His Reverie by Monica Murphy Page B

grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him to me but I’m not brave enough. What if I did something wrong? What if that kiss had somehow been an…accident?
    I want to roll my eyes at myself. How can a kiss be an accident? I’m looking for any excuse to tell myself I’m not worthy. I might’ve proved myself unworthy because of what I did next though.
    I ran away. Like a complete idiot I RAN. AWAY. How can I ever face him again? Will he even want to look at me again? I don’t know. Did I blow it? Does he hate me? Is he over this before it ever really begins?
    I hope not. I hope I didn’t ruin my chance though it feels like I did. He didn’t chase after me again. Didn’t call my name. He just let me go and maybe that’s a sign that he’s not really interested after all.
    That hurts.
    You know what I like though? I like how he always calls me Reverie. Not Rev. Everyone calls me Rev, even my family.
    Not Nick. He calls me Reverie. And I love it.
    I want to be his Reverie. All his.

Guilt: a feeling of remorse for some offense, crime, or wrong

    July 5th, early morning

    I dreamed. Of brimstone and hellfire. Of Reverend Hale standing behind a pulpit, pounding his fist so hard the wood shook and I was afraid it would splinter into tiny pieces with the force of his blows.
    He was yelling at me. Screaming at me. His face red, his voice booming as he threatened me for touching his daughter. He grew and I shrunk. Until it felt like he was ten feet tall and I was about five years old.
    You’re vagrant filthy scum! Keep your disgusting hands off my daughter!
    Those words—or a variation of them—were slung at me again and again. Until I was nodding in agreement, until I promised him I wouldn’t touch her. I wouldn’t so much as look at her.
    I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my phone lit up as a text message comes in. It’s two in the damn morning. Who the hell would text me?
    Grabbing my phone, I check it.
    Krista. Of course.
    Get your fine ass over her and lick my snatch. I miss your tongue.
    I grimace. Gross. She really thinks that’s going to work on me? She must be drunk. I don’t even bother replying. Within sixty seconds she’s texting me again.
    Nick!!!! I need you!!!
    Groaning, I flop back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’m straddling two worlds. The one here, in my shitty little apartment with a master bedroom that is still filled with all of Mom’s stuff and dealing with my sex-crazed ex-girlfriend, and there, at Hale House, where I pretend to be an upstanding citizen, do my job and secretly lust after a freaking reverend’s daughter.
    Straddling two lines while I lie directly in the middle, bad on one side and bad on the other. I don’t know which side is worse. They’re both equally crap.
    My phone dings again and I give it a quick glance.
    I nEeD yOuR bIg DiCk NiCk NoW!
    Christ. How long did it take her drunk ass to type that nonsense?
    Stop texting me, I reply quickly, my fingers flying as if I can hardly stand to text her, which is sort of true. Just reading what she wrote makes me feel…dirty. Stupid considering I’m just as low as Krista. I probably whispered similar words in her ear when we first got together. The both of us were young, experimenting, getting down and dirty, believing that’s what sex is all about.
    Not that there’s anything wrong with getting down and dirty but damn. We were kids. And she was whoring herself out to every guy available when I thought she was my girlfriend. She even fucked my best friend.
    And then my best friend fucked me over.
    I don’t want to stop texting you. I want you. Why can’t I have you?
    Because I don’t want you.
    I know how to suck your dick real good. Don’t deny it.
    Maybe I don’t want my dick sucked by you.
    Why? You got somebody else?
    Maybe I do.
    I wish I did.
    No one knows you like I do. NO ONE.
    She’s not too far off the mark. And that’s what scares me the most. What if Krista’s right? What if no one