Chapter 11 #2
Finally, she pulled away, subtly pressing herself against the wall, putting space between them without making it obvious.
“I arrived a few hours ago,” he said, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “I need to talk to you.”
A few hours?
He was waiting for her.
“Oh, you could have called.”
She schooled her features into something neutral. “Are you here as my dad or as my bishop?”
“Both.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly ten. Where were you?”
The words weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft, either.
Oakland forced her posture to stay relaxed. “Work ran late,” she said evenly. “And I stopped to see a friend.”
A half-truth.
Her father’s expression darkened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he sighed, running a hand through his thinning silver hair.
“I don’t like the idea of you running around the city at night,” he said. “It’s dangerous. Especially for a young girl.”
Young girl. Like she was still sixteen. Like she wasn’t twenty-eight, living alone, paying her own damn bills.
She swallowed the sharp reply building in her throat, forcing a single nod as she reached into her backpack for a water bottle. “I’ll try to get home earlier,” she said, voice tighter than she meant it to be.
Her father hummed, his mouth tightening. “Hopefully, it won’t be an issue for much longer. Governor Tate is pushing for new safety measures: curfews, more police presence, better oversight.” He gave her a pointed look. “All things that should’ve been in place years ago, if you ask me.”
Oakland forced her fingers to stay loose around her water bottle. Curfews. Oversight. She knew exactly what that meant.
“It’ll be good for the city,” he continued as if the matter was settled. “People need order. Structure. And if that means keeping certain influences in check, well…” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s for the best.”
Her stomach twisted, but she kept her expression neutral, nodding along like she didn’t feel every word squeezing the air from her lungs.
Her father’s connection to Governor Tate was more than admiration; it was strategy.
As bishop, he met regularly with Tate’s people, aligning the church with the governor’s agenda in exchange for a more decisive role in shaping the community.
Morality. Order. Traditional values. A partnership built on control.
Tate saw the Church as a tool. Her father saw him as an opportunity. Through private meetings and carefully worded sermons, the Church became a quiet but powerful force behind his policies, framing it as divine will rather than politics.
For Oakland, it was suffocating. The lines between faith and governance blurred more every day, and her father was no longer just a spiritual leader; he was part of something bigger, something relentless.
And she was trapped inside it, surrounded by people who believed this was the only way forward.
But what could she do about any of it? The tide had already turned, and she was just one person standing on the shore, watching the water rise.
“Sure, Dad,” she said, voice even. “Maybe.”
She moved past him into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge just to do something with her hands. The fluorescent light buzzed as she grabbed a water bottle, twisting the cap until it creaked.
“You had something to talk to me about?”
Her father settled at the kitchen table, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his slacks. “Sit, kitten.”
Kitten.
The word used to feel warm. Now, it felt like a tether. A leash. A reminder.
She perched on the edge of the chair, gripping the water bottle tight.
“The church is extending a calling to you,” he said, his voice steady, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
A knot formed in her gut.
“One of the seminary instructors had to step down,” he continued, crossing his legs. “They need someone to take over for the rest of the year.”
Oakland nodded slowly, fingers pressing against the cool plastic. Seminary. That meant waking up at 5:30 every morning to teach high school students about scripture, then rushing to the clinic by 8, running on fumes and obligation.
“That’s great,” she said, voice even.
Her father’s eyes flicked over her. He wasn’t stupid.
“They need someone by Monday,” he said. A test. A challenge.
A small, forced smile tugged at her lips. “Then I guess I start Monday.”
There. That should satisfy him.
Her father stood, retrieving his coat. “Some of the greatest blessings of my life have come from my callings,” he said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Heavy. Final. “I know you’ll find the same fulfillment if you try.”
Her throat tightened.
She didn’t say, I think you’re wrong, Dad.
She didn’t say, I have nothing left to give.
Instead, she said, “I know.”
Her father studied her for a long moment. Too long.
Then, almost casually, he asked, “Are you lonely, Oakland?”
She blinked. “What?”
He gestured vaguely around the apartment. “You live here alone. I think you’d benefit from more… companionship.”
“Okay, no. Kiley is not moving in here. I am not rooming with my sister,” she said, her eyes wide as if the very idea offended her.
His posture eased, but not in a way that made her feel safe. It was the shift of someone who already decided something for her.
“You and Brother York have always been so close,” he said like it was obvious. “His parents ask about you every week. You’re both well beyond that age where…”
Oakland let out a short, sharp laugh. “Dad,” she cut in, shaking her head. “I am not Brother York’s type.”
“You could help each other out,” he pressed. She felt the unspoken suggestion behind his words.
Her hands curled into fists under the table. “No.” The response was firm. Final. This was one topic she refused to budge on.
Her father sighed as if he wasn’t expecting exactly this response. “Just think about it.”
And with that, he zipped up his coat, turning toward the door. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday.”
And then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.
* * *
The tension in her body collapsed all at once. She slumped against the table, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Apparently, she was going to teach seminary now. She would play the perfect role day after day, morning after morning, until she either learned to stop questioning or finally broke.
Her stomach ached with hunger, but the thought of eating made her feel sick.
She dragged herself to the bedroom, stripping off her scrubs one piece at a time. In the mirror, she paused. The white undergarments clung to her skin like a second layer of restraint. They were meant to be comforting, a reminder, a shield. But tonight, they just felt tight.
Tonight, they felt suffocating.
She pulled them off, letting them pool at her feet, cool air ghosting over her skin. Her nipples tightened at the chill, a sharp contrast to the heat curling low in her stomach.
She ran a slow hand up her stomach, grazing the underside of her breast.
Would Christine like her body?
The thought hit like a lightning strike: sudden, electric, dangerous.
Her phone buzzed. It was probably just seminary class details.
She ignored it.
Instead, she dropped onto the bed, lying back against the pillows, her thighs pressing together instinctively.
She shouldn’t do this.
Her fingers trailed lower, teasing, barely there, her breath catching as her body responded immediately.
She wasn’t thinking about sin, scripture, or what her father would say if he knew.
She was thinking about Christine.
The curvy brunette with shaggy hair, light freckles across her nose, and light brown eyes full of questions. A voice that could talk you into heaven or hell, your choice, and she’d be smiling either way.
She pictured Christine’s hands, soft and steady, gripping her hips, pulling her in, spreading her open. Christine’s mouth, hot and hungry, trailing down her body, leaving slow, open-mouthed kisses across her stomach, between her thighs… tasting her, making her beg for more.
Her fingers pressed harder, circling, teasing herself the way she imagined Christine would: slow at first, just to watch her squirm, to hear her fall apart.
She whimpered, a desperate, needy sound she barely recognized as her own.
What would it feel like?
Would Christine be sweet, slow, gentle, and careful with every touch?
Or would she hold her down, breath hot against her ear, whispering filthy things?
Telling her how wet she was.
How desperate.
How much she loved being touched like this.
How badly she wanted it.
Oakland’s hips rolled against her own touch, pleasure winding tighter, higher, chasing the heat, chasing Christine’s voice, Christine’s hands, Christine’s mouth on her, in her, taking her apart like she belonged to her.
She bit down on her lip, stifling the moan that wanted to tear from her throat as her body tensed, shuddering, breaking apart.
Waves of pleasure rolled through her, leaving her gasping, trembling, gripping the sheets like they could ground her.
And then, the guilt hit like a fist to the ribs.
Her breath came in uneven bursts, the aftershocks of pleasure quickly fading into something darker, heavier, something that sat thick in her throat.
Her hand was still between her legs.
She ripped it away, curling onto her side, clenching her jaw.
She was supposed to be better than this.
And yet, she knew, she wasn’t.
?