Heard it All Before

Book 0: Montgomerys

by Michele Grant

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Debut novelist Michele Grant pens a juicy tale in Heard It All Before. Best friends Jewellen and Renee think they know Dallas men like the backs of their hands. But that's before Jewellen unexpectedly falls for a guy from the wrong side of the tracks, and Renee gets lured away from her own man by a hard-bodied hottie.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Jewel—Friday, May 18, 8:00 p.m.

“Chivalry is dead and Prince Charming fell off his charger years ago, you hear me?”

I heard her.

“I know what you want, Jewel. You want some tall, fine, intelligent, sensitive, heterosexual, drugfree, financially stable, Christian, chocolate god over the age of thirty with a great sense of humor to come knock-knocking at your door!” Renee paused. “Don’t you?”

When she put it that way, it did sound kinda pathetic.

“Well, don’t you?”

“He doesn’t have to knock on my door,” I protested weakly.

Renee snorted in disgust. “And where, exactly, are you going to find him? You go to work; he’s not there. You come home; he ain’t here. You go to church twice a month, slide in the side door five minutes before service starts, and slip out the back before we’ve sung the last Amen. So if he’s there, you’ll never see him. You work out at an all-girls’ gym. That leaves the grocery store and the cleaners.” She snorted again. “You think Mr. Wonderful is hanging out at Martinizing or Safeway?”

I threw my hands up. “Okay, okay. You’re obviously trying to tell me something. What is it?”

“Actually, I’m trying to tell you a few things, Miss Capwell. Number one, even Cinderella had to dress up and go to the ball to find her prince. Number two, life is like the last Kleenex in the box, so be careful how you blow it. And number three, you’ve got to gather your rosebuds while you still can!”

At this point, I was starting to get mildly annoyed with Renee. Only mildly because I was somewhat confused over all these mixed metaphors. The Kleenex, the Prince, and the rosebuds were throwing me off. What were we talking about?

Okay, see, I invited Renee over for dinner. How this turned into a “let’s talk about what’s wrong with Jewellen’s life” thing, I’ll never know. But that was Renee for you. Renee and I met freshman year in college. She took one look at me and decided I was an uptight princess; I took one look at her and decided she was ghetto fabulous without the fabulous. We kept running into each other on the campus of the University of Texas in a series of catty exchanges that culminated in an epic battle for the last chocolate pudding pop in the all-girls’ cafeteria. On a campus that was only 2 percent African American, we decided it was better to be allies than enemies. When all the dust settled, we discovered we somehow clicked.

I had grown up a bit sheltered. My mom was a bank manager, my father an investment specialist, and prior to their divorce, we had been one unit. I have an older sister and a brother. My sister, Stefani, got married about three years ago before moving to Alaska with her husband. I never could understand moving way up there to the frozen tundra, but that was where Lamar got promoted, so Stefani went. She loved it. Of course, none of us have been as close as we used to be since Mom and Dad’s divorce and subsequent remarriages. Mom moved to Denver. Dad moved to New Orleans. My eldest sibling, Ross, got his international law degree and had been globe-trotting ever since. At Christmas, we all get together in a neutral city. Last year it was Miami. This year we’re going south of the border to Cancun. I talk to them once a month or so. Since college, Renee, my former roommate Stace, and the gang have been my immediate family.

Renee, on the other hand, had grown up way before she should have. Her mother had Renee at age fifteen, so they kind of grew up together. Her mother was that unfortunate woman who could not be without a man. Renee grew up with a large group of random “uncles.” After watching her mom get dogged by player after player, she developed a kill-or-be-killed attitude toward dating. By the time I met her, she had decided that if no one else would love you, you’d better love yourself ... a lot. She was determined to get the best of everything and the better of everyone. Somehow this translated into convincing herself that the world was as in love with her as she was with herself.

