Dating to Die

by Carl Weber, C.N. Phillips

Genres: African American Mystery & Detective; African American Urban; LGBT & Pride

Synopsis

Straight from the success of his hit television series The Family Business, New York Times bestselling author Carl Weber returns to his storytelling roots, blending his signature dramatic flair with a cast of new, entertaining characters.

At the heart of this narrative are Mother and Mable, two seasoned matriarchs whose wisdom and strength have guided them through decades of fostering children. Throughout the years, they have provided care and support to countless youths, but a select few remained, ultimately forming the family they had always longed for.

Driven by a deep desire to offer the young women the bright futures they deserve, Mother introduces them—Keisha, Toni, Mary, and Nicole—to her highly lucrative, though unconventional, life insurance business. Each daughter has found her place within the enterprise, leveraging her unique strengths and experiences. Keisha, street-smart and strikingly beautiful, manages clients from challenging backgrounds, including drug dealers, hustlers, and criminals. Mary applies her talents to burial policies at the homeless shelter where she works, while Nicole focuses on policies for high-risk, elderly clients. Toni possesses a flair for acting, and that talent helps her handle the intricate logistics of the enterprise, coordinating with nurses, doctors, and adjustors to ensure that everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.

Together, this group has formed a formidable and profitable team. However, as the stakes rise, the policies they manage begin to hit much closer to home, challenging the bonds they have built and forcing them to confront the true meaning of family and loyalty.

Release date: May 26, 2026

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“He’s gone,” I heard the doctor announce from the emergency room corridor, her emotionless voice resonating down the sterile hallway until it rang in my ears like church bells. I couldn’t quite comprehend her words until she shouted without hesitation, “Call it!” Her declaration was the final act in a two-hour-long struggle to save the life of my ex-boyfriend, Darnel Jenkins, which had ended in the inevitable: Death.

I stood frozen, overwhelmed by a numbness that dulled everything around me. Tears welled up, and I tried to blink them away, but the depth of my sorrow was impossible to hide. Across the room, Darnel’s mother, Mrs. Jenkins, was overtaken by anguish. Her voice, though muffled and broken, echoed with her pain as she cried out, “No! Not my baby! Not my baby!” Her grief was palpable, filling the sterile emergency room with a rawness that cut through the air.

Amidst the chaos, another doctor, tall and striking, his fine features hinting at Latin heritage, raised his voice above the commotion. “Time of death, 19:37,” he announced. The phrase landed with brutal finality, reverberating in my mind like a relentless jackhammer, somehow even louder than Mrs. Jenkins’s heart-wrenching cries. In that moment, my legs nearly gave out beneath me, and I had to reach for the wall to steady myself. The shock was absolute. This was no cruel joke, no twisted nightmare. It was a harsh reality. Darnel was gone. Truly, irreversibly gone.

I caught sight of Mrs. Jenkins, her frame already wracked with grief, being gently steadied by her friend and neighbor, Mrs. Smith. Although her earlier cries had faded, the sheer force of her screams filled the corridor, echoing her profound sorrow. The rawness of her pain resonated within me, stirring a deep empathy that blurred the line between her loss and the emptiness I now felt without her son.

As I looked into the room, my gaze was inevitably drawn to the stillness of Darnel’s body. It was impossible not to be swept up by memories of the good times we had shared, moments that transcended the allure of money and gifts that came from his lifestyle of dealing drugs. Together, Darnel and I built memories filled with laughter tucked away in the quiet corners of our lives and found comfort in each other’s presence. The finality of his absence pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting, making it painfully clear that nothing would ever be the same again.

“They killed him. They killed my baby,” Mrs. Jenkins cried once again, her anguish piercing through my haze of memories and dragging me back into the present. Her words echoed a painful truth I could not deny: Yes, they had killed him, just as Mother had warned me they would. Darnel, like so many other young Black men from our neighborhood, never really stood a chance. He was trapped in a vicious cycle that claimed too many lives long before today. It wasn’t just about what happened now; it was about the life he’d lived and the choices he’d made. Choices I, unfortunately, had supported.

