Just Can't Let Go

Book 2: Crystal Series

by Mary B. Morrison

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

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Mary B. Morrison delivers an explosive second novel about the unforgettable Crystal women, a family battling to stay together as desire, deception, and ever-elusive happiness threaten to tear them apart.

Too much is never, ever enough for Alexis Crystal. She's playing a dangerous game, but she's finally close to getting 24/7 sizzling satisfaction. With a ring on her finger from James Wilcox and the woman she loves firmly between her sheets, no one can match Alexis when it comes to scheming. And her duplicity just makes her better at helping her siblings get revenge on the lovers who are doing them wrong. . .

Devereaux Crystal just about has it all. Producer of TV's hottest new reality show, she's engaged to entrepreneur Phoenix and will do anything for their adorable two-year-old, Nya. She and Phoenix have always set it off in the bedroom, but lately Devereaux is starting to question whether Phoenix will ever make his own success, much less set a wedding date. Soon, his seductive excuses and tantalizing evasion finally lead her to an unthinkable truth: Ebony, the fiery star of Devereaux's series, is keeping Phoenix primed, hot, and at her beck and call. But Devereaux is holding all the cards--and she plans to use them to exact the sweetest revenge. . .

With the help of her sisters, Devereaux sets out to blow up Phoenix's house of lies. But the explosion ignites its own chain of devastating consequences. Because no one should mess with the Crystal women without expecting some fierce payback.

Release date: August 1, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

#TGIF #dontneedthisish #iamthatbitch Backspace on all that except #TGIF. Tacked on #importantdecision #SSCATL. Never posted without ending with my hashtag #iamebonywaterhouse.

Knowing Tiera was hawking my social media pages, I’d revised my tweet before posting. She’d definitely alert Devereaux should a light enough to pass for white ratchet enough to lead any housewives series newcomer go #left with a well-deserved defamatory public announcement. I was looking #edible for my male followers, #glamtothenine for all my gurlsquad, so I posted a selfie to Insta with #bossbitch. Had to keep things in character until I knew which direction I was flowing in. 467 retweets in less than sixty seconds. #coolbeans

Devereaux could hire a zillion Ebonys, but there was only one #GoldieJackson and she knew it.

The humidity coated my bare shoulders with moisture while I paced back and forth on Peachtree Street in front of the building where Devereaux’s office was located in midtown. To defuse my frustration, I made the sidewalk my runway. I placed my Bluetooth in my ear as I stomped fifty feet demanding my space as others stepped aside. My hair blew in the warm breeze. I rocked the best designer outer and under gear year-round. This was #mylife before #SSCATL. Shorts, skirts, halters, blazers, pants, coats, corsets. Black was my favorite color, but I wasn’t a #OliviaPope bland hue type of chick. Didn’t care too much for the spot her a mile away #rainbow-shine either.

I held the button on my iPhone, commanded Siri to, “Call BJ.”

People continuously moved out of my way. Pivoting to retrace my steps, I noticed men #hawking my ass, women admiring my diamonds. I smiled, kept strolling. Two-Faced Melted Strawberry liquefied lipstick was my usual.

Most days I had a destination when I left house number one. Sometimes it was to go to house number two. Was seldom sure where I’d end up after dark. T.I.’s Scales 925. Ritz. Taboo 2. Intercontinental. Pin Ups. Mandarin. Lips. With my side. With my main. With my husband.

This celebrity thing was really happening overnight. What if I couldn’t handle the #fame? It was ten thirty in the morning, already seventy degrees on this gorgeous summer day.

My hubby answered, “Aren’t you supposed to be working? Everything okay?”

I hadn’t had a requirement to report on a regular since I’d said I do. His inquiry was legit. A few people spoke to me. I nodded. Kept moving.

“I don’t know if I can do this show.”

“Honey, this is your fresh start. Give it a chance,” Buster said. “This is the big break you’ve dreamt of. You’re just a little nervous, that’s all. You’ll be fine. Big daddy has spoiled his Colombian angel, but it’s time to spread your wings. I’m not going to let you fail. You need me to fly in from New York? I can make it to Atlanta by six this evening. All you have to do is say yes.”

