Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“So, there’s your history lesson. Yes, my cars are durable. You have no idea how much begging I had to do to get a car. My father wanted me chauffeured around by a bodyguard, like my mother and sister. I refused. As for working somewhere that the family doesn’t own and where they aren’t on the property, it’s unheard of for females in the family. It’s not safe. We are their weaknesses. We make them vulnerable. So, therefore, they keep us guarded.”
I was done. I had told him all of it. He knew more than I had ever told anyone who wasn’t inside the family.
He backed up and sat on the edge of a stool. Taking his hands out of his pockets, he rubbed his palms on the tops of his jeans. “And I thought that was a rumor.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Someone had already told you about my family?”
He shook his head. “No. The Southern Mafia thing. I’ve heard about it before. But I figured it was just a band of criminals with their hunting guns, chewing tobacco, and boots.”
I laughed. “Eh, we prefer something less bulky, silencer-equipped. A few might smoke a cancer stick, or several like an expensive cigar, but no one chews, that I know of. Yes to the boots, but they’re more of a refined crowd. Comes with the money and power. I attend galas and functions with senators, governors, CEOs of Fortune 500 companies.”
He let out an almost laugh and rubbed his hand over his face. “Whew, okay. Um, that wasn’t the answer I thought I was gonna get. My imagination had gotten a little wild, with your family being in the Witness Protection Program or your dad being wealthy because he trafficked drugs. But not this.”
“Drugs aren’t our thing here in Mississippi…” I trailed off because, well, they did do some trafficking in some branches. “Mostly illegal gambling. The family is big in horse racing. It’s how it got started in Ocala. The Carvers have the distillery, and I am not confirming or denying that it might not all be legal there. Rices—we are mostly real estate.”
Jude’s gaze went to the floor at my feet, and the slight slump in his shoulders sent that heavy boulder right back to my stomach. He shook his head. “This is a lot.”
I said nothing.
“I was just coming to terms with the fact that I was going to continue to break my vows and hope God forgave me, like he did King David, because I couldn’t stop wanting you. But this? It’s not just affecting me. I’ve got a parish to think about. People who come here and expect to be safe. You”—he looked up and waved a hand in my direction—“need bombproof windows and indestructible cars to live a normal life. I…I can’t have you here, Saylor.” His voice cracked in the last sentence.
The pain in his expression was the only thing keeping me from bursting into tears. This was hurting him.
“I can’t let my desire for you put this church, the people who trust me, and Sister Mena, who is here with you three days a week, in danger. I could live with my sin. This I can’t live with. I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes and sleep at night.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck!”
I stood there, watching as his chest rose and fell hard. His fingers gripped his hair, and he pulled at it. His chiseled jaw, which I loved so much, was rigid from the clenching of his teeth. Finally, he dropped his hand, and the mask that I had seen him wear before shuttered over his face. If it weren’t for his eyes, I wouldn’t be able to tell that he was struggling.
“Thank you, Saylor. For all the work you put into this place. The donations. The…the windows. It will mean a lot to many people. But seeing as you are who you are”—he paused and licked his lips—“you can’t continue your volunteer work here. I’m sorry.” He was stalking toward the door before he finished his sentence.
And all I could do was stand there and watch him go.
Twenty
Jude
Ten minutes after I had reached my office, I slammed the door, stalked to the window, grabbed the cup with my morning coffee off my desk, and slung it against the wall, choking back the roar in my chest. Then, I stood there, watching, waiting to see her walk out. Leave. Take her things for the last time.
When a red-and-black Dodge Ram truck pulled up to the door, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
Gathe climbed out just as the door to the clothes closet swung open and Saylor walked out. She shook her head at something he’d said. It looked like she was going to walk around him, but he took the bag from her hands and leaned down to look at her face. His head snapped around, and even from this distance, I could see the fierceness directed this way. At me.