Church Girl

Chapter Eight

Eight

“Can’t no pussy whip me. It might give me some love taps, though.”

Von

I wipe a paper towel down my client’s shoulder, cleaning off the excess blue ink and blood. Leaning back, I study the dress I just finished coloring in. I toss a glance at the picture taped to the drawer of my Craftsman, comparing the image on her skin to the one in the photograph. I love what I do, creating art, immortalizing it on a person’s body. It’s more than leaving my mark in this world, like Picasso left behind his The Old Guitarist or Jean-Michel Basquiat his Untitled . Yeah, it definitely is that. But it’s also this right here.

A client like Ms. Iman Johnson, a middle-aged math teacher at one of the local high schools, who lost her mother to cancer and wants to always carry her mother with her, no matter how many years have passed. It’s giving people living art—art that breathes in their hearts, their souls, their memories.

That’s what Sheree will never understand.

King Tattoos is more than brick and mortar and glass. It’s more than money she can spend to flex for her so-called friends. It’s more than a pawn to hurt me.

It’s my dreams, my salvation, my refuge, my legacy. It’s me.

And I’d be a liar not to say the thought of giving up any part of it scares the fuck out of me.

Pressing the pedal and turning the tattoo machine back on, I bend over and add a little more shading to the folds in the dress. Minutes later, I finish cleaning off the tattoo with green soap, admiring my work. It’s gorgeous. Ain’t no point in being modest about the shit. I’m damn good—hell, one of the best. After over twenty years of doing this, shit, I better be.

“Aight, Ms. Iman. I’m finished. You can have a look before I wrap it up.”

She stands, stretching and rolling her shoulders after sitting for three hours. Turning around to me, she smiles, and it lights up her pretty face. “I can’t thank you enough, Von. I’m so excited to see what that tattoo looks like.”

Returning her smile, I motion toward the full-length mirror in the corner of my room. “Over here.” I pick up a handheld mirror from my shelf and follow her across the room. When she turns, I hand it to her.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, staring into the reflection, studying the tatted image of her mother. As Iman lifts her bright, misty eyes to me, a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment crowds into my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers covering her mouth. “Thank you so much, Von. It’s simply beautiful and her . God, it looks just like her.” Her lashes flutter, and a soft sob slips out. But when she meets my gaze again, that smile curves her lips, and her eyes, though wet with tears, are gleaming. “I can’t express how much this means to me. Thank you again.”

“Of course. It was my pleasure. I’m honored to do it for you.” Taking the mirror from her, I cross the room and grab the ointment and plastic wrap. “Let me wrap it up for you.”

Minutes later, Iman stands at the front desk with instructions on aftercare and a tube of ointment, waiting for Malcolm to take her payment. Giving her one last wave, I return to my room and thoroughly sanitize it. My next appointment doesn’t arrive for another couple of hours, and it’s an original piece.

Picking up my Surface Pro, I sink down on my stool and turn the tablet on, navigating to the design I’ve been working on for a week. I frown down at it. My client requested a back piece that I’m doing the outline for today. We’ll set up another appointment for the color. That’s not the issue. The design is.

Usually, this part of the creative process is my favorite. After all, my love of art is what brought me to tattooing in the first place. My client wants an elephant. That’s her only stipulation, leaving the other elements, such as the tattoo style, all up to me. I continue studying the design, trying to pinpoint what’s bothering me. What about it I don’t love. Because if I can’t stand behind it, there’s no way the piece is going on someone.

A knock sounds on my closed door, and without removing my gaze from the screen, I call out, “Yeah?”

“Hey, Von, your nanny’s here,” Malcolm says.

That snatches my attention from the art piece.

“What’s that silly-ass smile for?” I snap, and his mouth only widens into a big grin. No fucking respect. “Y’know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Send Liyah back. She’s only here waiting on G.”

And why did I feel the need to explain anything to him?

“So it’s Liyah now, huh?” He arches an eyebrow. “You know I’ve been meaning to ask if you had a good time at Inferno. I mean, after you disappeared on us to go chill with Liyah .”

