America's Favorite Virgin

He passed through the entry and the coolness passed over his skin. His loafers clicked on the marble and Charles had to stop and look up. The foyer was three stories tall and there was a stone wall with water trickling down it. The skylights seemed to open the ceiling and gave the impression that you were really in the middle of a lush jungle setting. A very expensive jungle with central air conditioning.

"Pretty cool, right?"

A young woman with a tablet approached him. She had her long, mousy brown hair in a high braid. Her light blue blouse was buttoned tight to her throat. Charles noticed the little cross that dangled on a thin, gold chain. "You're Mr. Nelson, right?"

"That's me."

Their hands shook and Charles noticed the ring on her left ring finger that also bore a tiny cross and a rose. "I'm Becky, I work for Mr. Lanaghan," she introduced herself and nodded, "you want to follow me?"

"Sure." Charles hoped that he didn't trip as he walked behind her, down the ice cold, marble corridor. How was this a house? It seemed like part office building, part Vegas hotel, part mausoleum. "What the hell?" he hadn't meant to say it so loud but it was involuntary. They passed a statue of a risen, saintly Jesus with stigmata on his palms, but the savior's face had been altered to be Darren's.

"The leader has a flair for the dramatic," Becky said casually as if it were no big deal, not the least bit sacrilegious to put your own fucking face over Jesus.

"Yeah, I guess." It was gaudy with gold leaf and plants and artwork that made no sense. It was a parade of colors and textures juxtaposed with the cool, clean white marble. It was like a child had decorated and then their religious grandmother had come through. This really confirmed his first thought from years ago, Charles thought. Darren really had been pure trailer trash.

Becky brought him to a closed, white door and opened it. She gestured inside. "If you wouldn't mind waiting, Mr. Lanaghan is running late. Police!" she added with an eye roll that suggested that they'd been such an annoyance and just couldn't be less considerate.

"Sure thing." Charles stepped inside. "Must be crazy like this every day, huh?" he tried to make polite conversation.

Becky twisted her thin lips to the side. "It definitely can get busy but it's been much worse since that day."

That day, she wouldn't say it. Charles thought, just to see if she would agree with the security guard, he had to throw it out there, he had to. "The day Darren died?"

Becky looked like she might laugh and said, "No, the day of Miss Pryce's birthday party." After she shut the door behind her, Charles got the distinct impression that if he stepped back out in the corridor, she would know. He definitely got the feeling that he was being watched here.

And it wasn't just god.

What were the cops doing there? Also, no one except Darren seemed to want to talk about him being dead.

This office was decorated in a completely different manner than the rest of the compound. It was full of heavy mahogany furniture, stuffy and almost Victorian. The desk was massive, too wide to reach the person on the other side. The chairs could have been museum pieces, upholstered in forest green and gold. You can take the boy out of the trailer park, Charles thought as he eased into the deep cushion.

From inside, he couldn't hear the panicked voices or the dollies traipsing back forth. It was as quiet as a sanctuary in this room. It was too quiet and Charles was getting bored. He reached for his cell phone and noticed that he'd been waiting twenty minutes already. Fuck this guy, Charles was always on time and he couldn't stand people who weren't. Worse, he had no bars and no internet. He knew it wasn't the area but he'd bet a big chunk of the fat fee that he was getting paid that the Pryce compound had their own service in order to control and monitor what was being communicated.

Charles wanted to tell himself that if this guy wasn't here in five minutes, he'd bolt. He knew he'd never do it though because he'd already promised to stay. Charles didn't renege, it just wasn't in him.

He was decent.

The door opened and a thin man in a navy blue suit and tie entered the room hurriedly. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, Charles." He had a full head of dark hair that was combed and styled meticulously and Charles thought he must also be on television like his boss had been.

"Mr. Lanaghan?"

"Please, call me Jacob."

"Jacob." Charles watched him approach. Now that was a handshake, an alpha male grip that included a pat on the back with the other hand as he addressed Charles as, "The man of the hour."

Over the top praise could have been something that Lanaghan got from Darren. "Impressive place you've got here." Charles told him with a nod that said he approved.

"Yeah, it's quite the place. Won't be the same without my buddy though."

About that, Charles leaned in. "The security guard seems to think Darren isn't really dead? And Becky thinks the cops are here because of a birthday party."

