The Proviso (8 page)

“Yeah. I am.” She glanced at the clock and saw that
she should have left fifteen minutes ago.

Sebastian relaxed again, took a sip of his wine,
savored it, then lapsed into brooding. Giselle said nothing for a
long while, too engrossed in her own thoughts to care much about
his, but the lengthening silence finally caught her attention.

“Okay, I spilled my guts to you, but you’re the one
swilling expensive wine like it’s orange juice. What’s your
problem?”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched in thought and he still
wouldn’t look at her. He took another sip. “Same as yours. I want a
family. A wife, kids.”

That startled her. “Where’s this coming from? You’ve
been a libertine since you decided proselytizing was for the birds
halfway through your mission.”

“I haven’t fucked a woman since Vanessa left. Three
years ago.”

She knew that; it was downright noteworthy. Possibly
worrisome.

“I’m almost forty. I’d like to have someone at my
funeral besides you and Knox—provided Fen hasn’t managed to kill
either of you by then. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting too old
to be that profligate, plus I think I maxed out my condom
budget.”

Giselle chuckled.

“Ah, I don’t even know why I think I could have a
relationship that lasts longer than a week and doesn’t crumble the
minute I get out of bed.”

“You were with Vanessa for three months. That’s a
record for you.”

He shrugged. “You notice I didn’t beg her to stay or
chase after her when it was time for her to go back to school. And
I sure as hell wasn’t interested in playing house with a
twenty-year-old who was in love with someone else anyway.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Of course not. I’m an opportunist.”

“Was. Talk about
my
celibacy being
unnatural.”

“Okay, so that makes me
more
pathetic than
you are. What am I missing, Giz? I’m not hideous. I’m
semi-literate. I have a fairly decent job and I can pay my
bills.”

She pursed her lips. “For you, it’s all about the
clothes. You go around in your cutoff jeans seven-eighths nekkid,
strutting around like a Parisian peacock without a dime to your
name, you’re relaxed, funny, having a good time. It
rains
women. I’ve seen you break out that freight train mojo, French
accent optional, and damn, it works like a charm—and it would get
any other man thrown in jail for assault. So you pick one or two,
fuck ’em, send ’em home, and everybody had a good time.

“But then you put on a suit or a tux, you turn into
cool King Midas and everything is Serious. Business. You don’t
smile or laugh. You rarely speak. You’re totally unapproachable.
The minute you put on that black suit—you need to find another
color, by the way—women become the enemy and Versace is your suit
of armor.”

“Giz, that’s not fair. I never wear Versace.”

“You need to find some way to mix the King Midas
with the Freight Train, some workable concoction of your multiple
personalities. Oh, I know. Buy some khakis.”

“Money and sex don’t coexist in my brain, Giz. You
know that. It’s either one or the other and society—society
functions—all about money. And I’m sure as hell not thinking about
money when I’m up to my eyeballs in burnt umber and beautiful
women.”

Giselle thought about that a minute. “Well, what
about one of your clients? Don’t tell me you’ve not run across one
tall, curvy blonde CEO somewhere out there?”

“I’m Satan, remember? The minute a CEO figures out
she has to call me to come bail her out, my chances are reduced to
less than nil.”

She sighed. “If that reputation bothers you so much,
stop being so subtle. Stop coddling people, letting them think
they’re doing all the work and all you’re there to do is milk their
bank accounts. Every time you go into a company, they see what they
want to see—and you let them. You lead them gently to their
enlightenment, you don’t force them to face their weaknesses
head-on, then they think they did it all themselves. You’d never
let me get away with that. All
I
ever hear is ‘Suck it up,
princess.’”

“Well, of course. I don’t have time to be your
invisible hand. Besides, people who can’t face their weaknesses are
boring and I refuse to live with a boring woman.” He paused. “So
are you going to church today or not?”

She sighed. “Not, I guess. I wasn’t sure I wanted to
go today anyway, so I got Sister Evans to substitute teach for
me.”

“Why? You like to teach.”

