Chapter 10 - Collin
After Lowyn goes up to bed, I just stand there on the edge of the living room that used to be mine. I didn't snoop last night, and I did sleep on the couch, but I did look around. At least down here. Only because she changed the layout a little. The hallway where I blew that man's brains out is gone and in its place is a pantry. She made the two other small bedrooms down here into one big office. And she moved the stairs, which used to be at the end of the death hallway, opposite the back door, to the other side of the living room.
The living room here in her house is a lot like the one in her shop. Same look and feel, at least, even if the pieces are not twins. The color scheme from the kitchen—tangerine and sea-foam green—continues into this room too. A couch that looks aged—but I don't think it is—is the centerpiece. It's a sectional, like the one in the store. But this one is wide and is covered in a peachy-gold velvet. A very nice textile to fall asleep on, I know from experience.
The chairs are overstuffed here, a contrast from the sleek, minimalistic ones in the get-the-look set-up at McBooms. But they are nearly the same color of a Caribbean sea, except this pair's brightness has been toned down with a shadow, like a storm hanging out in the distance.
There is a large, overarching umbrella lamp and the familiar credenza. But this time I feel like there might be a hidden bar inside instead of a record player. I can't help myself, I go look.
Indeed. There is. All the fixings, at least. But no booze.
Lowyn's house—Lowyn's version of my house—it's got a family feeling to it. Like teenagers hang out here on Friday nights and play Monopoly and records. It's comfortable. And safe. A room filled with colors once bright, now even better slightly muted.
It's nice. I approve.
But it's all very weird.
I was gonna sleep in my room last night, but I went in there and found some old pictures and it was just too much.
It's too much tonight, too. Especially after dealing with Jim Bob and Simon, my dad's replacement. He was trying really hard to make me like him. He was telling all about his sermons, and his son, who is his disciple on stage for the show, and I just didn't wanna hear it.
That part of my life is over. And I'm not stupid, so I know that all the people in charge of the Revival—up to and including the new fuckin' preacher himself—are thinkin' that I might just slip back into my old role.
Which was never mine in the first place, so what the fuck, ya know?
I think signing that contract was a mistake. I think I should maybe try to get out of it.
But it's probably not possible. And it's just one year. Not even. It's one season. Which is only eight or nine months long, depending where Easter falls each year.
How much can go wrong in eight months?
I blow out a breath, pick up my duffle bag, and hit the bathroom for a shower.
When I'm done, and I come back out to the living room, I find a pillow and a blanket sitting on the couch for me. The pillow is down—pretty much the softest thing my head has rested on in over a decade—and the blanket is tan chenille with big old orange flowers woven into it.
And so, despite how this night went sideways, I put it to bed with a smile.
The smell of coffee wakes me in the morning and the first thing I see is Lowyn McBride, standing in the kitchen wearing her Revival costume.
I recognize the style—straight, low-waisted dress, short, ruffled sleeves, and lace. Good lace. Handmade lace. Lowyn is wearing a springtime version with a muted floral pattern overlaid on an antique white base layer of rayon. There's a cloche hat on the countertop and a small, beaded change purse on a chain sitting next to it. Even through half-lidded eyes and all the way across the room, I can tell that she's wearing makeup because her lips are pink and smooth, like her powdered cheeks. She's got her hair up in her trademark faux bob, and good God, the sight of her both takes me back fifteen years and pulls me right into the present.
She is a twenty-first-century woman standing in a retro Eighties kitchen, wearing a dress that was reproduced by the best seamstresses in Disciple to resemble high fashion back in tent revival days.
There was a period of time, back when the Revival was still figuring out what it was, when the opinion of the day was that people should look demure, and poor, and downtrodden. Tent revivals were at their height during the Great Depression, after all. I guess these founders were thinking they should be authentic, the way Bishop is with their Colonial downtown. They take great pains over in Bishop to make the wagons just right, and the cooking just right, and the clothes just right.
It's all very ‘just right.'
But like Revenant, Disciple is its own thing. And so eventually the town came to a decision to not even try to be authentic.
I mean, what's the point? The tent is a theatre, and the preacher, and the children's choir, and the fainting women in the audience—they are all actors. So when the founders were deciding on costumes, they went for eye-pleasing.
No one wants to see a tired-looking housewife in a dirty apron.
No one wants to see a broken man with coal so far under his fingernails, it has stained the skin beneath.
No one wants to see crying babies and hungry children.
People don't come to Disciple to learn about things or be reminded of the past. They come here to be entertained by the contradiction. Same reason they go to Revenant. Same reason they go to Bishop.
They want an escape. They want the women to be pretty, the children to be sweet, and the men to be strong. They don't care about the message inside the tent—no one does. As long as it's filled with flappin' hand fans and dramatic shouts of ‘amen.' As long as it's filled with bowed heads and closed eyes rejoicing halleluiah. As long as it's entertaining—well, that's all it needs to be.
