Page 9 of Chasin' Cole

I fan myself with the church bulletin as Pastor Frank's judgmental eyes zone in on me. He knows. I don't know how, but he knows. I just hope he doesn't tell Mama.

The remaining minutes are agonizin' as Cole's thumb runs up and down the back of my hand. It makes certain areas of my body tingle and throb and twitch.

I'm definitely goin' to hell after today.

When it's time to stand, I rip my hand from Cole's and rush out of the sanctuary, straight to the bathroom.

I slump against the door after shuttin' and lockin' it behind me.

Cole Strickland is going to be the death of me. And, apparently, the death of my soul. If I kiss him one more time, I'm fairly certain I'll be a lost cause forever. Who knew the devil could look as good as Cole does in his Sunday Best.

I take a few moments to collect my thoughts, run my sweaty, clammy hands beneath the cold water and fix my hair.

People are mingling in the foyer when I leave the bathroom and search the small crowd for Brock and Lacey.

"Annabeth was hungry," I hear behind me.

I slowly turn. Cole's holdin' my purse in his hand. I forgot to grab it when I left in a hurry. "So, they just left?"

"I offered to wait for you," he reveals as he takes a step forward, passing me my bag. "I thought I could drive you home."

A string of unanswered questions flashes through my head. Why would he offer to do that when he told me we couldn't be together? Why did he hold my hand when we were sittin' beside each other in that church pew? Why is he sendin' me mixed signals? Why does he want me to rot in a fiery pit of brimstone?

"We should get goin' then," I respond as I slide my purse strap onto my shoulder.

The drive home is quiet. Cole's old Ford, bi-colored truck doesn't have air-conditionin'. Hot, sticky air fills the cab as we fly past empty fields of picked over summer crops. I run a hand through my hair, closing my eyes.

Cole's a foot away from me, but he doesn't try to hold my hand or fill the silence with noise. He had no problem holdin' my hand in church. Now that no one's around, he doesn't want to?

Why is he so confusin'?

He turns down a dirt road, headin' in the opposite direction of home. I sit up a little straighter, feeling my bare legs sticking to the faux-leather seats.

"Where are we goin'?" I ask.

"I want to show you something," he answers without lookin' at me.

Cole's truck bumps and bounces down the uneven dirt road. There's not much to hold onto as he maneuvers the old piece of rust over unavoidable potholes.

"You'd think with all those Netflix checks you get, you could afford a better truck," I huff beside him.

He smiles. "Why fix something that ain't broke?"

I can't hold in my laughter. Cole spent the first six years of his life in California. When he moved to Oklahoma, he never picked up on the slight drawl that's common around these parts. He's always been able to make me laugh when he tries to mimic my accent, though.

"You could at least fix the air conditionin'," I suggest.

"Where's the fun in that?" he looks over at me, raising his eyebrows playfully.

"I'd enjoy this ride a whole lot better if sweat wasn't drippin' down my neck," I grumble.

He shakes his head as the truck slows. There's an old, abandoned, white church sittin' in the middle of a field. Tall, green grass sways against its tattered walls as Cole opens his door and hops out. "We're here."

Cole walks around to my side of the truck. The inside handle broke off years ago when he and Brock were in high school. Another thing that ain't broke enough for him to fix.

He opens my door and holds out his hand. I take it, feeling the fire ignite across my skin again. He lets go as soon as my feet are on solid ground.

Blades of tall grass brush against my calves while I follow behind Cole, wonderin' why he brought me here. I've lived in this town all my life. I know every building, every bus stop, every bend in the road. I've driven past this old church a thousand times before. There's nothin' special about it.

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