Page 55 of Church Girl
I didn’t raise you to be a woman of loose morals. Only a prostitute advertises her wares.
Cleanliness isn’t just of the body but of the spirit.
To be in the flesh is to be separate from God.
Each sermonized statement strikes me like pebbles. Since what happened with my uncle, I’ve tried so hard to be virtuous, as if I somehow drew his attention even though I was a child. And Dad didn’t do anything to discourage that line of thought. He became stricter afterward, more watchful, more...controlling. As if he had to make sure my soul remained pure since the flesh had already been sullied.
Maybe he had a point to be so concerned, so wary. Maybe he’d seen something I hadn’t. The something that would lead me to—
“Aye, I don’t know what the fuck you’re over there thinking, but stop it.”
I only had seconds to process that rumbled order before firm fingers bit into my chin, lifting my head and turning it toward Von.
A fierce scowl darkened his face more than the shadows surrounding us. “Was this shit the wisest thing to do? Probably not. And since you still work for me—don’t even get it into your head about quitting, ma—we shouldn’t repeat it. But do I regret it? Hell nah. Life’s too short for that shit. And since I’ve been wondering about how you taste from the moment you walked into my office at the shop, I’d be fake as fuck to say I have regrets. Baby girl, we grow from mistakes, not use them as memorials to our fuckups. And if you’re not given the opportunity to grow, you don’t learn a muthafuckin’ thing in this world.”
He drops his hand away from my chin, and I stare at him, a little stunned, a lot mesmerized. Sometimes I forget that Von has me by ten years. But then there are moments like these, when he drops profanity-laden nuggets of wisdom, that I’m reminded.
“You good?” he asks, arching a dark eyebrow.
Since I’ve been wondering about how you taste from the moment you walked into my office at the shop...
I would be good as soon as I exorcised that bit of truth-telling from my mind. As for the rest...
“Yes.” At least, I would be.
Maybe.
“Good.” He nods. Without removing his narrowed gaze from me, he turns on the car, the engine rumbling to life. “And I meant what I said, Liyah. Don’t make me have to come hunt your little ass down on Monday. You went to the wall for my baby, you stuck with her now. And she’s stuck with you.”
Not us. Not stuck with us.
Oh God. Here I go. Prime reason why I shouldn’t have kissed this man or fucked him. Say what he wants, I have regrets.
I have real world, intimate knowledge of what Von Howard looks and feels like when he comes.
My regret is that I’ll never do it again.
I can’t.
Not if I know what’s best for me.
Eight
“Can’t no pussy whip me. It might give me some love taps, though.”
Von
Iwipe a paper towel down my client’s shoulder, cleaning off the excess blue ink and blood. Leaning back, I study the dress I just finished coloring in. I toss a glance at the picture taped to the drawer of my Craftsman, comparing the image on her skin to the one in the photograph. I love what I do, creating art, immortalizing it on a person’s body. It’s more than leaving my mark in this world, like Picasso left behind hisThe Old Guitaristor Jean-Michel Basquiat hisUntitled. Yeah, it definitely is that. But it’s also this right here.
A client like Ms. Iman Johnson, a middle-aged math teacher at one of the local high schools, who lost her mother to cancer and wants to always carry her mother with her, no matter how many years have passed. It’s giving people living art—art that breathes in their hearts, their souls, their memories.
That’s what Sheree will never understand.
King Tattoos is more than brick and mortar and glass. It’s more than money she can spend to flex for her so-called friends. It’s more than a pawn to hurt me.
It’s my dreams, my salvation, my refuge, my legacy. It’s me.
And I’d be a liar not to say the thought of giving up any part of it scares the fuck out of me.
