Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison, Noire

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

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Mary B. Morrison pairs with Queen of Urban Erotica Noire to deliver two tantalizing novellas about sex, revenge—and getting what you deserve… Character of a Man MARY B. MORRISON Seven Stephens seems to have it all—money, mansion and a man—but is taken by surprise when her fiancé tells her the wedding is off if she can’t lose twenty-five pounds in six weeks. In no time, she’s out the door and headed for Punany Paradise for a sensual workout that’s both sweet revenge and sweet surrender…. Sugar-Honey-Ice Tee NOIRE Blow, Nap, and Tomere are three grimy playahs from the hood. Nicknamed Dirty, Dastardly, and Depraved, these three NFL stars have no problem living up to their names on and off the field. But when they scheme to take out their biggest competition, a promising quarterback, they finally meet their match. Not in a vengeful ball player, but in three wicked and sexy sistahs. And it won’t take Sugar, Honey, or Ice Tee long to wreck everything in their path. Because vicious hotties always take whatever they want and ruin whatever they please…

Release date: June 1, 2010

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 384

Sample

“Lose the weight, or the wedding is off.”

What the hell did he just say to me? The air in my lungs caught in my throat, struggling to escape. Where did his unwarranted demand come from? His words echoed like ping-pong balls, slamming against my temples fast and furious. I took a deep breath, restraining from screaming in his face. Forget that. Why should I be the sensible one?

“You didn’t say that last night, when I was sucking your dick!”

Casually, he said, “Timing would’ve been off. Agree?”

I was in shock, a quiescent mime unable to respond.

Ping-pong! Round after round. Somebody please stop the ricochets!

Sitting in silence, I prayed, Give me a sign that this is an April Fool’s joke in the middle of October. Someone please drop a coin in the invisible metal bucket perched at my feet, triggering him to say, “Baby, I was kidding. I love you just the way you are.” Motionless, breath trapped inside my throat, I waited and waited and waited. He didn’t speak a word.

Mama used to tell me, “Don’t be an angry woman. Be a thinking woman. If you feel pressured, silence yourself, take a few deep breaths, and think about what is best for you.”

As silence filled the air, we emotionally drifted apart.

Swallowing the despair clawing at me, I mustered myself and said, “I can’t breathe.” Claustrophobia overwhelmed me, causing me to lose my composure and slump into the sofa beside my callous fiancé.

All I’d done since he’d proposed was joyfully plan our perfect wedding. Two years living together, the last year engaged, and this was his way of calling off the wedding? Sweat seeped between and underneath my thighs, soaking my black Chicago Bears panties. I’d understand his behavior if we’d argued, fought.

Was his love a façade?

I loved this man with all my heart, my being, my soul. But that’s my fault, not his.

“Who?” I dreaded asking what I had to know. “Is she prettier? Smaller? Smarter? Is she better than me in bed? I can please you more. Do some other things if you’d like. Anything. I’ll do anything to make this . . . work.” The words strangled me with desperation. Fear of losing the man I loved to another woman consumed me. “Who is she? Please tell me.”

No woman was a bigger freak than me. My big, delicious caramel titties with bubble-gum-sized nipples had easily sandwiched many dicks when I was in high school and in college. I’d done things to make grown men cry like babies. A few women, too. I could prove it to him. Right here. Right now. I called myself being safe. Careful not to scare him away, I’d reserved my best bedroom skills to blow his mind on our honeymoon in St. Barts.

He remained stoic, gazing out of the living-room window, beyond Highway 41, to the blue waters of Lake Michigan. Flatly, Maverick said, “There is no she. All you need to know is you mean the world to me.”

I scratched the brow above my twitching left eye. Maverick hadn’t witnessed the best or worst of what I could offer him. Think, Seven. Think. “You can’t be serious,” I said faintly, lightly strumming my numb jaw. “Something or someone changed you overnight. You don’t love me like you used to. Last night, the sex, my updating you on our wedding plans, then our watching the presidential debate, I had no idea. No clue you felt this way. What’s wrong with my body?”

I sat up straight, rubbed my stomach, swallowed air while forcing back tears. I nervously tugged a fistful of my long, curly hair. “I thought you liked my body. You’ve never complained before. There has to be someone else. Is she younger? Older? Or are you tripping off of your father again? He’s dead, honey. Stop letting him ruin your life from his grave.”

