Silas

“Who does she think she is?”

“Just calm down,” Owen scowls. He waves his hand in the air as though I'm being ridiculous. “She said she'd be here. She will be here.”

I find myself pacing back and forth. What am I doing? Waiting? Out of sorts and driven to anger? By someone who was considered a child just a week ago?

“This is ridiculous.”

Owen doesn't say anything. He probably feels irritated too, but is afraid to admit it. He set up the meeting, but maybe he did it wrong.

I stop pacing for a moment and listen. I don't hear anybody on the path outside. I don't even hear voices far away. It's not dusk anymore. It's night.

“She's not coming.”

“She said she would,” he says again, but I can hear the irritation creeping into his voice.

Did she do this to embarrass me? There is always that chance. Sometimes when you train up a woman, they get ahead of themselves very quickly. The feel the power they have over us, and it goes right to their heads. Then they feel like they need to show us who's boss, step out of line and dare us to do something about it.

Angel doesn't realize what I’ve done for her. She doesn’t realize the thin ice she's treading on. In the Family, and with me especially.

“We didn't have to do this, you know. We didn't have to treat her special,” I mutter.

“That was your decision,” Owen reminds me sourly.

“Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs and looks away, shaking his head. “I had a suggestion for you, before the ceremony,” he answers reasonably, with an I told you so sort of tone in his voice. “You're the one who chose this direction. Because she reminds you of her mother, right? Like she reminds you so much, maybe you should think twice about getting too involved. Her mother is no innocent. You should have listened more closely to my suggestion.”

“To sell her? To Dustin? That's your big suggestion?”

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You got a better one, I suppose?”

I grind my molars. The truth is, I don't have a better suggestion. It doesn’t look like anyone's going to be dying and sending us a mysterious check in the mail this week. And he did try to make this suggestion. I just didn’t really want to listen for some reason.

“Why don’t you just give him a call?” he suggests reasonably. “You can make a decision with all the facts. Find out if he is even still interested. Maybe he doesn't even want her anymore.”

“What's that supposed to mean? He doesn't want her anymore?”

Owen scoffs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He knits his fingers together, looking at me like he's explaining something to a child. This only angers me further.

“I said maybe,” he reminds me patronizingly. “You should look into it. You should make a decision, since apparently everything is your decision.”

I stalk away. I need to not look at him for a few moments.

What is happening to me? Fighting with my own brother? Over some girl?

Over some woman?

She's clouding my judgment. She's making me look like a fool. I won’t be treated like this, not by anybody.

Without another word, I yank open the door to the barn and walk out into the night air. It's cooler out here, the dewy moisture hanging in the air. I glance off to my left and see low, brownish clouds on the horizon. Then just now, the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance.

That must mean rain. That has to be rain. We need it so badly.

I wonder if it’s a sign.

Back in my office, I pick up the old-fashioned telephone off the wall and pull on the twisted cord so that I can sit behind my desk.

I dial 411.

It takes the operator a little while to pick up. Do people even use these kinds of telephones anymore? I don't think they do. I should probably be grateful it still works.

“City and name?” the operator asks me in a nasal voice.

“Longboard County,” I answer, reaching for the words. “Dustin's Roadhouse.”

She gives me the number and I memorize it temporarily, then jam my thumb on the cradle to hang up and start again.

I hear a ringing tone, then the click as someone picks up the line.

“Dustin's,” a lady's voice sneers. I hear the puff of air as she probably blows out a long plume of cigarette smoke. In the background I hear some kind of crappy southern rock playing, and voices. Lots of voices.

“Is Dustin around?”

“Who's askin’?”

“Silas Redken,” I growl, irritated by her sass. I had forgotten how women in the outside world talk to men. Pure impudence.

“Oh,” she drawls, “the great Preacher Silas! Yeah, sure, your holiness. I'll just run along and fetch him for you!”

I hear the phone bang on the countertop, her last insult to me. She dropped the receiver in the sort of act of defiance that would get her publicly punished here.

The minutes drag on. I'm not entirely sure she told him. It wouldn't be that strange if she would just leave the receiver on the counter and let me listen to the disgusting goings-on at the bar. I can't believe that Owen spends any time there. Definitely not one of his finer qualities.

“Yeah, what,” a male voice finally says, just as I'm about to abandon the call.

“It’s Silas,” I say again.

“Yeah, well, no shit,” he snaps back. “To what do I owe the honor?”

I take a deep breath. He's probably still mad about that time twenty years ago that I wiped his own bar with his the left side of his face. Back when I did things like that.

“Owen says you guys had a conversation. I wanted to follow up.”

“Oh,” he says, the smirk clear in his voice. “You mean the piece of ass? Yeah, he told me all about her. You thinking to offload her?”

“More or less.”

“Well is it more? Or is it less?” he answers back. Clearly he's enjoying this conversation little bit more than I want him to. “I just want to be completely clear with you, preacher. So we’re totally on the record here. Are you calling to offer me a piece of juicy, untouched ass?”

I have to take several deep breaths to keep from hanging up on him.

“I'm calling to see if we could start a negotiation, yes,” I finally manage to say.

“Man, I love it when you holy types stoop to our level, you know that?” he sneers, and I hear him sucking his teeth. “Isn't hypocrisy supposed to be a sin or something?”

“Everyone has a purpose,” I answer, more for myself than for him. I remind myself that this may indeed be her purpose. She may indeed be what we need to continue. What's one life, if her service improves the lives of dozens of others? Isn’t that noble?

“Yeah, that's a funny word for it. Purpose. So what's this piece of church purpose going to cost me?”

“Six thousand,” I venture.

He sucks his teeth again. The line nearly goes dead, and I suppose he's pressing the phone against his shirt so he can talk to someone else.

“No, eight thousand,” I correct myself.

“Eight thousand?” he practically coughs. “It must be the tightest fucking pussy that ever was! You’ll never see eight thousand. I don’t care if she keeps house like Mrs. Brady and fucks like Jenna Jameson in a nun outfit. None of these bitches —”

“She's worth it,” I cut him off.

The phone goes dead again. My heart is throbbing like it's going to burst.

“Bring her here. I need to see this miraculous virgin pussy for myself,” he snarls, and then the line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for just a second, then hang it back in the cradle.

I guess I just made a deal.