Actually, yes, is what Darius thought. “Of course not,” is what he said.
“So act like it then,” Stacy said with a pout in her voice as she pulled Darius into an embrace. “Stay with me, if not tonight, the next time you come over. Or let me stay at your house, and come with you on one of your upcoming tour dates.”
“Okay,” Darius said, looking at his watch over Stacy’s shoulder.
“You mean it?” Stacy asked, releasing him. “You’ll stay? I can come?”
“I will stay and we’ll see about you attending an out of town concert.”
“See, baby, was that so hard? I want us to be together forever. It’s you, Darius, that’s all I want.”
Darius gave Stacy a quick kiss on the lips and was out the door. Somebody else wanted only him too, and Darius didn’t want to keep him waiting.
The smell of scented candles greeted Darius as he turned the knob and entered the condo he shared with his personal assistant/business manager and lover of three years, Bo Jenkins. Darius smiled. He and Bo had gone through a lot, and when Stacy arrived on the scene it almost caused their breakup. But love had prevailed; Bo now understood that Stacy was a necessary accessory to Darius’s heterosexual persona. His and Bo’s relationship was stronger than ever, and that Bo had been willing to accept Stacy, keeping Darius’s best interest at heart, made Darius love him all the more.
“Hey, you,” Darius said as he walked into a living room shimmering with more than a dozen white candles. A bottle of champagne chilled in a bucket, and the sultry sounds of Joss Stone added to the ambiance.
“Hey, back,” Bo answered. He gave Darius a quick hug and peck on the lips, ignoring the “just showered” smell with which he’d become familiar. That drove him crazy when Darius first started seeing Stacy—Darius coming home smelling like Dove or Ivory or some shit neither Bo nor Darius would be caught dead buying. He’d finally purchased Darius a travel bag, a supply of their preferred soap, Calvin Klein’s Obsession, and explained to Darius before a date with Stacy: “so yo’ ass can smell the same going and coming.”
“What’s all this?” Darius asked. “My birthday is still weeks away.”
Instead of answering the question, Bo asked his own. “Don’t you want to get comfortable? I’ve got a few things to share with you and I’m sure you’ve, uh, already had quite a night.”
Darius couldn’t lie. “Sometimes that girl acts like a nymphomaniac. It’s like she—”
“OMG, TMI, keep those details TYS.” Bo had adopted his best diva pose as he delivered this line, finishing with a “tsk, tsk, tsk” and sashaying over to the bottle of champagne. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some bubbly.”
Darius laughed. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just that you’re my best friend in the world. It’s hard not to share everything with you.”
This had the desired effect, as complimenting Bo always did. “Go on in there and take those clothes off, boy,” Bo said with a grin. “And don’t worry, double-oh-eight will give you a break tonight.”
After a quick change into cashmere sweats, Darius joined Bo on the couch. “What’s TYS?” he asked, taking the champagne flute Bo held out to him.
“To—yo’—self,” Bo said, punctuating every word. He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
They spent several moments in companionable silence, enjoying the champagne. Two flutes later, Bo decided he did want to hear what had happened with Stacy, and Darius obliged him. Bo couldn’t have been happier that Stacy was harping on Darius about Bo always being around, and that she kept bugging Darius for them to get engaged. Watching Darius’s reactions to her pleas had helped Bo change his strategy. He’d become the patient, noncomplaining (well, not much anyway), empathizing partner, the one always there with a shoulder to lean on, and an ear to hear. Bo figured that the more Stacy showed her ass, and the less he did, the faster Darius would realize which one of them he truly wanted.
Bo walked into the kitchen and came back with a snack tray of mini sandwiches and a pile of colorful root vegetable chips.
“Thank you, baby,” Darius exclaimed. “I was just sitting here trying to remember the last time I ate.”
Bo set the tray down and headed toward the bedroom.
“Did that skank ho fuck you senseless and leave your stomach empty?” he asked over his shoulder.
Darius laughed. “Something like that. And, Bo, I’ve told you. Stop calling her that. It’s not right—disrespectful to women in general and Stacy in particular. Bo, do you hear me?”
