Careful What You Click For Page 3

  The audience shouted in unison, “God!”

  “Amen,” Pastor Baloney said, then sat to the left of the podium.

  Passing the collection basket to the deacon seated on the first pew, Chancelor licked his lips, then placed one arm behind his back. Standing six feet tall, dressed in gray slacks and vest, a white short-sleeved shirt, he spread his brown leather shoes apart, ran his hand over the short spiked locs (with blue tips) bunched on the top of his head. The sides and back were shaven and brushed into black zigzag pattern.

  Victoria was on the opposite end facing him. That woman never had any of her natural strands—curly or straight—out of place. Today her hair was flat and smooth with a part on the right side. She was tall with legs that seemed to never end. Bragged about being a size four. Always wore dresses and heels. Her mocha skin was flawless and tight like a teenager’s. Victoria didn’t look as though she was close to sixty-one. She could easily pass for forty-five. She’d turned him down several times. Chancelor knew Brother Copeland couldn’t be the only man hitting that pussy.

  Chancelor shifted his eyes twenty-five rows to his left. There sat the church whore, Tracy Benjamin. He hated her ass.

  Atlanta was that city where no one was on the real, but everyone wanted r-e-s-p-e-c-t and a microwave drive-thru relationship. He tried to fall in love with Tracy, but no. All she wanted was his money. Her ass needed to be first in line to register for the pastor’s HFAC Millionaires’ Club.

  A chip in Tracy’s ass was what she needed so Chancelor could scan how many dicks she’d encountered—forget in her lifetime—how about the last thirty days. Chancelor was done with treating whores like ladies. Where he’d grown up, those two things didn’t go together, but he couldn’t convince Tracy of that.

  “Here, Brother Chancelor,” the man on the sixth row said with bass in his voice as he nudged the wicker against Chancelor’s abdomen.

  “Oh, thanks, man,” Chancelor said, sidestepping to row seven.

  The member sitting on the end placed her donation envelope atop the others, took the basket, then passed it to her neighbor.

  Scanning the congregation, his eyes shifted seventeen rows to his left. He’d discovered $3,000 too late that Tracy was a professional gold-digger. Chancelor stared at Tracy through his peripheral. She smiled while chatting with the man next to her.

  Bitch! Chancelor’s body count of six at Hope for All Church was higher than Jordan’s and probably much lower than Victoria the-undercover-consummate-Christian whore’s, who claimed she refused to lay where she prayed (for the exception of Willy). He’d bet they were all award-winning one-night-stand champions. He saw Victoria give Brother Copeland a friendly wink earlier. The only person in their usher/friendship quartet that hadn’t reportedly scored at church was Kingston. Fair enough. He was the newest addition to their group. And the humblest celebrity/member Chancelor had met.

  Standing beside the nineteenth row, Chancelor thought, Sister Peaches need to be ashamed of herself for dropping $5 for the Lord. The Göt2b glue for her front lace from Atlanta Beauty Depot cost more than that. Then he moved along to row twenty. Peaches always raved about her exclusively patronizing the black-owned wig shop in Smyrna and tried to recruit every wig and extension-wearing member. Maybe she could become a kickback millionaire.

  Joining a mega church was not what Chancelor wanted when he relocated to Atlanta. Nor did he want a small congregation where regulars shared each other’s DNA.

  The wicker basket made it to the opposite end of the pew to his fellow usher-friend Victoria. They made eye contact before sidestepping to the next row. Kingston and Jordan were on the other aisles over. Kingston and Victoria were back-to-back.

  Chancelor’s anger toward Tracy intensified. His full lips tightened. Eyes narrowed with disdain for the woman that called herself a “child of God.” He was in part to blame. When he saw she, too, had a profile on the app ChristianFornicators, he couldn’t resist asking her for a date. The only thing Tracy had put out was her hand.

  Slightly shifting his eyes to the left, he felt the soft laughter from Tracy to the man next to her was intended to agitate him. If Tracy fainted right now, Chancelor couldn’t confirm he’d check to find out if she had a pulse. His cocoa-colored lips kissing distance from hers would never happen again. The moment had come for him to move to the last row, and his heartbeat had quickened with hatred.

