Pastor Needs a Boo (36 page)

“Let's see what you have, Denzelle,” Marsha chirped, trying so hard to contain her excitement.

Denzelle walked back to his office, laid the garment bag on his desk, and unzipped it. He frowned, “I thought you said my tux was black.”

“It is,” Marsha answered.

“Then why do I have this?” Denzelle told her, as he pulled out the crimson-colored tuxedo, a red ruffled shirt with black trim, and a red cummerbund and matching tie.

“Oh, dear. That is hideous,” Marsha said, before she could catch herself.

“You ordered it,” Denzelle snapped.

“No, I didn't. I sent you pictures of what I ordered,” Marsha told him, and made sure he saw her roll her eyes at him.

“So what the hell am I to do with this mess, Marsha?”

“I don't like the way you are talking to me, Denzelle. You ought to know I would never order anything this ugly for you.”

“Sorry,” was all he said. “Your cousin was right. There is nothing about this that is right. Somebody got the other tuxedo. And I'll bet some money we'll see my tuxedo waltzing around the dance floor in just a few hours.”

Marsha sighed heavily and said, “You think somebody stole your tux.”

“Not think, I know. This reeks of Xavier Franklin.”

“But how could Xavier get away with something like this? Vincent would never allow this to happen knowingly. I don't even think Vincent likes Xavier enough to even speak to him.”

Denzelle nodded. Marsha was making a good point. Few if any people liked Xavier Franklin. He'd known Vincent for many years, and that brother had never been cool with brothers like Xavier. There had to be another source.

“Baby, hit your lil' cousin up and let me talk to him,” Denzelle said. His voice had the tone a man used when talking to his woman.

Marsha pulled out her cell and was about to push Lil' Too Too's number on her speed dial when she saw Denzelle staring at her plain little Walmart phone. She said, “What?”

“You know what? That phone? Looks like it belongs to Betty Rubble.”

Marsha frowned. “Why not Wilma Flintstone?”

“Because,” Denzelle said, “Wilma would have the most updated phone available in Bedrock. Betty Rubble, on the other hand, would be just as happy with
that
cell phone.”

“Forget you, Denzelle,” was all Marsha said, and then dialed Lil' Too Too.

“Yeah, Cuz. What you need?”

“Pastor wants to talk to you, Too.”

Marsha cut her eyes at Denzelle and gave him her cell. She said, “You might want to run around the church real fast while you're talking on my phone. That's the only way you can charge it up.”

“Too, tell me some more about the brother who gave you this tuxedo.”

“Rev, I don't know where that brother came from. He didn't act like any of the other folk working there, but he was all up in everything—bossing folk around and taking over. You know what I'm sayin'?”

“Yeah, Too. I know exactly what you're sayin',” Denzelle said, frowning.

“I can go back and handle the brother,” Lil' Too Too said. “If I punch him in the mouth and knock out a few teeth, nobody will know that happened to him.”

“Why not?” Denzelle asked. Lil' Too Too was resourceful and smooth. But Denzelle couldn't figure out how the young brother was going to accomplish that.

“His teeth are messed up. They already look like somebody punched them out.”

Denzelle laughed. Lil' Too Too was right about how Zeus's teeth looked.

“Rev, not only are his teeth jacked up, but I'm sure the tuxedo he gave you is hellacious in appearance. You want me to come and get it and find you something else? Metro Mitchell might be able to hook you up with something from Yeah Yeah?”

“Thank you, Too. But Metro doesn't do tuxedos. I'm going to have to wing it for the performance.”

“Cousin Marsha can help you fix the situation, Rev.”

“I hope so,” Denzelle said, shaking his head at that hideous tuxedo Zeus had stuck him with. But that was okay; Denzelle knew how to fix this situation. He put Marsha's phone on a table and pulled his out of his jacket pocket. He said, “Yarborough.”

“Why are you calling me with less than two hours before your gig, Denzelle?” Yarborough said with some irritation. He was trying to hurry up and finish his paperwork at the station so he could get off work and get to the program on time.

“Zeus Nance is working for Vincent.”