Giselle pursed her lips. “This week’s topic is the
law of chastity.” Sebastian gaped at her for a split-second before
he burst out laughing. “Me teaching a bunch of married women what
does and does not constitute chastity is about as fun as going to
church on Mother’s Day and being asked to babysit since, you know,
I
must
not have anything better to do.” She scowled at him.
“Shut up. It’s not funny.”

“Yes it is.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of
his palms, still laughing. “Okay, well. Since you’re not going to
church, come play tennis with me. That ought to make you feel
better.”

“All right, but put a shirt on. I get tired of
wading through the drool you leave in your wake.”

“Heh. Cheesecake after?”

“Absolutely not.”

“They have the low-carb version now.”

“Oh? Well, okay. You’re buying.”

“I always do.”

* * * * *

7:
WHOSOEVER LOOKETH ON A WOMAN

When is this going to end?

Bryce looked at his watch. Ten more minutes of home
and family.
Why
had he come to church today?

To purge Giselle Cox.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. He could only hope
that the subject of chastity wouldn’t rear its ugly head, but the
second it crossed his mind, the speaker referenced cleaving unto
one’s wife. He hadn’t cleaved unto any woman in years.

An ache grew like a cancer behind Bryce’s
breastbone.

Chastity was relatively easy, self-stimulation
notwithstanding, when a man had a burnt-to-a-crisp face that made
women flinch.

Until
her
, the Chouteau County prosecutor’s
lover. No flinching there—just raw lust.

Brains. Muscle. Weaponry.

That kiss, the one she’d initiated, the one he’d
taken away from her, the one she couldn’t control or take back.

Bryce knew what he wanted from a woman. He’d come to
terms with it halfway through his marriage, but went mostly without
because he wouldn’t beg for bad sex. Good thing, too, since
Michelle had had a habit of indiscriminately fucking anyone else
who appealed to her.

He looked around at the chapel, which was not that
different from the one he and his family had attended when they
lived just a couple of miles away, across the Missouri-Kansas state
line in Mission Hills. Fundamentally identical to any Mormon church
building, it was comfortable and spartan in its bland décor with no
crosses or crucifixes. No distractions.

Bryce hadn’t set foot in one but a few times since
the fire. Had he expected anything to change in the past five
years?

He bowed his head for the closing prayer, feeling
nothing but bitterness and anger at the abandonment of a God he’d
served so faithfully for over three decades.

He’d subverted his nature and quelled his base
desires.

He’d followed church teachings to the best of his
ability, all the while ignoring philosophies that called to his
intellect.

He’d fulfilled his father’s expectations as a good
and righteous priesthood holder in the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints—

—and spent every day of it in absolute misery.

He should have listened to his best friend, his
college roommate, the only person who had ever told him the
truth.

*

“
You don’t want Michelle! You’re marrying her
because your father bought her act and you’re going along with his
program—as usual. She’s lying to you.”

“
I think I’d have been able to figure that out by
now.”

“
You’re too invested in being pure and righteous
to give a shit. What you are is pressured. The minute you got off
the plane from your mission, your dad started in on you, hammering
you to find a nice girl to take to the temple. Well, I’m here to
tell you, pal—Michelle. Ain’t. It.”

“
There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“
Oh, other than that she’s a promiscuous,
manipulative, deceitful cunt?”

“
She’s not a c— That’s not true.”

“
Cunt, Bryce. Say it. For once in your life, call
it what it is. Cunt.”

Bryce said nothing, but he felt sick to his stomach
for even hearing it, much less that his best friend had said
it—about his fiancée.

“
Don’t you walk away from me. Someone has to give
you the facts of life and I’m designating myself the official bad
guy. Your father is too damned myopic to see her for what she is.
Great guy, your dad, but unbelievably naïve.”

Bryce’s mind had tied itself in a knot by this time
and his soul hurt. “You have never been able to back up what you
say about her.”

“
You know what? You’re exactly right. So let’s
talk about you instead. I notice the women you like to talk to:
Smart. Edgy. I notice the type of women who catch your eye:
Muscular. Solid. A woman you can throw at a bed and fuck.
Hard.”

