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Authors: Shana Burton

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Chapter 6
“I don't know what came over me.”
—
Lawson Kerry
 
On Monday morning, Lawson woke up feeling the same nervous tension that she always battled on the first day of school as a student; only now, she battled it as a teacher.
“You'll do fine,” Garrett assured her when he called that morning to pray that Lawson had a productive day and a smooth school year. His words calmed her, but the panic which had temporarily subsided arose again, tightening the knot in Lawson's stomach by the time she reached the campus of North Central High School.
Lawson's first official day as an American history instructor was filled with pre-planning meetings, skimming over student and faculty handbooks, and adjusting scheduling conflicts. By noon, she was already overwhelmed and wondered if it was too late to get back her old job as a cashier at Pick-n-Pay.
“Be sure to have your lesson plans turned in before you leave on Fridays, and we have department meetings on Wednesdays at three,” droned Lydia Paul, her middle-aged social studies department chair. Lawson nodded, trying to process all of it, while Lydia doled out rules and policies as she led Lawson on a campus tour. “Any questions?”
“I have a million questions,” confessed Lawson. “I didn't realize there was so much to learn in such little time. I don't think college really prepared me for all this.”
“One thing you'll learn very quickly is that teaching is on-the-job training. College classes can offer you theories about what goes on in the classroom, but nothing prepares you like actually being in the trenches.”
“You make it sound like we're going to war.”
“That's the way it feels most days. Don't you worry.” Lydia patted Lawson on the back. “You'll have more help than you can stand, especially from your mentor. All new teachers have one specifically assigned to them. I believe you're one of Coach Vinson's mentees. He's the teacher support specialist for our department.”
“Dang, how bad is it if I need an assigned specialist to keep me from jumping off the roof?”
Lydia laughed. “It's not that bad; I promise. We just want to make sure you have all the support you need. Coach Vinson's a peach. You probably saw him during the meeting. He's pretty hard to miss.” She nudged Lawson. “He's a cutie-pie.”
“My head is so full right now that I wouldn't have noticed if Jesus Himself walked into that meeting.”
“Whenever you are too distracted to notice a good-looking man or the Second Coming, you know you're working too hard,” teased Lydia.
“When will I have a chance to meet him?”
“His room is not too far from here. We can stop by there so I can give you two a proper introduction.” Lawson nodded and added Coach Vinson to the growing list of people and places that she needed to remember.
Lydia stopped in front of a closed door. “Here we are. Let's see if Coach is in here.” She knocked on the door and turned to Lawson. “Coach Vinson is the best. All of our new teachers credit him for getting them through that first year in one piece.”
Lydia knocked again. This time, a bronze-hued man in sweats with deep-set eyes and a set of full lips answered. Lawson saw what Lydia meant by calling him a cutie-pie. “Hey, and welcome back, Lydia.” His voice was a little hoarse, but friendly nevertheless. “What can I do for you lovely ladies today?”
Lydia gestured to Lawson. “
This
lovely young lady is the reason why I'm here, Coach. I wanted you to meet your new mentee, Lawson Kerry.”
He gazed at Lawson with eyes as wide as his smile. “I saw your name on my list and had planned to drop in to say hello after lunch. Welcome aboard.”
Lawson received his handshake and studied his face. There was something familiar about that smile. She apologized when she realized she was staring. “I'm not crazy,” she clarified. “You just look so familiar to me. Are you from around here?”
The coach nodded. “Born and raised. I hope that's not your best pick-up line,” he joked. “If so, I've got to warn you—it's been used.”
He smiled again, and Lawson blinked and shook her head to readjust her vision. His smile, in fact, was very familiar because she'd seen that same dimpled grin for the past thirteen years, and as recently as that morning. For a split second, Coach Vinson looked as if he could be Mark, Namon's biological father.
This kind of thing had happened before. It wasn't unusual for Lawson to pass a man in the grocery store or on the street who looked like the fading image of Mark that she managed to hold on to in her mind. Perhaps this was just one of those times.
She realized that he had said something to her again. “I'm sorry, what did you say?” asked Lawson, still lost in her thoughts.
“I asked if you were from Savannah too,” he repeated.
“Um, yeah . . .”
This man's last name was Vinson. Wasn't that Mark's last name? She couldn't remember; she could barely remember her own name at that moment. This guy couldn't be her son's father. It was impossible. Or was it?
He continued talking, and she only knew this because his lips were still moving, but she had no idea what he was saying. His words were crowded out by her inner thoughts.
He can't be Namon's dad
, she told herself. After all, what were the chances of the two of them being teachers and both working at the same school?
“Yeah, I went to private school myself . . .” she heard him say when she tuned in to the conversation again. She smiled and nodded to appear interested.
