Magdalene
Authors: Moriah Jovan
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Gay, #Homosexuality, #Religion, #Christianity, #love story, #Revenge, #mormon, #LDS, #Business, #Philosophy, #Pennsylvania, #prostitute, #Prostitution, #Love Stories, #allegory, #New York, #Jesus Christ, #easter, #ceo, #metal, #the proviso, #bishop, #stay, #the gospels, #dunham series, #latterday saint, #Steel, #excommunication, #steel mill, #metals fabrication, #moriah jovan, #dunham
Book 3 in the Tales of Dunham
by
Moriah Jovan
A Mormon bishop.
An ex-prostitute.
A man with a vendetta.
Let the games begin.
Smashwords Edition
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B10 Mediaworx
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Copyright 2011 by Moriah Jovan
Edited by Eric W Jepson
Copyedited by M. Elizabeth Palmer
Cover and illustrations by Adam K.K.
Figueira
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This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The
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* * * * *
Ere You Left Your Room This
Morning
Between the Moon and New York
City
Took the Hand of a Preacher
Man
Feel the Fear in My Enemy’s
Eyes
•
* * * * *
* * * * *
But if they cannot contain, let them marry:
for it is better to marry than to burn.
I Corinthians 7:9 (KJV)
* * * * *
MAY 2007
I didn’t go into prostitution because I was
desperate; I did it because I was bored: Bored with my hausfrau
existence, bored with my husband both in bed and out, bored with my
ingrate daughters who don’t (yet) understand what it means to be
the sacrificial lamb in the nuclear family setup and that being a
wife and mother can be its own category of prostitution. They will.
And I’ll laugh.
I was never the stereotypical whore with a
heart of gold, which seems to be used as point and counterpoint: If
you’re pure in heart, being a whore is tolerable, forgivable even;
if you’re just a mercenary bitch who likes sex and, moreover,
getting paid for it, it’s the unforgivable sin. Ultimately,
however, I had to choose my clients on their ability to pay my
exorbitant prices and leave the good sex to my carefully selected
lovers.
I didn’t quit prostitution for some sort of
wish fulfillment of born-again virginity; I quit because I was
bored. Fucking for money involves a certain amount of acting
ability and while I’m a very good actress (thus, a very good
whore), it takes some amount of concentration that is not usually
conducive to having a real orgasm.
With a healthy bank account, one ex-husband
whose current partner sports genitalia similar to his own, four
grown daughters, my forty-third birthday on the horizon, and with
professional ennui setting in, I had to find something else to
do.
* * * * *
Never an Honest
Word
November 9, 2010
It was Tuesday night at church, and Mitch
could tell: The sound of twenty teenagers’ laughter echoed from the
gym. Toddler squeals came from the nursery and carried across the
building. Murmurs and chuckles drifted from the kitchen where women
gathered to learn the art of creating decent meals out of food
storage.
They weren’t doing so well.
He headed out of the room to escape the
cooks who knew the food was bad but were determined to brazen it
out.
“That’s right! Leave us to our misery!”
Mitch tossed a grin over his shoulder at the
woman who’d spoken. “Self-induced, Prissy,” he called back. “You
get no sympathy from me.”
Chuckling, he looked down at his BlackBerry
and nearly barreled into another woman. He stifled a groan and
stepped back immediately. “Excuse me, Sister Bevan,” Mitch
murmured, refusing to use her first name.
“Bishop, can I talk to you?”
He didn’t want to.
But he would.
Because he had to.
“Certainly,” he said politely, and gestured
toward the hall that led to the bishop’s office. She preceded him
and once inside, he closed the door behind her and checked a second
door to an adjoining room to make sure his clerk was present and
puttering about with church records. Mitch left that one open an
inch.
Meanwhile, Sally had made herself
comfortable in the chair across from Mitch’s desk. As usual, she
had dressed in her best, something approaching a cocktail dress,
but not quite making the look work for her. She should probably not
wear red.
He dropped into his chair, leaned back, and
intertwined his fingers behind his head. “What can I do for
you?”
What can I do for you?
His life’s refrain.
Of course, he didn’t have to be told what he
could do for her. She’d made herself abundantly clear in the last
year, and hadn’t been too subtle before that.
She launched into her usual litany of
complaints against her husband, Dan, most of which involved his
inability to find or keep a job. But jobs at Dan’s level were
scarce and the man was overeducated and overqualified for anything
he could get in Allentown or Bethlehem. Apparently, he hadn’t told
Sally he was looking for jobs in Manhattan, Chicago, and
Atlanta—and not just because there were better opportunities.
Dan wanted to get Sally away from Mitch, and
Mitch was perfectly happy to assist him in that endeavor. They’d
never talked about it, but the knowledge lay heavy between
them.
Mitch wasn’t listening to her. He’d heard it
before and didn’t believe a word of it, so he stared at a spot just
to the left of the woman’s ear and said “uh huh” and “no” and “yes”
in all the appropriate places.
A knock sounded on the door, and with far
too much gratitude, he said, “Come in.”
It opened and a seventeen-year-old girl
stuck her head in his office. “Hi, Bishop.”
“Hi, Hayleigh.”
“Is Trevor here tonight?”
“He’s at the mill.” Which she knew. It was
code for
I really need to talk to you now, Bishop
.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that the
bishop’s son doesn’t come to the youth activities?”
That stung, but she didn’t know. Mitch
didn’t need another reminder that Trevor hated Church—everything
about it, from doctrine to culture—and would rather clean rest-stop
toilets with his own toothbrush than come to church.
But he did attend on Sundays and, to the
kid’s credit, he did everything he was asked with a smile and
without complaint.
Mitch might have been happier about that
were it not for the stab of guilt he felt because he’d farmed the
kid out to someone else to raise during his most impressionable
years. Now it was too late.
Sally rose abruptly, obviously offended that
he had allowed her to be interrupted. “Thank you, Bishop,” she said
tightly.
“You’re welcome, Sister Bevan.”