“Really,” Yarborough asked with some mild interest. He remembered Zeus being very difficult to place in the Triangle's new Post-Prison Job Placement Program, because most people didn't like him. Not being liked by most people was bad enough with a regular person who'd never been in any trouble. It could spell disaster for an ex-con nobody liked. People were very suspicious of folk who had done jail time, had attitude problems, and were just plain old unlikable.

“Yeah, Big Bro. I don't know how that dude got assigned to Vincent, but he needs a serious reality check.”

“Don't worry, I've got this,” Yarborough said. As soon as he hung up the phone, he was calling Zeus's parole officer and having him reassigned. Zeus Nance didn't even have the qualifications to work at Lil' Vincent's. He had horrible taste in clothes and was clueless about what colors went together. Yarborough was a guy's guy and completely unconcerned about making fashion statements. Nonetheless, he still knew when a brother didn't know how to dress.

“So tell me, Marsha. What are you going to do about this fiasco? I hired you because you are supposed to be the big-time stylist.”

Marsha put her hands on her hips and stood looking up at Denzelle with her feet apart. He was acting like she was the one who slapped that mammy-made tuxedo on him.

“Don't look up at me like that,” Denzelle snapped. “This whole thing is your—and not my—idea, Marsha.”

That statement stung, and it hurt. It was also so thoughtless and unnecessary.

“It's a good idea,” Marsha told him. “And do not snap at me like that again.”

“Or what?” Denzelle asked her. There was no way he was going to let Marsha Metcalf get the best of him. What if one of his boys walked in his office and saw Marsha having the upper hand? He'd never live that down.

“Or I'm gonna tell you, you'd better not do it,” she said, in a voice that sounded like a little girl telling somebody off and then stomping her foot to emphasize her point.

He started laughing. Folks were always getting on Denzelle about pursuing Marsha. But one of the reasons he was reluctant to grab a hold of her was because he feared she could not handle him. Denzelle didn't want a woman who wasn't confident standing up to him.

“You talkin' bad for a person who is not going to do anything, Girl.”

“I don't have to put up with this mess from you, Denzelle Flowers,” Marsha said, and she collected her things and started walking off, mumbling, “Who does that boy think he is, my daddy?”

“Marsha, calm down and help me figure this out.”

“Oh, you want my help now, Mr. Man.”

“Girl,” he said.

“What, Denzelle Flowers? What are you going to do?” Marsha shot at him. She couldn't handle Denzelle's mess right now. Marsha felt like everything she'd dealt with over these past years was suddenly crashing down on her head. She didn't have the capacity to be calm, to be nice, or to even respond to him in a civil manner.

Denzelle had never experienced Marsha like this. The girl was always so mellow and didn't get her feathers ruffled easily. But she was anything but mellow right now. In fact, if he didn't know better, Marsha was looking and acting like she wanted to put her foot up his behind.

He, on the other hand, could get riled up real quick. And he wanted a woman who could handle him when he wasn't at his best, or simply when he was just being cantankerous and showing the crack of his butt—which Denzelle was prone to do. This was especially true when he was tired and had packed up his schedule with meetings with folk who made him feel even more exhausted, mean, and cranky.

Marsha walked over to the door of his office suite and struggled to open it with all of that stuff in her arms. Denzelle rushed over to help her. He said, “You know you can't open this door with all of this stuff in your hands.”

Marsha ignored him and kept trying to open the door. Denzelle took her things out of her arms and put them on his desk.

“I'm sorry.”

She looked up at him and didn't say anything.

“I'm sorry, Marsha.”

Marsha still didn't acknowledge Denzelle's apology. He took her hands in his.

“I was wrong. Baby, I'm sorry. Come on, Girl.”

Marsha looked down at her feet. She needed a moment to regain her composure. This was a part of Denzelle she'd never experienced, and it was getting to her.

Denzelle reached out and grabbed the back of Marsha's head. He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Come on, Honey. Give me another chance to get this event thing worked out,” Denzelle whispered in Marsha's ear, sending a few shivers down her back.

He kissed the tip of her ear.

“Are you going to forgive me?”

Marsha remained silent. Denzelle kissed the side of her neck and whispered. “Come on, Girl. Help a brother out. You know you want to.”

