2. Isabella

The doors open finally,and everyone piles in before me.

My stomach growls with hunger as I patiently wait my turn. It smells delicious and the sign above the large pots of delicious smelling stew tell me it's Gumbo. I've never had Gumbo before, but I'd give swamp alligator a try at this point in time.

I've never gone hungry like this in my life, but to be able to escape in the way I did, it was fundamentally necessary. Not only for my wellbeing and safety, but also for my spirit.

The streets are dangerous, but when I ran away, it was now or never. I've been sleeping at shelters here and there, but there's nothing long term. I need to get out of here to retrieve something left for me by my late mother, but that is proving difficult. One, it's in Texas, and two, I've no means to get to freaking Texas. If I hitchhiked, who knows where I'd end up. I'm only twenty-one, and my family thinks I'm dead. Let's just say that I'd like to keep it that way. Not only did I run away from a deranged family; I was also in an abusive arranged marriage situation that I could no longer be a part of.

The night the opportunity came up suddenly, I had to act. It was my one chance at freedom, but in doing that, I also left behind any chance of a future with means. My bank account, namely, and any possessions I had worth anything. If I could get to my safety deposit box, however, things could be different. I need to get enough money together to get a bus or train ticket. It's my meal ticket out of here, but for now, I just need to stay alive.

When I finally get to take a bowl, I see three servers; two women and a man. The man is tall, with piercing green eyes and a pretty smile.

I stare at him trying to figure out if he's real. He chats to everyone and makes them feel welcome as they load rice and pour the hot soup over the top. My stomach rumbles and my mouth waters at the huge chunks of bread with melting butter. I could literally kiss this man with joy.

I line up and the girl with the dark hair telling witty jokes moves to make way for another pot of steaming soup.

"Miss? Your bowl."

I glance up and the handsome man is staring at me, smiling encouragingly. Holy Jesus. He's even better up close. He has dark hair, a short, cropped beard and features so perfect I wonder what he's doing here and who he is.

I'm embarrassed by my appearance so I look down and hand him my bowl. "Thank you," I mutter.

When I get the nerve to take another peek, he's concentrating on getting all the soup into the bowl. Thank God it's a big bowl, because I'm starving. My last meal was a couple of days ago, and I know it's starting to show with my weight and the gauntness in my skin.

"How are you today?"

I glance up again. He's talking to me. Shit. "Uh, good, thank you." I look down again.

"Help yourself to the bread basket, and the salad bar."

I nod, taking the bowl from him gratefully as I move along in the row. I scurry away to find a table, hoping to not have to converse with anyone. I place my bowl down and then make my way back for the salad and bread, no way am I risking all of that being gone by the time I'm done with the Gumbo.

I hear the man talking to someone else, laughing as the person receiving their bowl chats away like they're old friends. One of the women serving notices me staring and I look away quickly, my head down as I head back to my table.

I continue to keep my head low as I tuck in, silently groaning at how good this is. I should go thank the cook. It is the most amazing food I've ever tasted. There's bell peppers, celery and onion, rice, shellfish and meat. The flavors… I can't even describe how good it is. Spicy, but not overly hot. I don't like a lot of spice, but this is just perfect.

I'm wearing the same jeans and hoodie I left with that night, along with a coat I got from goodwill. My Prada shoes don't exactly go with the rest of my outfit, but I didn't plan on having to do a midnight dash without warning. I come from old money, or did would be the operative word.

As hard as this new life is, I'd rather be homeless than go back to the life I had.

It wasn't a life — it was a prison sentence.

I can't even feel remorse over that night and the bloodshed that ensued, not that I had anything to do with that, but still. I know the men in my family are not good people. They hurt people. They hurt me. My own father wanted me to marry a man who was just biding his time before he could move up the ranks in the family and take over the business. Leo was not a good guy. I shudder when I think about the life I almost had with him and how my father and uncle loved him so much. Maybe they saw themselves in him and that made them feel better about their own sins and misgivings. Maybe they just never really cared.

