Page 11 of Church Girl
“I’m just sayin’. He took one look at you and probably thought you were Mary Poppins’s sister from another mister.”
Laughter rolls out of me, and Tamara grins, shaking her head.
“You’re ridiculous. I mean, I was applying to be a nanny. You’d think he’d appreciate the Mary Poppins look. But instead, he just called me into his office and told me how I didn’t belong anywhere near his daughter. Didn’t belong in Chicago. He was so cold. And mean.”
“And fine.” Tamara reaches for her bowl again. Twirling her spoon, she arches an eyebrow. “Tell me I’m lying.”
“He’s aight,” I mutter.
I’m lying. And from Tamara’s smirk, she knows it.
Okay, so the man was gorgeous. And even that seems too lackluster a description for the giant, wide-shouldered man with the chestnut skin, heavy dark brows, deep-set gray eyes and thick black beard. His dark hair, weaved into long stitch braids, revealed a face of stark, almost severe angles. A sleeveless black shirt and jeans didn’t hide the tight muscles in his big body or the miles of tattoos that covered his arms, hands and neck. The piercing at the corner of his full bottom lip drew attention to the carnal cruelty that was his mouth.
Von Howard was brutal beauty.
And an asshole.
But that didn’t seem to matter to my body as I sat across from him. Even now, my belly pulls and knots at the thought of that harshly pretty face and intimidating body. My coochie spasms, and I curl my legs closer as if that can extinguish the ache. An ache I never once felt with my fiancé—ex-fiancé. I’m chalking it up to fascination; they didn’t grow ’em like Von in Parsons.
“He’s aight, huh?” Tamara mocks me, snickering. “So he really said you didn’t belong in Chicago?”
“Yes,” I grumble, bending my head and picking a piece of nonexistent lint off my skirt. I don’t want her to see the hurt that still resonates in my chest. Silly to have my feelings all sore by a man who doesn’t know me from Adam. “And I told him his thoughts on the matter were irrelevant.”
“You didn’t.”
I chuckle at Tamara’s surprise. “I did. What? Don’t let the church girl fool you.”
“Yeah, okay.” She laughs again, scraping the last of the banana pudding from the bowl then setting it aside. “I tell you what. Make some more of that—” she points at the empty bowl “—and I’ll take you clothes shopping. Because lil’ cuz, you can’t go out on any more interviews looking like a disciple.”
“You’re gonna get off my outfit,” I snap, but then ruin it by grinning. “I’ll have you know, I wore this on my first date with Gregory, and it bagged me a man and a proposal.”
Tamara snorts, rising from the couch. “And we see where that got you, right?” Not waiting for my response—not that I had one because, y’know, she’s right—she strolls toward the kitchen. “Go and get changed. We’re leaving out in twenty.”
Grabbing my shoes and standing, I follow her, stopping at the mouth of the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“Hey, can I ask you a question? It’s been on my mind for a minute, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m in your business...”
“Just ask it, Aaliyah.”
“When you came to visit home, you stayed in the Barrington Arms. Not saying it’s a dump, but clearly—” I turn, waving a hand at the living and dining rooms and kitchen “—you can afford better. Why go there?”
“The same reason I’ve never invited your family here to visit me—to keep them out of my pockets. Because the people who talk shit about me and what I do are the same people who would expect ten percent of it when that offering plate goes by. Nope. If what I do isn’t good enough for them, then neither is my money.”
My cousin wears a hard demeanor, and with reason. I’ve heard with my own ears how Dad runs her down to Mom’s sister, my aunt Trulie. And while Tamara’s mother doesn’t take that with a closed mouth, most of our family follows Dad’s lead. It’s no wonder my cousin opts to stay in a hotel rather than with her own relatives when visiting. While she and Aunt Trulie get along, her father is another story. So yes, her defensive manner is warranted. Yet...
Yet, I still catch the note of hurt in her voice. Family is supposed to love and accept you, even if they don’t necessarily agree with all your decisions. With mine, their love and acceptance are conditional on obedience. On submission.
How well someone takes to the gilded cage comprised of expectation and Scripture.
I should know. All my life, Dad has tried to keep me behind the same bars my mother so willingly accepted.
“I get that,” I murmur. “I’ll be ready in twenty.” Nodding at my cousin, I continue down the hall to the guest room.
It’s funny.
I’ve left Parsons. Physically escaped my father’s house and my mother’s suffocating silence.
But then there are moments like this one where it just feels like geography.
