The Eleventh Commandment (15 page)

S
everal hundred miles from Phoenix, in the tony California beach community of Malibu, someone else was working on a relationship. When not on set, Paz normally paid little attention to his appearance. But he checked his image while passing his den's mirror-covered wall, giving his hair a quick tousle on the way to the front door.

“Dee!” He stepped back so that Darius could enter the large foyer.

“Hey, man.” The men hugged. Darius looked around, nodding his approval. “This place is nice. I forgot how nice the drive is up from Los Angeles.”

“I know, right? It's why we put up with all of the inconveniences: traffic, isolation, wildfires. For what's out back.” Paz placed his hand on Darius's shoulder, his turquoise blue eyes boring deeply into chocolate brown ones. “I'm really glad you came.” He placed a kiss on Darius's cheek. A woodsy smell with a hint of citrus wafted from his body. His hand left Darius's shoulder and traveled down his back, offering a casual tap on the R & B crooner's taut rump before stepping away. “You look good.”

“Where is everybody?” Darius took in the man who was slightly taller than he, equally well built, his body being showed off to perfection covered in swim trunks alone. The smooth olive skin was even darker than when he'd last seen him weeks ago, during the Fourth of July concert in Central Park.
The concert.
A perfect image of Bo's scowling face flashed across Darius's mind. But it was quickly replaced by the image of the model-perfect man in front of him. Paz was good people, an A-list star, and someone who made Darius feel good. Not only that, but the chemistry was undeniable. Darius tried hard not to think of this right now. He was here to meet an award-winning producer about possibly scoring the movie in which Paz had already agreed to star. The world mainly knew Darius as a singer, but those close to him knew that he also loved composing music. Writing movie scores would be a wonderful next level for his career and with Quincy Jones being one of his idols, it would bring him one step closer to mirroring a career he admired from afar.

They walked through a large, open-concept space that was bright and airy. The view was stunning: a large deck framing an infinity pool with a stretch of private beach between it and the vast Pacific Ocean. A dozen or so people milled around the deck while two couples—the guys in swim trunks, the women in thong bikinis—played volleyball on the strip of beach below. Stepping out on the deck, Darius immediately recognized one of the guests as the man who'd costarred with Paz in his latest movie, a reality-TV star, and behind the grill, a face he recognized from Bo's marathon watching of the Food Channel. Paz introduced him to a couple people on the way to the infinity pool, where a white-haired man lounged on a large tube.

“Gary, there's someone I want you to meet.”

Gary slowly spun around, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. A slow smile of recognition spread across his face. “Darius Crenshaw!”

“Darius,” Paz began, “this is Gary Weiss. Gary, this is the music producer for our next movie.”

Gary climbed out of the infinity pool and soon the two men were seated and Darius was getting schooled on the operation of the Hollywood machine. Gary was cocky and irreverent, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the industry. Darius liked him right away.

“Paz says you have some instrumentals?”

Darius nodded. “I put together a couple pieces with this project in mind.”

“I'd like to take a listen and ...” Gary's words died as he became distracted by a sight beyond Darius's shoulder. “That Paz is a Greek god. I'm as straight as an arrow, but I swear I'd do him in a heartbeat.”

Darius looked over his shoulder. Heart stopped. Dick jumped. Paz and the couples who'd been playing beach volleyball were now cavorting naked on the private strip of beach, rushing into the ocean and riding the waves back to shore. Even from a distance, Darius could see that Paz's flaccid member was swinging down by his well-sculpted thighs. He turned to dive into the water and his ass was just as taut and round as Darius had imagined.
Get it together, man,
he admonished himself.
You'll be drooling in a minute.
He abruptly turned back to Gary to find a curious pair of gray eyes looking at him. Taking a moment to recollect himself, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “You were saying that you wanted to hear some of my music?”

Gary smiled, a knowing “I can keep a secret” sort of smile. “I do,” he said around the grin. “When it comes to this movie, you might be a perfect fit.”

“Here're a few cuts. You've got my number. After you take a listen, I'd love for us to talk again.” Darius stood and extended his hand.

