Unbound

Chapter 1

Hayden Crutchfield's dad, the most beloved televangelist in the country, was full of shit.

He prowled back and forth on the church stage like a caged tiger, eyes locked on its next meal—its next meal being the silent, staring congregation and, more importantly, their wallets. He stopped at the pulpit where his ancient, monolithic bible sat and slammed a hand down. The crack reverberated through the microphone over his mouth and echoed off the rafters high above them.

"Jesus wept," he shouted, eyes scanning the crowd as if daring any to disagree. They lighted on Hayden for a moment, and Hayden stiffened—focused. "He didn't weep because He was a weak man," his dad continued, gaze moving on. "He didn't weep because He was hurt. No! Jesus, our Lord and Savior, He wept because we have all sinned, and fallen short of the glooooooooory of God!"

Hayden took note of when his father drew out words, when he shouted them. It was perfect timing, perfect pitch. 'Pastor Tim' knew when to push the congregation, and then when to soothe them. Push and pull. It was an art, something Hayden had been forced to learn for the past five years. He was seventeen now, and he was expected to follow in his father's footsteps, both Heavenly and Earthly.

Tonight, as a matter of fact.

He glanced down at his watch. His father would conclude in ten minutes. Suddenly his mouth was dry and he needed some water. His dad told him to save his bottle of water until he started preaching, but that was impossible.

"When Jesus was up there, hanging on that old, splintered cross," several older women in the crowd moaned at this. "He wasn't thinking of himself. He wasn't up there because he had to be. He hung up there because He wanted to be there. He wanted to shed his blood for our sins."

Hayden drank as deep as he dared from the water, while drinking in his father's pitch and tone. And then he did what he'd been avoiding all night—he looked around at the congregation. It was Sunday night, and word had spread for weeks that Hayden Crutchfield, son of Pastor Tim, was set to give his first sermon.

Thousands had shown up to witness his first time. More than one face studied him instead of his father. Hayden could only imagine how he looked: cold and clammy, his dark hair plastered to his head by both sweat and hair gel. His father had told him to slick it back—something Hayden never did—and he was pretty sure it made him look like a young up-and-coming car salesman.

Suddenly the congregation was on its feet, clapping and shouting loud enough to cause the speakers hanging from the ceiling to shake and swing slightly. Oh, crap. What did he miss?

He darted a glance at his father, then rose and clapped as well until his palms burned. From the look of joyous rapture on his dad's face, and his uplifted hands, Pastor Tim had just concluded his fiery sermon. Those ten minutes passed by way too fast.

Pastor Tim dropped his hands, a wide grin on his face. The crowd, following suit, ceased clapping and sank back into their seats.

"And now, my brothers and sisters, while my son makes his way to the pulpit, Brother Carter is going to say a prayer over the offering. Give from your hearts, brothers and sisters, but know that God, God knows what you can afford for his ministry. He loves that penny just as much as He loves that hundred dollar bill." Chuckles swept through the congregation as one of the deacons sitting to the right of the pulpit stood, bowed his head, and began praying loudly.

Meanwhile, Hayden stood and quietly made his way to where his father stood with his head bowed, but eyes open. Hayden placed his smaller and much less worn bible next to his dad's. He set his bottle of water on the floor just behind the podium.