If there was one job in our hood that seemed to guarantee death, it was dealing drugs. Darnel knew the risks, and still, he lived for that life. And, if I’m honest, that was part of what drew me to him in the first place. My unwavering attraction to hustlers, men like Darnel who lived on the edge, was something I could never quite shake.

A police officer appeared briefly in the doorway, his notebook closed, expression unreadable. He stepped into the room, whispering to the doctors, who were now preparing paperwork, as a nurse in pink-and-white teddy-bear scrubs covered Darnel with a sheet. All so official, so final. That’s when it finally sank in. Darnel was really dead.

Overcome by emotion, I could no longer hold back my own tears. They were not just the sobs of mourning, but selfish, unrelenting tears of guilt. Even though Darnel and I were no longer together, he was never just another man to me. He was the love of my life, my ex-boyfriend whose presence had shaped me in ways both joyous and heartbreaking.

The world blurred at the edges, time stuttering and stretching, before snapping me forward with the shrill beep of my phone. A text, insistent, anchored me to the present. I hesitated, not yet ready to step beyond the boundary of that hallway, as if staying here could hold off the reality waiting outside these walls.

I glanced down at the text. It was from my sister Nicole.

I heard Darnel was shot. Is he dead?

“What? This self-serving bitch right here,” I growled to myself angrily, sliding my phone back in my purse as I marinated on her text. I wasn’t about to justify that ignorant shit with an answer. My sister Nicole had never been my favorite person, but this shit here was beyond ignorant. How was she just gonna ask some cold-ass shit like that?

Suddenly, there was a bone-chilling shriek. I glanced over to see Mrs. Jenkins, who was on the verge of hysteria, rushing past me like a bat outta hell into the room where her son lay. I observed her through the doorway, ripping off the sheet and clutching Darnel’s body. The nurse placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch steady and impersonal. I wanted to say something to comfort her, but the words got caught in my throat. That was the moment I realized I couldn’t handle much more and had to get the hell out of there before the rest of Darnel’s family arrived. Aside from his mother, I never really got along with Darnel’s family.

Leaving the emergency room and stepping into the lobby, I was grateful for the change. The sharpness of the night filtering through the windows offered a small sense of relief from the suffocating atmosphere I’d left behind. I was just starting to regain my composure when someone tried to push past me. Instinctively, I started to roll my neck, ready to confront whoever it was, but then I saw Darnel’s sister, Lisa. Her eyes were vacant, her fingers wrapped tightly around a battered purse as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Her face was a storm, unyielding and marked by accusation and grief, immediately filling the air with unspoken tension.

Standing next to Lisa was TaJuana, my old high school rival and Darnel’s baby momma. Her entire body seemed taut, held together by sheer willpower. I understood her pain, even if we’d never been friends. In that charged moment, the weight of our shared loss pressed down on us all, making the lobby feel just as heavy as the room I’d just escaped.

Suddenly, Lisa’s voice broke the tension, harsh and unfiltered. “What the fuck are you doing here, bitch?”

Steadying myself, I answered, “I’m here because I heard your brother was shot. I brought your momma and Mrs. Smith over to the hospital to see about him. And if you call me a bitch again, I’ll make you eat this nasty-ass floor.”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed, her glare as sharp as a knife. If looks could kill, I would have been stretched out beside her brother. She’d never liked me, but then again, her baby daddy was one of my ex-boyfriends as well.

“Where’s my momma?” she demanded to know.

“She’s with your brother.” I pointed down the hall.

They pushed their way past me without even giving me a chance to tell them Darnel had passed away. Well, they’d find out soon enough. I couldn’t worry about that because reality pressed closer. Some things still needed to be done.

The Latin doctor walked by, and I flagged him down. “Excuse me, doctor? Exactly how long does it take to get a death certificate?”

