Unfortunately, not everyone was smiling or in a party mood.
“Let me go, you big-headed muthafucka, let me go!” Robin hissed as she pushed away from Greg, the church’s head of security and faithful KCCC member for the past five years. He’d successfully forced Robin several yards away from the church’s entrance.
“Please leave the premises quietly, ma’am,” Greg calmly responded. He wanted to keep things as civil as possible because anybody with eyes could see this woman’s behavior was growing increasingly erratic. Even now he was thanking God that just last week he’d viewed her photo and police report while updating security files in the church office. Otherwise, he may never have given the average-looking woman entering the building a second glance.
“Look, you ain’t God,” Robin continued, breathing heavily. “This is a free country. You can’t keep people out of church!”
“I can’t, but the law can. The church has a restraining order against you, Ms. Cook.”
“I told you my name ain’t Cook, my name is…it’s, uh, Jackson. J-A-K-S-U-N, muthafucka.” Robin ran the syllables of the word together rapidly, giving it a lyrical, almost poetic quality. She had no idea where that made-up name had come from, but it sounded as good as any. As angry as she was, it was a wonder any lie came to mind. The gun in her purse was almost burning a hole in it. She wanted to pull out her Cobra and smoke this human barricade, jam the barrel in his face and earn some respect.
The self-assured man continued to eye her quietly.
“What you lookin’ at?” she growled, reaching inside her purse and fingering the gun softly. “I said Jack—sun, muthafucka! Now move, so I can go praise—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Greg interrupted, snatching Robin’s purse. His senses had gone on high alert the minute he saw her reach inside the raggedy bag. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything dangerous in here, would you?” he asked. “Nothing to harm Pastor, Mrs. Montgomery, or anyone else, right?”
Robin’s already bulging eyes grew bigger. “What are you talking about? Give me my purse!”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. He squeezed the purse and felt the gun. While still watching Robin, he reached in and pulled it out. “Whoa, what have we here?” he said, asking the obvious. “You think God needs help defeating the devil or something? Were you bringing this gun to kill Satan, or blast the hell out of someone? Which is it?”
Robin lunged at Greg but was no match for six-foot-two and two-hundred-fifty pounds of “you can’t have this.” He quickly handcuffed her to a nearby car, not for his safety, but her own. He then scanned the contents of her purse, confirmed it was indeed Robin Cook from her Florida driver’s license, and pulled out a bottle of pills from the bottom of her purse.
“This your medication?” he asked, reading the label.
Robin glared at him, silently pulling on the handcuffs. “Let me go,” she whispered, the fight appearing to leave her. “I’ll go, just take off these handcuffs and give me my shit!”
Greg emptied the bullets from Robin’s gun and then placed it and the other contents back in her bag. He uncuffed her, grabbed her arm firmly, and demanded the location of her car. Robin was seething, but knew her ill-conceived plan needed to be revised. She pointed to her car and walked complacently by his side as he ushered her to the vehicle. Greg hovered closely as Robin opened her purse, retrieved the car keys, unlocked the door, and got inside. Greg closed her car door and motioned for Robin to roll down the window. Robin hesitated briefly before doing so.
“What?!” she asked angrily.
“Look, I don’t like treating anybody forcefully; you’re a child of God like the rest of us. But I think you need help, a doctor or something.”
Robin got ready to roll up the window but Greg placed his hand on the glass. “I’m not saying you’re crazy”—like hell I’m not, he thought—“but everybody can use a little help now and then, am I right?” He managed a slight smile and looked at Robin with compassion.
Something pricked at Robin’s heart, almost caused her to believe this man meant her good. But the feeling lasted no more than a second. He was just another one of Vivian’s puppets, somebody else kissing that heifa’s ass.
I hate her, Robin thought. But she tried not to show this emotion as she sweetly asked the security guard for her bullets. “I live in a rough neighborhood,” she reasoned. “I’m not going to shoot anybody. Now, can you give me my bullets back? I ain’t got money to buy no more.”