Nothing added up.

Jacob ran one hand down his left jacket sleeve, as if he were ridding himself of the dust of this place. He adjusted his cuff links and then the ends of both sleeves and Charles knew the man was stalling, or better yet, cleaning up the truth.

"Charles, can I call you Chuck?"

He really wished he wouldn't but Charles shrugged, "sure."

"Do you watch television? No, wait," Jacob shook his head, "fuck tv. Do you watch movies?"

"Yup."

"As you get settled here at the Pryce compound, you're bound to hear some strange things. You've probably noticed that this place ain't exactly inconspicuous, right?"

Fucking white trash cheesy Reno motel lobby was more precise. "Right."

"We're putting on a show here, Chuck. A movie. And just because our movie is promoting god, doesn't mean that it's not every bit as planned as a Broadway play. You got me?"

That you're completely full of shit. "Sure."

"So does it hurt if we give our audience a happy ending? No," he answered his own question emphatically. "If suggesting, merely suggesting that Darren could rise from the dead like our lord and savior did, can I get an amen?" Jacob put his hands up in the air, as if he were waiting for Charles to participate.

No dice, dickhead, Charles thought.

Jacob continued, "There's no harm in that and since he is a child of god, Darren is already in heaven at Jesus's right hand and that means he has eternal life."

"Okay." There were so many holes in that crock of shit that Charles didn't know where to begin.

Jacob put his hands down, the show was over. "But for all practical intents and purposes, yes Darren is dead. He died during Miss Anastasia's eighteenth birthday party two weeks ago of a massive coronary. Right by the cabanas, if you want to know."

He didn't. What Charles wanted to know was why had Darren made the DVD of his last will and testament the same day that he died? "Wow," he responded in a whisper.

"You'll do fine," Jacob assured him with two rows of pearlescent teeth. "Now just so you know that you're going to see a couple of cops out here when we do the tour. Nothing to worry about, just Dallas PD being extra careful."

"Extra careful about what?"

"Well, all the drugs in Darren's system showed up on the toxicology report and it raises a red flag." The man rolled his eyes like Becky had done, as if to say that a homicide investigation was just a minor irritation.

"I see."

"Well, let's have a look around and then I'll take you in to meet the little princess," Jacob said it with distaste, like he'd just swallowed something bitter.

"Princess?"

Jacob laughed and opened his jacket to poke inside the inner pocket. "I could call her problem too, but princess sounds nicer." The man pulled out a small brown glass container. He unscrewed the lid and tapped out a polka dot of cocaine on the meat between his thumb and hand. He snorted deeply and the powder disappeared up his nostril. "You want?" He shook the brown glass at Charles.

Jesus Christ, and here he'd been feeling bad about taking the lord's name in vain.

"No thank you." Charles said as he rose to his feet. The tour was about to begin.

***

The compound was on a little over fifty acres. Near the back of the property, there was a trail for horse riding and they stocked the stream with fish. Jacob called it a fishing hole and after that and a few other colloquialisms, Charles thought the man's drawl was legitimate.

"So you are the pastor now?" asked Charles. Jacob had flash and flair but he was missing the seemingly sincere sound that Darren had. That was the draw, otherwise you were just a used car salesman.

"No, no," Jacob was quick to dismiss the idea. "Personally I'm not that much of a people person. More the idea guy."

The puppet master was more like it, Charles thought, and it seemed fitting. Jacob might not love people but he was smart and something about him felt oily and unsavory. What a terrible fucking second in command to leave your young daughter with. Speaking of which, Charles had to know, "So why is Miss Pryce a problem?"

He might as well know everything, considering what a strange experience this was shaping up to be.

Jacob pointed off to the right, at a one story stucco building with Spanish tile, "movie theater over there if you're ever in the mood." He stopped and put his back against the trunk of a towering palm tree. They were in the shade and far from the main house and yet, Charles couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on him. Jacob reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. As he tapped the pack on his left hand, he asked Charles, "Chuck, you have a daughter?"

"No."

"Any kids?"

"None."

"Weird," Jacob said as he shook his head. "Well let's just put it like this," he paused, put the cigarette in his mouth and lit. After a long, smoky exhale, Jacob continued, "She's a typical teenage girl, except it's worse."