His parents and mine were deceased. I couldn’t imagine any parent being as cruel as Maverick said his dad was to him. We were both only children. I had one best friend, Zena, and he had two close friends from high school. At times Maverick acted more like a child than a grown man. Nothing was ever his fault. I had to think my way out of what was bothering him.

Last night, Obama made me believe change was good and that all things were possible. McCain made me fear four more years of a Republican administration, declining property values, vanishing stocks, bank failures, homes foreclosing, more major companies and small businesses filing for bankruptcy, and diminishing 401Ks forcing retirees back to work.

At this moment, Maverick made me think I’d slept in the same bed for two years with a complete stranger. While the economy was unpredictable, my relationship was supposed to be recession-proof. So I’d thought. Foolish me. I wasn’t giving up on him.

“Ouch.” I touched my bottom lip, glanced at my finger, and rubbed the speck of blood on my white Devin Hester jersey. Disappointment layered my sadness with disgust. The slits of my lids narrowed, shrinking his six-foot frame to the three inches he made me feel. Scooting to the opposite end of the apricot-tinted Italian leather sofa, I stared at my fiancé. My palms ached to slap him upside his shiny bald head.

His rejection overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I felt fat. Miserable. Dirty. Sticky.

Don’t slap his selfish ass. Calm down. You are not a violent person. You’re just upset. Maybe this is some sort of last-minute pass or fail test from him. The kind that reassures him he’s not about to marry a woman who is violent or vindictive.

Finally, he answered, “I’m dead serious.” He pulled from his pocket a pair of my yellow Lycra boy-cut underwear with SWEETER THAN HONEY embroidered in gold across the pubic area.

Sideswiped by premeditated premarital sabotage, I tried my best not to look at him. I might go off.

Why’d he have to pick the yellow ones? Any other color would’ve appeared smaller. Black. Red. Snatching the drawers from him, I threw them in his beautiful brown-sugar face, then watched them fall to his lap. A well-trimmed shadow beard trailed a thin line from his ears to his chin, framing his succulent lips with a perfectly aligned goatee, a replica of G. Garvin’s. I shouldn’t have prepared so many of Gerry’s mouthwatering recipes. Too late to regurgitate any of the carbs from my hips. Fat cells had already doubled, tripled, inviting cellulite to the sides and backs of my thighs.

Maverick’s stern demeanor hadn’t wavered.

A bottle of tequila would help me through a liposuction procedure, a few hCG injections, laser cellulite treatments, and a series of body wraps. A quick fix might salvage our relationship or keep me from . . .

Quietly I stood, went upstairs to his library, removed the shoe box from the top shelf. I held Maverick’s prized possession in my hand. Cold, heavy like my heart. I placed the gun in my laptop bag, closed and locked the safe, then returned to the living room. Here I was, not married yet, already fighting to hang on to my man. I sat beside him. He was not leaving me. Not alive.

I hate you. . . . Kiss me. Hold me. Please tell me you’re not serious. I love you so much. It hurts.

Magnificent crystal gray eyes, dilated black coal pupils sparkled like carbonado diamonds. Maverick was perfection personified. A self-made multimillionaire. The wealthiest, most eligible bachelor in Illinois, according to the tabloids. He’d given me more than any of those housewives of Atlanta and Orange County had combined.

“That’s cool,” he said, twirling my drawers on one finger. “But getting upset isn’t going to help your case. I spent a half mil on an engagement ring, which is in the jewelry box because it doesn’t fit!” Calmly, he continued, “That means the wedding band won’t fit, either. You need to get real about your fat ass or get up out of my house. It’s just that simple.”

Ooh wee, Seven, don’t go back upstairs for the gun. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Breathing heavily, I thought, Mama, what should I say to this man?

“I’m not a damn Barbie doll! I’m a woman. I have feelings. For God’s sake, can’t you see how much I love you?” I didn’t know what to do or say next. I struggled to rationalize his behavior but couldn’t.

Maverick replied, “True. Barbie is white,” adding no comment about his love for me.

I sat there on the verge of a nervous breakdown. This man was my everything. My friend. My lover. My fiancé. I had to marry him.

Had a lotta shit on my dick.

