Preacher Read online

  Preacher

  Madison Faye

  Copyright © 2020 Madison Faye

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  Contents

  Foreword

  Preacher

  Playlist

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Foreword

  Dear reader,

  * * *

  While this book pretty clearly deals with religion, it is not meant to be insulting or disrespectful in any way shape or form. Nor is it written to be. Mostly, this book is about wanting what you can’t, or shouldn’t, have, and wanting the forbidden. And let’s be real, we all know that the forbidden fruit usually does taste the sweetest…

  So, if sex mixed with religion is something that might not sit well with you, maybe give this one a pass. But, if you’re thirsty for a little sin, buckle up, say a prayer, and dive right in.

  See you in church ;).

  * * *

  -Madison

  Preacher

  Bless me, for I have sinned.

  I had impure thoughts—temptations of the flesh. I’ve harbored lust, and for the very last man I should be harboring it for. A man of God, no less.

  Except, this man is no angel. He’s no saint. In fact, he might just be the Devil. Only Satan himself could set my very skin on fire, and send shivers and filthy want and carnal desires through my soul. No Godly man would look at me like he wants to devour me whole, or peel my innocence and inhibitions away piece. By. Piece.

  He says he’s here in Canaan, Georgia to save our souls. A traveling preacher here to speak the gospel, and deliver us from evil. But a preacher shouldn’t be built for sin, like he is. No shepherd should have lips that make his flock weak, or hands that make me ache, or a body that teaches mine the true meaning of original sin.

  Gabriel Marsden is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he’s leading me astray. He’s leading me into temptation, and I can’t - and I won’t - say no.

  But you already know all this, don’t you, preacher man? You already know every detail of this sordid story. Because that man?

  That man is you.

  The Devil came down to Georgia. And God help me, I think I’m already lost.

  Playlist

  Personal Jesus - Johnny Cash

  Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield

  Four Winds - Bright Eyes

  Jesus, Etc. - Wilco

  Free Fallin’ - Tom Petty

  Samson - Regina Spektor

  (Antichrist Television Blues) - Arcade Fire

  Losing My Religion - R.E.M.

  A Little’s Enough - Angels & Airwaves

  Dirty Little Religion - Warren Zebon

  Isaiah - Noah Gundersen

  Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

  Chapter One

  Gabriel

  “And LO! The wrath of the lord was vicious and terrible upon the wicked sinners! Ye, tho thou ist humble before me, thy tithes will ascend you into the Kingdom of Heaven!”

  The timing is fucking perfect, too. I pound my fist hard on the pulpit just as the taped organ music hits it’s crescendo, blasting through the tinny speakers on the side of the Winnebago. For extra flourish, I splash a handful of the water mixed with glitter and bubble soap from the bowl next to me up into the air. The light catches it and it shimmers around me as it falls back to the ground, and the gathered crowd gasps and ooo’s and aaah’s.

  They eat it the fuck up. Of course they do, and I knew they would, just like I know every crowd that gathers around my Winnebago or under my tent is going to cream their pants for my especially dramatic brand of fire and brimstone sermons.

  “Ye! Banish the wicked from thy midsts and bestow thy gifts and tithes upon the steps of the temple!”

  The trick is to suggest, not ask. You suggest that they empty their fucking pockets into the bucket at the foot of the pulpit. You suggest that the money in their pocket, or purse, or under their mattress back home is their one-way ticket to the land of salvation, endless summers, warm smiles, playing shuffleboard with the one and only Jesus Christ, or whatever the fuck it is people think is waiting on the other side.

  Fuck it, if it’s doing lines of blow off Mary Magdalene’s tight little ass with Paul and Matthew, that’s what I’m giving them. That’s what I’m selling them, for the low, low price of whatever I can get them to cough up, and my shame. But, shit, that stock ran out years and miles ago.

  “The mighty shall triumph over the wicked! For YE, I am the LORD! And I shall smite the heathen amongst you! Bring tithes upon my church, and my light shall guide you home! Can I GET a hallelujah!”

  Ooooh there it is. Like music to my fucking ears. No, not the chorus of hallelujahs that gets called back at me, or the fervently screamed amens. I mean the sound of money hitting the bottom of that collections bucket. I grin and smile down from my perch behind the pulpit at the first customer—a frail old thing clutching a coin purse from the last century. But damn if that purse doesn’t seem to have no bottom. She just keeps digging in deep and pulling out fistfuls of coins and wadded up bills and tossing them right in.

  “Bless you, preacher!” She crows, beaming up at me as she turns the fucking thing upside and empties it into the bucket.

  “No, dear,” I smile broadly and piously. “Bless you.”

  After that, it’s like a script playing out. Once the first one starts feeling charitable, the rest of them will follow. They always do, and they sure do here and now. No one wants to get outdone in front of Jesus. No one wants to get stuck with the last seat next to the bathrooms on the bus up to heaven.

