Sample Chapters

 

Chapter 1

The 45-Second Walk

The office seemed larger than the last time he was here. Even the desk appeared to have expanded. The books on the shelves were numerous—some he had read, and a few he had written himself. Focusing on his own titles, he pondered how far he had come. In the twelve years since he’d entered ministry, he’d accomplished more than most his age could ever aspire to. He was proud of his achievements. So why in God’s name was he here?

The drive from San Antonio to Dallas was long, giving him time to mentally prepare for a meeting he believed was completely unnecessary. This was a personal matter—not the concern of church boards or committees. Yes, mistakes had been made, but driving four hours for this felt excessive. Certain people were making a federal case out of nothing. All he wanted was to get this over with and get back home.

Dallas was his home. He’d grown up in the southern part of Oak Cliff, in a neighborhood called College Park—named for the nearby Bishop College (now Paul Quinn). The streets bore names of prominent Black colleges. This was where it all began, and also where, as soon as he could escape, he did. He never looked back. His mother still lived in the same house.

A chill crawled up his spine whenever he visited her, reminders of haunted memories from that house and the neighborhood. On his last visit, he’d marveled at how quickly an environment could deteriorate—or had he simply never recognized the poverty surrounding him as a child because it was all he knew?

The college had closed. The barber he’d gone to as a boy had died. The grocery store now resembled a rundown convenience mart. The area looked like a third-world country. How could the city allow poverty to continue plaguing this community? How could the community permit this?

Since he was in town, he wondered if he should stop by to see his mother. It had been six months. “No,” he told himself, deciding in the same breath that he wouldn’t even call. None of his family would know he was here. He enjoyed his peace.

He straightened his suit jacket as the office door opened. He rose like a soldier when an officer enters—preparing his words—when a petite young lady slipped through the doorway. Her small frame complemented her khaki pantsuit.

“Bishop Boyd is finishing his meeting. He’ll be with you shortly.” Her voice was soft and sweet, more fitting for a teenager than a woman in her thirties. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Pastor? Tea, coffee?”

“No thanks,” he replied simply.

As the door closed behind her, he settled back into his seat. Pastor Titus Frutt had led Harvest Hills Worship Center in San Antonio for four years. His mentor, Bishop J.C. Boyd, had recommended him for the position when the previous pastor passed away.

Bishop Boyd was the father of many churches across Texas. Over twenty senior pastors nationwide had pledged fellowship under him. His ministry, Next Level, had grown to more than 750,000 members worldwide and continued expanding through television, radio, books, and tapes. His message of God’s love reached across the globe.

People were drawn to how Bishop Boyd presented Christ’s love—meeting people on every level. His ministry didn’t just feed the homeless on holidays; it established halfway houses offering job training, resume workshops, budget management—everything needed to thrive. The ministry owned three apartment complexes in the metroplex and would place individuals in them to rebuild their lives.

Bishop Boyd was well-respected and well-received, always wearing his signature smile. The Dallas campus was massive, with three packed morning services. Yet despite the size, Boyd created an intimate atmosphere, greeting everyone who came. His trademark was being personal and approachable.

Seven years ago, when Titus joined Next Level, he was simply Elder Frutt, freshly graduated from Baylor with an English degree, aspiring to teach. The membership then was a modest 750. Titus caught the bishop’s eye while armorbearing during a weekday service—attentive, responsive, detailed, flowing seamlessly with the service.

Afterward, Bishop Boyd pulled him aside. “Ever armorbore before?”

“No, sir, but serving is in my heart.”

That conversation sparked an everlasting kinship. Bishop Boyd began mentoring him from that day forward.

When Pastor Ritchie died, Bishop Boyd thought of only one successor: his son in the ministry, Titus. Shocked and amazed, Titus felt unqualified, but after a day on the lake with the bishop, his mind cleared. He and his wife embarked on their new life in San Antonio, leaving Dallas for the unknown.

Eight minutes passed before the door reopened. Pastor Frutt stood again in his military stance. A tall, dark-toned, fit gentleman walked in. Bishop Boyd stood 6’2 and stayed in shape—no stereotypical preacher’s spare tire. Though approaching his mid-fifties, he looked barely forty. His secretary had mentioned a prior meeting, but his attire suggested he’d just left the basketball court: black tank top, red and black nylon shorts barely grazing his knees.

Pastor Frutt suddenly felt overdressed and considered removing something. Bishop closed the door behind him, and they embraced—Frutt’s 5’9 frame dwarfed beside the taller man. Bishop circled his desk, motioning Frutt to sit. They sat simultaneously, and Frutt noticed something different: the signature smile was absent. Not even a trace. This, he knew, would not be a good meeting.

After opening with prayer, Bishop Boyd got straight to business.

“Son,” he began, “I don’t like what I’m hearing from San Antonio. The Elders’ Cabinet met with me, and well…” He paused, choosing words carefully. Hurt saturated his face, and Frutt felt it. Uneasiness welled inside him.

“Bishop, I know I’ve been wrong.” Frutt’s eyes fixed on the ground, unable to meet his mentor’s gaze. “I gave in to temptation. I’ve asked forgiveness—from God, my wife, the church leaders. Now I’m asking you.”

“What exactly happened down there?”