Mark went to private school too,
she thought, and he had already admitted to being from Savannah and appeared to be around her age. Lawson could feel beads of sweat spouting on her forehead. She had trouble catching her breath. She needed to know his full name. Once she had that, she could relax again. She felt like she was losing her mind.
“I remember my first day as a teacher,” he said. “I looked just as confused and distracted as you look right now.” His saying that triggered another thought: If Coach Vinson was the same guy she slept with in high school, he would've remembered something about her, yet there wasn't a glimmer of recognition when he set eyes on her.
I know I'm not that forgettable
, she said to herself.
Especially not after what we did.
“Coach Vinson played professional football overseas before coming to North Central,” reported Lydia.
Lawson thought back. If she remembered nothing else about Mark, she did know that he was a football player in high school. It was all he talked about. The name. She needed his full name to put the matter to rest once and for all.
“Forgive me, but what did you say your name was again?” Lawson asked and held her breath for his response.
“You can just call me Coach. Everyone does.” He looked her in the eyes. “But my real name is Jamarcus Vinson.”
This guy's name was Jamarcus. Crisis averted! Perhaps he was just one of those lookalikes that everyone is rumored to have. Then it dawned on her: Mark could just be short for Jamarcus.
She swallowed. “Do you have a nickname? Jay or Marcus, perhaps?”
He laughed. “The only person who calls me Jamarcus is my great-grandmother, and she's ninety-six, so I let her get away with it. Most people just call me Mark.”
Most people just call me Mark
. The words echoed a thousand times in her head, and Lawson felt her body go limp.
Mark caught Lawson just as she lost her bearing. “Are you all right?” he asked, propelling her back up.
Lydia was alarmed. “Do you need me to buzz the office?”
“No, I'm all right,” Lawson insisted. “I just got really dizzy for a second.”
“Here, sit down.” Mark ushered Lawson into his classroom and seated her at his desk. “Is that better?” She nodded.
“I'll get you some water,” offered Lydia and darted out of the room.
Mark crouched down beside Lawson. “The first day can be a little overwhelming. Just take a couple of deep breaths and relax.”
Lawson closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. “I don't know what came over me.”
Mark placed his hand over her forehead. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I was too nervous to eat.” Lawson couldn't stop staring at him. Along with his dimpled smile. Mark had also given Namon his amber eyes and broad shoulders.
“Well, we can't have you passing out from starvation on your very first day. The first rule of teaching. . .” He opened his desk drawer and revealed an assortment of potato chips, snack cakes, cookies, and trail mix. “Never run out of snacks. Take whatever you want.”
Lawson selected a small bag of crackers. “You've got quite a stash here.”
“Any teacher worth his or her weight has one of these, but you can feel free to raid mine until you build up one of your own.”
“Thank you.” Lawson tried to open the wrapper, but she was trembling so badly that it slipped out of her hands.
“Here, let me.” He tore open the bag and fed her one of the crackers.
“I'm not that fragile. I can feed myself,” she said.
“Well, as your mentor, my job is to take care of you, and I plan to do just that.” He smiled again, reminding her of what caused her to faint in the first place. “Do you have family around here?” he asked her. “Is there someone I can call to pick you up in case you're too sick to drive home?”
“Yes, my family is here . . . I have a sister,” she sputtered, not knowing exactly what to say. “And a child . . .” A child—
his child!
A child he never knew existed.
“You look like you could keel over at any moment.”
“I'll manage.” Lawson tried to stand up, but swooned, still lightheaded.
Mark helped her back to the chair. “I'm sure you'll manage just fine eventually, but right now, you're going to let me take care of you. You sit right there. I'll be back with some aspirin.” His eyes met hers, and he flashed another grin.
The smiled revealed it, and the name had confirmed it. There was no mistake about it: Lawson was staring into a pair of eyes that she hadn't seen in fourteen years. She was looking at the face of her son's father.
Chapter 7
“Is he flirting with me? Do I want him to be?”
—
Sullivan Webb
 
Sullivan double-checked the address Charles had given her. She cringed when she discovered she was in the right place. The automotive center that Charles had sent her to was not the boutique service station she was expecting, but a run-down garage right smack in the hood. The dank, dark carport, the oil-stained concrete slab of a parking lot, and the pile of junk cars rusting in the back were almost more than Sullivan could stomach. If her car hadn't cut off during the last three traffic lights, she would've risked driving home. The only thing worse than breaking down on the highway, however, would be breaking down in this neighborhood.
As Sullivan inched closer to the entrance, she felt something thick and sticky wadded to the bottom of her heels. With her pride reduced to ashes, she scraped the gum off her shoe and walked in. She spied two long legs encased in blue coveralls extending from underneath a black Caprice. She coughed to get the person's attention.
A young man rolled out from underneath the car. He looked up at her and rubbed his oil-doused hands on his uniform. He spit out a toothpick. “Can I help you?”
