Faithless #2: A Tainted Love Serial (2 page)

T
he sun peeks
from behind the clouds, offering a gentle reminder of warmer times—or warmer locales like Florida. There are a million and one things that I miss about the sunshine state, but my ex—if you want to call him that—isn’t one of them. I’m positive that after what I did to him, he feels the same way.

I step carefully, avoiding the patches of ice etched across the sidewalk whenever I can. These flats aren’t meant for winter-time conditions and wearing hooker heels wasn’t an option for should-be-obvious reasons.

Coming to the corner of East Street and Church Street, I take a sharp inhale when I see Luke’s truck parked in the driveway of Noah’s church. A curious question crosses my mind.
Why do preachers spend so much time at church? They can’t write their sermons at their kitchen tables like actual writers?

So Noah doesn’t have a kitchen table—his bar seems to be sufficient, but that’s not the point. The only explanation that comes to mind is that the church is a refuge from the outside world, especially for a man like Noah—a man who seems to hold the world around him in contempt.

I don’t blame him.

I feel the same way.

I approach the heavy, wooden doors and attempt to pry them open—a fruitless effort. “Dammit,” I mutter under my breath and pound my fist against the door. It’s locked.

The fact the door is locked when history has taught me that church doors always remain open, to anyone, for any reason, should be the first sign that Noah doesn’t want to be interrupted. But waking up alone in his loft alone—twice—certainly wasn’t something I had been looking forward to doing.

Instead of cutting my losses as any rational girl would do, I begin my search for an alternative entrance. There has to be a back door if for no other reason than fire codes.

I walk around the side of the church where Luke’s truck is parked and spot a door just ahead. A chilling sadness creeps through my bones seeing the truck up-close and then a single happy memory shows itself.

I remember as if it were yesterday—the same way you remember all memories—they were always yesterday.

The three of us had stepped off the aging, yellow school bus. The long walk up the winding driveway was monotonous of every weekday for the past few months. But as we approached the house, we were called to come around back.

The way his face lit up when he saw the truck was reminiscent of a toddler learning to walk. Overwhelming happiness, the kind you could only ever experience before the loss of innocence.

And then another memory—

I don’t have time for this shit. I march forward and grab the knob of the door and pull it open without pause. It opens to a dark room with the only light flooding from a small, square window in the back.

It looks like an office, the kind you’d write a sermon in, and Noah is nowhere to be found. I pull the door shut then make my way to his desk. With the flick of a switch, a table lamp lights the room in shades of pale yellow.

I take a seat in an old, torn leather chair. It’s comfortable in a way that only broken-in chairs can be. I fumble around the desk, searching for nothing, but hoping to find something. Once I reach the bottom of a chaotically-piled stack of papers, I notice two pictures taped to the desk. One of me. One of Luke.

Beside the photos is a legal pad—a list with every entry scratched out except for the last:

O
verall
, there are about twenty one-word topics. When I had sat in during his sermon yesterday, he talked about forgiveness. So each word, I presume, represents the agenda for weekly sermons. It’s odd that ‘Revenge’ is the last on the list with no topics prepared for the future.

A loud thud echoes from elsewhere in the church. Slowly, I rise from the chair and take a long look at the door.

Guilt isn’t always indicative of the truth. It’s why it sleeps in the deepest part of our gut. The process of guilt takes refuge within us for many different reasons but never gives us the benefit of absolution.

I lay here in bed, wrapped up in his arms. Logic tells me there is nothing I should feel guilty for, but that damn gut feeling won’t go away.

He brushes his fingers through my hair, and I happen to catch our reflection in the mirror that sits in a corner of the room. It had always been Noah and me in that mirror, but now it’s Luke and me.

Guilt.

A scene out of the movies—a sheet is draped across our bodies with his torso exposed. I run my palm against his smooth chest and lean against his breast. His heart whispers to me beat after beat, but all I’m able to hear is the loneliness. Every day, I wake up hoping to find Noah has come home.

Every day, I wake up disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” Luke asks me, taking a break from brushing my hair and rolling onto his side.

I flip onto my back and sigh heavily. “Nothing,” I lie. “Tired.” I hear a squeak from the hallway. I sit up in bed and pull the sheet tight around me. “Did you hear that?”

Luke smiles. “It’s probably a mouse.”

