Never Keeping Secrets

Book 3: Friends & Sins Novel

by Niobia Bryant

Genres: African American; Romance

Synopsis

Monica, a CEO with celebrity clients, loves her life. But when her man loses his high-powered corporate job and pressures her to start a family, Monica finds herself involved with a client who wants to mix business with pleasure--or else...Successful author Keesha is blowing through her money--and cheating on her fiancé. When her new friend, Jeremiah, discovers her deception, Keesha stands to lose everything...Danielle has fame and fortune as a TV co-host. Her relationships are strictly for pleasure--until she reconnects with the only man she ever loved. But Danielle wasn't looking for love...or for the secrets from her past being used to torment her...A full-time mom and preacher's wife, Latoya is feeling the strain of living under the eye of the church. Her only relief comes from the pills no one knows she's popping. At least she thinks no one knows...

After five years apart, the women don't expect to meet again--until they begin receiving mysterious taunts about their personal secrets. Soon, all roads lead back to their friendship--but one of them won't make it through alive.

Release date: August 6, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Five Years Earlier

“What happened to the good old days when a married man kept his dirty mistress a fucking secret?”

Monica Winters didn’t know whether it was the sarcastic words or just the very presence of Serena Lockhart-Steele that made her back go stiff like it was filled with a dozen shots of Viagra just as she was kissed and held tightly by her man, Cameron Steele—Serena’s husband. Serena and Cameron were very separated—separate homes, separate lives—but it was clear that just like the many times before when he asked Serena for a divorce that she wasn’t willing to accept the end of their marriage. Monica shared a brief look with Cameron that was filled with all kinds of unspoken words before they stepped back from one another and looked over at his wife standing in the open doorway of his office.

Serena shook her head like a chastising parent as she stepped inside and then slammed the door.

WHAM!

Monica winced.

Cameron released a heavy breath.

This particular threesome spelled nothing but trouble and the fact that it was going down in the New York corporate offices of Braun, Weber made the whole situation even more precarious. Possibly embarrassing. Just dead damn wrong.

Serena was very aware that Monica and Cameron were in a relationship; just as Monica was painfully aware that Cameron was still legally married. The tension in the room was as palpable as the racing pulses. It was clear no one wanted to be in the presence of the other. A fucking monkey could figure that shit out.

Notching her chin high, Monica smoothed her hands over her hips in the fitted linen dress she wore before leaning back against the edge of Cameron’s oversized, neatly arranged desk. Eyeing the other woman unflinchingly, she crossed her legs at the ankle. She hated to admit to herself that she looked beautiful. Tall and slender with fine features and even finer designer garb that fit her body like a second skin.

In that moment, Monica had never felt more like a grad student/intern. Serena Steele was established. Monica was months from graduating with her masters of business administration and determined to get there.

“Hello, Serena. I wasn’t expecting you,” Cameron stressed politely as he straightened his double-knotted silk tie and made his way around his desk to claim the leather executive chair behind it.

Serena gave him a tight smile as she continued to walk over to his desk. “Since when does a wife need an appointment to see her husband, Cam?” she asked with a meaningful arch of her brow as she eyed Monica.

Monica glanced away from the slightly older, sophisticated woman as she fought hard not to grab Serena by the throat and slow-walk her ass out of both the building and Cameron’s life. She hated the insecurities that claimed her. And regardless of Monica spending every night in his arms, this woman had more right to him than her. She was his wife. Plain and simple. Like it or not.

Monica wanted those fucking divorce papers signed, sealed, and delivered to the courts as quickly as possible.

“Cam, I need to speak with you . . . in private,” she insisted, folding her tall and slender frame into one of the leather chairs before his desk.

Monica’s heart pounded as she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from snapping at Serena as she eyed the way the hem of the pencil skirt she wore raised up her thigh. Rolling her eyes, she looked over her shoulder at Cameron.

His eyes met hers for a few moments that seemed like forever.

The message in Monica’s eyes was clear: Don’t fuck with it.

“Hammering out the details of our marriage in front of your mistress is asking a bit too much, Cam, don’t you think?”

The tension levels in the room shot up a thousand notches as he glanced away from Monica and cleared his throat.

No, this motherfucker ain’t . . .

“Monica, will you excuse us for just a moment?”

Yes, this motherfucker did.