His face had
thug
written all over it. Sullivan didn't know whether to answer his question or to run for her life. She clutched her purse. “Are you Mike?”
He unraveled the ends of one of his cornrows. “Who wants to know?”
“I do. My car over there”—she pointed to her white BMW—“is acting weird. My husband told me to bring it here and let Mike check it out.”
The man staggered to his feet. “Hand me the keys. I'll take a look at it.”
Sullivan sized him up. “Are you Mike?” she asked again.
“I'm Vaughn. Mike's not here.”
Sullivan crossed her arms in front of her. “I think I'll wait for Mike.”
“Suit yourself, but it's gon' be a while.” He disappeared underneath the car again.
Sullivan checked her watch. Patience was not one of her virtues. She thought she heard gunshots fired in the distance. A few minutes later, sirens blared, and she saw an ambulance zoom by. Car or no car, she had no intention of sticking around long enough to be in need of an ambulance herself. “Excuse me . . . Van.”
“Vaughn,” he repeated from beneath the car.
“Right. Do you know who I am?”
He rolled out and took another look at her. “Nope.”
“I'm Sullivan Webb, wife of Pastor Charles Webb,” she boasted. He showed no sign of being impressed or even having heard of either them. “Surely you're familiar with Mount Zion Ministries.”
“Is that a church or something?”
“It's not
a
church, it's
the
largest church in Savannah, and one of the most prominent churches in Georgia.” Vaughn's expression didn't change. Sullivan, not used to being in a place where Charles's name carried no clout, was flustered. “The point is that I'm a very important person.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out another toothpick. “And?”
“And . . .” Sullivan didn't know what else to say. Being treated like the common folks was a new experience for her, and she was compelled to drop the haughty attitude. “And I think I'll take you up on your offer now,” she added quickly.
Vaughn stood up and held out his hand, waiting for the keys. She dropped the keys in his opened palm, but still clung to her clutch bag. He chuckled and said, “Lady, I don't want nothing you got.”
Sullivan kept a close eye on him as he wheeled her BMW into the carport. Vaughn left the engine running while he popped the hood open and began his inspection. “When's the last time you had a tune-up?”
“I don't know. That's my husband's domain. I just drive it.”
“It looks like you're due for one, but that's not the problem. It's the vacuum valve,” he explained, bent under the hood of the car, tinkering with the knobs and wires that were as foreign to Sullivan as the car itself.
“Just tell me how long and how much it's going to take to fix it.”
He slammed the hood down. “Ten minutes, tops. Just need to get the parts.”
“Don't you people keep spare parts lying around? God knows you've got everything else here.”
“Nah, not for this kind of car. We mostly deal with Chevys, Fords—cars like that. For what you need, you should go talk to Lance over at Auto World.”
“Listen, Mister . . .”
“Vaughn,” he finished, bearing a crooked smile. “Vaughn Lovett.”
“Yes . . . Vaughn. Anyway, auto parts aren't really my forte.” She reached into her purse and pulled out one of Charles's business cards. “Be a sweetheart and run down there and pick it up. Have the store bill us.”
“That's not really my job, ma'am.”
“Sure it is. You're the mechanic, aren't you?”
“I can put it on for you and all, but we expect the customers to get their own parts. It helps keep costs low. This way, you're only paying for labor. I'll write this up for Mike, though. He ought to be back by Thursday.”
“
Thursday
? I can't wait that long.”
He gnawed on the toothpick hanging out of his mouth and thought for a moment. “I suppose I could ride down there and get it, assuming you give me the money.”
“I don't give money to strangers. That's why I asked to be billed.”
Vaughn nodded. “I can respect that. Like I said, Mike'll be back on Thursday.”
“Wait.” Sullivan pressed her fingers against her temples. “How about I go with you to Lance at Auto Land, or wherever you were talking about. You can pick out the part, and I'll pay for it.”
“That's cool. How do you propose we get down there, though?”
Sullivan frowned. “Don't you have a car?”
Vaughn pointed his finger. “You see that Buick over there?” Unfortunately, she did. “I guess it ain't the kind of car you're probably used to riding in.”
Sullivan grudgingly followed him to the battered vehicle. He opened the passenger's side door for her. “Don't worry. Brown Sugar will get you there and back in one piece.”
“I wouldn't count on it,” muttered Sullivan. She dusted off the faded tan cushion before sitting down. Their eyes locked for a second before he slammed the door shut and climbed in on the driver's side.
Sullivan unbuttoned the top of her blouse. “Can I have a little air, please? It's burning up in here.”
“Sorry. No air conditioning. The windows are not automatic either. You have to roll 'em down and cool off the old-fashioned way.” He cranked up the car and turned up the volume on the stereo, filling the air with Al Green's “Love and Happiness.”
