Chapter Three
Kinsley
Marisol didn’t notice the rude as fuck biker flipping me off, which is a good thing. She might have forgiven my slip-ups in church, but I doubt she’d appreciate a leather-clad heathen making a rude gesture at a woman.
My lip twitches as he rides away. Bet he thinks he’s getting to me with that little gesture, what it did was show me I got to him. Men are so dumb sometimes.
When I turn to ask Marisol which way to go, she gives me a narrow-eyed stare.
“What?”
“Father Eastwood is tolerant of the men from that club because they do a lot of work with the church and keep the neighborhood safe, but no good ever came of falling for one of them.”
“Falling for one,” I splutter. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“Hmm. I guess it doesn’t cause any harm to look,” she grins, like she does it too.
“Marisol,” I nudge her with my elbow.
“Young, pretty woman like you, they’ll like you. All I’ll say is, be careful.”
“Careful how?”
“Not like that,” she shakes her head, the teasing tone gone. “Lord knows the things they get up to inside those walls and whatever other business they’re involved in. They won’t hurt you. But they will make it known if they find you attractive.”
“Sometimes that is just as bad,” I mutter.
“You tell them straight, they’ll back off.
I’ve seen it happen. Of course,” she takes my elbow and leads me down the sidewalk.
“Most of the women who come around here are looking for a good time. And between you and me,” she leans in, linking our arms together.
“If I were twenty years younger, there are one or two of those men I wouldn’t mind sharing a strawberry daiquiri with. ”
“Okay,” I grin at the visual of a biker with a pink cocktail. “I see how it is. Does my cousin know you have the hots for the bikers across the street?”
“Heavens no. He wouldn’t let me organize the food drives with them if he thought I was having impure thoughts.”
We laugh as we head to a small coffee shop on the next block. The motorcycle clubhouse and bar beside it are visible from the seat we take by the window. I might pop in for a drink later and catch up with Raven.
It has nothing to do with her brother.
“How long have you worked at the church?” I ask Marisol.
She’s slim and a lot shorter than me, I’d guess around mid-fifties, but she has a spring in her step and a beautiful, kind smile that makes her appear younger. She’s pretty cool, I like her.
“Eighteen years. I’ve seen four priests come and go at this parish, every single one of them more different than the last. I’m hoping I end my working years with Father Eastwood. He’s a good man, we all see how much he cares.”
While I sip my coffee, I think about that. It’s odd as hell hearing people call him Father Eastwood. It’s going to take some getting used to.
We chat about her family, a husband, two sons, and three cats. She tells me she met the love of her life later than planned, which is why her kids are still in high school.
“What about you, any boyfriend back in LA?”
“Only exes,” I laugh. “The kind that are bad for me.”
“Sometimes they’re the best kind.”
“Marisol, you are a dark horse, you know that.”
“So long as you keep it between us.”
We finish our coffee then head back to the church. There is a lot of activity around the MC as we get nearer, it’s noisy and against my better judgment I look for him.
Stupid. He left a half hour ago. I watched him climbing on that bike and imagined him mounting something else. Namely me.
“Do you need anything else, honey? I’ve got to get the church opened up. Confession starts soon if you have anything you want to confess,” she grins.
“I don’t think so.”
She nods at the clubhouse. Something tells me Marisol misses nothing.
“Confessing my sins to my cousin would traumatize us both,” I laugh.
“Gosh, yes, I keep forgetting. He rarely has visits from family.”
She doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure Marisol doesn’t have a bad bone in her body, but it stings a little. I have stayed away far too long. Besides his father, we’re each other’s only close living relative.
One of my plans is to visit my uncle at some point. Colt has kept me updated on his decline. We were both heartbroken when he was first diagnosed with dementia. I lived in the delusion he wouldn’t lose his memory that fast.
Colt never pressured me, even though he kept me updated. It’s one more layer on the guilt cake. I never came. And now he doesn’t remember his son, but he has accepted him as a friend, once he gets over the initial confusion.
