One of Many Read online

  His defense scares me, causing me to think I could end up in his debt. Payment can be given in only one way…

  “That’s good to hear,” Caroline says with a smile. “Come on in. I’ll show you the ropes. Mornings are simple around here, though you’re going to have to get up earlier to get dressed and ready. We take pride in our looks around here.”

  Something jams the automatic wheels in my head, the ones that were placed there bit by bit over the years since living in The Community. Pride and vanity were eradicated. Looks didn’t matter to God. I gave up my fancy clothing. Mom threw out her makeup. It wasn’t needed.

  But now I’m supposed to put on a front? I swallow, my mouth going dry.

  “Okay.” I force a smile and join Caroline at the counter.

  She’s a few inches shorter than me, with blond hair and vibrant blue eyes. Her frame is little, not much more than skin and bones. A blue and pink sundress hugs her body, and her small feet are nestled in low heels. Her hair comes to her shoulders, her loose curls pinned back.

  She’s beautiful, reminding me of someone I saw in a magazine years ago. Part of me wants to be like her, pretty and put together. And another part says she’s not devoted enough to the cause. Yet, she’s Chosen… she has to be.

  My head spins, and I blink, trying to let it go. I shouldn’t question anything. I’ve been told not to.

  “We make weekly arrangements,” Caroline explains. “Chores get divided up to keep things running smoothly. You don’t have any this week. We assumed you’d be worn out.”

  She laughs and gives me a wink.

  I force another smile. “So… what should I do?”

  “You can hang out with us. Talk, get to know one other. We’re all close.”

  I nod and find myself moving toward the island counter in the large kitchen.

  In the light of day, the house isn’t as scary. Like a haunted house with the lights turned on, the shadows and darkness—the unknown—get pushed away. The cabinets and counters are white, contrasting with the walnut colored wooden floor. Other than the food on the stove and the dishes Caroline is currently washing, nothing is out of place.

  Anna, wife number four, walks by with a basket of laundry.

  “Audrey,” she says in greeting. “Good morning.”

  She’s also wearing a dress and has her hair and makeup done, but not to the extent of Caroline and Rachel. Our gazes meet, and she gives me the same smile she did last night when she was showing me to my room.

  It’s a look of fear and pity. A look that says she knows exactly what’s to come. I watch her disappear down the hall to what I assume is the laundry room. I make a mental note to explore the house later, if I can.

  “We eat breakfast together,” Caroline continues. “On days when we don’t have Worship, Father Weston goes about The Community.”

  “And we stay here?” I blurt, unable to help it.

  “Yes, stay here and tend to the house, prepare the next meal.”

  “All right.” There is no Worship today. I let out a breath of relief and twist the end of my braid around my finger.

  “You can set the table,” Caroline says, and I’m glad to have something to do. “We eat breakfast and lunch in here, and dinner in the formal dining room. Six places.”

  “Shouldn’t there be seven?”

  “No,” she and Rachel say at the same time. “He doesn’t eat with us. Ever.”

  She doesn’t say his name, but she’s talking about Kiev.

  “Oh, okay.” I’m disappointed. Why? I shouldn’t want to see him, to look at his attractive face and wonder if the rest of his body is covered in tattoos like his arms.

  I take my time setting the table and then excuse myself to use the bathroom. I don’t know where it is on this level of the house and take advantage of the search to walk the halls. Father Weston is in his office, practicing tomorrow’s sermon.

  I sneak by unnoticed, feeling as though that’s a small victory. I use the bathroom and take another walk, going through a living room with fancy white sofas and a large piano, then emerging into a gallery hall that leads to a patio in the back of the house, surrounded by a garden full of both flowers and vegetables.

  I turn to go back to the kitchen when the door opens. I whirl around on my heel and am face to face with Kiev.

  “Hi,” I say without thinking.

  He tips his head down to look at me. “Hi.”

  “I’m Audrey.”