“Sorry,” Bo mumbled, with as much sincerity as there was pork in a kosher butcher shop.
Darius finished a salami and turkey combo with melted provolone cheese in three bites. “She can’t cook like you anyway,” he said when Bo returned to the room. “These are so good. What did you do, zap them in the microwave?”
“No, baby, only the best for you. Those are oven baked, and I got the rolls from this kosher bakery in Fairfax. They’re made fresh every day.”
Darius reached for another sandwich, this one a savory roast beef paired with roasted red and pepperoncini peppers, arugula, and Cabrales blue cheese. The savory combo burst upon his palette with the first bite. He enjoyed the flavors, his eyes closed as he slowly chewed.
Bo fairly preened with satisfaction. “I knew you’d like that one; it’s my favorite.”
Darius finished the first and immediately took a second bite. “Mine too,” he said around a mouthful of beef.
The CD player switched from Joss Stone to Whitney Houston’s Greatest Hits. With “You Give Good Love” playing in the background, it seemed to Bo the perfect time to give Darius his surprise. He casually handed Darius a luxuriously wrapped packet, held together with a golden seal.
“What’s this?”
“Open it and find out.”
Darius opened the packet and pulled out the contents. On top was a brochure with pictures of châteaus, a river, and nightlife scenes. Opening it, Darius saw they were pictures of Quebec, Canada.
“What’s this?” Darius repeated. “You going somewhere?”
“Not without you,” Bo said as he snuggled closer to Darius. Darius had told Bo months ago about wanting to visit Quebec, Canada, after seeing a television documentary on the province. Bo had begun planning a holiday trip shortly after that conversation. Quebec was one of three cities in Canada that performed and recognized same-sex marriages, a subject Bo and Darius had also casually discussed.
Darius opened the second brochure. It was a flight itinerary, outlining a trip to take place over the Thanksgiving holidays. “First class! That’s what I’m talking about. Baby knows how a brother likes to roll!” Darius leaned over and gave Bo a quick kiss before continuing to examine the packet’s contents. Along with the brochure on Quebec and travel itinerary was a brochure of the luxury hotel for their weeklong visit: the Fairmont Le Manoir Richelieu, and various brochures on skiing and other entertainment options. Darius was overwhelmed at the obvious care and careful planning it had taken for Bo to put this together, and that he’d done it all for him. Few were the times Darius could remember feeling so loved and cherished. He stared deeply into Bo’s eyes before enfolding him in a long, gentle embrace. It was all he could do to express his gratitude; it was enough.
After several moments, Bo whispered, “Isn’t there one more envelope in the packet?”
Darius went through the brochures and found a small envelope he’d overlooked. It was heavier than the other envelopes, with obviously something besides paper inside. It was a small key. He raised his brow in a questioning gesture.
“That,” Bo said, pointing to the key, “holds the final part of your birthday present. But for that you’ll have to wait until your actual birthday, when we’re in Quebec.”
“Bo! That’s too far away.”
“Only a few weeks; they’ll fly by.”
“Give me a hint.”
Bo thought for a moment. “Well, considering how ‘Possible’ is heating u
p the charts, let’s hope it goes double platinum.”
Darius knew Bo had intentionally confused him. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
Bo arose from the couch and pulled Darius up with him. They headed toward the bedroom. “No,” Bo said, as he rubbed his hand across Darius’s cashmere-covered behind. “But it will be worth the wait.”
Stacy tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Her thoughts were in turmoil, and all about Darius. She felt she needed to make a move, make something happen, and soon. She felt for sure that if the relationship did not move forward, it would begin to go backward. In a way, it already had, with Darius spending more time performing out of town, which meant away from her.
But was it the right time to tell him about the baby? For some reason she continued to hesitate. The timing just didn’t feel right. At times she’d even questioned if what she’d done was the correct move, or whether it would backfire. She lay on her back remembering how the idea had come about.
It was a night much like this one, when she couldn’t sleep. Belatedly, she’d remembered that she hadn’t taken her birth control pills that day. She’d traipsed into the bathroom and retrieved them from the medicine cabinet. She popped one in her mouth and was reaching for her water glass when she stopped midmove, the pill on her tongue. Slowly, she turned toward the mirror, opened her mouth, and lifted the tiny white pill off her tongue.