When we started this conversation, she was telling me about the latest love of her life. No exaggerating, Renee Nightingale was the most in love person I knew. She was in love with her job as promotions manager for Royal Mahogany Cosmetics. You know, one of those new spin-offs a white cosmetic company puts out now that they’ve finally realized that, yes, black people need makeup and hair and skin products of their own! God bless them and I bear no grudge, but I’ve yet to meet a white person who truly understands the terrifying concepts of ashy legs and nappy hair.

But back to Renee. She was in love with her lazy dog, a froufrou little white chow named, of all things, Peaches. I told her to get another and name him Herb; she didn’t take my reference.

Renee was also in love with some new man she met about a month ago. Yes, I said one month. Renee fell in love like other people washed clothes, regularly and in cycles. This cycle, she was into the “Corporate Self-Made Black Man.” You’ve seen him. That swaggering, overconfident, look-what-I’ve-made-of-myself buppie with the round tortoiseshell glasses, navy Armani suit, Polo paisley tie, Dior white shirt, and Cole Haan leather tassel loafers, don’t you know? I think this one was named Gregory.

But most of all, God love her, Renee was in love with Renee. She loved the way she talked, which was rapid and often around the girls, slow and sultry around the boys, and a fascinating combination of both in mixed company. She loved the way she moved, which was exactly how she talked. She loved the way she looked, which I had to admit was pretty damn good. Skin the color of rich, dark chocolate, smooth as silk, and crystal clear. Your basic African American wide brown eyes, gently sloped nose, and a perfect bow mouth.

She had short jet-black hair, and it was always whipped up. I mean, I’d known her for ten years, and even first thing in the morning, the clever pageboy was on. Sometimes curly, sometimes wavy, sometimes straight but always on. And the makeup, which she actually does change for morning and evening even if she stays at home, was flawless. She kept her manicurist on speed dial.

Her clothes? The woman planned her outfits every Sunday evening for the entire coming week, down to exercise wear and undies. She was 5’6”, a size 8, not real big but adequate on top, and was in possession of a true sister’s ass and thighs. She had fretted and sweated since “the ass” really kicked in at about age twenty-two but to no avail. I kept telling her nothing short of liposuction was going to rid her of it. And in all truth and fairness, she looked good with it. Only occasionally did I raise my brows when she tried to stretch some Lycra or knit across there. If you asked me how she caught half these Mr. Could-a-Been-Mr.-Rights, I’d say with her smile and that ass. Okay, not my point. I was reflecting on Renee’s narcissistic ways. So, back to my growing annoyance with her little diatribe. Nine times out of ten, Renee talked to hear herself talk. Unfortunately, she was talking about me.

Where did she leave off?

Oh, yeah. “Cinderella met her prince at the ball with one Kleenex and a rose?” I muttered. “Girl, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You, girlfriend.” She pointed a finger with a red-lacquered nail at me. “You’ve gotta get out there. Mohammed ain’t making his way up this mountain, okay? I’ve decided it’s time to hook you up.”

I didn’t even try to hide the dismay on my face. “Hook me up?” I shook my head rapidly from side to side. “Ah, hell to the no. You remember the last time you tried to hook me up? I didn’t get rid of him until I moved away! You hear me? I had to change area codes to get rid of that psycho!”

She had the good grace to look chagrined momentarily. “Oh yeah, him. Well, who knew he was obsessive-compulsive with an Oedipus complex. Is it my fault you reminded him of his mama? Hell, at least he was fine!”

That year she considered minoring in psych obviously didn’t do a thing for her. She skipped right past that obsessive-compulsive thing. “At least he was FINE? That was his redeeming quality?” I asked.

She waved that away dismissively. “Anyway, that’s history. This time, I don’t have anybody specific in mind; I just want to get you out into the proper arenas so you can see the available players, that’s all.”

Ignoring the sports imagery, I sighed my deepest, weariest sigh. “Renee, let’s not do this, really. I’m happy enough with my life. And if the Lord intends for me to have a good man and a good relationship, then I’m sure one will come my way.”