“Is that a tape deck?” she asked incredulously.
Vaughn put the car in drive and pulled out into the street. “Al just doesn't sound the same without one.”
Sullivan scooted closer to the door with her hand scaling across the handle; she wanted to be prepared should the need arise for her to make a quick escape. She silently prayed that God would give her a quick hand and an even quicker foot. If not having air conditioning wasn't a sign of his having a chemical imbalance, still clinging to a tape deck certainly was.
Vaughn took notice of her. “I'm not going to hold you against your will.”
“I'm not afraid of you,” Sullivan stated and eased her hand away from the door.
“I don't want you to be. I'm not a scary guy.” He grinned. “Women love me.”
“I bet.” Sullivan took a closer look at him. He wasn't half bad once she got past the cornrows and rogue image. There was something appealing about his piercing eyes, thick brows and lashes.
“Here we are,” said Vaughn, pulling into the parking lot at Auto World. “It'll only take a minute.” He jumped out of the car and jogged around to her side to open the door. He extended his hand to assist her.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting his gesture. “Very cavalier of you.”
“Well, you seem like the type who'll sit in the car all day until a man comes and opens the door for you.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”
He shrugged. “However you want to take it.”
Sullivan stood idly as Vaughn and the sales associate talked shop. Her eyes drifted over his defined biceps bulging through his sleeves. His skin was a deep, rich chocolate that oozed sensuality. The blue uniform hid most of his body, but his sculpted physique was still visible through the fabric. Sullivan cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes while scrutinizing him. He was almost sexy.
“You ready?” asked Vaughn, snapping her back to life.
“Huh? Yeah, I'm ready. How much is it?”
Vaughn shook his head. “I paid for it. No big deal.”
“Are you sure?”
“It's the least I could do for making you ride around with no air to cool that nice body of yours.”
Is he flirting with me
? thought Sullivan.
Do I want him to be
?
“I'll have you ready in no time,” promised Vaughn once they got back to the garage. “Why don't you go over there and have a seat?” He pointed to a rusty folding chair a few feet away from the car.
She inspected the chair and looked down at her cream-colored pants. “I'll stand.”
Vaughn laughed and raised the hood of the car. The more Sullivan watched him—bent over the hood, sweaty, and peppered with oil and grease—the more intrigued she became. Sinful fantasies about him floated in and out of her mind to the point where she had to scold herself into staying focused. She reminded herself that even looking at a man with lust was considered adultery. More importantly, she was the wife of a pastor, and a rich one at that. If she had to cheat, she was definitely going to cheat up.
“It's all ready for you,” Vaughn said and tossed her the car keys.
“Thank you, Mister . . .” She had forgotten his first name again.
“Vaughn,” he told her. “My memory's screwed up too. That's why I write everything down.” He took her hand and rolled it over the tattoo of his name etched in old script on his forearm. His arm, a rock-hard mass of muscles covered in smooth skin, was a direct contrast to Charles's flabby arms wrapped in what felt like worn luggage.
“I have a feeling that I'll remember that now,” she said, nearly breathless.
“I think you will too.”
Sullivan looked up at him. “How old are you, Vaughn?”
“Twenty-three.”
She blushed. “You're practically a baby, almost young enough to be my son.”
Vaughn smiled. “Younger brother, maybe, but not son.” He wiped his hands on a towel hanging from his pocket and grabbed a soda from the nearby cooler. He popped open the can. “You thirsty?”
Sullivan held out her hand. “Sure.” He passed her the can, which she carefully wiped before taking a swig from it. She passed it back to him. Their fingers touched in the exchange. Then he tossed it back without thinking.
“You didn't wipe it off,” she squawked. “Aren't you afraid of getting my germs?”
He extended the can to her. “Nope. Are you afraid of getting mine?”
Sullivan brought the can to her lips to prove that she wasn't. There was something sensuous about placing her lips where his had been.
Vaughn glanced over at her BMW. “That car suits you. I could tell you were all high class when you walked in.” He took a sip from the can before giving it to her again.
“I'm a woman who likes nice things. What's wrong with that?”
“I didn't say anything was wrong with it. I like to see a black woman doin' it big. I just hate that you're so stuck up.”
“Stuck up?” she balked. “You stare at the underbelly of a car all day. What would you know about being stuck up?”
To her surprise, he didn't seem offended. “You've got a slick mouth,” he said with a slight laugh. “I like that.”
Sullivan smiled a little and took another sip. It was nice to have her acid tongue appreciated for once. After her thirst was sated, she returned the can to him. Instead of drinking it as he'd done before, Vaughn stroked the side of her cheek with his thumb. “Had enough?” he asked.
She told him that she didn't know and closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she wanted to be kissed so badly.
“I'm sure there's plenty to drink where you live. You know—champagne and whatnot.” He passed her the can again.

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