“I’m a pastor who fell.” Frutt finally looked up. “I’m back on track. Things just got away from me. I forgot who I was.”

“The Elders want to sit you down.” Bishop Boyd inhaled deeply. “Before all this, I was about to appoint you district overseer. How can I give you charge over seven churches with this confusion? This isn’t you, son. Talk to me.”

Frutt, always dramatic, stood, bending to grab his briefcase, preparing to storm out.

“Bishop, I didn’t ask for this position!” he declared indignantly. “Suspend me if you want. Do what you have to. I admit—I let myself get distracted by another woman. But I never slept with her. Never even kissed her. Now I’m being prosecuted like I’ve had a torrid affair!”

“It’s the image you’re projecting.” Bishop Boyd’s voice remained calm. “You’re the pastor, not a layman. Son, understand—an emotional affair is as severe as a physical one, if not more.”

“Neither you nor the Elders have a heaven or hell to put me in.” Frutt exhaled, attempting to calm himself. “I admitted my mistakes. I never justified them—I took responsibility. What else do you want?”

“Nothing you can do now. True, the sin is between you and God, but your sin affects more than just you. A minister doesn’t just speak the Word—he lives it.”

“Bishop—”

“Sit, my son.” Bishop stood, moving around the desk. Titus released his briefcase and obediently sat. “The Bible says we shouldn’t allow our good to be evil spoken of. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—anything you wouldn’t tell your own ministers. You represent God, your wife, me, Harvest Hills, and Next Level. You must do better, son.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Titus sorrowfully admitted.

Bishop tore a sheet from his notepad and handed it to Frutt. “That’s my friend in Austin. He a Christian counselor.”

“I don’t need counseling.”

“But you’re going to see him.”

Titus hadn’t smiled once. He knew he’d disappointed the bishop deeply. Driving back to San Antonio, that’s all he could think about—the one person who saw greatness in him, and he’d saddened him. He’d stolen the bishop’s smile.

If this one act caused such pain, what would happen if Bishop knew everything he’d done since pastoring Harvest Hills? This would be a long drive down I-35.

—

Titus was only sixteen when he accepted his calling. No one could imagine the struggles of being a minister and a teenager. There were things he couldn’t do, places he couldn’t go, people he couldn’t associate with. The Sunday he proclaimed God had called him, he felt his childhood slip away—not that he’d really had one.

Titus was never an average youth. His favorite place in the world was church. It was home. If he could sleep there, he would have. It was his escape—from the abuse at home and school. At church, he was somebody: an usher, a youth choir member, an assistant Sunday School teacher. On Sundays, he’d review the lesson before the whole congregation. On Sundays, he greeted the faithful and the newcomers. On Sundays, he was patted on the back for his youthful wisdom of the Word of God.  At church, he mattered. As Jesse Jackson would say, “He was somebody.”

At home, he was invisible—overshadowed by older sisters, the only male child in a female-dominated house. His older sister was the valedictorian from Business Magnet. She was on the Dean’s list at SMU. Later became an account manager at Ernest & Young. His next to the older sister, graduated from Health Magnet as the salutatorian. She went on to graduate from TCU and being head pharmacist at the VA in Dallas. Titus family moved out of the DISD area when he was in the 4^th grade. Wilmer-Hutchins ISD did not have a magnet school.  At school, he was the nerd, the geek, constantly picked on. He was nobody.

Strangely, when he answered his calling, his life transformed. It was early summer, a week after his declaration, when during morning service, his pastor announced to the congregation: Titus would preach that night.

Two emotions hit simultaneously. Hearing himself called “Reverend Frutt” for the first time—it had a nice ring. It fit. He smiled. But preach? Tonight? In front of everyone?

Five or six hours’ notice. He’d never prepared a sermon. This wasn’t a small church—morning service packed 250 people, not counting the choir. Night service usually drew half that, but his extended family would absolutely attend.

Plus, the church loved him. Many rejoiced at his announcement, having heard him teach and review. They’d witnessed his speaking ability during mission services. His first sermon was something they wouldn’t miss.

But teaching and preaching were entirely different. He’d heard countless sermons but never asked how they were crafted. He wasn’t afraid of crowds—that wasn’t the problem. The problem was not looking foolish. He needed his message to be correct, informative, and truly from God.

The ride home was quiet. His mother let him think. His concern: whatever scripture he chose, the congregation had heard it before. How would they receive familiar information?

“It’s not where you come from,” his mother said, glowing, “but what new revelation you give.”

It took a moment, but he understood. Take Jonah and the whale—familiar to everyone—but a good minister reveals new revelation they might have missed. Confidence struck him. He was ready.

Until “The 45-Second Walk.”

He’d later coin that term for the journey from pastor’s study to pulpit. Things race through a minister’s mind in those forty-five seconds, and this day was no different. Processing toward the pulpit, Titus glanced at each minister, considering their styles.

Pastor Davis was a “hoopin’ and hollin'” preacher—jumping when the spirit hit, harmonizing with the organist as he wound down. Reverend Hart was similar, except he sweated constantly, wiping his head mid-message. When excited, he’d grab the microphone and roam—sometimes even leaping onto the congregational floor, breaking into song at the end.