The Revival was never meant to be relevant. It highlights the hypocrisy. It's meant to remind everyone that this whole thing, this whole world, all around us, is nothing but a well-planned, well-financed production.
Disciple's Revival is just a contrast set against the backdrop of Revenant.
And Revenant, with its motorcycle gangs, and pool halls, and rowdy bars, is just another contrast set against the backdrop of Bishop.
The Trinity Towns are a funhouse, or a circus, or a Broadway show.
And everyone in town has a leading role in the deception.
"Cross came by and dropped you off a package."
My lazy, drooping eyes are staring right at Lowyn as these words come out of her mouth. "What kind of package?"
She points to a parcel wrapped up in brown paper and tied with jute twine. "Open it up and find out."
I grumble as I swing myself up to a sitting position and sigh, bending over to cover my face with my hands and rub the stubble on my cheeks. Then I get to my feet and catch Lowyn looking at my chest because I didn't wear a shirt to bed. Just gray sweatpants.
Her eyes flit up and meet mine. Immediately, she is turning pink.
I just grin, walk over to the counter, and start pulling the twine on the package. I already know what it is, so I'm not surprised when I find my own costume on the other side of that paper. I hold up the shirt—black button-down, handmade in thick cotton—and look at Lowyn. "They're gonna make me into a gangster?"
She's trying not to grin. "You are security."
"Yeah, well. I figured I would just wear some tactical pants"—Lowyn is already laughing—"and a t-shirt. Maybe, if I wanted to dress it up a little, I'd put on some body armor."
"You're dreaming, Collin. You gotta play your part. There's no getting around it. Now give me that. I'll steam the wrinkles out." She comes around the counter and I catch the scent of her rosewater perfume. Every costume has accessories and when you're acting in the equivalent of dinner theatre, this kind of sensory detail matters.
Her fingertips brush against the back of my hand as she reaches for the package. She looks up and our eyes meet once again. "Hi," I say.
She smiles at me. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
"No. Well, yeah. Thanks for the blanket and pillow, by the way. I was ordered not to look around without permission, so I had to forgo those two luxuries that first night."
She's still smiling, but she doesn't say anything back. Just takes my clothes and disappears down the hallway. "Don't shave." She calls this out as I hear her opening up a cupboard in the laundry room.
I scrub my hands down my face again. "You don't think I should?"
"That's one perk of playin' the bad boy, Collin. You get to keep that sexy shadow on your face."
Oooooh. She called me sexy. My grin is wide and my whole body gets warm.
I help myself to a cup of black coffee and then wander down the hallway to watch her as she waves the steamer wand over my black trousers, making the wrinkles disappear like magic. She's smirking at me, giving me a side eye, but not in a bad way.
I tease her about this smirk. "Lowyn McBride, you look like you've got yourself a secret."
Her cheeks puff out with her laugh. Like she had every plan of holding that laugh in, but there was no way she'd manage it.
"What? What's so funny?"
She takes a deep breath and pauses her magic-wanding to look at me. "What were you talking about in your little meetin' last night?"
"Which one? I feel like the whole town had me cornered at one point or another."
"The one I interrupted. The one with Jim Bob and Simon."
"I told ya. Preachin' shit. Which is not gonna happen." She's still looking at me. Not smirking, but… "You do have a secret. Spill it. What's going on?"
She sets her magic steamer wand down on the laundry counter and takes my trousers off the hanger. Then she folds them at the new crease and offers them to me. I put out an arm and she drapes them over it. Then she picks up my shirt and puts it on a hanger. She resumes her steaming and her talking. "Well, Collin, ya see, things have changed a lot around here since you left."
"I'm followin'. So continue."
"And part of those changes is a… a…" She makes a face, like she's desperate to find the correct word to describe what comes next. "A narrative. Yeah." Now she smiles, proud of herself. "A narrative. A story that runs the whole season. It starts on opening day—today."
"OK."
"And it comes to a crisis on Fourth of July."
"All right."
"And it ends with a cliffhanger on Christmas Eve."
"They play this story out all the way up to Christmas Eve? Doesn't that kinda ruin the festivities?"
"We need to set the story up for the next season, right?"
I sigh. "OK. So what's the story?"
"Well, it was a story about a girl from Revenant who runs away with a boy from Disciple. We've done this one before. Twice, actually. First, the girl was from Disciple and the boy was from Revenant. Then we did a side story with Bishop once, too. Boy running away, et cetera, et cetera."
"Maybe I'm just being paranoid here, but I'm getting the feeling that this is somehow leading up to me."
She points at me with her wand. "You are correct. It does. I got a fat envelope with your costume delivery this morning."
I narrow my eyes. "What was in it?"
"A new story."
"About me?"