Renee shot me a look of stunned disbelief. “What way is that? Safeway?” She leaned forward, warming to her topic. “Listen, sugar, the Lord helps those who help themselves; you hear me? Sitting in this house waiting for something to happen . . . I just can’t see that as being the good Lord’s plan. You’re thirty years old, you own your own house, you run your own company, you’re in possession of a decent bank account, you have good sense in your head, and when you give a damn, you look good! All we’ve got to do is enhance your marketable traits, camouflage your flaws, and present you to a wide and appreciative audience.” She sat back with a flourish and a smile.

I raised a brow. “Oh, so I’m your latest marketing project?” She started to speak, but I held my hand out to stop her. “No, no, a thousand times no. My life is fine. Or, here, in words you’ll understand—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!”

She turned her nose up and tilted her head to the side. “How ya know it ain’t broke? When was the last time anyone turned it on, took it for a test drive? Hell, even kicked a tire! And since you like things in plain English, I’m asking you flat out—when was the last time you had some? Okay, no ... We don’t even have to go all there. When was the last time you had a date?”

Uh-oh, she had me on that one. “A date?” I stalled, trying to think back that far. Could it have been that long ago? Maybe I was getting a little stale?

She smirked. “Yeah, honey, you know the thing ... when a man asks you out, you go somewhere together merely for the sake of being together, he brings you home, he makes a play, and knowing you, you send him home. A date.”

“Well ...” I squinted up at the ceiling, determined to recall one. Let’s see, we’re in May, and there was that one guy I went to that concert with... . Was that Thanksgiving? Couldn’t have been too memorable since the whole experience was a distant blur in my mind.

“You can’t remember, can you?” Her expression was irritatingly smug.

“Yeah, yeah, just gimme a minute.” Surely I’d gone out over Christmas? No, went to visit my sister’s family. New Year’s? No, went to the candlelight service at church. Valentine’s Day? No, watched the Flava of Love reunion show with a bottle of wine and a gourmet pizza. Ah, shit. This was just sad. I had some male friends; could I count lunch with them as dates? My brother and I were at the mall last week, and some guy came up and offered to buy me a smoothie—that’s sort of datelike, isn’t it?

Truthfully, since Patrick (the ex-fiancé) and I walked away from each other without a backward glance about two years ago, I can’t say as I’ve felt motivated to dive back in the deep end of the dating pool. I was comfortable here in the shallows. A mocha here, a movie there ... I was all good, right?

Renee was shaking her head. “You don’t need a minute. I’ll tell ya. Your last date was that jazz concert downtown over the Thanksgiving weekend with that tall boy with the bad haircut. What was his name?”

“It was Richard or Roland or something.” What was his name?

“Umm-hmm.” She said nothing else, just sat there with that know-it-all smirk on her face.

“Okay, okay! So I haven’t exactly been the social butterfly lately. I’ll start dating again.” I shrugged. How tough could it be?

Her eyes narrowed. “How, who, when? You don’t go anywhere to meet anybody!”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I guess I’m supposed to break out the leather miniskirt and the pumps and start hitting the club scene? No way. I outgrew that six years ago and didn’t like it much then. I don’t mind going out to cut a step every now and again, but, uh-uh, I’m not getting back into the meat-market scene. No way.” All that smiling and posturing and tell me your life story and I’ll tell you mine—who wanted to go through all that? Standing around in killer stilettos pretending not to care if anyone looks at you or not ... yeah, I sure miss that.

“Who said you had to, Miss Priss? I happen to know of a dozen places to go to roll up on some brothers, not one of them ‘meat market’ in the least!” She sounded sincere, but Renee always does.

I was suspicious. “Oh, yeah?” I was torn between the desire to be among single men and the deep-rooted belief that Renee was up to something for her own good.

“Yeah. Now, why don’t you do something with that hair tonight? We got places to be tomorrow.” She drained her glass of wine, stood up, and looked at her watch. “Gotta late date. Gotta shuffle. Thanks for the grub.” She strode toward the living room. Girl never wasted a minute, always on the go.

