Sinful Too

by Victor McGlothin

  Six

  Don’t Push

  Two days had passed since Dior began making plans to change Richard’s life by implanting herself into it. She wasn’t in the least bit concerned about his family, the potential complications that an affair could introduce, or his soul salvation. Assuming the “first lady” title of Methodist Episcopal Greater Apostolic was her goal, period. She spent Tuesday morning at the local library, Googling Richard’s name and that of the church he helped grow from a few hundred to an overwhelming multitude. Ten thousand loyal fans, as Dior thought of them, made for a very stable career, unlimited income, and loads of perks. She left the library then headed to a posh day spa for a Brazilian bikini wax followed by a deep-tissue massage. Giorgio left three messages during her spoil session. Each time he called, she read his name on the tiny screen then ignored the phone as if he’d never called. When she did return his summons, she made up an excuse about being busy with her landlord. Giorgio went for her lies and she went on plotting her steps to snag a local celebrity with a bank account she wanted her name on.

  Mr. Dabnis Keith was so eager to pick up the articles of clothing he’d purchased at Dior’s behest that he was sitting outside of the shop when the store opened at ten o’clock. Suza fiddled with paperwork in the office while Dior raised the metal gate. “Look at what the cat drug in,” she hailed pleasantly. “It’s Mr. Sinbad Keith in the flesh.”

  “Good morning, sweetie,” he chuckled, grunting when he stood up. Getting his heavy body moving all at once was a task, Dior thought as she watched him shuttle into the store. His smile was as wide as his belly.

  “Wait a cotton-picking minute. Stop right there,” she barked playfully. “If you keep losing weight like this, my tailor is going to get a bad rep.”

  He laughed so hard his stomach shook. “I can’t believe you noticed that right off, Dior. I’ve been so excited to see myself in some fine vines I couldn’t eat a single thing all weekend. My wife thinks I’m crazy but a man my age has few things to look forward to. I’ve been telling all of my friends about you. Maybe they’ll come in and let you spruce them up too.”

  Dior’s grin matched Mr. Keith’s inch for inch. “I’m glad to help when I can, Mr. Keith, and thank you so much for sending referrals my way.” She went into the back to retrieve his altered suits. He followed behind her, beaming from ear to ear. “Why don’t you wait over by the fitting room and I’ll bring them out. I know you’ll like what we’ve done.” Dior asked Suza to watch the front while she entertained her customer. Suza informed her that Giorgio called to verify she had made it in to work. Suza couldn’t satisfy the awkward expression Dior tossed her way, the one questioning why it appeared he was checking up on her. Dior quickly dismissed it then hustled toward an anxiously awaiting war veteran. Mr. Keith’s suits were so large that she had to carry them out in shifts.

  When he stepped out of the changing room in a light brown outfit, superbly customized to fit his unusual build, the older man held his arms down by his side then shrugged. “Well, what do you think?”

  Dior gushed like a doting granddaughter. “I think you look very handsome. In fact, you make that suit look good.” It was easy to fuss over a grateful customer who appreciated the way a woman’s touch made him feel like a better man. She snickered when he had finally noticed a monogram stitched on the bottom of his left sleeve. He held it up to his face, seemingly confused.

  “What’s this? I didn’t pay for anything this special and how’d you know my middle name was Elston?”

  “I called your wife from the number on your alterations ticket. I thought it would add an extra touch of class to something that meant a lot to you. Mrs. Keith agreed.” Dior thought he was going to well up and cry. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me. You made my day when you came in last week, so I took care of it. Now, if you make me ruin my mascara, I’m going to charge you for the work I had done on the other jackets too.” When he realized she’d gone out of her way to please him, he reached out to hug her. Dior cooed gleefully. She almost disappeared within his massive bear hug. Richard had just walked in to see it. He also saw something else he didn’t expect, a woman who seemed hard as steel commit a random act of kindness at her own expense. As soon as the gentle giant realized they weren’t alone, he released her and took a calculated step backward.

  “You’re one of a kind, Dior, thank you. You didn’t have to go through nothing extra but you did. That says a lot about you. Most young folk see an old man and they see pity and uselessness. You saw something different.” In such a hurry to race home to share his gratitude with his wife, Mr. Keith forwent trying on the other garments. “I’m sure I’ll like them just as much,” he said in parting. “I could never say thank you enough.”

  “Bravo.” Richard applauded. He admitted overhearing their interaction. “You’re different, very . . . very different. How long has that gentleman been a customer of yours?”

  “I met him the same day you came in,” she answered with a soured expression. “How long have you been stealing people’s lines and using them in your Sunday morning praise sessions? Come out with it, Brotha Pastor. Don’t clam up on me now.”

  Richard blushed. He was actually at a loss for words. “I thought you didn’t do church?” was his clever response.

  “I don’t; Church TV doesn’t count and do not think that avoiding the question with a question works for me because it don’t,” she fired back, with both hands parked on her hips. She caught his eyes resting on her tight black slacks for an extended beat. He’d peeped the chest cleavage from the jump. Dior pretended not to notice. An accomplished actress in her own right, she’d ease in and out of character so often that it was difficult to know where she ended and pretending began. “Well?” she said insistently.

