In Love with Ezra (Love Unaccounted Book 2) (16 page)

On my way to my car, my phone rang. I let out a heavy breath, wondering who it could be. When I saw Nyree’s name, a blanket of comfort came over me.

“Hello?”

“Hey, bitch!” I sighed again, this one with an amused smile as I paced the parking lot. “What are you doing?”

“Just leaving an interview. What’s up?”

“I wanted to tell you we’re meeting up at ten next Thursday night at
Diamond’s
for Peaches’ birthday party.”

“Okay?”

“Okay… Tasche asked me to call you with the heads up. We’re all pitching in on five bottles of
Mauve
. It’s going to be super fun!”

I stopped at my car and collapsed my head. Some fucking day this was turning out to be. Peaches was a stripper at
Rusty’s
. She’d been working there for about twenty years—since her eighteenth birthday. She’d gotten Tasche a job there, and in turn Tasche put me on to the bartending gig there, and Nyree as a dancer. I wasn’t as in touch with Peaches as Nyree and Tasche. I distanced myself from pretty much the whole scene after the attack. But Tasche still worked with Peaches and strangely, Nyree kept in touch with her after all these years. On the low, I believed it was because of their rumored affair back then. I suspected they were still dabbling, but of course Ny wouldn’t spill that tea.

I yanked out my ponytail holder and finger-gripped my scalp to massage it, trying to figure out how to say this.

“I’ll chip in on the
Mauve
, but…I can’t roll with y’all on this one, Ny,” I practically whined.

“Why?” she demanded, predictably.

I dumped myself in the hot car and rolled down the windows.

“Because of who I’m married to. It’s not a good look for me to be club hopping, much less, strip club strolling.”

“This is for your friend, Lex!”

“And on top of that,
Diamond’s
is a lesbian strip club. Do you know how shady that would be?”

“For who? A preacher’s wife?” she teased. I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not forget who was the first to speak up for you when the police questioned—”

“Look!” I cut her ass right off. “Let’s not come with that bullshit. I can’t go, and as a woman who is about to get married, I would think you got those same types of restrictions.”

“I’m getting married, not being sold off to own. Taylor does what the hell he wants and so do I. We’re both grown.”

“And I’m not because I want to respect Ezra’s role and reputation? Come the fuck on! You’re not being fair, Ny.”

“Yeah, and you’re not being the same Lex. I gotta go.”

She disconnected the call.

I slammed my head into the headrest.
I don’t get what’s up with this chick!
Ny seemed to always be at my neck as of late and I didn’t know why, which made it difficult to address. It couldn’t have been because I was married, because she was getting married, too. Plus, Tasche and I were good, and that wouldn’t be if I’d changed. It couldn’t have been because I lacked enthusiasm about her wedding day because I’d offered several times to help any way I could.

Then what is it?

My phone chirped again. This time it was my dad, another pain in my ass.

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“Yo, Lex, man. I need to go somewhere to chill out for a couple of days. You think I could crash at your old man’s spot for like a week?”

Damn addressing the obvious
hell no
of him staying at Ezra’s, because we all knew that wouldn’t fly; there was a more pending question.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“What?” he barked, affronted. “Why it always gotta be me? I ain’t been home for three months and niggas trying my chin left and right—little niggas, too. I got tired of it and whooped Young Killa’s ass!”

“Who the hell is Young Killa?” I was aghast.

It seemed quite strange to hear my father say he had beef with someone who had
Young
in his name. That alone drew the generational line. That moniker became popular in the early 2000s when Jay Z, Lil Wayne, and other rappers began referring to themselves as
Young
.

“Carmella son from 127
th
, down by St. Nick’s.”

“Ain’t he like twenty, Daddy?” I yelled, disgusted.

“Nah, that lil nigga like twenty-three!” he corrected. “Anyway, it don’t matter. These youngin’s been out here testing my chin, tryna see if I still got it and snatch my crown. I had to step the fuck up. Dudes thinking I’m soft and shit ‘cause I been on my B.I. Nah! Fuck that!”

