Pastor Needs a Boo (22 page)

Denzelle just shook his head. Marsha was looking so proud to be able to talk about things like street value and good weed versus cheap weed. But it was clear from this conversation that she didn't know diddly-squat about this subject. And, in fact, he remembered how Marsha acted when they were in college at Eva T. Marshall University. She was rarely, if ever, around folk who were getting high. And Denzelle should have known, since he got high with his boys on many occasions.

“Marsha, do you even know what weed looks like? Have you ever rolled a joint? That's all I want to know.”

“Uhh … well, there was this one time when I was at a party at Eva T., and some of those weed-looking papers were on the floor, and I bent over to pick them up … and…”

Denzelle held up his hand and said, “Stop, stop. Please. You are making it worse and losing the three cool points you are barely holding on to. You don't know jack about weed, do you?”

Marsha didn't want to say, “No, actually, I know even less than that.” So she took another bite out of the brownie and drank another big gulp of lemonade.

“These are so good, Denzelle,” she told him, hoping to change the subject. “What in the world did you put in them?”

“Gray Goose,” he answered, letting her get away with being what she thought was smooth. When would she learn that, as an FBI agent, he could see her little maneuver coming from a mile away?

“Okay. But really, what did you put in them?” Marsha asked, and took another big bite.

“Really, I put three cups of Gray Goose in the brownie batter—gives them a great taste. The helping of Gray Goose in those brownies is probably the most liquor you can handle.”

“I can handle more Gray Goose than what you put in these brownies,” Marsha lied, reaching for another one.

“Don't get drunk,” Denzelle admonished. Something told him that Marsha was going to get a buzz just from eating those brownies.

“Oh, don't worry about me, Denzelle. I can handle myself and my liquor.”

“Girl, you are not even drinking, and you are talking like someone who has had too much to drink.”

He shook his head and sighed.

“Baby, what am I going to do with you?”

“Ohhh, I don't know, Mr. Man,” Marsha, or more like the liquor in the brownies, told him. “I think there is a whole lot you can do with myself.”

“Oh, really,” was all Denzelle said, as he looked Marsha up and down like she was one of those Gray Goose brownies.

“Well, I didn't mean it like that,” she said, speaking more to the look than his actual words.

“Mean it like what, Marsha-getting-drunk-off-of-brownies-Metcalf.”

“You know what I mean by that. And for the record, I am not drunk off of some brownies. Who gets drunk off of brownies, Denzelle?” Marsha told him defiantly.

“You,” Denzelle answered her. She was hilarious. He scratched the stubble on his chin and gave Marsha a hot onceover. She was making it hard for him to behave. One more word on those brownies, and he was going to be all over her.

“You keep getting drunk off of my brownies and I'm sure I'll be able to do a whole lot with your fine self. Here,” Denzelle said, picking up another brownie. “Eat this, so I can take full advantage of you.”

Marsha stopped chewing. Denzelle was grinning, but he looked dead serious to her. She put her brownie down. Maybe she didn't need to eat something that went to her head like Gray Goose–laced brownies.

Denzelle was beginning to wonder if he was on something himself to be having this kind of conversation with Marsha. Any self-respecting player knew you did not put cards down on the table with women like Marsha Metcalf. They were serious, no nonsense, and could actually sniff out game faster than women with far more game than they would ever possess. Marsha would play the game so poorly it would force a player to put too many cards down—which, ironically, would end up giving her the winning hand.

“Denzelle, I am not drunk, I'm just a little bit drunk. And you can't handle me,” Marsha told him, with a whole lot of liquor-induced bravado.

“You wanna bet,” Denzelle whispered, pleased at the rose tint spreading across her cheeks.

“Oh … you…,” Marsha began, searching for a second comeback. She was tipsy and dealing with a player like Denzelle, who always had a snappy comeback.

“So,” he said, trying so hard not to laugh at Marsha, “you are admitting the Gray Goose in the brownies gave you a buzz.”

“Uhh…,” she began.

