Page 3 of Hotter 'N Hell

Whoa. Okay. I hadn’t expected murder or guns or cheating—at least not on her. Good Lord, what had the other girl looked like? No. That was not the point. She was hurting. She had come to seek out a god that she wasn’t sure existed. I was here to help her see that he did and that he cared.

“Whose wedding do you not want to attend?” I asked, wondering how this fit into the reason why she was here.

A laugh—which could have been labeled as cynical, but I knew was threaded with heartbreak—fell from her lips. She dropped her gaze to her hands, fisted in her lap. “Oh, that. Yes. Well, you see, the baby momma was taken in by my dead boyfriend’s older brother. He fell in love with her—really damn fast, if you ask me. The baby was born two months ago. It’s a boy. I haven’t seen him, and I do not want to. Anyway, they are getting married today, and seeing as our families are all connected in a way that is stronger than actual family, everyone in my life will be there. They are all happy for them. Everyone is just fucking full of joy.”

Except her. She was lonely. She felt abandoned. Left out. Forgotten.

Nothing I would have thought this woman would ever experience. Seemed I had gotten one look at her and forgotten that fate did not care who you were or how stunning you might be. It happened regardless.

“I not only hate a dead man, but I also might actually hate ababy, and if that is the case, then I don’t need to be in here because I am for sure going to burst hell wide open,” she said, starting to stand up.

My hand shot out, and I grabbed her arm. “Wait,” I said.

She was gorgeous and smelled like vanilla with a hint of cinnamon, but I could ignore all that. There had been a cry for help in her words that couldn’t be ignored.

“Sit back down. You aren’t going to hell, and you don’t hate a baby. You hate what that child represents. And you’re human. You were betrayed. You lost someone you loved, and while mourning that, you had the betrayal slapped in your face.” I released my hold on her arm, but if she tried to leave again, I might actually go after her.

She stared at me for a moment, then slowly sat back down on the pew. “I’m tired of hating. Of all of it. The hollowness in my chest. The inability to trust. The feeling that, at any time, someone else I love will turn on me. And I’m tired of needing the meds to sleep.”

I needed to hear she had someone, anyone she could talk to at home. It wasn’t like I could keep her here, but the idea of her being alone bothered me.

“Who do you live with?” I asked.

“My parents,” she replied with bitterness in her voice.

“And they know you are dealing with all this?”

She raised her eyebrows and looked off to the side. Not at me. “They prefer to say it’s PTSD from witnessing the shooting, and if I take my meds, I’ll be fine. The shooting was something that will forever haunt me, but it’s not that. Not anymore. It’s all the…other stuff.”

Theother stuffbeing the betrayal. Seeing those around her move on and find joy again. Poor girl.

“Tomorrow night—every Saturday night actually—we have a support group that meets in the rec hall. The white building tothe left of the church. It’s for coping with loss, be it from death or betrayal. It’s not a large group. Less than a dozen most nights. But I think it would be good for you. We serve dinner, and then everyone discusses their week. With no judgment.”

And I’d get to look at you some more.

Not the train of thought you need to be having, Jude. Get it together. You want to help her.

She scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure that’s for me.”

I would not pressure her. This had to be her decision.

“Will you be there?” she asked me.

Why did she want to know that? Why did I like that she’d asked? Because I needed to take my ass into that booth and do some confessing. A few Hail Marys, some Our Fathers.

“Yes. I lead the group.”

Her eyes met mine, and I focused on the pain in them. That would keep me grounded. Grief, sorrow, bitterness—it all swirled in the blue that reminded me of a clear sky at dusk.

“What time?” she asked.

The immediate relief that jolted through me was because she needed help to deal with all this inside her. That was it.

“Six thirty,” I replied. “And Lora Gail will be making her famous chicken potpie and carrot cake for the meal. The weeks she supplies the dinner are always a favorite. We might actually hit the dozen mark in attendance.”

She released a soft chuckle, and I wished I could hear more of it. A laugh like hers should be enjoyed by everyone. If I could lead her to a path where she could let this all go and find joy again, then this would all be worth it. This being…my attraction to her. Not something I wanted in my life. I’d grown accustomed to not being distracted by beauty.

“What’s your name, or do I just call you Father?” she asked, and for a moment, there was a teasing glint in those dark blue depths.