I Say a Little Prayer (5 page)

But I still believed in God.

God is fair, and I hope that I will be measured by the love I have in my heart and not by the lust I have in my head. Was my experience tonight any worse than a straight man who goes to the local strip club and succumbs to a lap dance? If he asks for forgiveness and expects it, then why can’t I expect the same?

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
ometimes
God be trippin’! I walked into church and was met by a cyclone of joyful noise. The choir had the congregation rocking to “When We All Get to Heaven,” one of my mother’s favorite songs. As I took a seat in one of the back pews, I remembered the times I played it for her on the family piano and sometimes at church. I picked up a hymnal, joined in the song, and looked toward the pulpit.

A few minutes later, I noticed Pastor Kenneth walking from his office with a man who looked familiar. They were coming from the back, down the side aisle, when I realized who the man was. It was that guy Charles from the sex party. Even though there were hundreds of parishioners standing, his glance met mine and a faint smile came to his lips. He cast his eyes at me for a few seconds, then quickly looked away.

As the two of them moved toward the pulpit, I was unsure of where I could safely rest my eyes. I suddenly experienced a pang of shame and felt emotionally numb. I felt like Abundant Joy was the last place I wanted to be. I put the hymnal back in its rack. As the rest of the congregation was singing and swaying, I stood still for a moment, like I was about to give a public confession, but a few seconds later I found myself walking out of the sanctuary toward the vestibule.

I hated it when God made me feel guilty.

D came to visit my house after school several times, but he never asked me to play the piano. We would talk about sports and singing. I felt extremely comfortable around him. I liked the fact that he was so sure of himself. And I hoped that one day I could be that confident. My parents liked him too, and suggested that I invite him to spend the night. I did, and he quickly agreed.

The first time D spent the night at my house, I slept through the night without a dream. I awoke on a sunny crisp September morning and looked directly into his wide-open eyes. He smiled at me, and I felt my stomach flutter like it did the first time I saw him.

We slept on the screened back porch of my home in the pullout queen-size sofa bed. I was so happy my mother didn’t insist that we sleep in the room I shared with my little brother. No matter how scared Jonathan said he was, he’d be sleeping in the room by himself. Mama allowed him to sleep with the lamp glowing on the table that divided our twin beds. Besides, I was too old to be sharing a room.

The night before, Sweet D and I had stayed up way past midnight as we ate popcorn and drank red soda from the same bottle. We talked about girls until we fell sound asleep. D fell asleep first, and I spent about ten minutes just staring at his face, wanting to touch him but afraid to. He was so stunning that I imagined at some point in his life his looks would become a problem. No young man should look so perfect. Beautiful yet handsome. Soft-looking but masculine disposition. It took everything in me to stop my fingers from tracing the flawless lines across his face. I knew touching him in that way would be wrong.

“What’s up, Chauncey?” he said. His voice was gentle and morning deep as he opened his eyes wider and rubbed them.

“Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I asked.

“Like a baby still in his mama’s womb,” he said.

“I guess that’s good.”

“It is.”

D sat up and pushed his naked back against the coolness of the fake-leather sofa bed. The top sheet and quilt covered the lower half of his body, and I suspected he was wearing just his boxers.

His face was covered with a look of thoughtfulness when he turned toward me and said, “You know, we should start a singing group.”

“You mean you and me?”

“I think it should be four, like the O’Jays.”

“Who else would we get?”

“We could ask the twins. I’ve heard them blow, and they can carry a tune better than most,” D said.

“You mean Barron and Darron?”

“Yeah, those two.”

“Think they’d do it?”

“Yep. Especially when we tell them how famous we’re gonna be and how it can get all of us out of this country-ass town,” D said.

“You think we could be famous?”

“I know we’ll both be famous,” he said with more confidence than I had ever heard from a sixteen-year-old. When he spoke he sounded very mature, but he was only eighteen months older than I was. Maybe he sounded that way because he said he’d been the man of the house ever since his father left when D was in the fifth grade.

“If you say so.”

“There’s another thing,” D said.

“What?”

“We need to get girlfriends,” he said calmly.

I frowned. “We do?”

