Pastor Needs a Boo (21 page)

He sniffed up under his arms and then said, “Nahh … nothing but roses there.”

Now Marsha was laughing out loud. All she could say was, “Boy, you are so crazy.”

“Yeah, he is crazy,” Uncle Russell said, waving his hand across his face like he was fanning away some serious funk. “'Cause don't nothing 'bout your behind make me think about some roses.”

“Unck, why do you have to play a playah like that, huh?” Denzelle asked his uncle, grinning.

“Playah?” Uncle Russell looked at Marsha. He said, “Baby girl, do you see a playah standing in this room?”

Marsha let a chuckle escape.

Denzelle got real close up on her. He looked down into Marsha's eyes like they were the only two people in the room and whispered, “Well,
Baby girl
, do you see a playah standing in this room, or don't you?”

Marsha stepped back. She didn't like being that close up on Denzelle. The brother was dressed down and smelling up too good for her comfort. What she wanted to say is that he had the mark of a true player. Brothers who knew how to roll the dice in a game with a woman always smelled good.

“Baby, I'm still waiting on your answer,” Denzelle said in low sexy voice, hoping Uncle Russell didn't pick up on the heat layering those words. He didn't want to be so sweet on Marsha Metcalf, but he couldn't help it that he was.

Marsha couldn't stand it when Denzelle teased her like that. She knew he was smug enough to think she was going to belly up and tell him that he was the ultimate player, all that, and then some. She said, “I don't see one playah in this room, Den-zelle. But I do see someone with some serious swagger—your Uncle Russell.”

Uncle Russell put his fist up to his mouth, leaned down and over to the side, and said, “Ohhhh, snap, Nephew. Missy just clowned you good.”

Denzelle's mouth got kind of tight. He wasn't used to Marsha getting the best of him, and especially in front of somebody like Uncle Russell. He was never going to hear the end of this unless he regained control of the situation.

Denzelle winked down at Marsha and said, “I see you got jokes,” in the lowest, smoothest, playah voice she'd ever heard coming out of his mouth. She knew Denzelle was smooth, but right now Denzelle was sizzling, he was so sexy.

Marsha hurried and sat back down and started going through all of the stuff she'd brought with her for this meeting. She and Denzelle were supposed to go over the first big fundraising and publicity event for his campaign. That was the only reason why she was even at the man's house.

Veronica had warned her to make Denzelle meet her at the church. But noooooo—Marsha had to act like she had game enough to roll up on Denzelle on his turf. This had to be one of the dumbest things she'd done in a very long time.

Uncle Russell liked the chemistry going on between those two. It was plain to anybody who knew Denzelle that he was quite taken with Marsha Metcalf.

“About time,” Uncle Russell mumbled under his breath.

“You say something, Unck?” Denzelle asked.

‘Naw, son. Not really. Just thinking out loud about all of the stuff your auntie wants me to pick up at the store before I go home.”

“If you say so,” Denzelle responded, eyeing his uncle suspiciously. He didn't get why Uncle Russell was telling that kajoomba lie. Uncle Russell never went to the grocery store on a Tuesday night to get a bunch of stuff. He and Denzelle's aunt loved to go grocery shopping early on Saturday mornings. They could stay out all day, like they were on a date.

Denzelle opened his mouth to ask his uncle what was up but didn't get a chance. Uncle Russell left the house so fast he almost hurt his nephew's feelings.

Marsha finished organizing her things.

“Where can I spread this out?”

“Back in my office,” Denzelle answered from the hallway. It occurred to him that he hadn't offered Marsha so much as a whiff of oxygen since she'd walked through the front door of his house.

“Can I get you anything, Marsha? I have some homemade walnut brownies.”

“Did you make them?” Marsha asked him, before she remembered her own manners. It had never occurred to her that Denzelle could cook. But this house was pretty homeylike. Most men who were so settled and comfortable in their homes were usually very good cooks.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Denzelle answered, with a big smile on his face. Few folk ever thought about him cooking. But he was an excellent cook.