  “I’m Kiev, and you’re forbidden to talk to me.” He isn’t telling me so I’ll stop. He’s telling me to see what I say.

  “I know.” My heart flutters, and my body reacts to him. I’m attracted physically, and there is something else about him, something I can’t put my finger on, that makes me gravitate to him. Something familiar.

  “Why are you, then?”

  If I had an answer, I’d tell him. “I don’t know.”

  He smiles, and it’s a beautiful thing. “Aren’t you afraid of upsetting your husband?”

  I shake my head. “I’m afraid of him finding out I’m talking to you.”

  The amusement disappears from his face. “You’re afraid of him?” His voice is soft.

  “Yes, I mean no. I’m not. He’s my husband.”

  He raises an eyebrow and nods.

  I divert my eyes, tearing them away from his face and studying the tattoos on his arms. I almost don’t notice it, since it’s hidden beneath colorful ink, but a jagged scar runs from his elbow to his wrist. He sees me looking and twists his arm, shielding the scar from sight.

  “You’re Chosen,” he starts.

  “I don’t feel Chosen,” I confess for the first time.

  “You don’t?” The words leave Kiev’s mouth in surprise. He blinks, apparently unhappy with his lack of control.

  “No, not at all.” The honesty feels good. “It feels like a mistake.”

  Kiev chuckles. “All of this is a mistake.”

  “You mean being Chosen?”

  “I mean the whole fucking thing.”

  I bite my lip and nod. So many questions run through my mind. The biggest one is why am I so attracted to him? It’s wrong and I know it.

  “Why are you here?” I blurt without thinking, saying anything that comes to mind so he won’t turn around and leave. He might be a stranger, but his presence brings me comfort.

  “Because I want to be,” he replies slowly.

  “Oh, I just wondered, since Father Weston’s other kids aren’t here.”

  Something dark crosses Kiev’s face. “Daddy dearest wants to keep an eye on me,” he says in a low voice and I’m not sure I heard him right. Why would Father Weston need to keep an eye on him?

  “The others,” I start.

  “They’re better off—” Kiev cuts himself short. “They’re busy with schooling”.

  I nod. “Right, they are.” Father Weston’s youngest child is six. A little girl named Josie. Being a child of the Father is almost as good as being Chosen.

  Almost.

  Kiev reaches out and takes my thick braid in his fingers. I shiver and take in a sharp breath, watching his fingers run over my smooth hair.

  “No fancy curls like the others?”

  “I don’t want to be like the others.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I immediately wish I could suck them back in. Kiev stiffens, dropping my hair against my chest.

  “You don’t?” he asks and I shake my head. “Let’s keep that just between you and I.” He leans close and his warm breath on my skin makes me hot. I divert my eyes from him, unable to stand the intensity in which he looks at me, and study the tattoos on his forearms.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “So many questions,” he says with a shake of his head.

  “Is that bad?” I force myself to look back at him, and my heart skips a beat.

  His expression is unreadable. I shuffle my feet and grab the end of my braid again.

  “You should get back to the other w
ives.”

  I nod and turn away, flustered. How can someone intimidate me at the same time he comforts me?

  Chapter Six

  Kiev

  Having a perpetual boner around wife number five seems to be my lot in life.

  I stride toward the kitchen, then at the last second I veer to the right and head out onto the expansive back deck of our mini McMansion.

  No way am I going to get in the middle of the Stepford wives’ henhouse.

  Jesus.

  I suck in a cleansing lungful of air and scan the property. The rural farmland of Tea, South Dakota greets my vision.

  This piece of heaven on earth was handpicked by Weston for The Community. Instead of having gently sloping pastoral farmlands characteristic of the area, pioneers took the time to plant pine trees and the hardwood species that flourish in the Midwest in strategic locations for wind buffer and shade.

  A huge oak anchors the center of the yard, a tire swing gently undulating under the constant breeze that eases across the prairies in a more or less constant motion.

  I close my eyes, trying to forget how that same swing and tree were sometimes the only solace from the nightmare of my childhood.

