Torn from the pages of the Whiskey Woven Dreams Journal.
I used to believe in fire.
The kind that purifies. The kind that burns sin from the bone and leaves only righteousness behind. I preached it every Sunday from the pulpit of Redeemer Baptist, my voice cutting through the still Boise air like a blade. Thirty-two years old, white as fresh linen, a man of God. I had all the answers.
Then I met Eva.
She smelled like sweat, motel sheets, and Black Orchid —a scent too rich for the life she lived, too dark and intoxicating for a woman scraping by on the edge of nothing.
And her clothes—Lord, her clothes.
She wore sin stitched into silk, temptation wrapped in tight seams. A red slip dress that clung to her like a second skin, hem cut just high enough to make a man forget the verses he'd memorized since childhood. A sheer black shawl draped over her shoulders, something delicate, almost holy, like the wings of a seraphim. It moved when she moved, whispering around her like a spirit, shielding her but never hiding her.
It was her armor. Her weapon.
She knew how to use it.
She could stand under a streetlamp and become salvation to the desperate. She could step into a room and make men kneel without a single word. But it wasn’t just seduction—it was survival. That dress, that shawl, the way she carried herself—it was the Holy Spirit woven in fabric, wrapping around her, keeping her safe even when the world stripped everything else away.
I should have walked past her that night, sprawled on the church steps, her long fingers curled around a Gucci purse like it was a lifeline.
“You lookin’ at, pastor?” she slurred, dragging a cigarette to her lips, fingers trembling as she lit it. “You gon’ preach at me or just stare?”
Her skin was dark, smooth under the dirt, the kind of skin my father used to sneer at when he talked about “those people.” The kind of skin that made me cross the street without thinking.
I wasn’t just a preacher. I was my father’s son. A man who had learned from the pulpit that some sins were filthier than others. That a man lying with a man was an abomination. That a white man laying hands on a dark-skinned woman was no better.
But I didn’t cross the street this time.
“Do you need help?” The words came before I could stop them.
She exhaled a ribbon of smoke, eyes unreadable. “Do you?”
I should have walked away. Should have left her to the streets. But something—maybe God, maybe something darker—held me there.
Eva wasn’t just another lost soul. She was havoc-wrapped in silk.
The bath salts had hollowed her out, left her body trembling, her spirit stretched thin like old lace. The North Side Latin Kings owned her the way wolves owned a kill. Every night, they sent her out. Every morning, she came back with bruises on her thighs and a darkness behind her eyes.
But then, she started coming to me.
First at the church. Then at my apartment. She’d curl up on my couch, legs tucked beneath her, the Gucci purse pressed to her chest like scripture, the scent of Black Orchid curling in the air.
“You ever see something so beautiful,” she whispered one night, tracing the gold clasp with a reverent touch, “that you just wanna believe it was made by God?”
She lifted the purse and kissed it softly. “This right here? This is proof. Proof that the world wasn’t always dirty. That something good can last.”
I fell in love with her then.
Not with her body—I was past that lie. No, I fell in love with the way she could look at something man-made, something stitched by hands she’d never touch, and see divinity.
I had spent my life believing God was reserved for men like me—white, clean, holy. But Eva made me doubt.
Doubt turned to faith.
Faith turned to love.
Then the Kings came knocking.
“You poachin’ our bitch, preacher?” Scar-Lip, their enforcer, leaned against my doorframe like an Old Testament angel, sword drawn. “She ours. That a problem?”
I clenched my fists. “She’s not property.”
Scar-Lip smirked. “This world don’t run on faith, homie. You want her out? You buy her out.”
He named the price. It was impossible.
But I did it anyway.
I emptied the church coffers, and stole from the very house of God I swore to serve. I walked into the lion’s den with nothing but a duffel bag full of stolen tithes and a desperate heart.
They took the money. Took their amusement, too—knuckles to my ribs, boots to my stomach. I left coughing blood, missing a tooth, but holding Eva’s hand.
But the Kings weren’t done.
We ran.
A cheap 1992 Dodge Caravan, a tank half-full, Eva chain-smoking out the window. Boise lights fading behind us like the ghost of a life I couldn’t return to.
Then headlights filled the mirror.
“They’re comin’,” Eva whispered, flicking her cigarette out the window. Her fingers dug into the Gucci purse, knuckles white.
I gripped the wheel. “God—”
“Don’t start prayin’ now, Clay.”
But I did. I prayed like David in the caves, like Moses with the sea at his back. Lord, deliver us! Lord, let me atone!
The first shot shattered the back window. Eva screamed.
I yanked the wheel hard, the tires shrieking against the pavement. The Kings’ truck roared behind us, high beams cutting through the night, death on our heels.
Then—a bridge. Water beneath. No time.
I slammed the brakes, jerked the wheel. The car skidded sideways, slamming against the guardrail. The impact threw Eva against me, her breath hot in my ear.
The Kings stopped. Doors opened. Boots hit the pavement.
Scar-Lip stepped forward, gun in hand.
“You really thought you could take what’s ours?” He sneered, raising the pistol.
I looked at Eva.
She smelled like Black Orchid and smoke and fear.
She pressed the Gucci purse into my hands. “If you get outta here, hold onto this for me.”
I turned to Scar-Lip. Raised my hands.
“If you want blood,” I said, voice steady, “take mine.”
The gun leveled at my head.
Then—sirens.
Blue and red lights washed over us. Scar-Lip cursed, lowering the gun, already retreating. The Kings weren’t stupid. They didn’t do life bids.
Eva grabbed my hand. We ran.
Now, we sit in a motel outside Salt Lake, neon buzzing, her head on my chest. My face still aches from the Kings’ farewell gift, but I don’t care.
Eva rests the Gucci purse on her lap, stroking it absently, lips moving in a silent prayer.
“You think God still sees us?” she murmurs.
I exhale, staring at the cracked ceiling. The fire I used to believe in? It wasn’t the kind that purifies. It was the kind that consumes.
“I think,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her hair, “He never looked away.”