A sharp and intense pain radiated across her chest. A pain that was fed by disappointment, anger, and jealousy. And those emotions were fed by the smug look of satisfaction on Serena’s face.

Monica’s shoulders were squared up and as stiff as a linebacker’s as she rose up on her five-inch heels and turned to look for the keys she had dropped just moments before when Cameron’s kisses had distracted her. If I knew I was going to run into this bullshit I would have taken my black ass straight home, she thought, fighting the urge to pull a cliché “mistress” move and kiss him in front of Serena.

Cameron rose from his seat and came around his desk to walk her to the door. “Just give me a few minutes with Serena and then we’ll go to Cipriani for dinner before we head home,” he said in a low tone, his hand lightly touching the small of her back.

Monica was too deep into her emotions to give a fuck about his words, his emphasis on the word “home,” his apologetic tone, his presence, or the warm and spicy scent of his cologne. Without a glance up at him, Monica opened the office door and stepped out onto the tiled hallway, closing it securely behind her and in his face. “Fuck you, Negro,” she muttered, avoiding the awkward glances of his executive assistant, Georgia.

Monica felt the heat of shame warm her cheeks as she imagined Georgia’s thoughts on the girlfriend exiting right after the wife entered. It made her feel like she was sneaking around with Cameron. And they weren’t.

They damn near lived together. They attended events together. They introduced each other as a significant other. They were together.

But she is legally still his wife.

Taking a deep breath, Monica headed straight for the elevator. She held her keys tightly in her hand as she waited for the doors to open and tried not to imagine just what was going on behind the door of his office.

Cameron and Monica met during her first year of interning at Braun, Weber. He was the Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions for the investment firm. She had been deep in a world mixed with what she wanted—her desire to earn her MBA and take over corporate America—and what she had, which was shitty relationships with thugs from her Newark neighborhood. The two definitely didn’t mix—especially when her ex Rah had beat her ass and broken her leg while he was high off dope and angry from news that she had cheated on him in the past. The craziest part of that drama was his anger over her betrayal topping that she just walked in on him deep between the thighs of one of her closest friends. She had been more than happy to get him out of her life and into a prison facility for aggravated assault charges.

To her, men like Cameron were the real threat to her career and her heart because she knew a thug wasn’t good for shit but his money and dick. And when Cameron revealed he wanted to take their relationship further, she hadn’t gone for it, choosing his friendship instead.

Five months later she received an invitation to his wedding to Serena—a woman he started dating after Monica turned him down. He did eventually marry Serena . . . even after Monica boldly went to the church just minutes before the ceremony to finally admit to him that she loved him. The happily ever after she wished for did not happen.

By then she had lost him and she left him alone to be happy with his wife—his choice.

Serena’s anger at her was misplaced but Monica had zero fucks to give about setting the woman straight. “Fuck her,” she muttered, releasing a heavy breath as she stepped onto the elevator.

Monica felt sweet relief when the doors closed behind her. Licking her lips, she pressed the button for the lobby before she used her other hand to squeeze the bridge of her nose. She remembered the night they were trapped on this very same elevator together and the words he said to her.

“I care for my wife. I do. But you can only love one person at a time and I try to deny it but deep down I knew you were the one I loved. I shouldn’t have married her. I shouldn’t have hurt her . . . or you.”

After weeks of him ignoring her at work. After kissing her with all of the passion and conflict he felt for still loving her even as he was married to another woman.

“I fucked up. I thought I was over you. I really thought I could make this marriage with Serena work. This drama. This bullshit. This triangle shit ain’t me. I fucked up.”

Monica shook her head as she pressed away at the lobby button like it would make the trip down any faster.

If Cameron thought she was going to sit and wait like a duck while he huddled up in his office with his wife cooperating in all of that drama and bullshit he claimed wasn’t him, then his ass was certifiably crazy. “Never that,” she said aloud as the elevator slid to a stop and the doors opened to set her free. Love was hard enough—risky enough—without an extra person floating all through a relationship.

She couldn’t get out of that building fast enough, but she couldn’t run. She didn’t want to attract any attention—she did have an image to maintain. The pounding of her heart and her heels against the pavement of the streets didn’t stop until she finally slid behind the wheel of her used Toyota Camry that had seen better days when her mother used to drive it.

Monica reached inside her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She pressed number four on her speed dial. After her mother, her father, and her man, her three best friends filled the next spots. The six most important people in her life.

