For four years, Farrah has been Khalil's lover, friend, confidant, and more. In return, he's lied, cheated, and disregarded her feelings. Despite the disapproval of her family and friends, Farrah has stayed true to this self-destructive, irresponsible alcoholic. But as her career as a celebrity stylist begins to skyrocket, Khalil's is faltering, and he uses this as an excuse to treat her even worse. Farrah finally faces the fact that Khalil will never change. Struggling to come to grips with their broken relationship, Farrah finds herself turning to his friend, Mills. He's everything Khalil isn't. Despite his feelings for Farrah, Mills can't give in to temptation because he already has a girlfriend. Little does Mills know that while he fights temptation, his girlfriend, Jade, is filling the void of their lackluster relationship by sleeping with NBA superstar Rock. Based on a true story, Reckless is an emotional, scandalous roller coaster ride. Everyone is seeking happiness, but at what cost?
Release date:
September 18, 2012
Publisher:
Urban Books
Print pages:
304
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“Girl, is that him?” Farrah’s roommate and business partner, London, tapped her shoulder.
Farrah gazed across the room and spotted her ex-boyfriend, Khalil. Frozen stiff, she struggled to breathe. Every limb in her body seemed to be placed on lock. She knew this moment would come eventually. She just never expected it to happen that night.
She wasn’t prepared to deal with the never-ending drama between her and Khalil but, fuck it. Her mama didn’t raise no punk. There was no way she could pass up a golden opportunity to confront him.
During their four-year relationship she’d been Khalil’s lover, friend, confidant, mother, provider, and more. With him, Farrah had gone through every aspect of hell there was. He’d lied, cheated, and disregarded her feelings but Farrah loved him despite it all.
She loved him despite the fact that he’d cheated on her with his ex-girlfriend, Keisha, the same Keisha who was his high school sweetheart. She loved him despite the fact that one of his ex’s called their house on more than one occasion to speak to him. She loved him despite all of the times she caught him text messaging other chicks in the middle of the night.
Farrah loved him despite all of the times he lied to her about being with his pot’nahs when really he was with other females. She loved Khalil despite all of his mood swings, him destroying things in a fit of rage, his excessive spending habits, and irresponsible behavior. She loved Khalil with parts of her body she didn’t even know existed. All she knew and could see was him, despite her family and friends’ disapproval of their relationship. She truly believed that with time, patience, and love he’d change, but all the love in the world couldn’t save Khalil from himself. He was a self-destructive, irresponsible, selfish weed head, alcoholic, BMX rider who hadn’t won a tournament in years. The more he lost the more he resented Farrah, whose career as a celebrity stylist was on the rise.
Without blinking, Khalil’s insecurities and fuck-ups became Farrah’s problems and his problems became his excuse to treat her like shit. But Farrah was done tolerating nonsense and heartache just to have someone there to hold her at night. She was tired of carrying his trifling ass. Sure, a woman was supposed to hold her man down but damn was she supposed to pay the rent and bills, and be his maid, psychologist, personal chef, freak in the sheets, and mother to his immature ass all at the same time? Hell no!
Whenever Khalil fucked up by blowing his money on cars, clothes, and jewels she was right there to pick up the pieces, which would then set her back financially. Khalil didn’t care though. As long as he was good that was all that mattered. It didn’t matter that Farrah constantly had to worry about how the rent and bills were going to get paid.
Khalil was about living life in the fast lane. He didn’t worry about what tomorrow had to bring because he knew that Farrah would never let him fall. After a while his careless behavior began to catch up with him. All of the late nights out partying and heavy drinking started to affect his career. Within a blink of an eye his career was over, and he was left with nothing but a drinking problem and a bruised ego.
Farrah tried to lift his spirits with words of encouragement but Khalil was immune to her kindness. All he saw was that he’d hit rock bottom and that Farrah was on top. Over time the resentment that permeated his soul began to seep out the more he drank, and one drunken night he told her all of her hard work and good fortune wouldn’t last long and that she wasn’t shit.
Little did Khalil know, that would be their last and final showdown. Farrah didn’t have to take his crap so she did something she should’ve done years before. She chucked his ass up the deuce and told him to step. But being the bitch-ass nigga he was, instead of dealing with the breakup like a man, Khalil lost his damn mind and tore up all of her things in a rage. Couch, bed, television, you name it he destroyed it. After attempting to get him to pay for the damages to no avail, a month passed and Khalil refused to give her back her house keys or come get the rest of his shit.
Even though he was physically gone it was like he still had control over her life and Farrah was sick of it. It was time for her and Khalil to end things once and for all. Dressed in a blue jean jacket, vintage AC/DC T-shirt, black leggings, and five-inch stilettos, Farrah strutted across the room. Normally, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a getup but that night she’d planned on being laidback. Thankfully, her mesmerizing good looks made up for her less-than-stellar outfit.
