I stormed into St. Joe's at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass. Still dressed in my scrubs, I pushed through the massive arched chapel doors, bringing with me a gust of cold February wind. Seeing Jamie's pretentious car parked in front of the church, I lost my shit. I figured Jamie was expecting some kind of absolution by appearing at this penitential mass. He was seated in the third row, his head bowed, that gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the shining helmeted up-do of his repressed, miraculously blond mother.
I bypassed the ushers, ignoring the hello of welcome from Mrs. Banks, my seventh grade math teacher and the folded program she tried to place in my hand. Failing to genuflect or splash myself with holy water, which would have sizzled on contact, I marched straight down the center aisle. My red rubber crocs squeaked my progress through the hushed, echoing chamber of the sanctuary. Heads turned as I passed, no doubt wondering why I was storming the tasteful Moravian tile in the midst of this somber service. This was the kick off to Lent and the house was packed with the well dressed, good citizens of Smithfield.
Around me was a crowd of faces I'd known my entire life, but I blocked them out. I'm sure that even Christ's eye was on me. Our priest, Father David, droned out the glum litany and looked up for half a second, before dismissing me, as if he was the voice of reason and I, little Markie Meehan, needed to sit down and get with the program.
I couldn't see that happening.
I slid into the pew behind Jamie, glaring at the back of his head and struggled with an overwhelming violence. Never in my life had I felt this kind of rage. I wanted to hurt him, not engage in some hissed conversation or exchange of keys. Fuck that. I was beyond civility. He wasn't stepping one toe in to my apartment. Ever again.
The prick.
My hands clenched the book rack, and my fingers brushed against the Bible proudly displayed there. Staring at Jamie's once sweet curls hugging his rough jaw, I slid the good book out of its safe haven. The cracked leather was worn, but its bulk reassuring. Encouraging, even. So I hauled back, fueled by boiling rage, and gobsmacked that bastard as hard as I could in front of God and everyone. The Bible hit the back of Jamie's head with a resounding Thwack!
Jamie pitched forward, his beautiful face colliding with the pew in front of us with a sick smack. He hit it hard, the sound like a puck being wailed on by that high priced stick he valued far too much. Jamie's forehead hit the wooden rim of the pew and he dissolved onto the tile floor.
My follow through pulled me over the back of the pew in an awkward nose dive onto the maroon cushions. My head flopped perilously close to Mrs. Dupree's lap. I pushed away and clambered up spewing my outrage and fury and maybe a little filth.
"In our bed, you bastard!" rang through the church. "You dickhead!"
It grew quiet in the congregation as an entire community sat frozen.
I think.
I wasn't really paying attention to anyone but Jamie and his mother. I had nearly landed on top of her when that thick cushion shifted under her skinny ass. She stood up clutching her pearls. Her sour lemon lips pursed, staring me down with--and perhaps I imagined this--the glowing eyes of demonic satisfaction. Scrambling to pull myself back onto my feet, I ignored her.
Any conversation with Jamie was not going to happen here. Filled with uncontrolled fury and liberated of my usual calm, I felt oddly free.
Or just out of my fucking mind, so I cuffed him again with the Bible.
Then the folks around me came to their senses and latched their rough hands onto my arms in some mockery of Christian brotherhood. "Mark. Calm down."
"You need to leave."
"That's enough."
No it wasn't, but they dragged me from the pew, ripped the Bible from my grip, and drove me back up the center aisle like a heretic. I looked into all those faces I knew and I should have been shamed. But I had nothing to be ashamed of.
Not yet, anyway.
Panting and blowing and disheveled, I glanced back over my shoulder as Jamie, limp in his rumpled suit and tie, was assisted back into his seat with caring hands. He looked stunned, confused and gray.
Well, except for the blood, of course, which by this point was streaming down that proud nose.
And then I found myself ostracized. They tossed me out those carved arched doors right into the gasping chill of the February midday. My sweat froze to my skin. Alone, exposed, shunned on the front lawn, I was still pissed off. I clenched my fists and walked back to the car, the bitter cold and wind whipping my field coat open as grit from the sand and road salt blasted my face. My eyes watered and my nose began to run. I hit the door lock on the Jeep and climbed in.
Time to go home and pick up the pieces.
)
No more Mr. Nice Guy. Mild mannered Mark Meehan's good judgment flies out the window when he finds his lover banging another man. Things go from bad to worse as Mark's crazy revenge scheme uncovers shocking secrets--sending him straight into the arms of hunky lawman and old friend, Tony Gervase, a man of limited patience and secrets of his own.