But Titus’s favorite was Reverend Jamison—a teaching preacher. He never lectured or bored people like Reverend Cason. Jamison modulated his voice, hiding his Brooklyn accent, sounding profound and well-read. He challenged his audience to think deeply. The only drawbacks were his occasional repetition and lengthy pauses. His voice never grew loud—he maintained a monotone, standing before the podium with simple hand gestures.

New to this, Titus thought that style would work for him. Singing was out—God hadn’t blessed him there. Harmonizing? How would he know when to “wind up” like Pastor Davis? He’d keep it simple: present the information and exit quickly.

First step onto the pulpit, he scanned the audience. Had any of these people gone home? It looked like the morning crowd. Second step, he inventoried his materials. Bible? Check. Notebook? Check. Pen? Check—that pen would become his trademark.

Third step: the last minister into the pulpit, he glanced at his new colleagues, all standing before assigned seats except the pastor, who stood before Titus’s spot. Pastor pointed to the tall chair in the pulpit center—between two mid-sized pew benches. Tonight, he’d sit in that chair.

As he fully ascended, the congregation of Holy Trinity Baptist Church rose to their feet. This was it. No turning back.

—

Oh, how simple those days were. A month after his seventeenth birthday, Pastor Davis licensed Titus. Soon, invitations came to speak elsewhere. It was a new realm.

At one engagement, Greater Faith Holiness Church, his mother’s friend had heard him and requested he preach during their revival.

During his sermon on Paul’s transformation, a strange sound from the back row stopped him mid-sentence. After that sound, a woman in the middle jumped up shouting, “Hallelujah!” Titus grinned and continued.

When finished, he did as usual—backed away, turned from the podium, allowing the pastor to open church doors. But walking back to his seat, something felt different.

Before sitting, a strange sensation pressed his body. Something in his stomach. He reached for his stomach but noticed his palms seemed oily—not sweat. This feeling began rising. Not nausea, but his tongue felt different.

A minister touched his shoulder as another took his Bible and notebook. He was turned toward people at the altar. Without conscious effort, his mouth opened, and unfamiliar words spilled out uncontrollably—the same sound he’d heard from the back row. He didn’t understand what he was saying, but words kept coming.

Then, amidst it all, a small voice whispered. He walked toward the altar crowd, stretched forth his right hand, and prayed.

This was something he’d never done or witnessed. Even now, it felt surreal—like he’d stepped back and something else drove him forward.

A young woman stood before him, tears flooding, useless tissue in hand. He felt her pain and agony.

“Lift your hands,” Titus said. A microphone appeared before his mouth. “God is revealing a word for you.” He spoke in that new language again. “Glory. God says you will not die. You’ll see both sons graduate. Doctors give you months, but God gives you years!” He spoke again in that language, placed his right hand on her forehead, left on her neck. She fell back.

That same woman, Minister Vera, later moved to San Antonio when she learned Titus would pastor there. The new language, he was told, was his prayer language. He’d never spoken in tongues before—his Baptist church never did such things; it was taboo to even teach it. Laying on hands was equally foreign. He felt there was more to this walk with Christ than his home church revealed.

—

His mother enrolled him in a Bible class where he gained broader understanding of spiritual gifts. There, he also met the instructor’s daughter, Candice. On an outing with her, Titus grasped the Holy Spirit’s purpose.

“Why don’t Baptist churches teach about the Holy Spirit?” Titus asked. Fall had arrived quickly—leaves changing, birds chirping. This was his first picnic with a girl. His first girlfriend.

Two weeks ago, on his eighteenth birthday, friends had taken him to The Castle for go-karts and arcade games. He’d been more intrigued by the bungee jumping across the street. None of his friends wanted to try it. Then he heard Candice behind him: “I’ll go.” She was out with her girlfriends. He turned and smiled.

They’d sat together in class, occasionally talked on the phone. He’d never considered a relationship—until that day.

After both landed safely from bungee jumping, he gathered courage to ask her out. She replied they were already on one. They giggled. She had a charming laugh and beautiful smile. He’d always found her attractive, but never like this moment—caramel skin glowing under moonlight, long ebony hair floating on her shoulders, the softest eyes he’d ever seen. And why couldn’t he stop staring at her lips? Carmex or lip gloss? He wanted to kiss her but didn’t know how—he’d never kissed anyone.

For two years, ministry and image-changing consumed him, leaving no time for dating. Before, he couldn’t pay a girl to be his friend. Now eighteen, contacts replaced glasses, a bald fade replaced the curl, acne cleared, clothes updated. From unknown to popular, he joked light-skinned men were coming back in style.

Kiss her, his brain commanded. But he just stared at her lips. Abandoning the quest, he started walking away when Candice grabbed him and kissed him—standing on her toes to reach his 5’9 frame. Two inches matters when you’re kissing someone.

—

Candice continued peeling her orange on the picnic blanket, smiling at Titus and his question. She chose her words carefully.

“Many Baptist churches believe,” she began, “that spiritual gifts aren’t for today—that they ended with the apostles. They’re caught in tradition, comfortable with familiarity. Some don’t believe in women ministers.” She caught an unexpected look on his face. “Titus, do you think women can be called to preach?”

“I really don’t.” As the words escaped, he regretted them. But they were true.

Candice abandoned her orange, sitting up sternly. “Why? Because the Bible says women should be silent in church? You know men have used that verse out of context for years.”