Leo would skirt around with other women while assuring my father and uncle that he was also waiting for marriage, then behind their backs he'd threaten that if I slept with anyone besides him before our wedding, he"d slice my throat and blame it on robbers.

This is the kind of sick asshole he is. And if he ever finds me, I can kiss any kind of life goodbye. This was the only way.

I told my father about him, about my reservations, but he never cared about any of that. My mom died in a car accident years before, and the loss of her still haunts me to this very day. I never knew what it was like to have a mom past the age of ten, and that in itself is enough to scar me for life. Every single person in my family is tied to the family business, and therefore I'm dead to them, too. As much as I'd like to keep in contact with my cousin Rosa, and my best friend Andi, I can't risk it. I'm a ghost.

And that's exactly how I have to remain. A nobody. I need to lay low until I can get my way out of this godforsaken place and get to Texas.

I don't go back for a second bowl, even though I could easily take another one. I see some of the people eating begin to help tidy up, and I feel like I should do the same.

I come from a family where women do all the work, so helping out isn't something I'm unaccustomed to, even if we did have several staff at my family home.

I begin to gather my bowl and some of the others that were left on the other end of my table.

The entire restaurant was packed. People coming in and out all night. And the cute man and the two women keep on serving Gumbo to people like their life depends on it.

It feels nice in here. Like I don't want to leave. It's dry, warm and safe, and people are kind. Not like in some of the shelters; some were worse than others and didn't feel safe. I don't want to go back there. As I'm new to this city — only having been here a few months — I haven't yet made any friends. My whole life revolved around Leo and him moving up the ranks with my father and uncle. That's why we moved here, so he could take over and we could live happily ever after. The only thing that brings a smile to my face is imagining his world without me in it. He didn't love me, but without me, he has no future within the intricate walls of the family business. And that at least makes me smile.

I make my way toward the serving area, unsure if I'm to take the dishes all the way into the kitchen. Hesitating, I hear the same deep voice as before. "You need a hand with that, little one?"

I look all the way up to meet the cute guy"s gaze; he's smiling and gives me a chin lift. I shake my head. "I'm good."

"Lookin' for the kitchen?"

I nod.

He thumbs behind me. "Right in there."

I keep my eyes on my shoes. "I'm happy to wash them."

"Don't say that, you'd end up with a permanent job here." I hear the humor in his tone.

Suddenly, that doesn't sound so bad.

"I'm happy to help."

"What's your name?"

"Isabella, but people call me Bella."

"Which do you prefer?"

Nobody has ever asked me that question. "Just Bella is fine."

"Okay, just Bella, I'm Priest." Suddenly his hand is reaching out to me.

I swallow hard, tugging on my hoodie as I tamper down my need to run. It's rude to not reciprocate, and he's waiting. If I anger him, he may not invite me back.

I dump the dishes on the counter. Reluctantly, I slide my hand into his. I don't want to appear rude, but I don't want him to remember me. It's easier if I'm just a shadow.

When my eyes lift again, there's a crease between his brows. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Bella. This is a safe place. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

Oh, my God. He thinks I'm homeless — well, technically I am — but knowing that he's judging me right now, makes me feel uneasy. Even though he's telling me not to be afraid.

"I have a place to stay," I say. "I'm really sorry, but I just remembered I have somewhere to be."

"Please, I didn't mean to pry." His face falls and I feel guilty for a second.

I practically run to the door. "The food was really nice," I add, so he doesn't think I'm rude.

"Bella…"

"I'm sorry." My feet move before my brain has a chance to catch up and I dash out into the street as fast as my legs will carry me.

I can't have people caring about me. If that happens, I'll never get out of here and that's my main goal.

I curse myself under my breath as I make my way back to the shelter. How could I have been so stupid to draw attention to myself? I know better than that. I was taught to be seen and not heard, and yet here I am tonight, doing exactly the opposite.