“Malc, don’t get thrown around this room, aight?” I glare at him.

“Fine, fine.” He holds up both hands, but that grin remains. “I’ll just go get your nanny. Just let baby girl know if she ever wants to join us at the strip club again, I don’t mind making it rain—”

“I swear fo’ God, Malcom...”

“Aight, aight! I’m going!” He laughs, backing out of the tattoo room, leaving the door cracked.

Moments later, Aaliyah appears in the doorway, hovering there as if she’s torn between coming in or running in the other direction. I’m a little glad she’s hesitating. It gives me a minute to get myself together, seeing her for the first time since Saturday night.

And gotdamn, do I need that minute.

It’d been two days since I’d had my fingers in her mouth, sliding over her tongue and tapping the back of her throat. Two days since feeling that juicy clit jump under my fingers. Two days since fucking in my truck like horny-ass teens and she’d come all over my dick and I’d painted her pussy with my seed.

And in not one of those days, minutes or seconds had I forgotten anything that happened between us. Not her delicate, intoxicating scent and taste. Not each whimper, groan or catch of her breath. Not the slick, soft glide of her pussy. Everything clung to me like a cranky kid, not leaving me in peace. I’ve been both dreading and looking forward to today.

Dreading because I would have to stand ten toes down on what I told her in my truck after my heart decided to crawl up out of my ass from that nut. What we’d done was a mistake and shouldn’t be repeated. Regardless of my dick wanting to find itself back inside her slick, tight walls, I can’t go there again. Have to somehow flip this back to the status quo.

And yet I’d looked forward to seeing her again. Something about that pretty face, those gorgeous eyes that I now know can gleam with lust and still somehow retain their air of innocence. Something about that peaceful yet ferocious spirit that could be a lamb one second and a lioness in the next.

Maybe the smartest thing to do would’ve been to let the nanny agency find her another job. It for damn sure would’ve been the safest. But just like Saturday night, just the thought of someone else caring for Gia...just thinking about walking into my house and not seeing Aaliyah’s shyly smiling face... Yeah, no. Call me selfish, but I meant what I said. I would’ve ridden to Aaliyah’s cousin’s place, tossed her ass over my shoulder and hauled her back to my house.

Just ’cause I can’t have her doesn’t mean me and Gia can’t have her.

She shouldn’t have taken up for my little girl. That sealed her fate.

“Why’re you standing in the doorway like you stole something?” I cock my head. “Come on in, ma. Gia isn’t here yet. She should be on her way. Her mom’s bringing her.”

“Sorry.” She moves fully into the room, and as she closes the door, I scan her petite frame, taking in that beautiful ass sitting up pretty in black leggings. A short jean jacket covers a green hoodie, and black-and-white Chuck Taylors adorn her feet. This woman—at least on the outside—is a far cry from the buttoned-up evangelist who walked into King Tattoos for an interview weeks ago. Both are pretty as fuck, though. She could be in a muumuu and a bonnet, and my dick would still brick up.

“I sent you a text that my last class was letting out a little late. Usually, if that happened, I still would’ve left to make sure I picked up Gia on time. But since she’s not in school, I figured it would be okay...”

I don’t say anything, just stare at her as she rambles on and then eventually trails off.

“You finished, ma?” I calmly ask.

She nods, releasing a heavy-sounding sigh. “Yes, sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “You can cut out the apologizing. I texted you back that you were all good, and I meant that. Sheree decided to take G out for breakfast and some shopping anyway, so you’re still on time.”

My grip on my stylus tightens. Now, I’m not mad at Gia for how she handled herself down at the school, but I’m not rewarding her behavior, either. Not so with her mother. Instead of sitting her daughter down and reinforcing what I’ve already told her, Sheree decides to take Gia on a spending spree. I’on know if she’s trying to win some popularity contest between us, but she fo’ damn sure should be putting being a responsible parent above making me look like the Grinch. God... Sometimes she’s one hell of a mother, and then other times she leaves me questioning her life choices. Shit, mine too for ever marrying her ass.