“Did you win?”

Shit!

I flinched, sounded just like my mother.

“The fuck you think?” he snorted. “That mufucka got a lil weight, but I busted his shit all up. Knocked his young ass the fuck to sleep. Bitch had to be jetted off in the ambulance. But now, Snoopie and them niggas telling me the cops been coming up to his hospital room, asking questions and shit. They came to the block I rocked his ass on, and asked questions there this morning, too. I need to duck somewhere for a few days. At least until my hand heal the fuck up.”

“Your hand?” I yelled. “Wait! Did you use the brass knuckles on him?”

That would’ve been fucked up. The only time my father used those was when he wanted to make a statement; he wanted to do permanent damage.

“Yeah,” he sighed guiltily into the phone.

“What the fuck, Daddy! He’s a kid!”

“Look, man!” he charged back. “I ain’t tryna argue about defending my fuckin’ honor, Lex. Is you going to help, or not?”

I pushed heated air through my flared nostrils. I swear, I was going to implode there on
Redeeming Souls
soil. There would be no need to do anything with my body, but dump it into a casket right there, and perform my funeral. Life had turned that fast on me, in a matter of hours. First Ezra’s mom called this morning, just before I was leaving for the interview, asking to get together.
Like, what the hell, lady?
For what? Then Ezra dropped in my interview and sabotaged it. Next, Ny called on her bullshit. Now this hood ass ego war with my fifty-year-old father, who always called with his latest emergency. The last was needing reading glasses. For what?
What the fuck do you read?
But I ran and took care of it. Just like now.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” I informed him before hanging up.

Now, as I pulled off, I had to think of where my father could stay for a few days while this shit blew over. One thing was for damn sure: Rasul would not be staying in West Milford. I’d been doing a damn good job of keeping those two alpha males apart. That would not change today.

~Lex~

I’d gained a new appreciation for silence in what should have been considered my home. It was fucking tranquil, surprisingly comforting, and unbelievably…safe. My day had been hectic. The best part of it was waking up to my new obsession: fucking my husband. As we sat quietly in the dining room, eating baked chicken, sautéed vegetables and baked sweet potatoes, I wondered was it wrong for me to consider what I did with my husband as simple fucking.
Do marry couples fuck?
As much as I knew Ezra and I had no traditional relationship, the term still didn’t seem appropriate.

My face remained to my plate as my eyes raked up to find him devouring his food per usual. That’s one thing I’d give Ezra; he made me feel he ate a five-star meal each time I cooked for him.
I just wish
… I just wished he’d do similar things regarding—

Nope!

I wouldn’t go there. That shit was sappy and weak. I could deal with whatever he did or didn’t do. As long as he wasn’t evil, I could deal.
This is just a covenant. A deal.
I scolded myself once again for exploring those ‘mushy’ ass feelings that had been creeping up lately. Ezra was a controlling, cunning, incredibly sexy asshole. That’s all. I wouldn’t complicate his characteristics because I couldn’t control these other thoughts of him.

The clashing from his fork and knife hitting the plate broke the comforting silence.

I glanced up to find those bushy brows almost meeting as he used his tongue to clean his teeth.

Or
…

No!

I knew that maneuver. It was the beast, making its presence known. Ezra wanted to fuck, as he typically did after stuffing his belly.

“I can clean the kitchen,” he rasped with finality. “When you’re done, wait for me down in the sandbox.”

The mention of the room alone, stiffened my nipples and caused my sex to clench in need.

“No.”

“No?” Ezra echoed as his eyes grew in disbelief.

“No,” I uttered again, dropping my fork onto the plate. “You don’t fucking—”

“Mouth, Alexis,” he warned at a volume non-alarming, yet threatening.

“…get to fuck me in the morning, show up unexpectedly and humiliate me in an interview in front of your staff, and then fuck me again after.” I jerked my head back. “And what do I do as your little submissive afterward? Say thank you, sir?” I pushed away from the table and grabbed my plate. “You can miss me with that bullshit.”

