Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lucien
“Jimmy—wait!”
My voice cracked on his name. For a beat I thought he might stop, that the rope between us would pull taut and hold—but the only answer I got was the thuds of his feet pounding down the stairs.
“Jimmy!” I called again, and I heard the front door wrenched open, then the door hit the jamb with a brutal, shaking slam that rattled the picture frames along the hallway and set a high, shocked ring twanging in my ears.
Silence rushed in on the tail of it.
I ran downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. A heartbeat later his engine coughed to life, and then tires squealed against the street.
“Fuck!”
I stood there until the sound of his truck faded away.
I climbed back up the stairs slowly and drifted to my bed.
The sheets were still neat except for the shape we’d made in them, barely an impression but I could feel it with my eyes—the idea of what could have happened there.
I sat on the edge and stared at my hands until they came into focus. They were shaking.
I wiped at my cheek and scowled at the wetness on my fingers.
This wasn’t just a crush. I knew that even if I wanted to lie to myself.
I’d felt something shift when I put my arms around him in the kitchen, the way you feel the air change right before a summer storm—pressure dropping, sky going that off-color that means power’s about to go out.
When he’d shuddered, I’d felt it like it was happening inside my own body.
Gratitude first, bright and raw as a scraped knee.
Then heat, rolling through both of us like a tide.
I lay back, the mattress sighing under me, and stared at the ceiling. I could see the scene replaying in the slats of shadow: the way his mouth fit against mine—hungry, honest—the way he’d looked at me right before, like he was choosing a cliff and making peace with the drop.
“Christ,” I whispered to the air. I wanted to go back and do it over with the kind of gentleness that would thread him back together.
And, yeah, underneath all that, I wanted him.
I’d been with lots of men, and I’d been obsessed with a couple of them.
But I’d never felt the clean, terrifying rightness of how Tanner felt in my arms.
“Did I push him too hard?”
I’d told him it was his choice. I’d meant that—every word. But I also knew what my body does when I’m sure a man wants me the same way I want him. I went for it boldly, without a second thought.
I scrubbed both hands over my face and swore again, softer. “You fucking idiot.”
The need to fix something—anything—kicked me upright so fast the room tilted. Call Tanner. Text him. Tell him he did nothing wrong. Tell him you’ll wait as long as it takes.
My hands went to my pockets out of habit, patting for my phone. Nothing. My phone was downstairs, probably on the counter next to the knife block and the lemons I kept pretending I’d use for something more domestic than whiskey sours.
I stood, the floor cool under my feet now that the adrenaline had burned off, and crossed to the door. When I got to the kitchen, the overhead light was still on. My phone lay face down by the cutting board. I picked it up, thumb already swiping to Messages, the muscle memory stronger than sense.
“Damn it,” I hissed. I didn’t have his number.
I stood there with the phone heavy in my palm, staring at the empty screen. The clock over the pantry door ticked too loudly, a smug little metronome for an evening coming apart at the seams. Then I remembered.
Sarah had his contact info.
The thought cut through the static. She’d gotten an email from him before the ceremony. Something about the University of Richmond, and studying alternative faiths.
“That’s it,” I muttered.
My thumbs were already moving, tapping out a quick message to Sarah:
Do you have that guy’s email—the one from U of R? Jimmy Harper. I need
I stopped with the cursor blinking after “need.” Need what, exactly? To fix it? Perhaps drag him back into the moment he’d barely escaped? To make myself feel better by saying the correct string of words?
I hit backspace until the message was gone, then locked the screen like I was afraid of my own hands.
Jimmy’d run out because something inside him had ripped open.
Whatever he was carrying, it wasn’t new.
I’d felt it the way you feel a storm through the bones of a house—sudden, yet old.
He needed space. Not the kind where people vanish and call it kindness, but the kind where nobody is reaching, where your body can learn that nothing bad happens if you just… breathe.
I set the phone down and stared at my fingers splayed on the countertop. They were still trembling. My hands—these hands—had been on his face, at his back. They’d felt him yield and then harden like a door slamming.
I needed a friend and a drink. Maybe Sarah would meet me and keep me from setting my soul on fire.
I unlocked the phone again and opened a new text.
Hey—I could use both a friend and a cocktail. Can you meet me at Fallout?
Before I could overthink it, I hit send.
The phone buzzed almost immediately.
On my way
I felt something inside me unclench. I typed back:
Thank you
* * *
Fallout was half full, the way it always was on a weeknight—dim light, low music, and a haze of neon that made everyone look a little more tragic than they were. The air smelled of limes and old beer. I was finishing my first pint when Sarah walked in.
Her reflection appeared first in the backbar mirror—black eyeliner, neon red spiky hair, and a smirk that said she was about to make me talk about shit, whether I liked it or not. She slid onto the stool beside me.
“You look like someone shot your favorite demon,” she waggled her eyebrows.
I huffed out a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “Something like that.”
“What happened?”
“Jimmy,” I said, and even saying his name was a punch to the ribs. “The new guy from the other night at the Temple. He came over to my place today.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Ooh, the pretty one with the saintly face?”
“That’s the one.” I swirled what was left in my glass. “We talked, then we… kissed. And then he just—” I snapped my fingers. “Bolted. Like, had a total meltdown. He was gone before I could say or do anything.”
Sarah gave a low whistle and waved down the bartender. “Two tequilas, and two beers.” Then she turned back to me with a crooked grin. “I didn’t have a great day either. That guy I liked, Sam. Turns out he’s living with this girl named Annie, and was trying to hide it from me.”