Gary stood as he shook it. “You leaving?”

“Yeah, my flight leaves in a couple hours.”

“I thought you were local.”

“I've got a place here but lately have been spending most of my time in Phoenix.”

“Well, I'm glad I met you, Darius. I'll take a listen and be in touch.”

“Cool.” Darius spoke to a couple of the guests on his way out, trying very hard not to appear to be doing exactly what he was trying to do: beat a hasty retreat. He couldn't imagine how he ever thought he could have a casual visit with the man whose torrid texts exchanged on the prepaid phone he'd purchased had kept him so sizzling hot. He'd done what he came here to do. In the future, he'd make sure that he and Paz met in a place where the demigod couldn't run around naked.
That body . . . damn!
Picking up his pace, Darius had reached the front door when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Darius would know that scent anywhere. He turned around.

Paz's blue eyes bore into his. “Leaving without so much as a good-bye to the host?”

“I was going to call you.” Darius knew his reply was lame, but it was the best he could do.

“Talking on the phone is one thing,” Paz replied, licking his lips as he lessened the distance between the two men. “Interacting in person is another.”

“Paz, I—”

His excuse was cut short by the feel of a set of firm, smooth lips on his soft, cushy ones; the scent of fresh air and warm sun emanating from a hard body; the fact that the tongue gently pressing its way into Darius's mouth didn't belong to his husband; the fact that he didn't want the kiss to end. He felt his hand on Paz's back, pressing him closer, and wondered how it got there. He felt Paz's response, a low, soft moan as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, a hand sliding down from Darius's back to his backside, pushing them closer together. Darius's physical response—a hardening, an involuntary grinding, and a wave of heat rising from his core and causing his heart to constrict. His heart.
Remember, man? The one that belongs to Bo?

Darius stepped back, placing a defensive hand up as he did so. “I can't do this,” he panted, noting the hurt and intense desire in Paz's eyes before turning quickly away. “I'm married.”

“I know.” Paz ran a hand through tousled black hair. “I also know that I love you.” Silence enveloped the two men as the sounds of the party, the ones that had faded into silence during their brief romantic exchange, returned. Paz noted that someone was calling his name. “I'm sorry if I upset you,” he said, his voice low and hurried, his accent pronounced. “But I won't apologize for loving you, Darius.” He stepped forward for another quick peck on Darius's lips. “Call before you leave town,” he whispered, and then walked back to his guests.

Darius watched Paz's sculpted body as he walked away: broad shoulders, narrow waist, hard buns, and long legs. His lips still buzzing from the kiss, he turned and walked outside to the SUV he'd rented. During the scenic, winding drive down Pacific Coast Highway, Paz occupied every corner of his thoughts. Determined to divert this focus, Darius phoned his minister and good friend Derrick Montgomery. When Derrick's wife, Vivian, informed Darius that her husband was out of town, Darius called a couple members of his band. His drummer's wife had just lost a family member, counting him out for Friday night drinks. His horn player's phone went to voice mail. Twice. Deciding against hitting the clubs, Darius finally headed back to his hotel room, planning to try and catch an earlier flight out.

He did all of those things: arrived at the Four Seasons, checked flights, packed his bags, and left the hotel.

And then he went back to Malibu.

C
ordella stood in front of her stove stirring a pot of chicken, onions, garlic, and tomatoes, and given the fact that she'd been cooking since the age of nine, the worry lines on her face had nothing to do with whether the chirmole would thicken properly or her roti bread would taste good. No, after what she'd done two days ago, she was wondering how long she'd have money to put food on the table. Gabriel had assured her that her job was secure, but Cordella knew better than to take Frieda lightly. She'd worked for women like her before: without conscience and calculating, and married to the money instead of the man. In fact, it was going up against such a woman that got her fired from her last job.
But this isn't the same. Mr. Livingston is not like Mr. Worth.
When she'd told the sixty-two-year-old Mr. Worth about his thirty-seven-year-old wife's romps with the pool guy, he'd thanked her by giving her a nod and a severance check. She'd made a vow then to never
ever
again get involved in her employer's shenanigans.
So what are you doing here again, girl?
“Doing the right thing, that's what!” Cordella mumbled under her breath, angrily jerking open the oven and removing the warm, soft bread. For this staunchly religious woman, it was the Christian thing to do. “God don't like ugly and neither do I!”