“Not yet. Maybe. I’ll text you in an hour.”

I tweeted, #ilovemyman #iamebonywaterhouse.

Had to keep posts general when it came to dicks. That way they all thought it was intended for them. My man was whatever guy I wanted at the time. 843 retweets and counting.

I’d done well for myself. Lied about being in law school until I snagged and married a seventy-one-year-old (well, he was sixty-nine at that time) millionaire whom I seldom saw. Tired of the young broke lames, lots of ATL females were hitching to much older men with money.

We owned a home in Long Island where he stayed. The house my ex-sugar daddy bought before I got married that I’d told Buster I’d sold was in Brookhaven a few blocks from Devereaux’s. The six-thousand-square-foot home in Conyers had an indoor pool and a natural lake as our backyard. Our vacation proprieties were in Hawaii and Paris. Buster got what he wanted, a pretend husband in New York and me, his real trophy wife in Atlanta. I had no complaints. I was #wellkept.

Early in my relationship with Buster he’d told me, “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll take care of you.”

That was a #donedeal.

On the real, the compensation for my role was sweet. Straight up, my lifestyle wouldn’t change if I went to the garage, got in my black-on-black Benz with the tinted windows, and drove off with my personal tags that read, #AYMSSIK, which meant kiss my ass.

All females outside my ATL circle were haters. That was how I had to regard those #jealousbitches like Devereaux’s sister Alexis. She was pimpin’ on the peasant stroll. Policing her stripper gurl, or should I say, ex-gurl, Chanel every night at Pin Ups. Only thing Alexis and I had in common was spending other people’s money.

Bills, I’d never seen one since my first date with Buster. My husband, I sexed him when he wanted, but he preferred to watch me spread for other men. Whenever we saw each other he’d play with my pussy, tits, and finger-fuck me until I came really hard. He had his life. I had mine. He didn’t question me. I gave the same #respect.

I responded, “I always need you.”

My husband was my biggest supporter. That was why I’d called him. My family in Colombia trashed me for being a gold digger. Now they were trying to come up on my coins. My ass was never wetter than my wallet.

“What’s really bothering you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Stick with this, Goldie. Of all the professions you’ve pursued, this is the perfect one. You love being in front of the camera, and God knows it adores you almost as much as I do. Having a career is better than any amount of money I can give you. Take advantage of this opportunity. Just remember. Whatever you do, don’t mention anything about me on that show. I’ll divorce you and dissolve your trust.”

Public humiliation was Buster’s biggest fear. He did not want to have people gossiping at his funeral.

“Don’t be so defensive, baby. It’s not a reality show. She’s filming the show like it’s a reality series.”

“Well, make sure she doesn’t write me into the script. I’m too old to leave here shamed. People will do anything for ratings. I don’t want any parts of the spotlight.”

Too late for the nondisclosure. Before I auditioned, I told Devereaux I was married, knowing that would allow her not to view my business relationship with Phoenix as a threat. I didn’t tell her BJ’s initials or his name. The rock on my finger was the real proof.

Our marriage has always been private. Buster Jackson felt the less people knew about our personal lives, the fewer problems we’d have.

Sucking in my lips, I became quiet. Stopped walking. Stared at the ground. The way Devereaux wrote the script was like she was writing my life story. Couldn’t tell my man half the things in the script indirectly applied to him, to us. #Coincidental. Soon I’d have to give him a heads-up, bail on this series now, or risk getting served divorce papers.

Busta was right. I did love this role. Couldn’t afford to jeopardize my financial security on either end. Just didn’t know how to be that bitch Devereaux wanted without risking becoming homeless again.

In the script, I was secretly married to an Italian tycoon. I was enjoying perpetrating the single life in the United States, but I wasn’t a citizen. Unbeknownst to my husband, I was the side chick to two men—one married, one engaged: West-Léon and Travis. The finale was going to shake things up when the sexiest Italian man in film landed on American soil to take me back to his home in Italy.

Phoenix Watson’s name registered on my cell.

“I’ve got to take this call, baby.”

“You’re a star, Goldie. Own it, sweetheart. I want you to be happy. Call me when you’re done. I’ll fly in and take you to Chops for dinner tonight. I’m proud of—”

“Thanks, BJ. Gotta go.”