“Yeah, we’re in high school and so we need girlfriends.”

“Who?” I asked. I really wanted to ask him why, but he spoke as if I should already know that answer.

“I’ll make the moves on Taylor, and you go after her running buddy, Rochelle Mack.”

“Rochelle is pretty,” I said as the face of the light-skinned girl with the big legs and long dark hair came to mind.

“Yeah, both her and Taylor will be cool for us,” D said.

“When should we do this?”

“I’ll ask Taylor to go with me tomorrow. You wait a week on Rochelle. She’ll be lonely, since Taylor will be spending her time with me,” he said with a smile.

“You think of everything, D.”

“Just stick with me, boy, and I’ll introduce you to some things you don’t even know exist.”

I smiled and didn’t say anything, although my heart pounded at the thought of all that Sweet D could teach me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
omething
told me my day had been going too well.

Celia walked into the office with a look that spelled trouble.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as she plopped down in one of the chairs in front of my desk and her body slumped.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“What, Celia?” I said slowly, already feeling that I didn’t want to hear this news.

“You know the new supplier I convinced you to use?”

“Which one?”

“Mercury Printing Press.”

I thought for a moment and remembered the aggressive young black man in the navy-blue suit with off-white tailored shirt and sky-blue tie. It was not something I would have worn, but the brother looked good and confident. He’d walked into my office, smelling very hetero with a smile and firm handshake, and, twenty minutes later, walked out with a contract for over $50,000 to print a new line of cards and the new female calendar we were introducing.

“Oh yeah, Phillip. That brother has his stuff together,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, but he just called me with some bad news,” Celia said.

“What kind of bad news?” I frowned.

“He can’t get us the calendars and cards on time, and we have orders to fill.”

“How late will he be?”

“At least three weeks, maybe longer,” Celia said calmly.

I jumped up from my chair. “What the fuck? Doesn’t that asshole know we have customers waiting for our new line?”

“I told him.”

“Did he say why he was going to be late?”

“Something about a white guy who was actually doing the printing screwed him around. Said something about he got a bigger job and he put Phillip’s job on backlog.”

“So it’s the white man’s fault. I get so sick and tired of niggas and their bullshit. Why doesn’t he take responsibility and say he fucked up? He should have found another printer, and why in the fuck does he wait until a week before we’re expecting our stuff to tell us this shit? Got dammit. This pisses me the fuck off. You see, that’s why I don’t want to do business with the brothas,” I said as I banged my balled fist against my desk. My eyes were bugging, my body warming, and the veins in my head expanding. I had gone against my better judgment. I should have stayed with the known commodity, the printer I normally used. Instead, I was trying to give a small black business a chance, and this is what happened.

“I take the blame, since I’m the one who introduced you to him. I checked his references and everyone raved about him,” Celia said, still calm even as I raged.

“I bet his references were his so-called brothas,” I said sarcastically. “What are we going to do?”

“We could call Paragon,” Celia suggested, bringing up the company who had done our printing for more than five years, never missing a deadline.

“Shit.” I fell back into my chair. “We got to crawl back with our heads between our legs, begging the white man to help us out since the brothas fucked us over. I can’t believe this shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Celia said.

I put my hand up in the air like it could protect me from Celia’s response. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but since Phillip wasn’t sitting here I needed someone to blame.

“Where did you say you met him?”

“At Twist,” Celia said.

I groaned. Twist was a popular spot in Phipps Plaza where black wannabes and nevergonnabes met for drinks on Friday evenings.

“Celia, what have I told you about mixing business with pleasure? Did you bring him to meet me because you were interested in him socially?” I asked.

“Chauncey, come on, now. Yeah, the brother looked good, but you said yourself how impressive he was, and I just made the introduction. You made the decision to give him the business,” Celia said.

She was right, but it still wasn’t going to solve our problem. That’s what my ass gets for giving business to a good-looking man just so I could find out if he was on Celia’s team or mine.

“Who was your contact over at Paragon?” I asked.

“Kristen Polk, the plant manager.”

“Do you still have a relationship with her?”

“She’s in my breakfast club,” Celia said.

“Breakfast club?”

