The Skeptic, page 3
He seemed rather libertine for a man of the cloth.
Though that could just be wishful thinking on my part.
“Holden?”
“Huh?”
I ripped my eyes from his sexy, likely talented hands. Beckett’s amused expression was framed by the artful arch of his brow and a badly concealed grin.
“I was saying that when you were a kid, you used to have a super country accent. You just had an entire conversation without using the word ‘y’all’ once,” he joked gently.
I shook my head, twisting my fingers in my lap. “I went to college in California, and I learned pretty quickly that people out there think a Texas accent means you’re not that bright. Jackson said he could always tell when I was mad, because my Texas came out.”
“This Jackson fella—he the reason you stuffed three suitcases to the gills for a quick trip to check on your Pops?”
My text notification went off, and I scowled. “Yep.”
Beckett craned his neck to spy on my phone screen. “That your boss again?”
“No rest for the wicked,” I said, angling the screen away from him as I fired off the info she needed.
“Hey, that’s my line.”
The combination of classic truck, rolled sleeves, mischievous smiles, and tattoos was seriously going to kill me.
And that collar. That fucking collar.
Pops had warned me that the guy picking me up was an interesting character, but I wish he’d bothered to mention that Beckett was a hot, sexy-as-fuck preacher. One who looked like he’d know exactly what to do with me in bed.
Confess your kinks to me, my son.
Shame flushed through my veins. I couldn’t believe I was ogling a man of God.
Eyes on your phone, Hold.
“Uh… anyway, yeah. I’m hoping she’ll give me a few days to settle in before she starts up again.”
“Hey, man,” Beckett said, patting my shoulder. “Your Pops is still recovering. You’re allowed to take off work. Actually, if you’re using family leave, I suspect she’s not allowed to contact you. I mean, it’s none of my business, but maybe let her know you won’t be available for the next week. Give yourself at least that.”
It was interesting the way his words soothed me. There was a quality to his voice he must’ve developed over his years of being a preacher—or whatever he called himself—that transmitted calm. He looked like a troublemaker but sounded like autumn leaves. Er, maybe soothing rain on a tin roof.
Gentle waves reaching the shore?
Wow, am I hard up.
I pulled up my phone and sent off one last text.
Me: That will get you everything you need. I’ll be out of contact for the next week. Please reach out to Cindy if you have any other questions.
After that, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and leaned my head against fogged-up glass. I hoped by fall my life would make more sense. My eyes grew heavy as I watched the horizon. I drifted.
I blinked awake as the truck slowed dramatically, Beckett exiting the highway and taking the back way down 90. Somehow, I felt more rested from that nap than I had in the three hours of sleep I’d cobbled together on the plane on the way down here.
We passed spacious swaths of sunbaked land, a hodgepodge of country living, until we hit Highway 123, where the town of Seguin cropped up seemingly out of nowhere.
Seguin had always felt a little scruffy to me, and there was something comforting in the fact that it still kinda was. It was one of the river towns between Austin and San Antonio, but not cute like New Braunfels, big like San Marcos, or massive like San Antonio. Aside from a few vacation rentals, Seguin didn’t monetize its river the way the other towns had. I suppose that had to do with the ugly-ass water treatment plant they put up in the middle of Riverview Park, or maybe that most of the waterfront properties were privately owned.
That, plus being a few miles beyond the booming I-35 corridor, meant Seguin could throw the middle finger to the outside world and mean it. I liked that about the place, to be honest.
My fathers’ house was on the far side of town, and I perked up as we traversed the little downtown area. Sliding forward in my seat, I pointed to a trio of colorful shops. “Are those Pride flags?”
“Yep. That’s queer row. My buddy Joel owns the bar, Allie owns the coffee shop, and Marty owns the home improvement store.”
“That’s nice to see, though I doubt Seguin is having a Pride parade anytime soon.”
“True, but there were at least fifty people representing the queer community in last year’s Fourth of July parade. It was a colorful contingent, and we were treated with respect.”
“Really?” I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “When I was a kid, the Fourth of July parade was a really big deal.”
“Still is. So having a bunch of queers as a welcome part of the celebration was…” he said, trailing off.
“Significant,” I said, wondering what else I’d missed.
“Hell, I may have gotten a little misty about it,” he said, jokingly wiping away an imaginary tear. “Then again, I was the grand marshal.”
I grinned, completely able to imagine it. I couldn’t believe Beckett was the quiet kid I’d gone swimming with all those years ago. Not that I remembered him all that well. I vaguely recollected that he had a stern father and a bright, funny mother, but I wasn’t solid on the details. “I bet that made Pops real proud.”
“He may have mentioned something to that effect, yeah,” Beckett said, ducking his head. “Hey, do you need to pick up anything before we head to your dads’ house? Breakfast? Super-early lunch?”
My stomach had been in knots since Dad called me yesterday, and I still wasn’t that hungry. Mostly I felt like I just needed a minute before jumping into this situation with Pops.
Unreasonable as it seemed, given whatever time it was, I really fucking wanted a beer. Hell, it wasn’t like the priest with the Devil tattooed on his hand was gonna judge me.
