sour taste of alcohol and the memory of Friar’s tongue exploring my mouth.My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked marginally better -- still pale, still with swollen lips and shadowed eyes, but at least clean.I could blame the appearance on a poor night’s sleep, perhaps.Coming down with something, maybe.
I returned to my room just as the alarm clock in Uncle Pete and Aunt June’s room went off.The electronic beeping cut through the silence of the house, making me jump.My stomach clenched with anxiety.I placed my Bible prominently on the bedside table, open to Psalms as if I’d been reading it before falling asleep.
The sound of Uncle Pete’s heavy footsteps in the hallway made me panic and sent me diving under the covers, pulling them up to my chin just as his shadow passed beneath my door.His routine was unchanging -- bathroom first, then downstairs to start the coffee before his morning devotional.Aunt June would follow soon after, heading straight to the kitchen to begin breakfast preparations.
I lay still, listening to the familiar rhythm of their movements, my heart gradually slowing from its panicked race.I’d made it.I was home, in bed, seemingly innocent.The evidence hidden or washed away.
But as I closed my eyes, trying to will away the headache and nausea, it wasn’t regret or shame that filled me.It was the memory of Friar’s eyes, dark with want.The heat of Nugget’s body against mine.
From downstairs came the sound of cabinets opening, cups clinking against countertops.Breakfast preparations beginning.I would have to go down soon, face them across the table, bow my head for prayer while hiding the throbbing in my temples and the secrets behind my eyes.
I heard Aunt June’s soft footsteps on the stairs, coming to wake me.My stomach fluttered with nerves as her gentle knock sounded at my door.
“Cheri?Are you awake, dear?Breakfast in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be right there,” I called back.
I listened as she walked off.Closing my eyes a moment, I rubbed at my face, then sat up and braided my hair.Maybe they wouldn’t notice it was wet.I didn’t think they’d heard the shower.If they had, Aunt June most likely would have been knocking on the door to ask why I was taking one so early.Then I headed downstairs.
The morning light stabbed through the kitchen window like an accusation, harsh and unforgiving against my pounding temples.I gripped my coffee mug with both hands.Uncle Pete’s voice boomed across the breakfast table, making him sound oblivious to my suffering, each word of scripture like another nail in the coffin of my throbbing head.
“The devil prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour,” he warned, butter knife pointing skyward like a preacher at his pulpit.“First Peter, chapter five, verse eight.The Bible warns us, Cheri.The temptations of this world are everywhere.”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the swirling darkness of my coffee.The scent of bacon and eggs that usually made my mouth water now turned my stomach, a greasy reminder of poor choices and forbidden pleasures.I pushed scrambled eggs around my plate, building yellow mountains that I had no intention of consuming.
“You look tired this morning,” Aunt June observed quietly, her eyes missing nothing.“Did you not sleep well?”
The concern in her voice made guilt twist in my gut.I forced myself to meet her gaze, to smile the smile of the good niece they believed me to be.“Just restless,” I lied, hating how easily the falsehood slipped from my lips.“Bad dreams.”
Uncle Pete huffed, returning to his breakfast with the single-minded focus of a man who saw meals as necessary fuel rather than pleasure.His fork scraped against the plate, the sound sending shivers of discomfort down my spine.“The Lord sends us dreams as warnings sometimes,” he said between bites.“What were they about?”
My mind flashed to Friar’s hazel eyes, to the hallway door closing behind us, to hands and heat and whispered words.I swallowed hard.“I don’t remember exactly.”
“Hmph.”He chewed thoughtfully, his gray-streaked beard catching crumbs.“Remember what Pastor Mike said on Sunday about the youth today?No moral compass.No sense of right and wrong.All these young folks caring more about earthly pleasures than eternal salvation.”
The silverware clinked against china and Aunt June silently refilled his coffee cup.Her movements were practiced, efficient, a dance of servitude she’d performed for twenty years of marriage.I watched her hands -- smooth and pale, untouched by the wildness I’d embraced last night -- and wondered if she’d ever felt that electric thrill of rebellion.