  Tracy was the fifty-seventh female Chancelor pursued after moving to Atlanta from Beverly Hills, Michigan. It was time for him to do like she’d done and move on.

  “Hi, Brother Chancelor Leonard,” Tracy said seductively with that fake-friendly smile that once lured him in.

  He nodded, wanting to knock out her teeth with her red-bottom stilettos he’d bought. Chancelor hadn’t given up on finding a good churchwoman to marry. But each time he expressed interest in a lady at their church, Tracy found a way to ruin it. Why did women let ex-girlfriends get in their heads? Hell, why was Tracy still on his mind? She didn’t deserve him.

  Forming a double-file, two-person line in the center aisle at the rear of the church, Chancelor followed Victoria, and Kingston was next to him, and behind Jordan. Marching to the altar, they stood while the pastor blessed the congregation’s offering.

  When the choir began singing, Chancelor noticed Tracy’s hourglass waist and big booty standing in the center aisle, facing the exit. Maybe he should give Tracy a second chance . . . he’d have to be the stupidest dude in Georgia.

  She is fine, though. Maybe I misunderstood her or wasn’t compassionate enough when she shared her childhood trauma of sexual abuse . . .

  Interrupting his mental monologue, Brother Melvin stood behind Tracy, blocking Chancelor’s view. He was so close to Tracy’s ass, one more step and his dick would touch her butt.

  Where the fuck did he surface from?

  Chancelor wished he had a bowling ball; he’d strike with just enough force to tap Brother Melvin so he’d knock Tracy in the gutter, where she belonged.

  “Ahem. Ahem.” Victoria cleared her throat, then whispered, “Stop worrying about Tracy, she’s part of the penis-welcoming committee.”

  Chancelor didn’t acknowledge Victoria’s warped sense of humor.

  Under the volume of the choir’s singing, Chancelor replied, “Why hasn’t she recruited Kingston?”

  Kingston mumbled, “Stop it, both of you. I’m steps ahead of her kind.”

  “Give her a minute.” The music ended as Victoria added, “Tracy will welcome your penis, Kingston.”

  In the deepest voice, Pastor Baloney said, “Let. Us. Pray.” Following the blessing of the contributions, all of the ushers headed to the back.

  “I need a drink,” Chancelor told Victoria, Jordan, and Kingston. “This conversation is going to be continued at Bar Purgatory.”

  “Our usual stop it is,” Kingston said. “Meet y’all there in an hour.”

  “Why’re you always an hour late, man?” Chancelor questioned.

  Kingston replied, “My pattern ain’t changed, bruh. This is your crisis, not mine. I need to switch out of these slacks, vest, tie, and this white shirt, man. You should do the same sometimes. The bar isn’t going anywhere.”

  Jordan chimed in, “Kingston has to call his wife. Or as he claims, babies’ mother, Monet.”

  Nodding at Jordan, Kingston squinted, then asked, “What’s wrong with that? I raised her up to keep the media out of my face. I’m not legally married. Okay?”

  Victoria said, “Then Kingston, in the name of God, you need to honor and marry the mother of your illegitimate children.”

  Holding up his palms, Kingston took a step back. “I don’t have to explain myself. I’m single.”

  “The man acknowledged his status. He’s single. Damn, what’s wrong with women?” Chancelor lamented.

  “Everything and nothing.” Kingston gently patted Chancelor on the back. “Depends on who you ask. See y’all in a few.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kin
gston

  Sitting in the black-and-white paisley chair in his hotel suite, Kingston searched BottomsUp to find a nearby guy seeking to have a quickie. A text registered from Theodore: Why are you still on here?

  Definitely not to stalk him, Kingston thought, not responding.

  Damn! Kingston drooled over the guy, who showed his body from the upper lip arch down to the defined dip of his abs, which led to the barely exposed pubic hairs. Was he an athlete, too? Didn’t matter. They were both on the app. Kingston messaged: Want some adventure right now? along with a picture of his dick.

  232323 replied, If the pic is real, I’m wide open, then pin-dropped his location.

