Reckless

by Cydney Rax, Niobia Bryant, Grace Octavia

Genres: Anthologies

Synopsis

Reckless is an exciting, sexy anthology from three hot authors of urban lit.

“Desperate Housewife” by Cydney Rax

Carmen Foster thinks she has it all—a perfect house, kids, and marriage—until she stumbles upon racy texts from her husband, Forrest, to his baby mama, Toni, who desperately wants Forrest back. Carmen has an affair of her own, but when scheming Toni threatens to reveal her secret, revenge takes an unexpected turn.

“Sinful” by Niobia Bryant

A psychologist specializing in addiction, Bree Bailey is surprised to find that her work is affecting her personal life in unexpected ways. When her impulsive behavior leads her into a web of danger, her life spins out of control.

“LA Confidential” by Grace Octavia

Silver Stone, Black Hollywood’s sitcom sweetheart, is in for a run of very bad luck. Her conniving assistant, Kristine, has her sights on Silver’s career—and on her television producer husband. When a series of betrayals comes to a head, more than stardom is at stake.

Release date: March 22, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

A heavy rain steadily pours from a cloud-filled sky. Even though it’s seven in the morning in late August, the sun is hiding above the clouds. It looks pure ugly outside. And my day isn’t starting out very well.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my beautiful red candy Lincoln MKT. I feel paranoid. Can everyone see the worry on my face as I’m driving to meet my husband, Forrest, for breakfast? The roads are slick. Dangerously wet. One false move and my SUV could veer off the road. Crash headfirst into an eighteen-wheeler. What if I die? Would death feel better than how I feel right now?

Confronting Forrest Foster is something I dread with everything inside me. Arguing is so draining. Pointless at times. I love peace. Harmony. There’s nothing better than when I feel strongly connected to my husband, when we’re joking, laughing, sharing a loving smile, and just bonding. Conflict doesn’t allow for the good things that I adore.

But I have to go to him. And meeting my husband in a public place is the best way to handle this. I dread confronting him in the privacy of our home. At home it would be just the two of us, hidden behind high walls and closed venetian blinds. After hearing what I’m about to ask him, my husband may get angry and scream at the top of his lungs, sounding and looking as mean as Joe Jackson. The last time Forrest got angry, he screeched so loud it caused such a commotion that the neighbors heard him. My face reddened with shame. I never want to repeat that scene.

It takes another twenty minutes of driving before I arrive at Dot Coffee Shop. Dot’s is a popular Houston eatery that serves home-style cooking. They bake some of the best hot buttered rolls within miles. We’ve eaten here many times; times when things were great between us.

When I enter through the front entrance, I immediately see my husband. I wave and slide into a booth right across from Forrest. I’m calmly staring at him with my hands resting on the wooden table. I silently peer at the man whom I’ve trusted with my heart for more than seven years. His handsome face consists of a square chin, thick brows above deep-set brown eyes, full lips, neat mustache, and eyelashes so long any vain woman would kill to have them. His broad shoulders, muscular thighs, and long legs make him look like a strong, foreboding type of man.

Forrest Foster is my sexy red-bone soul mate.

Mine.

“Heyyy baby,” he greets me. When he’s happy, his talking voice sounds like he’s singing. “So wassup? You never wake up this early when you don’t have the girls.” He closely scrutinizes the oversized menu even though he orders the same thing every time we come here. Silly man.

I take a nervous glance around the restaurant. We’re seated in a tiny corner and out of view of many of the other talkative patrons. It’s busy this morning. The drone of the ringing cash register adds to the energy of the restaurant.

Even so, I lower my voice. “Well, um. I wanted to talk.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t just wait till I got home. I would’ve been there right after work.”

“Oh really?” I ask, sounding doubtful.

Forrest carefully sets his menu on the table. He grabs my hands and pulls them in his. His hands feel soft and welcoming, one more thing I love about him.

“Where’s your gold band?” I whisper, nodding at his left hand.

“Huh? It’s probably at home . . . in the bathroom . . . on the counter.”

“Probably?”

“Look, Carmen, I’m sensing this weird vibe from you.” He releases my hands. “Why don’t you just tell me why we’re meeting here instead of talking at the crib?”

“To be blunt, I wasn’t sure you’d come straight home.”

“Where else would I be?”

I take a deep breath. “Toni called the house at five this morning.”

“So what?”

“She called private, Forrest. I don’t like when people call private.”