"Not you personally. But yeah. You're the story." She points to the shirt and waves a hand at my trousers. "You are a gangster. You left town for Revenant twelve years ago—walked out on your daddy and your family. And now you're back?—"
"And I'm the bad guy? But I'm security!"
"You seem to think that being security involves walking around with the word ‘security' printed on the back of your body armor, Collin. And that's just not how things work anymore. You'll have your gun, or whatever you're gonna carry, but you're gonna act out your part just like all the rest of us."
I sigh and rub my hands down my face for a third time. "I should've never signed that contract."
"Oh, it's not so bad. It's actually quite fun."
"What part do you play?"
"I'm not a real player. I've got too much going on with McBooms. So I'm mostly just a nameless face in the background."
"Where is this envelope?"
"On the kitchen counter. Right by my little purse."
I go out to the kitchen and find the thick envelope made of tan paper. It's got one of those string-tie fasteners over the flap, the kind where you tie the string around a little paper button to keep it closed.
I untie the string and take out a thin, spiral-bound booklet. On the front it says, "Season Nine: The Prodigal Son Returns."
I take the whole thing back down the hallway to Lowyn, who is still busy making my button-down shirt presentable. Then I start my complaining. "I'm not the prodigal son."
"It's not really about you, Collin. It's… it's just a story."
But she's wrong. It is about me. "How can you say that with a straight face? You just told me that the story, up until this very morning, was about a boy who falls for a girl in Revenant. And now the whole story is"—I hold up the little booklet—"this!"
"You should read it. It's got a good start."
I growl a little, which makes Lowyn laugh. "Calm down, Collin. You're a gangster looking for salvation. Just look at it that way for now."
"For now?"
"Well, that's hardly a prodigal son story, now is it? I don't know what the writers have planned, but I'm sure we'll find out soon." She turns her little magic wand off and pats my arm. "Don't worry. Whatever it is, it'll all come to a head by Fourth of July and then the story will turn."
"One season." I grit these words through my teeth. "And then never again."
She pats my bare chest, then presses her palm flat against it. Kinda takin' my breath away for a moment. Kinda wiping my mind of all complaints, too. "Go put the costume on. It's gonna be fine."
I play those words over and over in my head as I get dressed in the bathroom. I think about how her hand felt against my bare chest too. I had a sudden urge to kiss her in that moment. But I can't. Because we've had that opportunity a couple times now, and both times she was sending me signals that it's not gonna happen.
Actually, she's sending signals that it is gonna happen, but not yet. I have a feeling there's something between us that must be dealt with before she will relent.
A feeling, Collin? Please. You walked out on her twelve years ago without an explanation. She wants a fuckin' explanation.
Yes. This is what's between us. She wants some truth from me. And she might steam the wrinkles out of my clothes and let me sleep in her house, but she's not gonna invite me into her bed—or even let me get a teeny-tiny taste of those lips—until I… repent, for lack of a better word.
Actually, it's an appropriate word. And while I by no means have been out in the world squandering my inheritance, I did go out there and leave this whole town behind, and then came back like it was no big deal.
And it was a big deal. A very big deal. If I want to live around here, I will have to repent. By playing my part in the story, by being security for the Revival, and by having an honest conversation with the woman I walked out on when she was just a girl.
Fine.
I come out of the bathroom and find Lowyn still in the laundry, steaming the wrinkles out of a silk tie. She smiles at me, then carefully lays the tie down on top of the washing machine and turns the steamer off.
I walk into the little room and she's immediately reaching for the pearly-gray buttons on my unbuttoned shirt. Her fingers quickly and smoothly slide them into the little slits and she works her way up.
This simple act of buttoning up my shirt pretty much blows my mind in the best way possible. It feels very intimate for some reason. When she gets to the top button, she smiles at me and flips my collar up so she can feed the silk tie around my neck to form a perfect Windsor knot. She flips my collar down, straightens it out a little, and grins. "You have to roll up your sleeves."
"Why?" This comes out without thinking. I'm still caught in the magic web she just wove all around me with her fingertips.
"Because that's what it says." She picks up a little pre-printed card that has been lying unnoticed by me on top of the washer. "This came in the package. ‘Shirt half tucked in, sleeves rolled up, tie in a Windsor knot.'"
I just stare down at her. Right into those blue eyes of hers. I want to slip my hands behind her thighs, lift her up and set her down on top of the washer. Then I want to open her knees, slide between her legs, and kiss her like I might never get the chance again. I want to put my hands on her face, and press my lips against hers, and taste her.
"Collin?"
I let out a breath and the fantasy goes with it. "Yeah."
She's holding up suspenders. "You have to put these on too."
The braces are pinstripe gray with brown leather runner ends that button directly to the waistband of my trousers. I almost lose my breath when Lowyn slides the slim elastic over my shoulders and says, "Turn around."