“Yeah, a group of women from small businesses who get together and talk about some of the problems and successes we face running small concerns. I usually sit next to her,” Celia said.

“Do you think she can help us out?”

“I can give her a call.”

“Do it now, and call my lawyer and get the contract with Mercury voided immediately. How much did we give him up front?”

“I think fifty percent.”

“Got damn. That hurts,” I said as I pulled out Phillip’s card.

Celia stood. “I’ll get on this right away.”

I looked at the card in my hand. While Celia was going to be on the phone begging Paragon, I was going to be on the phone cussing Phillip out. Not that it was right, but it was going to ease my anger for a minute or two.

Sweet D touched me. He had spent the night again. It was just before sunrise, around the time the birds started their morning chorus.

I had just woken up when I felt D’s toes and knees touch mine. I closed my eyes and felt strangely energized by the touch of his body and the warmth radiating through my body.

My penis carried extra weight, but I didn’t know if it was from D’s touch or my usual morning hard-on. All I knew was that I was afraid to open my eyes for fear that he would be staring at me, smiling. I kept my eyes closed for about ten more minutes and didn’t open them until I felt him move away. His feet pattered across the floor, and then I heard the flush of the toilet.

I lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I would do when he came out of the bathroom. Would I smile or frown? Would I say something or just stay quiet? I didn’t know. But the one thing I did know was that I couldn’t wait until D spent the night again.

CHAPTER NINE

I
said a silent prayer of thanks for my 20/20 eyesight when this ferociously handsome man with a captivating smile walked into my office.

Every first Tuesday, Celia conducted open casting calls for both male and female models who weren’t represented by agencies and who felt they had what it took to grace one of our cards or calendars. Since Celia was a tough gatekeeper, she rarely interrupted me to see anyone personally, but today she came into my office with a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile, sighed deeply, and said, “You’ve got to see this guy. He’s amazing. Oh, by the way, I just heard from Kristen at Paragon. They can have our order in forty-eight hours.”

“You’re the best,” I said as I gave her the thumbs-up sign.

“I live to hear you say that.” Celia smiled as she was walking out of the door. She suddenly turned back and said, “Did Ms. Gladys tell you that a lady was asking questions about you?”

“What lady?”

“Why don’t you let her tell you.”

A few moments later, Ms. Gladys walked into my office.

“Celia said you needed to see me?” she said.

“Yeah. What lady was asking about me?”

“Some high-siddity-looking lady with a he-man by her side.”

“What did they want?”

“I got in a little early to make coffee and heat up these cinnamon rolls I made, and they were nosing round the door. I asked them if I could help them. Then they asked, ‘Is this the business that Chauncey Greer owns?’ I told them, ‘Who’s asking?’ And she asked me who I was. And I said, ‘I might be the Queen of England. Who are you?’”

“Then what happened?” I laughed.

“I guess she figured out I wasn’t playing, and they went off in a huff.”

“What did she look like?”

“Like one them black women trying to act white. Dressed like she ain’t never worked a day in her life. Unless she was trying out to be one of them Ebony Fashion Fair models. Which reminds me—I need to see when that show’s coming through Atlanta again. Mrs. Eunice Johnson know she know how to dress up some black women.”

“Thanks for looking out for me.” I smiled to myself. I loved how Ms. Gladys would sometimes speak her thoughts even if they were totally off the subject.

“You want me to send that man Celia was talking to in? He’s sitting in my area. She was looking at him like he was an Easter ham decorated with pineapples and cherries.”

“Oh, I forgot—yeah, send him in.”

A few moments later, the wannabe model walked confidently into my office. His shoulders were almost as wide as the door. His commanding arms stretched his perfectly ironed yellow shirt to perfection, and he completed his ensemble with very tight, black, straight-legged slacks. His skin was the color of dark, roasted coffee beans and his eyes sparkled with danger and desire as he walked around my desk to shake my hand.

When I stood up, I was close enough to feel the breeze of his minty breath and smell the delicious aroma of masculinity and scented soap.

