Page 35 of Church Girl
I check the pot of water, and seeing that it’s finally bubbling, I grab the spaghetti and drop the pasta in. When I turn around to grab the salt from the counter, I catch her staring at me, her full lips slightly parted.
“What?” I shake a little salt into my palm and toss it into the water.
“That was...awesome,” she breathes. “And also a little disturbing considering you broke all this down when you were younger.”
I snort. “My ass was fast when I was a kid. Come here.” I jerk my head for emphasis, beckoning her over to me.
Her gaze remains on me as she slides from the bar stool, rounds the corner and approaches me. I’m a tattoo artist; I’m used to being in close proximity to people. But the closer she gets, the more my skin is on fire. It even crackles in the soles of my feet like the herald of a nut. Fuck. That’s impossible. I can’t come from just looking at her, from inhaling her scent.
I should give my dick a heads up on that impossibility since my balls are tightening and blood pounds there, thickening my shit.
“Here, taste this.” I lift the spoon to her mouth, hovering just in front of that pouty bottom lip. “What do you think?”
She stares at me, and for a moment, the big kitchen seems small. Tight. And she fills every inch of the limited space. I watch her mouth, focused on the moment when those luscious lips will part and I’ll get my first peek at her tongue. Imagine it tasting me instead of the red sauce.
Like time has slowed, she leans forward, closing her mouth around the spoon. Her tongue slicks over her lips, as if ensuring she captures every bit. Her eyes close, and when she releases a moan, an answering one claws its way up my throat. Only by sheer will, held together by tape and prayer, do I contain the hungry sound.
And it’s an act of God that I don’t grab my dick and give it a good, hard pump.
“Delicious.” She hums, her thick lashes lifting and granting me up-close-and-personal access to those beautiful brown eyes.
“Good.” I clear my throat, trying to hide the gravel coating my throat.
It takes everything in me not to close my mouth over the same spot hers just occupied. Clenching my jaw, I deliberately lower the utensil to the platter next to the stove.
“I gotta ask, so don’t get your lil’ sensitive ass all uptight. There are a lot of good schools in Alabama or Georgia, even Florida. Why come all the way to Chicago, where you don’t know anyone and you only have a, what? Cousin, right? Wouldn’t staying closer to home have provided a safety net and bigger support system?”
Silence greets my question, and I look over to her. Seeing her expression, I once again wonder how she became so proficient at shutting down.Whomade her so proficient.
“You good, ma?”
She nods, but shifts so I can only see her profile, and I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans or risk putting them on her so I can study that face. Try to pick apart that blank expression for clues to her thoughts.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She opens a cabinet door and removes plates. Does she really believe I can’t see through this evasion tactic? Yeah, the fact that she won’t even look at me says she’s notfine. “And you’re right, there are plenty of great colleges and universities in Alabama. But they weren’t for me, and their programs didn’t offer what I was looking for. The University of Chicago does.”
“Aye.” I wait until she sets the last plate on the counter and cants her head to look at me. “Thank you. ’Cause if you’re going to lie to me, at least look me in the eye. Or better yet, just tell me you don’t want to talk about it or it’s none of my business. I prefer that to you lying to me.”
“That’s fair.” She dips her head before meeting my gaze again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I nod.
“What’re you going to school for again? I don’t think you mentioned it.”
“Visual arts with a concentration in illustration.”
Surprise ripples through me, and I go still, the colander for the pasta hanging next to my thigh. This woman is like one of those Russian dolls my nana used to collect. Open one and there’s another on the inside. And another. And another. I’m constantly discovering something new about Aaliyah. Discovering another side to the unassuming woman who walked into my tattoo shop weeks ago.
Unassuming. Shit.
It’s not easy admitting I misjudged someone, but I did.
Yes, she’s who she first appeared to be. But also so much more.
Like a dependable, capable employee.
A fierce defender.
And an artist.