“Ma, what you talking 'bout?” Clark strolled into the compact kitchen and hugged his mother from behind. When talking among each other, their lyrical island accent became even more pronounced. “You go crazy talking to yourself now?”

Cordella tried to swat his hand with the large stirring spoon as he reached around her for a piece of roti. “I go crazy with sinners like you, placing your business where it don't belong!”

“C'mon now, Ma!” Clark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sinners need love too. And we need to eat!” Again, Clark reached for the roti bread. “I'm hungry!”

“So it's true. You're sleeping with her.”

“No.” The look that scampered across Clark's face told her otherwise, reminding Cordella of the time when she found the candy that then six-year-old Clark said he didn't steal hidden under his mattress.

“What's done in darkness comes to light,” she warned.

“Ma, we're just friends. She asked me about a computer program and I came over to help her with it. That's all.”

“You aren't a computer programmer and have no business being friends with a married woman. I'm not playing with you, son.” The ladle now served as a pointer as Cordella's eyes narrowed. “Your relationship with that woman is not right.” A warm feeling swept over Cordella, something that often happened when situations were being seen with her third eye. There was more wrong with Frieda's marriage than the cavorting happening with her son. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she was sure of it. Mr. Livingston was a good man. Whatever shenanigans Mrs. Livingston was up to—and she'd bet her rosary of her childhood faith that there were some—the doctor didn't deserve them. And whatever those shenanigans, she didn't want them to involve her son. “I don't want you to talk to that woman,” she finished. “And don't come over to my workplace again.”

Later that evening, Cordella sat in front of her television, thankful that her daughter and two grandchildren were still at the county fair, and that Clark was spending the night with his cousin. Peace and quiet was rare in the Pratt household, even rarer these days in Cordella's spirit. First there was her daughter, Shelly, and her two grandchildren. They'd been back in her household for over a year and while she loved them, she was also frustrated. Like Clark, Shelly had left the faith of her childhood and—as much as Cordella had warned her against it—was making the same mistakes that she'd made. “That's why you're struggling, Shelly,” she whispered, having been unable to stop the habit that began being raised as an only child by a doting yet strict grandmother—talking to herself. “You're going down the same path that I did, the one I told you led to hard times and plenty tears.” She looked beyond the muted television, tuned to a talk show that she rarely watched, and into the eyes of her daughter's father, an older gentlemen Cordella had known since childhood, who married her when she was seventeen and died of leukemia shortly after Shelly was born. Like Gabriel, Peyton was a good man, a provider, a no-nonsense man who lived by the word of God. True, she had not loved him, but at such a young age, what would she know of that? He was kind, and gentle, and though he'd been gone almost thirty years, she still missed him every day. The smile on her face shifted as she thought about another man, the man whose spitting image she saw almost every day. As he grew older, the striking resemblance caused her to almost hate her son, and even now their uncannily similar personalities and dispositions created an intense resentment. Clark's father was a player too, with no moral compass to direct him back to the small yet comfortable Long Island home that Peyton had left Cordella in his will—the home she lost when Clark's father used it as collateral for a gambling debt—right before he ran off with the mother of Clark's half-sister, the one who to this day he'd never met. She'd fled all the way across the country to try and escape the pain that betrayal caused. She had left her children with an aunt in Queens until she'd landed a job as the house manager for a wealthy European family. Eventually she secured enough money for a one-bedroom apartment in Inglewood and bus fare for her children and a cousin who'd escorted and then lived with them until Shelly was old enough to watch herself and her younger brother while Cordella worked.

“Those were hard years,” Cordella said, with a casual glance toward the television. Her brow creased as she saw an older, well-dressed woman talking to a woman who was several decades younger. The older woman looked to be in her seventies, was wearing a hat that fifty-eight-year-old Cordella would wear in a heartbeat (she always was an old soul—most people who saw her thought she was older). Somehow the woman had a look that made you think you could trust her on sight. Cordella reached for the remote and unmuted the sound.