  Kingston made a quick wardrobe switch. Out of the usher uniform into all black: button-down shirt, a pair of denims, tennis shoes, and a zip-up hoodie despite the ninety-degree temperature outside. He then grabbed a box containing designer shoes. In less than fifteen minutes, he was headed to his interim destination.

  One of the fifty private parking spaces located in the rear of the adult-entertainment establishment on Cheshire Bridge Road was all he needed. Flipping the hood of his jacket over his head, Kingston eased on a pair of dark sunglasses to shield his identity, then secured his cell phone in the armrest compartment of his black-on-black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows.

  Hurrying inside, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His chin touched his neck as he eagerly strolled past the cashier; he was anticipating what was to come. He wasn’t there to finger the vagina of the silicone human-sized sexbot displayed at the entrance or purchase a glass-blown dildo enclosed in the case. He was there for the real thing. Kingston bypassed the exotic-toys section, then trotted downstairs to the dimly lit basement. Lifting his eyewear to his brows, he scanned the room, identifying what appeared to be a few women and lots of men, but he was solely interested in the latter.

  Kingston quickly trolled the entire area one time, spotted a male image slumped in the corner. Watching the guy massage his thighs up and down sparked a rise in Kingston. The dude’s dick pointed north without assistance.

  Lowering his shades to his nose, Kingston sat on the bench beside the stranger, then whispered, “Triple twenty-three?”

  “Yup” was all he said.

  Kingston realized he was going to be in and done in less time than it took him to change his church clothes. “I’m pitching. If you’re catching.”

  “You must be new at this. I told you. I’m wide open,” he answered.

  Enough procrastination. “Let’s go to a private playroom.” There was no need to discuss his health status; both of them knew what they were there for. Occupying one of the bedrooms wasn’t necessary.

  Real men didn’t require missionary, foreplay, or afterglow. As he entered the standing-room-only space, the click of the lock reminded Kingston of being in the janitor’s closet.

  Erasing the childhood memory, Kingston snipped a tiny split in the edge of the condom packet with his canine teeth. The guy pulled down his sweatpants, leaned against the wall, spread his feet. Kingston unfastened his belt, let his jeans rest below his knees. Unrolling the latex over his shaft, he stepped out of his pants, then hung them on a hook. Squatting, he tilted his pelvis. Slowly he swiped his head between 232323’s tight butt cheeks, then penetrated him.

  Images of Theodore eating cream pie off of his dick while Monet was on the phone heightened Kingston’s sex drive from stiff to rock-hard. The more he replayed his last session with Theodore, the greater he struggled to dismiss his feelings for Theodore.

  Was Theodore letting a man do to him what Kingston was doing to 232323?

  Rapidly pounding again and again, the hood of his jacket slid down to the nape of his neck. His sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose. Kingston’s secret shielded his truth. Kingston continued thrusting, praying this would be the last time he sexed a random.

  Why did I enter the janitor’s closet? What did I think would happen that day? Certainly not what Langston Derby had done.

  Ten minutes later, Kingston released himself. He carefully removed the condom. Trashed it in the can filled with liquid that destroyed DNA on contact. Quickly he cleansed his genitals with a moist towelette. Putting on his pants, he placed his hood over his head. Pushed his frames to the bridge of his nose.

  Cumming inside of that man felt more gratifying than ejaculating raw inside of his wife, but only during the act. Now that the orgasm was over, Kingston felt empty.

  I’m not gay, he told himself, questioning his sexuality. Certain his wife had called him at least three times by now, he headed toward the exit. Kingston had to develop a plan to keep Monet in Columbia until he’d gotten out of his system the urge to sex men. Another month or two should suffice. But how was he going to end his situation with Theodore?

  Triple twenty-three wasn’t as good as Theodore, but Kingston’s mission was accomplished. Rushing to his car, Kingston headed to Bar Purgatory to meet up with his church friends. His dick felt sticky against his boxer briefs.

  Transit time was best for him to call Monet. Having a destination gave him a valid reason to get off the phone shortly.

  “What took you so long to call me back?” his wife complained.