"How so?"

"She's a teenage girl with power," Jacob puffed and groaned. He seemed to be in pain and nothing but gobbling down nicotine would fix it. He blew a smoke ring. "Believe me, I've got two teenage daughters. You think women are bad?" he laughed a dry, mirthless hack, "fucking girls kill your spirit. And my daughters don't have shit. Give them a billion dollars and see what happens!" He snarled and coughed up something from deep down that was green when he spat it on the tree trunk.

Try five billion, Charles thought but kept it to himself.

Jacob continued, "You'll see in a bit, Chuck. Believe me, whatever they're paying you, you're earning it." He gestured for Charles to follow, "I should show you where you'll be."

"I'm completely turned around," Charles hadn't kept it straight. Everything was a twisting path, look that way, look down there. He was down the rabbit hole and frankly, the more he heard, the more he wondered if he should even be here. Maybe the big, fat fee was blood money.

Jacob led him to what looked like two cottages that were joined by a long porch. "You'll figure it out, you're a smart guy," Jacob said with pat on the arm in a tone that suggested Charles was actually an idiot. "Come on, this is you."

The man tossed the cigarette and shoved a gold key into the lock. Once he opened the green door, a wave of central air washed over Charles and invited him to come in and set a spell.

Jacob pointed, "living room, bedroom, deck is through there."

The place had a lived in feel to it and someone had definitely smoked in here before. It wasn't quite the lap of luxury that Charles had almost expected. "Whose house is this?"

"Darren's."

Charles exhaled deeply as he looked around, yeah, seemed about right. Darren would keep all the gaudy glitter of perception up front and here in his den of iniquity he'd be comfortable. Charles could picture his client with his boots on the coffee table, probably drinking a beer and laughing about how much money he'd pulled in that Sunday. "Okay," he shrugged, there didn't seem to be any options.

Jacob added, "Your luggage should be in the bedroom. You should definitely wait to unpack because it's time to meet the princess."

His client, the reigning terror. Charles wondered if she'd be the female version of her father.

"I should warn you Chuck," Jacob had to snort a little more coke just to make the meeting. The man fumbled with nervous, jittery fingers and almost dropped the small, brown vial. "Watch yourself."

Jacob sniffed and shook the cocaine at Charles, one last invitation.

"I'm good."

"Come on," Jacob opened the front door again and waited for Charles to pass, back outside into the sweltering heat.

"Why do I need to watch myself?"

How scary could an eighteen year old girl be?

Jacob stopped in front of the green door that was fifteen feet away from his own. "Well, who would know better than the princess how to kill Darren and make it look like an overdose?" He knocked on the door and didn't even give Charles a chance to digest the fact that his ward was a murder suspect.

Jesus, his heart hammered like a drum.

The door opened and Charles gulped as the girl on the other side came into view. "Mr. Nelson," her voice was honey dripping down honeycomb. Sweet and rich and had hidden depth to it. It was a voice that meandered, and the accent was pure Texas. Unlike her father, the drawl was legit and the girl must have spoken like that from the start. "It's a pleasure," she said in the hushed voice, like everything was a secret. Charles felt himself lean in to hear her and he suspected that everyone else did.

There were countless reasons for wanting to be closer to her.

"The pleasure is mine," Charles put his hand out and captured her tiny one. Her fingers were small, her palm dainty and all of her soft as butter. Pleasure was precisely what he was feeling and he reminded himself to shake the hand, up and down and release.

He didn't want to let go.

"Anastasia, Chuck," Jacob made the introductions quickly and the man in the suit might as well be a million miles away. Everything was in slow motion and by everything, Charles meant Anastasia. "Hey, I've got a meeting back at the house," Jacob told them and gave Charles a pat on the back. "You let me know if you need anything, won't you?"

Charles didn't think he could speak. He was too caught up in it. What was she? She had an otherworldly quality about her, something elfish, fairy like. So much to take in and yet, such a small package. She could only be about five two, maybe five three, she came to his shoulder in the white canvas tennis shoes.

"We'll be fine, Mr. Lanaghan," Anastasia told him and the voice was a quiet roar. Sure, she was tiny and sweet and maybe even unassuming with the baby blue sweater over the blue flowered sundress, but she had authority. She dismissed Jacob with that voice and Charles wondered if that weren't the source of his dislike.