  My fists bunch at the thought of this new wife.

  This wife that Weston wants to fuck and can never get pregnant.

  The foundation of The Community is to pass on the genes of the oracle that Father Weston pretends to be.

  I absently stroke the scar on my arm and drop my hand when I realize I'm doing it.

  The hell with this. I'll run this fucked-up introspection out. Work the body until I'm too tired to want Audrey. I need to get a handle on my bullshit so I can see vengeance through.

  I clench my eyes shut. Her face rises like a phoenix at the memory of our surprise encounter at the side yard. I had only meant to observe her from the shadows.

  After finishing my cigarette, I'd been rubbing it underneath my boot when she'd exited the side door.

  Her face looked frightened. Her big blue eyes were jumping around at the gardens carefully tended by the wives.

  After several heaving breaths, Audrey had apparently begun to notice the flowers.

  Couldn't have her taking any joy at the debauchery in this place.

  I had to intrude.

  The other wives made themselves up like whores for Father, but Audrey didn't need makeup. Her beauty hurt my dick.

  Wounded my mind.

  When I look at Audrey, I want to be in her. Today when she spoke, I saw her lips move but didn't hear what she said.

  I was too busy drowning in the blue of her eyes. Innocence wrapped in the body of Venus.

  Her hair is some mix of black and brown. I want to wrap my fist in it while I drive myself into her from behind.

  I blink slowly, trying my damnedest to vaporize the mental porn.

  But there she still stood, her lips slightly parted, light pink spreading across her high cheekbones as though she could see what I was thinking.

  As though she could see me.

  I told her to go be with the other wives, when what I really wanted to do was take her into the closest bedroom and hammer her against whatever surface was available.

  Love her with my body but never my mind.

  I need to exercise Audrey like the demons Weston always preaches about.

  I stalk to my room, taking the wide, antique wooden steps two at a time. I don't look left or right but move to the door and punch it open with the flat of my palm. I kick it shut behind me and scan the dim interior of my childhood bedroom.

  Mattress on the floor.

  Check.

  Coins on the bare-bones dresser. Check.

  Smokes to the right.

  There.

  My gaze strokes my pathetic belongings like a token of reality. They stray to the free weights, sad time spent fashioning my body into something that can kick Weston's ass when the time comes. Or that of anyone who needs a new perspective.

  I trail fingertips over my scar.

  Stop.

  Scrub my hand over my hair with an angry swipe.

  Gotta get out of here.

  I kick off my boot with the toe of my other one, then the remaining boot flops with a thud, landing upside down. I grab my running shoes and change into black athletic pants and a sleeveless black second-skin shirt.

  I move to the door and slam it behind me. It self-locks.

  The wives understand to never enter my room. They're terrified of me.

  Weston's told them enough to cause them to stay away.

  I've done enough that they sense my willingness to do harm. I'd never hurt a chick.

  But I do nothing to belie the rep.

  It's okay if the wives fear me. The real monster shares their beds, but they feel better thinking the monster is me. A sick justification is better than none.

  I hurl myself down the stairs and jog out the front door.

  Six miles will be enough. It smells like rain.

  And Audrey.

  *

  The rain lashes at me as I race through the darkening streets.

  A John Deere motors past, the driver giving a wave as he passes me on the shoulder.

  A line of cars follows in a slow procession.

  I blink the water out of my lashes and pour on the last bit of speed.

  I could have been a star in track if it hadn't been for being in The Community.

  At six two, I've got the height—the speed. But in a small town like Tea, being from The Community got me labeled a pariah.

  There were no sports for Father Weston's son.

  Only the silent stares of coaches that would love to have had that body for every sport but didn't want the stigma of having an athlete who was in The Community.

  I sprint the final distance, driving hard up the steep, winding gravel driveway. A ribbon of green flows up the center of the road, and I avoid the slightly mounded greenbelt in favor of the punishing loose gravel.

