I was raised in Riverbank Baptist. So much time was spent with our church family that I could no longer figure out who was actually a blood relative and who wasn’t. All in all, it didn’t really matter. Family was family as far as I was concerned.

I met Sister Francis, the Sunday school teacher and possibly my aunt, in the kid’s room as soon as we arrived. As her assistant, I was in charge of having worksheets printed out and the snacks ready to go. It didn’t take much time, but it was my job. I enjoyed being around all the lively kids. They had spunk and said some pretty bizarre things that made me laugh.

“Thank the Lord you’re here. I didn’t think I’d get everything done,” Sister Francis said as she flittered around the room and prepared for our special Wednesday class.

Her black flats pounded into the old hardwood flooring as she moved around the room to prepare. The edges of her shoes stretched to accommodate her thick ankles. A tiny run in her nude stockings rippled up the back of her knee, allowing her fleshy pale skin to poke out.

As a bigger lady, she was out of breath from all the activity. Her face was flushed, but her graying miniature beehive was still holding strong. Sister Francis had always worn her hair in her signature beehive. I could remember being seven and trying to peek over her nest of hair to get a good look at my daddy as he preached his heart out in front of the congregation.

I spent thirty minutes preparing the room for the kids and then I left and followed the sounds of my father’s booming voice as it bounced off the curved ceilings of the chapel. I found myself at the back of the church, staring up at the choir and my daddy, who was blue in the face and shaking his Bible at the crowd. He was a passionate man, but only when it came to God.

Wednesday nights weren’t usually as packed as Sundays, but I still didn’t want everyone turning and looking back at me. Without wanting to cause a scene, I quickly slid onto the pew in the very back.

Usually, no one sat that far back. On any other day, I’d be sitting on the first pew with my mother, but I’d taken longer in the kids’ room than usual. Mainly because I had no desire to listen to my father preach.

The last pew should’ve been empty. But instead of having an entire row to myself, I slid right into a hard wall of heat. The smell of paint and freshly cut grass filled my nostrils as my cheek met the hot flesh of a man’s upper arm.

As I quickly pushed back, my eyes met the jagged design of a black tattoo. It wrapped around the arm in question and worked its way under the white sleeve of his T-shirt. My fear of the unknown kicked in and I slid quickly to the edge of the pew.

It was then that I was met with caramel-colored hair and soft baby-blue eyes. They skimmed my chin and cheeks before colliding with my own. His lips tilted in a grin before he ran his fingers through his hair, turned his attention away from me, and crossed his arms over his chest.

He was leaning back in the pew with his long legs sprawled out in front of him. Chains hug from his right pocket and slid across the shiny wood as he gapped his legs to get comfortable. His jeans were rugged and worn, with holes allowing me to see peeks of the skin and hair around his knees.

My eyes roamed across his strong features. A thin stroke of soft sable hair lined his jaw before bleeding down onto his chin and around his mouth. He bit at his thick lips in boredom, which pulled at the tiny silver stud beneath his bottom lip. Soft evening light spilled in through the stained-glass window and gave his face a red hue. The light flickered off of a piercing in his brow.

I couldn’t look away. I’d never before seen anyone like him up close. Every time someone like him even came near, Daddy would pull me to the side and shelter me from anything unbecoming. Besides, going to an all-girl school meant I rarely saw boys unless they were at the supermarket or church.

He turned toward me again with a raised brow. I was staring and it was rude, but even then I couldn’t peel my eyes away.

“I’m not.” He grinned down at me.

A dimple deepened on his cheek and another flicker of silver showed inside his mouth when he spoke. Dear God, was he pierced everywhere? I felt my cheeks heat at the unholy thought.

“You’re not what?” I whispered.

I don’t think I could talk any louder if I tried. It was bred into me to be seen, not heard, especially in church where it mattered most.

His smile widened and I felt my blush rush down my neck. “I’m not the devil.”

Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I shook my head like I understood. “I know.”

“Oh really? How can you be sure?” He turned toward me a little more and I saw another tiny tattoo on his other arm.