“I can’t do that, Ms. Cook,” Greg replied. “And if you don’t have a license to carry that weapon and get stopped by the police, you can go to jail.”
The word jail reverberated through every fiber of her being. As much as Robin hated anyone or anything, she hated thoughts of returning to that hellhole the most. Again, something connected to Vivian stood in the way of having what she wanted, what she deserved. Her dark mood quickly returned. “Get your hands off the glass, muthafucka,” she snarled. “And let me go.”
Greg released the window, which Robin promptly rolled up, even though the temperatures hovered around ninety degrees. She accelerated from the curb and away from KCCC without looking back.
Immediately Greg called an assistant who was posted inside the church. “Escort Pastor and Lady Viv directly to the executive suite as soon as service is over,” he said in clipped tones. “No fellowshipping, no waiting, no exceptions.”
9
Her Name Is Not Stella But…
Carla had been both anticipating and dreading this meeting ever since Stanley got called out of town and volunteered her to meet with Lavon regarding the Kingdom Keys DVD series. Carla tried to ignore her nervousness about their meeting in her home. The location had been arranged before Stanley got called away, so Lavon could see where he wanted to tape the series’ intros. He’d thought that taping these greetings from the Lees’ home would add a warm, personal touch. Stanley had thought it an excellent suggestion. But now he was gone and Carla was home alone. Her anxiety turned to something else when she opened the door.
“Come in, Lavon,” Carla said, in what she hoped was a casual tone.
“Hey, Lady Cee,” Lavon replied cordially. He had a habit of nicknaming the many ministers with whom he did business, especially when there was an easy camaraderie. He’d felt comfortable with Carla since “hi, my name is…”
“You hungry, thirsty?” Carla asked, as they walked through the foyer and into the Lees’ massive formal living room, stylishly decorated in French country chic.
Lavon was about to say no when a tantalizing smell brushed past his nostrils. “I didn’t think so, until I got a whiff of whatever’s cooking right now.”
Carla gave an understanding smile. It was a rare breed who could pass up her homemade meals. “That would be my baked pork chops,” she said. “Go through those French doors to the patio; we can eat and talk out there.”
Lavon had noticed Carla’s ample cleavage as soon as she opened the door. He continued what he hoped was a discreet perusal of her shapely, plus-size figure from behind as she sashayed into the kitchen. She had on flat sandals and wore a floor-length jersey dress with a peek-a-boo slit to just above her knees. Thick, shapely calves teased him from behind the cut fabric. The jersey hugged Carla’s big behind, an attribute that made Lavon’s mouth water. He shook his head, trying to clear the sexual thoughts that quickly flooded his conscience. He walked toward the French doors while taking in as much of the house as he could see—Dr. Lee’s house, he silently reminded himself. As if to underscore the thought, he passed by five pairs of Lee eyes staring at him from a huge family painting mounted over the marble fireplace. “Mrs. Carla Lee,” he muttered under his breath.
Carla hadn’t missed a thing, had felt his eyes on her all the way down the hall to the kitchen, and heard his footsteps when they finally crossed the living room’s hardwood floor. The air fairly sizzled between Carla and Lavon every time they met. They both tried to ignore it, even as Carla’s body made other pl
ans. She knew Lavon was thinking similar thoughts and beyond these illicit contemplations, she didn’t want to think of much else…her husband, for instance.
Carla brought iced tea to the table and within minutes returned with two steaming platters of down-home Southern cooking: baked pork chops smothered in gravy, cabbage stewed with apples and onions, buttery mashed potatoes, and thick, golden slices of corn bread from scratch.
“Lord have mercy, woman!” Lavon exclaimed as she set down his plate. He eyed the delicious fare appreciatively, at a loss for words. “Lord have mercy,” he murmured again, picking up his fork and diving in with relish.
Carla laughed at how Lavon was very clearly enjoying the meal. As she’d expected, he had a voracious appetite, and she didn’t think it was limited to food. “Slow down there now,” she said as Lavon cleaned half his plate in minutes. “Nobody’s going to take it from you!”
