Chapter 6
Six
ANDREA
I’m not a morning person. Never have been.
Yet here I am at the ass crack of dawn performing my opening act as Pastor Sinclair's Holy Daughter for the congregational youth who gaze at me with misplaced admiration.
If only they knew they were idolizing a puppet fighting fruitlessly against invisible strings.
So color me surprised that this shitty situation pulled an Uno Reverse at the check-in table ten minutes ago.
I’d only ever watched the boy next door from my window. Up close, he towered over me and everyone else in the vicinity, his presence stoic and reserved. When his stony glare landed on me, recognition and warmth oozed from his milky brown eyes.
Then a laugh— low and breathy— from beside him stole my attention.
Delicate, angelic beauty clashing with deviant darkness. Icy and molten. Sharp angles but smooth planes. Feminine yet masculine. An utterly captivating compilation of dualities wrapped in a blonde male package.
Susan’s nagging voice yanked me back to earth. “Andrea Sinclair! Use a napkin!” She demanded, shoving welcome kits at me. “And give them badges and shirts!”
Of course, they’d both been assigned to me.
Again, that airy chuckle. Too humiliated at being bossed around by the Queen of Karens, I thrust the kits at them and retreated into the main hall for Counselor Orientation.
Dictator Susan forced us to run through the new chants and dances before breakfast since check-in took longer than expected (maybe because she's an incompetent twat) while Kevin, neurotic as ever, squawked about sticking to the schedule.
Over and over, my attention wandered to the two guys hovering on the outskirts, making it nearly impossible to guide the groggy cluster of counselors through arm and hand movements synchronized to ridiculous rhymes about Jesus, love and peace.
As soon as Orientation ended, the tide of Team Leads swept me into an annoyingly long question session, which would’ve gone on until tomorrow if my stomach hadn't growled loud enough to interrupt someone mid-sentence. By then, breakfast was almost gone.
A girl can’t survive this level of bullshit on ONE donut hole.
Chasing the remains of a stale cream cheese bagel with lukewarm watery coffee, I survey the space for the hundredth time. Most have split into their typical cliques at the round tables, while a few overly enthusiastic girls practice dances in front of the stage. Everyone is accounted for except…
There.
The new guys huddle in the hall leading to the restrooms, heads bent in a heated conversation.
Boy-Next-Door scowls, arms crossed tightly over his chest, while Blondie’s hands fly around like an angry Italian.
Whatever he’s ranting about makes Boy-Next-Door shake his head and storm off down the corridor with Blondie stomping after him.
I toss the half-full styrofoam cup in the trash, my legs moving before my brain catches up. Like it or not, they’re part of my team, and I’m not in the mood to handle seven small children on my own while these idiots argue like an old married couple.
When I reach the hall, I overhear the faucet running in the men's restroom, but my eyes snag on a strip of daylight cutting across the carpet from the emergency exit… which is propped open by the cross typically hanging above it.
Horror strikes me like a mallet. But it's followed by a sick wave of hilarity. Clearly, I’m not the only farce here. Biting my lip, I push the metal bar—
Humidity woven with cigarette smoke smacks me in the face as I squint against the blinding morning sun. Though even the burning ball of fire in the sky can’t compete with the brightness radiating off the blonde sitting on the curb.
Even with his back to me, he glows like an angel.
Lucifer was an angel once…
"You just gonna stand there and stare?"
I blink.
His voice is deeper than I expected. A little raspy too— probably from smoking.
But he doesn’t turn around. He must assume I’m Boy-Next-Door, here to continue the argument. Either way, the bizarre spell has broken. If he’s dealing out sass, he’s going to get it back.
I lean against the doorframe, propping a hand on my hip. “Maybe you’re nice to look at.”
His spine straightens as he peeks over his shoulder.
"Hitting on a guy at Bible Camp of all places?” He exhales a stream of smoke. “How sacrilegious.”
I shrug. “I’m sure you hear it often enough.”
White teeth flash as he coughs on a laugh. “Blunt too, huh?”
“I prefer honest.”
He twists at the waist, bicolored eyes locked on mine. Scrutinizing. Curious. He brings the cigarette to his lips again. “You're not my usual type.”
"And what type is that?”
His nose scrunches. "Assholes."
"Literal or figurative?"
A full laugh bursts from his chest. I grin back at him. Rising to his feet, he drops the light and crushes the butt under his sneaker, shaking his head with a smile.
"Who are you?"
“Pretty sure you can read."
His gaze dips to the red and white badge on my chest. “Andrea Sinclair,” he hums, rolling his bottom lip through his teeth. "Though, without that name tag, I'd be hard-pressed to believe you're the Pastor’s daughter.”
“You mean you're surprised I’m not a mindless drone in a nun outfit reciting bible verses?” I'm graced with his laugh again. I lift a brow. “Your turn. Who are you?”
He reaches into his pocket and peels off the backing of his name tag before slapping it on his shirt.
Then points at it like a dick. “Cade. And to answer your question: Literal and figurative. Either gender. I don’t discriminate.
” A shrug and a challenging stare. “But I’m sure you believe all queers are on a one-way train to hell. ”
If he thinks openly expressing his sexuality will shock me, he’s severely mistaken.
"What I believe is…” I muse, holding open the emergency exit door. “God has some pretty fucked up priorities."
Fireworks spark in his eyes as his grin widens.
“Oh, you and I will get along just fine.”