“How’d you know it was her?”

“Don’t you remember we can check who phones our landline even if they call private?”

“Oh, you on some bullshit, huh? You’re some type of female James Bond now?”

Forrest sounds very disappointed. God, I hate this.

He sneers at me, looking deeply in my eyes. I’m sure he sees the coldness. The lifelessness. I don’t want to feel this way, or appear so distressed. Not until I hear his explanation.

But every time I bring up Toni, my husband gets in a funky mood.

“Okay. Big deal. Toni called. That’s not unusual. It’s probably about Dante.”

“But why wouldn’t she just call your cell?”

“Maybe it was turned off at the time. Shittttt. I don’t know.” He barks at me. My insides stiffen with dread. I pray he can control the volume of his voice.

“Forrest, just tell me one thing. Are you fucking Toni?”

“What?”

“Answer. The. Question. Yes or no.”

“No!” he shouts. “She’s my baby mama. That’s all she ever was. All she’ll ever be.”

“Okay, okay.” I nervously back down when I notice two wrinkly faced women staring.

But I can’t help but feel skeptical of his claim of not messing around with his ex. The IMs I recently found on his computer screen won’t allow me to believe him. The tender words he wrote her convict him.

I miss that. LOL. When we gonna do it again?

And Toni’s words in response to his:


Guilty until proven innocent.

“Carmen.” He speaks in a more gentle voice. “I’ve worked hard all night. We had two close calls with my train, plus some of my cargo was missing.”

Forrest works as a railroad conductor and has many important responsibilities.

“So these assholes are watching me like a hawk, like I’m incompetent or not on top of my game. That’s why I hate working third shift. Always something going down.”

“I know, babe. I know,” I reply, trying to match his calmness so we won’t cause a scene.

“Then why are you starting BS this early in the morning over stupid-ass Toni?”

Forrest calling his baby mama “stupid” doesn’t impress me. Not anymore. The fact that he met Toni before he knew me and had a baby with her before we dated used to bother me. But when he married me instead of Toni, I felt like our love was secure. He wasn’t going to let any baby mama drama seep into our relationship. And back then, to prove his love, Forrest presented me with a beautiful diamond solitaire, gave me his last name, and solidified his commitment.

“Look,” I say and whip out my iPhone. I show him three tiny photos that I’d snapped of the IMs that were on his desktop computer screen. Disturbing messages between my husband and Toni, the mother of their fourteen-year old son, Dante.

“What’s that,” he asks, squinting.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Woman, I can’t see that. It’s all blurry. Why are you playing games?” His voice is getting louder. I have no appetite. But Forrest, who quickly shifts gears and begins smiling at the homely waitress who approaches our table, asks her to bring him a plate of French toast, two scrambled eggs, grits, hash browns, sausage, and a big glass of orange juice.

When the waitress leaves, I ask, “You act like you’re eating for two. Are you?”

“Shut up, Carmen. Just be quiet.”

“Forrest, all I want is the truth. These photos, they’re IMs of conversations between you and that, that—” I scowl like I’m sucking lemons.

“Watch it, now. She’s Dante’s mother.”

“And I’m your wife. I deserve the utmost respect. If you flirt with that woman and cross boundaries with her, no wonder she’s treating me like I’m the jump-off.”

“Don’t be silly. Toni knows how to stay in her lane.”

I loudly sigh and expel a frustrated breath. I can’t believe my husband is so willing to eat a king’s meal while I’m sitting up here ready to bite off all my fingernails. An expensive manicure that he paid for. What’s his problem?

“I just want to know how long have y’all been fucking? Don’t lie. Because you’re cold busted,” I say, waving my phone at him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh right. With some men, unless they get caught in the act, they’ve done nothing wrong, is that how it goes?”

“Shhhh, Carmen. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Now men, women, and even cute little babies are gaping at us.

I hop up from the table. “I’ll be back.” I can’t stand to sit across from Forrest any longer. I feel so frustrated. I hate fighting. And I despise the invisible wall sandwiched between us. Why is he acting so cold? He’s in denial. I guess I am, too. When something seems too damn perfect it usually is. For the past seven years I’ve been pretending like I have the most perfect husband, the most wonderful life.

I’m sick of pretending.

Like Toni said when she called this morning, she likes to keep it “one hunnert.”

It’s time I start living in the real world, and keep it one hundred myself.

