Sinful Too (5 page)
“That was a full bottle of Cristal, Dior, a full bottle!”
“He was full of something too. He probably doesn’t remember me but about a year or so ago he picked me up for a movie in his brand-new Escalade.”
“And?”
“And, the inside of his whip smelled
exactly
like the outside of a woman’s behind.”
“Ewwh!”
“Exactly.”
Tangerine spotted the same guy making another run at two unsuspecting ladies four tables away. She imagined how his SUV must have come to reek as Dior proclaimed it did. “Ewwh-ewwh. That’s like three kinds of nasty.”
“Told you.”
During the next hour, waitresses delivered drinks from a litany of men who witnessed Dior send the first challenger away with the quickness. Neither of them had the gall to follow in his footsteps nor subsequently be shut down without getting a decent shot. Tangie sipped from the assortment of concoctions until she felt a nice buzz easing on. Dior nursed a fruity drink while swaying in her seat to the music, oblivious to the gathering of men downing liquid courage. She watched Tangie flirt with several of the onlookers in the crowded den, daring them to come over and try their luck. It was a game they played on occasion. Tired of being approached by weaklings who lacked the intestinal fortitude to stave off their rejection with a healthy dose of determination, Dior and Tangie held out for real men: alpha males with guts. So far, not one of them stood out from the pack.
“It’s thick up in here,” Tangie asserted. “Slim pickings though. You want to hit the Ghost?” She watched as her companion gazed over the flock, disinterested and subdued. Suddenly, the club deejay fired up a tune that moved Dior.
“Come on, Tangie, let’s hit the floor. ‘Soul Brotha’ used to be my jam. I love me some Angie Stone.” She abandoned the drinks then marched through the maze of people with her friend in tow. “There’s room over there,” she yelled over the music. All at once, several of the men who previously sponsored their cocktails darted toward the dance floor. The boldest among them won out, as usual. The less assertive were forced to hunt in shallower waters.
Three songs later, Tangie exited the hardwood with the best dancer of the bunch. Dior went to the restroom to refresh her makeup and primp her hair. When she returned to the table, Tangie handed her a business card with a man’s name, driver’s license number, and home address handwritten on the opposite side from his business information. Dior flicked the card with her finger as she scanned the night lounge. “Ooh, get it, girl,” she cackled. “Is this the dude from the dance floor?”
Tangie took a sip from a glass of wine. “Nope, turned out he was undercover. His boyfriend called him out then snatched his hand away from mine. I thought you saw it.”
“Okay, it’s time to go,” Dior griped affirmatively. She held up the business card to read the name on the front of it. “Then who’s Tyson Sharp?”
“Somebody I used to know. Here he comes.” Tangie slid off the tall chair to welcome him back. “Tyson Sharp, this is my girl Dior Wicker.” Dior was impressed. Tyson smelled nice, fresh, and clean. His clothes hung in all the right places too. She was sorry not to have bagged him first. However, he did have history with Tangie so that rendered him off-limits regardless.
“Tyson Sharp,” Dior said, holding the card up to her eyes. “You can take my friend home as long as you understand I got your office and home address.”
“Yeah, what’s with Tangerine taking down my information and why are you holding it?” he queried suspiciously.
Dior sneered at Tangie, who quickly turned her head away. “Uh-huh, I figured you’d have me break it to him. Okay, it goes like this: I’ll hold the info until I hear from Tangerine tomorrow. It’s insurance, which ensures you don’t get her alone and start to trippin’ or hackin’ her up and then dispose of the body. If she doesn’t call me, I’ll know where to send our friends to bust you up.” Tyson smiled uncomfortably. Dior failed to see the humor in it. “Oh, believe me, there won’t be anything to laugh about if she doesn’t reach me by noon. Something bad happens to her, the same happens to you. Y’all have a good night. Nice to meet you, Tyson.”
Initially, he didn’t move when Tangie yanked on him. “What? You scared?” she asked boldly.
“You kidding? Your friend threatened me without batting an eye. That’s straight-up Soprano-style.”
Dior cocked her head to the side. “Go on and put your best foot forward then. Don’t get stupid and you won’t get hurt. It is that simple.”
Tyson chuckled more easily than before. “Dior, don’t stress. You have my word.”
“Better than that, I have your info.”
“That’s cool too.” He planted a warm kiss on Tangie’s cheek to cement the deal. “I’ll take care of Tangerine. I always have in the past.”