“Candi, I don’t want to argue. It’s just not what I’ve seen or experienced. Women as ministers—cool. They can minister from the floor. But preach? Pastor? I’ve been taught they’re not allowed.” He reached for her discarded orange, continuing to peel.

“In the last month, you’ve spoken in tongues—something you were taught was wrong. You’ve laid hands on the sick, prophesied—gifts you never operated in. We’ve talked about how God never changes, how His gifts are without repentance—” She snatched the orange.

“The gifts are without repentance,” he interrupted, “but that doesn’t relate to women preachers.”

“God doesn’t give gifts based on gender. He’s no respecter of persons.”

“The man is the head.”

“What if the man isn’t doing his job? Should a single mother wait for a man to provide, or can she work?” She stood. “Titus, I didn’t know you were such a sexist.”

“I didn’t know you were such a feminist.”

As “feminist” left his mouth, the orange left her hand—launched with such force that when it connected with his face, it was the smack heard ’round the world.

Candice walked away, past another kissing couple. They stopped when she screamed without turning: “Take me home!”

Titus thought if she was that upset, maybe she should find her own ride—but that would be wrong. Still, why ask questions if you won’t like the answers?

He wiped orange pieces from his face, packed their picnic, folded the blanket, and walked toward the car. Candice sat in the Jeep Cherokee’s back area. He smiled, placing items beside her.

“What are you smiling at?” Anger and attitude.

“First fight.” His smile became a grin.

“You like fighting?”

“We’re not fighting. We’re disagreeing.” He stood before her, arms around her waist. She was cooling down.

“Let me ask you this.” She stared down at him. “If you were pastor, and I was your wife—”

“Who said you’re going to be my wife?” Grin became laughter.

She tapped his shoulder. “Seriously. If you were pastor and I was your wife, would you want me beside you or away from you?”

Titus shifted to serious. “You lost me.” He amazed himself—joking one breath, serious the next.

“If you’re the head, what am I?”

“My helpmate.”

“Can’t help if I’m silent. Silence means we’re not together. You’re still stuck on tradition. Tradition doesn’t make something right. Promise me something, Titus.”

“Name it.”

“Study this.”

“Candi—” He leaned down, kissing her softly.

“Promise me.”

—

Titus kept his word. Before Christmas, he announced to his pastor and Holy Trinity that he was leaving the fellowship. He felt limited where he was—there was more of God’s Word to discover. One new belief: women can preach, minister, pastor, and do whatever God calls them to do.

He attended Watch Night service with Candice, welcoming the new year. Afterwards, they drove to Cedar Hill’s IHOP—the only empty eatery.

They discussed plans. Both graduating high school in May, both college-bound—Candice to SMU, Titus to Baylor, ninety miles apart. They confessed their love, mapped their future. He’d be a professor, she a marketing executive. A big house in Highland Park. Lexus for him, Mercedes for her. Two or three kids. He’d pastor one of Dallas/Fort Worth’s largest churches. Life would be grand.

—

“Temple City Limits,” Pastor Frutt read as he continued homeward, halfway there. First priority: change clothes, collapse into his king-sized bed. But the day wasn’t over—drama awaited tonight.

Why hadn’t those dreams come true? What happened? What went wrong?

The first wrong turn: the night of his ordination, Candice took him to dinner, acting strange all evening. Every inquiry about her wellbeing met with “I’m fine.” Today was his day, yet she made him uncomfortable. Then she dropped a bombshell.

Pregnant? They’d have to have sex for that. Was she dumping him? Today of all days? No—actually, after hearing her news, pregnancy would have been preferable.

She’d accepted her calling. She was a minister. Agreeing with something conceptually differs from confronting it personally. Titus didn’t respond.

“Are you happy for me?” She reached for his hand across the table. He withdrew. Not the reaction she’d hoped for. They finished a very quiet dinner.

Two weeks later, Candice turned eighteen. Titus skipped her party, didn’t attend her graduation, stopped calling altogether. Her calls went unanswered. Tears soaked her pillow nightly. What had she done wrong? Why was God punishing her?

—

That summer, Titus began college—new people, new experiences, ready for everything. Late July brought a letter: an invitation to speak at a Dallas youth conference.

Exiting the pastor’s study, he heard the most powerful woman speaker he’d ever encountered. Bold, assertive—every word touched him. Discarding protocol, he entered the auditorium to see her. Opening the sanctuary door, there stood Candice in the pulpit, declaring the Word with authority surpassing any man. She was scheduled for “Inspirational Words,” and her words inspired him. He could only smile.

When introduced, he ascended the podium, scanning the crowd. He placed his thin black Bible left, black binder right, then reached inside his jacket for his pen—his trademark.

He placed the pen down, removing his sermon from the binder. The audience fixed on him—he hadn’t spoken yet. The organist played softly. Usually, he’d say “Praise the Lord” or “Church say Glory,” quote scripture, pray. Not today.

Minister Frutt stepped from the podium, three-page sermon in hand. He walked five steps right and tore it down the middle.

“That wasn’t God’s message for tonight.” Torn pages fluttered down. He returned to the podium, grabbed his pen, and ministered like never before. Periodically shouting, “Change now!” The youthful audience responded: “If not now, when?”

