Finding Us (Christian Interracial Romance)

Goodbye, Satan. Hello, Jesus.

Jeremy

♫ I wish that I could be like the cool kids

'Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in.

I wish that I could be like the cool kids. 

Like the cool kids. ♫

I roll my eyes, chuckling to myself as I shift my eyes at the rear view mirror briefly before my eyes are fixated on the road while Ellie and Zayna are in the back, belting one of their personal favorite tune"Cool Kids" by Echosmith. That song came out when they were nine years old. Jake is sitting next to Zayna and Bradley is riding shotgun as I grip the steering wheel, resisting the urge to ram my head into it.

"Do you two have to scream the lyrics?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock annoyance.

Ellie leans forward between the seats, her long waves bouncing. "Yes," she says, dead serious.

Zayna chimes in, "It's a sacred anthem of our childhood, Jeremy. Respect the classics."

Bradley snorts. "Yeah, because nothing says classic like a one-hit wonder from 2014."

Jake, who's been mostly quiet, shrugs. "I mean, it's better than the emo phase Jeremy was stuck in back then."

"Hey!" I shoot him a glare before returning my focus to the road. "It was not a phase. It was a lifestyle."

Bradley pats my shoulder. "And part of that lifestyle included getting a Satanic goat demon tattooed on your wrist?"

I sigh, my grip on the wheel tightening. "Technically, it was under contract."

Ellie snorts. "Oh, right. Because when Damien tells you to do something, you just do it."

"I was young, impressionable, and mildly terrified of that man," I admit. "You try saying no to the guy who made a career out of traumatizing an entire generation."

Zayna smirks. "And now we get to witness the great undoing of Jeremy's rebellious streak."

"I wouldn't call it rebellious," I mutter, pulling into the strip mall parking lot. "More like... legally obligated stupidity."

As I park, I glance at my wrist, the faded black ink of the Baphomet staring back at me. The memory of my mom's reaction to it resurfaces instantly.

The year was 2012. I had just landed the role on The Murder Diaries, which, at the time, felt like the biggest achievement of my life. I was riding the high of success, thinking I was untouchable. And then Damien—who had the persuasive charm of a cult leader—suggested that I get a tattoo to "embody the spirit of the show."

"It'll be iconic," he had said, grinning in that way that made you feel like you were either about to get promoted or sacrificed to an ancient deity. "Commit to the art, Jeremy."

And because I was a gullible idiot, I agreed.

Two weeks later, I strutted into my parents' house, rolled up my sleeve, and proudly displayed my new ink.

Mom took one look at it and nearly combusted.

"What in the actual blasphemy is this?" She screeched, snatching my wrist and yanking it closer like she was about to perform an exorcism.

"It's, uh... a goat," I said weakly.

"A DEMONIC GOAT."

"Technically, it's Baphomet," I corrected, which, in hindsight, was not the right thing to say.

She gasped so hard I thought she might pass out. "You marked your body with a Satanic symbol?! Jeremy, your father and I raised you in a Christian household! Do you have any idea how offensive this is?!"