The phone rang twice before Danielle answered. “Hello, Alizé,” she said, using Monica’s nickname from high school. Danielle’s nickname was Cristal, Latoya’s was Moët, and Keesha’s was “Dom” Perignon. The nineties and their fascination with The Notorious B.I.G. had them all the way fucked up.

“You off from work?” Monica asked, as she let her head fall back against the cloth headrest.

The line went quiet for a few ticks before she said, “Yes.”

Monica made a face. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her Newark accent suddenly heavy and pronounced.

“Does it matter?” Danielle asked, almost sounding like she sighed. “Because I can tell something is wrong with you.”

Monica sat up straight in the driver’s seat. “Yes. I just left Cameron upstairs in his office with his wife. And do you know he asked me to leave? I was so ashamed strolling out of there trying to pretend my ass was cute and confident.”

“What exactly do you think is going on in that office?” Danielle asked, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s with her pronunciation as always.

Monica shrugged and hated how helpless she felt as she looked through the lightly tinted windshield at the summer skies above. She tasted her lip gloss as she bit her lips. “I don’t think they’re fucking or nothing,” she finally answered her friend.

“You sure?” Danielle asked.

Monica froze as she pressed her cell phone closer to her ear. She heard some inflection in her tone and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Sarcasm? Doubt? Mocking?

“I am glad you called actually because I really would like my Yves Saint Laurent dress back that you borrowed,” Danielle slid in, her voice sounding slightly breathy.

Monica frowned again. “Did you just change the subject?” she snapped.

“Yes, I did because you are holding it hostage,” Danielle returned smoothly.

Monica didn’t want to talk about a dress when she was in the midst of a personal mini-storm and needed Danielle to play her role in the friendship. Monica was clear that she was the friend to call to party. Keesha stayed ready to jump in and fight if called on. Latoya was all over prayers and church. And Danielle was the go-to girl for advice. Period. Point blank.

But this bitch tripping.

“Damn, you’re acting up about a dress?”

“Same way you keep telling me about that money Dom owes you. That dress cost me way more than three hundred dollars, Ze.”

Monica arched a brow. “I’m in grad school. I need my money!” she retorted.

Danielle did sigh this time and it was loud and clear on the phone. “Ze, you need to talk to Cameron about what you expect from him. His obligation was to his wife and he decided to move on from that. Your obligation is to yourself and you can never move on from that. Fuck stressing about something you cannot change and focus on what you can . . . like moving on if it is not moving right.”

Monica felt relief at the return of the friend she was looking for in the first place. And she knew Danielle was right. She couldn’t control Cameron or Serena and it was their marriage that they had to end.

But I have total control over me and what the fuck I do about my role in this bullshit.

“Oh and put my dress in the cleaners and then in my closet. Seriously, Alizé.”

Click.

“I will . . . as soon as I find it,” Monica mumbled, dropping her cell phone on the passenger seat before she slid her key in the ignition and started her car. The entire vehicle rumbled to life and shook for a few moments before it idled down.

Suddenly the sound of “Need U Bad” by Jazmine Sullivan filled the car. Monica didn’t bother to pick up her cell because she knew it was Cameron. She fully intended to give him a night in his bed alone so he would regret escorting her out of his office; and she would take the time to mull over the advice of her friend.

“Fuck stressing about something you cannot change and focus on what you can . . . like moving on if it is not moving right.”

That was easier said than done.

“That’s some real bullshit that you keeping my grandbaby from me.”

Keesha Lands shook a cigarette out of her soft pack of Newports and lit it with her lighter. She cut her eyes over at her mother, Diane, as she took a deep inhale that was nothing like the shit she used to put into her body. Nothing at all.

She knew she was lucky to be alive. Lucky and blessed.

“So you trust Kimani around some man you just met and not me, Dom?” Diane asked, leaning against the kitchen counter in her two-bedroom apartment.

“Not some man. My father,” Keesha said with emphasis, swallowing back the fresh hurt she felt that her mother played “Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo” with choosing a man to call her father. She went for the one with more money. Too bad that loser started to love using the drugs he was supposed to be selling. “And you know why I just met him, Diane.”

Her mother—who raised her like more of a friend than anything—shifted her eyes away for a moment. Keesha had to admit she was glad for some show of guilt. Some show that the woman standing before her wasn’t heartless. Some show that she gave a fuck about what she did.