I can't let it happen again. Even if I have suffered trauma because of my family name, that's no excuse.

Next time, I need to do better.

A week goes by and I start to get desperate. I have to move around shelters before I start to draw attention to myself; before someone will offer to help, and then I'll have no choice but to run. This time, my luck may just run out.

I have no choice but to go back to the Soup Kitchen because I slept rough last night, and there was no room at the shelter. I'm hungry, tired and almost ready to walk back to my previous life.

I start to fantasize about what it would look like… coming back from the dead. It's been all over the news. In fact, I had to lay low for weeks until the media speculation died down. Nobody is looking for me now. They all think I'm dead.

I sit in the back, my hood pulled up as I make myself as small as possible. I haven't seen Priest, thank God. I made a fool of myself last time, and I don't need it rubbed in my face. The same two women as last time are here, and another man — he's flamboyant and uses his hands a lot when he talks. He's nice to everyone, even me. He tries to talk to me but I just smile politely and skitter as fast as I can to the back of the room.

I just need food. And somehow… somehow I need money. But I'm not willing to do some of the things that girls have to do in the bad shelters around New Orleans. I'm not selling my body for money. That is completely out of the question.

I eat the stew, not caring what it is. It tastes good and that's all that matters.

I drink my water, grateful that it's clean and I sit and wonder how my life became like this. Anytime I start to feel sorry for myself, I shut it down.

This is better than what my father had planned for me.

A forced marriage to a brute who forced himself on me more than once. He didn't get what he wanted, because I was to remain a virgin until our wedding night, but that didn't mean he didn't try. I swallow hard when I think about how I told my father what he did, and instead of beating him and throwing him out of our home, it seemed to have the opposite effect. My father took him under his wing, blowing off his actions toward me as sexual frustration. I know Leo indulged in other women, and that my father knew about it. Hell, he encouraged it, as long as I was kept pure until our nuptials. The thought makes me sick to this day. Somehow, over years of being indoctrinated into the family traditions — none of which are worth saving — I broke away, leaving my old life behind and I never looked back. The few hundred dollars I had was supposed to buy my bus ticket so I could get the hell outta dodge, but I was mugged one night and my belongings stolen along with my wallet and phone. The cap I wear is really my only disguise, but it isn't as if anyone's looking for me. Everything went to shit. It was as if the universe was punishing me for being bad, telling me I should go back and face the consequences. Also, did I have no heart?

Other people were killed that night, people I should care about. But all I feel is that weight being lifted because those men were bad. They did terrible, unspeakable things and I don't have it in my heart to forgive them.

I close my eyes.

I need to go to confession. Father Dan is away, and his parish is the only one that I would go to where I know I won't be recognized. My family church is in Houston, but locally, St. Louis cathedral has become their newly found place of worship. I clearly can't go there.

Going to church is the only way. But I can't tell Dan the real truth; I can only brush over it. However, if I feel the truth in my heart, and tell a few white lies to protect the identities of my family, is that still considered a sin?My cousins may have been spoiled and mean, but they don't deserve to die. Other people in my family, however, they deserve to go to Hell. That and the fact I don't want them to ever find me.

Either way, I need to seek absolution.

"Hello, Bella." A deep, rumbling voice speaks my name as I stop dead in my tracks. My spoon halfway to my mouth as I glance up.

It's him. I know it's him without even meeting his gaze. I slowly lift my eyes, and when our eyes do meet, I'm met with the same friendly face and smile — albeit a little tentative.

I squirm in my seat, even though this man gives off no mean vibes whatsoever. "Hello," I say, my voice quiet.

"I didn't see you in the back," he goes on. "Or I would've come and said hi earlier."

Why is he talking to me? Why can't he just go away?

I smile politely, and hope he'll take the hint. He doesn't.

"I wanted to check that you were okay," he explains. "I really didn't mean to scare you last week."

