Page 12 of Beneath the Dirt

Our gazes clash before she answers.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvincingly.

“I was just about to have a quick chat with Araceli, and I was about to tell you to go help Tori take inventory of the supplies we had delivered today for tomorrow’s Holy Harvest.” He averts his gaze to Araceli. “I want to make sure everything goes off without incident.”

I stand still looking at her, not wanting to move. Afraid of what he’ll do to her once I leave and the sanctuary has cleared out.

“I’m fine,” she says to me, lying.

Almost forgetting Dad is there, I step closer to her. Feeling the brotherly urge to protect her from him, I reach for her hand, wanting to take her with me, away from him. Despite how ten minutes ago I was fantasizing about her lips wrapped around my cock, or just now wanting to bury my face in her cleavage, pentagram touching my skin and all.

Sensing this, Dad steps in front of her. “Boy, I swear to everything that is holy, you get the—” he stops to adjust his tone, settling on ‘heck’ and not ‘hell’ because God forbid he say such profanity like he does at home in church, “—away from her now. I will handle her.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

A breath hitches in my throat. My fists tighten at either side. Anger like I’ve never felt before emerges as I stare into those dark pits he passes as eyes.

“Tori is fine on her own prepping for the Harvest. I can wait until you’re done talking to Araceli and walk her home.”

“The fuck you will,” he laughs through his threat. There he is. The pastor mask fading and prick bag Dad is here to play. He stares her up and down, disapproval ripe on his brows. “She’s more than capable of walking alone.” His gaze falls to her hands, inspecting them. “And not wander off anywhere she shouldn’t be going. Just directly home once I’m done with you, isn’t that right, Araceli?”

She turns her head to the side, refusing to answer or look at him.

“Answer me you little—” He begins to point his finger at her, hovering over her collarbone. The way his fingertip bounces back and forth repeatedly it’ll be a matter of seconds before he makes contact. He won’t hit hard like he has at home, but he’ll still find a way to make it hurt.

I puff out my chest, feeling years of suppressed rage boiling over.

Sensing that, Araceli steps between Dad and I. “Stop!” Araceli shouts, a few lingering eyes stare at us. Dad motions to them that it’s alright and they move. “Just go, Harlan,” she clips, shooing me away like I’m a fly in her presence.

I look at her pleadingly.

“It’s fine,” she says, softer. Even though it’s not fine. It’s never fine.

“Fine,” I bite back.

“That’s a good boy,” Dad says with a nauseating amount of condescension. “Now let me deal with her. Tori is already in the basement waiting for you.”

“Ooh, who’s Tori?” Araceli chimes in, wiggling her hands sarcastically like she always does when she’s deflecting or jealous, but in this case, I’d say it’s a combination of both.

“Tori is a fine Christian girl. Not like you’d know anything about that. Now that’s all you need to know,” Dad boasts. “Isn’t that right, Harlan?”

Yeah, “fine at sucking dick” is what I want to say, but I don’t.

As I walk away to the door that leads to the basement, argumentative mumblings rumble my eardrums between them. Forcing myself to ignore it, I open the door and walk down the steps. As I reach the bottom step, something catches my eye. It moves quickly. It is so quick that I brush it off as a shadow, convinced that my eyes are playing tricks on me since they haven’t fully adjusted to the dim space. Though, the faint thud of footsteps rustling on the floor convinces me someone is there. Isquint, trying to focus on the inky air in front of me, and I swear that I can see someone tall dressed in all black walk past me, but it’s hard to tell. “Hello?” I call out, cautiously I move forward and a voice calls back.

“Hello.” Tori appears with a clipboard in hand, doing exactly as my dad told her, and disappointment lodges in my gut at the sight of her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I thought I saw something.”

“There’s no one here. Just you, me and Jesus,” she laughs, bending forward to show off her cleavage. The turtleneck she was wearing before is gone, and a lacy bra is in its place.

“Come over here,” she whispers, flexing her pointer finger. I follow, looking at her delicate features, wishing they were Araceli’s instead. In the same way, I pretend the dark hair grazing her shoulders is Araceli’s, and the cross around her neck is a pentagram like Araceli wears.

Tori begins to bend her knees, our usual arrangement obviously on her mind. I click my tongue, pointing to the table off to the side.

“Sure, whatever makes you comfortable.”

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