That’s it, she thought, taking the pill and dropping it purposefully into the toilet. She’d then taken her birth control pill dispenser and dropped it in the trash.
“Mrs. Crenshaw,” she’d said aloud, referring to herself by Darius’s last name as she eyed herself in the mirror, “it’s time to start Project Darius Jr.”
The rest hadn’t been difficult. Darius didn’t always wear condoms, and didn’t worry about pregnancy because he knew Stacy was on the pill. They both had a healthy sexual appetite. Before Stacy had time to think it through, much less change her mind, she was pregnant. Darius was getting ready to be a father, and if her plan succeeded, Stacy would soon be his wife.
14
Marital Obligations
Carla Lee’s world was upside down, and Lavon Chapman was the man who’d flipped it. She’d only known him four weeks. It felt like a lifetime. The first week they’d become intimate had been glorious. Stanley was out of town and the kids busy with school. Carla and Lavon had screwed like teenagers, every position, everywhere. But after that week, things had gotten tricky. Stanley came home, and because of his dedication to the Kingdom Keys series and the short time they had to produce it, had cancelled his remaining out of town engagements for the length of Lavon’s visit. Lavon and Carla still saw each other almost all day every day, but Stanley was there as well.
Stanley’s return didn’t totally stop the lovers from their trysts. Citing engagements with Vivian or one of the other members of Ladies First, an organization for pastors’ wives, Carla met Lavon at the Sheraton and enjoyed stolen hours of mind-boggling ecstasy. Lavon’s unparalleled oral expertise was like crack cocaine; the more she had, the more she wanted. She kept telling herself that this good sex was blowing her mind because of how long she’d gone without it. She rationalized that the affair was only eight weeks out of a lifetime marriage. November would come and Lavon would be gone, leaving her with wonderful memories and a va-jay-jay that tingled every time she imagined his face or heard his name.
“Lavon,” she whispered.
“What’d you say?” Stanley asked, coming into the kitchen.
Carla had been so deep in thought she hadn’t heard her husband, or realized she’d said her lover’s name out loud.
“Did you say Lavon?”
“Did I?” Carla asked, busying herself by grabbing fixings for a salad she hadn’t planned to prepare—anything to keep her hands busy. “I may have; I’m trying to organize a ‘to do’ list in my mind and getting copies of my SOS tapes to him is one on the list.”
“Speaking of, how’d your meeting go?”
“Hmm?”
“Your meeting?”
“What meeting, Stan?”
Stan stopped from getting a soda out of the refrigerator and looked at Carla. “Didn’t you tell me you had a meeting today with Ladies First? Planning for the next Sanctity of Sisterhood mini-conference?”
“Oh, that meeting.” Carla had momentarily forgotten which lie she’d used for her afternoon delight at the Sheraton. “No, Boo, that got cancelled so I met with someone else instead.”
“Who?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you don’t know her, she’s not a pastor’s wife. Just a sistah who needs prayer, and a friend.”
Carla wasn’t in the habit of lying to Stanley; their marriage had been above board for a decade. But she hadn’t always been saved, and back in the day, she could lie like a rug, look you straight in the eye and tell you the sky was red with so much conviction you’d almost believe her. In the last three weeks, Carla had found the art like riding a bicycle—a skill that came back with practice.
Stanley came behind Carla and put his hands on her shoulders. “Have I told you lately how special you are?” The contact was brief, rote, reminding Carla what she had to look forward to once Lavon was gone. But she hadn’t missed the sincerity in her husband’s voice. He cared for her, loved her in his own way.
A wave of guilt washed over Carla. What was she doing? Here was a man who’d married a single mother, adopted her daughter as his own, gave her two sons, supported the family financially and in every other way for ten years, and never once gave her cause to suspect he was unfaithful. And how was she thanking him? By screwing the man Stanley had brought in to take their ministry, their successful, fruitful ministry, to a higher level. This is why for the past month Carla had refused to really think about what she was doing; it didn’t feel good. She knew she had to end things with Lavon.