“Good, that sounds like a plan.” As soon as they started for the exit, Tangie waved goodbye. Dior was glad that Tangie netted a nice catch, of whom she caught an extra glimpse. “Ooh-wee, that man is slap-your-mama fine.” She raised her fruity drink in celebration. “Here’s to sleeping with the devils you know.”
TV Talking
S
unday morning tipped in quietly, swiping Dior’s last waning moments of sleep. She groaned sorely as rays of sun penetrated through the venetian blinds in her bedroom. She raised her head just enough to read the alarm clock on the nightstand.
It’s six thirty. I can’t get with this
, she thought.
I’ll get up at eight.
She rustled beneath the covers with hopes of drifting off again. Something weighed on Dior, keeping her from the restful sleep she craved. That very annoying something had been on her mind from the very moment Tangie laid out Pastor Dr. Richard Allamay’s pedigree and highly touted ministry. Fading in and out of consciousness, Dior replayed meeting him and the rough time she’d put the poor man through. All in all, he stood up for himself fairly well, for a grown-up with what she concluded had to be an overbearing wife.
Thirty minutes into a peaceful dream, where all of Dior’s bills were paid on time, the alarm clock blared. Dior slapped at it violently to shut it off but her errant swats at the snooze button sent the digital clock plummeting to the floor. “Uhhh!” she screamed. “I’m still sleepy.” Bitterly irritated, she threw the covers back. After shutting off the noise, she sat on the edge of the bed in a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top with the message
I LIKE BOYS TOO
stenciled on the front. She rubbed her tired eyes, stretched and arched her back, then stumbled into the bathroom. One peek at herself in the mirror made her wince. Dior hurriedly washed her face and brushed her teeth. She collected a notebook, two ink pens, and a Bible. Then she threw on a sheer robe and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Once she’d warded off the notion of crawling back beneath the sheets, she yawned.
Come on, Dior
, she heard herself say aloud.
Pull yourself together, sugar, it’s time for church.
After finding a comfy spot on the sofa, she clicked the TV remote. It took less than a minute to locate the Christian broadcast Tangie told her about. Typically, Dior avoided “Church TV” and held little regard for those who watched it religiously. However, that was before she had a personal interest in how it worked and how much money was associated with high ratings of a successful show.
High Praise
with Pastor Richard Allamay must have been doing well, if a full auditorium was any indication. Dior listened to a mass choir chant “So beautiful His love” in an uplifting song that didn’t sound all that bad.
When the cameras panned the audience during the applause and amens, Dior’s eyes glistened. “That is one really big church house,” she mouthed silently, as if the congregation might hear her if she spoke aloud. She studied the concert-style auditorium, filled with thousands of worshipers and numerous cameramen working hard at capturing the right shots. It was obvious who they all came to see, hear, and praise as the camera zoomed in on a familiar face, Richard’s. “Hey, Dr. Pastor Richard What’s-his-face,” Dior teased, watching him flip pages in a Bible placed on top of a clear podium. She marveled because his Bible appeared twice as thick as the one she rarely cracked, the same one she had to track down that morning. Dior began making notes so she’d have a jump on the conversation when he returned to pick up his suit at the shop.
Lots of people
, she wrote,
lots of needy folk with too much time on their hands. Lots of well-dressed needy folk
, she added.
And, lots of money.
A second look caused her to race toward the television with a pen in hand. She began counting rows and multiplying them in her head. Each time she’d get close to estimating the actual size of the congregation, the camera seemed to flash right back to Richard’s mug.
Huh, he doesn’t look that bad on TV
, she thought.
Nice suit; blue looks good on him. His makeup is a tad too light though. His wife should have caught that before she sent him out of the house with his lunch and backpack.
She wrote that down as well.
Find wifey in the crowd. Find family
, she jotted as well.
Check them out.
Dior’s eyes followed the action as best she could while constructing mental notes to match those she’d written on paper.
Richard wasted no time diving into his sermon. Dior missed the title of the message the first time because it didn’t sound important. The way he emphasized it the second time around caught her attention. “That’s right, church.
