Page 132 of Restless
Fucking terrible.
The minister, an older man with gray hair, thick glasses, and a wrinkled face, smiled at her and took her hand in his.
“Every week, the calls of the weary and the cries of the sick grow louder,” Reverend Banks began from his place on the stage. His initials, SB, and Light of the World were inscribed on his podium. The fine wood and intricate detail befit such a striking man. “Every month, our Healing Ceremonies, grow bigger. Require guest ministers to assist. It aggrieved me deeply when I was advised to charge my fragile lambs.”
“I can’t afford this.” Roxy meant her words only for her minister, but he had a mic clipped to him and her voice carried over the speakers. She groaned. “Damn it!” Of course, that carried, too. “Please, Jesus, just let the ground swallow me.”
Better yet, let her shut the fuck up.
At the snickering, she turned, intending to run, and not stop until she got outside. The minister didn’t give her a chance. He grabbed her arm and placed a finger over her mouth. His hand smelled sour.
Recoiling, she knocked it away. Before she could do anything else, a presence loomed behind her, and the pastor placed that same crusty hand on her forehead.
“Heal her, O Lord, so she shall be healed,” he prayed, eyes heavy-lidded and suspiciously lustful.
Roxy might’ve been a virgin, but she wasn’t a fucking dummy.
Under his breath, he spoke a few more words. Louder, he began speaking in tongues. Voices joined in. She felt like a fish out of water, struggling to comprehend the goings-on around her and not wanting to offend anyone. They didn’t speak in tongues at Great Redeemer, so she didn’t know the proper protocol.
A wave of gasps and groans crescendoed beside her. The minister jabbed his finger in the center of her forehead.
Roxy jerked in surprise and met his gaze. He lifted a brow. She responded in kind. What the fuck did he want her to do?
Adding a second finger, he poked her forehead again, shoving harder and snapping her head back. Laughter rose up behind her and an inkling hit her. Did this motherfucker expect her tofaint?
His third thump answered her. When the heel of his palm pressed against her forehead, she flung herself backwards, worried he’d knock her the fuck out to achieve his fraudulent goal. Thankfully, she landed in a pair of strong arms. She forced her body to relax. Otherwise, she’d look like a fucking corpse as stiff as she was.
A minute later, she staggered to her feet, deciding the power of healing would weaken a fragile body.
She hadn’t been the only sick soul there as she saw others lurching to their feet on each side of her. After a song, the line of ministers filed back onto the stage, and she turned to head back to the pew.
Brother Caldwell stepped into her pathway. He wore a vest with all types of patches. President. 1%er. Cee Cee. Scorpions. The American flag.
Roxy snapped her brows together. What foolishness was this?
“Follow me.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking you,” he warned in a tone she really didn’t like. “I’m telling you.”
“Roxy, Sharper has invited you to his private party,” Pastor Arceneaux said from behind her. “Cee Cee will escort you there.”
Or kill her and toss her in the ocean. “My feet are hurting,” she sniffed, angry her pastor volunteered her for the ridiculousness she’d endured. “I don’t want to go to a party. I want to go to the hotel.”
“You’re not getting your hat back if youdon’tgo to the fucking party,” Brother Caldwell told her.
“There are other yellow hats, motherfucker,” she bit out. “Fuck you and it.”
“Roxanne!” Reverend Arceneaux gritted. “We’re in the House of the Lord and you’re a young lady of God.” He dusted off his suit. “You’re here to represent me and I demand you accept Sharper’s invitation.”
“Deramey anticipated the invite,” Brother Caldwell said. “He brought jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt and a jacket for you to change into.”
“Momma didn’t tell me she packed sneakers and a jacket for me.” A more horrifying thought occurred to her. “I’ve lost them because my suitcase isn’t big and I don’t remember—”
“Deramey bought them himself. Your momma don’t know.”
That sounded beyond ominous and underhanded.
