Read an Excerpt

Somebody's Sinning in My Bed

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Violent March winds swirled viciously along Brooklyn, New York's Linden Boulevard, showing little respect for a supposedly holy and consecrated Sunday night. From the second earth took its form, God set that seventh day aside for everything He'd created to praise His work. However, as if mocking God, the very winds He'd created angrily kicked around empty wine and liquor bottles along a small section of Linden Boulevard that struggled to hide its poverty. Small yet powerful wind funnels seemed to mock heaven as they propelled scraps of paper toward the night sky. In a blink of an eye, it then turned its anger on small colorful plastic crack vials, tossing them against the street curbs like dice.

And then, without a warning, evil shifted its shape and intention as it prepared to release its minions.

That night, chaos of another sort was about to visit Linden Boulevard and fierce gusts of winds and signs of poverty along that stretch were the least of its problems. That night, some folks would learn that what goes around certainly does come back around, bringing with it the proverbial flip-top can of vicious comeuppance.

Further down Linden Boulevard the distant purring of an automobile somehow reached through the howling wind to make its presence known. As if on cue, a nearby broken streetlight suddenly flickered, revealing a slow-moving powder-blue 2006 Mercedes.

The car's driver found a spot, parked, and slowly stepped out. The embers of a lit cigarette flickered as a figure of a man was outlined. He puffed once more before tossing it to the ground.

As if accepting the challenge to step up its evil, the wind suddenly changed its direction toward the Mercedes, abandoning its game of tossing about litter. Loud wooshing sounds accompanied its assault. It homed in on the rear flap of the man's expensive chocolate-brown trench coat, causing the material to fan rapidly.

The man suddenly stood still. With eyes narrowed and determined, he suddenly looked back toward his car. It was as though he were daring the wind to do its worst. He muttered, "Go to hell!"

He had dark, penetrating brown eyes that were set deep onto an extremely tawny-complexioned handsome face that hinted of a possible mixed heritage. Then he sucked in a deep breath of night air as though it were his last.

He'd only taken a few steps when one hand suddenly flew up and grabbed at the tan fedora about to fall off his head. He was too slow. The wind would not be denied and blew the expensive fedora over into the middle of the filthy street.

Through it all, he kept his eyes focused and determined. Without a word, he walked a few feet and retrieved the hat, placing it snug onto his head, and turned back to the sidewalk. He'd ignored the filth not so much from fear but almost as a reflex because of what he was about to do. With his hat now secured, he used the same hand to hold the front of his coat, not wanting anyone to see what he had hidden.

There was no turning back now.

Across the street there was a working streetlight. It burned bright on the man as he crossed the street as though to make up for those lights that didn't.

The man moved toward a two-story building nestled between a totally abandoned building and a closed Neighborhood Multi-Service Center. He came within a few feet of his destination and stopped. Despite the darkness, he could see clearly through a small square glass pane. He scowled briefly at a sleeping, obese man.

The portly man was supposed to be alert, but it was nighttime and sleep had claimed the bouncer for the Sweet Bush. Despite nodding off in a deep coma-like sleep and snoring like a bull with asthma, he somehow managed to keep from falling off a stool that was much too small for his wide girth.

The man was tempted to snatch off his unclean fedora, slap the bouncer, and stuff one of those disgusting snores back down his throat, but he needed to stick to the plan.

The man hugged his coat, again, against a body that had been well worked out and buffed. Being a bit of a health fanatic, he hadn't even started smoking until recently when it seemed as though his life was falling apart and brought him to where he now stood.

With one hand, he angrily pushed hard against the oak wood door. The door swung open and closed quickly. It almost nipped the hip of the man as he poured into the front room of the Sweet Bush Lounge.

Noise affected the bouncer much like a sleeping pill; with his barrel chest heaving slightly, he shifted his weight on the stool and continued sleeping soundly.

In a deep sleep, the bouncer would not be a problem.

Fool. The man suppressed a rising growl in his throat as he dismissed the bouncer as a threat. He chose, instead, to adjust his eyes to the dim lounge lights. While he slowed his heart to a manageable beat, he stood transfixed between the panels of a red velvet curtain and peered through a wall of love beads. His handsome face was stoic. With little effort he inhaled in the streams of thick, cloudy, cigarette and reefer smoke for what seemed like an eternity.

But it wasn't.

It'd only taken a moment before he fully understood that none of the other few patrons inside the dark smoky din of lust had paid particular attention to his entrance. Why should they? He wouldn't be the first, or hardly the last, to stumble through that door looking peaceful or angry, on the hunt for whatever was forbidden and getting it.

