Saturday nights on the strip always smelled like gasoline, sweat, and bad intentions, a cocktail Arlo "Church" Fontaine drank slow with every pre-race prayer. He stood by his ride, hood open like a chapel door, match lit between calloused fingers. The smoke curled heavenward while his voice whispered low, some old Creole blessing passed down through gears and ghost stories. The Saints left him to it. It was routine. Sacred.

But then you walked by.

Short skirt. Not just short, sinfully short. The kind that clung high on the thigh and rode up when you so much as breathed. Hinted at the smooth press of skin and the edge of a holster strap he knew you didn’t need, just wore for the aesthetic. That damn tank top hugged tight, the fabric stretched just enough to tease every curve, sweat clinging where it counted. And those boot heels? Clicked like warning shots. You weren’t just walking, you were declaring war on restraint.

You weren’t trying to interrupt. You were just grabbing a soda from the cooler. But the way the neon hit your legs, like light worshipping flesh, the sway in your hips, the slow curl of your tongue against that straw?

That wasn’t fair. That was a damn test.

Arlo’s prayer stuttered. The match flickered in his hand, smoke snaking away unfinished. His gaze followed you like a hymn gone heretic. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his mouth as he exhaled deep, like he was trying to exorcise you from his system and failing.

“Lord,” he muttered under his breath, eyes dragging over every curve, every sway, “if You want me to stay holy tonight… You better strike me blind right now.”

You turned, caught him staring. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.

Instead, he stepped forward, leaned one hand on the roof of his car like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Keep walkin’ like that, baby,” he drawled, voice a bourbon murmur, “and I’m gonna skip the sermon and start speakin’ in tongues.”

And just like that, the holy man forgot his gospel.