Page 54 of Sire
Later in the afternoon,I’m still glowing. My belly does this yummy tickling flip every time I recall this morning with Sire.
Is that normal?
I guess I’ll burn in hell because my memories find me chewing my lip while I watch him captivate his flock with his Sunday church service.
He’s not wearing his sexy, dark grey suit as he preaches, and it’s probably for the best. At this rate, I’ll go through four pairs of panties a day, just staring at him.
Today, he wears faded jeans and a loose, V-neck T-shirt. His pristine white Nike Killshots add to his street style. His afternoon service is the contemporary kind. Music. Video screens. He doesn’t even give a sermon, not like what I’m used to—all hellfire and brimstone.
No, he’s like Moses, leading his people into the community. He’s urging his followers to volunteer at least one hour a week.
“It is not enough to be compassionate, you mustact,” he says, holding his microphone like a rock star. “The DalaiLama said that, and I think he and Jesus would be friends. I think Jesus wouldn’t be on his phone, posting memes about change. No, he’d be in his community, making that changehappen. Will you?”
I sit on the front pew and glance back, wondering if everyone is as inspired as I am.
Every spot on every pew is full, with more standing at the back to watch. All eyes are on him. Heads are nodding, voices murmuring praise. They’re enraptured.
Then, I notice a blonde woman two rows back, staring at me. Her smile is so fake, it looks like AI made her. Clearly, she disapproves of me.But sorry, Karen, I’m used to women like you.
Proudly, I smile back.
Then, another blonde woman, across the aisle, catches my attention. She’s not fake. No, she winks at me, and I scan the man sitting beside her, stifling my gasp.
It’s not Jace, but it looks like his twin.
No! He looks like one of the men who was there the night Sire rescued me.
Another brother!
It has to be.
So, that makes the winking woman, proudly sitting beside him, his wife? His queen? Instantly, I like her. I smile back, genuinely this time, and feeling sorry for every kind woman named Karen, before I turn back, lest my gawking gets weirder.
Once his sermon is over, Sire slings an electric guitar over his shoulder. Sorry, panties. Time of drench is now. That man could sing a drive-thru menu and win a Grammy. Instead, he sings a Christian rock anthem about a lion named Judah.
I glance back again, and the entire congregation is standing, some with their eyes closed and swaying with their hands in the air like it’s a rock concert.
But fake Karen? She’s chewing her bottom lip and obviously soaking her panties like me.
The blonde queen?
She’s hugging Sire’s brother by his waist. They look so in love and proud of him.
But I dread the end of the service, when I know Sire will have to spend minutes, if not an hour, talking to his adoring parishioners while I sit awkward and alone.
I’m used to it, soWWDD?
Whenever I feel out of place—which is usually all of the time, few in Tennessee or here look like me—I hum Dolly’s “Little Sparrow” to keep me company.
But Sire shocks me.
As soon as he finishes with a closing prayer, he leaves the pulpit and walks my way, his beaming smile aimed at me.
He takes my hand, giving me goosebumps. “What did you think?”
I lift on my toes, whispering in his ear, “I’m so inspired, I’m walking on the water in my panties.”
He snorts, laughing, before he leans down to whisper, “Behave, or I won’t spare the rod in my pants tonight.”
