Show and Tell

Book 0: Friends & Sins Novel

by Niobia Bryant

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

Synopsis

Four friends are about to discover that getting your desires met can sometimes cost you everything. . . Monica Winters, aka Alizé, can't turn down the chance to intern at one of the nations' most prestigious companies. Even if it means working side by side with the only man she's ever loved, who's now planning a wedding with another woman. . . Hard-working single mom Latoya James, aka Moët, has finally healed her relationship with her religious parents. But when her baby's father, a multi-platinum rap artist, demands sole custody of their daughter, she wonders how to hold onto her faith when she has no choice but to fight dirty. . . Keesha Lands, aka "Dom" Perignon, gave up her lucrative stripper job and is working at her daughter's daycare center. But burying her past is harder than she thinks--and soon it will take every ounce of strength to resist her old life. . . When a New York socialite takes her under her wing, Danielle Johnson, aka Cristal, finds herself tempted by the good life. But can her relationship with the sexy handyman who's taught her everything about love survive her fantasies of wealth? Raves for Niobia Bryant "Sexy as sin describes this provocative novel to a T. . .explosive."-- Romantic Times "A drama-filled, action-packed, page-turning novel of friendship." --The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers "Bryant does a great job of bringing forth characters that are feisty, diverse and interesting." -- Romantic Times

Release date: January 28, 2011

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 257

Sample

2008

Okay. Let me explain how I feel in my man’s arms—if it is at all explainable. I feel secure. Loved. Cherished. Pampered. Needed. Perhaps most important of all . . . I feel wanted. Growing up as a foster kid and not knowing if my parents were dead, alive, or indifferent, feeling wanted is important as hell to me.

I am Cristal, or Danielle Johnson, and my man is Mohammed Ahmed. He is tall, handsome, and strong with cocoa-scented dreads that reach to his waist. He is everything I ever needed and nothing that I ever wanted.

Just try to make me leave him.

“Danielle,” he whispers in my ear with that sexy Jamaican lilt.

I shiver as he presses his warm naked body above mine. My legs spread with ease as I wrap them around his waist. His body and the bed sandwich me. The feel of his hard dick against my belly makes me anxious. Ready. Waiting.

As he bends his strong muscled back to lower his mouth—that delicious and skillful mouth—to my breast, he circles his tongue around my nipple. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. He uses his strong hips to prod the tip of his dick between my lips. We both gasp hotly. He circles his hips, pressing his hardness against my walls. Clockwise. Counterclockwise.

Jesus.

These moments in his arms and his bed are worth it all. Worth every damn thing I gave up for him. For this. Each stroke delivers my point home.

The money.

Pop.

The fame.

Pop-pop.

The fancy houses and cars.

Pop-pop-pop.

The glamorous life.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

Mrs. Sahad Linx.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

All of it. Gone.

We are in tune with one another. United. Joined. He knows he is making me cum and that makes his dick harder than jail time. And that makes me cum even harder until I am panting. Sweating. Clutching him with my pussy walls and my limbs as he strokes harder and faster inside of me.

“Yes,” I cry out as he leans up a bit to look down at me with those silky brown eyes I love.

His sweat drips down onto my titties as each of his pumps makes them bounce up and down. “Dick good ain’t it?” he asks roughly as his face gets intense. “Huh? Huh?”

“Yes, baby, yes,” I whisper as I reach up to caress his handsome face with my quivering hands.

His head whips to the right to capture my fingers in his mouth. He sucks them deeply as he slows down his strokes to a lethal grind that brings the base of that dick against my clit.

Damn. Goddamn. Damn. Damn.

“Watch this, Miss Danielle,” he says thickly around my fingers.

I already know what time it is.

His entire body freezes as he looks hotly down into my eyes. I feel the jolt of his dick against my clit as he fills me with his cum. He smiles as he licks my fingers like the freak that he is. Each pluck of my clit pushes me further over the edge until I am working my hips up and down off the bed to pull downward on my dick. His mouth forms a circle as he closes his eyes and pushes down deeper into me.

I reach up to snatch off the leather strap holding his hair and his dreads surround our heads like a curtain. “Who the best? Huh? Who?” I whisper up to him.

“Danielle . . . Danielle . . . Danielle,” he chants as I drain that dick until it is empty.

With one final kiss to my lips, he rolls over onto his back and then pulls my weak body to his side. I gladly snuggle my face against his chest and take a deep breath of his scent like I can absorb it into me. With his free arm, he reaches over to turn off the lamp.

“Damn, that was good,” he whispers into the darkness before he slaps my butt cheek playfully.

