Page 8 of The Boy from Half Moon

The one horrifying detail I hadn’t shared with my mother was that our leader was sexually abusing me. A more important fact I should share with her was that I now spent my days obsessively worrying that David would be next. That sort of information could get me killed, in my opinion. Because I’d never been convinced that my father’s death was an accident, the possibility of being eliminated seemed quite real to me.

I was at the front door of the bakery locking up, preparing to turn the open sign to closed, when I recognized the flashy sports car pull into the parking lot. The same man from a few days ago stepped out of the car and came up to the entrance door as I flipped the sign to closed.

“Sorry, sir, but we closed thirty minutes ago. I just forgot to lock the doors at four,” I explained, opening the door a few inches to be heard.

He pinched his lips in dismay. “Well, darn,” he said. “I was hoping for more of those cinnamon rolls you sold me on Wednesday.”

I’d never seen a man so well dressed in my life. He reminded me of the men in celebrity magazines I saw in the grocery store checkouts on rare trips to town. He was tall, but not as tall as me, with perfect teeth that shined whiter than the bread flour I worked with daily.

His caramel-colored hair was styled and looked to have been cut with precision, unlike the buzz cuts men at the ranch were forced to wear. His hair was neatly trimmed above his ears, but worn fuller toward the front, almost flopping over his dark brown eyes.

He also looked like he needed a shave, even though he didn’t really have an actual beard or a mustache. The facial hair was almost on purpose, like he wanted his face to look that way. I had to admit it added a handsome quality to his overall appearance.

A tight black T-shirt tucked into stylish gray shorts that were just above his knees gave him a casual, but expensive, look. His gray belt with an LV insignia matched his same-colored shoes. Men in these parts didn’t dress this way. They didn’t match stuff. Like his tanned face, the rest of his visibly smooth skin was a warm golden color, and his calf muscles were well-developed for such a lean man.

I didn’t recognize the feelings coursing through me, but he was pleasing to look at. Like the first time I’d spoken to him here at the bakery, I felt tongue-tied again with his unexpected arrival. I wanted to know this man, and yet couldn’t have told you why. Not to mention, I would never be allowed to get to know him outside of my jobs.

“I’m sorry about being closed,” I stated, unable to stop my heart from pounding. My knees felt weak around him and I wanted to ask him a million questions.

“Not even one roll left?” he asked. “I’ll pay you extra.”

Madras was a sleepy town once you turned off the highway that led drivers to Bend, the larger neighboring city forty-odd miles down the road. I wanted to let him in but was afraid to do so. I quickly looked left and then right at the quiet side street. The bakery was a block off the highway, so traffic was practically nonexistent in the afternoons when most businesses around the bakery were closed as well.

“We box up the day-old goods,” I began. “And tomorrow is Sunday, so maybe they won’t be fresh on Monday morning,” I continued, trying to make a decision. “Maybe it would be okay if…”

“I’ll buy them,” he interrupted me. “All of them.”

“We only have one box of cinnamon rolls left,” I said, still visually probing the parking lot, looking for other people. His car stood out like a sore thumb, so I worried about what town folks may think if they saw him inside after closing. “They’re our best-seller,” I added, buying time.

“I know. I’ve had one.”

He smiled at me, reigniting whatever was happening in my body, overcoming any reluctance I should have had. “Do you have cash, sir?” I asked, remembering his last visit.

After a slight laugh, he grabbed the edge of the door, our fingers touching. My knees were so weakened by the feeling that I had to lock them in place. “Yes, I have cash. I also have the four dollars I owe you,” he said. He gazed at me as I thought about what to do. “So, you’ll sell them to me?” he inquired.

“Come in,” I said, standing to the side for him.

He walked past, and his scent immediately hit me. He smelled fresh, a hint of citrus and soap, filling my nose with pleasure. Every single thing about him was foreign to me, and yet so appealing to my senses. I’d always wondered why, when the other young men in the compound whispered their deepest secrets of desires about girls, and I never fully understood what they were feeling. Seeing this stranger caused my stomach to feel dizzy, and I imagined this must be the feeling they’d described.

But this newfound sensation had to be a sin, didn’t it? This person was male like me and probably couldn’t relate to what I felt the two times I’d been near him. He was a man of class, as far as I could tell. We didn’t get men like him in our town often, so seeing someone who was so perfect in every way was disarming.

I was disgusted by the things Franklin had done to me, so why was I experiencing sinful thoughts like how I wished this man liked me, would touch me, want to be with me? Where did those feelings come from? What would that even be like?

“Thank you,” he said, waiting for me to relock the door and join him at the counter. “You’re all by yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I clean up and close most days alone,” I said.

“All alone, with no help?”

I made my way around the counter, leaving him on the dining room side, using the barrier to keep my senses in check. “The sisters do a lot of the cleaning to help me out,” I said. “They spoil me because I help them with the heavy lifting.”

“Yes, I can see how you might be able to handle the heavy items. Do you work out at a gym as well?” he asked, staring and seeming to examine my body. “I mean, well, you’re in great shape.”

“We aren’t allowed to focus on our physical bodies,” I admitted, unsure how that may sound to an outsider. “I guess all this just happened because of farm work,” I added, holding my arms up and examining my muscles. Nervous from his staring, I crossed my arms, conscious of how he was studying me.

“My name is Tate,” he said, offering his hand over the glass case I stood behind. “I’m new in town. Well, not this town. I moved to Bend earlier this week when I saw you before.”

“I remember,” I said, extending my hand. “Luke.”

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