Page 62 of Church Girl
About a half hour later, I pull her bedroom door closed, leaving it open a small crack. Sighing, the heaviness from my conversation with Gia settles back on my shoulders.
It’s not your place, I remind myself. Especially after that scene with Sheree and Von at the shop. She’d made it abundantly clear she didn’t want me included in anything that didn’t have to do with nannying. Honestly, I understand where she was coming from. It must be hard watching another woman with her child when she doesn’t have her on an everyday basis. I can only sympathize with her. And with a daughter like Gia, who’s such a joy? Yes, it must be difficult. But her nasty attitude and mouth had me popping off.
Yes, I’m quiet and some people mistake that for weakness and not having a backbone. As Tamara would say, they eff around and find out. Well, Tamara would say the f-bomb...
You’re only spineless when it comes to your father.
Bitchy inner voice, one. Me, zero.
I head for the living room and drop down to the couch. Like I do most nights while waiting for Von to come home, I pull out my sketch pad and flip to my current drawing. It’s one I started a couple days ago of Gia running across the park playground. Smiling, I start working on the background, capturing the jungle gym, seesaw and swings. In class, I’m learning how to perfect depth and perspective, and I can already see the results in my work.
Without my permission, my mind drifts to earlier today when I drew the tattoo design for Von. Other than my professors and students in my classes, he was the first person to see any of my art in years. After being told time and again that drawing and my interest in art was a waste, I stopped sharing. I stopped talking about it at all. What does it say that I trusted Von with that part of me? Or that my stomach had been in knots as I awaited his opinion? Or that his opinion had mattered?
Oh, I don’t need to think too hard.
It means I’m getting in too deep, and I should save myself before there’s no coming back. Tamara had warned me about catching feelings for Von, and I’d assured her that wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen. God, I’m a fool.
The alarm announcing the opening of the front door beeps, and my belly bungee jumps. I don’t turn around to watch him enter, instead keeping my gaze trained on my drawing pad. After the way we parted—not to mention that kiss in his tattoo room—I’m all over the place on how to deal with him, talk to him. He has me so confused, off-kilter and...well, hot, that my instinct is to withdraw.
Anything I want as bad as I want Von can’t be good for me. It can’t befor me, period.
I know who I am—or, at least, I’m getting there. And I’m not built for the reckless, overwhelming passion Von introduced me to days ago and got me reacquainted with today. I, who has been starved of affection and love, would too easily mistake tenderness for affection and lust for love.
For so many years, my father smothered me with his overprotection and chains of religion. Now, it’s up to me to protect myself. Choose myself. And I choose not to leave Chicago wrecked and in pieces.
“Aaliyah.”
His low, rough-silk voice sends pleasure tripping over my skin. I work not to betray my reaction. “Hi, Von.”
“Gia in bed?”
“Yes, she’s been asleep for about thirty minutes now.”
“Okay.” The rasp of his beard beneath his hand tickles my ears. “Thanks again for staying late.”
“It’s no problem. It never is.”
“You not going to look at me, ma? And you call me rude.”
My head jerks up from my pad, and I scowl at him. “Seriously?”
“There you are,” he murmurs. “Now what’s up, ma? What’s going on that you’re up in here hiding from me?”
“I’m not...” He arches an eyebrow, and I trail off. “Whatever,” I mutter.
He stares at me for another few long moments then turns, heading out of the living room in the direction of the kitchen.
“We saved you some dinner just in case you’re hungry,” I call after him, stuffing my pad in my bag. “Your plate is in the microwave.”
I grab my book bag and purse then stand, setting them both on the couch while I go to the closet to grab my coat. It’s almost November, and the nights have gotten colder. Most native Chicagoans aren’t fazed by it, but my thin Alabama blood has me shivering against the cool air.
“Let me ask you something.” He appears in the entryway to the kitchen, plate of chicken and mashed potatoes in his hand. “You can’t cook, can you?”
I stare at him, the answer stuck in my throat. Is this a trick question? I mean, this far into my employment, I don’tthinkhe’ll fire me but...
“Um...why do you ask?”
“Because I know Church’s chicken when I eat it.” He smirks, biting into a leg. Why seeing his strong, white teeth sinking into the meat is so sexy, I can’t even begin to explain. There’s something wrong with me. “And every time you stay late, there’s some kind of takeout container or bag in the garbage. Either you can’t cook, ma, or you lazy as fuck. And ain’t shit lazy about you. So...”
