Every decision for life-changing events happened at 3:33 in the morning.
Or so his father claimed.
To Lucas “Mortician” Banks, though, three thirty three represented something different. Symbolized half of evil and, when put together, created a whole.
Six fucking six six. Half of fucking Satan. Fitting. Sharper and Charlemagne Banks equaled the demonic fucking duo. One couldn’t work without the other. Therefore, life-changing events always took place at three fucking thirty-three—because Fat & Skinny, Evil & Eviler, Slicker & Slickest, worked together.
Muscles twitching in anger, Mortician hunkered down in the pew, glaring at the overcrowded pulpit and searching the choir stand for Char as Sharper’s voice droned on.
Mortician had spent too many Sundays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays in this fucking building. As the membership grew and Sharper’s pockets swelled, their status inched up. And the fucking deceit went out of control.
A flash of silver material caught his eye and Mortician shifted, angling his head to get a better glimpse of her. Char. Still gorgeous with her dusky skin, high cheekbones, and slanted eyes. Bitch couldn’t compare to Bailey, though.
Not wanting to think of Bailey right now, Mortician gritted his teeth and shifted, scowling at the imperious lift of the brow from the older suited-up motherfucker next to him. Suit and tie bent and whispered something to his wife and she peeked around her husband. She was younger, could have been his daughter, except for the way the man buzzed his lips with his own.
Unable to help himself, Mortician winked at her. Sadity, stuck-up, society bitch, who would open her legs to him in a minute. He tried his best to stay away from married bitches, a certain cop’s wife being the exception.
The nose-far-enough-in-the-air-to-drown motherfucker angled his body toward Mortician in clear warning.
He wanted a dick measuring contest here? In church? Really?
Bored as a motherfucker listening to his father’s baritone voice singing Praise Is What I Do, Mortician leaned over. “If your dick too limp from all the steroids you must fucking take to get so built, I’ll fuck her for you.”
Anger lit the man’s dark eyes. Finally, some fucking entertainment.
“See Reverend Banks? That’s my fucking pa, so my dick’ll be as golden as yours.” Judging by asshole’s Rolex watch, his dick was very golden. Course, motherfuckers liked to front, too. “I got a fucking safe filled with bills.” Truth. From the trust fund his mother had left him. He had several fucking safes stuffed with bills and so did Digger. “Make it fucking easy. I’m a preacher’s son, a fucking biker, and was a fucking music and math major in college. I can be religious, tough, and educated for her, depending on her fantasy.”
The man jumped to his feet and Mortician smirked at him.
“Would you like to meet me outside, sir?” he asked tightly.
Glancing toward the stage, Mortician saw his father zero in on him, watched as Char faltered.
She stilled, her long throat moving. He sat close enough where he didn’t need a monitor to see anyone on the stage, either left in the choir stand or right toward the row of chairs set up for the assistant and visiting ministers. The crowd shouldn’t allow Char to see him, but she did. Her dark gaze landed on him and she sucked in a breath, casting a nervous glance toward Sharper’s back.
Mortician wanted that motherfucker to see him. He wanted to shock the fuck out him. He wanted to knock the fuck out of him.
Three fucking thirty-three. Lying motherfucker. Had he decided to steal Char from Mortician at three fucking thirty-three in the morning? Or, maybe, he settled upon the amount it would take to buy her cooperation and swear to the world the baby in her fucking stomach belonged to Sharper and not Mortician.
Perhaps, at three thirty-three, he’d figured out the number of dick pumps and dick-hardening pills he needed to make his cock work by the time Char reached her thirty-fifth birthday and he reached his fucking seventieth.
Mortician shouldn’t have come here. Why had he?