Farrah was a five-foot-three, 105-pounds, bronze-colored beauty with a face that resembled an angel. Her radiant bronze-colored skin complemented her slanted eyes, button nose, rosy cheeks, and pink pouty lips. Being the edgy fashionista she was, she rocked the right side of her hair shaved low like Cassie, while the rest of her long, silky black hair cascaded down her back.
Pure adrenaline rushed through Farrah’s veins as she inched closer to Khalil. Kanye West’s mega hit, “All of the Lights,” blasted through the speakers, hyping up the crowd around her. “Turn up the lights in here, baby. All of the lights so y’all can see this.” Rihanna sang the hook. The closer she got, the more Farrah felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience.
After not seeing Khalil for a month, she naturally assumed she’d still feel some sort of attraction, or compassion, for him but all she felt was resentment and hate. His ass couldn’t bother to buy a roll of toilet tissue or buy her a Happy Meal when they were together, but had the nerve to be posted up in the club like he was hot shit.
Pissed, Farrah pushed her way through the crowd before his pot’nah P, whom she’d spotted, had the chance to warn him. Face to face she looked Khalil square in the eyes and said, “Give me my keys.”
Khalil gazed back at her with a glossed-over look in his eyes. It was obvious that he was high and stunned to see her.
“Give . . . me . . . my . . . keys,” Farrah stressed, trying to steady the heartbeat in her clit.
Khalil was a complete asshole but he was fine as hell. His even, cocoa-colored skin complemented well his locks that reached his shoulders. Deep brown eyes, goatee, and full lips that were now the color of his skin from smoking too much weed made up his facial features. He was only five-foot-nine, but his arrogant attitude and impeccable taste for fashion made up for his lack of height.
Every time she looked at him she often thought of the rapper Wale. The two could have easily been long-lost brothers. Farrah couldn’t front Khalil was murdering every other nigga in the club that night. On his head he rocked a Louis Vuitton baseball cap cocked to the right. The rest of his outfit consisted of a red and black checkerboard-print button-up, dark jeans, and a pair of Space Jam Jordans.
“I don’t have ’em,” he finally responded.
“Really, Khalil?” Farrah cocked her head to the side.
She was so sick of him playing childish, immature games. Khalil kept all of his keys on a key chain located directly on his hip.
“I don’t have ’em on me,” he lied, placing his drink down on the table beside him. “And you don’t have to worry. I’m not gon’ walk up in yo’ house,” he said sarcastically.
“Oh, I know you won’t. You don’t have the balls to,” Farrah shot back. “So when are you going to come get the rest of your stuff?”
“I don’t give a fuck about that shit.” Khalil waved her off. “You can throw it away for all I care.”
“You are a fuckin’ trip,” Farrah scoffed with a look of disgust in her eyes.
“Ay yo, you a’ight?” P came over and asked as if he were Khalil’s bodyguard.
Farrah eyed P in shock. This was the same nigga she allowed to sleep on her couch, invited over for dinner, and now he had the nerve to play her out like she wasn’t shit.
“Look, can I talk to you in private?” she snapped with an attitude.
“What?” Khalil screwed up his face.
“I said”—Farrah pulled him by the back of his neck so he could hear her better—“let me holla at you!”
As if she were some sort of groupie, Khalil pulled away from her grasp and shot P a look as if to say, “Get this thirsty bitch away from me.” The gesture alone made Farrah feel two feet tall. She couldn’t believe he had the audacity to disrespect her like that after everything she’d said and done. During their relationship, Farrah had confessed her undying devotion to him and been his ride-or-die chick. She’d stood by his side when his family and friends hadn’t supported him, tolerated his crap, shed galloons of tears for him, nurtured him, consoled him, and encouraged him.
She’d been every woman for him. She’d given her all to him and to have him sit there with an evil, smug expression on his face was all Farrah could take. Before she knew it she’d picked up his drink and tossed it over his head. Farrah didn’t even bother staying around to see his reaction. She’d gotten her issue off so nothing else had to be said or done. Heading out the door, she held her head up high like the diva she was. Little did she know, Khalil was hot on her trail.
“What the fuck you throw a drink on me for?” he barked angrily.
“’Cause you fuckin’ deserved it!” Farrah spun around and looked at him. The drink she’d poured on him trickled down his face like rain.
“That shit wasn’t necessary!” Khalil pushed her into the middle of the street. “I swear you’s a silly bitch! That’s why I don’t fuck wit’ yo’ ass now!” He pushed her again, almost causing her to lose her balance.
“Are you fuckin’ deranged? I left yo’ tired-ass alone!” Farrah pushed him back as hard as she could.
“Fuck you!” Khalil tried spitting in her face but ended up only making a farting nose with his mouth.
“You are such a bitch!” Farrah hawked up as much spit as she could and showed him how it was done. A wad of spit landed directly in the center of Khalil’s face.
“Ay, Khalil! Chill out, man!” P said, trying to pull him back.
“Nah, fuck her! She gon’ throw a fuckin’ drink in my face!” Khalil yelled as Farrah turned to walk to her car.