  “Baby, church. Today was my Sunday to usher the late service.” Decreasing his speed to a complete stop, Kingston looked to his left.

  The driver stared. Breaking eye contact, Kingston looked straight ahead. Adjusted his tacky shaft from his inner thigh toward his abdomen.

  “Hey, Daddy,” Israel shouted.

  Nairobi echoed her older sister.

  Saved by his girls. “Hey, my beautiful little angels. I’m sending you special-edition backpacks. One is pink and the other is purple. Don’t fight over them. The one with the cell phone in it is for Nairobi,” Kingston said, knowing if Monet disapproved she’d be the bad parent.

  Israel countered, “What’s in mine?”

  “Guess,” he said. Kingston kept the conversation going, hoping to run out of time to talk with his wife.

  “Clothes?” Israel said.

  “What kind of clothes?” Kingston hadn’t purchased anything—backpacks, cell, clothes—for the girls. Not yet.

  Israel stated, “Tennis shoes with lots of rhinestones?”

  “You are a mind reader,” he said.

  Monet was quiet. The girls screeched with excitement.

  “I know Mommy isn’t happy with my being away from home,” Kingston stated, then explained, “I have to stay busy in order to keep focus on our goals of finding a place here.”

  Kingston parked in the lot at the bar. Texted Lilly, I need you to pick up four, make that five gifts. I’ll drop off $10,000 and the list to you later.

  Np, Lilly messaged back.

  “Daddy, I don’t want to move,” Nairobi protested.

  “I don’t want to make new friends,” Israel said with attitude. “People in Atlanta are plastic.”

  “And fake,” Nairobi added.

  A call registered from Theodore. Kingston loved his wife, but his children made his decision to take his time easier. Ignoring the flirtatious female in the car next to his, he drove off.

  “That’s Lilly calling about the house. Let me call you back, baby. Love you guys,” he said, thankful to end the conversation.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?” Kingston answered.

  “It’s your wife,” Monet retorted.

  Damn. He hit the red circle this time to end the call. Kingston looked at his cell, then dialed Theodore back and said, “Hey, man. What’s up?” with the same enthusiasm.

  “How about I bring over dinner and dessert tonight,” Theodore suggested. “But I ain’t giving you this delicious dick. We’re chilling and watching a movie.”

  Sensing there was a smile on Theodore’s face, Kingston’s lips curved upward. “I’d like that. I need a friend in Atlanta, bruh.”

  “And you think I don’t know that,” Theodore replied. “See you at seven . . . man.”

  CHAPTER 5


  Monet

  Monet released the cell from her grip, letting it fall into a fruit basket in the middle of the island. “Stop jumping right now!” Her eyes shifted from one to the other as she yelled at her daughters.

  If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Monet. The thought of hurling her smartphone across the kitchen at one of the many family photos hanging on the wall throughout their home was on the tip of her brain. Every room in their house was built with her husband, kids, or her mother in mind.

  Four happy feet skipped lightly around the dining table. “I said stop it. Right this minute!” Monet slapped the bar-height island as she stared at her girls.

  Wide light brown eyes beamed at Monet. Israel’s full lips, were like her dad’s, and high cheeks, mirrored Monet’s. Her onyx skin shined from an excessive application of shea butter. She didn’t blink when she asked, “What’s wrong, Mother?” Resembling a skinny replica of her father, Israel stood five feet, five inches, at eleven years old.

  Monet’s anger wasn’t her children’s fault. Kingston cutting her off to talk to his boy pissed her off. Not returning her call. Not telling her “I love you” first thing in the morning, before bedtime, or saying it prior to ending their conversation had become more frequent. No more phone sex. Or FaceTime. His coldhearted tone was new and hurtful.

  Monet’s mother quietly sat at the island on one of the six barstools. She’d changed, too. Helping less with the girls. Siding more with Kingston.

  Deep breaths filled Monet’s lungs. Slowly she exhaled out of her nostrils. She picked a ripe mango from the bowl, then squeezed it hard. Juice splattered onto her mother’s arm and onto the perfectly squared crystal-blue island’s tiles.