“Okay,” Marsha said, still sitting in the living room chair. As much as she wanted to see the rest of Denzelle's house, Marsha wasn't so sure if she wanted to be introduced to the more private Denzelle Flowers. You learned a lot about a person when you saw their home—especially the rooms that were not earmarked for company.

What if his house was messy? What if this was the only pretty part or company part of the house? What if he forgot she was coming and had his underwear lying in the middle of the floor?

Marsha had never thought about Denzelle and his underwear. He looked like he wore boxer briefs—especially in those athletic pants. Marsha closed her eyes and tried to shake that thought out of her head. What was wrong with her, thinking about Denzelle Flowers like that?

“Are you coming, Girl?” Denzelle called over his shoulder, wondering why Marsha was sitting there looking like she was having some kind of fight with herself.

Marsha heard and felt the frustration in Denzelle's voice, even though she didn't know what was making him take a trip into what she called the cranky man space.

“I know he doesn't think he's the boss of me,” Marsha mumbled under her breath, and took her time getting her stuff up in her arms. If she ran down that hall after Denzelle Flowers after he snapped at her, she wouldn't know.

Denzelle sighed loud enough to be heard. He could not believe Marsha was being that stubborn with him. He told her to follow him, and she was acting like he wasn't talking to her. Then this girl had the nerve to start singing Kelly Price's lyrics, “You're not my daddy. You're my man,” under her breath, but loud enough to be heard by him from the doorway to the kitchen.

“Marsha!” Denzelle commanded. “We need to go over this project.”

Marsha stood her ground, staring at Denzelle like there was something seriously wrong with him. He was talking to her like there was something between them. That was the only time a man got his butt all hunched up on his shoulders with a woman for what, on the surface, looked like no good reason.

Denzelle stared back at Marsha standing there giving him the universal black girl look that clearly stated “I don't know
who
you think you talkin' to.”

He couldn't believe they were acting like this. What in the world was wrong with him? Denzelle had never had so much as a mild debate with Marsha, and they were carrying on like two people in love.

“In love?” Denzelle thought, with panic creeping up in him. “I'm not in love with anybody, let alone Marsha Metcalf.”

Marsha finally started to move in Denzelle's direction, walking slowly to be defiant, while at the same time trying not to be too nosy and look around at his house. She peeked into a room that could only be classified as Denzelle's man cave. His house was cheery, comfy, and neater than Marsha would have thought it would be. But the man cave was all of the parts of Denzelle he didn't want just anybody to see.

This room had the typical gigantic flat-screen TV turned on to Reverend Al Sharpton's
PoliticsNation
. There was a navy, leather love seat and two whiskey brown, leather La-Z-Boy chairs. The floor had a navy, light blue, and cognac–colored area rug sitting on top of a mahogany stained-wood floor. The coffee table had newspapers, copies of
Sports Illustrated
magazine,
Jet
magazine,
A Gun Catalog
, and
Sharp Shooter Digest
laying all over it. Denzelle's tray was in front of one of the chairs, and his Bose iPod system rested on a cool-looking steel shelf that had bottles of Fiji water and two boxes of strawberry Nutri-Grain bars on it.

“Are we going to be in here?” Marsha asked, hoping that her enthusiasm over the man cave didn't show up in her voice.

Denzelle's eyebrow went up. Marsha was such an inquisitive little thing. He saw her eyes light up when she saw his favorite room, which had all of that stuff that so defined him.

“Nope,” he answered, trying not to laugh when Marsha tried to mask her disappointment. She made him think of his niece, Yasmine, who used to try and hide when she was mad and pouting when Unky D didn't let her have her way. He said, “Don't you think it would be better to hold a business meeting in my office?”

“Of course,” Marsha mumbled, as cheerfully as she could. The last place she wanted to be was in a stuffy old office. Instead, she wanted to be up in
that
room. It looked like there was so much in there to see that would tell her more about Denzelle.

He opened the door to his office, secretly hoping Marsha would like his office as much as she obviously liked his den. He tried not to hold his breath while watching her standing in the doorway to the office.