Marsha felt herself melting into Denzelle. It had been years since a brother whispered something that sounded good in her ear. She loved a good, low whisper from a man who knew exactly what to say. Marsha looked up at Denzelle, and before she could catch herself, wrapped her arms around his waist. She wished she could move, but holding on to Denzelle felt so normal it was scary.

Denzelle stared down into Marsha's eyes. He was mesmerized by the sweetness of her gaze.

“I need you, Marsha,” Denzelle blurted out, and then lifted up her chin and kissed her lips. It was a soft and tender kiss—perfect in length and the pressure of the touch of his lips on hers. He kissed Marsha again. It was a sweet kiss that ended with a soft “smack.”

“I know what we can do about your outfit,” Marsha said, hoping she didn't sound as lame to Denzelle as she sounded to herself.

Denzelle kissed Marsha's cheek again, and said, “I can't wait to discover how you are going to work this thing out.”

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

Marsha hurried back to Denzelle's office to give him a first and private viewing of her outfit. She twirled around a few times so that he could get the full effect. Denzelle could not believe how well she had fixed the tuxedo disaster. No one would ever know that this was not the original costume for their performance. Denzelle's expert player eyes swept over Marsha, taking in every single detail of how she looked. He sucked on his tooth and grinned. “You look like my dessert,” he said in a low and dangerously sexy voice.

Marsha blushed.

Denzelle chuckled. Marsha was going to make pursuing her so much fun. He loved the chase, and it was a long time since he'd wanted to go full throttle in chasing a woman down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. He could not believe he'd just committed himself to chasing Marsha Metcalf.

“I did a pretty good job of hooking us up,” Marsha said with a smile, hoping that placing attention on their attire would diffuse the heat coming from him.

“Yeah, Beautiful, you did just that.”

Marsha stared at Denzelle, admiring her own handiwork. He looked better in this outfit than what she'd first planned for him to wear. Instead of the elegant Dolce and Gabbana attire, Denzelle was wearing the tuxedo jacket like it was a red sports coat with dark blue jeans. She found a starched white dress shirt hanging in his office closet, and instructed him not to tuck it in. In place of a pocket handkerchief, Marsha tucked the tuxedo's red bow tie in the breast pocket, leaving several inches of the tie hanging out of the pocket. The red jacket, white shirt, jeans, and the sleek, black Cole Haan leather oxfords made for a sharp complement to what Marsha had done to her own outfit.

She decided to keep on her black silky leggings, and put Denzelle's ruffled tuxedo shirt on over them. The shirt was large and covered her whole body, like a minidress. She gave the big shirt some shape and definition by putting the bright red cummerbund around her waist. She pulled her hair up into a high ponytail, and was wearing her fancy, black suede, Mary Jane pumps, with the rainbow-colored rhinestones all over them.

Denzelle couldn't take his eyes off of those prissy little shoes. He wondered what Marsha looked like in just those shoes—
just the shoes
. A mannish grin spread across his face at the thought. Women didn't know how much that kind of mental imagery could work a brother over.

Marsha twirled again, hoping Denzelle was feeling okay about how she'd revamped their outfits. She thought he would like this better. The jeans and shirt would be more comfortable to dance in.

Denzelle picked up on Marsha's uncertainty and quickly surmised it was in response to his own lack of response to her. He smiled at her. Marsha was such a sweetheart. He tweaked her ear, resisting the urge to nibble on it, and said, “What are you wearing?”

“Your shirt and cummerbund.”

Denzelle sighed and gave a soft chuckle. That girl was so concrete. A brother didn't need to be too smooth with Marsha, because all of those Mack-Daddy words would go to waste and right over her head.

“Girl, you smell good,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

Marsha moved back, and Denzelle reached out and pulled her back to him, only this time he was holding her in his arms. He planted another kiss on her neck, and then stroked it lightly with his fingertips.

“Mmmm.… You taste even better.”

Denzelle slid his fingers up to the nape of Marsha's neck. He pulled her head back gently and kissed her lips.

“My Honey,” was all Denzelle could say in between several kisses. He tried to keep the kisses light but couldn't help himself. He held onto Marsha tightly and kissed her deeply, and with so much heat and passion, it made her feel like she was going to melt.