My discomfort can’t stop me from seeing him. I deserve it for not coming back in time to see the man who saved me from his own sister and raised me like I was his daughter.
“Patrick can help you with anything you need when he gets back.”
Marisol doesn’t notice the extra-fast blinking to stop tears forming. As ever, I hide my emotions and go into work mode.
“First thing I need to do is prep work. The wall needs to be cleaned and smoothed over, I can do that if you point me in the direction of your cleaning supplies.”
“He can help.”
“Marisol, I’ve been doing this for years, it’s part of my process, so I’m more than happy to do it. Every artist needs their canvas the way they want it.”
“Okay,” she says, still looking unsure.
Based on what she’s told me about how she takes care of her family, Marisol is of the generation that thinks I need a man to help me with this kind of work, but I’ve been looking after myself for years. It doesn’t take a lot to convince her, which makes me like her more.
“Thanks for coming with me for a coffee and the lowdown.”
“Any time. Dinner will be at five thirty if you’re interested in homemade meatloaf.”
“I’m very interested in homemade meatloaf, Marisol.”
“Good. Father Eastwood will be pleased to share his meal.”
My frown deepens. “You don’t eat with him?”
“I have a husband and two teenage boys, if I’m not home to look after them, all hell breaks loose,” she chuckles.
The utility room where Marisol takes me is a goldmine. It has everything I need. There is a small cart I stack everything on and drag outside, leaving it behind the fence as I hurry back to the annex to change. This is going to be messy work.
I pop in my earbuds and crank up the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of the motorcycles as they come and go.
A little later, and out of curiosity, I step into the church and close the door, turning off my music so I can figure out why the bikes don’t seem to bother Colt.
As soon as I shut the door, the engines are mostly drowned out. To be fair, the doors are about six inches thick, the building is solid sandstone.
For a moment, I watch the handful of people in the pews, some praying, a couple chatting, but most wait near the confessional.
My eye is drawn to a man in the leather vest of the motorcycle club, his head is bowed, and he is sitting as far away from everyone else as he can. His hair is cut close to his head, so it’s not Rebel. As if I care.
This guy is huge, built like a fighter. The guy you’d run from. Yet he is here, in church, and it looks as if he is praying, sitting so still he is almost like a statue.
The itch to draw him hits me.
I stare a little longer, memorizing the tattoos up the back of his neck, the logo of a skull and two motorcycles on his leather vest, visible above the backrest because he is so large.
The altar in the background sets up the perfect composition of a man contemplating his life choices, the things he does for a motorcycle club versus his faith.
Would I have time to run to the annex for a pad and pencil? As if feeling he is being watched, he steps out of the pew, moving like a man his size and stature shouldn’t be able to. He bends one knee, crossing himself.
When he turns, his face is full of torment. Coming here and praying hasn’t helped him. He sees me staring as he walks down the aisle.
He doesn’t linger, his focus on leaving, a determined set to his shoulders taking over. He is preparing to become someone else when he leaves the sanctuary of the church.
He is big and scary as hell on the face of it, but the man is sad, it’s written in every line on his face and the burnished amber color of his eyes. I bite my lip against the urge to ask if I can draw him, instead, I store away his features.
The door to the confessional opens, and a man steps out, drawing my attention away as he trips and almost falls. He is the opposite of the biker, his face clear, as if whatever he said in there has made him feel lighter, unburdened.
Damn, the secrets Colt must hear. He’s doing a good job. If he can make people feel good, or offer a tortured person a place to just sit and be still for a moment, then maybe all the years I’ve thought Colt is wasting his life are wrong.
Those thoughts stick with me as I sweep the dust off the wall with a long-handled broomstick, then mix a solution with the cleaning supplies and cold water, using the broom again to scrub the wall.