The familiar tang of vinegar rose with the steam from the collard greens, filling the kitchen and reminding me of countless Sunday brunches. I focused on the rhythmic motion of my spoon, letting the task steady my nerves while my mind raced with thoughts of Keisha at the hospital. Each swirl through the simmering greens was an attempt to bring a sense of normalcy into a day that had been anything but ordinary.

The early hours of the day found me seated at the salon, getting my hair done, a ritual that usually brought some comfort, but today, I couldn’t shake the restlessness that pressed down on me. As soon as I finished, I hurried home and set about preparing a pork roast, collard greens with fatback, and a pan of cornbread, the familiar kitchen tasks a thin distraction from the nosiness building inside me. Every few minutes, I’d pause mid-chop or stir, glancing at my phone and hoping for a message from my brat of a baby sister, Keisha. She was at the hospital, checking in on her ex-drug-dealing boyfriend, Darnel. Word had reached me through our other sister, Toni, that Darnel had been shot up like an episode of SWAT. Details were scarce, but Toni’s tone suggested things were serious, maybe even fatal.

Keisha had taken Darnel’s mother down to the hospital, staying with the family and placing herself right in the middle of that crazy family’s shit. With each unanswered call and message, my curiosity and concern grew. I was desperate to know what was really going on, unable to focus on anything but the swirl of uncertainty and the hope for news.

After setting the pot of greens to simmer on the stove, I found myself restlessly scrolling through my contacts, torn between calling Keisha yet again or waiting for an update from Toni. My patience with Keisha was running thin. I’d already texted her at least ten times, and not once had she even bothered to respond. Each time my phone lit up with a notification or buzzed with a vibration, I jumped, my curiosity and anxiety spiking with every false alarm.

In that tense silence, my thoughts wandered to my mother and her unshakeable resilience. No matter how chaotic or difficult things became, she always managed to keep her composure, holding herself together even as the rest of us fell apart. Drawing on that memory, I typed out another message to Keisha, just four words:

you wrong for this

I hit send, trying to steady my breathing. If Keisha didn’t reach out soon, I knew Toni would. She never let anything stay quiet for long.

The ringing of my phone had me scrambling to pick up. It was only Toni.

“You hear from Keisha?” she asked, her rough voice animated as always.

“Nope,” I answered, stirring the pot of greens as I added more salt and vinegar.

“Well, girl, it’s confirmed. Darnel’s dead, that’s for certain,” Toni announced, and in my mind, I could see her neck rolling and fingers moving as she spoke.

“Are you sure?”

“The whole block is talking about it. And get this, His sister Lisa already got a GoFundMe page up, trying to get money to bury him.”

“He’ll get buried proper. If anything, Mother will make sure of that.”

“It’s the least she can do,” Toni said.

“I guess. You going to Sunday brunch tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A girl’s gotta get paid. And from what I hear, this should be a big one.” Toni’s laughter bubbled up before she punctuated it with a loud, playful shout. “Cha-ching!”

I shook my head, unable to suppress a smile. “Girl, you ought to stop.”

“For what? I’m thinking about getting me some new titties like Keisha. Them bad boys are huge.”

“You do not need to be following behind her,” I said adamantly. “That girl is going to have all kinda back problems when she gets older.” I could almost hear her considering my advice on the other end. “Each one of those implants must weigh five pounds.”

“Maybe you’ve got a point. A C-cup will do just fine.”

I could picture Toni spinning around in a mirror, cupping her breasts.

I caught a sudden whiff from the kitchen and jolted into motion. “Shit, girl, I gotta run. Messing around with you, I’m about to burn up my greens.”

“A’ight, bye. I’m about to meet my new boo, too. Say hi to Grandpa for me.” Toni’s laughter erupted over the line, so intensely that she started coughing.

“Fuck you, Toni.” She knew I hated that “Grandpa” shit. Despite my grumble, a trace of laughter remained in my words.

Toni hung up, and I got back to my pot of greens just in time. A sudden knock at the door pulled me from my anxious thoughts. Here I was, preoccupied, worrying about Keisha and her man when I had obligations of my own. Was it really 9 p.m. already? I checked my phone. Yeah, it was. Taking a moment, I glanced in the mirror, shook out my hair, and readied myself for what the night might bring.

