Page 43 of Preacher Man
He left because of them.
Because their hate was louder than my love.Because they still had their claws in him, twisting and pulling and whispering lies wrapped in Bible verses.
I lay in bed, face pressed to the pillow, trying not to cry again.My house smelled like french fries and regret, and the floor was littered with fast food bags and plastic utensils.
Normally, I was a neat freak.I hated clutter.Hated crumbs.But right now?I was living in a landfill and didn’t have the energy to give a single shit.
The kitchen sink was stacked with dishes I didn’t remember using.There was a dried-up chicken wing in the living room.My laundry was a pile on the floor that had become part of the ecosystem.
I hadn’t showered in… God, I didn’t even know.
I groaned and rolled over, forcing myself to sit up.My muscles ached from doing absolutely nothing, and my neck cracked like I was 85 years old.
“I gotta get out of the house,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face.
I stood, shuffling toward the dresser like a zombie.Caught my reflection in the mirror above it and winced.
Jesus.
My hair was wild, like a raccoon had nested in it.My jaw was patchy with stubble, and my eyes looked like two bruises had taken up permanent residence beneath them.
I looked like I’d lost a bar fight.
I stared at myself a second longer, jaw tight, then sighed.“Get your shit together, Jake.”
But I didn’t know how.
I didn’t want to clean or shower or call a friend or go for a drive.
I wanted Ethan.
And I was so mad at myself for still wanting him.
But then something shifted in my chest—just a flicker.
A thought.
The church.
Yeah, I disagreed with almost everything the people in there stood for.But… maybe if I sat through a service, I’d feel him.
Maybe I’d hear something that would make this ache make sense.
Or maybe I was just desperate enough to look for scraps of Ethan anywhere he might’ve left a shadow.
Either way, I knew what I had to do.
I turned from the mirror and padded into the bathroom, turning on the faucet in the shower.Once the air grew thick with steam, I stepped into the shower, wincing as the hot water pelted my skin.
“Gotta get clean for church,” I mumbled.
* * *
I pulled into the church parking lot on my Harley like I was rolling into a damn war zone.
The engine rumbled low beneath me as I kicked down the stand and climbed off, tugging off my helmet and raking a hand through my hair.I was clean, technically.Showered, deodorized, and wearing the least-wrinkled black T-shirt I could find.Jeans with only one hole in the knee.Real classy.
God’s gonna strike me dead as soon as I step foot in the church.I thought dryly.Maybe I should’ve worn a lightning rod around my neck, just to speed up the process.