“. . . the older women to teach the younger ones,” the woman wearing the hat was saying. “My family has been involved in this conference for many years. I was honored when your mother-in-law, Mrs. Montgomery, invited me to teach a session.”

“What's the name of your session, Gram—oops.” The woman chuckled as she looked into the camera before returning her attention to the elder sistah. “I mean, Mama Max.” Again, she turned to the camera. “No matter how much the prompter says Mrs. Brook or Mama Max, y'all, she's been Gram for all of my twenty-plus years.” The woman shrugged. “So forgive me, and bear with me.” Turning once more to the older woman, she continued. “Mama Max, what will you be teaching us at this year's Sanctity of Sisterhood Summit, themed The Woman I Am?”

The woman called Mama Max sat back. “Well . . . they say that experience is the best teacher. But I say learning from somebody else's mistakes is easier. So I'm calling my session ‘My Error, Your Education.' I want y'all young women to learn from some of the women in the Bible, women on TV, women in your neighborhood, or even in your home. I want to try and help some of my sisters learn and to avoid diving head first into pain when they can go around it. And I want to see the younger generation of women start acting like they've got some sense, stop showing their privates in public and wearing in broad open daylight what I wouldn't even dare try on behind closed doors.” She leaned toward the host. “Truth is some of those clothes look so tight I probably couldn't get them past my knees, but that's beside the point!”

The host laughed. The guest's eyes twinkled. Cordella turned up the volume.
Now that's a lady with some sense.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Maxine Brook, for joining me today.” The host turned from her guest and looked directly into the camera. Cordella felt a twinge, as though the pretty young woman was looking directly at her.

“Please join me, my grandmother, and hundreds of other worthy women for the Sanctity of Sisterhood's autumn event. Again, the theme is The Woman I Am and will be hosted by one of Los Angeles's fine first ladies, Vivian Montgomery, and somebody you may have heard of... the award-winning television host, Carla Chapman. And speaking of Carla, she'll take back the reins of her show on Monday. I've had a fantastic time guest hosting this week, and remember, you can see me Wednesday nights on Bravo.
KP and His Princess
airs at nine p.m. Eastern, eight p.m. Central. Until then, I'm Princess Petersen wishing you a great weekend. Bye, everybody.”

Cordella walked from the living room into her daughter's bedroom, where the laptop was stored. Upon hearing the name Carla Chapman her enthusiasm had waned a bit. Everyone in the country had heard about her scandal, how she'd cheated on her pastor husband and was now married to the man with whom she'd had the affair. It was one of the reasons Cordella didn't like those highfalutin megachurches, why after going from Catholicism to Christianity she'd been more than happy to make her church home at the Lord Jesus Christ Presbyterian Church in south Los Angeles. A small and close-knit congregation whose pastor seemed old enough to have known Kunta Kinte. This was fine with Cordella. If the plumbing wasn't working there were no worries about trying to plug up drains. Stopping when she reached Shelly and the kids' bedroom, she hesitated.
Do I really want to invite Shelly to listen to a bunch of rich, designer-wearing women who were probably more concerned with wearing the right style than getting folks saved?
But then she thought about the godly older woman who was going to be at the event. “What was her name? Mama something-or-other.” Cordella turned on the computer and clicked on a search engine. She was determined to find out more.

And she did. By the time Shelly and her children returned home Cordella had not only reviewed the SOS Web site and the conference coming to LA, she'd registered both her daughter and herself to attend. Maxine Brook was the name of the older woman she'd seen on television, the woman whose spirit somewhat reminded Cordella of the grandmother who'd raised her.
My Error, Your Education,
Cordella thought as she turned back the covers and climbed into bed. And then something happened that caused Cordella to freeze—half lying down and half sitting up. Her employer's wife's face swam into her consciousness. “There's no way someone like Mrs. Livingston would darken a church door,” she mumbled, having regained her movement and settling beneath the sheet. “But she's still Your child, Lord, and somebody's daughter. So while I try and help mine, please send somebody to help her.”