“Uhhh … nothing,” Denzelle said, and put the other chair right in front of Marsha's and sat down. He placed his hands on the arm rests on her chair and leaned toward her to whisper in her ear.

“Are you going to lie about me being able to handle you, too?”

Marsha leaned back in her chair. Denzelle leaned in closer to her. She smelled so good. He was about to plant a soft kiss on the tip of her ear when Marsha found a way to slice through the heat and tension building up between them.

“Denzelle,” Marsha began, hoping she was sounding regular, “don't you have a gun in your house?”

He moved away, disappointed that she had found a way to push him back. He waved his hand in the direction of the glass case on the opposite wall that had his FBI badge, a lightweight bullet-proof vest, a heavy-duty bullet-proof vest, a taser, and three guns in it. It looked like it should have been a display at a museum about law enforcement.

“Did you honestly think I'd have a home without my heat,” Denzelle asked. “Girl, this is just the stuff I want you to see. There's a whole lot more in a few undisclosed locations in my house.”

“Uhh, okay,” Marsha said. She was a bit nervous to be around that much firepower. What if they had another rare earthquake like the one that rocked North Carolina in 2011? Something like that could possibly cause those guns to go off all over the place.

She was very curious to take a closer look at the weapons in the glass case. Marsha had only seen guns like the ones Denzelle owned on television. They were pretty impressive but daunting at the same time.

“How many guns do you have in the house, Denzelle?”

He tweaked Marsha's ear playfully to distract her away from pressing in on an answer to that question. Truth was—Denzelle had six different guns other than the ones in the case in the house. He knew the answer to her question would make Marsha nervous enough to make up an excuse to go home.

Folks never ceased to amaze him with their reactions to real firepower. They liked being around someone who was doing some serious packing and knew how to use a gun. But they could also be nervous and uncomfortable about being in a home with several weapons.

“Baby, I'm a retired FBI agent. I still train. I still practice at the range. And I do training and consultation with the FBI academy. I'm one of the experts on working with churches located in areas the bureau has been keeping a watchful eye on.”

“Wow, Denzelle. I never thought about you in that way. Have you ever shot anybody?”

Denzelle got all nostalgic-looking on Marsha—like he needed a moment or two of silence to reminisce about the good old days, when he could shoot up a few folk. He smiled down at Marsha and said, “I'm the one who shot the second and third toes off of Rico Sneed's foot.”

“Yeah,” Marsha said carefully. “I remember that. Rico Sneed hasn't liked you since.”

“Baby, Rico Sneed has never liked me. I just gave him a plausible reason to be open about how he always felt.”

“Why didn't Rico like you before you shot him? I don't recall you doing anything—that would give the man a reason to dislike you.”

“I could always see straight through that joker—even back in the day, when we were all young bloods.”

“Then that explains it all. People don't like folk who can see straight through them when they are always into some extra drama.”

“So true, Marsha.”

“Is Rico the only one you've ever shot?”

Denzelle smiled again, but this time his eyes were hard as granite. Marsha almost jumped when she saw that deadly, steel glint slice across his round brown eyes. She'd always heard about how Denzelle could change from being the pastor to an FBI agent with a killer instinct in a heartbeat. It was one thing to listen to someone else talk about it. It was another thing to witness it up close and personal.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Marsha whispered, almost afraid to let those words come out of her mouth.

Denzelle stared into Marsha's dark brown eyes and said, “Would it upset you to know that I did?”

Marsha shrugged. She honestly didn't know how she would feel to know this man, whom she struggled so hard not to love, had taken someone's life.

“No, I've never killed anyone. I thank God for that each and every day. Because there was always a chance I would have to pull the trigger for a life-ending shot when I was a field agent. Baby, I've gone after some very dangerous and scary people. There was no way I could go up in some of those situations and not be prepared to shoot to kill.”

“I see,” was all Marsha said.

“But Marsha, I want you to understand that I have shot more than one person. And I shot them to stop them, so I would not be forced to kill them. I'm a sharpshooter. I will hit, with record precision, any place I aim my gun at.”

