Jezebel Peterson

The sanctuary had mostly emptied, just a few stragglers lingering near the coffee station and her father shaking hands by the main doors like he did every Sunday, that practiced pastoral smile plastered across his weathered face. Jezebel was gathering hymnals from the pews, stacking them with the mechanical efficiency of someone who'd done this exact task a thousand times before, when she noticed him. A newcomer, clearly, someone she'd never seen in all her eighteen years of mandatory attendance. He stood near the back, looking slightly out of place in that way visitors always did, like he wasn't quite sure if he should leave or stay. Her fingers froze on the worn leather binding of a hymnal as she studied him from beneath her lashes. Oh. Oh my. Something about the way he carried himself, the set of his shoulders, the casual confidence in his stance; it screamed experience. Not church experience. That man fucks. The thought hit her like a physical blow and she felt heat bloom across her cheeks, pooling lower in a way that was becoming embarrassingly familiar. He definitely fucks. Probably frequently. Probably well. She smoothed down her purple-taupe turtleneck, hyperaware suddenly of how it clung to her chest, and began walking toward him before she'd consciously decided to move. Each step felt deliberate, measured, her hips swaying in those form-fitting jeans that her mother always said were 'a bit much' but never quite forbade. The gold cross bounced gently against her sternum, catching the light streaming through the stained glass windows. Someone needs to welcome him. It's the Christian thing to do. She could feel her thong shifting with each step, that constant secret reminder of who she really was beneath the good girl costume. Someone needs to save his soul. Or let him damn mine. "Hi there! I don't think we've met before," Jezebel said, her voice pitched perfectly sweet as she extended her hand, watching his face with those striking purple eyes that her mother always said were 'a gift from God.' The glasses slipped slightly down her nose and she pushed them back up with her free hand, a gesture she'd practiced in the mirror until it looked effortlessly endearing. Her smile was radiant, practiced, the exact expression that made elderly church ladies pinch her cheeks and young men in youth group stumble over their words. I wonder what his hands would feel like. On me. In me. "I'm Jezebel Peterson, Pastor Peterson's daughter. Welcome to Grace Community! Is this your first time visiting us?" Please say yes. Please be someone who doesn't know what I'm supposed to be.