“Not unless they want to get shot,” he retorted. “Lady Cee, I haven’t had food this good since my mama died. I didn’t think women cooked like this anymore.”
“Most women don’t,” Carla admitted. She took her hands and traced her ample figure. “And I guess I shouldn’t either, at least not very often.”
Lavon set down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and took a drink of tea. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, looking at Carla without blinking.
The simple statement caused Carla to catch her breath. There was such raw sexuality in his beady-eyed stare. While appearing totally respectful, Lavon had caused Carla to become wet with a single phrase and a solid glance.
“Thank you,” she whispered, picking up her fork and trying to re-engage an appetite that was suddenly gone, replaced by a different kind of hunger. “You’re not bad yourself,” she added, not trusting herself to look up.
Carla battled with what was suddenly an overwhelming need for physical love. The night she’d fantasized about the man now at her table flashed into her mind. The angel on one shoulder reminded her how much she loved her husband, while the devil on the other asked how well he’d loved her back—and how long was she going to deny her desires. Carla picked up the pork chop bone, not aware that Lavon watched her. She gnawed off the meat the fork missed and licked the gravy from her fingers.
Lavon watched her tongue lick her fingers as if mesmerized. If the way she ate was any indication, this woman loved to abandon. He in that moment knew he was going to sleep with Carla Lee just as sure as he knew his name. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. There was an unspoken conversation happening between them, one of which neither was totally aware. While Lavon was an admitted church ho in the past, he’d shied away from married women. For the last few years he’d pretty much toed the straight and narrow, until today. Now, all bets were off. He sensed Carla Lee was just like the smothered pork chop she’d just enjoyed—spicy, appetizing, and finger-licking good.
“Should we discuss the series’ intro now or…after we eat?” Lavon asked slowly.
Carla felt warmth from her belly button to her G-spot. “Afterward,” she breathed, visions of replacing her plastic penis with the real thing dancing in her head. The desire for Lavon was so unexpected and so strong, she didn’t even have time to process it. She just reacted to its call.
Carla and Lavon finished their food quickly and got up from the table. Neither had to voice what they both knew was getting ready to happen. Any page in the Bible would have decried her actions, so Carla kept the mental book closed. She locked the front door and directed Lavon toward the stairs. “Straight down the hall and through the last door on your left,” she said softly.
Carla admired Lavon’s muscular legs as he climbed the stairs, tight buns encased in the slacks of a casual khaki summer suit. She walked to the kitchen, placed the dishes in the dishwasher, made sure all the stove’s burners were off, and reached for the phone. There were a few calls to make that included three kids and a church assistant, to make sure she knew how much time she had without interruptions.
The moment felt surreal, as if it were happening to someone else. While always gregarious and earthy, she was a woman of control. But not now. Now, she was getting ready to do something she hadn’t done in a decade…have really, really good sex. Because there was no doubt in Carla’s mind. Lavon would be real good.
Lavon felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of cavorting in Stanley Lee’s bed. But to his pleasant surprise and Carla’s measured sense of decency, he correctly guessed that what he stepped into was a guest room. Tastefully decorated in muted blues, grays, and tans, with contrasting black furniture, it was thankfully impersonal, with pictures of the ocean dressing two of the four walls. A mirrored closet ran the length of the wall directly across from the king-size bed. The faint, floral fragrance of lavender hung in the air, the only decidedly feminine effect in the entire room. The room was understated elegance, as was Carla’s entire home. This fact had surprised him upon his first visit; he’d imagined Carla’s home would be full of loud, vibrant colors, a bit of garishness thrown in just because. Maybe in other rooms, he mused, as he sat down on the bed and fingered the silk comforter. But he decided against asking for a grand tour. The last thing he needed was to get too comfortable in another man’s house. He knew he’d already seen more than he should have, but also knew there was no going back from the decision. As he stood to take off his jacket, the door opened.