“Good...and thank you.”

Waving a hand toward my tattoo chair, I return my attention to my tablet. Better than obsessively studying every detail of Aaliyah’s face and trying not to stare at her curvy little body.

“What class were you in? And how’s school going for you so far?”

Out of my peripheral vision, I catch her moving to the chair and settling onto it. She frowns down at the Saran Wrapped arms for a moment then says, “It’s going amazing.” For the first time since she entered my office, her voice loses that hesitancy and brightens, filling with enthusiasm. “I love all my classes and professors. And everyone I’ve met has been so nice.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand if any dusty-ass muthafuckas been pushing up on her, but I manage to bite it back. It’s none of my business. What she does outside of taking care of Gia is none of my business.

And yeah, I’m lying and trying to convince myself of that shit.

“The school is huge, and I’m only in my general courses, but still, it’s like I’ve found my own little community in my classes, with like-minded people who have the same interests and passions that I do,” she continues to gush on. “Take the class I just finished for the day. It’s called Film and the Moving Image. We’re studying perception, comprehension and interpretation regarding film and other moving-image media. We’re studying texts and documentaries, doing screenings. It’s hard work, definitely, but it’s so interesting. I’m analyzing films, videos, broadcasts and other media and seeing things like dialogue, text and expression in ways I’ve never looked at them or even noticed.” A small, self-deprecating smile flirts across her mouth, tugging at the corner. “I’m sorry for going on and on. I must sound like a nerd, getting excited over classes and school.”

“Nah, you good. I like it. And what I tell you about apologizing? You’re excited over school. What’s there to be sorry for?”

She shrugs. “I’m so—understood,” she modifies when I arch an eyebrow. Huffing out a chuckle, she says, “I guess I’m so used to hiding my love of art or making excuses for it that it’s difficult changing my mentality.”

Yeah, that right there.

My jaw clenches as I breathe deep, attempting not to reveal the anger that flares to life inside me. I haven’t forgotten a damn thing she confided in me Saturday night. Not what that fucker uncle of hers did or her bitch-ass daddy’s reaction. Even her mother ain’t getting a pass from me. One tried to violate Aaliyah—nah, ain’t no “tried to,” he did because he violated her trust—and the other two completely failed her. There ain’t no way if Gia came to me with something like that I would have told her to keep it to herself so we wouldn’t be embarrassed. Shit. I’d disappear a muthafucka and give condolences to his mama right over his casket. Even though her father’s a “man of God,” he should’ve fucked his brother up first and prayed for forgiveness later.

I don’t understand that shit to save my life. Don’t want to, either.

“On your résumé, I remember seeing some college. You didn’t major in art or at least take some classes before now?” I return my attention to the design on my tablet so she won’t spot my disgust for her parents. For some reason, she obviously loves and respects them.

Fuck ’em.

She releases a small laugh that carries zero hint of humor. “God no. First, my father paid for community college, and if I’d majored in anything other than business administration, he would’ve pulled all financial support. And since he was able to access my academic records and see my schedule, I couldn’t even sneak art classes.”

I tap the screen, erasing the safari landscape that I’d drawn in the background. Too expected. Too boring.

“What did he have against art? It’s not like these days people can’t make money from it. Between graphic design, animation and even education, there’re plenty of jobs for a person to get into and earn decent money.”

She sighs, and I flick a glance in her direction in time to catch a pained expression waver across her face. It’s there and gone in a moment, but I saw it. I file it away.

“That might be true for a lot of people but not Bishop Montgomery’s daughter. My great-grandfather pastored his own church as did my grandfather and now my father. Because he didn’t have a son to continue the legacy—”

“I don’t know if he’s heard of this thing called women pastors.” My sarcasm game is strong.

She gives me a rueful smile. “Not in our family. My father didn’t even consider that, not that I would’ve wanted to anyway. But the option that was pounded into my head from the time I can remember was marrying a pastor, becoming a first lady and helping him run the church in whatever capacity he needed—or allowed. That’s the reason Daddy okayed business administration. It could come in handy with church business.”