Touching the end call/accept call image on my iPhone, I didn’t want Phoenix’s call to go to voice mail. Obviously, Devereaux had called him since he was the one who referred me to her.

I answered, “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“I got some good news,” he said.

“I wish I could say the same. You must’ve not spoken with Devereaux. She’s pissed at me.”

“Dev is going to let me manage you.”

“Are you serious, nigga?!” Lowering my voice, I hissed, “I can’t let you do that ish.”

“You worry too much. If you fail, I fail. If you don’t get back on track, Dev will never accept another one of my clients. Branding is what you need, Goldie. Dev is providing the platform for you to become a red carpet celebrity overnight. I want to make you the biggest star on television, get you major roles in films, commercial endorsements, all of that. They will beg you for appearances. I’m talking about branding you as Ebony Waterhouse. You are the woman everybody (men and women) is going to fall in love with. I’m going to manage you and that’s final,” Phoenix insisted.

“I don’t need you. I’m good.”

“Haven’t I taken care of you?”

“You have.”

“Well, I need you to do the same for me. Don’t you see if this works out, I’ll become the go-to man for branding the potential A-list. For a measly five grand I helped you get that eight-hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck. The least you can do is help me pad my pockets.”

I nodded. “Fine, Phoenix. Fine.”

“Well, all right. I got this. I’m officially your manager now. Think I’ll rename my company Phoenix Stars Branding and Imaging Corporation.”

It wasn’t the manager title I was worried about. “What if Devereaux finds out we’ve been fucking for years?”

“I got this. I told you Dev has daddy issues. She doesn’t even know the dude. On her birth certificate her father is listed as unknown. There’s no way she’s going to let our daughter grow up without my being in the house. You keep making love to me and let me take care of Dev.”

Shaking my head, I glanced at my phone. “Oh, shit! I gotta go. I’ma see you tonight?”

“You know it,” he said. “Soon as I’m done taking care of the home front, I’ll be over.” I could hear in his tone that there was a smile on his face.

Oh, damn! Buster said he was flying in. “Wait, I need to go over these lines tonight. Come by tomorrow.”

Joy turned to disappointment in his voice when Phoenix said, “Cool.”

We never ended a conversation by saying bye. I whispered, “I love you, my babe.” I contemplated going to the garage, getting in my car, going home, and leaving this opportunity behind. That was the respectable thing to do for Buster, myself, Phoenix, and Dev.

Softly, he said, “I love you, too, my babe.”

With less than a minute to make the biggest decision of my career, I didn’t want to be a second late if I were going back into that reading room.

The valet attendant at T.I.’s Scales 925 opened the door to the white convertible Lexus my fiancé, James Wilcox, gifted me. I stepped out modeling my five-inch red Louboutin pumps, a diamond anklet, and a silky salmon-colored dress that barely covered my bootylicious buns. The newest Michael Kors purse dangled on my forearm.

My engagement ring was where it belonged. At home. In the black box it came in. Inside my drawer. All the way to the back. For what it was worth, James could have it back and ship it to his side piece in LA. The ice my ex-girlfriend, Chanel, gave me was in my purse. Missing her, I dug into my bag, put her ring on the thin twenty-four-inch chain, then wore it around my neck. Legally I could say I do to either of them.

I wasn’t here to meet James or Chanel. I needed to talk heart-to-heart with my brother.

I took my ticket, told the tall, handsome, blond-haired guy, “Thanks,” and then strutted up the sidewalk and into the front entrance.

The scene was popping off, as usual.

A lot happened to me twelve weeks ago that I couldn’t shake. My life was one big lie. Hell, I was so good at deceiving people I didn’t know what to believe myself, especially when it came to love. Being in college was the main thing that kept me from going insane. Dreading that summer break was here. Non-fam who rubbed me wrong could get their ass kicked. Wish I’d never begged my mother to help me find my father. Biggest mistake of my life.

Taking one class would’ve kept me partially occupied. Too late to enroll. Shouldn’t blame my fiancé, my ex-girlfriend, my mother, or my brother for my dilemma.

