Page 57 of Church Girl
“Sorry.” She moves fully into the room, and as she closes the door, I scan her petite frame, taking in that beautiful ass sitting up pretty in black leggings. A short jean jacket covers a green hoodie, and black-and-white Chuck Taylors adorn her feet. This woman—at least on the outside—is a far cry from the buttoned-up evangelist who walked into King Tattoos for an interview weeks ago. Both are pretty as fuck, though. She could be in a muumuu and a bonnet, and my dick would still brick up.
“I sent you a text that my last class was letting out a little late. Usually, if that happened, I still would’ve left to make sure I picked up Gia on time. But since she’s not in school, I figured it would be okay...”
I don’t say anything, just stare at her as she rambles on and then eventually trails off.
“You finished, ma?” I calmly ask.
She nods, releasing a heavy-sounding sigh. “Yes, sorry about that.”
I shake my head. “You can cut out the apologizing. I texted you back that you were all good, and I meant that. Sheree decided to take G out for breakfast and some shopping anyway, so you’re still on time.”
My grip on my stylus tightens. Now, I’m not mad at Gia for how she handled herself down at the school, but I’m not rewarding her behavior, either. Not so with her mother. Instead of sitting her daughter down and reinforcing what I’ve already told her, Sheree decides to take Gia on a spending spree. I’on know if she’s trying to win some popularity contest between us, but she fo’ damn sure should be putting being a responsible parent above making me look like the Grinch. God... Sometimes she’s one hell of a mother, and then other times she leaves me questioning her life choices. Shit, mine too for ever marrying her ass.
“Good...and thank you.”
Waving a hand toward my tattoo chair, I return my attention to my tablet. Better than obsessively studying every detail of Aaliyah’s face and trying not to stare at her curvy little body.
“What class were you in? And how’s school going for you so far?”
Out of my peripheral vision, I catch her moving to the chair and settling onto it. She frowns down at the Saran Wrapped arms for a moment then says, “It’s going amazing.” For the first time since she entered my office, her voice loses that hesitancy and brightens, filling with enthusiasm. “I love all my classes and professors. And everyone I’ve met has been so nice.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand if any dusty-ass muthafuckas been pushing up on her, but I manage to bite it back. It’s none of my business. What she does outside of taking care of Gia is none of my business.
And yeah, I’m lying and trying to convince myself of that shit.
“The school is huge, and I’m only in my general courses, but still, it’s like I’ve found my own little community in my classes, with like-minded people who have the same interests and passions that I do,” she continues to gush on. “Take the class I just finished for the day. It’s called Film and the Moving Image. We’re studying perception, comprehension and interpretation regarding film and other moving-image media. We’re studying texts and documentaries, doing screenings. It’s hard work, definitely, but it’s so interesting. I’m analyzing films, videos, broadcasts and other media and seeing things like dialogue, text and expression in ways I’ve never looked at them or even noticed.” A small, self-deprecating smile flirts across her mouth, tugging at the corner. “I’m sorry for going on and on. I must sound like a nerd, getting excited over classes and school.”
“Nah, you good. I like it. And what I tell you about apologizing? You’re excited over school. What’s there to be sorry for?”
She shrugs. “I’m so—understood,” she modifies when I arch an eyebrow. Huffing out a chuckle, she says, “I guess I’m so used to hiding my love of art or making excuses for it that it’s difficult changing my mentality.”
Yeah, that right there.
My jaw clenches as I breathe deep, attempting not to reveal the anger that flares to life inside me. I haven’t forgotten a damn thing she confided in me Saturday night. Not what that fucker uncle of hers did or her bitch-ass daddy’s reaction. Even her mother ain’t getting a pass from me. One tried to violate Aaliyah—nah, ain’t no “tried to,” he did because he violated her trust—and the other two completely failed her. There ain’t no way if Gia came to me with something like that I would have told her to keep it to herself so we wouldn’t be embarrassed. Shit. I’d disappear a muthafucka and give condolences to his mama right over his casket. Even though her father’s a “man of God,” he should’ve fucked his brother up first and prayed for forgiveness later.
I don’t understand that shit to save my life. Don’t want to, either.
“On your résumé, I remember seeing some college. You didn’t major in art or at least take some classes before now?” I return my attention to the design on my tablet so she won’t spot my disgust for her parents. For some reason, she obviously loves and respects them.
Fuck ’em.
She releases a small laugh that carries zero hint of humor. “God no. First, my father paid for community college, and if I’d majored in anything other than business administration, he would’ve pulled all financial support. And since he was able to access my academic records and see my schedule, I couldn’t even sneak art classes.”
I tap the screen, erasing the safari landscape that I’d drawn in the background. Too expected. Too boring.
“What did he have against art? It’s not like these days people can’t make money from it. Between graphic design, animation and even education, there’re plenty of jobs for a person to get into and earn decent money.”
She sighs, and I flick a glance in her direction in time to catch a pained expression waver across her face. It’s there and gone in a moment, but I saw it. I file it away.
“That might be true for a lot of people but not Bishop Montgomery’s daughter. My great-grandfather pastored his own church as did my grandfather and now my father. Because he didn’t have a son to continue the legacy—”
“I don’t know if he’s heard of this thing called women pastors.” My sarcasm game is strong.
She gives me a rueful smile. “Not in our family. My father didn’t even consider that, not that I would’ve wanted to anyway. But the option that was pounded into my head from the time I can remember wasmarryinga pastor, becoming a first lady and helping him run the church in whatever capacity he needed—or allowed. That’s the reason Daddy okayed business administration. It could come in handy with church business.”
“If he planned your life out to that degree, I’m surprised he didn’t have a man lined up for you to marry,” I mutter.
“Right,” she murmurs, then practically leaps out of the chair and approaches me. “What are you working on?” She steps to the side of my stool as I lean back, so she can see the design. “That’s beautiful.” She glances at me then back to the tablet. “You’re so good.”