During the message, he jumped from the pulpit, microphone in hand, prophesying, laying hands on youth. Many fell out in the Spirit; others shouted. Seventy-five gave their lives to Christ.

The next day, instead of returning to Waco, Titus waited outside Candice’s dorm, flowers in hand. When she arrived, she wasn’t smiling. She’d finally gotten over him and didn’t want reopening old wounds.

“Minister Frutt.” Unamused by the daisies—her favorite, but that changed nothing.

“Minister Young.” He stood, extending flowers. She didn’t accept.

“How can I help you?”

“Accept my apology.”

“Do you believe you did anything wrong?”

“I was a jerk. I’m sorry.”

“And flowers make everything right?” She resettled her backpack. “We just pick up where we left off? Just like that?”

Long pause. “No. I hurt you. I was selfish. We can’t pick up where we left off. But maybe we could start as friends. See where it goes.”

—

The drive was wearing on him. Why hadn’t he flown? He’d be home by now. Why waste time on this trip? Church folks always pointed fingers elsewhere, blind to their own faults while scrutinizing leaders.

His private San Marcos meetings with Alizè had caused more problems than expected. Nothing happened—just friends hanging out. No intimacy, not even a kiss. He blamed the situation on Alizè and Candice’s phone exchange. Why didn’t Candice wake me when Alizè called?

But the trip wasn’t wasted. Bishop Boyd appointed him District Overseer, responsible for churches in San Antonio, Austin, Victoria, and Corpus Christi—a bishop-level role. Next step: Bishop.

 

Titus took the 182 exit in New Braunfels, thirty minutes from home. A necessary stop before returning. He pulled into Ryan’s parking lot, turned off the ignition, grabbed his Nextel from the visor. Dusk—no need for shades. He exited his black Lexus RX300, clipped the phone to his belt, and walked toward the restaurant. This meeting was necessary.

 

 Chapter 2

Inner Circle

As Pastor Frutt settled into his seat at the table, the young waiter approached with a familiar greeting, asking if he would like his usual. Titus nodded—Sprite, again.

“Please,” he replied politely.

Across from him sat Elder Thompson, a tall, dark-skinned man whose face remained buried in his plate. To Titus’s right was his armor-bearer, Minister Darby, a young man from New Orleans whose Creole accent confirmed his origins. To his left sat the only other pastor at the table—a man with stubble shadowing his jaw who stood, shrugged off his jacket, and began rolling up his sleeves. The table watched as he removed his gold Mickey Mouse cufflinks, placed them in his front shirt pocket, stroked his bald brown head once, and returned to his seat. He loosened his tie, delicately picked up his fork, and attacked his salad.

The waiter returned with the Sprite, placed it before Pastor Frutt, and asked if the men needed anything else. All declined, and he disappeared.

“How’d the meeting with Bishop Boyd go?” Darby asked between bites of lasagna.

“It went as well as could be expected.” Titus sipped his drink. “But that’s not why I asked you here. At least, not exactly.”

Elder Thompson straightened in his chair and leaned back. “Then why are we here? Exactly.” His no-nonsense tone was characteristic. Thompson lived in what Titus called “Elder Mode”—perpetual military bearing from his Marine Corps days. He’d served in both Gulf Wars before receiving a dishonorable discharge for antagonizing a commanding officer. He never smiled. Life had dealt him a bad hand.

After his discharge, Thompson returned to Atlanta to find his wife with another man. He found solace in his childhood church, answered his calling within a year, and began working in Men’s Ministry. The church licensed and ordained him two years later. At a Leadership Conference in Austin, he met and fell in love with a young minister, eventually relocating to be near her.

Titus and Thompson had met at a Spurs game, striking up a conversation that blossomed into friendship. Thompson became Head Elder of Harvest Hills, and Titus placed him over Pastoral Care—though Thompson wasn’t satisfied, believing he deserved the Assistant Pastor position.

“The Word of God declares,” Titus began, “that if you have an issue with your brother, you should go to him directly. I’ve discovered that’s not being practiced here. I came to you—my brothers, my inner circle—and I was betrayed. I thought we had trust. I was wrong.”

Four pairs of eyes met around the table. A Judas among them? Each man had confessed struggles—adultery, fornication, theft, embezzlement, abuse, pornography—at this very table over the past three years. These revelations weren’t the meetings’ purpose, but they happened. Until now, no judgment had been passed. No fingers pointed. What was discussed at the table stayed at the table. A prayer would close the evening, and the next day, each man treated the other as if no sin had ever been revealed.

Three weeks ago, that changed. Titus had opened up about his relationship with Alizè—something he’d never done before. Usually, he listened and offered minimal feedback. But the burden had grown too heavy. Now his vulnerability had trapped him.

“Who was it, Pastor?” Darby asked, concern evident. He already knew. Thompson had approached him a week ago, alleging infidelity. Darby had repeatedly explained that Titus never admitted to physical intimacy, but Thompson insisted something happened—that the pastor wasn’t being honest. Darby never imagined Thompson would take it to the Elders’ Cabinet at the Mother Church.

“It doesn’t matter.” Titus forced a grin. Not what he’d planned to say. His flesh rose, urging him to expose Thompson, but he chose—for now—to speak as a pastor should. “Damage is done. The past won’t change. I’ll deal with it personally. I refuse to stoop to that level.”