  One by one, and then in hordes, the gathered crowd brings me their hard-earned cash and dumps it in the donations bucket. If I still had a soul, I might feel a twinge of guilt over this. Luckily, I ditched that pesky fucker years ago.

  “Behold! My kingdom opens unto you! For thou shalt cast aside the sinners and the heathens and trample them into the dust when you come forth to bring tithes upon my heavenly gates!”

  Fuckin’ none of this is from the Bible. I mean, not even fucking close. But you throw in some “ye’s” and some “thou shalt’s” and a whole bunch of shit about the wicked and the damned, and no one bats an eye. They don’t care. Some of them might even know it, but none of them pay it any mind. My customers are the low and humble. They’re the lost, desperately looking for answers and salvation. You might say I’m slinging bullshit, or call me a fraud, or a charlatan. I’ve been called a con man, grifter, huckster, rat-bastard, and far, far worse. But you know what? I own it. Sticks and stones will not break these bones, and words are just fucking words. Words are a sales pitch, and I’m the best fucking salesm
an any of these yokels has ever seen.

  At least, I hope I am, because if I’m not, that’s when I get run out of town on rail.

  But you know what? So what if it’s bullshit. So is TV. So is fucking Facebook. Everyone’s selling bullshit and the promise of salvation, one way or another, and for whatever you consider salvation. Booze companies, pill makers, movie producers. They’re all selling you their own brand of enlightenment and salvation from the endless shitstorm that is life. So what’s wrong with selling folks the comfort of knowing there’s a place for them court-side at Jesus’s own shuffleboard playoffs?

  The money keeps tinkling in, and I grin and look up at the big Georgia sky and the warm, muggy summer sun. I take a deep breath, and my smile widens. I’ve been up in the Dakotas, and eastern Montana, and a little bit of Wyoming for the last few months, and it’s been fucking miserable. Cold nights, dreary days, and the people up north are a different brand of rube. They hang on to those wallets a little bit tighter than these folks.

  But God bless southern hospitality, that’s all I’ll say about that.

  I’ve left the north behind for the season, and Canaan, Georgia is my first stop on what my gut tells me is going to be very profitable little tour of bible country. In my industry, summer in the south is like shooting fish in a barrel. With a bazooka.

  The organ music keeps blaring through the speakers, and the money just keeps dropping into the bucket. Oh, but I’m just getting started here. I haven’t even begun to shake this town down. The music winds down, and I take a big breath. I beam at them, squaring my broad shoulders and raising my hands high in the air as I close my eyes tightly. Eat your fucking heart out, Billy Graham.

  “Brothers! Sisters! Fellow children of our LORD!” I bellow. I even add a little twang to my voice to bring me down beneath the Mason-Dixon. This Carolina boy hasn’t forgotten everything about where he came from, after all.

  “Who amongst you needs to be cleansed before the Lord! Ye! For thou wast unclean, and my waters made you pure! Thou wast lost, and my gentle washing found you!”

  I’m genuinely impressed by my ability to shit pure gold out of my mouth when I want to.

  With a dramatic whirl, I turn and storm off the little stage next to the Winnebago and stride over to the big tarp-covered thing. I grab the edge, and with a flourish, I yank the tarp off, revealing the huge, hundred-gallon baptism tank. These fucking things run a mint. Luckily, this particular one was generously donated by a wealthy, uh, parishioner up in Colorado last year. The thing is a bitch to cart around in the trailer on the back of the Winnebago, but it’s a fucking money printing machine.

  The ooo’s and ahhh’s from the crowd bring a smile to my face. Day one, and this is already shaping up to be banner haul.

  With another flourish, I yank off my flowing robe. I’m wearing a bathing suit and a white undershirt underneath, and I step up to the platform and then slowly descend the stairs into the water. I flex my muscles, roll my shoulders, and crick my neck, and the crowd begins to form into a line, money clenched in their eager fists. God, it’s like clockwork, every time. Past them, I can see more cars pulling up to the parking lot next to the field I’ve set up shop in on the edge of town. More eager customers come bolting across the grass, waving their money.

  I smile and help the first man in after he drops his money in the box. I mutter… well, something, but who cares, and then I dunk the guy in water. He comes up sputtering and grinning to the cheers of his friends.

  “Bless you, Preacher Gabriel!” he gushes, clutching my hands. “Bless you for your work!”

  “It’s but a calling, my brother in Christ, brother Sam,” I say gently.

  His smile falters just for a second. “It’s Anthony,” he blurts. He’s just told me his name seconds ago. Whoops. But I just grin and clasp his hands in mine.