“No.” I shake my head.

Then, the door is pushed open and I prepare for the worst. An intruder? A long-forgotten family member coming to claim the house?

“Noah!?” I yell, shocked to see him standing there after all this time—an entire year.

Luke rolls off the bed and jumps into a pair of jeans. I sit motionless, clutching the sheet around me.

“I’ll be outside,” Noah says calmly and pulls the door shut.

“You should go talk to him,” Luke says as he fastens the button of his jeans.

“I need a minute,” I say deadpan.

“Don’t you think you’ve waited long enough?”

“What about you?” I turn to him. “Will you come outside?”

He shrugs and purses his lips. “I have nothing to say right now.”

I
open
the front door to find Noah perched on the steps of the porch with his palms folded into each other.

“I don’t know what to say,” I say softly and hug my body tight.

He cranes his head to face me and pats the cement steps. “Come sit.”

I take the three steps it takes to reach the edge of the porch and take a seat. “You’re back,” I say with a light laugh, not believing that this is actually happening. “I wasn’t sure you were ever going to come home.”

He scratches his nose and then his ear, a dead giveaway that he’s nervous. And given the circumstances, he should be. “I never handled tragedy well, you know that.”

I nod in agreement. “I do.”

His shoulders rise and he takes a deep breath. “But everything is different now.”

I turn to him and place my hand on his leg. His body jerks at my touch, so I pull away. “Where did you go?”

“Seems like I went everywhere,” he laughs and shakes his head. “Hopping from shelter to shelter, working jobs for a few days at a time. Saving enough money so that I could get to wherever it was that I was going next.”

“Did you miss me?” I mean to ask that question in a matter-of-fact way, but it comes out with a depth of sadness, as if I already know the answer—an unabashed
no.

He turns to me. “I thought about you and Luke every day. How it was the three of us against the world, and we shared a love that our enemy—the world—would never understand.”

My sadness turns to anger and I bolt down the steps, then spin to face him. “Then why didn’t you come home? You were gone for a year, Noah. You left at the worst damn time! We needed you…”

He bows and shakes his head. “I know.”

“You know?” I scoff. “You have no idea what’s gone on these past twelve months.”

He rises to his feet and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “If I would have stayed here, things would have been worse. I know you think it’s unfair that I ran, but it was the only out I saw.”

I take a moment to myself, and a calmness settles over me—a sudden reminder that reuniting with Noah is a good thing. We can go back to the way things used to be. “You know what.” I smile. “It doesn’t matter because you’re back now.”

“Faith,” he says gravely, seemingly out of caution. “There’s something you should know.”

“What is it?” I move close to him and grab his hand, but he pulls away from me and wipes his fingers across his lips.

“Things can’t be the same as they were.”

“What do you mean?” A nervous laugh slips through my lips, followed by an intuitive revelation. “Are you saying you can’t be with me?”

“I’m so sorry, Faith.”

My eyes dampen as the floodgates open. I wipe away the first tears, but give up on containing the rest. “Is this about Luke?” I throw my finger out, pointing to the bedroom window where Luke stands, looking out. “About what you walked in on? Because we’ve been down that road before, the
three
of us. You just said it yourself—it was
us
against the world.”

“It’s not about him. And it’s not about you.” He places a palm on each of my shoulders, trying to comfort me. “This is about me and who I need to be.”

“And who the
hell
is that?” I cry out angrily and throw his hands off me.

“I wish someone would have been there for us after the accident. I want to be that person so that nobody else has to go through the pain that we did.”

“You’re not answering me,” I scream, the gravel in my throat apparent.

“I start work tomorrow over on Church Street. I’m the new youth pastor.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Not the most tactful of responses, I’m aware.

“No,” he growls. “I’m not, and I don’t appreciate the tone.”

“You’re telling me that you can’t be with me anymore because something—or someone—you never believed in is now more important than me?”

“It’s not like that…”

I throw an open palm against him, forcing him to stop speaking. My fingers shake with every last emotion draining from my body. “I dreamed about the day you would come home.” Tears slip into my mouth, the salty taste dripping against my tongue. “I dreamed that you’d hug me and things would go back to the way they used to be. But dreams are dreams for a reason, right?”

“I love you, Faith. Even if you can’t see that right now.”

“Don’t… Don’t you dare talk to me like a child.”

