Page 27 of The Preacher's Pet

“Cain,” he says in that quiet, almost whispering, voice of his.

There’s something spooky about the way he speaks.

“Eric,” I reply. I take a seat opposite him. “Can you get me in a fight tonight with someone good?”

He purses his lips. “They’re all good if they’re here.”

“Of course, but I meanreallygood. I want to go ten rounds and really have to struggle,” I tell him.

“You want to get hurt?” He raises his eyebrows.

Yes, I do. I want pain to take away all the other crap. I don’t tell him that, though, or he’ll stop me from fighting. He’ll take it as a sign that I don’t know what I’m doing. When the opposite is true.

I lie, the way I always do, to most people. “Of course not,” I scoff. “Just the chance to challenge myself, and anyway, the more brutal fights always earn the best money.”

It’s true. I’ve earned some great money when I’ve been fighting. Some of it I’m saving for what we’re trying to build here, and I’ll give it to Roman at some point. But I’ve used some of it for my brother. To try to support him as best as I can while he’s still stuck in that goddamn awful environment. He’s only fifteen now, but once we’ve taken over, he’ll come to live with me.

“You’re in luck,” Eric says. “We’ve actually had someone drop out who was going to fight Titus.”

Titus is a beast. Perhaps on any other given day, I’d feel a tad wary at the thought of facing him in the makeshift ring but, instead, I relish the idea of the upcoming fight. I need to burn off the too-intense emotions that seeing my Angel again has stirred in me.

I crack my knuckles. “Perfect.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m surrounded by chanting people braying for blood. The scent of sweat and the tang of dried blood from previous fights fills my nostrils. The man opposite me is even bigger and broader than I am. He must have a couple of inches on my six-three frame, and at least fifty pounds. We’re both bare-chested, our skin already slick with sweat, and we sport tattoos alongside scars from previous fights. It doesn’t surprise me that Eric was so quick to let me in the ring—he must have realized what a sight the pair of us make. Money changes hands in the crowd as bets are still being taken.

Titus dances around me, his lip already split from where I managed to land a punch. He hawks a mouthful of saliva and blood and spits on the ground. He holds my eye and grins around bloodied teeth. He’s nimble for one so big, and I manage to dodge two returning blows, but then my luck runs out.

His huge fist connects with my lower face, hard, and bright shards of pain burst in my jaw and behind my eyes. The crowd roars with bloodlust induced pleasure. I stagger back and lift my hand to the corner of my mouth. I pull it away and see the red dots of blood.

I look back at Titus and grin.

15

OPHELIA

I am sounnerved by Cain’s visit that I start to pack my bags. For a good fifteen minutes, I have such an epic freakout that I almost turn tail and run home, but then I calm down and remember what my therapist told me. The worst thing I can do is keep hiding. Keep running. If I do that, I’ll never recover. I’ll never truly be free. I agree with her. To get better, I must live. I haven’t had any of the normal rites of passage that most young girls have when they pass into adulthood. I need to do those things to learn who I am. All I have behind me is trauma, and it’s my choice now to decide what lies ahead of me. That’s the gift I’ve been given. A future.

I was brave enough to escape, so now I need to be brave enough to live.

My mind flashes back to the commune and how abnormal life there was.

My first period was spent crying in thehouse of shame, as the other women half-jokingly called it. Whenever we were on ourunclean period, we had to go stay in that house on the edge of the commune. The other women would bring us food, and they’d be kind, but we were basically ostracized for four to seven days a month. Then there was my first kiss. It was a boy who was theson of a family who had helped raise me afterhehad taken me. He’d pushed me up against the kitchen counter one day, while his mother was in the garden, and pressed his cold, wet lips against mine. It had been disgusting, and I’d shoved him away in shock.

He’d called me names after that, claiming that I’d tempted him, and soon the family made me leave. The actions of the men and boys in the commune were never their fault. It was always the woman or girl who had led them astray. I had to go live with an older couple who had no children at home and who would help me with myimpure and wicked impulses.

The Prophet controlled every part of our lives. We were told what we could read, what kind of music we were allowed to listen to—gospel only—and things like television were strictly forbidden. We were even told what to wear, and everyone had to dress in the color maroon. Whenever I see it, or variations of it, it sends me right back to that place. I’ll never wear anything of that shade again for as long as I live.

Even now, a year away from the place, I still haven’t caught up with normal life. I have no favorite bands I want to see. I don’t have a social media profile.

No bookshelves full of my favorite reads. No notes passed to me from boys in the hall at school. No Snap messages from my bestie.

Nothing.

I’m a blank canvas. A woman who doesn’t know who she is or what she wants in life, and I hate it. The way people look at me is either with pity or as if I’m a freak. Part of me wants to be normal so badly.

With slightly shaking hands, I pick up my phone—a new addition I had to be taught how to use—and type out a message before I can second guess myself. The reply comes fast.

I smile, and the mix of nerves and excitement is almost too much to bear.

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