  “Okay, I did use a couple of exchanges from our conversation in my sermon but that’s what ministers do. We use everyday experiences to help the flock. Day-to-day application benefited the first-century church and it still works today.”

  “What-ever,” she smarted, behind a hint of a smile. “Tell your inner man to have a seat while I get your clothes.” Dior sauntered away with a natural sway to her hips. She could feel the pastor’s eyes remained locked on to them like a heat-seeking missile. Taking the time to have her favorite man-catching pants dry-cleaned was a great move, if she did say so herself.

  Oh my Lawd, that woman is fine, Richard’s carnal man confessed to him. He sat on the cushioned love seat outside the fitting room, fidgeting uncomfortably. Whew, I’d better get my stuff and leave before I embarrass myself again. He wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, refusing to admit to himself that Dior had been running circles in his mind since their previous meeting. He thought he had successfully wished her out of there but she reappeared when he crafted his Sunday morning message, again when he delivered it, and several times when members of his congregation expressed how it inspired them to take a good look at their spiritual wardrobe. Dior observed his restlessness through a crack in the storeroom door. He was sitting on pins and needles and shifting his weight every five seconds. It was fun to see him frying in his own grease and battling with the inner man, who was undoubtedly putting up a decent fight.

  Richard stood when she returned with a plastic garment bag. “After seeing what you did for your last customer’s ego, I think I’ll try mine on too,” he said nervously. Immediately, he wanted to rescind every word. He hadn’t intended to knock around in a small booth but now it was all he could do to prolong his visit without making his attraction to her painfully obvious.

  “I hope you’re not expecting monogrammed sleeves like I did for Mr. Keith?”

  Richard hadn’t considered that but it did present the chance to see Dior again. “Why don’t I get the special treatment?” he asked, beaming on the inside.

  “I put in for Mr. Keith because he reminds me of my granddaddy and I like him,” she quipped.

  “Oh, that’s cold. I see how you do me,” he played along.
“And just for that I refuse to accept this suit until you’ve had my initials stitched into the sleeve too.” Dior had released the rabbit and the chase ensued right on schedule. Richard wasn’t all dog but he was a man and that qualified him in Dior’s book. She counted on her ability to pique his interest and her competence to have him sniffing around her in due time. When she took a deep measured breath, her breast heaved forward. Richard’s tongue almost fell out of his mouth.

  “Okay then, I’ll get you squared away but it’s coming out of your pocket, not mine. Besides, you owe me for inspiring your message. I ain’t, I mean I didn’t, forget that either.” Dior whisked the plastic bag over her shoulder in a feigned protest. “It ought to be ready in a few days.”

  “Why so long?” he asked, too quick to salvage any cool points. “Uh, I was hoping to get it squared away and off my to-do list,” he explained pitifully. He felt like a teenaged boy with designs on kissing the cute new girl on the block and there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, not even if he wanted to. Dior was firing pheromones and subtle glances at him. True enough, they had connected the first time they met. What Richard was willing to do about it scared him. The last time he acted against his better judgment where a female was concerned, he had hell on earth to pay. A reckless indiscretion with a church secretary almost cost him a fledgling marriage. Even though it had occurred over ten years ago, the sting was ever-present and he couldn’t see traveling down the same bad road twice.

  Dior wrote down Richard’s initials then grabbed a generic card with the store logo and phone number on the front. He looked away when she scribbled something on the back.

  “Here you go, Pastor Dr. Richard Allamay, PhD,” she said, as she offered the card in an ultra nonchalant manner. “Yeah, since you carried yourself like somebody, I looked you up on the Internet. I guess you’re some kind of big shot?”

  “You don’t seem even slightly impressed.”

  “I try to get the lowdown on my upscale customers when I can. You’ve got a good life and you strike me as an alright dude, when your ego isn’t getting in your way.” Dior didn’t give him a chance to question her comment. She skillfully shooed him away before allowing room for it to happen. “Okay, goodbye. I have work to do. Call before you come. I’d hate for such a busy man to waste a trip and come up empty.”

  Richard left resentfully, passing Giorgio on the way out of the store. Both men nodded cordially in passing, sizing each other up in the process, then immediately stared at Dior for different reasons. Giorgio was protective, understandably so. Richard clocked the Italian’s swagger, his expensive taste in shoes and clothes. Dior waved at her boss amicably then sent Richard away wondering what, if anything, Giorgio meant to her. Jealousy was written plainly on his face. Dior thought it was a good look for him. She liked it.

  Giorgio, average height with dark skin, was fifty years old. For a workaholic and proprietor of many money-making enterprises, he was incredibly fit. Dior was reminded of that when he removed his sports coat. She eyed him up and down, admiring how Giorgio’s clothes always hung perfectly from his strong wiry frame. His silver hair was a match for the sexy movie star Richard Gere, and his quiet confidence made Dior want to lock the office door and jump him on the desk. The first time she pulled that stunt, a former employee almost walked in on them. Dior grinned at the thought of being discovered straddling the boss. She’d been in a crowded bed before. It wasn’t her proudest moment but she garnered no regrets, reasoning that life had screwed her so often that it was time to get paid for it.