“To be fair, you’re acting like one.”

I shake my head. The sadness—once again—turning into anger, whether or not it’s justified. “Ask me how I’m doing,” I command, but he doesn’t respond. “Come on, don’t you want to know who I’ve become?”

He shrugs and bites into his lip. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been great,” I force a smile. “Really fucking great. I work at Mike’s.”

He shakes his head. “No…”

“Yeah, Noah. I’m a glorified stripper.”

“Why—?”

There’s more to his question, but I interrupt him because I already know what he’s going to ask. “Why did I become a stripper? You talk about saving people, but I’m already a step ahead of you. Luke got himself into some trouble with drugs and he couldn’t pay his debt.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to go out and become a stripper.” He’s no longer judging me. He’s hurting with me—not because of my profession, but because he knows how much I despise it.

But I don’t despise it. I should, but I don’t. When I’m on that stage, I feel free—and wanted. “I will do anything for the people I love.”

I
stalk
to the door and pull it open so I can peek through the crack. The interior of the church is dark with shadows cast upon the twelve or so rows of pews. There’s another thump, seemingly coming from a room on the other side of the pulpit, directly adjacent from the room where I’m currently.

Then, another noise—a growl that’s faint at first, but then louder. And louder, but I can’t see where it’s coming from. A dog barks and jumps against the door, slamming it shut on my face.

I take a quick step backward as the dog scratches at the door. It alternates between angry growling and vicious barks before settling into a routine of whimpering whines.

Fun fact—I was somewhere around the age of twelve when I was bit in the ass by a dog because of a negligent foster parent.

“Hunter,” I hear Noah call out and my mind begins to race. “Sit,” he commands.

I shouldn’t be here and I prepare to bolt, but the door opens before I’m even able to turn my body to flee.

“Faith?” Noah questions and then flicks a switch beside the door that lights up the entire room. He crosses his arms and leans against the frame of the door while his companion, a German Shepard named Hunter—apparently—takes a seat beside him. “What are you doing here?”

Think fast. “Bible study.”

He nods his head and looks down at his dog. “What do you think, Hunt? You think she’s honest?” Hunter growls in response. Noah turns back to me. “He thinks you’re lying.”

“Fine,” I relent. “I woke up and you were gone and I got nosey.”

“Well,” he waves his hands, “there’s nothing interesting going on here. Unless you want to help me with some physical labor out front.”

“Sure,” I shrug.

His eyes twist sideways. “You weren’t supposed to say that. You were supposed to—”

“Turn and run,” I question. “Like I always do?”

“Those weren’t my words.”

“That’s because I cut you off,” I point out and approach him, but stop in my tracks when Hunter begins to growl again. “Does he bite?”

“Only the faithless,” he quips with a broad smile.

“If that’s the case, then show me your bite marks.”

“Touché.” He nods and points a finger toward the pews, directing Hunter to go sit elsewhere.

I clasp my hands together, prepared to take on the feat of manual labor. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

“You really, really don’t have to do this.”

I tap him on the shoulder as I pass him and enter the empty theater of the church. “I need to get my mind off a few things.” This is, like so many other times, half of the truth. He’s hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.

Taking survey of the church, I notice things I hadn’t noticed yesterday morning. There’s a beauty in the emptiness, in the silence. A beauty in the way that everything seems to be confined within the walls and large windows. Nothing gets out of here without human intervention, such as the opening of a door—but even then—it’s only temporary until the door closes shut.

Music begins pouring from the speakers—a loud but haunting melody by a rock band that I’ve never heard of before. Christian rock, apparently,
is
a thing. I had always thought it was a myth perpetuated by tireless efforts of Christian promoters to bring youth back to the church.

Noah runs down the steps of the pulpit to stand next to me. “I like to listen to music while I work.”

“Funny,” I mumble. “You weren’t playing music before.”

“What’s that?” Noah leans his head against mine.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Ready to get to work?”

I force a smile. “Sure.”

The three of us sit around the kitchen table waiting for a deck of cards to be dealt, but Luke’s always been the type to over-shuffle. Noah’s been home for an entire month, but this is the first time he’s been able to come inside the house since.

I drum my fingers against the wooden table, causing ripples in a glass of water that sits in front of me. “I think you’re good,” I say to Luke, pressuring him to get this game going so we can break through the awkward silence. His boyish face has been cloaked in untrimmed facial hair. “That means deal the cards,” I say through a laugh.