The Sweet Bush was one of Brooklyn's worst-kept secrets. There were plenty of folks, young and old, rich and poor; the beautiful and the downright ugly, flooding in from miles around. They were unfulfilled souls who'd repeatedly risked reputations and relationships to freak nameless others. Full of denial and sex-driven demons, when they left at sunrise, they clung to a hope that their trysts stayed behind, hidden in condoms and disguised inside shot glasses.

The man pulled out the .357 Magnum from where he'd hidden it tucked in his waistband beneath his coat. With the gun now raised chest-high, his eyes searched. Side to side, his hypnotic gaze swept around the hall. With nothing and no one to stop him, he moved on.

As he inched closer to his destination, what moments before had been a purposeful gait suddenly became clumsy.

It'd been some time since he'd secretly visited the Sweet Bush. He'd visit the haunt usually after leaving his young wife crying in their king-size bed, less than satisfied and belittled. He reasoned his wife's hurt feelings and lack of sexual fulfillment were necessary collateral damage.

After all, he was the Right Reverend Grayson Young. He was the son of the renowned late Bishop Isaiah Young and the late First Lady Mildred Young. It was only natural that upon his father's death, ten years ago, every leader of faith anointed him Brooklyn's megachurch phenomenon.

With eyes still blazing, Reverend Young whispered, "One day I've got to ask God what He thinks about that." He snickered at the joke to which only he was privy as he took a quick glance around.

Inside the Sweet Bush, as well as in the Reverend Grayson's mind, it seemed nothing much had changed since he'd last visited. The laid-back, free-love, ambience of the place was the same, and the soft and jazzy music of Kool and the Gang's "Summer Madness" filled the lounge.

"Reverend Grayson Young." A bald, fat man called out to him. "Well suh, I can't believe someone like you, after all these months, would come back down here to get down. I still can't believe it's you preaching all that fire and brimstone from the pulpit of New Hope." He stopped and gave a conspiring wink. "I sometime catch the second service on television when I can't make it to my own church." He followed his revelation with laughter that sounded more like snorting as he extended a hand. "At least you don't have to worry about these others knowing who you really are. Trust me, none of them go or even think about church. Your secret has been and will be safe with me."

Reverend Young just stared in disgust. The weight of the gun lessened but his anger grew as he mumbled. "Who gives a damn who recognizes me? Just stick to the plan, Reverend. Just stick to the plan. She's waiting for you."

Reverend Young's head jerked suddenly and he looked back toward the entrance to the Sweet Bush. His ears picked up the taunting from the outside wind as it made a wooshing sound for his ears alone. "For God is not mocked," he heard the wind say.

He staggered slightly, placing his hand that held the gun behind him. He planned to harm any avenging angels should God decide to send them.

Reverend Grayson Young had played spiritual tag with his Heavenly Father one time too many. He'd preached one way and lived another. Year after year, Sunday after Sunday, he'd called upon his congregation to give up their evil ways. He'd condemned those who stepped out of the bounds of marriage to fulfill their lust, although he'd stepped out to the point of no longer wanting his wife.

That night all accounts needed settling. He'd discovered that for almost a year it was possible that his wife, First Lady Chyna, might've done just as much tipping as he. He'd had her followed one evening, and it seemed that she favored the Sweet Bush, too. And the reverend couldn't take that.

He set about lighting parts of the Sweet Bush afire with the lit candles that just moments before were ambience.

"I'm fired up and I've come to kill my wife!" the reverend yelled, waving his gun in the air, sending petrified Sweet Bush patrons looking for the exits.

Inside a two-room suite at the Hilton hotel just a few miles off the New England Thruway in Tarrytown, New York, Chyna Young woke with a start. There was something deep within her spirit that suddenly felt, as the old folks would say, as though someone had stepped on her grave.

It took her a moment to realize she wasn't in her own bed and the sudden tug of an arm pulling her into an embrace calmed her.

Her long dark hair cascaded onto the queen-size pillow as she moved closer to inhale the scent from her current affair.

"Can I order something for us?" The man, young and willing with skin smooth and dark like shaven chocolate, arose. He was still naked and showed no apology, yet he moved in a way that offered her more of him if she'd wanted.

"Just tea for me," Chyna answered as she stretched and rose up on one elbow as she admired his physique. She loved a well-built man.

