Page 19 of Beneath the Dirt

His jaw tightens, answering for him.

I nod. “Exactly and that didn’t stop him from leaving yet another mark on your skin. Wake up, Harlan.” I snap my fingers. “Your dad doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone other than himself. The church, his love, it’s all a fucking act. The sooner you realize that, the sooner—”

The stool skids on the tile floor before it crashes onto it as Harlan rises to his feet, immediately towering over me.

“You made your point,” he clips, now unrolling his sleeves so they cover the evidence to my point. “Why do you want to go there anyway? Heathen’s Cross isn’t safe.”

I roll my eyes. “How the fuck would you know that? You’ve never been there.”

A forbidding expression captures his chiseled cheekbones, paling his skin.

“Just trust me, Araceli. I need you to promise me you won’t go there,” his voice, though rough and deep, still quivers just a bit.

“I promise you that if you don’t hand me that damn invitation, I’ll do something way worse than stepping foot on Heathen’s Cross grounds.”

“Araceli,” he scolds.

“Harlan,” I scold back. “Just give me the fucking invitation.”

He doesn't move. Not even a flinch.

Exasperated, I let out a sigh that sounds more like a huff. “Listen, if you want to keep being the good church boy, and skip out on the fun of Heathen’s Cross to go be lame with the bible thumpers at the Harvest tomorrow, knock yourself out. But it wouldn’t kill you to live a little for once. Have some fun with me.”

“Stop calling me that.” His Adam’s apple bobs visibly down the thick column of his throat.

“What?” I coo, egging him on it. “A good church boy?” My lips fall to an exaggerated pout. “Isn’t that what you are? A good, God-fearing, willing to do anything to deny your inner demons, suppressed, fucking, church boy?” I taunt him.

Flustered, he crumples the invitation in his hand, about to chuck it in the garbage, but I spring up onto my knees. This time damn near losing my balance in the process on the slippery ceramic bottom of the tub while I try to stop him.

“Go ahead, throw it out. I’ll just take it out of the trash.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, taking a step back; he nearly trips on my bag. Shit. The book Frida gave me hangs out of it. I’m staring at it, and now Harlan is too. Intrigue trickles into his voice, “What’s this?” He crouches down to pick up my journal.

“Give me!” I yelp. Frida’s warning rings in my psyche.“It’s important that you keep this to yourself. Your story is yours and yours alone. If anyone gains access to your path, consequences will arise.”

Harlan doesn’t listen. I reach over and try to grasp the book in his hands, but he takes another step back, increasing the distance between us, too preoccupied with the book than the sudsy view of my tits that captured his attention from before.

“This is cool,” he blurts. He doesn’t sound convincing, but more hesitant instead.

“My tits or the book?” I deflect with crude humor, hoping it distracts him enough that I can take my journal back from him.

He looks up for a second, and his gaze lands on my tits once more. Red colors his chiseled cheeks as his gaze holds mine, mortified.

Go ahead, church boy, tell me how pretty my tits are. I challenge him silently with a long stroke of my tongue at my lips.

He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he clears his throat and redirects his attention back to the book.

In horrified silence, he studies the illustration, and the visible tinge of embarrassment that was just on his cheeks vanishes as a ghastly white emerges in its place.

“Why the—” he stammers, his voice almost escaping him. “Why the—” he repeats before slamming the book shut, tossing it at me. I catch it, thankful for my fast reflexes; otherwise, it would’ve been ruined by the water in the tub.

“Why the fuck would you want to keep something like that?” His question is both accusatory and full of disgust. “It’s horrifying.”

I clutch the leather-bound book to my chest. “Jesus fuck, Harlan, calm down. It’s just a picture. A beautiful one at that.” I reminisce about the peaceful scene, envious of how peaceful the woman looked, just sailing into oblivion with the man waiting patiently for her. “Besides—” my voice drifts, about to open the book to show him the picture he was studying when he lifts his hand. His large, veiny palm curls around the book's edge, preventing me from opening it.

“No! Please,” he begs me. “I’ve seen enough,” he adds, adjusting his tone, lessening it. “Celi, I mean it. If the HolyHarvest isn’t where you want to be tomorrow, then please just stay here.”

“I am.”

---