I’m barricaded in the ladies’ room of the restaurant and examining my face in the mirror. I’ve been blessed with perfect oil-free skin, strong high cheekbones, wide black eyes that sparkle when I smile, and thick dark hair braided from the front to the crown; the back of my head is filled with lush curls that cascade to my shoulders. I look fabulous, chic, and friendly from the outside, but inside Carmen Foster feels miserable. It’s like my brain is about to explode and that’s not how I want to feel.

I reflect on the words Toni and I exchanged in the wee hours of the morning when she decided to pick up her phone and call ours.

“Forrest there?”

The call came in as private. But I know Toni’s breathy voice even when she’s trying to disguise it. “Toni, why are you calling here asking for my husband? Don’t you know he’s at work?”

“Last night Forrest told me he might not go to work. That he was feeling sick and may call in. I’m checking on him and trying to find out what happened.”

He never told me he was feeling sick, although I did hear him sneezing a couple of times before he left for work.

“Well, he’s not here so . . .”

“Poor baby. So dedicated. Be a sweetheart and ask him to call me.”

I bristle with anger.

“Toni, may I ask you something?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Why do I sense that you’re fucking with me?”

“Oh, it’s not you who I’m fucking, honey.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you had been doing your job as a woman, you wouldn’t be going through this.”

“Going through what?” I ask in breathless anger.

“Humph, I’m wasting my time talking to you. If he’s over here with me does he really belong to you? Even if you do have his so-called ring and last name? Ask him where his ring is. Humph. Ask him that.”

“Toni, what’s this really about?”

“I’m keeping it one hunnert. And I recommend you start doing the same.”

That heffa hung up even when I tried to respond. I flung the iPhone onto the bed. I wondered what the hell was going on. Was this woman still bitter over the fact that Forrest and I got married even after she rejected his engagement? Back then she told Forrest she loved him. But the tramp wasn’t sure if the baby was his or someone other poor clueless sucker’s. So she wouldn’t marry him. But later on, after the baby was born, she found out Dante was Forrest’s and she begged him to marry her. But by that time Forrest had moved on. We were in love. He proposed to me. I said sí, ja, oui. And now Toni’s claim to fame is being Forrest Foster’s baby mama. And all she can do is instigate. Be jealous. Act out.

Because Forrest Foster and I have what Toni wishes she had: a husband with a good job that pays excellent benefits and enough income to take care of his wife plus two adorable daughters: Briana, six, and Jazmin, three. These two kids are the joy of our lives. As far as I’m concerned, our life is complete, content, and lacks nothing. Moreover, Forrest and I are the proud owners of a luxurious two-story brick home located on a cul-de-sac. It features a first-floor master suite complete with master bath, Jacuzzi tub, separate shower, his-and-her closets, and a sitting room. We’ve got a bad-ass kitchen with top-of-the-line Viking appliances, gas fireplace in the family room, a large library, a spiral staircase in the two-story foyer, and three more bedrooms upstairs.

A house to die for.

When Forrest’s amazing father died a year after we got married, the widowed man left his only child a six-figure insurance policy, enough for us to place a hefty down payment on our house, plus tastefully furnish the entire place, travel every year, and allocate funds for future emergencies.

Sometimes when I think about how blessed I am, I can almost sympathize with Toni. But not for long. Women like her make me sick. They chase after knuckleheads that treat ’em worse than murderers, but mess over a decent-hearted man who has goals and wants a better life. But when she realizes she made a mistake, she wants to backpedal. Toni had her chance but blew it. If she hadn’t let so many disgusting men get between her legs while she was dating Forrest maybe she would be more than what she is. A used-up jealous whore. But she can’t totally complain. Toni may not have the man, but she gets plenty of child support; besides, Dante is on my husband’s health and dental insurance. She has me to thank for all of that. Although I hate that he got involved with this skank prior to meeting me, I insist he do right by his child. But just because Forrest acts honorably with Dante doesn’t mean I’m willing to put up with Toni’s crap. Not when she is pretty much insinuating that she’s fucking Forrest.

If there’s any truth to what she’s suggesting, I will want to bust this home-wrecking heffa upside her head, then pull a Jackie Chan on my husband. I’ll jump from the staircase onto his big ole head and fatally injure that fool.

Hold up; let me get a grip on myself.

In reality, I’ve come too far to let craziness destroy the best relationship I’ve ever had. In the past, I’ve dated some scrubs, a couple addicts, and a few unmotivated guys that didn’t know where they were going in life. But Forrest was different. I wasn’t blinded by a million red flags when we dated. Instead, I recognized his admirable qualities.