Seven didn’t know me. No one knew the real Maverick Maxamillion. I was a motherless child, knew I wanted to be loved, and was not so sure I was capable of loving. I was money hungry, and money masked my insecurities and promiscuity. I was certain that Seven loved me, and I loved Seven the best I knew how. How could I keep a secret from her?

Best to let her go now, spare her the shock of discovering what I’d taken from her without her permission. The choice to decide if she wanted to marry a bisexual man. Shit was complicated. My reputation was at stake if I came out. Couldn’t give my father another reason to disown me. My business partners would force me out. Clearly, I needed Seven more than she needed me.

Seven sat there, searching my eyes for answers I’d never share. She was so damn gorgeous. Large, brown, dreamy eyes. Thick, full, pouting lips, which men craved to have on their dicks. Flawless skin, softer than a baby’s. Long, silky jet-black hair, which nicely framed her grapefruit-sized natural breasts. Sexy, shapely legs. She’d put on more weight than I desired. Wouldn’t hurt her to get it off before the wedding, but her weight gain wasn’t the reason I had to have space.

“Think about how we can work this out. I’ve got to go to my office for a few hours,” I lied, then said, “We can finish this discussion when I get back.” I stood, kissed her on the cheek. I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. She hadn’t moved or stopped crying.

I retrieved my cell phone off the coffee table, got on the elevator, strolled past the doorman at the front desk, walked outside, then strode to my town car.

“You sure you want to go there?” Danté asked, holding my door open.

“Yeah, I’m sure, man. Drive,” I said, closing my eyes before he’d shut my door. Leaning my neck against the leather headrest, I felt tears escape as I visualized Seven crying.

In many ways, I was perfect and fucked up. Parental rejection had ruined my childhood. Truth was, I wished my father were dead. Better to lie to Seven about my parents than to have her deal with the bullshit I’d been confronted with all my life—death threats, rejection.

“I hate that motherfucker,” I said, struggling to suppress my sniffles. Hated him for emotionally breaking me down.

Stomp! The sole of my leather shoe landed against the back of the driver’s seat. Adjusting my black slacks, I spread my thighs, held my dick.

“Don’t know why you put yourself through this every week,” Danté said from the driver’s seat. His deep voice excited me. “Just whup your old man’s ass, get your mother out of his house, and let her live with us.”

I wasn’t going to argue with him. I’d told him the house I was building based on Seven’s architectural plans was for Seven, not for him. Initially I’d asked Seven to leave so I could keep our new home, the home she’d fantasized about, a surprise. I was tired of Danté’s insecure ass being in competition with my fiancée.

My immediate concern was my mom. I had to find a way to free her. She was miserable, but refused to leave my trifling father. They’d probably die together. The same way Jesse Jackson had offered no genuine apology to Obama for saying, “I wanna cut his nuts off.” Right or wrong, I would not apologize to my dad for disrespecting him.

The closer Danté got to my parents’ home on the South Side of Chicago, the slower he drove. We bypassed Soldier Field, where I’d be Monday night watching the game from my owner’s suite. A few days after that, I’d be at the United Center, in the suite I owned.

Danté parked in front of my father’s house. The lawns adjacent to his one-story, three-bedroom, two-bath, two-thousand-square-foot home had grass up to my knees, with FOR SALE signs on them. I should purchase both homes so no one would hear him scream when I beat his ass to death.

I walked up five wide cement steps to the front door, glanced over my shoulder, saw Danté sitting with his car door open, feet planted on the sidewalk, watching my back.

Knock. Knock. Knock. The side of my fist banged on the screen.

Quickly, my dad appeared. Unshaven. Grumpy. Shirt wrinkled. Hair woolly. Halitosis slapped me in the nose.

Stepping back, I said, “I came to see my mother.”

“Where’s your damn respect, boy?” he grumbled, coughing through the screen. “You ain’t stepping foot in my house until you learn to respect me.”

“You sorry-ass motherfucker!” I shouted, then spat in his face. “That’s my mother.”

“Got it twisted. She was my woman before you came along,” he said, wiping my spit from his eyes. “Wait right there. I got your motherfucker for you.” He disappeared into the house.

Peeping into the living room, I saw my mom rocking in her favorite chair. When my dad came into view, she jumped from the cherry-wood rocker, grabbed his arms, and screamed, “Leave my baby alone! No, Frank, don’t kill him!”

