Reprobate - A River Bend Rebels M/M Romance - Book 1

1. Jamie

September, 2013

I watched from my usual spot in the front pew as my father's sermon dragged on. His voice faded away as in my head, I frantically rehearsed the tricky key change just after the bridge. The song's lyrics, which I'd had down pat just this morning, were now a nonsensical jumble of words without coherent form.

The Sundays when I had to perform a new song that I'd just learned were the worst. My mom had found this one on the internet. When she'd played it for my dad, he'd informed me that I'd learn it over the next couple of days and perform it the following Sunday at the end of the service.

"Yes, sir," I'd said, and that was that. It was an automatic response; I'd learned long ago that you didn't argue with my dad. Especially not about anything that had to do with church. Or much of anything else, for that matter.

I fidgeted in my seat and clutched the neck of my guitar like it was a lifeline. Beside me, my mother glanced at me and smiled. My nerves must've shown on my face because she mouthed, Relax. You'll be fine.

Easy for her to say.

It wasn't as though I had stage fright all the time. If I did, I probably wouldn't spend as much time as I did fantasizing about being on a huge open-air stage performing in front of an adoring crowd of thousands who'd forgive any stumble in lyrics or chord changes. In those daydreams, I wasn't at all nervous. I was confident, charismatic, a star. A rock god.

But real life me wasn't a famous rock star and never would be. I was Jameson Bridgewater, Pastor Bridgewater's eldest son. Seventeen years old and about to start my final year at River Bend High School before heading off to college next fall, with the goal of becoming a pastor like my dad and eventually taking over Grace Community Independent Baptist Church when he retired. It had been all planned out since the day I was born.

Once more I ran through the song in my head, working out all the kinks as I'd done when I'd practiced in my room with the tickle of coolness from the central air keeping the oppressive summer heat at bay. I'd struggled through that awful key change enough times that by last night, muscle memory had taken over and I'd executed it flawlessly.

So why was I panicking now? I've got this. I know I do.

The hymn, titled Holy Ghost, was simple, with lyrics that were repetitive and easy to memorize. Well, at least they had been when played in the sanctity of my bedroom with the door closed and only a few floating dust motes for an audience. Now that I was just moments from getting up and singing them before the congregation, my mind had gone infuriatingly blank. What if this time I couldn't snap out of it? What if I got up there and faced everyone without a single note or word in my head? 

I gripped the neck of my guitar to stop my hand from trembling. As my dad droned on about Jesus encountering opposition from the Pharisees, I imagined getting up there before the church and playing Holy Ghost on a Fender Stratocaster at a much faster tempo, the wailing notes delivered through a driving amp cranked up so loud that the stained glass windows rattled. My raw-throated voice screaming above even that. The entire congregation on their feet, horns high, headbanging and moshing all over the sanctuary. Little old ladies body-surfing and stage-diving.

I snorted laughter at the ridiculous visual. My mom shot me a glare and I sobered quickly. On the other side of me, my eight-year-old twin siblings, Ethan and Hannah, gave me matching wide-eyed stares. It wasn't like me to act up in church. I could hear my parents' admonishment already. You must set a good example for your brother and sister, Jameson. Is this setting a good example?