Her voice is soft and low. Like an easy breeze blowing ever so slightly over a flower petal. I turn and she attaches the suspenders to the back of my trousers.
Then she says, "Turn again," in that same low and sexy tone.
I do as I'm told, facing her once again as her fingertips continue to wrap me up in a web of magic. She finishes the last four buttons and then takes a step back as she sucks in a breath.
"Wow." She lets that breath out. "You look…" She doesn't finish her thought. Just nods her head and bites her lip.
"You look that good too," I say back.
And this makes her smile.
There are two ways in and out of Disciple, West Virginia. Just one main road going east and west. Both directions are packed with cars when Lowyn and I leave her house and make our way over to the Revival tent at a walk.
I want to hold her hand, but I can't. Not until I give her that explanation. But it's still a very nice walk. The air is crisp, but not cold. Lowyn put on a little sweater—pale yellow with pearly white buttons that she did not button up. She's wearing that cute cloche hat and holding her tiny purse—just big enough to hold her cell phone—by the silver chain.
There are hundreds of people already lined up at the main gate that leads into the tent grounds, but we go down a side street where the side entrance is, and that's where I find Amon, Nash, and Ryan—all dressed up the same way I am—checking people through as they pass.
Lowyn grabs my hand. "I'll see you later, OK?"
"Yeah, OK." And I'm just getting used to that hand when it slips out of reach again.
She waves her fingers at Amon and the guys. "Have a good day, men."
I almost fall over with desire for that woman. And when I turn to Amon, he's smirking at me.
"What?"
"You're staying at her house, aren't ya?"
"Where else am I gonna stay? You've torn up my whole house. And what the hell are you two doing here?" I look Ryan and Nash up and down, noticing the slight differences in our costumes. "You're not even part of this."
"They're on the contract now. Jim Bob came by the compound last night. In fact, I've got forty-seven people on the contract with us."
"What? How's that work at the end of the year?"
Amon nearly guffaws, pulling me away from Nash and Ryan, telling them to check people in as they pass. We only go about a dozen feet away. "Don't worry. None of them are figured into the bonus structure. They're all hourly."
"What about Nash and Ryan? We can't pay them hourly. They're partners."
"In Edge, yeah. But they're not from here, Collin. Even if I wanted to give them bonus money—and I don't"—he gives me a stern look here—"there's no way."
"So why are they here?"
"They offered."
"Well, how the hell did they get a fuckin' costume?"
"They're wearing mine. We get three sets."
I look around, sighing. "I dunno, man. This is turning into a much bigger thing than I signed up for." I look back at Amon. "Did you know there's a fuckin' script?"
"Yeah." He laughs. "And for a couple of assholes who walked out on this place a dozen years ago, we get to play a pretty big part."
"See, this is what I mean. We're supposed to be security. Not… gangsters."
"It's just a costume. Oh, I brought your Glock. It's in the security barracks." He nods his head to a tented building off to the left. "There's a safe in there where I've stashed the weapons. The dogs are in there too."
"Weapons? Dogs? It's the fuckin' Revival, Amon. What kind of heat are you expecting?"
"You never know. I like to be prepared. On a lighter note"—he nudges me with his shoulder—"how are you and Lowyn doing? Good, right?" He winks at me. "I mean, you're living at her house now. That was some quick work there, Creed. In town less than a week and already lining up the old lady."
"Shut up. Where do I go? What do I do?"
"Do you wanna dog?"
"Do I need a dog?"
"What's that got to do with anything? It's a dog, Collin. It'll keep you company."
This guy, I swear. "Sure. Why not."
Amon grins. "I knew you'd say that. Be right back." He goes inside the barracks and comes back out a couple minutes later with a dog. She is an all-black German Shepherd with light-brown eyes that almost look yellow. Her fur is rather long for a Shepherd, and fluffy, not sleek, so she doesn't look as menacing as some of the dogs that Amon keeps in the kennel. "This is Mercy. She's only just turned two, but she knows all the standard commands in German, English, Russian, and Hungarian."
"Dammit, Amon. How much did you pay for this dog? I thought we had a budget? I said twenty grand apiece. This one sounds like a genius."
"Nah. I got her on special. She flunked out of cadaver school."
I don't wanna laugh at him, but it's kinda hard not to. Still, I don't give in. There's no point in denying that Amon is charming. He is. It's just… he fuckin' annoys me too. So I growl, "I don't know Hungarian."
"So talk to her in English." Amon rolls his eyes at me like I'm the dumbest motherfucker he's ever met. "You take the north gate. I'm taking east, Nash is taking west, and Ryan's taking south. All the other guys will do the interior."
"What are we looking for?"
"Assholes, Collin. We're lookin' for assholes." He pats my chest, hands me the lead attached to Mercy's harness, and walks off.
Mercy and I look at each other, then I shrug and we head north.