Page 5 of Church Girl
“Fuck. You havegotto be shittin’ me.”
I read over the paper in my hand two more times, and I still can’t believe what I’m looking at.
No, correction. Icancompletely believe this. It’s Sheree, after all. And my ex-wife has nothing but bitterness and time on her hands to pull this bullshit.
Tossing the petition for modification of our divorce on my desk, I snatch up my cell and dial a number I know by heart now. Shit, it’s listed in my Favorites because I’ve used it so often over the last year.
Ten minutes later, I end the call, and some of my anger and, yes, panic, has subsided.
According to Ronald Waller, my divorce attorney, Sheree filing the modification petition doesn’t mean shit if she can’t prove there have been significant changes in my circumstances from those repeatedly hashed out in the original decree. And last I checked, those “circumstances” remain the same. I owned my tattoo shop before we even met one another. But for some reason, she believes the five years we were married, plus the two weeks she helped me out by working the front desk when my employee up and quit, affords her fifty percent of my shit. Hell, I even paid her for those two weeks.
Leaning back in my battered leather chair, I link my fingers behind my head, blowing out a long breath. It’s only twelve thirty, and I’m tired as hell. That’s the usual result of anything having to do with Sheree. She’s fucking exhausting.
A knock on the door echoes in the office, and seconds later, my employee and best friend, Michelle Carter, pokes her head inside.
“Aye, I didn’t say come in.” I lower my arms, scowling at her. “What if I’d been in here fucking?”
She walks in, closing the door behind her. Crossing the room, she drops into the armchair in front of my desk. “This is you we’re talking about. While I or Jah might get some dick and pussy up in here, that ain’t you.” She arches a pierced eyebrow. “Besides, are you forgetting I know what it sounds like when you fuck? Shit was too quiet in here for that.”
Yeah, Chelle and I have a past. But that was years ago. When I brought her into the shop as an artist, we’d cooled on that. I don’t shit where I eat. Ever. Not only is it bad business, but it’s messy as hell. And contrary to how tattoo shops are portrayed on reality TV, King Tattoos is drama free.
“What do you want?”
That’s the great thing about best friends. They don’t get their feelings hurt when you’re rude. It’s practically a prerequisite for friendship with me.
“Nothing.” She shrugs, stretching her lightly muscled, heavily inked arms above her head. More tattoos peek above the round neckline of her white tank top. “My one o’clock canceled, so I’m free until three. And I already have that piece drawn up. So I came in here to see what you got going on.”
Instead of answering, I pick up the petition and toss it toward the edge of the desk. Chelle picks it up and scans it. A sneer curls the corner of her mouth, and when she lifts her head, disgust gleams in her dark brown eyes.
“She just doesn’t stop, does she?” Chelle drops the paper back on the desk, sucking her teeth. “She already gets spousal support. But she’s not going to be satisfied until she can take everything from you.” She claps her hands together in the prayer position and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Lord, if I’m ever a bitter bitch, please just strike me down and put me out of my misery.” In spite of the anger still seething in my gut, I chuckle. “Seriously, though. You know Sheree only wants to get her hands on this shop because she knows how much you love it. Especially since you were awarded primary physical custody of Gia. She doesn’t have anything but space and opportunity to fuck with you.”
“Yeah, I know.” I drag a hand over my stitch braids then down my face. My beard scratches my skin, and I’m reminded that it’s past time for a line up. “But this isn’t going to work. I’ll still have to go through the pain-in-the-ass hearing, wasting time I could be getting money, but she’ll have to try again.”
“And she will,” Chelle mutters.
She’s not wrong. What’s the saying? The person you divorce isn’t the one you married. I’m living proof of that. The woman I met and fell in love with ten years ago is not the same Sheree who dragged me through hell and back in our divorce. I don’t know that person. And don’t want to.
“Forget her. Sheree gon’ keep Sheree-ing. Ain’t shit we can do about it right now.” Chelle reaches into her pocket and removes her ever-present pack of spearmint gum. Unwrapping it, she eyes me. “When’s your next tattoo?”
“Three. But I have an interview before then at...” I pick up my cell and touch the screen. “Well, damn. In about ten minutes.”
She frowns, popping in the piece of gum. “Interview for what? A new artist? You didn’t mention bringing someone in.”
“Nah, it’s for a nanny position. I haven’t found a reliable one since Ms. Anne left. I can’t keep going through all these babysitters. Gia needs stability.”
Frustration trips through me, and I clench my jaw against it. Not like I begrudge our longtime nanny the opportunity to be with her grandchildren in Florida. Ms. Anne had been with us since Gia was two—for five years—and she’d become family. So even though we miss her, Gia especially, Ms. Anne deserves to be with her daughter, son-in-law and their children. Still, it’s been almost a month, and I haven’t found anyone to replace her long-term. I’m damn near desperate.
“Well, make sure whoever you hire knows how to cook. No one bakes banana nut bread like Ms. A, but we need someone who comes close.”
“I’m glad your priorities are straight when it comes to my daughter’s childcare.”
“Now, you know lil’ G’s my heart.”
Chelle might’ve been teasing about the banana nut bread—well, not really—but she does love my little girl, considers Gia one of her five nieces. Which was another problem with Sheree. She hadn’t wanted “one of my hoes” around our daughter—her words, definitely not mine. My ex-wife couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that there was nothing but friendship between me and Chelle. I loved Sheree, but I wasn’t getting rid of a relationship that had been around longer than her, or letting go of a dope-ass artist for her petty jealousy. Particularly since I’d never given her a reason to be jealous.
Yeah, the joke was on me.
I pick up my phone again, looking for the email that has the information regarding the person I’m interviewing. She’s late. Technically, she still has seven minutes until one thirty. But I’m of the school of thought, if you’re on time, you’re ten minutes late.