“Let me go, woman,” he said, pushing my mother to the floor.

Pow!

A bullet ripped through the screen, barely missing my shoulder.

Seconds later, Danté was on the porch, dragging me away, when pow, another bullet darted between our faces.

Jabbing my fists in the air toward him, I yelled, “You’re not the only one with a gun. Be a real man. Put the gun down. Confront me to my face. This ain’t over. I’ll be back for your sorry ass.” Danté dragged me down the steps, forced me into the back of the car, slammed my door, then sped off.

“You got a death wish? You’re not going to be satisfied until he kills you. This is our last time coming over here,” Danté commanded.

Danté made me realize that by showing up at Frank’s doorstep every week, I was more afraid to live than to die.

You know the saying “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” What was that all about? I thought Maverick was happy with my cooking. Was I not supposed to eat the food I’d cooked for him? During our twelve-month engagement, I’d admittedly gained a few pounds. Hips fuller. Waist thicker. Face slightly rounder. I honestly loved my man so much, I’d do anything to please him. I stood over the stove to prepare his breakfast and dinner seven days a week and served him lunch when we were home lounging on the weekends.

For the first time in our two years together, I slept alone last night, not knowing where Maverick was. Worrying if he was safe. He hadn’t answered or returned my phone calls. Came in this morning, five o’clock, no conversation, then crashed with his clothes on. I’d given him three hours to rest.

“Maverick, why? Why bring this up eight weeks before the wedding?” I said, nudging him in his side. Forcing back tears, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him. “You could’ve said something two, four, six, eight, even ten months ago if you didn’t want me gaining weight.”

Eyelids closed, eyebrows raised, he mumbled, “Are you serious? I shouldn’t have had to say anything at all. You don’t have to work. You’re home all day or out shopping with Zena. Zena hasn’t gained weight. You’re the one who chose not to exercise. You’re not a kid. You’re an adult. Common sense should’ve made you realize your ass was spreading. I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do.”

“Oh, you mean like when you told me, ‘I don’t want my wife working. Stay home. Seven, stop hanging out late at night with Zena. She’s a single woman. Find some married friends. Stop going to happy hour with your college friends, because you’re about to be a married woman. I’m an icon in Chicago. I will not have my wife-to-be giving me a bad reputation by being seen with the wrong kind.’ You mean you shouldn’t have told me what to do the day after you proposed?” I waited for his answer to that.

Rolling over twice, then getting out on the opposite side of the bed, he said, “That was pathetic. I don’t care what you do with your life, but don’t change the subject. You can’t even fit into the fifty-thousand-dollar wedding dress I bought you. I’m not wasting money on another one. Nor am I altering the one you have. That’s final, sweetheart. I hope, for your sake, whatever you decide to do works for me. I can arrange for you to go to a weight-loss camp for the next six weeks,” he said, heading to the bathroom.

I followed him, talking to his back. “Fuck you, Maverick,” I finally said. Staring in the mirror, I allowed my gaze to scroll to his stomach. He’d put on a few pounds, too; his gut was bulging farther than his dick.

“Seven, don’t go there,” he said, removing his clothes, pressing his hand against his abs. “I can lose these few pounds in one week. All my shit still fits, including my ring. Stay focused. This isn’t about me. I love you, baby, but there’s no way I can walk down the aisle with you looking like you’re five months pregnant when you’re not having a baby. What’s going to happen when you do get pregnant and put on twenty-five more pounds on top of the twenty-five you’ve already gained?”

Five months pregnant? More like a week late with my period. Maybe my rhythm was off due to my excitement at becoming Mrs. Maxamillion. I wanted us to be pregnant, to surprise him with our child. After the wedding, not before.

“Where were you last night?” I asked, watching him aim his dick, hands free, over the toilet.

“Looking for your replacement,” he said. “A woman who’s not fat. Find a fat farm today, and I don’t mean p-h-a-t.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

Forcing back stinging tears, I thought of all the foods I’d eliminated from my diet after leaving my parents’ house in Mississippi to attend college in Chicago. Ham hocks, collard greens, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes loaded with real butter, fried chicken, smothered pork chops with gravy, pound cake from scratch, red beans with pickled rib tips, cheese grits, pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs. . .