“Mr. Greer, thanks for seeing me. I’m Griffin, but folks call me G,” he said as we exchanged firm handshakes. I couldn’t help but notice the warmth and the smooth texture of his hands, followed by the army troop of goose bumps that covered my arms.

“Nice meeting you, G. Have a seat. Can I take a look at your body…I mean book?” I asked nervously. A sly smile crossed G’s face as he passed me a black leather portfolio.

“So you don’t have an agent?” I asked.

“No. I’ve been in Atlanta for only six months and I decided to see what I could do on my own. I mean, why give somebody a percentage of what you make when you don’t have to?” G said.

“Where did you move from?”

“New York.”

“Did you have an agent there?”

“Yes, I was with Ford Men,” he said quickly.

“Ford Men. And you left them?”

“I left New York,” he said.

I looked through his book and couldn’t help but be impressed. Not only was the guy a vision in person, but he photographed beautifully. There were several black-and-white photographs with G dressed in all white, a couple of nudes, and one shot where he was lying across crumpled white sheets wearing white briefs. He was breathtaking, and I couldn’t wait to get this man in front of one of my photographers and onto one of my cards. I was already searching for the words I would place in my next bestselling card message. Maybe I could move quickly enough to get his mug into the Wal-Mart presentation Celia was preparing.

“What do you think of Atlanta?”

“It’s straight. Kinda slow, but I can hang,” he said.

“Are you familiar with what we do here?”

“I’ve seen your cards, and your calendar is really popular with the kids,” G said.

The kids?
Was this dream boy possibly on my team, or one of those aggressive straight men willing to play the “gay for pay” role just to be on one of my cards or calendars? I mean, his pants were tight.

“So do you mind showing me what your upper body looks like?” I asked as I began to look through his photographs for a second time—something I never did in front of a potential model.

“No problem.” He stood up and quickly ripped off his shirt.
Note to self
, I thought,
double up on the ab workout
. The white rim of his underwear crept up from his pants and gave me a few ideas on the direction of his debut card.

“Very nice,” I said, trying not to stare.

“Is that all you want to see?” he asked suggestively.

“Yes, that’s fine for now,” I lied, knowing full well I wanted to see what the total package looked like: the legs, the ass, and even the toes; I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed.

“So do I get the gig?”

“I think we can use you,” I said. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I wanted to see this man butt-ass naked lying on his stomach against the 300-thread-count white sheets on my bed.

“All right then. Glad you like what you see,” G said.

“We pay a fifteen-hundred-dollar day rate for the photo sessions and a very small percentage for the number of units we sell. We also pay seven hundred fifty for personal appearances at clubs, expos, and trade shows, plus expenses. Do you have a business manager or lawyer to look over the contract?”

“Right now I am doing everything myself. You look like an honest man. Where do I sign?”

“Celia will give you the contract on your way out. I strongly advise you get an attorney to review it. Once we have a signed contract, we’ll arrange a photo session,” I said.

“How long will that take?”

“It depends on how long it takes for you to get the contract back to us. We work with several photographers in the city, so I would say at the very minimum two weeks. How does that sound?”

G didn’t respond right away, but then he looked at me with a sexy grin covering his face. “What if I wanted to see you before two weeks?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Chauncey, right?”

“Yes,” I said, not really believing that this young man was being so forward. Did my staring and my quick double review of his book lead him to believe that I was gay? When I smelled his scent, had he inhaled mine? I didn’t know if I should be mad or flattered.

“Chauncey, I know this might be terribly unprofessional, but I have learned that life is too short for regrets. Is it possible for me to take you to dinner before we do the shoot?”

“Is this a business meeting?”

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, it’s not business. I mean, from the looks of this place,” he said as he glanced around my office, “you’re a smart businessman and it would be foolish not to put me on one of your products. So my invitation is purely personal.”

The goose bumps returned, and this time I felt them marching underneath my tight cotton T-shirt. But I mustered up the courage to respond, “I’m a terrific cook. Why don’t I invite you to my house for dinner on Thursday?”

“Sounds even better,” G said as he stood up and removed his portfolio from my hands, smiled at me, and walked slowly from my office so that I got a full view of what, as far as I was concerned, was the most perfect ass I’d seen in a long time.