Page 9 of Chasing Church
“Head in public in a town the size of Jackson Falls? Oh, he must wanna be the topic of conversation.”
“I don’t know what he wants to be, but I do know that I don’t want my name attached to whatever it is.”
Chapter 6
Jones
After seeing the line for lil’ mama’s products at Manor Days over the weekend, I had to admit that I was impressed with her. She and Mari clearly had good products. And the fact that they were producing everything on their own by hand meant she was a hard worker. I respected that.
I never bullshitted about a job. But seeing her in boss lady mode made me want to get her project done ahead of the timeline, if I could. I pushed Felix and Mario harder than normal on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday was projected to be a washout with storms all day long. Since the roof wasn’t complete, we wouldn’t be able to work. I’d advised them to stay home. We’d covered the roof with a tarp and would pick up on Thursday when skies were expected to be clear.
My plan was to chill all day, but then I got a text from the lumber company that they’d dropped off some wood. Untreated lumber couldn’t be left outside, exposed to the elements. It had to be protected. So I showered quickly and headed to the jobsite. On my way there, I got a call from Bright.
“Ayo, where you at?”
“Headed to the jobsite. Lumber was delivered, and I need to make sure it’s covered from the rain.”
“Perfect. Church needs to make a delivery in Red Leaf. I was supposed to drive her, but I can’t get away right now.”
“Why would she need you to drive her to Red Leaf?”
“She’s not good at driving in the rain. All the hills and the cliffs make her nervous. You think you can take her over there?”
I sighed before replying. “Damn, man, I guess so.”
“What? You had plans?”
“Nah, it ain’t that. It’s just that you know she don’t really fuck with me like that. You need to let her know that I’m the one taking her. I don’t wanna hear her mouth. I’m pulling up now.”
“I’m texting her now.”
I made quick work of getting the lumber elevated and covered. As I was about to knock on her back door, it opened, and there she stood. “What’s up, Church?”
“Hey. Thanks for doing this for me.”
I was somewhat taken aback by her cordialness. Usually, what I got from her was eye rolls and avoidance.
Since she was playing nice, I matched her energy. “What needs to be carried to the truck?” She pointed to two cases sitting on the countertop. “You can get in. I got this.”
I placed the cases on the floor of the backseat, climbed into the driver’s side, and pulled off. Typically, with a chick, I would’ve kept up a conversation, made her feel comfortable, flirted, laid on the charm. But I knew Church didn’t really fuck with me, so I stayed quiet. The sounds of the early 2000s hip hop that I played filled the space instead of words. After we’d been driving for about fifteen minutes, I spoke. “I just wanna say that you sold your ass off at Manor Days.”
She chuckled lightly. “Thank you.”
“You know I’m from a haircare powerhouse?—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Your family’s success is so inspirational. When I decided that I wanted to do haircare, the first person I ran to was your aunt. I mean, even before I went to my sister.”
Those were the most words that she’d ever said to me. It was cool. “Yeah, my aunt Beverly is from the generation when the Sumners were still running the company. Still making the formulas for the products. Still over production. They were the last generation. The generation after them sold everything to the white man. I can’t lie. I mean, the sale created generational wealth. But the white man ain’t really care about keeping black hair healthy. They started switching out ingredients for the cheapest thing they could find the minute my family members signed on the dotted line. The product the white man pushed out was not the same product that my family members created. Damn shame.”
“It is,” she agreed with a nod of her head. “I mean, I can understand the logic behind selling. But it’s sad when black people are buying a product because we think it’s made by someone who looks like us, when all along, it’s made by some faceless, nameless corporation.”
“That’s fucked up.” We went silent again, but it wasn’t awkward. We were just both thinking our own thoughts. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but I was thinking that she had the inside of my truck smelling good as hell. Something like cake . . . or cookies. Something I wanted to fucking eat. I’d heard women talk about being a snack. But she was in my truck, smelling like literal dessert.
She had GPS on her phone. Her Siri was a British man. He told me when I arrived at the destination to pull into the “carport.”
The rain was still coming down like crazy. I quickly grabbed the two cases of product and followed her to the front door of the barbershop.
I watched from the cut as Church handled her business. She was pleasant and professional. Her entire demeanor left no room for anybody to play in her face. Run her the money, and she would run you the product. That was her business model.