I got up slowly, trailing behind her, still suspicious. “Okay, but where is it that we’re going? And what do you mean when you say ‘roll up’?”

Slinging her $400 Dooney & Bourke over her arm, she looked back at me with a sigh. “Jewel, even you know what ‘rolling up’ means.” She headed down the hallway to the front door.

I pursed my lips. “Listen here, Ms. Nightingale. I know how to roll up on a brother. But somehow I feel like my roll and yours are two different things. Where did you say we were going?” I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for my answer. Renee can come up with some wild-ass schemes.

At the door she turned. “To a b-ball court. Got invited to watch a game.” She opened my front door and stepped outside. “I’ll call you ’round noon. Dress accordingly—the court’s kinda up in the hood.” She shut the door and made tracks to her car.

I hopped forward, ran to the door, and whipped it open. I caught her fumbling for her keys, thereby foiling her smooth exit. “Excuse me, Miss Thing, did I hear you say we’re going to the hood? And can you tell me why?”

“Jewellen Rose Capwell,” she scolded with one foot in her new Lexus SUV, “you can’t be afraid of your own people.” She shut the door, turned on the ignition, and whipped out of the driveway.

“Oh, sure I can,” I said aloud before closing and locking the door. I walked to the back of my safe little house and turned on my safe little alarm.

As I cleaned away the debris from dinner, I shook my head repeatedly. The hood. Color me snobbish, but I was always scared as hell of the hood. Hey, color me wimpy too. I grew up in Far North Dallas. The farther north the better.

I went to private school with two other blacks in the entire school; that meant in grades K through 12, there was a total of three. After my parents’ divorce, I went to public school in one of the richest, whitest suburbs in the city. I thought a fistfight by the bike racks after school was gang violence. Caught a couple kissing under the stairway and I thought that was indiscriminate premarital sex. What did I know? You grow up and realize that the news doesn’t tell the whole story, that the Northside was not without crime of its own. I also realized that guns belonged to folks of all color. Nonetheless, I always felt more in my comfort zone north of downtown.

Probably stems from an experience I had when I was sixteen. Just hanging out at a football game on the Southside with some friends. Next thing we know, someone rolls up to do a drive-by and we’re literally sprinting for our lives. Spent an hour and a half hiding between a Dumpster and a parked car before we got the all clear. For weeks afterward, I was terrified that one of the shooters had seen my face and was hunting me down. Melodramatic, yes, but also terrifying. Since then, it took a major event and arm-twisting to get me south of downtown.

Don’t get me wrong, I hang with “my own people.” I like the music, can speak the lingo, rock the attitude, the whole nine. I can go to a Metallica concert Friday and a 50 Cent concert Saturday and never confuse the two. I watched reruns of Friends and Girlfriends. I had a lot of black friends but quite a few white ones too. I was equal opportunity.

Even dated one white boy for a little minute until I realized that my natural inclinations simply attracted me to tall Nubian princes, as Renee would say. So what if I met a great white guy and fell madly in love, I wouldn’t be with him? Not sure, it would be a decision. Not that any of this matters; it had been so long since I met a male of any color that attracted me, I’d forgotten what it feels like. Apparently it was time I got out and saw what was out there ... again.

I went upstairs, entered the bathroom, and began pulling out all the various paraphernalia I’d need to resurrect this hair and face before morning. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turned around to look for my intensive conditioner and almond-peppermint mask.

Pausing, I took stock of what I saw. Medium complexion, somewhere between butterscotch and caramel if I was forced to narrow down the color. Features set in an oval-shaped face that has too often been called “cute.” Large brown eyes with lashes that appreciated a volumizing mascara. Button nose and medium-lipped mouth that was a little wider than I would like. Shoulder-length chestnut brown hair parted sensibly on the side. It was currently in need of a trim and a conditioning rinse. Usually curled under and tucked practically behind my ears, which were pierced once and usually adorned with a simple hoop or a diamond stud.