I stood in dining area number one; fluffed my dress. I stared at the round, pale man cracking chicken bones with his teeth. He gazed at the flat screen television in front of him. I looked around for my brother; he wasn’t in this section.

The choices I’d made three months ago had gotten me in this horrible situation. I shook my hands as though they were dripping wet recalling the way I’d leaned on my brother’s stovetop, let him penetrate me from behind until he came inside of me. That hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at the time, when I had no idea my father was his father, too. Around that incident on a different day, one Saturday morning I’d pulled down his pants in my mom’s kitchen, then sucked him off in sixty seconds. Brother or not, he was undeniably hot.

Gliding up the staircase to the second floor, I strolled to the end of this dining room. He wasn’t in here. I could’ve texted. Would rather wait. Didn’t want a disappointing, can’t make it response or a request for a rain check. I’d gotten enough rejection from James lately.

I asked my brother to meet me here. Desperately, I needed someone to talk with. Someone who was just like me and wouldn’t judge me. That eliminated my sisters Devereaux, Sandara, especially Mercedes. Confiding in my mom wasn’t happening since her man was my newly discovered biological brother. Shit was complicated. It was best for me not to speak to my mom yet.

Skimming the crowded room buzzing with chatter, I didn’t see him anywhere, but as usual, lots of eyes were on me. I went to the rooftop. A few people were doing hookah. Inhaling the fresh air, I gazed out over midtown, then rode the elevator back to the first floor. This place, famous for its shrimp and grits, stayed open until three in the morning. Checking my cell, I saw it was 1:01 a.m. People were drinking, laughing, talking over one another.

One man held up an empty glass, then shouted to the mixologist, “Hey, buddy, put a round on my tab for me and my new friends here!”

I sighed, rolled my eyes at him. Why was he so damn loud and happy? I hated jolly attention whores.

En route to the restroom, a guy seated at the bar grabbed my hand. “Hey, baby. Let me buy you whatever you want.”

From the shoes on his feet, to his jacked-up fingernails, to the gray hairs sprouting out of his wide nostrils, he couldn’t afford me. If he’d looked at my face instead of gawking at my ass, he would’ve seen I was already annoyed. I snatched my arm away, stared down at him. “Bitch, don’t you ever touch me again in your life.” Scales was too upscale not to have a dress code.

He leaned back. “Bitch?” His brows grew closer together.

I didn’t give a fuck what he thought; he’d heard me correctly. He should drop the defense. He wasn’t offended when he violated me. I hated the disrespectful shit men did. He didn’t know me. That fool also didn’t know I had my fully loaded forty in my purse, but if he touched me again, everybody up in here would find out. Some other woman might find his offering (probably a cocktail not a house) flattering. Not Alexis Crystal.

I had a fifty-thousand-dollar car outside. Registered in my name and paid for by James. The balance on my college tuition was zero thanks to James. Rent. Paid in full every month by my gurl or my guy. Now that Chanel was my ex-gurl, I’d have to be nicer to James, but I wasn’t putting his ring back on ’til he ditched his side. Normally, this time of the morning I’d be at Pin Ups waiting for Chanel to finish stripping; then I’d empty her money bag into my oversized purse. Depending on how my conversation with Spencer went when he arrived, I might drop by the club on my way home.

Maybe I could convince my sister Devereaux to cast me in Sophisticated Side Chicks ATL. Outside of having a super-sexy hourglass frame with a big butt and huge tits, I didn’t know what Devereaux saw in gold-digging Goldie Jackson. Lucky bitch came up on gay ass Buster. She thought that shit was a secret. My hair stylist, Marcus Darlin, knew all of his clients’ business. Acting had to be Goldie’s passion the way she kept her husband’s beard manicured. Her personal life seemed dazzled with materials, but that bitch was boring. Maybe I’d befriend her. Set her ass up. Take her spot. Devereaux knew I should’ve been Ebony Waterhouse, but she didn’t want to hire family.

A couple got up from a table behind me. Maybe that jerk who’d touched my hand had done me the favor of my not having made it to the restroom. I sat on the stool facing the exit, leaned back against the chair, crossed my legs, swung my foot back and forth waiting for Spencer to arrive.