Maybe the counseling is working.

“You still don’t know that motherfucker,” Diane spat, walking over to take the pack of Newports from Keesha’s hand to ease out a cigarette. She tossed the pack in Keesha’s lap and took her lit cigarette to light the tip of her own.

Keesha smirked a little and bit her bottom lip to keep from snapping at her mother. After she overdosed and went into rehab, she was freed from her abuse of heroin and weed; but the weekly counseling sessions that followed freed her from her demons. All of the shit that made getting high feel real necessary. Deaths. Lies. Betrayals. Fears. Angers. Guilt. Shame.

She thought about the release she received from writing in her journals. At first she laughed at her therapist but in time she felt like there wasn’t enough ink in her pens to pour out everything she was feeling and had ever felt about her life. A love of writing was created and flourished in a place in her heart and soul where anger and hate had once dwelled.

There were times when Ms. Hardcore “I don’t give a fuck” Keesha Lands would soak the words with her tears. It was a hard pill to realize and admit that you were fucked up—especially when your mother drove the car to Fuckville.

Her mother suddenly pushed up off the counter and left the kitchen to walk into her living room. Keesha’s brows furrowed but she stayed seated at the kitchen table—a table that was too big and too costly for an apartment in a low-income high-rise building. But that’s how her mother’s mind worked; enjoying cheap rent to afford expensive things to go in it. Just ass backwards.

She shifted her dark brown eyes out the window on the far side of the kitchen, just seeing the tips of trees and the black coil of electrical wires breaking up the blue of the sky. She took a deep breath as the urge to sit in a windowsill with her computer and write filled her.

A few months back she decided to try her hand at writing fiction. She couldn’t lie—it felt good to get lost in creating a world full of characters. It was her new high. There was a quote she saw online: “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” She thought that was the realest thing ever.

Keesha sat up straight at the faint smell of kush. The scent intensified as her mother strolled back into the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and then shook her head slowly at the sight of her mother smoking a blunt. There was a time they smoked together; but that was before Keesha got clean. Got wise. Grew the hell up.

It was clear her mother had some catching up to do.

Keesha waved away the thick silver smoke of weed as she shook her head and let her regrets settle heavily on her shoulders. “I can’t be around that,” she said, rising to stand up on her heels.

Diane shrugged as she pressed her lips to the end of the blunt and inhaled. “You ODed on dope, not weed,” she said as she held the smoke in her chest.

For a few long moments Keesha just stood there and watched the woman who birthed her as she extended her arm and pointed the blunt at her. Offering it to her. Offering her own daughter a one way trip back into her addiction.

And the pain of that stung like a hot blade piercing her heart.

Keesha stepped back from the blunt and held her breath to keep from even inhaling any of the smoke drifting up from the red fiery tip. She didn’t want to have it in her. Affecting her. Placating her. Fucking her up. Fucking her world up.

She didn’t want to love it anymore and she knew she would. She would love it more than she loved herself. I’m out.

Grabbing her tote she slipped it onto the crook of her arm and slid on her shades before she turned and headed out the kitchen.

“Are you coming to our session next week?” Diane asked, her voice slightly tinged with something—sarcasm, mocking, patronizing. Something.

Keesha bit her bottom lip as she stopped in the doorway and turned. “I needed the sessions because I overdosed. Because I’m an addict. Because I’m trying not to be fucked up in the head by a mother who never wanted to be a mother. A mother who is vindictive and mean as twelve hells. Unsupportive and childish—”

“You ungrateful bitch!” Diane roared, taking three large steps. She knocked over the chair Keesha had sat in to now reach her.

Keesha slid her shades up atop her short, choppy hairdo. “The limb don’t fall too far from the tree,” she told her calmly, their eyes locked.

So many emotions flickered in Diane’s dark brown eyes before she frowned and then sneered as she deliberately raised the blunt, inhaled from it, and then blew the thick stream of smoke into Keesha’s face.

She reached out and snatched the blunt from her mother’s hand and reached past her to throw it into the sink of foamy dishwater. The hiss of the fire being extinguished sounded off just as Diane slapped Keesha soundly.

WHAP!

The room was quiet. Even Diane looked taken aback by her action.

Keesha’s eyes flared as her cheek and heart stung with pain. She defeated the urge to fight her own mother—to literally whip her . . .