I turned to the side and shifted my shoulders back to see how the silhouette was holding up—5’7” on a tall day. Size 8 from the waist down, 10 across the chest. I inherited my grandmother’s body—small bones, top heavy, narrow waist, no hips or ass to speak of, thighs that required weekly aerobic maintenance atop admittedly great calves and size 7 feet. Speaking of feet, it couldn’t hurt to touch up the toenail polish and do a quickie manicure.

It was entirely possible that I had let a few things slide during my dating hiatus. How did I let Renee sucker me into this mess? I had about ten hours to turn myself from Hilda the hausfrau to Fiona the fly girl. It ain’t gonna be easy.

Renee—Friday, May 18, 8:45 p.m.

I was gonna fix that girl up whether she liked it or not. It was just pitiful the way she sat up in that house just whiling away her life. And she had so much to offer a man! Jewel was a cute girl. She just bought herself a perfect starter home. A three-bedroom, two-bath, two-story, Mediterranean-style in gray stucco with a semi-circular driveway. Classy with a little flavor—described Jewel to a T. She owned her own business, a temp agency that just got recognized as one of Dallas’s most promising new small businesses by the Small Business Association. I talked her into letting that old Chevy Cavalier go, and she was now rolling the new Lexus coupe. To top it off, she loved cooking and did her own gardening too. I came by and watched her plant the gardenia bushes and crepe myrtle in the front lawn. She actually enjoyed all that domestic shit. I believed in writing a check to have someone come and do those things for me.

But that’s my homegirl. She was gonna make somebody a good little wife. Hell, ain’t none of us getting any younger. If anyone had told me ten years ago that I’d still be single at thirty, I’d have laughed and called them crazy. Who was crazy and laughing now?

My cell phone rang, and I hit the hands-free Bluetooth button on the dashboard. “This is Renee,” I said in my softest, I’m-here-for-you-baby voice. Turned up my R. Kelly jam a touch so I could influx a little musical ambiance. Atmosphere was so important!

“Renee, it’s Gregory.” Damn right it was ... Mr. Greg with a rich baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. My current fresh fish, trying to hook him for real, doncha know?

“Hello, Gregory.” My tone was welcoming but not overeager. Gotta play a brother a little, you feeling me? Especially his kind. The kind that wanted me to call him Gregory while his boys called him “G.” Daddy was a lawyer; Mama was a CPA. He grew up in private schools, graduated from a big public college for the “exposure,” then went on to Ivy League for the MBA. Raised in the burbs and planned to settle there soon. The kind of guy Jewellen’s parents probably invited over for pool parties and shit like that.

Pool parties were not a realistic part of my upbringing. We were more concerned with paying to keep the water on, not swimming around in it with twenty of our bestest friends. Private school was a place rich people on TV went to. My daddy was the quintessential rolling stone, and my mom was a receptionist on a good day. What she gave me were life lessons and a will to do whatever it took to not live like that ... ever again. So I made the grades, won the scholarship, got the education, and maneuvered my way into this career. All I was missing was the long-term brother to fill in the last few blanks. Yes, I knew exactly how to play to get a Gregory kind of guy.

He was the kind who expected me to be impressed by all that he was, is, and will be. This was a man who knew he was a catch and wanted you to act like you knew it too. So I acted like I didn’t realize he was a cut above any disposable Buppie. I never did the expected. Hell, I knew what he was and where he was going. That was cream of the crop and straight to the top, and damn skippy, I’d like to be along for the ride. Yes, I had a great job and a great future of my own, but do you really think I wanted to work seventy-hour weeks for the next thirty years of my life? Hell no! I had been searching for a Gregory for a good long time. Someone I could pool my resources with for the next few years, traveling and getting a nice house and some stocks here, an IRA there. Then, after I had the two kids, he’d say, “Honey, why don’t you stay home with the kids for a few years?” BINGO! That’s what I was talking about. After the kids hit high school age, I would open up a little fashion-consulting business. About ten years after that, Gregory would be ready to retire and we’d travel for a few more years before settling down to live out our twilight years around family and friends, involving ourselves more and more with church activities and our grandkids. Oh yeah, I knew exactly who Gregory was and exactly how to play him, and that was as cool as the other side of a six-hundred-thread-count pillow.