I shake my head. The fastest way to get rid of him is to pretend all is okay. Then he'll leave me alone.

"It's my fault," I say. "I was having a bad day. I'm sorry."

His eyebrows pinch together in that adorable way of his and I can't help but stare. Nobody — not even my own family — has ever looked at me with such concern as this complete stranger.

I should be afraid of him. He's larger than life. Covered in tattoos. Gives off ex-con vibes and is completely sure of himself. He doesn't break my gaze for a second, confident in his approach, when here I am trying to work out how quick it'll take me to bolt to the front door.

You're cute, but please fuck off.

"Don't be sorry. Do you have a place to stay right now?"

No. "Yes."

"Where?"

Lies have become second nature for me now. I haven't progressed yet to stealing, and the idea of doing such an act makes me feel queasy, but maybe if I befriended this man, he might lend me some money. Then again, if he volunteers here, he'll think I want the money for drugs. Or if he's a creep, he'll want sexual favors, just like the men in the shelter.

He can't know the truth.

Lie!

"Uh, the second street drop-in center."

"I heard that was full."

Lie better!

"No, I got the last bed."

He gives me a pointed look, like he's somewhere between scolding me for lying, and completely aware that I'm completely full of shit.

"Huh."

"Yeah, so… thanks and all." Go away.

"I know a place, that's all…"

I stare up at him. "Let me guess, your place?" I snort and the second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

Something crosses his face.

Horror.

Annoyance.

I don't know, but none of it is good.

"Bella, I'm a man of God. I would never do something like that."

"A man of God? You know, sometimes they are the worst kind." Not Father Dan, though. He's kind.

I just need him to go away. Stop talking to me and for the love of God stop drawing attention to me. People are staring.

"While I tend to agree in some instances, that wasn't my intention. There's a refuge on Quarter Elm Street. It's clean and safe and I know someone who can help, if you'd like."

Now I feel bad.

I swallow my shame as a lump forms in my throat. I set my spoon down and try my best not to lose it. He's being kind. Decent. All the human things I'm not used to, and what do I go and do? Ruin it by being defensive.

I just accused this decent man of being a weirdo and he's still being nice to me.

I don't need a confession. I need a fucking exorcism.

I go to stand. "Priest, I'm sorry…"

"You don't have to go, please," he says. "I'm making you uncomfortable. I'll send Stella over with the details." He turns and points. "She's my goddaughter."

I glance over to the pretty dark-haired girl who's still serving stew to the masses. She looks like I used to; clean, curvy and full of life. I'm just a shadow of the girl I once was, and it's all by my doing.

I sit back down again. "That's alright. I'm fine, honestly. I appreciate the offer though."

He sighs. "Okay, but if you change your mind, you have the address. Did you want me to write it down for you?"

"No, thank you."

He nods, looking like he wants to say something else, but then changes his mind. He takes two steps, then turns around. "If you wanted to help the girls clean up after, I know they'd appreciate it. So would Father Dan."

My eyes light up. "Is Father Dan back?"

"You know him?"

"Yes, I went to the parish but he wasn't there."

"He's on a short vacation."

"How do you know all of this?"

"I'm his friend."

I frown. "Your name is Priest… are you one?"

He shakes his head. "Far from it. I'm not Catholic, but I wasn't lying about my faith. I just go about my beliefs in different ways. I'm more spiritual than I am holy, if that makes sense."

I've no idea what he means by that. "I grew up Catholic," I feel the need to say.

I press my lips together.

Good one, wise ass. Now you're opening up to him?

All that's going to achieve now is a barrage of questions, and as I wait for the first one, I can't take my eyes from his handsome face. I'm like a moth to a flame.

I also don't miss the way my heart skips a beat whenever we make eye contact.

I should not be checking this guy out, but I can't help it.

Priest is like no other man I've ever laid eyes on, and as if sensing the shift in me, he grips the back of the chair and those green eyes meet mine once more.