Paying the bills on time is a priority with Forrest, so he has excellent credit and is always getting credit card offers in the mail. He takes good care of the house, knows how to repair broken electronic devices, and doesn’t mind mowing, pulling weeds, and watering the lawn. He never complains about doing dirty work, like taking out trash or killing roaches and spiders, things I’m not about to touch. In other words, I don’t have much to complain about. All I know is that I love Forrest Foster and the splendid life we’ve built together.

But when I think about all the good and try to be more realistic about our life, everything isn’t totally perfect every single day. We squabble now and then like all married couples. We say things we don’t mean and act stubborn and petty. And there were a couple of times when Forrest got so angry that I noticed another side of him. A side that scared the dog crap out of me.

A side that made me question things.

A side that brought me here to Dot Coffee Shop.

A side that compels me to keep it one hundred with Forrest and to see if he’ll do the same for me.

I say a quick prayer and depart from the ladies’ room. But a tall, deliciously handsome man whose head is covered in dark dreadlocks is forced to share the tiny hallway with me. We are in close proximity as we try to pass one another.

“Good morning, beautiful. How are you today?”

I smile back, shocked at his attention. “Fine, and you?”

“You’re more than fine. You’re incredibly gorgeous. Sexy just like Kim Kardashian, only prettier.”

I blush. “Thanks. That’s so kind.”

“Are you spoken for?”

“Yes, she is,” Forrest says with a stern voice, appearing out of nowhere. He taps my arm several times: the classic “she’s mine” signal. Forrest grabs my elbow so aggressively a sharp pain shoots through it. He rushes me back to our booth.

“Don’t do that,” I angrily tell him and sit down. “I feel embarrassed. That was so unnecessary.”

“You should feel embarrassed. How can you give that random man some play?”

“He was just giving me a compliment. No big deal.”

“Men don’t just give compliments, Carmen. They usually want something.”

“Oh really?” I say sarcastically.

“Whatever. I’m almost done eating. You want anything?”

“Yes. I do. I want to know what’s really going on between you and Toni. I want to know where you were last Saturday morning. I’ve never known you to be late like that.”

“Huh?” he asks like he’s hard of hearing.

“Forrest, don’t play dumb. Why didn’t you come straight home from work? Remember, you promised to take the MKT to the detailer? But you showed up two hours later with no explanation. You had a big grin on your face. Your clothes were wrinkled. And you smelled funny.”

“You must be joking.”

“Do I look like Chris Tucker?”

“Somewhat.”

“Forrest!”

“Carmen.”

“Look, be serious, because I’m not joking. Don’t forget, details come easily for me. I remember everything.”

“What were you doing yesterday afternoon at 4:33 and a half?” he says laughingly.

“Forrest, you know what? I’m starting to get impatient.”

“I am, too,” he says seriously. “Baby, you just don’t understand. I hate being blindsided. We could have discussed this at home. And now you’re out of the house early in the morning flirting with some Jamaican-looking punk when I’m a few yards away.”

“Forrest, Forrest, listen up. This isn’t about me.”

His eyes glaze over. He’s not hearing me. Disconnect makes me nervous.

When Forrest and I first started dating, I noted everything about him that stood out. How he dressed conservative yet sharp; the colognes he wore always turned me on. I noticed how cute he looked when he rolled his tongue across his bottom lip. I knew he was happiest when I agreed with him and did whatever he said. And when I made him happy, he always made me happy. We were so connected I knew I never wanted to be with any other man for the rest of my life. I loved me some Forrest Raymond Foster. I still love him.

And in spite of what’s going on right now, I know this man loves me.

“Baby, I need to tell you something.” His voice is shaking. He sounds weird. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a white napkin.

“Carmen, darling,” he continues. “You see it’s like this. I-I never meant to hurt you. It was just . . . it was stupid really. Something men do but it means nothing. It meant nothing. Trust me. You don’t have to worry. . . .” He mutters in a hoarse voice I’ve never heard before.

My knees knock together underneath the table. It’s difficult to breathe, as if all oxygen has left my body.

“W-what did you say?” I whisper. “It’s true? You did it? With Toni?”

He sighs heavily, looks at me, then at his empty plate. He tosses a twenty on the table and barks, “Let’s go.”

I sit in stunned silence for ten minutes.