Marsha didn't want to smile right now. This was such a serious conversation. But she couldn't help it.

“What in the world is so funny?”

“I was thinking about how folks talk about those two spots where Rico Sneed's toes used to be on his foot. The few who've seen it say that shot was so good, it looked like you took those toes off with a surgical knife. And you took off two toes with one single bullet.”

Denzelle sucked on his tooth, and winked. He said, “Well, you know how it is, sweet thang—that was some of my best work.”

“You are so wrong, Pastor. I mean, Bishop.”

She put her plate with the brownie crumbs on the desk and stood up.

Denzelle was facing her and didn't move back when Marsha got up out of the chair. In fact, he made it his business to stand where it would be impossible for Marsha to avoid brushing up against him. It was the closest they had ever been to one another, and it felt good.

The space they were in made Denzelle feel like he had just come home. But as much as he was digging on this space, it also made him very uncomfortable. Denzelle was not ready to feel like this about a woman. He had been running from feeling like this for years and couldn't understand why he couldn't get rid of this feeling when Marsha was concerned.

Marsha picked up on his discomfort and moved away from him. She wondered what triggered the sudden chill between them.

“Did I say or do something to offend you, Denzelle?” Marsha asked, in her firm business voice.

“It occurred to me that if I am elected to be a bishop, I won't have a congregation. I like being a pastor, Marsha.” He went to sit in the chair behind his desk. He needed something to take his mind off of the fact that Marsha Metcalf was in his house and the two of them were alone. Back in the day he would have taken her by the hand and walked her down the hall to his bedroom.

Why did she always have to look so good? It didn't make sense. The girl wasn't even dressed-up. She had on some jeans, a peach-colored graphic T-shirt he remembered seeing lying up on a shelf at Walmart, and some blue, graffiti-painted canvas flats. But Marsha still looked good to him—so good he wanted her right in his office.

If Denzelle thought for one moment that he could get away with it, he would knock everything on his desk on the floor. Then he would grab Marsha and put to rest the questions he caught flashing across her face when she didn't think he was paying attention to her. He knew she wondered what he was like behind closed doors. Right now it was taking considerable restraint to refrain from answering every single question she had about him.

He put himself back in control of the situation by assuming preacher posture. Denzelle had watched the seasoned preachers use it on folk for the past thirty years, and it worked. It was a way of pulling rank, by acting like you operated on a higher level, because you had a license to be a preacher and was sanctioned to wear a clerical collar.

Marsha sat back down. She watched Denzelle behind his desk, positioning his body and acting like the textbook, black-denomination preacher. Did they train preachers to act like this? Did they make them take some kind of preacher test, where they had to make sure they stood and walked and sat and looked and talked a certain way before they were allowed to wear the clerical collar?

It sure did feel like that was the case sometimes. Marsha always knew when she was walking up on a group of black preachers at a conference, because they always found some kind of way to let you know they were preachers. She'd always hoped the women in the ministry would be different when more of them started joining the ranks of the clergy. Unfortunately, some of them could rep they were clergy as hard as the men.

“Why do ministers at church conferences stand in huddles, and then make sure everyone who is not a preacher feels uncomfortable about stopping and talking to them?” Marsha asked Denzelle in earnest.

“What do you mean?”

Marsha sighed and blew a heavy puff of air out of her mouth. He knew what she meant—he just didn't want to break rank and tell one of those dumb clergy secrets. She said, “Whenever I'm at a church conference, and I walk up on a group of preachers, you guys act like I need some kind of note from God just to speak to you. You know, it can feel kind of mean. And I hoped it would be better when more women were in the ministry. But some of them aren't any better. I don't understand why you all have to act like that.”

Denzelle did not want to answer that question, because it was like breaking some kind of unspoken rule. But she was right. Preachers could act like they were the cat's meow at conferences. They stood off in those groupings making folk feel like they needed a donkey, some palms, and a few coats thrown on the floor just to walk up and say good morning.