  “Dior? Dior, are you feeling well?” Giorgio asked, after calling her name without getting an answer. He leaned back in the chair, gazing at her peculiarly. “Where is your mind today?”

  Dior smiled innocently, while hiding a stream of guilt running just beneath the surface. “Oh, I’m fine. Just a bit hungry. Next time I’ll get something to eat before coming in,” she asserted calmly.

  “Late night?” Giorgio said slyly. His tone was filled with uncertainty, questions he wouldn’t dare ask outright. He wanted to believe his relationship with Dior didn’t rate an interrogation.

  “Yes, I was up late last night. And yes, I was alone.” She strutted around the desk and stood between his legs to put him at ease. “I painted the downstairs bathroom again. The other color was all wrong, too much mustard.” Dior brushed her hand against his inner thigh. Giorgio moaned under his breath. “You should come by and check your net,” Dior whispered. “It’s been a while.” The rise in his gray slacks was saying yes. His eyes argued against it. She was aware of his other women, those other than her and his wife. Dior teased him about setting mutually beneficial traps, alluring arrangements with hot singles around town, which she sometimes called “nookie nets.” Giorgio had an appetite for erotic diversity and fostered several financial relationships that yielded casual sex when he had time to get away. It was a provocative form of solicitation without having to pay for it by the piece.

  Giorgio stroked Dior’s behind as air in the small room began to thicken. “I called over the weekend for some of this but I got no response,” he said, staring coldly into her eyes. “Was that man, the one I passed out there, the cause of it?”

  “Who? That preacher?” she spat, with her lips twisted disagreeably.

  “He left holding your cell number in his hand. There was no ticket, no purchase, no other reason for his visit. Don’t tell me you’re looking for another job?” he submitted dubiously. That was his way of asking if she was interviewing other men. Dior caught it right off. She unzipped his pants and slid her hand inside them.

  “Nah, baby, I like this one just fine. I can’t give up on a gig that really works for me.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he sighed, with slight reservations. “I’d like to come and check that net later.”

  “I’d love to work late tonight,” she answered seductively. “Should I prepare dinner?”

  “No, don’t bother. I’d rather have you instead.”

  Seven

  You Changed

  Four thirty that afternoon, Richard sat in the pastor’s chambers. Moments before, he ended a tenuous phone call with the president of a major construction company, who offered discount pricing on a job to pave one hundred acres of land adjacent to the church complex. Several construction firms submitted bids for the project but the others wouldn’t lower their fees as an incentive to be awarded a potential building contract. Richard’s shrewd business acumen proved sound in the past; he had saved the congregation millions by brokering the best deals possible. He was overwhelmingly responsible for the boom in church membership, and seven elders and five deacons followed his lead. At M.E.G.A., Pastor Dr. Richard Allamay, PhD, cherished a well-earned reputation for levelheadedness and a moral compass beyond reproach. His opinion surpassed that of all others; his word was bond. It was utterly inconceivable for him to put his own desires before the welfare of his family and friends.

  Deacon Phillip Hunter, Richard’s closest friend of ten years, was a serious man with a dark complexion, shorter in stature than most and rather thick in the midsection. His full-time position, presiding over the DVD ministry, was a coveted job given to him after his former employer rightsized him out onto the streets. There was an insignificant amount of grumbling when Richard convinced the elders to pass over more qualified applicants. Phillip was happily married to Rose, Richard’s first cousin. Although it hadn’t been voiced aloud, the leadership board knew that Phillip backed Richard’s every decision, without question. Phillip’s loyalty had been bought and paid for. “I thought I heard you in here,” he said, as he stuck his head into the pastor’s office. “How’d the conference call go?”

  “We’re getting closer to the final numbers. I set a meeting with Tatum and his right-hand man for late next week. You should be there too. I’ll get Dawn to send out notices to each member of the building committee. Based on the information I received from our banker, we can also break ground on an elementary chart
er school without additional paperwork.” A church-owned primary education facility was Phillip’s idea. He couldn’t believe it was becoming a reality.

  “A real school?” he asked excitedly. “When, how did all of this happen?”

  Calm as usual, Richard grinned. “It was nothing really. Dangling the right carrot pays off every now and then. I thought you should be the first to know. Tatum Construction wants to win our future business, unlike the others who handed in inflated projections because they knew we could afford them. Good stewardship is so important when you’re dealing with the Lord’s pocketbook.”

  Phillip rushed over to thank his best friend. “I always said you were the best thing that ever happened to this church. You’re a good man, Richard, solid to the core. M.E.G.A. owes you so much.”

  Richard shook his hand then held it for an extended period. “Sound relationships built on trust, Phillip — that’s the cornerstone of success. It started with the disciples and it still works today. Do us all a favor and keep the school business under your hat. I haven’t ironed out all the particulars yet.”