Page 1 of Church Girl
One
“Technically, I’m not a runaway bride since I powerwalked to the waiting Uber. No running involved.”
Aaliyah
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
Crossing her tattooed arms over her ample chest, my cousin Tamara steps out of her hotel room and onto the breezeway, scanning me from the top of my cathedral-length veil to the pearl-encrusted hem of my bridal ball gown.
“Really?” She jerks her chin up, her knotless butterfly braids swinging against her cheek. “Because it looks like you bailed on your own wedding and left that preacher boy at the altar.”
I wince.
“Okay, so maybe it is what it looks like.” I glance over my shoulder like SWAT has its rifle scope centered on my back. I’m not saying my father is having me followed...but I’m notnotsaying it, either. “Can I come in? Please?”
Yes, I’m begging, but at this point, desperation has settled inside me, and pride has left the building.
Tamara squints at me for several long moments where the itchy feeling of being exposed crawls over my nape like a line of marching ants set out to destroy a picnic. Just when I’m about to plead with her again, she blows out a loud, aggrieved breath and steps aside, granting me entrance.
The room isn’t anything to write home about, given this is one of those chain motels that sits right off I-20. The nondescript room with its plain dresser, TV, round table with one chair and two full-size beds proclaims its middle-of-the-road status. Right now, though? It feels like something better than a luxurious hotel. It feels like sanctuary.
And for the first time since running out of my father’s church and hopping into the back of an Uber, I exhale a long, relieved breath. Not an easy feat in this tightly laced corset.
“Well.” Tamara plops down on the bed closest to the door. “I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t invited to the wedding. It would’ve been a waste of a trip,” she drawls.
I wince again, hiding the nervous clenching of my fingers in my full skirt. “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” I apologize.
Tamara is my first cousin, my aunt Trulie’s youngest daughter. And according to my father, the wildest and most unrepentant of my cousins. A huge sin in his book. Hence Tamara not being invited to the wedding. And I stressthewedding, notmywedding. Because the only decision I made regarding it was saying yes to Gregory’s proposal. And I still can’t believe I did that.
Who am I kidding? Yes, I can; I know why.
Because as Bishop Timothy James Montgomery’s daughter, I was expected to. And like the obedient preacher’s kid I am, I fell in line. Just like always.
Until about thirty minutes ago, when I fled Greater Faith Christian Ministries a mere twenty minutes before I was set to walk down the aisle and marry Apostle Gregory L. Riley, executive pastor and my father’s right hand.
I guess that makes me a sinner in Dad’s eyes. Probably, a worse one than Tamara because my disappearing act will no doubt humiliate him. Though Dad preaches the importance and power of forgiveness, I don’t foresee that coming my way anytime soon. And yes, just the thought of disappointing Dad has fear crouching at the base of my throat like a cottonmouth right before it strikes.
Yet...here I am, a literal runaway bride hiding out in my cousin’s hotel room.
I sink down to the other bed—or I try to. Between the corset and the voluminous skirt, this dress isn’t conducive to lounging.
Forget it. I’m too anxious to sit anyway.
Pacing the short length of the room, I smooth my hands over my hair and bump the small tiara holding my veil in place. With a tiny growl, I snatch the thing off my head and toss it aside.
“Aaliyah. Here.” Tamara thrusts something at me, and on reflex, I grab the squat bottle labeled Patrón. “Drink this. Then we’ll talk. And either find a way to remove all that shit from under your gown and sitcho ass down or stop walking. I’m still half drunk from last night, and you’re making me queasy.”
She doesn’t return to the bed, but instead pops her hands on her gorgeous full hips and gives me a hard stare. Deciding it’s wise to obey—and because a drink doesn’t soundterribleright now—I twist off the cap and down a healthy swig. Immediately, fire races down my throat, incinerating my esophagus. No, seriously, it’s cauterized.
I start coughing, my eyes watering. Tamara’s lips lift in a small smirk. “Go on. Take another sip. This one will be smoother, I promise.”
Wincing, I follow her instructions, and either the lining of my throat has been seared away or she’s right about the second round going down easier. Because I don’t feel anything except the warm burst of heat in my chest and belly.
So, I take another sip because, why not?
“All right now,” Tamara drawls, nabbing the bottle and setting it on the dresser behind her. “Slow down because if you fall out on the floor, I’m just gonna roll your little ass up in all that tulle and step over you on my way out.”
“That’s fair,” I rasp.
