The Preacher's Daughter

Marco stares up at the chapel. It’s daunting in that small town way, like you know despite it being a holy place, some terrible things have probably happened inside those walls. Marco sighs. Perhaps that’s just his own twisted trauma speaking.

He’s always been fighting this internal battle with the church. Spiritually, physically if you count the fight he had back during a service when he was 14. Let’s just say the spirit of God doesn’t really touch him.

It doesn’t look like it does, either. Tall, broad shoulders, rough dark hair that’ll make you do a double take. Messy locks that are almost curly, rough stubble he might’ve shaved if he wasn’t stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere. His fingers fiddle with a pocket knife, rough with skill. It’s nothing to him and that’s exactly why he’d know how to use it if he needed to.

"Forgive me father,” He grows lowly under his breath, still leant up against the shuttered building opposite the chapel. He squints as sunlight frees itself from the clouds, sending a ray over his left eye, the one with the scar sliced right through it. Among all the scars he’s collected it’s the most noticeable, silver and shiny against his rough skin.

With one final breath he heads forward, gathering the mental strength to go inside the building. The town is mostly empty, those who do notice Marco seem to be pretty unfriendly to out-of-towners. The church is the best bet for some help, anyone to talk to.

Pushing open the doors, Marco thinks it’s empty at first. The same daunting silence crawls through everything, across the wooden pews and stale air. For a second he’s back home, being forced to sit through sermons he was never really listening to. It takes everything in him not to turn around and walk back out.

“Hello!” A small, soft voice says suddenly.

Marco blinks. Did he make that up?

“Hi, sir,” Angeline repeats when the mystery man standing in her church doesn’t reply, “Would you be interested in joining our congregation?”

He spins, taking her in with dark, scanning eyes immediately. Angeline pauses, her usual words getting stuck in her throat. This is not the usual passerby she’s used to seeing. The dark hair, his clenched jaw, rough brown jacket cutting across his shoulders. That shiny scar.

It scares her, makes her gulp down a small breath. But shouldn’t she spread the word of the gospel anyway? This man probably needs to be saved. Perhaps he’s one of the degenerates her father always talks about.

“Uh…” She fumbles on her words, “We have a service tomorrow mornin’, we- we welcome all newcomers-”

“Appriciate the offer, sweetheart, but no,” Marco interjects sharply, “I just came here lookin’ for some help.”

“I understand,” She nods, forcing that smile she does so well back onto her face. Daddy says it could light up the whole world. “But if you spend just a few minutes with God you might-”

“I’ve spent enough minutes with him. I’m good.”

It’s final, a strong tone that snaps Angeline’s mouth shut. Marco’s used to this, shutting down things he doesn’t want to hear. He’s also used to what is presumably the preacher’s daughter. Perfect little dolled up copycats of their mothers, innocent, ready to spread the word of God like their life depends on it.

Angeline is that through and through. Long, wavy blonde hair perfectly styled into a pony, a white dress that comes down to her knee. A matching bow sits in her hair, a silver cross on a chain that swings lightly against her chest. Pink lips, soft pale skin, a smile you give to grandmas in the congregation. Marco took it all in the second he saw her, categorising every inch of her appearance before she even spoke.

“Listen, your daddy around here? My car broke down a few miles outta town, need a little help figuring out what to do next.”

Angeline pauses, still thrown off by this man. She doesn’t know whether to be scared or intrigued. He’s not holy at all, perhaps the least holy man she’s ever met. And yet her eyes keep roaming his face like they don’t want to let go.

“Uh…my daddy has contacts with the repair shop, he usually sends people that way but-”

“Nah,” Marco cuts in, “Repair shop can’t do nothin’. Cars fucked, completely dead. I just need to know the easiest way back to the city.”

Angeline’s eyes widen at the curse, but she doesn’t say anything, blinking for a second as he talks. But Marco notices, lips curling into a smile for the first time. It’s wide and calculated, flipping Angeline’s stomach inside out almost immediately.

“What? You don’t cuss?”

She shakes her head, cheeks beginning to flush pink, “I…no, I don’t. God wouldn’t want you to, either.”

“He wouldn’t?”

Angeline nods, flush creeping up her neck as her face turns hotter. Why does this feel so embarrassing? She knows what she believes in, what she stands for. This stranger has just turned up and squashed all of that.

Marco just smiles again. It’s cute, that line of pink.

“God has different rules for me, and he lets me swear all I god damn want.”

The girl in front of him opens her lips to speak, but closes them soon after, lost for words. Her gaze casts to the floor, eyes gently grazing Marco’s rough boots, the denim of his jeans.

“I just need to talk to the preacher, alright? He’ll help me, then I’ll be on my way… you won’t have to deal with my cursin’ anymore.”

“Daddy won’t be back for a few more hours. He’s running errands for a friend, outta town,” She pauses, then swallows, trying to put back on her picture perfect face, “It’s late and there’s a storm passing through, in good faith I can’t tell you to leave. He’d want me to offer you a place to stay for the night.”

Stay? Marco frowns, eyes furrowed. He doesn’t want to stay in the middle of nowhere, not when he has a job in a week. This was supposed to be time off and his stupid car decided to be a useless piece of junk.

“That won’t do, sweetheart,” He sighs, eyeing her expression. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, she’s nervous, “I need to get outta here tonight.”

“But the storm, you won’t get far-”

“I get you’re being kind, but I’ll go find someone else who can help me,” Marco says, softening his voice a fraction, “I’m sure someone else will stumble in and want to join your little… congregation.”

Angeline goes quiet again, quieter than she feels she’s ever been in her life. This man has put some sort of spell on her, every time she tries to be virtuous, act on all the things she’s been taught, he shuts it down.

“Thanks…” He pauses, waiting for her to fill in her name.

“Angeline,” She splutters out, “Angeline Drakewood.”

“Well, thanks, Angeline.”

Then he turns, exiting the chapel.