Don’t get caught dead in the wrong clothes
,” he proclaimed assertively. Dior put her pen down on the notepad then leaned back into the sofa cushion. His words sounded familiar because he’d borrowed them from her speech to him at Giorgio’s. She was in for the long haul then, listening for other references lifted from her sales pitch as he continued. “Now, some of y’all are already thinking of that blessed day of your home going, sisters prepared in fine St. John gowns and brothers dapped in Hugo Boss three-button suits with French cuffs to set it off right. But that’s not what I’m talking about this morning. I know we like to look good, dress nice, and so forth, but I’m talking about dressing the spiritual man, the spiritual woman. Listen up, because it’s a heaven or hell undertaking. This very day, many of us are proudly sporting somebody else’s clothes. We’re doing the sort of things that ought not to fit a Christian. We’re out there Sunday through Monday carrying on like other folk who we put down time after time for doing the same thing, dressed in the same outfit you do your dirt in. Say amen if you can.” There was a loud round of
all right now
s and
tell ’em preacher
s. “Oh yeah, we dress the part of a committed Christian by saying the right stuff
while in the Lord’s house
although our hearts are saying something altogether different. Nice day, Brotha So-and-so,
with all of them silly women chasing him around
,” he mimicked would be busybodies in the congregation. Laughter resounded in the auditorium as many of the members agreed with the lighthearted rousing. “Sometimes our men are no better. I’ve overheard some of them speak to a sister in Christ with the utmost respect in her face then tear her down like she was Jezebel as soon as her back is turned. Uh-huh, y’all know I’m right.” Again, members shouted their acknowledgment of the truth. “That’s why God is interested in how you decide to clothe your inner man.” Dior nearly jumped into the television screen.
“Deacon Do-Good! You ripped off my line about the inner man, man. That’s my hook,” she barked, with a partial smile on her lips. “You’re biting my style, Richard. You’ bitin’.” She settled down when Richard called out book, chapter, and verse to discuss further.
“Those who are prepared with your spiritual swords today please join us at Ephesians, chapter six and starting at verse thirteen.” As Richard paused for everyone to find the passage, he looked into the camera. Dior felt a chill scamper down her back. It was as if he were talking directly to her. She sat up and grabbed the Bible, flipping through it vigorously. With frustration mounting, she went to the index to locate the particular book because she didn’t have a clue where it was.
“Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians,” she panted anxiously. “I’m almost there. Here it is. Chapter six and verse thirteen.” She blew off a layer of dust then followed along in her text as Richard read from his.
“Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the tricks of the devil.”
Richard raised his head then patted his face with a white cotton handkerchief.
“Don’t nobody know your weakness like the devil. He’s got some of us so messed up that we’re going out of our way to make our friends think we’re too cool to follow Christ. Stop trippin’! Put on the whole armor of Christ. Verse fourteen through eighteen reads,
Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith with which you will be able to quench all of the fiery darts of the wicked one. And, take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Praying always with all prayer and request in the Spirit being watchful to this end with all perseverance for all the saints
. Amen. Who can see that there is a holy war going on in your life every day, for your soul? Paul wrote this letter to the Ephesians a long time ago and it still stands necessary today.” Richard closed the Bible and proceeded to engage the audience. He strolled closer to the end of the broad platform covered in plush royal blue carpet. “It’s important, church, that we get dressed in the proper spiritual clothing before we leave the house because it’s a battle waging on for your eternal life. Wrap your waist in truth, slide on the coat of righteousness, cover your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace, grab hold to the shield of faith, take the helmet of salvation and your Bible, the sword of the spirit, and be watchful!” Richard had the crowd on their feet then but he wouldn’t let up. “Be watchful! Be watchful! Fight for your soul, church. Don’t let the devil trick you into giving it up, getting too tired, growing too weary, feeling so low that you’d rather hand it over without fighting to the death. Persevere, church! Stick it out! Grow up! Wake up! Stand up! Stand up! Stand up!” Richard marched up and down the aisles with his hand clutching a microphone. Dior was amazed that hordes of people shouting and wailing like the devil had them and they demanded freedom. It was nothing short of remarkable, the effect his sermon had on them. She reached for the remote control to lower the volume when the choir started in low with another song. Then Richard started in again, with subtle humming in the background. “Church, I love you, but a lot of us have grown up in the Lord and are out there fronting like we haven’t come into His knowledge. We don’t want our drinking buddies and bed-hopping buddies — yeah I said it, our bed-hopping buddies — to know that we’ve grown up! Woke up! Got dressed up! Climbed out of the sewer and stood up!” Dior watched the crowd boil over excitedly as Richard shouted with each exclamation. “Uh-huh, don’t you know that you’re not tricking anyone but instead the devil is fooling you into believing a lie? Listen to me well, friends. If you have grown up, woke up, and have stood up for the Lord then later turned around and tried to hide it, you shame God. And if you are not filling out your spiritual clothes, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don’t get caught dead in the wrong clothes. Dress your inner man daily with the ‘whole armor of God’ because the devil is out there and he’s prowling, looking for weaklings to devour. Be strong in the Lord, be battle-tested, be watchful, and most of all be faithful in the Lord. Amen.”