Bryce stared at him, shocked. “I can’t believe you
said that.”

“
Oh, what? That I actually noticed it or that I
called you on it? You’re not exactly the mild-mannered and
slow’n’easy type of guy. Peter Priesthood? Not you. You play
football like a savage. No one on campus will play racquetball with
you anymore. You’ve publicly humiliated more than one of your
professors and then forced them to defend the grades they gave you
in retaliation.”

Bryce didn’t see himself that way. The man his best
friend had described was . . . horrible. Not a nice guy. Totally
not worthy of holding the priesthood.

“
But get you to church or with your dad and your
spine melts. You just can’t admit that the women you like are the
ones who’ll go toe to toe with you intellectually and make you work
to get them backed in a corner—and then you go in for the kill
every single time. Funny thing? They like it. They come back for
more, stronger, better, to throw it right back at you and the
harder you have to work, the more you like it. They probably like
sex that way, too. I’ll bet you’ve wondered more than once what
it’d be like to slam one of those women up against a wall and fuck
her.”

Bryce couldn’t breathe. How had he known? He fought
those images constantly, the ones that came to him unbidden when in
the company of women he found smart and . . . a little dangerous.
He wrestled with those temptations and had gone so far as to stop
talking to women he’d thought about in that way. He knew he
couldn’t resist them if he spent any time with them, especially the
brunette starlet who’d propositioned him with an explicit
description she must have pulled straight out of his fantasies.

He gulped at that memory, at his desires, at his
shame—because he’d had to stop and think about whether he wanted to
say no or not.

“
That’s who you are. Accept it, grab it, enjoy
the hell out of it, go on with your life. There is no reason for
you to deny who you are. You can still go to church and be a good
person. The church doesn’t care how you like sex as long as you’re
faithful to your wife. Face up to who you are and what you want,
find a woman who wants the same things you want, who can match you
in brains and in bed and you’ll be just fine. There is no sin in
that.”

“
No, I— That’s not me. That’s not who I want to
be.”

“
You’re never going to be your dad and there’s
nothing wrong with that. Fuck him if he can’t appreciate you for
who you are.”

Bryce’s jaw ground and his hands clenched as he
fought the urge to plow his fist in his roommate’s face.

“
Gah. Fine. Whatever. Go ahead and marry
Michelle. I’ll support you, I’ll be your best man, and I’ll never
speak of it again once the vows are said. But I’m telling you now,
you’re lying to yourself. Even if Michelle isn’t what I think she
is and you have a nice, quiet little life together, it’ll still be
the worst mistake you ever make—and you’ll live with it every
single miserable day, wondering what else you could’ve had if you’d
had an ounce of common sense and half that much courage.”

*

Bryce bent over and buried his head in his hands,
shuddering from the agony of that conversation ringing through his
head even after twenty years. Recalling it was a fairly frequent
ritual by now.

Now, on top of everything else, he lived with the
anger and bitterness of a disillusioned zealot: the irreconcilable
differences between what he wanted and what his father had expected
of him; Michelle’s infidelity and public piety; Michelle’s war of
manipulation and deceit against which he had no defenses—

—and most especially the deaths of his four children
and in such a catastrophic manner.

Bryce had no place in these pews.

Yet . . .

This was his cultural identity, a good portion of
his own identity and what made him him. This church, this
lifestyle, was all he’d ever known, all he’d ever wanted to know.
He’d done everything asked of him, but now he felt empty,
abandoned, unloved—and had since the week after he’d walked out of
the San Diego temple at twenty-four a married man.

Bryce went home after sacrament meeting unable to
stomach any more.

Nobody had approached him to say hello. He’d
attracted some glances, but mostly of the preoccupied type, as if
they had so much on their minds that they didn’t see him. He
understood that. He remembered those days, his years as a lay
clergyman on the fast track to bishop, when Sunday meant meetings
from dawn until dusk, when he had had too much to think about to
welcome new people. He didn’t want to have to introduce himself and
then explain where he came from and his presence there.