I Say a Little Prayer Page 6

  “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 al
ready 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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I knocked gently on the slightly ajar door.

  “Come in.”

  I turned the knob and walked into the small office. Pastor Kenneth closed his Bible as he stood up to greet me.

  “Brother Chauncey, what a blessing it is to see you tonight. How did you enjoy prayer services?” he asked.

  “It was good. It was my first since I joined the church,” I said.

  “I know,” Pastor Kenneth said with a slight smile. Of course he knew it was my first time. Pastor Kenneth and his wife knew everything about everyone in Abundant Joy. I heard that the midweek sessions were becoming more and more popular, and I counted about a hundred people in attendance. Not like the packed houses at Ms. Gladys’s church, but still a nice crowd for Abundant Joy. I was surprised when I walked in fifteen minutes late and saw so many familiar faces from Sunday services. Tonight, I enjoyed the service even though I attended for the sole purpose of getting a few minutes with Pastor. I hoped that it wouldn’t be like Sundays, when countless church members would vie for his attention.

  “Thank you for giving me some of your time,” I said as I sat down in a black leather chair right next to his maple desk covered with papers, Bibles, and a book with a picture of Bishop T. D. Jakes on the cover.

  “What did you need to talk to me about?” The pastor leaned back in his chair and stared, giving me his full attention.

  “I really just wanted to thank you. I mean, your sermon a couple of Sundays ago spoke to me directly. I went home and wrote down some of the things you said and even created a card from your message,” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t bring up anything about the sermon I’d walked out on.

  “Well, thank you, Brother Chauncey. I sure would like to see it. I heard you have a popular card company,” Pastor Kenneth said. I smiled to myself. Now was maybe not the time to tell the pastor about some of my cards. He might be a little shocked by some of the covers. But I certainly could come up with something tame to show him.

  “I will make sure you get a copy of the card when it comes out,” I said.

  “Great.” He slammed his hand on a stack of papers.

  “But there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  I took a few minutes and told the pastor about my previous career as a singer and how his sermon had given me the courage to give it another try. I was surprised when he told me he knew of my former group and had even bought a copy of one of our albums for Sister Vivian while they were dating.

  “I didn’t know I had a bona fide celebrity in my congregation. You guys were as big as Boyz II Men,” he said.

  “I’m not a celebrity,” I said as I tried to keep from blushing.

  “So why did you guys break up?”

  I paused before I answered. I didn’t want to use up a sin lying to my minister. Finally, I said, “It’s a long and complicated story. Maybe one day we can speak about it.”

  “I understand. So what can I do to help?” Pastor Kenneth asked.

  “I just wanted to thank you, and of course ask you to keep me in your prayers that I’m making the right decision,” I said.

  “I can certainly do that. Why don’t we get on our knees right now and say a little prayer.” He stood and walked around the desk, took my hand, and fell to his knees.

  I was a little shocked but I followed suit and found myself kneeling in front of the desk like it was an altar. I closed my eyes, and a few seconds later I heard Pastor Kenneth’s powerful voice, sounding just as he did in the pulpit.

  “Father, we come to You tonight on bended knee, thanking You for the many blessings You’ve given us. We thank You for waking us up this morning. We thank You for getting us to Your house safely, and we ask that You watch over us as we return home. Father, we come to You tonight asking for Your direction as Brother Chauncey takes on this new direction in his life. We ask that this wonderful gift You have given him be used for Your will and that You will show him that nothing is impossible as long as he puts You first. We ask that You remove all the obstacles that will get in the way of his dream
s and that he will give You the praise, the honor, and the glory. We thank You in advance, dear Lord, for answering our prayers. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I said as I opened my eyes and stood up. I was face-to-face with the pastor. He patted me on my shoulders and told me everything would be just fine.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Hey, I just came up with a great idea,” Pastor Kenneth said.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you start your comeback debut at one of our Sunday services?”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” I said, shaking my head. I hadn’t told the pastor that I wasn’t going to sing Christian music, just secular. I had sung in the church choir when I was younger, but I stopped when I joined the group. The elders at my home church had been disappointed by my decision to sing secular music, but a few forgave me when I dropped my first tithing check in the offering plate.

  “Oh, sure you can. You can sing a solo right before I get up to give the message,” he said.

  “I don’t know if I have enough time. I mean, it has been years since I sang in public,” I said. This was not what I had in mind for my first showcase, but it did make sense.

  “You can do it. I’m certain.”

  “I’ll need some time to prepare a proper song,” I said.

  “I guess that’s fair. How’s the first Sunday in September?” Pastor Kenneth asked as he thumbed through his planner.

  “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Pastor. Thanks for the opportunity.”

  “Thank you for letting me know how my sermon ministered directly to you. It’s what every man and woman spreading the word of God hopes for. Sometimes we don’t know if we’re reaching anyone,” Pastor Kenneth said.

  “Thank you, and have a good evening, Pastor,” I said as I extended my hand toward him. He didn’t accept it, but instead reached for me and pulled me close to him in a powerful and comforting embrace. Right then, I believed that pursuing my singing was the right thing to do.