But she didn’t even make it five feet before she went flying to the ground. Khalil had pushed her in the back. Lying on her side she looked up at Khalil, who was standing over her. She just knew that he was going to kick her but he didn’t. Instead he continued to berate her like she was a child.
“Stupid bitch! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” Khalil shouted as P and the doorman pulled him back.
Livid that he would push her when her back was turned, Farrah got up off the ground and kicked off her heels. She was over being Khalil’s punching bag. She’d taken enough shit off of him to last her a lifetime. Now was the time to show him what she was really made of. Charging toward him, Farrah remembered all the times he’d cussed her out, made her cry, the females calling her house, the condoms she’d found in his pocket, the hole he’d punched in her wall, and the time he’d called her cunt.
Filled with rage, she balled up her fist and punched him in the face with so much power his head jerked back. Even P and the doorman who were trying to restrain Khalil were surprised at the force of the punch.
Farrah never thought she’d be that chick fighting outside the club, but she’d come too far to back down now. Khalil was going to learn that he’d fucked over the wrong chick. Before he could get his hands on her, Farrah punched him again, directly in the jaw. Once again caught off guard by her strength, Khalil grabbed her by her jacket only to get socked in the mouth. A trail of blood slid from the corner of his lip.
“What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?” He shook her, bewildered.
“You’re my problem!” Farrah punched him again. “Wit’ yo’ punk ass!”
“Khalil, man, let her go,” P yelled. “The police coming!”
Shaken, Khalil released Farrah from his grasp. He and the police didn’t mix. Khalil had warrants out for his arrest all over St. Louis.
“I swear to God I shouldn’t have never fucked wit’ yo’ crazy ass!” He ice grilled her.
“My sentiments exactly!” Farrah smiled. “Bye, bitch!” She waved as he walked away.
“Oh my God, girl! What happened?” London raced outside. “One of the dudes inside said you was out here fightin’! Did that muthafucka hit you?” London examined Farrah’s face.
“Girl, I’m all right,” Farrah said, wiping dust off of her.
“Uh-ah.” London shook her head. “Where that punk-ass nigga at?” She snatched off one of her heels.
“Girl, put yo’ damn shoe back on.” Farrah laughed.
“You sure? ’Cause I’ll fuck his ass up,” London said, ready to pounce.
“I’m sure. C’mon, girl. Let’s make like a big titty and bounce.” Farrah linked arms with London.
After picking up her heels, Farrah and London walked to her car and hopped in. Farrah hadn’t felt this alive in years. It felt good to finally stick up for herself. From then on, she vowed to never allow a man to treat her like dirt. She deserved better. She was a good-ass woman and some man out there would eventually appreciate her for the queen she was. Until then, she was content with doing her and moving forward with her life.
Starting the engine, she pressed play on the CD player. Nicki Minaj’s “Shitted On ’Em” started playing. A huge smile spread across her face. Immediately, she turned up the volume and pulled away from the curb while she and London sang, “Man I just shitted on ’em! Put yo’ two fingers in the air if you did it on ’em!”
Since her and Khalil’s breakup, Farrah felt like she’d been run over by a Mack Truck. Yeah, she’d gone all Bad Girls Club on his ass, but the fact still remained that underneath all the anger, hurt, disappointment, and hate she still missed him, and it hurt like hell that he didn’t miss her too. After four years of being together, he hadn’t even called once to say he was sorry or to see if she was okay.
Yet, from time to time Farrah wondered what he was doing and if he ever did think of her. I am fuckin’ pathetic, she thought, gazing at a picture of him. Hating that thoughts of Khalil still entered her mind, she headed toward the kitchen. She figured drinking her misery away would help erase thoughts of him from her memory bank. But before she could open the fridge the doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” she yelled, walking toward the door.
“Me,” London said dryly.
“Where the hell is yo’ key at?” Farrah asked sarcastically, unlocking the door.
“I left it on the table.” London dragged her feet up the steps.
“What’s wrong wit’ you?” Farrah followed her.
“My damn feet hurt. I just did seven bridesmaids’ faces, the bride’s and groom’s mothers’ faces, two cousins, and the bride’s face. I am tired. Do we have any wine left?” London plopped her purse down on the kitchen counter.
“You know we do.”
“Well, pour me a glass immediately. ’Cause in about 10.2 seconds I’ma be on the floor cryin’.” London poked out her bottom lip.
“Girl, I was just about to open up a bottle ’cause I was feelin’ the exact same way.” Farrah pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay and poured them both a glass.
“You wanna go sit out on the patio?” she asked.
“Yeah.” London picked up her glass and followed Farrah outside.
The sun was just beginning to set. A pink hue covered the sky and not a cloud was in sight. The setting was perfect. Farrah sat down in a comfy wicker chair and crossed her legs. Relishing the warm weather, she took a much-needed sip of wine.
“Mmm . . . I needed that.” She tilted her head back and gazed up at the sky.
“What’s yo’ issue?” London tapped her on the leg. “Spill the beans, bitch. . .
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