“I'll be right back,” Denzelle said, and then paused and turned back around. “What do you want to drink?”

“What do you have?” Marsha asked him.

“Hennessey, Gray Goose, some wine,” he answered, grinning, knowing full well she would not want any liquor to drink.

Marsha gave Denzelle the impression that one whiff of the good stuff would put her out for the entire night. If she drank a glass of liquor, got tipsy, and had to be out for the night at his house, he was going to take advantage of the situation. Denzelle knew that was wrong. But he was being truthful. If that girl ended up at his house for the night, he was tapping that and going to the altar to ask for forgiveness later.

“I do not believe my pastor is offering me some hard liquor,” she said, with a chuckle.

“I'm not. You can't hang drinking liquor. I just told you what I had,” he said, in a serious voice.

Marsha frowned, and was about to protest. Who did Denzelle think he was to think she couldn't drink, even though she really could not drink an eyedropper full of strong liquor? But he didn't have to know that.

Denzelle stared at Marsha as if to say please. He said, “I know just the thing to give your little trying to be grown self to drink with the brownies. You make yourself comfortable until I get back.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

Marsha sat down in the chair facing Denzelle's desk. She tried to position her body to make it look like she was cool and relaxed while waiting on him to come back with those brownies. She hoped they tasted good. It would be awful if she had to sneak and spit them out if they were nasty.

This room may not have been the true command central of Denzelle's home, like the den. But there was a lot in it that spoke volumes about who this man was. Marsha had expected it to be crimson and cream. But instead of dripping in Denzelle's K A
Ψ
fraternity colors, this room was earth-toned—soothing but with just enough umph to get you in the mood to work.

It had never occurred to Marsha that Denzelle Flowers would be so in to houseplants. There was nothing in his demeanor to indicate that he had such a prolific green thumb. The plants were lush, strong, and full of life, just like Denzelle. He probably grew each plant from a tender baby clipping he'd gotten from someone like his uncle Russell's wife, Miss Della.

The plants in the office were in buttery, pumpkin-colored pots that complemented the butter cookie–colored walls and whiskey-colored leather furniture. There were finely crafted, handmade, black-lacquered bookshelves, along with a very comfortable looking whiskey-colored leather chair behind the finely made black desk.

“I like this room,” Marsha said to herself.

“I'm glad you do,” Denzelle responded, making her jump.

Denzelle put the tray of brownies and what looked like some freshly made lemonade on his desk. He scooped up a fat brownie with a spatula onto a brickred dessert plate. He put the plate in Marsha's hand, and then poured his homemade lemonade into a tall glass with a crimson K A
Ψ
stamped on it. He put the glass on the Kappa Alpha Psi coaster sitting on his desk and waited for her to taste the brownie.

Marsha bit into it. It was delicious, and it also had more than chopped walnuts in it. She took another bite, and then swallowed a big gulp of the lemonade.

“What did you put in these brownies?”

“Chronic,” Denzelle lied, and started laughing when Marsha looked like she was trying to figure a way to spit it out without being offensive. Marsha would pull her taste buds out of her mouth with tweezers before she let the taste of some marijuana-laced brownies stay on her tongue.

“Uhhh, Baby, where would I get some good weed to put in your brownies?”

“The police department,” Marsha said gingerly.

“The police department?” Denzelle queried, laughing. “Baby, I'm FBI. I don't need to go to the Po-Po to get some weed if I really wanted it. And what makes you think the best weed is at the police department? Don't you think the FBI would have something to do with some bigger busts, and end up getting some better weed?”

She shrugged and said, “Well, whenever I hear news about the police drug bust, they always arrest a lot of weed people. But when you all get involved, all we hear about is the amount and the value of it on the streets,” Marsha said, hoping she didn't sound too dumb and naive.

“Weed people?” Denzelle asked her. She was cracking him up, sitting there eating those brownies and talking seriously about the weed people.

“Yeah, you know people who sell really good weed. I'm sure you all can tell the difference between good weed people and bad weed people.”