Page 23 of Church Girl
“Yes.”
“Good. As I was saying, cancel the Uber and come with me.”
He doesn’t wait for my reply, just turns and walks out of the living room. I frown at his retreating back. He could’ve at least asked instead of ordering me. I mean, is that so hard? To be polite? Sheesh...
“Aye, you can talk shit and walk. Let’s go.”
Heaving a sigh, I slide my crossbody purse over my head and follow him. I move into the foyer, where he stands beside the front door, big hand grasping the knob.
“And to answer your question, that was me being polite. I can show you mean as fuck if you want...” he offers, eyebrow arched.
“No, thanks, I’ll pass.”
He stares at me another long moment, one where I fight not to squirm. I even hike my chin up for good measure.
Ain’t nobody scared of him.
Mostly.
“Anyone ever tell you getting mouthy with your employer is a good way to get your lil’ ass fired?”
No. Mainly because this is my first real job. Babysitting and children’s church didn’t count. One never gave me a W-2, and the other didn’t pay. But this probably isn’t the best time to point that out. I should also wait to point out that addressing me in any manner that includes my ass doesn’t seem appropriate. Since he’s pulling the door open and moving outside, he most likely doesn’t expect an answer anyway.
As soon as I step out onto the porch, Von trots down the front steps and strides over to his driveway. I follow behind him at a slower pace, confusion swirling in my head.
On the top step, I glance behind me at the door he left wide open. If he is taking me home, shouldn’t he be going back for Gia? Anyone could walk into the house. Even in Parsons, we lock our doors, and we haven’t had a murder in our town since ’04.
“Aaliyah.” The impatience he pours into my name is etched into his frown. “I’ve been standing here for fucking eighty-four years. Could you bring your ass?”
I can’t quit. I need this job. And I can’t cut him. If leaving Gregory at the altar embarrassed my father, going to jail for assault with a deadly weapon will send him to the upper room. I remind myself of all the consequences as I—cough—bring my ass down the stairs and over to him.
“Here.” He dangles a key chain in front of me.
“What’s this?” I return his frown. “I don’t need a key to your truck. I appreciate it, but I don’t feel comfortable driving it home. I’m not even on your insurance—”
He snorts. “Yeah, like hell that’s happening again. Today was a one-off. Here,” he repeats, but this time, he grabs my hand and drops the keys into my open palm. “These are for that.”
He nods to the jeep behind his truck, and nope, I’m still not getting it. Partly because my brain short-circuited when he touched me. It was the first time we had contact of any kind, and that hard, calloused hand cupping mine sent a bolt of lightning through me. Residual currents still crackle, and I force air through my lungs. As if he’d stroked that big hand over my breasts, my nipples and between my thighs?
I’ve never gone instantly wet. Even with my clit vibrator, it takes a few minutes to get to that point. But with one platonic touch, he’s done it. High and deep, I throb, ache.
Oh God. This isn’t good. Not good at all.
I step back, knocking his hand from mine, the uneven edges of the key denting my palm. If Von is wondering about my odd reaction, he doesn’t show it. He opens the driver’s-side door, reaches inside and pulls out a couple of papers.
“Here.” He extends them toward me, and when I don’t immediately take them, he shifts closer. “Take them, Aaliyah.”
Without my permission, my fingers grab the papers. I don’t know. Maybe it’s years of being obedient that has me unconsciously reacting to his demand. I glance down at the sheets, and three words across the top snare my attention.
Bill of Sale.
“What is this?” I’m staring at the form, but the meaning of it... “Why are you handing me a bill of sale for this—” I drop my gaze to the sheet again “—2021 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo X?”
“Because it’s yours, Aaliyah,” he enunciates as if he’s speaking to a kindergartner who’s learning syllables. “And you’re going to need to keep that paperwork in the car while I get your permanent tag and the final title.”
“What?” I gasp. “Nope. Nopenopenope. You can’t try to make me sound like I’m crazy because I’m questioningwhy you’ve bought me a car.”
I promise, I didn’t mean to yell at him. On my mama, I didn’t. And when his chin jerks back, I pinch the bridge of my nose, silently praying for the patience of JobandJesus.