As expected, a lot of the cement falls away. It’s an old wall. I’m not worried about the holes I’m creating. Patrick might have what I need to sand and fill them, but if not, I can find a hardware store.
Raven comes over as the light is fading. I’ve not seen her since I had a few drinks in her bar and she rescued me from her insane brother.
“This looks like the non-fun part,” she stares at the wall.
“It’s all part of the process, if I want to get a perfect painting, I need a perfect canvas.”
“Very poetic.”
"I'm an artist. Comes with the territory.”
Raven smiles and takes a seat on an upturned bucket. “I’ve been learning to play guitar, that’s kind of artistic, right?”
“Of course,” I tell her, crouching down and tugging out some rogue weeds and dropping them into a black trash bag. “How’s it going?”
“Terribly,” she laughs. “The guy teaching me says I should stick to my day job.”
“That’s harsh.”
She wiggles her fingers, showing me her long, black painted nails. “He said I needed to trim these, not happening.” She pulls a face. “Anyway, what brings you here, besides painting this for your cousin?”
“I’m from Baltimore. I moved to LA to go to school and stuck around. This is the first time I’ve been back home.”
“I went to LA a couple of years ago and spent a few months with a friend.” Her voice deepens on the word friend. She means a guy. “It’s beautiful and ugly all at the same time.”
“That’s the perfect way to describe LA. I have a love-hate relationship with the place.”
“Will you go back once this is done?” She waves a hand at the wall.
“That’s the plan.” I let out a deep sigh and stand up, stretching out my back. I never realize how much I’m doing until I stop, and the aches make themselves known.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
My eyes are drawn to the church, my head tilting back so I can see all the way to the top of the spires. “You don’t realize how much you have missed something until it’s staring you in the face.”
Raven is quiet, and when I turn, she is watching me. “What was he like before you left?”
“Colt? He was studying philosophy at Goucher College. My aunt wanted me to go to MICA, the Maryland Institute College of Art,” I explain. “It’s close to home too and a great school, but my friends were going to UCLA and in my head that was better than going to MICA.”
“You wanted to spread your wings,” Raven says.
“Something like that. Anyway, I went to UCLA, made new friends, landed a great job, it just was natural to stay. Colt visited a few times, but I never came back until now,” I frown again.
“He began studying to be a priest, did whatever it is they have to do to get their collar, then he was promoted to this place.”
“What a lucky day for us,” she bites her lip and smiles.
“Oh no,” I roll my eyes in amusement. “I lived with that through high school.”
“He is dreamy,” she laughs. “A lot more women started attending church when Father Eastwood showed up. Each one thinking they could corrupt him.”
“Ew, seriously.”
She laughs again. “Your cousin is easy on the eye, a kind and caring man, what woman doesn’t dream of that? And hey, I read The Thornbirds.”
“The what?”
“It’s an epic love story spanning decades about a woman and a priest who fall in love. It’s tragic, like all great love stories. And everyone is fucking miserable.”
“Sounds like a riot.”
Raven laughs again. She looks at the wall and gets to her feet. “I’d offer to help, but as we’ve already established, breaking a nail is not an option. I could ask some brothers.”
“No, that’s okay, I like this part of the work.”
“Because you’re weird.”
“Because I’m weird,” I grin back at her.
Raven walks back across the street, but yells over her shoulder.
“The girls are coming tonight, you should come. And don’t worry, it’s Sunday so it’s quiet.
Hardly any annoying assholes. Oh,” she stops and faces me.
“Sorry about my brother. He’s wound so tight he could power a clock with his ass.
As soon as I see him, I’m gonna give him hell for bothering you. ”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s not the first biker who thought he could scare me.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not like that. Kane was good-looking, great in bed, but the fact he was a little too free with his dick made a good thing end way too fast.”
Raven makes an ick face. “Please come tonight.”
“If I get finished up here and my back can handle being vertical.”
“No excuses.” She turns and saunters across the street before I can say anything else.