Page 2 of Praise Me: Priest

Get closer to her.

She’s in need. Of course she is, or she wouldn’t be barefoot in the dusty town square. Her dress would fit properly, instead of strangling her shapely hips, likely to the point of poor circulation. Her face wouldn’t be pale, as if she hasn’t eaten or gotten enough sunlight recently. She needs care, this girl.

The back of my neck prickles with alarm.

I’m supposed to be immune to the opposite sex. Not supposed to be looking at her body or marveling over the generosity of her mouth. I was raised in the household of a debauched man who flaunted sexuality, his promiscuous natureon full display. They called my father many names. Tom cat. Lothario. Womanizer.

The behavior and the shame heaped on my family name, including my mother and sisters, is what drove me to the collar. He humiliated us all by siring illegitimate children all over our hometown, acting like the victim when we finally left. That was the year I started studying for the priesthood. I won’t be like him. I won’t be a servant to lust. And I’m confident I can go speak to this girl and continue to abide by my vows. Principles.

“You go ahead and speak with the choir members, Monsignor Hannibal,” I say, squinting into the afternoon sun. “I think I’ll explore the market for a while.”

There’s a flicker of irritation in his gaze, as he looks past me, but he ultimately nods. “Very well.” The corners of his mouth turn down. “I’ll catch up with you back at the rectory.”

“Great.”

I wait until he has turned his back to leave before I do the same, seeking out the red beacon that moves through a sea of mostly men, capturing more and more attention as she goes. Shoppers turn their heads when she passes, running lecherous eyes down her spine to her backside, licking their lips at the sight of her bare calves. She’s creating quite a stir and yet, she seems to be oblivious to the chaos she’s leaving in her wake.

“Do you think she’s for sale?” I overhear one man say.

“I’d pay a pretty penny for nice, hard lay with that one,” his companion responds, making a sound in his throat. “Never had a redhead before.”

“Shame you already spent all your coin on grain.”

“Aye, ’tis a shame.” He elbows his friend. “You’ve still got some change rattling around, maybe she’ll give us a two-for-one discount.”

My stomach turns sour at their laughter, and I walk faster, noticing the barefoot redhead is pulling on a scarf to cover hernoticeable tresses. It’s a dove gray one, the same shade as her eyes, and it’s worse for the wear, but it helps take some attention off her.

A moment later, I realize becoming inconspicuouswasher intention.

She steals a giant hunk of chocolate off one of the tables, hiding it among the folds of her dress, her gait never changing. The girl has only taken three steps when the man selling chocolate yells, “Thief!”

And he hoists a gleaming machete into the air.

The redhead’s eyes widen in fear and she takes off at a dead run, her accuser hot on her heels. Skin going clammy, pulse haywire, I think of that blade damaging her beautiful skin, her features contorting in pain…and I break into a sprint.

Not on my watch.

Chapter Two

Farah

Guess I’ve lost my touch.

The wordthiefrings in my ear as I run through the various groups of well-heeled men and women in the marketplace. There isn’t a sympathetic face among them. Only pity or outrage that I would steal something that doesn’t belong to me. Believe me, I wish I could pay for it with money. I wish that option was available. Don’t they wonder why I’ve stooped so low as to pilfer chocolate for my lunch?

I’m starving.

I also make bad choices, apparently, because chocolate isn’t really a substantial meal, is it? Bread would have been the more nutritious option. But it has been so long since I’ve had anything sweet. I was desperate.

Iamdesperate. Always. It’s my default state.

“Come back here, you filthy piece of street trash!” shouts the man, who is rapidly gaining on me. One quick glance over myshoulder causes my blood to turn icy. A sword is being wielded over chocolate?

Tears sting my cheeks, the wind freeze-drying the patterns on my face. I take a hard right into the field behind the market, keeping to the shadows of the clustered, stone buildings, mentally begging my pursuer to give up. I don’t have the strength to keep running and I can’t get caught. If I’m in jail, my aunt will have to use the last of our money to bail me out and then we’ll truly be destitute.

We’re on the verge of being destitute, regardless.

Unless I marry Mr. Tandy.

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