"Yup," Jacob said in a tone that meant he'd eaten all the shit he could bear. He sounded on edge and it was just as well that Anastasia sent him away. Charles wanted nothing more than to be alone with her.

There was the sound of the door as it closed behind him and Charles was caught up in her bare calves as the dress twirled around her body. "You're not really Chuck, are you?" Anastasia asked with a smile that came from her gentle, blue eyes as well as her curvy, pink mouth. Her lips shone with gloss and Charles didn't know why he couldn't take his eyes off her slick, shiny little mouth.

"No, not really," he mumbled but there was no way he could speak clearly as his heart lurched in his chest like this.

Anastasia floated before him and the white Keds and the glimpses of supple flesh led him to the couch and the swish of the fabric around her tan thighs, just above her knees, was so loud. God, her legs were glorious and her curvy calves were tanned just to a syrupy gold. He took them in, inch by inch as she sat down, Anastasia patted the cushion next to her. "Can I call you Charlie then?"

She could call him anything she wanted in that voice. Fuck, that trickle of water, a bead of condensation that ran down a cold glass of sweet tea on a hot afternoon. He loved the way she didn't annunciate the hard R. There was none of the familiar Midwest in her accent. It was all slow and the edges were worn off. "Charlie is fine."

"I suppose since Daddy put you in charge of me, we should get to know each other."

"Yes."

The baby blue sweater was open and the flowered dress was modest. It buttoned from top to bottom with a row of tiny, pearl buttons that only the smallest of fairy fingers could have managed. Anastasia wore her waist long, thick shock of blonde hair straight with two small, pink barrettes clipped behind her ears. She had the mark of pierced ears but no earrings.

"It's warm in here," Anastasia murmured and took the sweater off. If Charles had needed any further convincing that she was a natural blonde, there was the white peach fuzz, the downy trace of hair on both arms came into view.

And the shadow of breasts in the front of the dress, just the shape of them but that was enough for Charles' mind to go reeling. God, a fairy princess like her with breasts.

It hardly seemed fair and Charles felt an old need, the oldest, stir between his legs.

Anastasia continued, "I suppose since Daddy trusted you, that I should too."

Trust.

That was the reason he was here, the real reason. Not to ogle a girl that was just barely legal but still no more than a girl. And she was looking at him like that, with her innocent, blue eyes, thick, sooty lashes, the epitome of wholesomeness. Her tender skin and her tender gaze, she probably wanted a hug and there was no way that Charles could give her one without her clearly feeling his intentions. His cock was a battering ram and had pulsed steadily for her attention since she had opened the door.

Darren really had been terrified for her and rightfully so. The princess of America's most successful church, literally the poster child for virginity, was the most beautiful girl that Charles had ever seen. Look at the ring, the silver band with the cross that adorned her left ring finger, you fucking pervert, Charles chided himself. Don't you dare. She's married to god, at least until she has a husband.

He cleared his throat. "Of course, you can trust me, Anastasia. I know that's easy for me to say, especially since you're still grieving."

She folded her small hands in her lap. Her nails were shiny and clear and she still had a trace of dimples on the back of her hands. So new and so fresh and her scent was subtle and sweet and probably expensive. She really was a princess in a castle.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said it just above a whisper and once more he leaned in to listen. "No one seems to understand that," she swallowed hard. "He wasn't just the leader of the church. I mean, I know my Daddy wasn't perfect but I loved him."

She sounded like she was on the verge of tears and Charles reached for her hands without thinking. He tucked both of them in his own and just like that, they were touching. They were so close that he could feel her breath and their knees brushed together. It was a kaleidoscope of delight and he wondered if her lip gloss wasn't bubblegum scented. Wouldn't it be delightful to bend his head and have a taste? Just a lick of that full, bottom lip? Her pouty, girlish mouth, too small to be a woman's mouth. Someday she would probably outline the top lip to be larger and more voluptuous but it could never be as sweetly seductive as it was now.

Charles was frozen in time as he contemplated the lovely girl doing very grown up things with that mouth. Stop. Stop this instant.

"I know your father loved you very much as well, Anastasia," her name was melodic but he wouldn't stop to wander over the syllables. "He wanted me to protect you, so that's what I'm here for."