Page 1 of Hotter 'N Hell

Prologue

Saylor

Was it a sin to hate the dead? Not that I was worried about sins, but I was curious. To think, two months ago, I had not only witnessed someone dying, but it was the boy I loved. The one I had loved for as long as I could remember. It was a horrific nightmare, except I didn’t wake up from it. It was all real. One minute, it had been a normal Friday night, his arm around me, and the next, he had been bleeding from his mouth, struggling to breathe as he lay on the pavement. And all I could do was scream.

The details of every second replayed in my head when I closed my eyes at night. Sleep only came for me now because of the meds my parents had insisted I be put on. Not just for sleep, but also the panic attacks. They were new as well. I hadn’t understood them at first and thought perhaps I was about to die too. The world had slowly faded to black, I passed out, and mybody had started breathing again.

Dramatic.

That was what they were all saying about me. I didn’t have to hear it. I could see it in their eyes. The way they saw my reaction as selfish. Seeking attention. Making it all about me. Bane Cash, my dead boyfriend’s older brother, had actually said that to my face. He was a bastard like that. Apparently after witnessing the death of the boy you’d loved and then finding out that he had left a baby momma behind, you should be okay with it. Accept it and carry on.

My life had been a lie, and I’d not even known it. But falling apart over that was selfish. I was a bitch because Crosby Cash was dead and he’d been fucking some other girl behind my back without a condom. Now, she was having his baby when I had always thought I’d have Crosby’s babies. That I’d marry him.

Crosby wasn’t here, and yet I hated him so much. I wished he were alive so I could scream at him, hit him over and over again. Demand he tell me why he had done it, tell me when he’d stopped loving me. Because I swore to God, if my mother, my father, or my best friend—Gathe Bowen—told me one more time that Crosby had loved me, I was going to jump out of a fucking window. He had not loved me. Lying to me did not take away the pain of his betrayal.

I was angry. It boiled inside me, ready to explode at all times. The rage that I couldn’t find an outlet for was taking over the person I had once been. I didn’t recognize myself when I looked in the mirror. That girl had died with Crosby. He’d taken any hope of me eventually healing and finding happiness.

My mother wanted to claim it was PTSD, like the doctor had said, but I knew that wasn’t it. She could hold on to her excuse for my behavior if it made her feel better. I would keep my truth to myself. There was nothing left of who I had been. I was a cold, empty shell who had to go through the motions to makeeveryone around me happy—or at least ease their worries.

I wouldn’t mourn him. Not anymore. It was impossible to mourn someone you hated.

One

Jude

Eight Months Later

“…and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The relief that Mrs. Furthlow’s penance was done for the week was sweet, as she was the last one of the day. The hours of reconciliation had ended ten minutes ago, but seeing as it took Martha Furthlow a while to admit all her gossip, which she told me in detail even though I had assured her that it wasn’t necessary, I was still here. The two years since I’d been placed at Holy Rosary in Madison, Mississippi, I had learned to just take it as a given that she would show up for no other reason than to spread her gossip in a place where she felt it wasn’t a sin.

I really didn’t need to know about the affair her postman was having with the lady who owned the drive-in, but now, I did. Hopefully, she could refrain from a sin until Sunday. Thatway, I wouldn’t have to listen to more town gossip before Mass tomorrow.

Sighing, I stood up and took off my stole, thankful we didn’t have a reconciliation room where there was a face-to-face option. I preferred the screen and the booth. While I was sure most of the parishioners would be fine with my jeans and boots, there were a few who would want me to be in slacks and something other than my worn Tony Lamas for their confessional.

Stepping out into the sanctuary, I did a quick scan of the pews to make sure there was no one else here for reconciliation. The sight of long platinum-blonde hair that hung in perfect waves, curling slightly at the ends, caused me to stop walking. I didn’t recognize that hair, and I knew for certain if I’d seen it before, I wouldn’t have overlooked it. The woman’s back was to me as she stood in front of the votive stand. I could only see three candles lit with her body blocking the others. Her tanned shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh.

It was the first time in a while that I’d had to work hard at not letting my gaze fall any further down a female body. What was visible without actually looking at her lower half was, there was a lot of leg. Bare legs. It was almost mid-April, and the temperature had warmed up. Still, I wasn’t accustomed to seeing that much skin inside these walls.

Then, she turned, and I realized this was my punishment for looking at my phone to see what time the first round of the NFL drafts came on tonight while Martha had confessed of being jealous of Agnes Glenn’s new set of cookware her husband had bought her.

The Lord had been unfair when he created a female like this one. Eyes so blue that they stood out all the way across the room. Shiny pink gloss over a mouth that was going to have me turning around and going back into the confessional. And as hard as Itried, it was impossible not to see the size of her boobs in that shirt that didn’t cover up much.

Clearing my throat—because I was sure I would sound strangled if I spoke without doing it since my mouth had gone dry at the sight of her—I managed to smile.

“Hello,” I said, luckily my legs remembered how to move. “Can I help you with something?”

I might not be slowly scanning her body, but she had no issue giving me a complete once-over. The corners of her mouth lifted, and a dimple appeared. As if this girl needed anything else to add to her appearance. When her eyes finally made it to my face again, I could see amusement dancing in them.

“You’re the priest?” she asked as if she was going to laugh.

It wasn’t the first time I’d had a woman react this way. When I had been in seminary, there were always those who would take it as a challenge to get me to sin. None of them knew my past—because if they had, then they wouldn’t have wasted their time. The females from back home in Fort Worth had been there for it and watched it all play out. They knew how unavailable I was, even before my vow of celibacy. Relationships and romance in my life had been buried eleven years ago, along with the only girl I would ever love.

“I am,” I replied.

She lifted a hand and tucked some of her Beach Barbie hair behind her ear. “Figures. This was a stupid idea,” she said, then glanced back at the candles. “I lit one anyway. Not sure if I did it right or whatever.”

I stood there as she started to walk back toward the exit, and considering my reaction to her, it was best that she left.