“Fine.” He begins throwing cards to us, one at a time in a circle. “Go Fish is such a childish game, anyway.”

“Well, we can’t play Poker,” I say with a nudge of my elbow against Noah.

“That’s not accurate,” Noah says and takes a swig of bottled soda. “I can play Poker, just can’t play with money.”

“That defeats the purpose,” Luke interjects. “So, kiddie games it is.”

“Luke,” I protest.

“Whatever.” Luke takes a peak at his cards. “Noah, do you have a King?”

“Go Fish.”

“This is so fun,” Luke mumbles in a mocking tone as he grabs a card from the center of the table.

He’s right—not by the words he speaks, but because of the connotation of his sarcasm. This isn’t fun, and it’s a far cry from the way things used to be. If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that change comes slow and I have an abundance of faith that things can—eventually—go back to the way they were. “Luke, do you have a King?” I ask with a smile, taking childish joy in the act of stealing one of his cards.

“Fuck you.” He smiles back and tosses me his King.

Noah adjusts in his chair and rolls his lips against each other. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the language. Luke makes the same observation and quickly apologizes. “Sorry…”

Noah waves it off, showing me his cards in the process—Jack of Spades, Jack of Hearts, Three of Diamonds, Seven of Clubs and Three of Hearts. He has two matches but continues to play as if he has none. He doesn’t want to win.

“I’m calling bullshit,” I say loudly and grab the cards out of his hand.

“Language, Faith,” Luke says, imitating the way I had just chastised him.

I ignore him and scold the guy sitting closest to me. “What are you doing, Noah?”

He bites his lip and pushes the bottle of soda to the side. “It’s just a game,” he says, shaking his head.

Luke throws his cards on the table, landing on top of the fresh deck. “What the hell are we even doing here?” he questions. “Why are we pretending that we still give a fuck about each other?”

“Luke…”

“Do you want to know why I’m here?” Noah asks with a raised voice, his attention focused squarely on Luke.

Luke crosses his arm. “Not particularly.”

“I’m here because I’m worried about you,” Noah says. “I’m worried that I’m going to wake up to find out that you’re dead.”

A visible gulp trails down Luke’s throat as the contours of his face tighten. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Underneath the table, my right foot leads an assault on Noah’s shin. What he’s about to reveal was told to him in confidence with a distinct promise that passed over his lips—he wouldn’t say a word.

He continues on, unaffected by the bruise that’s shaping on his leg or the guilt that comes after breaking a promise. “I’m talking about you and this addiction that is consuming you.” He points a finger to me, highlighting the pangs of guilt written across my face because I, too, had made a promise I wouldn’t say a word. We’re all Judas. “Faith and I won’t always be around to bail you out of trouble. So, the next time you want to stick a needle in your arm, think about someone other than yourself.”

Luke laughs nervously, then stands up and pounds his fist against the table. “Go to hell!”

“Come to church!” Noah yells as Luke storms off and out the front door.

I bury my face in my hands, torn between killing Noah and chasing after Luke. “Did you have to play the Jesus card?” I ask through the cracks of my fingers.

He shakes his head. “I’m worried about him,” he says softly. “And I don’t know how to save him.”

I push myself back in my seat and fold my arms over each other. “You’re not going to save him with a sermon.”

“Then tell me how to save him.”

“I’m a stripper, Noah. We’re not even close to being on the same morality train so any advice I could give you would be tainted.”

“Tainted or not, I need your help. I’m scared we’re going to lose him.”

“He needs you,” I say softly. “He needs his brother, his friend, his God-what-would-you-even-call-it. You don’t have to be all of those things, but pick one and stick with it.” I raise a glass of water to my lips and take a long drink before continuing. “That’s my tainted advice.”

“That’s good.” He nods his head, letting my words of wisdom penetrate. “Do you think I made the right choice?” he asks with a bowed head, changing topics on a whim.

“Becoming a preacher?” I know him well enough to know what he’s talking about. “The rational part of me says that you’re an amazing man, and you can make a real change in this world. The selfish part of me doesn’t care and wants the old Noah back.”

“I’m afraid,” he whispers, “that I don’t know the difference anymore.”

Who does?