“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Stop!” He grabbed my hips and pushed them back down to the pool table. “I don’t have on a condom.”

“Then get one.”

He closed his eye and shook his head. “They’re upstairs.”

With Angie.

“Fisher …” I tried to lift my hips again.

Again, he shook his head and held me down while pulling the head of his erection out of me. Then he used one hand to give me an orgasm while using his other hand to give himself one—the result of it landing on my stomach. That part was sort of weird for me.

“Damnation is in your future, little girl.” He pulled up his underwear and jeans before sauntering to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

“Then you’re going with me.”

He shook his head. “Only after Rory murders me.”

Chapter Seventeen

I still had eighty percent of my virginity. It took some complicated math to come up with that. It also meant I still had an eighty percent chance of going to Heaven—one hundred if I followed the once-saved-always-saved philosophy. That was probably the best way to go at that point.

My guilt held on with more permanence than what I’d hoped, but my remorse declined a bit since the dry humping in my bed incident. That brought me to tears afterward. The pool table? No tears. I think I was in shock that I wanted to go all the way. Fisher stopped me. The crude, naked fisherman. I never imagined that. He said we’d go until I said stop. I never said stop. If anything, I had my own little cheering section in my head chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”

Creeping along the side of the house, I made my escape the next morning. A little Sunday morning gospel to cleanse my soul.

Tiptoeing along the side of Fisher’s truck, I hid from sight in case he was watering his plants.

“Off to confess your sins?”

I jumped and glanced at the garage with both doors wide open and Fisher bent over his weight bench working his triceps.

No shirt, of course.

“Um …” I cleared my throat, eyeing Arnie’s Escalade. Did it mean Angie was still there too? “Yes. I’m going to church.” I tightened my grip on the clutch purse I’d used the previous night and took slow steps into the garage.

“You look nice.” He eyed me in my simple white romper and silver Birkenstocks.

“Thanks. Is…” my gaze signaled to the door to the house “…Angie gone?”

“Nope,” he replied with a strained voice as he continued his workout. “In the shower.”

“Oh. Did you … sleep on the sofa or in a spare room?”

“No. It’s my bed. Why should I have done that?”