Say what? Straightening my spine, this could be my lucky day. Phoenix and Goldie entered arm in arm, side by side. I captured a few photos with my cell, then watched them. No doubt. They appeared booed up. I couldn’t believe I had pictures of Mercedes’s husband, Benjamin, cheating and now Phoenix. I could be that bitch to expose these trifling pretenders.

Stirring up shit in both of my sisters’ households was not my intent. Okay, yes it was. My life was screwed. Theirs were too. They just didn’t know it. I texted a pic of Phoenix to Mercedes knowing she’d show it to Devereaux. To level the situation, I sent Devereaux a picture that I’d taken of Benjamin out on a date at Houston’s restaurant months ago. I might snag my role sooner than I’d expected.

My brother was a twenty-seven-year-old in heat born February 17. I was a year younger than he, July 28, Leo. My vagina was always turnt up. Being with child made me hornier. I could tell the moment I saw Spencer working behind the bar at the Cheesecake Factory on Lenox Road pouring my mother a birthday drink that he had a big dick that I wanted to ride. I didn’t care that it was my mother’s fiftieth, or that Spencer was interested in her. He was hot for me. I’d admit, I didn’t care about a lot of people or things. I was out to get mine all the time.

Didn’t believe my mom would go all the way with a man almost half her age when she’d let a sixty-year-old married man move in with her. Guess she caught a break when Fortune suffered a heart attack and died the day after she stepped over the hill. His death was worth celebrating. No one missed his broke ass. Trifling men like dude at the bar should never get laid, but there were always females like my sister Sandara who’d lay with the lames, have their babies, then bitch about what the daddies didn’t do for their kids.

Whatever.

At least I can no longer say I didn’t know my father. Now that I knew the truth, I didn’t give a fuck about his old deadbeat decrepit ass. His tired one foot in the grave, high blood pressure, bent over behind with gout in both feet was calling every day begging to see me. My father was a stranger to me. Having met him hadn’t changed that situation.

I smiled. A half smile as my brother entered the bar. Noticed Phoenix and Goldie were seated at a booth up front. Spencer was six feet two. Had them light brown bedroom eyes and full lips. Slim, sexy, 180 with that creamy milk chocolate complexion. I liked his hair trimmed low; preferred those shoulder-length locks he’d recently cut off, though. Told me the energy in his dreads wasn’t the same after knowing he’d sexed his sister.

Female heads turned toward him. If they knew he had those indentions in his lower abs that curved toward his inner thighs, a big dick that hooked to his left . . . Alexis, that’s your blood!

I could’ve waved at Spencer, but decided to check my face in my compact mirror while letting the ladies enjoy his view.

I didn’t believe in regrets, but that was one good dick I sure ’nuff should’ve passed on.

Ah, yeah. Inhaling slow and long, the aroma of chicken and waffles greeted me the second I opened the door. I spotted her right away. I swore that woman never took a holiday from ultra sexy.

Vinyl-covered cushioned stools lined the bar. This was my favorite joint. Knew lots of shit like how men approach dudes, hook up, then leave together. What they did wasn’t my thing or my business. The food and hospitality kept me coming back.

Wooden high tables on the perimeter. Dining-height seats in the front, private cigar lounge upstairs. My man Tom was mixing. I rubbed my palms together. That was what was up.

Should’ve known there was something beyond decadent about Alexis the moment she tilted her sweet chocolate indulgent ass in my direction at the Cheesecake Factory. Damn. Sidetrack. Her mama’s number-one dessert was our Godiva.

Alexis was that female version of me. Our mannerisms and mental outlook on sex, love, life, and situations made us twins at heart. Wish I would’ve known she was my sister, man. Yeah, a brotha got dick control issues, but I’d never get it in with family. If we didn’t share DNA, my “D” might be in her “A” before sunrise.

Spence, dude. That’s kinship, nigga. Squash the thoughts, bruh. My doggie-dog territorial got-to-bone the baddest babes was another reason my boy LB was gonna flip when he found out the whole truth about my sexing Alexis.

I watched her check her hair and makeup; her blemish-free, smooth skin was just like her, flawless. Bronze l. . .