Once Upon A Half-Time 2(17)

I was already in over my head. I didn’t want to be over my heels too.





4





Nate





Why was I doing this?

I parked outside Mandy’s house and waited for my semi-hard mistake to pump some blood back into my brain.

Christ, I was like a teenager again. Whenever I thought of Mandy, every synapse in my head fired directly for my crotch.

And for what? Mandy didn’t understand that she was the only woman who ever made me want more. My cock had a mind of its own, and somehow it convinced the rest of me that it was a good idea to pursue her.

Mandy flipped between hot and cold, but even at her craziest, she never turned frigid. She refused to admit it, but every word she had spoken to me was layered with desire. She might have thought our night together was wrong or just this once, but I knew the instant I took her, everything had changed.

That revelation should have scared the piss out of me, but it only got me harder. Convenience and persistence brought us together that first time, but I’d take her again.

It didn’t make sense to walk away from something so…amazing.

Shadows walked the path to Mandy’s house. I recognized his limp.

I hoped Dad didn’t visit the Prescotts because he saw me parked in the driveway. He stopped before the steps to their front porch and waited for me.

I swore. He didn’t flinch when I slammed my car door shut.

“Nathan.”

My father clutched his favorite bible. The dark leather wore down under his fingers, leaving lighter, tan streaks against the book. That didn’t make him a martyr, and the black clothes didn’t make him any holier.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Dad said.

“You either, Pastor.”

“The Prescotts invited me to their home to help…mediate.”

Mediate?

I glanced over my shoulder. The SUV. Right. I was so used to seeing Conrad’s vehicle in the driveway that I forgot it no longer belonged.

“A shame about their separation,” my father said. “But perhaps with my intervention, they might see their daughter’s joy with her upcoming marriage and remember their own happiness.”

“Or maybe you shouldn’t get involved?”

His hair had greyed, but he didn’t act like it. He shoved his barrel chest into everyone’s business. “I go where I’m needed. These people are in pain.”

He was so full of shit I didn’t want to stand downwind of him. The Prescotts didn’t need a minister; they should have called an exorcist. They fought viciously and loudly, and when I was growing up I usually heard them from my house down the street. No one could repair what they’d fucked up, least of all my father.

Or my mother.

She hurried across the sidewalk, dressed in a new suit and skirt. Pressed to perfection, as always. Her hair piled high on her head, and she clutched some brand name purse I didn’t recognize. Doubted Dad did either, but as long as the price tag matched the image he wanted to project, it wouldn’t matter. Our family wouldn’t squeeze through the eye of a needle, but at least we’d look respectable.

She nearly stumbled in her heels as she hurried to my father.

“Your ankle still bad?” I asked.

Mom’s eyes widened as she saw me, but she smiled and kissed my cheek.

“You shouldn’t be in heels,” I said.

“Oh, it’s healing. Just a little tight sometimes.” Mom didn’t look at Dad. “I was in too much of a hurry leaving the house.”

“I told you to be ready for eight,” Dad said.

Mom apologized, her natural state. “I couldn’t find my necklace, and I wanted to make sure I looked perfect.”

“No one is perfect,” Dad said. “Only the good Lord.”

And him. He wouldn’t say it, but Dad thought he was as good as Jesus H. Christ, and damn anyone who said otherwise, including Mom.

It wouldn’t have killed him to give her a nice compliment once in a while.

“What are you doing here, son?” Dad’s stare was about as welcoming as a punch to my cheek. “I doubt you’re offering the Prescotts counsel.”

“I’m not convinced you are either.”

“Nathan.” Mom’s warning came with a smile. “You know your father cares very deeply for his parishioners.”

He cared more about being the man others confided in during times of crisis.

Dad raised his chin. “There’s still time, son. The good Lord calls…but he doesn’t hang up.”

“You couldn’t get me within ten miles of a seminary school.”

“No matter how much you needed it.”

They wouldn’t have taken me anyway. Minsters weren’t supposed to sleep around as much as I did, and it wasn’t acceptable for them to drink as much as I liked. And I refused to end up like a carbon copy of my family. My parents worked to create the ideal marriage, meaning I was supposed to go to seminary, find a parish, marry some virgin, then start knocking her up like a brood mare to create a family of suburbanite perfection.