Page 58 of Church Girl
I snort even as warmth barrels through me at her compliment, at the admiration in her voice. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Silly, isn’t it?” She smiles, and I drag my fascinated gaze from her mouth and return it to the screen. “Of course, you can draw. The first time I came in here, I saw your work on the walls in the lobby. But seeing it here...” She shakes her head. “Have you decided what to do with the background? Or is the elephant the whole design?”
“Nah, that’s what I’m having trouble with now.” I frown, and before I can question why I’m sharing this with her, I admit, “My client didn’t specify what all she wanted in the tattoo, just an elephant and a back piece. She’s leaving everything else up to me. And she’ll be here in—” I peer down at the face of my Patek Philippe “—a little over an hour, and I’m still not finished with the sketch.”
“Hmm.” She inches closer, and her citrusy scent infiltrates my space and senses.
Damn, she smells good. And as of two nights ago, I can attest to the fact that her skin tastes like that beautiful fragrance. Yeah, I shouldn’t be thinking about that, not in this moment, with her leaning over me, and my black joggers no defense against my dick print.
“Who is your client? Do you know anything about her?”
“Just the little I learned in her consultation. Single mom of a little girl, works as a manager in a steakhouse, loves elephants because her grandmother collected figurines of them.”
“They also symbolize strength and determination.” When I look at her, she smiles with a small shrug. “My mom is a Delta,” she says in explanation. I didn’t attend college, but I get the reference to the Black sorority, one of the Divine Nine. “I, too, grew up with elephant sculptures and figurines around the house. Do you mind?”
She extends her hand toward my tablet, and after a brief hesitation, I hand it to her, curiosity curling inside me. More than a few times, I’d come home and found her curled up on my couch, a sketch pad balanced on her knees, her head bent over it. But I never got a chance to check out anything she was working on because no sooner did she hear me than she flipped the cover down and stuffed the pad in her bag. I’d be lying if I said stealing it while she was out of the room hadn’t crossed my mind.
Most of the time, I don’t let anyone have a hand in my designs. They are mine, and I am territorial. Shit, it annoys me when I scroll through social media and see someone with my exact shit that didn’t credit me for it. But with the internet, people see something they like, take it to a tattoo artist and say they want it, and sometimes the artist doesn’t care about who the design came from, just getting that money. Still...annoys the hell out of me.
But, as I hand over the Surface Pro to Aaliyah, none of that irritation makes itself known. Nah, I just stand up, waving toward the stool, indicating for her to take my place. She settles down, her head already lowered and her hand hovering over the tablet. I stand back, giving her room, but I can’t take my eyes off her.
This side of Aaliyah is new. And since she’s started working for me, I’ve been introduced to a few of those sides. The unassuming, pious church girl. The fierce, protective nanny. The sensual, greedy siren.
Now the talented, passionate artist.
I can’t choose which one captivates me more.
It’s like she tunes out me and the world as she works. Sometimes her hand moves slowly, deliberately, and a moment later, it’ll fly as if caught in a sudden burst of inspiration.
She’s...magnificent.
Twenty minutes later, she lifts her head, the hand holding the stylus lowering to her side. I push off the wall from where I posted up, hungrily taking in everything about her.
For a long moment, she stares down at whatever she drew then, finally, shifts her gaze to me, and, for a second, I’m snared in that beautiful brown gaze like a starving animal caught in a trap. Only by sheer will do I snatch my scrutiny away from her face and drop it to the design she worked on for nearly a half hour.
Shit.
As if of their own accord, my feet carry me closer—so close my chest bumps her shoulder. But the first physical contact with her since Saturday night barely registers as I stare down at what she created.
“Damn, Aaliyah.” Baby girl has left me fucking speechless.
She left the elephant I’d drawn as it was, but even with that as the centerpiece, it appears to be a different design. A smaller, somehow daintier elephant—if an elephant can be called dainty—is protected in the shadow of the larger one. In the background hangs a moon with twinkling stars and tall grass that seems to sway against the animals’ feet. Lush lilies peek out from behind the elephants’ large ears, under their tusks, near the arch of their trunks. The flowers shouldn’t have worked—they shouldn’t go with the large animals and the glimpses of a savanna. But they do. They add this ethereal beauty that makes the art seem photographic yet almost otherworldly.
In a word, it’s stunning.
Perhaps taking my shocked silence for disapproval, she waves a hand over the drawing.
“I know I took liberties with the design,” she rambles, nerves clear in her voice. “But I thought with her being a single mother, incorporating the juvenile elephant could reflect her protectiveness and love for her own child as well as reflect the girl she once was with her grandmother. The African landscape symbolizes home, while the lilies signify innocence, purity, both her child’s and the love they share...” She chuckles nervously. “Well, say something.”
“It’s beautiful.” That’s so inadequate. And for someone whose dream has been ridiculed and discounted time and again by people she admired and respected, “beautiful” isn’t enough. “Nah, Liyah. It’s fucking gorgeous. I had no idea you could...” Still staring at it, I’mawedby her talent. Byher. “You took what I said about my client and created a piece that’s not just stunning but thoughtful and intimate to her alone. I don’t say this lightly, ma. But you’re gifted and meant to be on the path you’re on. Art is what you were born to do, and anyone seeing this—” I dip my chin toward the tablet “—would clearly see that. If they don’t, then they’re willingly blind.” Though touching her is unwise, I pinch her chin between my finger and thumb. “Thank you.”
Lowering my head, I press a gentle kiss to her full lips. It’s not sexual but admiring, grateful. At least, I didn’t intend it to be sexual. But as soon as her lips part on a soft gasp, I can’t stop myself from slipping my tongue inside, lazily tasting her. I half expect her to pull away, to push me away. But she doesn’t. Instead, she tilts her head, silently offering me deeper access. And I take full advantage, reacquainting myself with every bit of her.
She moans, nearly drowning out the knock at my door.
“Hey, Von—oh, shit. My bad.” Malcolm slams the door shut after his timely—or untimely, I can’t decide—interruption.
Releasing Aaliyah, I take one last, hard look at her—at the flush staining her cheekbones, at the damp, kiss-swollen mouth. Irritation and regret sweep through me, but at the same time, I can’t be too mad at Malcolm. He saved me from myself. So much for my determination to not touch her again. Took me less than an hour of being in her company, and I failed that challenge.
