Page 137 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

Elliottparkedthecaron the street a block down from the church, checking out her parallel parking skills as passers-by checked out the nearly transparent university T-shirt. Yes, she was being a bit devilish for wearing it to church, but with a slight eye-roll, she decided her demon made her do it.

Sticking in her earbuds as she walked up the street, she found it oddly fitting that as she traversed the threshold, The Fray was encouraging her: “Run for Your Life”. Stepping into the small foyer, she found several sets of doors beyond which she could see people sitting in chairs. To the right was a small bookstore where people were browsing, and to the left was a hallway and a set of wide rectangular stairs leading down.She guessed that was the direction she should go.

Before she had much time to contemplate, however, a young man with long blond matted locks and a colorful crocheted hat rushed across the foyer to her. He had a kind, eager face, and he was looking at her like she was his long-lost best friend.

Elliott removed an earbud as she waited for him to approach.

“Welcome! I’m Liam!” He stuck his hand out.

Elliott gave him her hand that was shaken vigorously. “Elliott.”

“We’re so happy to have you, Elliott.”

She scanned the place again; it was only him, so she wasn’t certain who was included in the “we.”

“Thanks. First timer.”

His face fell into one of reverence, expression full of fervor. “Then I’m honored to greet you. Here, this is today’s program.” He handed her a folded paper.

Elliott looked at it, turning it in her hands. “You have a playbill.”

“What?” He looked at it, confused.

Liam didn’t have a sense of humor. “Nothing. Thanks.” She flapped it in the air at him and regarded the open doors.What lay beyond those doors wasn’t why she was here, but she suspected that Jonah was probably somewhere in that room.

“Oh, you can go on in to the sanctuary,” he invited.

She couldn’t help it, shereallycouldn’t. In an overly dramatic growla laQuasimodo, she enunciated, “Sanc-tuary!”

Liam looked at her like she was a mental patient and he was struggling not to panic.

Attempting to assure him that she wasn’t crazy, she prompted him, “It was a book by Victor Hugo,The Hunchback of Notre Dame.And loads of movies. Cartoons?”

“Sure.”

Tough crowd. Flapping her playbill at him again, she shoved her earbud back in andheaded toward the sanctuary—and yes—she heard the word Quasimodo-style in her head. She was curious, after all; no harm in taking a quick peek.

Entering the space, she almost turned on a heel and marched right on back out.

It was massive. Two levels. It reminded her of a theater (so the playbill comment hadn’t been too far off the mark), except not as condensed. The seats were wider and farther spaced between the row in front, but still stadium-style, with plush red velvet upholstery. The rows angled toward the front where a massive half stage held an eternal flame (she assumed, otherwise what was the point?), a lectern, and four chairs. A wooden cross was cabled behind them.

Three of the four seats onstage were occupied, one by a man who had noticed her entrance into the building and was staring at her like she was the only person in the room. He was seated casually—shockingly so, considering—leaning forward, elbows on his knees. A microphone was held negligently in his hands between his legs.

But his smile was of the variety a preacher shouldnotbe flashing in a church. His look was so smoldering, her knees almost knocked, because she knew that look. It promised many un-Christian things. The tingling in her breasts prompted her to shrug her shoulders, trying to get the near-translucent shirt to drape a bit.

Tossing him an annoyed look, which did nothing to reduce the heat level, she tore her gaze away to cast a look around. Taking in more of the space, she slid along the wall next to the door and leaned back. As she returned his intensely interested stare, Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ la Vida Loca”popped into her head, and she almost burst out laughing.

Fitting. She couldn’t help the little shoulder shimmy the upbeat Latin beat inspired. Her preacher man grinned. Surprised that he would be so obvious, she scanned the audience, but they didn’t seem to notice that their head guy was eye-fucking the chick in the back.

It was then she noticed the group of singers standing on the deck. It was only because one of them raised their hand in the air and started waving it back and forth. This seemed to give permission to the people in the audience, who followed suit. She looked back at Jonah and shook her head.

The applause, she heard over her music. Then he stood, looking delicious and confident and comfortable up there. Tearing his attention from her, he looked at the people in front of him, talking to them, walking slowly back and forth, at complete ease. She could see and hear their laughter. It confused her: humor in church. His grin when they responded had her heart jumping.

He stood, hip cocked in that man-lean that was irresistible to her, as he engaged with the people. More laughter. More pleased looks from him. He looked her way warmly a couple of times, but attention didn’t linger; just checking on her. He was giving his time to the crowd in front of him.

Tech9 joined the entertainment, and she nodded along with the solid beat; it couldn’t be helped. Jonah did a double-take, and she ducked her head as she tucked her lips in: oops. By the time she’d looked back up sheepishly, he’d moved on, but he was clearly amused.

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