“Are you still seeing Alizè privately?” Pastor Waters asked. Both he and Titus were Bishop Boyd’s sons in ministry, both former armor-bearers. Waters had been First Assistant when Titus joined Next Level, and their friendship had been immediate—inseparable from the start. They spent free time fishing or watching games at each other’s homes, and their wives grew equally close.

When Bishop Boyd planted Waters in Austin, it felt like losing a childhood friend. But they still met twice monthly in Waco to catch up. When Titus relocated to San Antonio, both he and Candice were thrilled—only forty-five minutes from his best friend. Candice hoped Waters might keep her husband out of trouble. Maybe even save their marriage.

“I’m scheduled to see her tomorrow, but I’m planning to call in the morning and end it.” Titus gave the answer he knew Waters wanted, though he had no intention of following through. From now on, his private life would stay private.

—

It was after nine when Titus finally entered his home. He walked straight to the bedroom. Toby, the brown-and-white beagle, was sprawled across the king-sized bed again. Candice spoiled that dog. He always told her to keep Toby off the bed—and almost said something now. Instead, he let it go. He’d been stressed enough today. He tossed his jacket onto the dog. Toby yelped, scrambled out from under it, stretched his small frame with a yawn, jumped down, and rubbed against his master’s leg.

Titus was in the closet hanging his shirt when Candice entered. He heard her deep sigh and exhaled himself, bracing for drama. Heaven help him.

He turned slowly, eyebrows lifting. He offered a small smile. She stood in one of his football jerseys and shorts—one of the most beautiful women in the world, though she’d be even more so if she’d crack a smile. Instead, her face was blank.

He reached out, placed his hand on her neck, and drew her close, kissing her softly. A hint of a grin appeared.

“Is it over?” The blank expression returned.

“The meeting went well.” He deflected, walking into the bathroom and starting the shower. Candice followed, stopping in the doorway, arms folded.

“Is it over?”

“Bishop appointed me District Overseer.” He pulled a towel from the linen closet, back turned. “More work, and my book won’t be finished on schedule, but it’s a great opportunity.”

“Are you going to answer me?” Impatience crept into her voice.

He turned, stopping directly before her. “Excuse me—I need underwear.”

He braced himself. Her palm connected with his cheek, snapping his head sideways. He slowly removed his glasses and set them on the sink. “Feel better?” Toby fled the room.

“Answer me.” Tears fell as she pressed her hands to his chest. “Is it over?”

Titus wrapped his arms around her. She surrendered to his embrace. Wonderful feeling. “Yes. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I was selfish. You’re my world. I love you.” He tightened his hold.

She pulled back, stepping away, a sarcastic smirk forming.

“You son of a—” She didn’t finish, storming to the dresser and yanking open the top drawer. Clothes flew at him. “I want you out! Now!”

“The hell I will.” He approached through the barrage. “What’s your problem?”

“You think I’m stupid?” She ripped the drawer completely out, letting it crash to the floor. “You think I’m dumb?”

“No. Never said that. I said you’re my world. I love you.”

“No, Titus. Richard said that to Mary in your second book!” She opened another drawer, hurling more clothes. “This isn’t one of your stories. We’re not characters in your stupid books!”

As the words hung in the air, she realized she’d crossed a line. The tantrum stopped abruptly. Fear seized her.

“What did you say?” Anger sharpened his voice. “I want to be sure I heard correctly.” In an instant, he was on her, grabbing her arms, pushing her against the wall. Her back hit with a thud. He squeezed. “Those stupid books paid for your college. Those stupid characters paid for your clothes, your car, your jewelry—all of it.”

“You’re hurting me.” Quiet now, searching for the off switch. “Titus, let me go.”

He released her, hands falling to his sides.

“Clean this up. I’m showering.” He grabbed underwear and headed for the bathroom.

“So this is how a minister acts? Cheating on his wife, now beating her? What’s next?”

“Go to hell!”

The bathroom door closed behind him. Candice remained against the wall, exhaling.

—

When Inner Circle, Titus’s first book, was picked up by Taylor Publishing, it was divine timing. Both were juniors, funds dwindling. Titus had lost his scholarship the previous semester—speaking engagements from Dallas to Nashville had consumed his study time.

Candice was doing well academically but had no scholarship. Her parents were paying, and they’d hit hard times. She was preparing to leave SMU.

One Friday afternoon, Titus picked her up from her dorm, announcing he had a surprise. She planned to tell him her decision. When she closed the door of his Mustang, he was all smiles. He didn’t speak until they reached Frisco, pulling into a mall parking lot.

“I love you, Candice. No one I’ve ever loved like I love you. You’re my destiny.”

“I love you too.” Puzzled. “Why are we in Frisco? In a mall parking lot?”

“Great place to shop.”

“For what?”

“Your engagement ring.”

“Come again?” Shocked—they’d discussed marriage but agreed to wait until after college.

“I want you as my wife. The Bible says he who finds a wife finds a good thing. What could be greater than you? Marry me.”

She touched his cheek. Memories flooded. She smiled. Nodded. “No one else. Yes.” Tears escaped. He reached to wipe them, but she stopped him. “Let them be.” They kissed with passion, with love.

Then he shared his news: the publisher loved his book. They were publishing it—and advancing him for the next one.

