Kate Fox & The Three Kings Read Free

knocking him off-balance and back into the booth. “I am not making a request,” Mr. Hemming warned. “The thing is, I take what I want, what I need to survive, or in this case, what I need for my end. I will show you no courtesy if you refuse me.”
    “There has to be another way,” George breathed. “You cannot use my daughter,” his voice was low.
    Mr. Hemming stood to leave, straightening his tie. Before turning to go, he faced George, speaking only loud enough for his ears, “I will rip your daughter’s throat out with my teeth if you keep her from us. Do you understand?” Mr. Hemming paused for an answer, but George had none. “Congratulations on fatherhood, Mr. Fox. We’ll be seeing each other soon.”

2
    Snake in the Chapel, Eve Bit the Apple
May 13, 2009
    “ W hich wine pairs best with greasy tacos and self-loathin’?” Essie asked as we wandered past the meager selection of boxed wines.
    Brushy Fork, the Bible-thumping, sleepy town on the outskirts of Lexington, wasn’t where you wanted to live if you didn’t support the prohibition. The pharmacy, located in the next town over, carried only four varieties of cheap wine, and several bottles of Boone’s Farm, which, I guess, falls under the ‘extremely cheap’ variety of wine now that I think about it. Luckily for us, the pharmacy was running a sale, featuring Boone’s Farm’s succulent blueberry flavor. This week, the eerily neon libation could get you buzzed for a cool $1.75. For a brief moment, I considered washing down my five-layer burrito with Boone’s Farm’s alien elixir, but tonight was a Pinot Grigio kind of night. After all, we were celebrating my high school graduation.
    At the register, Essie batted her eyelashes at Noah, the dorky-but-cute cashier, who, if I was not mistaken, enjoyed a scandalous fling with Essie at vacation Bible school a few summers ago.
    “I.D. please,” Noah murmured, avoiding eye contact by brushing his untidy bangs away from his forehead. The flush in his cheeks gave his disinterested act away, but Essie was too preoccupied to notice. She rummaged through her bag and retrieved her I.D. like she found a winning lottery ticket. Esther Ruth Sprite was boldly printed across the front of her license. Sometimes, I forgot Essie belonged to them , too.
    We both belonged to them. Brushy Fork, Kentucky, housed the notorious Blood of Christ Baptist Church, which wasn’t really even a church in the traditional sense—some folks might call it a cult. Essie and I referred to the congregation as W.H.O.R.E.: “We Hate Outsiders, (Your) Religion, and Everyone.” The entire world hates W.H.O.R.E., and W.H.O.R.E. relishes in the entire world’s hatred.
    “You’ll bust outta ‘ere soon, Katie.” Essie briefly took her eyes off the road to shoot me a worried glance as we sped out of the parking lot. The lies we told ourselves to make moments pass by less painfully were alluring, but I knew the truth. The women of Blood of Christ Baptist Church were just that; they belonged to the church. As soon as girls graduated from high school, they got married off, as though they were cattle at an auction. W.H.O.R.E. implemented a form of betrothal arranged from the first sign of puberty. Women tended to the home, served their husband, raised children, and followed every ridiculous rule cast upon them without question.
    The women of W.H.O.R.E. weren’t suppose know what desire felt like, but I never claimed to be a woman of W.H.O.R.E. I desired, more than anything, to attend college, but with the Brushy Fork High curriculum of rewriting Old Testament chapters and practicing pleasant facial expressions, I had no chance at admission.
    With a defeated sigh, I peered out the window and lost myself in the sight of evening closing in on the rolling countryside and Kentucky bluegrass: an illuminated blood orange landscape colliding with the dark night sky. “I have no chance of living beyond these invisible walls,” I motioned to