For a brief moment, a mask of sadness appeared upon Chyna's face as she remembered that at home she already had one. At least that was the way it was supposed to be. Her husband, the supposedly wonderful and heaven-bound reverend spent little time at home and even less in their bed. Early in their marriage, she'd spent more time crying in their bedroom than she did at the church. Once she discovered that the good reverend wasn't just laying hands at the church, but that he'd brought other women into their king-sized bed, where she'd caught him each time, she'd begun to seek satisfaction elsewhere.

"I'll turn on the television while I call down."

"Thank you," Chyna answered as she briefly enjoyed the touch from one of his powerful hands as he reached across her for the remote.

"Do you always look this beautiful?" he'd asked as though this weren't their second encounter.

Chyna smiled. This man made her laugh whereas her husband had stopped doing so long ago, and if for no other reason, she felt close to him. She loved that he'd asked with the enthusiasm of a teenager although he was hardly one. According to him, when they met a few weeks ago, he was still in his twenties, but married with a pregnant wife and a two-year-old. They'd met at a Christian club where the sanctity of faith was supposedly upheld and the chances of sinful encounters minimized.

"I'm freelancing on the weekends with different bands," he'd told her. "I guess you can tell by my long fingers that I can play one hell of an organ."

They hadn't even exchanged names yet, and the flirtation had already started. The club was in New Jersey, though neither of them knew much about the state.

Chyna was about to say something to him, but she was stopped cold by what she saw and heard on the television.

"There were no survivors from the Sweet Bush fire ..."

Chyna didn't remember reaching for her clothes, but she did remember seeing her husband Grayson's Mercedes as the news camera panned along the street in front of the Sweet Bush. Even before the sight of the license plate appeared, she knew it was their car.

It couldn't have been more than another few moments before Chyna had gathered her things, found her car, and fled the hotel without so much as a good-bye or a thank-you.

Thirty minutes after she'd fled the hotel and left the remnants of her affair probably in chaos Chyna could barely keep to the speed limit. She struggled to navigate the winding parkway road before she turned off the Jackie Robinson Parkway. She scraped the front fender as she did. Despite the damage she was sure she'd done to the car, her small hands clutched the steering wheel. Letting go wasn't an option.

"Oh God, I'm sorry ..." Chyna wanted to pray further, but couldn't. She'd promised God after several other trysts that she'd lean on Him and not seek revenge on Grayson. But she'd lied to herself and to God.

Her car skidded and came to an abrupt halt just in time to keep from rear-ending a school bus that had slowed down with the rest of the traffic.

Despite her belief that at that moment her God was in an unforgiving mood where she was concerned, there was a spiritual force that helped Chyna to keep her car on the road. Was it still His grace that kept her sanity as she alternated between trying to erase the image of Grayson's Mercedes on television and her own sins, and the fact that if her husband was in the Sweet Bush he was now gone?

Finally Chyna pulled into the driveway of her expansive Highland Park home. She heaved violently from the car, all the way to the shrubs, trying to purge all that had happened.

Chyna had always appreciated living in a quiet and secure neighborhood but never more than she did at that moment. The only sounds heard or made were hers. Despite all the emotions that hopscotched about inside her head, which still looked disheveled, she had the presence of mind to leave the car window cracked before she'd bailed out. She'd attend to the mess later. She had bigger problems than a soiled car.

Chyna felt as though she were running on three legs. Every step she took was uncontrolled as she tripped, repeatedly. By the time she finally reached the stained-glass and oak door to her brick, three-story Tudor home, she had the strength of string.

"Alarm on. Please disarm immediately!" Chyna was startled by the robotic and unsympathetic voice blasting from the house alarm. Her body trembled, almost violently as she fought to remain on her feet.

"Oh God," she muttered. Ninety seconds hadn't passed. That was the maximum time she had to disarm before the police would be called. "Two-eight-six-three," she repeated the code, rearranging the order as she struggled to remember the code to disarm the alarm. With two seconds to go, she finally entered the correct code.

Stumbling through the front door, she managed to crack one of its glass panes with her elbow. Chyna couldn't stop had she wanted to. Finally, now almost crawling, she reached the hall stairway and surrendered to the support from its banister. Chyna became robotic, embracing a sense of safety.

For all her effort, Chyna made very little distance. She slumped down onto one of the wide marble stair steps, where she rocked and wept.

Minutes passed, or was it hours? How many? Chyna didn't know. Her legs felt stiff from not moving around and cold from the marble.

Although Chyna had no way of measuring the time, it seemed that every few minutes either the telephone or her cell phone rang. She ignored them. Deep inside she knew Grayson was gone, but she couldn't deal with it.

---

Excerpted from Somebody's Sinning in My Bed by Pat G'Orge-Walker. Copyright © 2009 Pat G'Orge-Walker. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---