  I slow, jogging around the back of the all-white mansion, and halt at the base of the wooden deck that runs the length of the house, nearly fifty feet. Installed by yours truly.

  That'd been another beating for not making sure one of the corners was plumb. Whoops. A “cleansing.” Gotta sugarcoat that shit.

  I drop into push-up stance. Dip to the ground. Lift. Dip.

  After one hundred, my triceps burn.

  I become aware of the presence of someone else.

  Ignore it.

  Another hundred fly by, and my arms begin to tremble. I'm not catching snow on my ass. I'm a plank, smoothly sinking and rising. I do more.

  Finally, I stand with a hop and look around me for that enigmatic pulse of life.

  Her blue eyes watch me from behind the oak tree.

  Audrey.

  I'm exhausted. I've pushed hard, running for almost an hour, put two hundred plus push-ups like a cherry on top of a grinding workout cake.

  I shake from what I've put my body through. I should turn around and take a shower. A cold one.

  But there she stands. In the rain.

  Drenched.

  My eyes go to her tits, and I can barely make out her nipples hardening under the lightweight fabric of her plain T-shirt.

  Has he fucked her yet?

  Or will she fuck me first?

  The devil on my shoulder tells me to go for it. Get my ass over there and work her over.

  I've been with a lot of women. I know what they like. How they want to be touched.

  I can have her.

  The angel on my other shoulder is silent.

  I move.

  Audrey retreats.

  I stop, rain running off my nose and dripping on the front of me to mingle with my sweat.

  She looks down, partially hidden by the massive trunk of the gnarled tree. Her gaze avoids me.

  As though I'm not good enough to notice. I feel the cruel smile twist my lips.

  Guess what? I am fucking good enough to notice.

>   Pausing for a second, I note there's no one else stupid enough to be out in the deluge, and stride to the tree.

  She lifts her chin, and those swimmingly gorgeous blue eyes flood with panic.

  Indecision.

  My smile widens. It's okay, sweetheart. Let me do the deciding.

  She begins to walk backward, her hands moving in front of her as if to ward me away.

  The grin is still affixed to my face. “I thought I told you to hang with the wives,” I spit out.

  Her fingers tremble as she pushes a soaking piece of thick hair behind her ear.

  My gaze moves down her body.

  I blink.

  Small waist, hot ass, gorgeous, huge tits. She's a real-life wet dream.

  Audrey belongs to Father.

  That thought spurs me forward.

  “I-I don't know them,” she admits miserably. Then a spark of defiance lights her blue eyes. “And I think I have a right to be outside as much as you.”

  “You don't have rights anymore, Audrey,” I say in a flat rumble.

  Her lower lip trembles, and I feel like an ass. No surprise there—I am.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No.” I draw out the word. “You gave those up the day you said yes to my father.”

  “I never said yes,” she whispers.

  Four words, spoken in the softest voice. And each one is a sucker punch to the gut, reminding me how innocent Audrey is, how fucked up this is. I swallow—can't come up with a smartass remark. That rarely happens. Fuck you, new wife.

  “Well, you’re here now, and you do what you’re told.” Can she sense my unspoken warning?

  “I suppose,” she says and leans against the tree with a defeated little sigh, her back against the fissured bark. Her eye drift to the clouds roiling above us, the rain patters softly through the dense canopy of the tree. She makes no move to go inside. That strange, unwelcome feeling is back, screwing with me in the worst way. Audrey would rather stand in the rain—with the exiled son—than go inside where it's warm and dry. How is that for messed up? Her longing is so strong I can feel it. Only I don’t know what she’s yearning for. Me?

  I glance at the house, knowing for a fact that we can't be seen. I turn back to Audrey, watching her, almost able to see the wheels in her head spinning. The wives don’t think. They don’t question dick. They're happy to blindly follow the douchebag who impregnated my mother. Audrey having a mind of her own is as dangerous as it is hot. I move around the tree and cage her head with my palms.