Carla slipped into the room, eyeing Lavon nervously. She’d changed into a loose-fitting, thigh-length house dress, with a zipper that ran from top to bottom. She wore nothing underneath. All of a sudden, she felt like a schoolgirl, about to “do it” in her mama’s house before Mama returned home. Her stomach was all aflutter, her breath short and quick.
Lavon sensed her nervousness, and her excitement. “Come here,” he commanded softly, yet in a tone that brooked no argument.
Though her legs could barely move, Carla managed to make her way around the bed and stand in front of Lavon. At five-foot-eight, she was just a couple inches shorter than him, and probably only thirty, forty pounds lighter. Still, his was a giant presence in front of her. He emanated power, exuded testosterone.
Lavon placed his hands on Carla’s shoulders and began kneading them tenderly. He looked deeply into her eyes. “How long have you been planning to seduce me?” he asked simply.
“Ever since you stepped into our office,” Carla replied honestly, quickly wiping the image of her husband, who had also been in the office, out of her mind.
“And how’d you know I’d comply?” Lavon asked, directing Carla to sit on the bed and massaging her feet and calves.
“I—I didn’t,” Carla gasped as Lavon placed a tender kiss on a point just behind her knee and continued a brief trail up part of her thigh.
“What would you have done if I’d said no,” Lavon asked, standing to remove his shirt and pants.
Carla stared, mesmerized. A large bulge was noticeable even in his loose boxers. She swallowed once, and again. “I would have lost my mind,” she said finally, her eyes slowly drifting from the bulge to his face.
“Well, you know,” Lavon said, reaching for the clasp on the zipper of Carla’s dress and slowly pulling it down, exposing Carla’s satiny brown body in the process. “We can’t have that. Because a mind…is…a terrible thing to waste,” Lavon said, as he placed kisses at the valley of her size-D breasts, across her round stomach, and near her hips.
It had been less than ten minutes and Carla was already in a frenzy. Stanley never touched her this way, caressed her, licking the flesh and then blowing on the wetness. Lavon’s skilled actions were driving her wild. “I can’t wait,” she panted. “It’s been so long, too long….”
Lavon was a gentleman who’d never think of keeping a woman waiting. He kissed Carla deeply, and then used his strong fingers and skilled tongue to pleasure every inch of her size-sixteen physique. When he basked in the glory of her private paradise, Carla grabbed a pillow to muffle her screams. It had been ten years, and
the re-entry into oral pleasure was almost more than she could bear. She begged him not to stop, to go on forever. Tears streamed down her face as she experienced one release after another.
Carla thought Lavon’s art of loving her couldn’t get better. She was wrong. After his leisurely performed oral symphony, he prepared for the encore. Almost with sixth-sense accuracy, he lavished love on her, initiating positions that for the past decade, Carla had only experienced in her dreams. Lavon was thick and thorough, strong and gentle at the same time. For more than an hour, Lavon took Carla to the moon, carried her around the planets and stars, before bringing her gently back down to planet earth. Carla lay thoroughly satiated, totally satisfied, and absolutely convinced that she’d just found the man who would help her get her groove back for eight glorious weeks. And just as quickly Carla realized that eight weeks, after ten years, just might not be enough.
But it would have to be…wouldn’t it?
10
Former Best Friends
Even Robin’s sour mood couldn’t dampen Passion’s joy. It had been a week since she met Lavon Chapman and in that time, she’d come to believe more and more that he was someone special. They’d only been together that Sunday at the Lees’, but had talked on the phone, albeit briefly, almost every day. He was always as warm and charming as the day they’d met.
“I don’t want to move too fast,” Passion said, as she reached for another slice of pizza. “I kinda want to wait until I’m married or at least engaged to, you know, do the do, but Lord that man turns me on!” Passion took a hefty bite of her meat lover’s special, rearing back on her sofa and kicking up her heels as she chewed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I pride myself on being a strong, Christian woman and all, and maintaining proper values, but…it’s been five years, girl! And that man’s body? Uh, uh, uh!”
A Preacher’s Passion Page 4