Yeah, but you’d judge you.
“Is it wrong that I want a beer?” I asked, ignoring my inner critic.
“Not at all.” He tapped his chin as he circled the block in front of the courthouse. I chuckled at the enormous pecan sculpture that had fascinated me as a kid. “The bar won’t open for a few more hours, but I have beer at my place. It’s nothing special, but if you want a moment to catch your breath before heading to your dads’ house, you’re welcome to come over.”
No good would come of going to the sexy preacher’s house, Hold. Just say no.
“You know what? I’ll take you up on that.”
CHAPTER 3
beckett
Holden didn’t recognize me from the bonfire, and I was going to count that as a win.
I pulled up to my landlady’s house and drove around to my spot in the back. Holden got out, looking confused until I pointed to the exterior steps leading up to the attic apartment. “Home sweet home.”
“Oh. Okay.” Gesturing toward the bed of the pickup, he asked, “It’s safe for me to leave my bags here, right?”
I grinned. “Of course. Small-town living.”
He was quiet as we trooped up the steps and remained so after I opened the door for him. He slipped off his shoes, and I followed suit as he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.
He turned in place, taking in the one room this apartment had to offer. Taking advantage of his distraction, I let my gaze wander up and down his long, lean form, admiring his regal bone structure. Even though he’d already been up several hours, everything about him looked put-together and expensive.
The first thing I’d noticed when I’d picked him up was how his tortoiseshell glasses set off his sapphire blue eyes and sharp jaw. Next was his pretty hair, which was shorter on the sides with loose golden curls on top. In the morning light, he was the perfect combination of bespectacled computer nerd and fairy-tale prince.
After an awkward moment, his face lit up, and he pointed to the posters on the walls. “You like Frida Kahlo?”
“I love her. She was my mom’s favorite. Always felt like they were kindred spirits.”
My mom was diagnosed with ALS when she was thirty-five. It progressed rapidly, and she passed before her fortieth birthday, but not before introducing me to one of the most influential artists of the last century.
“Which one’s your favorite?” he asked.
I pointed to the image where a broken column replaced the artist’s spine. “I always thought my mother understood her pain, and I understood her passion. Sometimes her paintings feel like love, sometimes they feel like anger, but all of them feel like hope. Though I’m sure Ms. Kahlo would think I was ridiculous.”
I’d lost my mother before high school, and the hardest part was all the things I’d forgotten about her over time. So I held on to what I could.
As I led Holden into the tiny kitchen area with the midcentury chrome–and–mint green Formica table, I remembered it was Mr. Paige’s class that had helped me to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
“I like your style,” Holden said, running his hand over the matching mint green 1950s appliances. “This is very cool.”
“Thanks. They came with the place. When they started breaking down, Miss Dora said we could go halves on updated ones, but I told her I’d rather learn how to repair them myself.”
“That’s a good skill to have.”
“I could run a home appliance repair shop if the whole minister business doesn’t pan out.” Opening the refrigerator door, I showed him the shelf full of beer options. “I always keep Blue Moon in stock for your dad. You’re welcome to it if you’d like.”
“That’d be perfect, thank you.”
“I even have oranges. So it’s more like a brunch situation instead of, you know…”
Holden rocked on the balls of his socked feet, averting his eyes. “Problematic drinking before noon?”
I laughed, and he lit up all over again, and the eye contact didn’t feel too awkward after that. As I handed him the beer, I realized how much taller he was than me. “Seriously, man. How tall are you?”
He dipped his chin, bowing his shoulders the way tall people do when they don’t want to stand out. “Six four.”
I whistled, sending him a flirty smile. “I’m five ten and a half, in case you were curious.”
“Oh, desperately curious,” he cracked, then widened his eyes at me.
“Don’t worry, Hold. I’m fluent in smartass,” I said gently.
He blinked a few times, letting his shoulders ease up ever so slightly. I grabbed a Blue Moon for myself and clinked bottles with him. After knocking back a little of the cold beer, I washed my hands, peeled a small orange, and pushed a couple of wedges into each of our bottles.
I slipped a fingertip into my mouth and sucked off the juice, pretending not to notice when Holden audibly gulped. Or to be aware of the fact that his eyes had been drifting to my collar every few seconds. Fifty bucks said his Pornhub search history included some priest action.
His phone went off, and one look at his screen shattered his fragile smile. He ignored the incoming call and tipped back the beer, taking three big gulps before the phone rang again. Setting the bottle on the counter with a loud clunk, he accepted the next call.
“What?”
The voice on the other end of the line was male and annoyed. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but Holden’s jaw continued to tighten.
Dammit. After I’d done all that work to soothe and settle him.
“Yes, I took all of my clothes,” he whisper-hissed.
I moved to the other side of the space to give him a semblance of privacy, but I couldn’t help but hear everything.
“Because I don’t know how long I’ll be staying in Texas.”
A pause.
“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you started fucking your business partner.”
Oh, shit.
Holden grabbed the beer and tipped it back, pacing my kitchen. He shook his head as more words flowed from the other end of the call.