“So tell me,” he damn near growled in that rich, sexy way brothers had of talking when they were on the prowl, “are we still on for tonight?”

“Well, I don’t know, Gregory. What did you have in mind?” Like I didn’t know. When a brother made a date for any time after 10:00 p.m., what the hell was that but a booty call? I smiled and tapped the brake as a gray-haired lady cut me off on the tollway.

“Renee—” he made my name sound like a hot, wet kiss on a cold winter night—“I just thought I’d come by and spend a little time with you.” Ah, the deliberately vague ploy.

“That sounds nice,” I purred, noticing as I whizzed past the woman that she was shooting me the finger. “I guess we could watch a movie or something.”

“Um-hmm, or something,” he repeated like I was a fool. He had a plan, and I had one too. Mine involved cinema. His ... didn’t take much to figure out.

“Okay, I’m about to pass Blockbuster. What would you like to see?” How I loved to call a bluff.

“Oh well, listen, baby—you don’t have to go through all that trouble. Let’s just find something to watch on cable.” I had to hand it to him, the brother was smooth.

“I don’t know.” I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. “Cable’s kinda iffy. If there’s nothing on, I’d hate for you to sit there bored.”

“Are you doubting your ability to keep me entertained?”

Ouch! Brother was smart too. Time to change tactics. My voice went silky. “I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with some way to pass the time—don’t you think?” Dangled the promise out there, let him think what he wanted.

“I never doubted it.” Ah, there it was ... the smug, satisfied voice of a man who thought he had reeled in the catch of the day.

I had no intention of being Gregory’s damn catch of the day or freak of the week. If he wanted this fish, he was going to have to reel slowly—I planned to stay caught for life. No way was he getting by with a hot and sloppy affair. Pulling up to the security gate of my apartment complex, I flashed my access card across the beam and waited for the gate to open. Behind me, I noticed a black BMW that looked familiar.

“Is that you behind me?” I stared at the phone. Modern technology played with my timing—with a brother calling me cell to cell, how was a woman to prepare for that? I should have checked the caller ID.

“Yeah, incredible timing, hmm?” There was that catch-of-the-day tone again.

For one second, I struggled to recall whether I was playing him or whether he was playing me. Then I thought about it. Hey, he was chasing me, but I would be the one catching him.

“Um-hmm, incredible.” I shot through the gates. “Follow me up.” I hung up the phone and pulled in front of my building. I never looked back, just climbed out of the car and headed up the steps. I heard him behind me and put a little more wiggle in my walk. That confident, I-know-I-look-good walk. Purple knit shirt, fitted black jeans, tight stiletto peep-toe heels—fly. I smirked, knowing what kind of view he was getting. Ass Almighty, as my mama would say. Ass Almighty and Thighs Everlasting in tight black denim. I reached the third floor and glanced back. Yep, his eyes were on the ass.

I opened the door, turned off the alarm, and flicked on the lights. As always, I spent a minute looking around to make sure everything was still in its proper place. Peaches jumped off the sofa and slunk over to her bed and lay back down. If I may say so, my joint was live. The entire place was done in black leather with ebony and pastel accents. I had a pretty good collection of African figurines on my mantel and in a display case by the far wall. Bold abstracts, African artifacts, and tropical plants completed the look. The place was two bedrooms, two baths, and perfect.

Gregory had come to pick me up before but had never come inside. He was standing in the doorway, trying not to take inventory. Did I mention that Greggy’s in banking? So he co. . .