The shots landed between us in a little splash of gold. The beers followed. She lifted hers. “To our fucked-up love lives.”
I clinked her glass with mine. “To disasters dressed as destiny.”
The tequila burned going down, and the beer chased it into something softer. For a few seconds, it was almost easy to breathe.
“So,” she said, after a minute. “You like this guy? Like, you only just met him.”
“Yeah.” I let out a slow breath. “More than I should, I guess. He’s got this way about him—like everything hurts, but he still keeps reaching for the light. You want to wrap him up and tell him it’s okay to stop fighting.”
She smiled and patted my knee. “You’ve always had a thing for strays.”
“Guess so.” I stared at the bar top, tracing a ring of condensation with my thumb. “He’s got ghosts, Sarah. Big ones. And I think I just rattled the cage.”
She didn’t say anything, just took another sip and waited for me to keep talking. She was good at that—leaving room for the silence to do its work.
I sighed. “You still have the email he sent to the Temple? The one from before the ceremony?”
“Yeah, or at least I’m pretty sure I can find it,” she drawled. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I could reach out. Just to check in.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, half-smiling. “Just to check in.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered.
She dug her phone out of her bag and started scrolling. The blue light from the screen washed over her face. “Let’s see… here it is. Jimmy Harper, University of Richmond. Says he’s researching alternative religions.”
I felt something twist in my chest when I heard her say his name out loud. “That’s him,” I mumbled.
“Okay, hang on.” She frowned at the screen, thumb hovering. “I’ll forward you his—”
She stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening.
“What?” I asked, sitting up straighter.
“Look at this,” she said, turning the phone toward me but not letting go of it yet. “Look at his email address.”
I leaned in. JimmyT@
“What the hell is this?” I shrugged.
Sarah blinked at me. “You’ve never heard of Tanner Ministries?”
I shook my head. “Should I have?”
“Oh, my God.” She laughed, but it wasn’t a funny sound—it was disbelief. “Calvin Tanner? The tacky cable televangelist? He’s been on late-night Christian TV since the nineties. Hair like a helmet, Bible in one hand, donation plate in the other?”
I stared at her blankly. “You’re telling me Jimmy’s connected to that guy?”
She grabbed her phone back, typing fast. “He must be, or why would his email address be... hold on. Let me see what I can dig up.”
While she searched, I sat frozen, trying to connect the dots. The quiet, nervous man who’d stood in my kitchen like he was afraid of his own shadow—how the hell did that square with a televangelist and a man who probably thought Satanic Temple members were walking abominations?
“Oh no,” Sarah whispered.
My pulse jumped. “What?”
She turned the phone and pushed it toward me, her face softening. “That poor guy. Look.”
The screen showed a promotional photo, shiny and sterile—Reverend Calvin Tanner, arm around a young man with a guitar in his lap.
Jimmy.
His expression was blank, eyes downcast, and his posture was too straight to be natural. Like a boy trying to disappear in plain sight.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Poor Tanner.”
Sarah nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s him.”
I stared at the photo, the weight of it settling in. The pieces were fitting together, but not in any way I liked.
The Reverend Calvin Tanner looked straight at the camera, teeth bared in a politician’s smile. Jimmy’s eyes told another story altogether. There was no light in them. No spark. Just… resignation.
I set the phone on the bar. My hands had gone cold. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “He’s a televangelist’s son.”
Sarah nodded. “Looks that way.”
I slumped against the counter. “Well, that explains a hell of a lot.”
“Explains what?” she asked gently.
“The guilt written all over him. The way he looks at me like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to want me or confess it.” I raked a hand through my hair. “His dad probably built his whole empire preaching against people like me.”
Sarah’s mouth twisted. “Against people like him, too.”
That landed deep. “Christ,” I muttered, staring down at the wood grain until it blurred. “He must’ve been living a double life since he was old enough to drive.”
She tilted her head. “You think he was spying on you?”
“I don’t know.” The words came out rough. “Maybe. Maybe it started that way. But it didn’t feel like a setup.” I thought of Jimmy’s hands trembling against me, his breath catching like every nerve ending was on fire. That hadn’t been fake.
Sarah sighed and finished her beer. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think he came to hurt you. Look at him in that photo. That’s not a guy pulling the strings. That’s a guy trapped in them.”
I wanted to believe that. But I also knew what manipulation looked like, and how easily guilt could twist desire into something that burned everyone it touched.
“Maybe he was sent to dig up dirt,” I said. “Maybe Daddy Reverend wanted a sensational story—‘Inside the Satanic Temple,’ complete with hidden cameras and tearful confessions. Maybe I was supposed to be his monster.”
Sarah gave me a long look. “And yet you’re the one sitting here worrying about Tanner’s soul.”
That made me laugh, short and bitter. “I guess I’m predictable.”
“No,” she said, resting a hand on my arm. “You’re human. And you care too damn much. That’s why you lead the Temple, and people trust you.” She paused. “And probably why this guy got under your skin.”
I looked down at her hand, then back at the photo still glowing on her phone screen. “Under my skin? He’s in my fucking bloodstream.”
We sat there for a while, the jukebox humming through a Joy Division song, neon lights flickering red against the bottles. I couldn’t shake the image—Jimmy, sitting perfectly still, camera flash in his eyes, trapped in a life that wasn’t his.
If his father really was who Sarah said he was, then Jimmy had been raised in a world where love came with sermons and shame came with applause. I finished my beer and set it down hard enough to make it foam. “He’s in trouble,” I stated.
Sarah arched a brow. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I said. “But what the hell can I do about it?”