I opened the door to find Sam Robinson standing there. His appearance at my doorstep was as dramatic as ever. He stood tall, an image of composure and quiet confidence, his salt-and-pepper beard perfectly trimmed beneath his trademark fedora. It was a look that always made me think of Danny Glover. In his arms, he cradled at least two dozen red roses, the blooms vivid and fragrant.

“Hey, Daddy, those for me?” I teased, unable to hide a smile.

He grinned, eyes warm and wide. “Who else would they be for?” he boomed, his baritone voice filling the hallway as he handed me the flowers. Sam loved it when I called him Daddy. Not because we were related, but because he considered himself my sugar daddy.

Sam entered, closing the door behind him before embracing me in a warm hug and a quick kiss. He inhaled deeply, a satisfied look crossing his face. “Something smells amazing in here. What is it?”

I responded with a playful arch of my eyebrow. “Oh, just a little Chanel No. 5. Do you approve?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, you always smell good, but I’m asking about what’s cooking. The place smells incredible.”

“Well then, Daddy, I hope you brought your appetite and your blood pressure medicine,” I said, only halfway joking, “because I cooked your favorite roast pork and collard greens just the way you like it.”

Sam’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “With fat back and cornbread?”

I grinned. “Mm-hmm, and I found that salted butter you always say is so hard to find over by my mother’s house.”

Sam’s eyes widened with appreciation as he took in the carefully prepared table and the savory aroma filling the room. “You made all this just for me?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine gratitude.

“For you, Daddy, I’d do anything,” I replied, motioning for him to take his seat. “If you’re hungry, let’s dig in.”

Sam settled comfortably at the table while I brought out the food. As I served him, he slipped his arms around my waist. His touch lingered on my ass the entire time. I let him, mindful of what I’d confided to Toni earlier. My car troubles weighed on my mind, and I knew Sam could help. By the end of the evening, I was certain he’d be more than happy to reach into his wallet to pay for it to get fixed.

As we ate, conversation flowed easily, with me mostly listening, something older men seemed to appreciate. Sam was nearly twice my age. He brought up Darnel and the recent shootout on the block, recounting the details as I listened closely. Our meal continued at a leisurely pace, and, seeing his plate empty, I served him a generous second helping of roast pork, collard greens, and a hefty piece of fatback. The pleasure on his face was unmistakable, but when I shifted the conversation toward a topic he clearly preferred to avoid, his mood changed ever so slightly.

“So, Daddy.” I glanced at Sam, a question perched in my mind. “Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment today?”

Sam met my gaze, pausing just long enough to reveal a hint of reluctance before he answered, “Yeah, I had a cardiologist appointment.”

My tone softened, worry evident as I lifted my head. “So, how did that go?”

He grumbled as he popped another piece of fatback into his mouth. “That doctor tried to tell me to slow down, said I shouldn’t put any strain on my heart and to stay away from salt and pork. That if I don’t, I could end up with another heart attack, and this time, I might not make it.”

“That sounds serious.” Feeling a twinge of guilt, I settled back in my chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have made you this meal. Roast pork and fatback aren’t exactly heart-friendly.”

Sam dismissed my worries with a wave, his fork hovering mid-air as he readied another bite. “I’m a grown-ass man. I know what’s good for me and what’s not. This right here, maybe it’s not good for me, but it sure is good to me.”

I hesitated, the concern plain on my face. “I’m not sure, Sam.” I made a point of using his government name this time. “You’ve already had the pork, so there’s nothing to be done about that now. But maybe we should think twice about getting too carried away tonight. You know how intense things can get between us.”

Sam’s eyes flashed with indignation, the sting of my words evident in his expression. The silence between us hung thick for a moment, underscoring the vulnerability of pride and desire.

“You can’t be serious, right? You wouldn’t hold out on me like that, would you?” he challenged.

I drew a calming breath, keeping my voice measured and sincere. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight just as much as you have, Sam. But as much as I want you, I want you to stick around for a long time, too.”