Titus wrote two more books with Taylor: Under the Influence of God and My Superhero. All sold well. He emerged as a young, up-and-coming Christian writer, appearing on TBN, The 700 Club, BET, and other networks.

His career peaked when he shifted to fiction, partnering with Praise Temple Publishing for the “William Worth” series—Christian mysteries. The first, Angels of Mine, spent eight weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.

A week after graduation, on a beautiful May day, they married at the Dallas Botanical Gardens. Flowers surrounded the massive crowd. Angels celebrated as vows were exchanged. “Awesome” was too small for the love these two shared. They were becoming one.

Now, Candice wondered what happened to those happy days. She slid down the wall to the floor, stroked her short sandy-brown hair, and wept.

“Lord,” she prayed through tears, “please help me. Give me strength. I need you. Help me. Help us.”

The nightstand phone rang. She wiped her face, cleared her throat, stood, and answered.

“Hello.” Her voice still shook.

“May I speak to Pastor?” The female voice demanded. Instantly, Candice knew. Fury took over. She ripped the phone from the wall and hurled it at the bathroom door.

“Titus! It’s for you!” She spotted the Lexus keys on the bed and grabbed them. “I’m going to Kelli’s. You can go to hell!”

—

Candice headed for Austin. She never liked involving others in her marriage, but she needed someone to talk to. Her mind was twisted. What had she done to cause this? She was overwhelmed—home, church, work.

She didn’t believe Titus had actually cheated before. Close calls, yes—he was a flirt, always had been. But this thing with Alizè was different. He traveled to meet her. Came home in the middle of the night claiming he’d been studying or working at the church.

His priorities had shifted too. He wasn’t prepared on Sundays—she could tell he hadn’t studied, recycling old sermons. He wasn’t spending time with Christ like he used to, nor with the church men. But the real sign: he’d stopped writing. Titus not writing was like Santa not delivering presents.

When she first noticed these changes, she confronted him driving home from church. He just complained about his schedule—flying here, driving there, seeing each other only Saturday nights when he was too exhausted for company.

She was no better. Speaking engagements. While Titus was away, she ran the church: Tuesday leadership meetings, Wednesday services, Thursday choir rehearsal, Friday prayer meetings. Saturdays were busiest—meeting with ministry directors, confirming bookstore stock, approving next week’s broadcast messages with media, overseeing the thrift store and Christian Lite Club. Everything had to be ready before eleven, when she went live with her weekly radio broadcast.

Sometimes it seemed neither had time for the other. In the beginning, they’d made time. Titus would call Thompson Friday morning, cancel all appointments, and they’d spend half the day at Sea World, the other half at Fiesta Texas, then the Riverwalk at night. Some nights they’d leave church straight for the Riverwalk. Some mornings he’d wake her for breakfast in the park. He could be romantic when he wanted.

She loved him—no doubt. She could lose herself in his copper-colored eyes. He was her French vanilla, she his caramel. She could almost feel his soft hands caressing her face as she drove. His gentle voice seemed to speak peace, assuring her she had nothing to worry about.

Despite that assurance, she worried.

—

Titus sat before his computer, pulling up his latest manuscript. Three weeks since he’d worked on it. Distractions. Interferences. Alizè wasn’t the only diversion—pastoral issues consumed him.

Tomorrow: four counseling sessions, a financial meeting, lunch with the San Antonio Pastoral Board, and whatever emergencies popped up.

He scanned his office. Books covered three walls. Degrees, licenses, ordinations, awards decorated the fourth. On his maple oak desk: case files left, study materials right. His laptop centered. Beside it, a picture of him and Candice. He picked it up, drew it close. Happier times. Better memories.

England. How they’d enjoyed each other. How close they’d been. How he wanted that feeling back.

Rain tapped the windows. He replaced the photo, thumb grazing it gently, then focused on the computer. His new project’s title mocked him: Happy Couples, Successful Marriage.

He pushed back, walked to the window, gazed at the rain.

“Change me, Lord,” he whispered. “I need You. I haven’t been fair to You. I know I haven’t been fair to my wife. Forgive me. I want Your will, but temptations surround me. I keep letting distractions interfere. Help me, Lord. Please help me.”

—

Dana was the first.

Titus and Candice had been married a year. His second book was selling well. Fall in Denver—a book tour, part of his contract. Candice couldn’t come; her mother had fallen ill days before. Their first separation since marrying. Hard on both.

His assistant, Robin, accompanied him. Robin was a spunky undergraduate from Dallas Baptist University—hired against Candice’s wishes. She was attractive, yes, but Titus hired her for intelligence. She knew administration and Scripture, church protocol and service order. Two years at Criswell, three at DBU, majoring in Church Administration—overqualified.

Candice had been uncomfortable with an attractive twenty-three-year-old spending ten hours daily with her husband.

But within two weeks, Robin and Candice were best friends. Candice trusted her completely. The Denver trip didn’t bother her—only being apart from Titus.

After seven that evening, Titus returned to the hotel from a grueling day. Book signings and photo ops from nine to one—two things he hated. Incredible turnout, people lining streets. Robin whisked him to lunch, then a three o’clock lecture at CU on Christian Literature. Then across town to meet pastors—dull, but donors. He lasted an extra hour at Robin’s urging.