I managed to recover and am now following him, driving behind my husband’s Ford F-150, dark green, sparkly, and shiny just how he prefers our vehicles to look. As usual, Forrest is in “I’m the Boss” mode. Him directing. Me following. Him deciding what we do and when. Me agreeing and going along with the program. All throughout our marital union, his way of doing things has worked. An intelligent hardworking African American male who still embraces traditional albeit chauvinistic values: The head of the house works, provides, pays the major bills, and protects his family.

In Forrest’s mind, the wife must be beautiful, groomed, and dignified at all times. He also couldn’t wait to get me pregnant. In the early years, he yearned for Dante to have a little brother. As fate would have it, he had to settle for two girls.

And I love being a mom, most of the time, but I’m eight years younger than Forrest. He’s thirty-eight. Sometimes I want to do things that young women want to do. But he always reminds me how lucky I was to nab a catch like him.

Many chicks would trade places with you in a minute. How many women your age have a five-thousand-square-foot house with a three-car garage? How many own half a dozen authentic Coach bags? Possess NBA season tickets three years in a row? Shop at Neiman Marcus for every special occasion? Take a two-week vacation in California’s wine country in the spring and go skiing in Aspen during winter break? Or fly to Manhattan just to go shopping for the kids’ summer wardrobe?

Forrest likes the good things in life and wants to share them with me. He knows I didn’t come from a wealthy family and had never been outside the state of Texas when I was growing up. He knew my first car was a hooptie that I loved, but he told me that nothing beats driving a brand-new car straight off the lot. There were many things he wanted to give me. He wanted to make me happier than I’d ever been in my life.

Whenever Forrest reminds me of all he’s done for me and how he’s given me a dream life, I shut up. I wonder how I can be so ungrateful. How can I take my amazing blessings for granted? I clear my head. I pretend like I’m starting from the beginning, a time when all I desired was pure love with a strong black man who had my back.

My dream got fulfilled through Forrest. But now, as I’m driving directly behind my man, I need to connect the dots of our beginning to what’s going on these days. What’s with this confession he just revealed? Why would he betray me with Toni of all people? And can I ever forgive him? What is really going on in my so-called perfect marriage?

When Forrest and I met, the first place he took me was AstroWorld. Back then it was such a fun-filled romantic place for two people in love. The park was packed to the brim with the sounds of carnival music, laughing children, and rowdy teens. We’d strolled every inch of the amusement park holding hands. We’d gotten totally wet on the Bamboo Shoot, hopped on Batman: the Escape, crashed into one another’s bumper boats, and yelled our heads off on the Texas Cyclone and the Greezed Lightnin’ roller coaster. I loved how even though he was much bigger than me, he didn’t care if I heard him screaming like a kid.

“You’re so pretty. And you’re all mine. I’m going to make you my wife. My baby mama.” I’d smile and blush at the same time. Forrest had a way of making me feel so special. Even though he was the oldest guy I’d ever dated, the way he made me feel made up for any age-related concerns. He’d wrap his arm tightly around my shoulder, especially when he noticed other men openly staring at me.

Why you wear shirts that expose those tits? he’d ask. Those are my titties. I thought his display of jealousy sounded so cute. So did my friends. My best girlfriend, Shalita Dixon, was like, “Heyyy now, you got yourself a keeper, girllllll. Ask Forrest if he got any friends? Or a clone? Humph, if you don’t know you better ask somebody.”

My girlfriend would make these statements and I’d burst out laughing. But I knew she was genuinely ecstatic for me. A victory for me gave her hope. And Shalita, of course, was my maid of honor at our wedding. She grinned when I walked down the aisle blowing kisses at my guests. And tears streamed down my friend’s face when Forrest and I were pronounced husband and wife. Since then, she loves teasing me about “where is your fine-ass husband?”

I settled into my role as Mrs. Forrest Foster. And I had to pinch myself when Forrest showed me the dream house he wanted to buy me two years into our marriage. We’d previously gone house-hunting together, but I hated all of the ones the Realtor showed us. I wanted something really special. Forrest said he’d look on his own. Then one Saturday afternoon he drove me to this gorgeous house in Missouri City, a burgeoning suburb southwest of Houston.

Who needs all this space? I asked.

We do. Us and our kids. My baby that you’re having.

What you talkin’ about, Forrest? I said.

Forrest was so tuned into me that he knew I was pregnant even before I did. . . .