Sam refused to be swayed, shaking his head in stubborn protest. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, if you hold out on me, that’s just going to make things harder.”

“How?” I asked, searching his face for a real answer.

“A major cause of heart attacks is stress, baby. You not giving me some tonight is gonna stress me the fuck out. I can promise you that.” The tension in his voice gave away just how serious he was, even as he tried to mask it with bravado.

“Plus, the doctor said I had to exercise and get in my cardio. What better way to exercise and get in cardio than making love to you?” His chair inched closer, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable as he tried to defuse the moment with humor.

“Making love isn’t exercise.” I rolled my eyes, unable to hide my laughter.

“Yeah, it is,” he insisted, quickly pulling out his phone and calling out, “Hey, Siri, is sex exercise?”

Without missing a beat, the phone chirped back, “Yes, sex is a great form of exercise and burns about 4.2 calories per minute.”

“So, there you have it.” His playful banter only half concealed his lustful desire. “You’d be doing a brother a favor by helping him get in his cardio.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

I pretended to be reluctant at first, but the truth was, I had every intention of leaving him breathless from the very beginning. “Well, I guess I can go for that. Did you bring your little blue pill?”

His reaction was immediate. He glanced downward to his groin, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Already took it, and me and Mr. Johnson are ready whenever you are.”

I shook my head at his antics, feeling the warmth of our laughter float between us as the playful back-and-forth slowly dissolved the last hints of tension.

“Honey, I was born ready. Just make sure you don’t die on top of me,” I said with a laugh.

He leaned in and kissed me. Then, his voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “I promise to follow doctor’s orders if it means more moments like this. You and me, laughing together, enjoying a meal, and finishing up with incredible sex.”

Stevie, the fine chocolate Jamaican I’d met online a few months back, paused at the doorway, then gathered me into his arms for a kiss that was both passionate and deliberate. His lips, warm and insistent, conveyed more than words ever could. I could sense a subtle frustration beneath the surface, a longing for more time, a desire to stay.

Earlier that evening, we had decided to meet at Benny’s, a cozy local bar known for its relaxed atmosphere. Sharing drinks, we quickly found ourselves at ease, the setting providing the perfect backdrop for laughter and meaningful conversation. The hours slipped by almost unnoticed. Eventually, we made our way back to my place for a nightcap. With a bottle of wine opened and eventually finished between us, the boundaries of time seemed to blur. Our conversation flowed naturally, each topic giving way to the next without pause, until words were replaced by gentle, French kisses that expressed what we both felt but hesitated to say aloud.

As the night progressed and our passion intensified, I found myself consciously choosing to pause. I drew an internal line, sensing that we were on the edge of crossing into territory from which there might be no turning back. Determined not to tease or play games with him, I allowed the evening to end on my terms, giving him the blowjob of a lifetime but all the while remaining in my clothes. The promise that remained between us was undeniable, a silent assurance that he would want to see me again.

He looked at me with an intensity that was both direct and affectionate, his eyes conveying a deep appreciation for the boundaries I’d set. “You know, I really do appreciate what you did, and I would love to return the favor,” he said in that sexy-ass Americanized Jamaican accent. His expression left no doubt that his intentions were genuine, and I could sense that our story was only beginning to unfold.

I let out a nervous laugh, my expression firmly set to communicate that any further advances would be met with resistance. “You’re not getting these pants off tonight,” I teased, my grin daring him to protest. “I believe in the five-date rule and plenty of conversation. We’re only on date number three.”

He smiled, raising his hands in playful surrender, yet his determination remained clear. “Why don’t we go back inside? Since I’m re-entering, we can count it as date number four.” He touched my hand gently. “Bringing us one step closer to five.”

“No, No.” I shook my head, the stern edge in my voice softened by a hint of smugness. “You got way more than you should have. Be happy with that.”

He hesitated, the playful smirk on his face betraying a hint of sincerity that made me pause and consider letting my guard down. “I am. I want to say thank you in my own special way.” He licked those thick, juicy lips.