I rounded the table for the door behind him when he leaped to his feet at lightning speed and grabbed my arm, pulling me into his hard frame.

Ezra spoke directly into my ear, grating each word. “I appreciate you expressing your anger, but beloved, you do not have the liberty to use that language in my home.”

“So, is it
your
home or ours? Because one minute you say—”

“Wherever your address is will always be my home.” There was heavy silence there as I swallowed those words. The prospect was overwhelming. “However, this is yours more than mine, Alexis. If we decided to dissolve this marriage today, I will walk away homeless. It is all yours.”

That was news. I knew I’d signed paperwork regarding the house, but I didn’t know that was a stipulation. I really needed to pay more attention to what I hastily consented to with this man.

“And so because of that, I’m supposed to allow you to humiliate me whenever you want and then fuck me whenever you please?”

“I did not humiliate you, beloved.”

“You sabotaged my interview—”

He spoke over me, “I made a way for you to exert your expertise. For you to show guts and confidence in your professionalism and tenure in your field. So, I ruffled your feathers: without it, you wouldn’t have given Ann Bethea,
the hiring manager
, the final push to recommend you for hiring.”

“She has no idea I’m your wife,” I addressed that conflict.

“And she doesn’t need to. If you performed well or poorly, it was of your own accord and not my influence.”

“But you didn’t want me to perform well. You berated me—”

“I pushed you past your limits to have you predictably come out swinging. It’s what you do when backed into a corner, Alexis. You fight to win, and you did no differently today.”

“No. Today I played chess. I predicted
your
moves.” I lifted my chin, challenging him.

“And you missed the most strategic of them all,” he rasped. That comment threw me askew. “You chose to focus on the tyrant in front of you and failed to consider he was the same man who lost himself to you just hours earlier. The man who stripped himself of all the self-assured armor and showed you how you render him undone with your essence that goes far beyond what’s between your legs. It’s that heart you spoke of back there in the
Grace Room
. It’s the tenacity you bring to whatever passion you’re feeding. It’s all of those things that make you an adequate partner here, with me, in
our
home.”

Wh-what?
So, this was all calculated by him? Ezra knew he’d be at my interview. He’d also known I’d performed poorly at my previous string of interviews. So, he devised a plan to ensure I’d do well at the one he had say over? There again was a sign of his manipulative and domineering persona.
A red flag
. But it was also a marker I needed at that time, possibly more than any before. I needed someone to cut me slack. I needed a damn break. I needed a job.

He’d contradicted himself today. All this time he’d been consistent on me not needing to contribute around here, assuring he’d ‘take care of me.’
Puh! I can’t even fathom that offer!
Didn’t want to. Ezra put aside his chauvinistic ways and created an opportunity for me, and made sure I had a hand in it. No, he didn’t vow to change his controlling ways, but he’d just consented to allowing me to be me. He made room for my Harlem Pride. How could I acknowledge this…possibly thank him?

I swallowed hard and whispered, “I’ll handle the kitchen and then wait for you in the sandbox…” I licked my lips, my heart stammering in my chest and sex throbbing painfully for him, “sir.”

Dread. It was at the pit of my belly churning with the coffee I had in there. It was the only thing I could consume this morning. The rain poured and dark clouds hovered. As I watched the aligned trees from the rural roads of Jersey, my mind turned over anxious thoughts of the day. What was it? Nothing was terribly out of place. Ezra was a little distant yesterday, but I understood he had to prepare for today. Being asked to speak this morning had caught him off guard. His father called complaining of flared and painful joints. Of course Ezra felt obligated to step in. This would, after all, be his official role in a few weeks. But I felt the disappointment in him having to resume his responsibilities this early when he’d closed himself off yesterday to prepare.

But that hadn’t quite been what was biting at me. Ezra was returning to his normal world. He was resuming speaking today, and yet my world was still up in the air and in disarray. I still had no job. And even more than that, I’d discovered something incredibly bizarre and scandalous about my husband that I was sure went against the image the thousands of people I was soon to encounter knew about him. He enjoyed kink: bondage, spanking, and sex toys that wasn’t a part of the normal outfit of a man of the pulpit. Of course, they wouldn’t know because I wouldn’t dare breathe a word of it to any of my friends, much less his organization.

