Page 24 of Church Girl
“Who you yelling at, lil’ mama?” He mugs me. “I know you gon’ take that bass out your voice.”
I exhale, long and low. Dropping my arm, I meet his glare.
“Excuse me for being a little shocked when someone—a someone I’ve known a matter of hours—gifts me with a car.”
“That’s the most fucked-up way I’ve heard someone say thank you.” He crosses his arms over his wide chest. “Look, Aaliyah, I haven’t forgotten that you start school soon. What if you get out of class late and my daughter has to wait around while you get a ride? Nah, at the end of the day, this ain’t got shit to do with you and everything to do with my daughter. This isn’t Bumfuck, Alabama. I told you before, bad shit can and does happen.”
“And I can’t let you just give me a car.”
When his brow arches higher, I turn down the volume of my voice. “Sorry, but even inParsons, Alabama, we don’t just gift people with vehicles.” I blow out another hard breath. “Look, Von, I appreciate the gesture but—Hey! We’re not finished talking!”
“I am. And I’m also tired and hungry,” Von throws over his shoulder as he walks toward his house, not even glancing back at me. “Get yourParsons, Alabama, ass in that car and go home. And be back here no later than 7:15. School starts at 7:45, and my baby hates being late.”
“But we’re not finished—”
“’Night, Aaliyah.” He climbs the front steps, and seconds later, the front door slams shut.
I stand there in the cool night air, hearing only the faint sound of traffic from several streets over and the cheerful chirping of insects. I wait a couple of minutes, certain he’s going to come back outside so we can discuss this like rational adults. But not only doesn’t he return, he shuts the porch light off, casting me in shadows.
This mutha—nope. I shut the thought down. He will not take me there. But whew, was I close.
Opening my hand, I stare down at the keys then shift my gaze to the bill of sale. Then over to the Jeep Cherokee. Then back to the paper again.
“Holy...”
My eyes bug out of my head. No. No way. He paideighteen thousand dollarsfor this car! I shift through the other papers, praying I see something about financing and him putting down like two or three—and even that is way too much!—for a deposit. But no, he paid out all that money, and I own the car, free and clear.
Who does that? No, seriously, who. Does. That?
Drug dealers.
Oh, so he got to be a drug dealer ’cause he Black and has available cash.
No, because who you know got that much cash just sitting around?
This successful Black man who owns and runs his own business. Stop counting his money!
While the voices in my head go back and forth, I stare at the new-to-me car that’s still there. Not going anywhere.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it free and glance down at the screen.
Bad Boss: If I have 2 come back out there & put u in that truck u not gon like it. I will but u wont
Dammit.
Completely inappropriate excitement filters through my veins at that not-so-subtle warning. My belly bottoms out, and not from hunger. What is wrong with me? I should be angry, offended that he just threatened to manhandle me, not, not...turned on.
Forget him.
I’m his nanny, not his property. I’m my own person. I have free will, and he can’t steal that from me. He’s the boss of my job not my life.
“And I’m taking this damn car because I want to, not because he told me to,” I mutter, marching over to the Jeep and climbing in.
Great. Now he’s had me curse two times in as many minutes.
That man is a menace.
“And no, the new-car smellisn’tamazing.” I let loose a squeal seeing its keyless ignition, but quickly cut it off. “No, that’s not cool. Heated seats? Get. Out,” I whisper, cringing at the awe in my voice.
