Home Wrecker

by Dwayne S. Joseph, Buck 50 Productions

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

Synopsis

Lisette is a professional, and she gets paid well for her services. Wives pay her to ruin their marriages. Some are looking to get out of abusive situations, and others are looking to get even and get half. Then there are Lisette's favorite clients, the wives who don't want a divorce, but instead want control—something Lisette knows all about.

These clients pay large sums of money to have their cake and eat it too. That's exactly what Kyra Rogers wants. Lisette turns her down, but Kyra doesn't want to take no for an answer. Life for this home wrecker will never be the same.

Release date: February 25, 2014

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

I’m a home wrecker I tear families apart with seduction. A subtle smile somewhere between innocence and raw sex. Home wrecker. C-cup breasts. Twenty-five inch waist. An ass that Beyoncé would envy. That’s what I use to lure men away. Call me the pied piper. Or better yet, the pied pipestress. Home wrecker. I’m good at what I do. I’m not a whore. I’m not a woman desperate for affection. I’m not a friend with benefits. I’m not a mistress. Breaking up marriages is my profession. Wives pay me to set up their husbands. Pay good money.

Thousands for a few hours of my time. That’s about how long it takes me to get a man to forget about the ring on his finger and say to hell with the vows he made. A few hours and then he’s lost it all. In most cases, it’s his money, his home, his car, his family. In other cases, it’s his manhood.

And I don’t mean that he becomes John Wayne Bobbitt’s distant cousin.

Most women have their men set up because they’re tired of being disrespected. They spend their days and nights catering to their men. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of the kids, sexing when it’s required. They do all of this, yet they’re constantly having to deal with lies, deceit, physical and emotional abuse. They suffer day after day, wondering why a man they gave their all to would hurt them the way they do. They suffer until they can’t take it anymore.

Then they call me.

They want the son-of-a-bitch trapped. Caught on tape. They want pictures. Sometimes they want to be in the room, watching, getting a firsthand view of their men doing what most of them knew they’d do. Of course, some still hold out hope that their men will change their minds at the last minute because they love their wives just too much to betray them. But that never happens, because I don’t allow it to happen. In the end, the bastard’s caught and papers are served.

Game over.

That’s when a man loses it all.

They lose their manhood, however, when their women have them set up strictly for power and control. These women never have any intention of divorcing their men. See, instead of presenting the evidence and taking half, they hold that evidence over their men’s heads. Whatever they want, they get. Whenever they want it, it’s theirs. No complaints about how much the piece of jewelry or a new pair of shoes cost. No put downs. No mouth at all, because while their men are doing or spending whatever it takes to keep from having to give up their houses or cars, or to avoid shelling out thousands in child support (millions in some cases), the women get free reign to go and fuck the pool boy, the gardener, or the sexy gym instructor with the tight ass.

Flip the coin and the side’s the same. Either way you look at it, my services provide financial stability. Most of all, I give back what most of my clients should have never lost: control.

Some prefer the other option, but for a lot of women—at least the ones that deal with me—replacing that is better than getting half any day.

Setting up men for a living was never in my career plan, but when I look back on my past, it’s obvious that I was always headed down that road. See, at thirteen years old, I understood I had power over men.

Equipped with a seventeen-year-old’s curvaceous and fully developed body, I realized back then that all it took to get what I wanted was a subtle, seductive smile, a sexy gaze, or a you-know-you-want-it stance.

My father was the first man I learned to control.

Most people assumed I had him wrapped around my finger because he loved me unconditionally. I was his daughter, his princess, but I knew better. My father was a pervert, who was always taking side glances at me and looking me up and down. He used to love to accidentally walk in on me when I was showering or getting undressed. But instead of excusing himself and leaving right away, he would take long, lingering seconds to admire “how grown” his little girl was. He never touched me improperly, but I could see in his eyes that he wanted to fuck me good.

I should have been uncomfortable and disgusted by the fact that my own father had sexual thoughts about me, but I never was. I was amused, actually. I mean, there I was, a thirteen-year-old girl getting a rise out of a grown man—hell, my own father!

Toying with him, I learned the art of seduction and garnered a true understanding of the type of power I possessed then. With an inviting look, a seductive smile, a sexy stance, I realized I could get whatever I wanted.

Through my father, I understood just how weak men were. I learned that if you teased them just enough, their imaginations would run wild, their dicks would swell, and they’d become puppets doing whatever it was you wanted them to.

My mother saw the power I had over my father and tried time and time again to stand in my way. But although I was young, I’d been too in-tune with my sex appeal. By the time I was fifteen, she left my father and me. She never admitted it, but I think she was jealous of the fact that, up until his fatal heart attack, I could have still manipulated the hell out him.

Manipulation.

Break it down.

A woman must have come up with the word.