“I love you, Boo,” she said, with a catch in her voice, as she turned and hugged her husband tightly.
Stanley noticed the emotion behind the words. He held Carla at arm’s length, searching her face for answers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, just emotional I guess, that time of the month.”
“Oh, I see. So that’s why you haven’t been bugging me to fulfill my marital obligations, huh?”
It was true. Since Lavon had arrived in LA, Carla hadn’t had sex with her husband, nor wanted to. The weekly intimacy that she usually initiated had fallen by the wayside, along with the validity of her marriage vows. “I know you’re busy,” she said as a reason.
“And I know how much that aspect of marriage means to you. Maybe this weekend?” he suggested.
“Whenever you want, Stanley,” Carla said, falling short of the enthusiasm she’d hoped her voice would convey.
Carla’s cell phone rang. She picked it up off the counter and checked the ID: Lavon. Seeing his name immediately made her wet, something the man standing in front of her seemed unable to do. Guilt clinched her heart again. Yes, she had to end her affair with Lavon, and she had to end it now.
Stanley gave Carla a peck on the cheek and walked out of the kitchen as she flipped up her phone to answer it. “Hello?”
“Hey curvy Carla, how’s my bowl of honey doing today?” Lavon’s voice was low and sexy, the voice that so expertly whispered sweet somethings in Carla’s ear at the point of climax.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to tap down the joy that bubbled over in spite of her resolve. “I’m glad you called,” she said in businesslike fashion. “There are some things I need to discuss with you. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Oh, Stanley’s there. Yeah, baby, tomorrow’s fine. Say, noon, in my room? I’ll order in lunch and uh, tailor-make your dessert.”
Carla almost moaned aloud. She’d tasted his desserts, had had seconds and thirds. Of all the diets she’d ever gone on, she knew this one would be the hardest. “Yes,” she said after a pause, “the coffee shop will be fine.”
Silence on the other end. And then, “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
At the same time Carla’s resolve was weakening, Stanley walked back into the kitchen, with boys Shay and Winston in tow. She had to get off the phone. “That sounds good, sistah. See you tomorrow.”
Minutes later Carla sat at the dining room table, laughing loudly and eating heartily with the men in her life—the only ones who rightly belonged there. Brianna’s cheerleading practice would be ending soon and they’d all be home, one happy family. Carla intended to keep it that way.
That Friday night, Stanley kept his word about making love to Carla. After they’d showered, separately, Stanley crawled into bed and on top of Carla. He kissed, or a better description might be pecked at her mouth, his tongue darting in and out like a roach looking for a getaway in a suddenly bright room.
Carla tried to slow the pace, taking her tongue and slowly, lovingly, tracing the outline of Stanley’s mouth, her body grinding against his in a sensuous motion. “Let me on top,” she whispered, as she grasped the back of his head to deepen the kiss.
She then grabbed his buttocks, kneading them in a circular motion, slipping her fingers down its crevice. While this was a tactic Lavon thoroughly enjoyed, the act obviously made Stanley uncomfortable. He shifted his body, reached between his legs, grabbed his shaft and pushed it roughly inside Carla. The familiar, decade-old dance ensued: pump, pump, pause, pump-pump-pump-pump shift, pump, pump, pause, kiss one nipple, kiss the other, pump, pump, pump, pump, ahhhhhhhhhhhh. And then it was over—for Stanley.
Carla sighed, even as her eyes welled up with tears. Just as quickly she tamped down the emotions. She would not feel sorry for herself. God was good and she was blessed with a godly man, a wonderful father for her children, a beautiful home, and a nice life. So what she didn’t have the intimacy she desired. It was a small price to pay for what she’d been given. When Stan met you, you were a single mother in a roach-infested apartment…remember that! “Yes, remember that,” Carla whispered as she slid softly out of the bed so as not to awaken her husband. Remember that, she thought, as she went to the closet and reached for “Denzel.” And she tried to remember, tried to ignore her feelings, tried to embrace the passion for the man who years ago had embraced her. But as she found physical release, with the help of her “monster cock,” it was Lavon, not Stanley, who she remembered, the one who in that moment she knew she could not forget.
A Preacher’s Passion Page 7