Hell no
.

But it wasn’t just that. What was gnawing at me was how I would now perceive Ezra after viewing him again in the shoes of a ‘holy’ and unworldly man. Would seeing the ‘preacher’ turn me off from my newly discovered lover? I was sure Ezra had awakened something carnal within me. I hadn’t quite resolved whether he was exposing me to a dark world he preferred or unveiling a predilection I didn’t know I’d carried all this time. I was sure encountering him today would confuse me at the very least.

This pattern followed me over the bridge into the City and onto the broad streets of Harlem. 

“I’m going to let you out in the back, Sister Carmichael,” the short female driver informed.

Sister Carmichael?
Was that now my name?

Shit!

I cleared my throat. “Okay.”

“Pastor Carmichael said Sister Shannon are waiting to receive you at the door. I just sent a text letting her know we’re near.”

We caught eyes in the rear view mirror and I nodded. I hoped she could register the anxiety in my eyes. Why was this such a production? I was just going to church.  I’d soon find out how much of it was a production when Shannon was indeed at the back door, waiting for me. She greeted me with a broad smile and warm eyes.

“You look lovely, First Lady! Your first time coming from this end?” she asked while holding the door open.

Stammered by
that
title, I could only nod with my damn jaw ajar.

“Pastor wants me to escort you on your first Sunday.”

I stepped into the buzzing rear reception where dozens of people were scurrying about, seemingly in a rush. I checked the time. It was 10:45, just minutes before the second service was due to begin. I tried threading through the heavy cross traffic as I followed Shannon.

“I know you’re coming from over the bridge,” she called over her shoulder. “Would you like to use the ladies’ room or have coffee, tea or water before being seated? Pastor Carmichael will be escorted to the pulpit shortly.”

“Actually,” I tried before at least ten people greeted me excitedly all at once. I returned their welcomes with a nod and smile. How did these people know me? None held familiar faces. “Would you mind taking me to his office.”

Shannon slowed in her urgent stride and turned to me with wide eyes. “Reall—of course,” she faltered. Her eyes bounced before she extended her hand to my right. “This way.”

I gave her time to get in front of me. This time she quarterbacked a path for me. The closer we drew to a quiet area of the massive building, the less of a sea we charted. Finally there were large French doors at the end of a hall, opening into a waiting area with lush chairs, a loveseat, and fancy coffee with matching end tables.

“They’re probably in prayer. I’ll knock—” Shannon attempted.

“No. I’ll just wait here.” I pulled out my cell. “I need to text my friend, Lillian, to see if she’s saved me a seat.”

“Oh, your seat has been reserved next to First Lady Carmichael.” Shannon’s brows furrowed over an unsure smile.

I finished my text and then returned her smile. I didn’t know how to break it to her that I’d be sitting in the sanctuary with my friend and not in the front with a group of stuffy people I didn’t know. As we waited, I took a moment to observe the waiting area.
Redeeming Souls
was a huge facility; I’d always known that, but seeing a different region reminded me of its splendor. Centered over the loveseat was an oil painted portrait of Bishop Sylvester Carmichael and to the left of it hung a smaller one of another man, whose name was Bishop Travois Daniels. All the prestige was intimidating.

I took a seat, hoping to curb my anxiety. As soon as I did my phone vibrated in my hand. It was Lillian saying she was walking in now and would save me a seat in the left section of the main floor, facing the pulpit. I told her I’d be there soon. My eyes went straight to Shannon, who stood apparently uncomfortable as she used her hand to swipe the back of her head while standing near the door. There were two screens in the area, live streaming the service. The head praise and worship leader, who at times behaved like a hype man at a rap concert, began the intro for the first song. The staccato of the hand drums sounded first as he urged the crowd to start praising. They were ready to follow him into the land of praise and worship.