Before the hotel, he asked Robin to stop at the mall. In Sam Goody, flipping through gospel CDs, a tap on his shoulder. He turned.

A striking young woman. Jet-black ponytail through a Broncos cap, matching jersey, well-fitted jeans—tomboy attire, elegant face. She smiled pleasantly, and he returned it.

“Frutt, right?”

“Titus, yes.”

“Dana.” She extended her hand. He shook it. Still smiling. “I was in your class at the University. Really enjoyed you.”

“Thank you.”

“English major. Want to be a writer too.”

“Great.” He noticed Robin approaching—and that their hands were still connected. “Sorry, I need my hand back.”

She released, apologizing.

Robin stood behind Dana, staring hard. He knew that look. She tapped her watch.

“Sorry, I have to go.” He intentionally touched Dana’s arm, stroking gently. “Another engagement. Wish I could continue this conversation, but—” He stopped himself, hand dropping.

Robin escorted him out. Two armor-bearers fell in behind. As they reached the parking garage, Dana ran after them, calling his name.

“You forgot your sunglasses.” Breathless, she approached, handing them over.

“Thank you.” He placed them inside his jacket. Lowering his voice: “I’m speaking at St. Mark’s at eight. Come. Afterwards, we can grab something. Talk literature?”

“What about them?” She tilted toward his entourage.

“Not a problem.”

—

Back in his room, Titus called Candice, exchanging love while dressing. Robin entered as he tied his tie, reviewing attending pastors’ names and profiles, speech keynotes, tomorrow’s itinerary. He absorbed everything while brushing his hair and applying cologne.

They arrived at 8:15. Ten minutes in the pastor’s study with introductions. He hit the podium at 8:35, scanning for Dana. Once spotted, he was ready.

After service, he requested a private word with Robin. He wanted the rest of the night alone—she should collect his honorarium and return to the hotel. She was unhappy, knowing his intentions. She considered threatening to tell Candice, but declined. She handed over the rental car keys with a look of disapproval.

At two a.m., Titus unlocked his hotel room and ushered Dana inside. The door closed; she pinned him against it. Gone was the tomboy—she wore a long black Chanel dress, hair loose down her back. She grinned, kissed him. He reached for her back; she forced his arms back to the door. She wanted control. He didn’t fight.

She stepped back, dancing seductively as she undid her straps. His jacket landed on the sofa. He reached for the light but stopped when her dress pooled on the floor. Nothing underneath but knee-high stockings.

She pressed her naked body against him, nibbling his ear, kissing down his neck to the other ear, unbuttoning his shirt. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment.

The phone rang.

Second ring: he came to himself. Married. Minister. First ring reminded him. Second ring, he realized what he was doing. He pushed Dana away, grabbed the phone from the coffee table. Third ring: he answered. Candice, calling to say she missed him.

He told her he was coming home.

He directed Dana to dress and leave, then woke Robin. At four a.m. Mountain Time, they were on a plane. On the flight, he confessed everything. Robin was troubled but agreed to keep it private.

At DFW, Robin canceled his remaining Denver engagements, citing urgent family matters. She assured him everything would be fine.

Guilt consumed him. Ashamed. A hotel room with a naked woman—he’d nearly had an affair. He’d allowed this. Never should have gone out with Dana. He’d only expected conversation.

Should he tell Candice? He’d repented in the hotel room. Truly sorry. God would forgive—His Word promised. He’d fallen to lust. Spotted her in the music store and had to have her. Temptation won.

The drive home was long. Robin pulled into the driveway of their two-story light-brown brick home in Cedar Hill. Candice had wanted this house, three bedrooms, two baths—modest, though Candice hadn’t wanted a housekeeper. But with Titus traveling and her working as Northwood College’s admissions director, someone had to maintain it.

Nita, fifty-six, emerged to help with luggage. Titus dismissed Robin for the day and carried his bags inside with Nita’s help.

The O’Jays played from his office. Candice sat behind the desk, typing. She looked up, stopped, raced around, and hugged him fiercely. He returned the embrace. She giggled like a schoolgirl. They kissed.

“I missed you.” Happiness radiated. “Miss me?”

“You know I did.” He held her close. Both laughed.

“Read the paper?”

“What’s it say?”

“National Bestseller List!”

“Really?”

“Yep. Excited?”

“I am.” His enthusiasm faded as last night flashed back. Candice noticed.

“What’s wrong?” She studied his face. He looked away, smile gone. He released her, walked to the futon, sat. She joined him. “Talk to me.”

“I love you.” He needed her to know that. Nothing would change how he felt.

Slowly, nervously, he told her everything. Her body language shifted. Anger building. He braced for a slap—it never came. Instead, she walked to the desk, opened the second drawer, pulled out a hammer, and swung at the computer. Again. Again. Again.

Titus stood after the second swing. Nita rushed in after the fourth, drawn by the screaming.

—

Flowers. Apologies. A puppy. Candice forgave him. Titus promised nothing like that would ever happen again. He prayed he’d keep that promise. As more temptations came, he fell prey to them more often. None progressed as far as Dana—but none should have started at all.

Rain fell from heaven as Titus stared out the window. He had to repair his marriage. It was crumbling. He had to end things with Alizè. He’d opened his heart to her, truly cared—unlike the others. Candice knew this too.