“If he planned your life out to that degree, I’m surprised he didn’t have a man lined up for you to marry,” I mutter.

“Right,” she murmurs, then practically leaps out of the chair and approaches me. “What are you working on?” She steps to the side of my stool as I lean back, so she can see the design. “That’s beautiful.” She glances at me then back to the tablet. “You’re so good.”

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’m awed by her talent. By her . “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.

Swiping a hand over my braids, I shift back a step and call out, “Come in.”

As if he never moved from the other side of the door, Malcolm opens it again, a sheepish grin on his face. Curiosity brightens the gaze he switches from me to Aaliyah then back to me.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“Yeah, what I tell you about waiting for me to actually answer before coming in?”

He winces, but the smile still decorating his face ruins his remorse. “My bad, Von,” he repeats. “Believe me, I won’t forget that again.” He snickers.

Gritting my teeth, I glare at him. “What, Malcom? You came in here for a reason.”

“Right, right. The Wicked Bitch of the West Side is out in the lobby with G. You lucky I didn’t let her run back here like she tried to. That could’ve been...awkward.”

Fuck.

I got so wrapped up in Aaliyah, I’d momentarily forgotten Sheree was on her way here with Gia.

“Thanks, Malc. We’ll be right out.” With a nod, he leaves, closing the door behind him, and I turn to Aaliyah. “Aye—”

“Let’s go.” She jumps off the stool, setting the tablet down and damn near flying for the door. “I’ve missed Gia, and we don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Sighing, I swipe a hand down my face and over my beard. I shake my head. It’s a good thing I let her go because I apparently don’t know my head from my ass when it comes to her. I follow Aaliyah and catch up with her just as she reaches the doorway leading to the lobby. Grasping her upper arm, I slow her down. I’m not so in my head that I’ll allow her to walk out there to deal with my ex-wife unprotected. On a good day, Sheree is on some bullshit. Seeing as how I don’t know what the hell she’s going to be on today, I’m not taking any chances. And nothing in me believes she’ll keep it together just because Gia is with her.

I rub a hand over the back of my neck, feeling the dull throbbing of a headache coming on. Not an unusual reaction when having to deal with Sheree.

As soon as I step out, I spot Gia, and even the fact that her mother stands behind her doesn’t dim my joy at seeing her. It’s been three days since she’s been home, and I miss her every time she’s at Sheree’s house.

“Liyaaah!” Gia shrieks, sprinting toward Aaliyah. I reach out and put a hand on Aaliyah’s back to steady her as Gia crashes into her, hooking her arms around Aaliyah’s thighs. “I missed you!”

“Well, damn.” I snort. “I’m standing right here, and I’m just your daddy.”

“I missed you, too, Daddy.” She grins up at me, her pretty hazel eyes wide. “I just missed Liyah more.”

“Shawty, you don’t know nothing about loyalty.” I mug her and she laughs, and the sound reaches right into my chest and snatches up my heart like it stole something.

“Ahem.” Sheree clears her throat, and I glance over at my ex. Her narrowed gaze is fixed on my hand that’s still pressed to Aaliyah’s back. When she shifts her attention to me, I silently sigh at the anger simmering in the same hazel eyes she gave Gia.

“I take it you’re the nanny I’ve heard so much about from Gia ,” she says to Aaliyah, although her glare doesn’t leave me.

“Yes, I’m Aaliyah Montgomery. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Smiling, Aaliyah steps forward despite Gia not letting her go.

She extends her hand toward Sheree, and after a hesitation that borders on rude and awkward, Sheree accepts Aaliyah’s hand, briefly shaking it then dropping it like her palm’s sticky with shit. She scrunches up her nose as if she smells it, too.

Irritation scratches at me. How is it that every day Sheree wakes up and chooses to be a bitch? And for no gotdamn reason. The shit’s gotta be exhausting, I know it is for me since I have to deal with it.

