Page 101 of Priest and his Anarchist

“Play nice…” I warn, but the corner of my lip twitches.

“I will!” She widens her eyes at me as I find the door handle. “One day,” she mutters, rolling out of the driver’s seat. I listen to her harp on about the current state of Midnight Mayhem and how the shows have been lately. She manages to skate over a few people who she doesn’t want to mention, as we head up the stairs and beneath the archway.

The door closes behind me and I lower my duffel bag onto the concrete floor, blowing out a deep breath. I’ve been home a lot over the years, but this time is different. This time I won’t be leaving to go back to Del Morts, and aside from the twisting anxiety of what’s to come still sitting pretty in my guts, it feels…good.

“I thought about painting your room, you know!” Mom calls out from the kitchen around the clashing of glasses and the fridge door closing.

“Oh really?” I holler back, removing my coat and hanging it up. The house was clearly inspired by old Tuscany homes. With rendered walls and timeless cabinetry, every piece of furniture is elegantly ancient. Which reminds me—I track back to my coat and grab my phone before making my way down the open hallway where the living room sits on one side, and the kitchen on the other. Mom and Dads’ bedroom is downstairs, and the upstairs is all mine. Two bedrooms, one for training, and a bathroom, sauna and gym.

I love being home.

The first message I see when I turn on my phone is from Nate.

Your mother has the keys to your new apartment. Enjoy your time with them while you can, because once you’re back, you’re back.

I tap out of his message, lowering myself down onto one of the bubble stools beneath the kitchen bar while findingInstagram. He’s giving me until I head back for the show, so I won’t reply until then.

“You changing all of”—she waves her long, black manicured fingernail at me—“that?”

My thumb hovers over my Instagram profile. “No one knew I even had this.”

She leans her forearms on the counter, her shifty eyes meeting mine behind the glass of her—“Vodka?”

I giggle, swooping up my own and lifting it to my lips. “Okay fine. But just so you know, I have tried this before.”

She shoots hers back and chases it with her tongue to clean up the residue on her bottom lip. “Oh, honey, I know! You are your mother’s daughter.” She winks before turning and tying up an apron.

The words hang around in my mind. You are your mother’s daughter.

It’s the first time she’s ever said that to me—or anyone has ever said that to me. People have always said that I take after both my dads, but more like Kyrin. Having two never confuses people, because I don’t surround myself with anyone who has to second-guess the concept of love being as simple as…love. No matter how many. Just so happens my mom fell in love with two men.

Two very different men.

Eli, my, I guess you could say is my paternal father, and Kyrin, my other father. Eli Rebellis, Rebel of the Elite Kings Club, and Kyrin Nero, a Brother of Kiznitch with Midnight Mayhem, and well, my mom.

Who turned out to be a hell of a lot scarier than either of my notorious fathers.

Scary parent math.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask, still deciding what to do with Instagram. I could delete it and start a new one, but I’ve had itfor so long and the content I’d shared had helped me along the way. Some of it anyway.

If they did stumble across me on here, people can know who I am now since I’ve graduated. Do I want my footprint known on social media, though? All my content up to this date has been simple. Reels of something random on my weekends out and about. Even a random waterfall I’d found mid-run, deep in the mountains on Perdita where the waters run a translucent shade of pink.

I never thought much into what I was posting. I’d never shared my face, just simple reels the same time every weekend for years. Between that and the mystery, it gained me a following, which in turn only made me more nervous to never share. I value my privacy more than I want attention. Since I am currently up to three million followers.

Some liked the peaceful nature I’d post.

Some loved the captions.

But the main reason for the followers is people think I’ve been kidnapped, and my posts are a cry for help. Like leaving a scattering of breadcrumbs, they think I need rescuing.

I never corrected them because why? I didn’t care for this account because I always assumed I’d delete it once I was out.

But now?

I shoot back my vodka, clenching my teeth when it hits my throat. “Yes, but can we make it something smoother next time? Maybe whiskey?” It’s a joke, but when she pauses with the spatula in her hand, I know I’ve said something wrong. “What?”

She relaxes, turning to face me with a wide smile, one that flashes all her teeth. “Nothing! And tacos, since they were your favorite and since you’re leaving us again in less than three days to go and be”—she waves her hands—“who you’re supposed to be. It’s only fitting.”

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