  “Brother Anthony, I’m sorry, it’s just that you remind me of a dear, dear friend of mine I was just visiting before coming to your wonderful town. A truly righteous soul, Sam is. Truly, a man of God and Christ, and a man who’s place is saved with a gold ribbon in His Kingdom.” My smile widens and I tighten my grasp of his hands. “Just like you, brother Anthony. Forgive me my fumble. It’s simply that I’m so moved by your clear path to Saint Peter’s pearly, open gates.”

  Anthony beams at me and shakes my hand fervently with a tear in his eye.

  “Bless you, Preacher Gabriel,” he blubbers. “Bless you!”

  An Oscar. I deserve a fucking Oscar for this shit. This is method acting like Daniel Day-Lewis could never pull off.

  I help a middle-aged woman next, and her sister right after. An older man and his grown son are next, followed by a grandmother who insists on bringing her little yappy dog in, too. The motley thing almost takes my fucking hand off before I can pull it away in time. But she makes up for it by paying triple. So, you know, welcome to heaven, or, whatever.

  The line keeps moving, the money keeps landing in the box, and poor suckers—I mean customers—keep getting unceremoniously dunked in the tank until I’m pretty much done with them all. It’s a blur, and I’m starting to wonder if this is a dry town or not because I’m fresh out of liquor in the Winnebago and I feel like getting blasted tonight, when suddenly, I look up.

  I look up, the world stills, my heart does too.

  I’ve spent seven years pretending to listen to folks tell me about seeing God, or hearing angels, or feeling a “presence” or a “touch,” or whatever the hell it is they want to tell me. I’ve remembered practically none of it and believe less than even that. But right there in that field on the edge of Canaan, Georgia, standing up to my waist in sloshing water, I look up, and I see a fucking angel.

  It’s like the dripping wet, recently dunked crowd parts for her. The sun glows down on her golden blonde hair, and shimmers in these big, wide, innocent blue eyes. The gentle summer breeze rustles her modest white sundress and blows a lock of blonde out of her face. I look at her, and for the first fucking time in my life, I’m not actually sure what to say.

  She comes to a stop in front of the baptism tank, and my eyes sweep over her. She looks so fucking innocent, and so pure, and so good in this wholesome way. And I take one look at her, and I want to sully her.

  I want to claim that fucking innocence for my very own. I want to put my hands on every fucking inch of that pure, innocent little body and make her truly see God for the first time.

  There I am, waist deep in a baptismal tank, a waterproof fucking bible in one hand, organ hymns playing over a shitty speaker, and a crowd of the newly spiritually cleansed surrounding me. And I am rock fucking hard.

  “You,” I purr, raising a hand before I can stop myself. If this were a sermon of mine, I’d say that it’s God moving my hand to do His will. But I’m not enough of a phony to try that shit on myself. It’s not God and a heavenly power moving within me right now. I take one look at this angel, and I want to claim her. I want to shred the pretty little sundress from her pretty little body and spread those pretty little legs for my pretty fucking big cock.

  Believe me, it’s a power a might south of Heaven moving my hand, if you chose to believe that sort of shit.

  I curl two fingers, and I grin as I watch her face turn a crimson red.

  “Come here,” I growl.

  Take one more step, I want to scream. Take one more step and I swear to whatever you hold holy that I will possess your very fucking soul.

  And then, she does.

  God help her.

  Chapter Two

  Delilah

  “Oh, no-no, the white one, honey!” mama sighs at me with a smile and shakes her head as she pulls the crimson sundress from my hands. “Not that one, Delilah.”

  I frown. “Mama, I’m not going to wear white—”

  “Well of course you are!” she chuckles like I’m making an obvious joke. “It’s a baptism, honey. It’s reaffirming your love for Jesus! You can’t wear—” she blushes a little and lowers her voice. “
You can’t wear red to a baptism, Delilah,” she whispers hoarsely, like even mentioning the red dress in the same sentence as “baptism” is a cardinal sin. But, knowing the way my mama thinks, it very well might be in her head.

  “Mama, the white dress is white.”

  “Exactly. Pure, clean, chaste.”

  “Yeah, and see-through when it gets wet?”

  My mother’s face turns redder than the dress she’s just pulled away from me, and she looks absolutely scandalized. Lordy, I feel scandalized now that I’ve said it and now that she’s reacted like that.

  “Delilah May!” She gasps, bringing a hand to her heart. She looks at me sternly. “Watch yourself, child,” she says tersely. “You’re close to wicked thoughts, honey.”

  Wicked thoughts. Right. The concern that my dress will be completely see-through once a stranger dunks me in water is a “wicked thought.”

  “Mama!” I hiss back, a little scandalized myself. “I just mean… you know! I don’t know this preacher, and—”

  “He’s a preacher, honey,” she sighs. “A man of God. A shepherd, come to tend this shepherd-less flock.”

  “Only temporarily, ma!” Paul, my older brother, crows from the other room.