“Yes, finally .” Sheree’s lip curls up at the corner. “It’s only been weeks that you’ve been caring for my daughter. This should’ve happened before now. No offense, but it would’ve been nice to have been consulted about hiring you. She’s my daughter, so I should’ve had an opinion about who’s taking care of her.”

That irritation flares to a deep, burning anger. Sheree’s words were deliberately chosen, I have no doubt about that. And though I know she’s being petty as fuck, it doesn’t stop the pain from stabbing me in the chest.

It’s some shit. When she wants something from me, she’s our daughter. But when she’s pissed, Gia becomes her daughter.

The “get the fuck outta here with that” sits on my tongue like a live coal. A glance down at Gia keeps me from cursing her mother out, no matter how much her trifling, deceitful ass deserves it. Sheree doesn’t give a damn that our daughter has a front-row seat to the shit show she’s stirring, but I do.

Holding out my hand to Gia, I wait until she takes it then I walk her over to the front desk. “Baby girl, go with Malcolm for a few minutes, aight? I bought your favorite Pop-Tarts for you. Go have one, okay?” She could eat the sugary breakfast food any time of the day, she was that obsessed with them.

“Okay, Daddy.” Some of the joy has dimmed from her voice, and that has my hands itching to shake some sense into her mother.

I wait until Malcolm disappears into the back with Gia before turning and stalking back to Sheree. Thank God the lobby is free of clients because I don’t do drama, and that’s all my ex-wife is about.

“Look, Sheree, I’m not doing this with you. Now you know how I get down, so don’t think just ’cause our daughter is back there that I’m gonna let you come up in here and show your ass. Not in my shop.”

“Your shop, your shop. That’s all you care about as usual.” She waves a hand, resentment dripping from every word. “All I’m saying is, you could’ve included me in hiring a nanny for Gia. How do I know she’s even capable or experienced enough for the job? I’m sorry—what’s your name again?—Amira? How old are you anyway? Nothing personal, but you look young enough to need a nanny yourself.” She chuckles at the tail end of the insult.

I part my lips to tell her to get the hell on, but Aaliyah tilts her head, the same sweet smile on her face.

“It’s Aaliyah, but you know that. And usually when someone starts off any sentence with ‘no offense’ or ‘nothing personal,’ they mean just the opposite. But since you seem to be upset and in a bad mood, I’m not going to charge it to you because I totally understand that we all have difficult days when we wake up on the wrong side of the bed. And bless your heart, you should be concerned about who’s in your daughter’s life, as you’re her mother. That’s your right, another reason I will gladly excuse your bad behavior. I’m twenty-four and quite capable of caring for Gia, as I’m sure she’s expressed to you. And from the time I’ve spent around her father, I am very assured he wouldn’t hire anyone if he didn’t have the confidence they could protect and care for his daughter. So please don’t worry, okay? I hope that makes you feel better.”

Well...shit.

I glance at Sheree, and her stunned expression reflects the same surprise reverberating inside me. I don’t know why I’m shocked, though, after how Aaliyah took down the principal up at Gia’s school. Still... This must be that nice-nasty I hear about with Southerners. She even threw a “bless your heart” up in that muthafucka. And I didn’t have to be from there to know exactly what that meant.

Apparently, so does Sheree because the surprise washes away from her face, anger pinching her mouth and darkening her eyes. Yeah, I’d be embarrassed, too, if someone who looked like they were woken up by chirping birds and dress-making mice gave me the business.

“Excuse me,” Sheree hisses, leaning forward.

I shift forward, too. Now if she thinks she’s gonna put hands on lil’ mama, she got the wrong one.

From the fury tightening her face, Sheree catches my movement, and she barks, “Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that?”

Aaliyah shrugs, lifting her palms. “The nanny.”

I try to swallow down my laughter. I really do. But the bark of laughter from the back tells me two things: one, Chelle and the other artists are listening to everything that’s going on out here, and two, they’re enjoying their selves at Sheree’s expense.

“Bitch,” Sheree snarls, stepping closer, but I’m faster and step in front of her, blocking Aaliyah.

