Free Dream Lover by Kristina Wright (ed) Page B

there.
    He began to talk. Belle wandered along the windows and
looked through each to see who he was talking to. He was indeed alone, so she went to the door. Used to the church being off limits, and even though he was inside, she was surprised she so easily entered.
    His voice boomed. “…To all your favorite spots. All of mine too. You believe it’s been a year? ‘Read the signs,’ you said. What signs? Make up your mind!”
    Belle had to duck behind a pew when he rushed up the aisle like a madman, the silver pot in his hand. She quietly followed him into the graveyard. Though the markers were askew and rotting like teeth in an old prospector’s jaw, and despite his behavior, he remained most appropriately reverent. He paused at the largest of the markers, one of the few made of stone.
    He passed his fingers over the simple declaration. A Taylor, 1846–1872. Belle wanted to leap forward, to entreat this eccentric new preacher. Then he snorted, “‘A Taylor’? Not even ‘The Taylor’?’”
    Belle was furious at the flippant comment but pinched her lips.
    “Well, Lauren, are you ready?” He looked around the graveyard. “Nice place, right? You always liked the mountains, solitude, and what’s more, you tried for all you were worth to get me into church. Check it out, success on all accounts!” He looked at the sky as if expecting something. Belle opened her mouth, but no words came. The stranger took a flask from his hip pocket and opened it. “You and your signs. Christ.” He took a big swallow of whiskey, shook his head, and disappeared into the church. Belle tried to follow, to chide him. This time, the door did not yield.
     
    Light from the windows of the church defied the blackened landscape when Belle finally returned. Of course, she would
not normally dare peek in on the new preacher—that would be indecent—but there were odd noises inside. Unlike the rambling conversations of earlier in the day, the sounds were deep and strained, but she could see nothing. She slipped inside and crept along the side of the church.
    She restrained her shock. The tall man was stretched out over the thick blanket on the front-and-center pew. In one hand was a picture, which he suspended close to his face. He was entirely nude. His mouth was in a sort of sneer, his body writhed. His other hand stroked the length of his hard rod, slow then fast, slow then fast. He seemed to be in great pain.
    Belle averted her eyes, but the image had burned into her mind. She eased toward him and he paid no mind, so deep was he in this sinful entanglement.
    The picture was of a woman who stood under a desert sun, dressed in tan pants cut very short, long dark legs extending down into boots. Her top had no sleeves. Her face was dark too. Vibrant eyes peered out above glowing cheeks. Her smile was so wide, her teeth so bright.
    Belle could not avoid returning her gaze to his pumping hand. His rod had become bright red, like it had been too long in the sun. His jaw went wide like a rattler working down a rabbit, and he studied the woman in the image. A crackling sound came from his throat.
    Belle was indignant. She turned away and began to leave, but her feet felt like they were in a bear trap. She turned back. He writhed, his hips pushed toward the steeple, and he shouted.
    Semen spewed from him in great gobs. Some dripped from his beard, some folded into the hairs on his chest, and he continued writhing. Still, Belle did not even go so far as to dry the shocking wetness that grew between her legs. Certainly this proved her piety.

    To prove it further, she would drive this man out now.
    This was no preacher.
    The wind pushed at the windows, an unheeded warning, and an idea formed. As the man cleaned his indecent mess, Belle unlatched one window, and let the wind have its way.
    The man shouted, “Holy shit!”
    Belle restrained her laugh at his profane utterance, then decided, why restrain? She let it go for all it was worth. It had