Page 48 of Church Girl
“I had a jacket earlier,” I mutter, but still accept the piece of clothing. I’m no fool, and pride can’t keep me warm. “I left it in the dancers’ dressing room with my cousin. How was I to know I wouldn’t be riding home with her...”
I sigh. There I go, rambling again. This man has that effect on me. As evidenced by my unwise invitation to kiss me. I swallow my groan. God, I just want to go home, crawl in my bed and stay there until I have no choice but to face him on Monday.
Slipping my arms into the sleeves of the jacket, I inhale his rich scent. It envelops me, just as the material of the jacket that’s way too big for me.
“Thank you.” I tug the lapels high, dipping my head and avoiding the stare that’s like a heavy hand on my cheek.
“You going to look at me anytime soon, Aaliyah?”
Not if I can help it.
But I turn my head and meet his gaze, which seems darker in the shadows of the truck. Becausenotlooking says so much more. And none of it positive.
“Did you need something?” I ask, injecting a nonchalance and calm into my voice that contradicts the chaotic swirl of humiliation and alcohol in my veins.
“Yeah.” He leans back in the seat, for all the world appearing like someone settling in rather than a person about to pull into late-night Chicago traffic for a drive to the South Loop. “To know what’s on your mind.”
Before I can control my face, it balls up. Seriously? Like he has no idea what I could possibly be thinking? Okay, I havejustenough vodka in my system to be honest and blame it on the booze.
“You want to know what’s on my mind?” I ask, shifting toward him and tilting my head. “Yesterday you kissed me, and tonight you invite yourself to my night out. But when I ask you about kissing me again, you basically pat me on the head and treat me like I’m a pariah.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Pariah?”
I make an impatient sound in my throat. “Go ahead. Joke. But I feel like you’re playing some kind of game, and I don’t know the rules. And this is where I excuse myself. You might get off on this, but it’s not fun for me.”
He stares at me, and I’m too in my feelings to be intimidated. All my life, I’ve been made to feel not enough—not male enough, not obedient enough, not perfect enough...not good enough. Jesus is the only perfect person, but in the gospel according to Bishop Montgomery, that was no excuse not to strive for perfection.
For one brief moment in Von’s arms, I’d felt sexy, desired, needed. And even tonight, the way he’d listened to me, stood up for me... I’d allowed myself to forget who he was. Who we were to each other. Employer, employee. Gia’s father and her nanny. But I wouldn’t make that slip-up again. He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considers putting his mouth on me a mistake.
Anger simmers inside me like a boiling pot of water.
It’s not like I asked him to kiss me the first time.Hedid that. Just likehewalked over to my section tonight. I haven’t inserted myself in places where I don’t belong. That’s allhim. So it’s not fair that I’m the one sitting here like I did something wrong.
“I’m too old for games, ma. What you saw as playing with your head or feelings, I see as trying to protect you.”
“Did I ask you to?” The anger flares hotter, fueled by what I perceive as him trying to assume a role I don’t need in my life. At least, not from him. “You see me as some wide-eyed, silly girl from some backwater town in Alabama, but newsflash—I can think for myself, care for myself and provide for myself. I’ve made it twenty-four years without your guidance and survived. I’m good.”
Even in the dark, I can see his gray eyes narrow. “Survived. That’s a strong choice of words.”
I sigh, throwing up “Jesus, save me” hands. Of course, that’s what he would jump on, out of everything else I’ve said.
And he can forget it; that was a slip of the tongue, and there’s no way on God’s green earth that I’m addressing it.
“Do you mind if we leave?” I ask through gritted teeth. “There’s a bed with my name on it.”
I probably shouldn’t have mentioned beds. Not with arousal still trekking a path under my irritation.
“Nah, not until we clear this up.”
I sigh.
But his only reaction is to peer down at me. “You’re taking offense at what I said, but me wanting to protect you has nothing to do with how you believe I perceive you.” I snort at that because the manliterallytold me day one that I didn’t belong in the big city of Chicago. “Aye, ma. I’m letting you make it with your loose-ass mouth and you rolling your eyes, but keeping it real? I probably see you as more capable and stronger than you do, so check that shit.”
I gape at him. He sees me as capable and strong? Since when? I want to ask him to explain so bad, but that would have him thinking I care about his opinion, and I don’t.
Now who’s the liar?
I mentally growl a warning at the know-it-all voice in my head.