“Nah, yo. Watch that bitch word,” I say, even though minutes earlier Malcolm had used it toward Sheree. Funny how hearing it applied to Aaliyah has me feeling some kind of way, but when it was directed toward Sheree? Yeah, she earned that. You had to give respect to earn it. And Sheree had lost all of mine a long time ago. “Now I told you I’m not gonna let you bring this bullshit up in here. You’ve dropped Gia off, so you can go.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” She crosses her arms, loosing a cackle. “You must be giving ol’ girl the dick for you to be standing here defending her ’n’ shit, and for her to think she can talk to me any ol’ way.” With another bitter burst of laughter, she leans around me, smirking at Aaliyah. “You think just ’cause you bussin’ it open and giving him that young girl pussy that you can keep him, sweetie? Got news for you. Men like him don’t stay, and they for damn sure aren’t loyal or faithful—”

The fuck? “You for real, Sheree?” I growl. “This what you want to do? Right here?” The hurt seethes, and only Gia being in the building keeps me from airing all her shit for everyone to hear.

“Since that was directed to me, please let me clear up any misconception,” Aaliyah says, her tone still sweet as sugar. “You are the only one who seems preoccupied with who Von is giving ‘dick’ to, as you put it.” And goddamn. Even though I’m mad as fuck, hearing that prim, soft voice wrap around the word dick has my own hardening as if it came accompanied by a hand job. “Von is my employer, and whatever is between y’all isn’t my business or concern, so please leave me out of it.”

It’s like every time Aaliyah opens her mouth or makes her presence known, it stirs an anger in Sheree that should be directed at me.

“Whatever,” Sheree snaps. “Just know your place. You’re the nanny . Not Gia’s mother. So next time you want to take yourself up to my baby’s school and show your ass, remember that. Yeah—” she smiles, looking like a shark showing all her teeth as she switches her attention to me “—I called up to the school to find out why Gia wasn’t in school today since you didn’t see fit to give me the full story. The principal told me how this one—” she jabs a thumb in Aaliyah’s direction “—came up there. I think my lawyer would be interested to know the nanny had to go up there ’cause you couldn’t be bothered until she didn’t know how to act. Got my daughter up there fighting. I wonder what the court will think about that?”

“You threatening me?” I quietly ask, studying her.

I love my baby girl; God knows that I do. But her mother? I’m questioning my life decisions right now, staring at her smug expression. There are times like this one when I really do believe she hates me more than she cares for Gia.

“They’ll probably wonder why the school didn’t call you in the first place,” I say. “Then they’ll probably ask when was the last time you were up at the school for a parent-teacher conference, a parents’ day, hell, to bring Gia lunch? And just in case they do ask, best believe I’ll have the answer. Then they’ll most likely wonder why a mother who spends her days taking selfies for the ’Gram is even in their court on some bullshit. Then they’ll revisit why they didn’t give her physical custody of her daughter in the first place. And we both know the extraordinary circumstances of them giving that to me instead of you, don’t we? Want me to remind you since you insist on standing in my fucking shop when I’ve given you chance after chance to leave?”

Several beats of silence pass between us where we stare at each other, until she balls her face up and whispers, “I hate you.”

Not giving me a chance to return the sentiment, she storms out. My heart pounds in my chest, the fury, the fucking pain, coasting through me. Fists clenched at my sides, I inhale a deep breath, bowing my head, trying to fight past the emotion assaulting me.

When a small hand covers one of my mine, I almost snatch my fist away, not wanting or needing her sympathy or pity. But at the last moment, I stifle that urge. I don’t pull away. And though it sends splinters of fear through me, I call out my lie, admitting the truth.

I do want her touch.

Her softness grounds me in the here and now, reminds me that I can’t allow my resentment and hurt about Sheree and our past to harden the part of me that Gia needs.

Flipping my hand over, I thread my fingers through Aaliyah’s and ignore the words whispering through my head like an indictment.

You need her, too .

Nah. Been there, got the ex-wife to prove it.

I’m good.