“Stop acting like I’m imagining things. Last month, when I asked you about the flirty texts, you brushed me off. Last week, when I asked you about the condoms in your wallet? You acted like I’d been looking for some excuse to spy on you.”
It sounded as if his boyfriend—ex-boyfriend?—was trying to answer, but Holden cut him off, eyes flaring as he went on. “Don’t you dare talk to me about the last three years. You’re the one who ruined things. And before you claim I’m some sort of prude, this had nothing to do with you asking about opening our relationship. It had everything to do with you not respecting my response. Or at least not respecting me enough to talk things out and be honest about your actions.”
I grimaced and went into the bathroom and filled my little watering can, then started to water my plants.
“Yes. I will be living here.” Barely a pause, then, “No. The queer representation here has grown by leaps and bounds.” His questioning eyes found mine, so I nodded. “In fact, I’m sharing a beer with a gay preacher, so I think I’m doing fine.”
The voice on the other line went off again, and Holden pulled the phone from his ear. He chewed on his lips, then hit the screen and ended the call. His shoulders rose and fell a few times, and he tapped his phone against his forehead as red crept around the edges of his ears.
Finally, he turned to me, worry adding a little line between his expressive brows. “I’m so sorry, Beckett. I don’t normally act like this. I’ve spent the last several weeks trying to figure out if I should stay with my partner or cut and run. Then my dads called and told me Pops had been in the hospital with pneumonia. For the second time. Like, when I talked to him last week, and he sounded hoarse, it was because they’d just extubated him. And even knowing that much, I’ve got this sinking feeling they’re hiding how bad it was.”
My eyes hit my shoes.
“Were you there?” he asked softly. “Were you at the hospital with them?”
Being in a spiritual leadership role means I’m pretty damn good at holding on to delicate information, but his broken words cut right through me. I decided on a careful compromise. “I’ll tell you this, but only because you’re about to see it for yourself. Mr. Paige is on oxygen.”
Holden bent forward like he’d been punched in the gut. “Like, with a canister and everything?” he asked, mimicking rolling it behind him.
“Yes.”
He shook his head, even as his phone started to buzz again. I approached him carefully and took the device from him, turning off all notifications before setting it on the table.
Holding both of his hands, I angled my head to look into his averted eyes. “Hey. Ending a relationship or dealing with a serious illness in the family—either of those would throw anyone for a loop. Having both happen at once… I’m surprised you’re still standing. You’re doing fine. Even though I only heard one side of your conversation, I can tell you that you are not the unreasonable one. Sounds like he’s been gaslighting you for months now.”
He grabbed my beer from the table and drained it in one go, then stared at the label as if it held the answers to the universe. “Jackson never used to be like that. We used to be so in sync—finishing each other’s sentences, accidentally buying the same geeky T-shirts. Everyone looked up to us as couple goals. Then something in him changed, and I couldn’t change with him… so here I am.”
“Did you mean what you said? Are you moving back to Seguin?”
“I don’t know.” He carefully fished out a beer-soaked orange slice, making a mess as he shoved the whole thing into his mouth. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he said, “But I think I can stay down here for a while. For sure, my dads need more help than they’ll ever ask for.” He set down the empty bottle, then cursed under his breath. “This wasn’t mine.”
I pushed his bottle into his hands. “Don’t worry about it.”
He tilted it back, finishing it as quickly as the first. “I feel like such a fucking idiot,” he said, pulling out the orange slice, no less messy with this round. “Maybe I should’ve heard Jackson out about the poly stuff.”
I raised an eyebrow as he rinsed off his juice-soaked fingers. “Are you poly capable?”
Shaking off his hands, looking for something to dry them with, he bit his lip. “No.”
I grabbed a hand towel and gave it to him. “Then stop trying to find ways to make you the problem. Even if there are things you’ll do differently going forward, you didn’t deserve what he chose to do.”
Shifting his jaw, he eyeballed the empty bottles.
“There’s more where that came from…”
Shame colored his face, and his tall frame hunched again. “I’m already babbling my life story—and all my sexual drama—on less than two beers. I, uh… I think I’m good.”
“Hey,” I said gently, waiting for him to look at me. “I promise, none of that shocked me.”
He looked unconvinced, so I went for humor.
“Yesterday, your dads walked in on me as I was getting a blowjob from a Grindr hookup.”
Holden cocked his head at me, staring. After a few seconds, his expression broke, and laughter swelled up from his chest. “Oh my God,” he said with a snort. “You have just given Pops fuel for weeks. Years. He’ll bust your balls every time he gets a chance.”
“Seems like he’s not the only one finding humor in my peccadilloes.”
Holden, still laughing, scrunched his nose. I could tell he had a question, and I was too charmed by his kaleidoscoping expressions to hold back. I gave him the go-ahead gesture.
“So… do you hook up with the collar on?”
“No.” I grimaced. “Well, sometimes. If they ask nicely.”
He inhaled sharply, nearly choking.
“It was a dry spell!” That seemed to double his laughter, and for some reason, I decided to keep going. “I’ve been putting in a lot of hours on fundraising, because the Meeting House—where I serve—is a health hazard. Also… I may have found a guy with a priest kink and asked him to come to my office.”