I continued to learn and love the power of manipulation through my teenage years and on into my early twenties. There was just nothing as intense to me as pulling a man’s strings to get what I wanted without having to give up anything in return. And that was always the case. Boys and men bought me things, took me places, and did anything I told them to, and unless I wanted it to happen, they never even got a whiff of my pussy. Manipulation.

Control.

The words are synonymous.

Playing men was always like a game to me, because I never really needed them.

I came to the realization in my early teens that in order for me to truly have control over a man, I had to be independent and successful. A woman that could play a man, but didn’t have her own shit got no respect from me, because in my eyes they were weak-minded. They may have had the tits and ass and knew how to use them, but they lacked intelligence, because if they were truly using their brains, they would realize that a woman who had her own shit was far more desirable.

See, men are simple. They do all of their rationalization with their dicks, and think that because God gave them chest hair, they’re supposed be the dominant ones.

A woman that needs nothing is a woman most wanted because she’s viewed as a challenge. Bring your own car into the relationship—a man will want to buy you a better, more expensive one. Have your own home—a man will want you to move into his. Have your own money and he’ll say to hell with the price and empty out his own wallet.

Men are driven by the need to impress. Women who understand this are the ones that get the most respect from me.

My mother, as beautiful as she was, never brought anything to the table, which is why my father never truly respected her. She always used to complain about how I was just like my father. I guess she’s been right, because I didn’t have much respect for her either. To this day, we still don’t have much of a relationship.

Like I said, I never intended on becoming a home wrecker.

Prior to my career change, I was the head buyer for LeVor Fashions—an up and coming urban fashion company that was bringing some serious heat to the powerhouses like Sean John and Rocawear. On a day-to-day basis, I met with established designers as well as new, fresh ones and basically said yay or nay to the ideas they’d come up with. LeVor was doing great before I got there, but I can’t lie—I had a lot to do with the company’s growth over a four year period.

I always had a keen eye when it came to fashion. I just knew what did and didn’t look good. What would or wouldn’t work. To me, style went hand in hand with the power a woman possessed. It was all part of the package.

During my junior year in college, I was able to land an internship with LeVor, starting out as an assistant for the head buyer at that time. While I did the minute tasks like making copies, putting away files, and running errands, my mentor would allow me to get into the thick of things by seeking out my opinion, which actually mattered. Under her, I learned the do’s and don’ts of the industry, and I got a true understanding of trends and how to recognize what they were and when they would happen.

During my senior year, I was given my first major task of choosing the design for a pair of jeans the company was going to kick off their summer line with. The pair I chose was supposed to be the teaser, but it turned out to be their biggest seller for the season. Impressed with everything I’d done during my internship, LeVor hired me as a junior level buyer after I graduated.

I did that for three years and enjoyed great success in my role, until I was suddenly propelled to head buyer when my mentor quit unexpectedly and went to work for the competition. So there I was at twenty-six, the youngest person in the company, with an executive position. I had a six-figure salary, drove a Mercedes, and owned a luxurious condo overlooking the city. I was a single and successful bad-ass, honey complected black woman, and the men loved and hated me. They loved me because I had the beauty and the brains. They hated me because I couldn’t be tamed.

Remember: control was what it was all about for me.

Life was good for me back then. Shit, life was great. Especially my career. I was respected. I was envied. I never expected my career to change.

But then I went to Texas.

Houston, Texas. Sofitel Hotel. At the bar in the lounge, sitting with the VP of marketing, Marlene Stewart.

That was where my career changed.

We were having drinks. Me, a Cosmopolitan. Marlene, white wine. We were in Houston attending the fashion show of one of the country’s hottest female rappers—XXXstacy. Like P. Diddy, Jay Z, and other rappers with huge followings, XXXstacy decided to expand her tiny empire and step into the world of fashion. She didn’t design shit, but with her name, XXXstacy Wear was destined to blow up.

Some top people at LeVor received insider information about XXXstacy’s desire to get into fashion and with relentless pursuit, the company managed to work out a deal with XXXstacy that would be beneficial to both sides.

Houston was XXXstacy’s hometown, so it was naturally the site for the premier showing. I’d designed some and approved much of what the public was going to see. Marlene had been responsible for the buzz. Countless hours put in, XXXstacy Wear was more our baby than XXXstacy’s herself. After one too many last minute meetings, we were in the lounge winding down before the big showing the next day.

Marlene was an attractive, older, white female in her mid-forties that could have easily passed for mid-thirties. She was an obsessive woman. Obsessive about her work. Obsessive about her body. Obsessive about her husband.

“Fucking asshole.” Marlene snapped her cell phone shut.

I looked at her, but didn’t say anything. That was the fifth time in the past seven minutes that she’d done that. I took a sip of my Cosmo and waited for her to curse again.

“Fucking asshole. He’s probably fucking her right now.” Marlene angrily passed her hand through her shoulder-length brown hair.

I took another sip of my drink, blotted the corner of my mouth with my thumb and index finger, and said, “Why don’t you just divorce him?”

Marlene frowned. “And deal with the scrutiny. . .