I tilted my head, unable to hide a smile. “Flowers, candy, or diamonds will do just fine,” I replied, my teasing words laced with a touch of challenge.

His grin widened, accepting my playful banter. “A’ight, but I want you to know that I like you, Toni. I really like you.” Leaning in, he pressed a quick, gentle kiss to my lips, leaving behind warmth that remained even after he pulled away.

“I like you too,” I replied with sincerity. “I think I’ve proven that.”

As he walked toward his car, I remained by the door for a moment. Closing it quietly behind me, I pressed my back against the wood, letting out a sigh, a silent prayer of gratitude.

“Dear Lord, that man is so fine and sexy. Please … please, let this be the one.”

I barely had time to clear our wine glasses from the coffee table and wipe down the counters when my phone rang. It was 1 a.m., and I didn’t need to check the caller ID. Only my sister Keisha would feel entitled enough to call at this hour.

Suppressing a sigh, I picked up the phone and greeted my sister in our usual way. “Bitch, do you know what time it is?”

“Heifer, it’s not like you getting any,” Keisha shot back, her tone laced with playful accusation.

“That’s not the point, ho. Ten minutes ago, I had a face full of Jamaican dick.”

“You lying,” she snapped in disbelief.

“If I’m lying, I’m dying. I just gave Stevie’s ass the best blow job of his life,” I said with bravado.

The silence between us seemed like forever.

“Blow job?” she finally snapped. “I thought you said you was gonna take it slow.”

“I am,” I admitted. “But that was the only thing I could think of to slow things down, and we still haven’t had that talk.” The truth settled heavily in my chest. As much as I cared for Stevie, we hadn’t discussed my secret.

Keisha didn’t let up. “Well, don’t you think it’s time?” She knew me way too well to let me dodge the conversation forever, but her insistence came from a place of love.

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Soon,” I said, my voice steady but deliberate. “I have to make sure he’s really the one.” There was a vulnerability in my admission. I was holding onto the fragile potential of something real, not wanting to rush and ruin what might be.

Keisha’s voice softened, turning gentle and probing. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“I do.” The words came out softer than I expected, the uncertainty and hope in my heart echoing through them. “I really do.” I let out a small laugh, catching the melodrama in my own voice. “I’m starting to sound like a soap opera.”

A knowing tone echoed through the phone, the weight of shared history heavy in her voice. “Then you better stop playing with him. That’s what you better do. We don’t need another crazy Jimmie situation.”

The mention of Jimmie sent a flicker of anxiety through me. My attempts to brush her off felt weak, almost defensive. “Girl, it is not that serious,” I insisted, but even as the words left my lips, doubt was there. Was I fooling myself about how deep things were getting between me and Stevie?

I could tell it was time to change the subject. A gentle nudge pushed the conversation elsewhere. “What you doing? Why are you up?” I asked, hoping to shift the mood and focus. “It’s Darnel, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe he’s gone, Toni.”

For a moment, silence stretched between us, neither of us eager to fill the void. This time, I broke it, my voice tentative yet knowing. “Me either.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sudden, sharp banging on the door shattered the flow of the conversation, freezing me in place. My heart raced, and I blurted out, “What the fuck was that?” My nerves were on edge, unsettled by the unexpected noise.

Keisha’s voice crackled through the phone, instantly alert. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

I hesitated, trying to make sense of the persistent pounding. “Someone’s knocking on my door like they’re the damn police,” I muttered, feeling the unease creep into my voice.

Keisha’s concern was immediate. “Is it?” she asked, worry rising in her words.

“I don’t know. It better not be,” I replied as the pounding continued.

“Hold on a second,” I said, my attention drawn fully to the relentless noise at the door. The urgency rattled my nerves as I made my way over.

I swung the door open dramatically, fully prepared to confront whoever was causing the commotion. But as I opened the door, I gasped, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Shit!”

“What is it?” Keisha pressed, her anxiety palpable through the line.

Keeping my voice low, nerves tighte. . .