“I aim to please,” I whisper back with a smile.

He laughs a little but soon his snores fill the air.

Damn, I love him.



“Good morning, Miss Danielle.”

I open my eyes and stretch. There he is just as constant as time looking down at me as he lays on his side on the bed. Okay, I love him but I do not do morning breath. Okay? All right.

I pull the thin sheet up over my nose. “Good morning.”

Mohammed just laughs at me before he flings back the covers and rolls out of bed. “You have time for breakfast?” he asks over his broad shoulder.

I hardly hear him. I am too busy letting my eyes skim over the hard details of his back and buttocks. “No, I did not bring a change of clothes,” I finally answer once he turns fully to look at me.

Mohammed reaches down to open a drawer. “What do we have here?” he says mockingly. “An empty drawer. What should we fill it with? Any suggestions, Danielle?”

I give him a sarcastic smile. First a drawer and then some of the closet and then pack up all your things and move in. Nothing doing. The last time I lived with a man he threw me out of his penthouse apartment. Well, he caught me cheating (ahem, with Mohammed) but that did not excuse the fact that if I had not kept my apartment for my friends, Dom and Moët, to live in, then my pretty high-yellow behind would have been homeless. To make matters worse, he kept mostly everything he ever bought me, even down to my lacy La Perla underwear.

No. I am nicely settled back in my beautiful apartment in The Top in Livingston. I have my best friends to help me keep up the hefty rent. Sure, I had to get used to the lack of quiet or privacy but it is mine and no one can throw me out.

Plus . . . Mohammed’s house left a lot to be desired.

“One day, baby. One day,” I promise as I roll out of bed.

I look at him and I know from the look on his face that he did not believe me. Truth. He is smart not to. I begin to climb back in the Gap charcoal gray turtleneck and pencil skirt I wore to our dinner date to IHOP last night. I wish I had a pair of sneakers to throw on instead of my suede high-heeled boots. As soon as I pull on my black leather trench, I walk over to where Mohammed is lounging across the foot of the bed watching a recap of some football game.

“Enjoy your day off,” I tell him as I bend down to snuggle his cheek.

Mohammed is the repair man at The Top. My friends, Dom, Alizé, and Moët, still cannot believe I am with him. Not when my life used to be about men who helped keep me from my life of robbing Peter to pay Paul. Athletes. Celebrities. Wealthy businessmen. I had been on the hunt to be the ultimate celebrity wife. My ex-fiancé Sahad Linx is the CEO of Platinum Records. His money, his fame, and his lifestyle had almost been mine. I let it slip through my fingers like sand so that my hands were free to grab Mohammed.

He reaches across to lightly touch my face and I get chills. Fuck the money and the fame. I got love and lots of it.

“See you later?” he asks in that Jamaican accent that has the power to make me wet.

“Yes,” I whisper against his lips.

Walking out of that bedroom and leaving my man in the bed naked, willing, and with his dick rising is almost as hard as he is. I try not to judge his house as I grab my hobo from the kitchen table. I can fit half of Mohammed’s entire three-bedroom house inside my living room. It is furnished just like the bachelor he is. Mismatched this. Tore-up that. Wal-Mart this. Target that. Mohammed likes to say his house has character. Whatever.

I look inside my Gucci purse (a purchase from my more glamorous days) for my keys and my hand rubs across my “bible.” Forgetting the keys, I pick up the address book. Inside is each and every man I have ever dated or slept with. For each man there is a brief bio and a photo, if I had one. I used dollar signs to rate how free giving they were with their money, and stars to rate how good they were in bed. The more dollar signs and stars the better.

But this book isn’t me anymore. Since I have been with Mohammed I have not made an entry. I have not called one number. I have good friends. A good man. A good life.

I am happy. I am.

Then why do I still have it?

Ignoring the answer to that million-dollar question, I shove the address book down deep in my bag. I finally close my fingers around the keys before I rush out of the house.

Ican do this. I have to do this. That’s all there is to it. Fuck it. I clear my throat as I double-check my appearance in the full-length mirror. The navy pinstripe Gucci suit is a far cry from my ghetto fabulous style but I can’t stroll my ass into anyone’s office in booty shorts and gold high heels. There is a time and place for everything. Trust. So this suit is made to instill power while still delivering style. I’m feeling pretty chic but my confidence level is at an all-time low. Not because of anything physical. Shit, I’m cute as hell and I know it. Just try having to face the man you love—ahem, once loved—after he has married another woman. Face his ass. Work with his ass. Try to pretend to his ass that I do not give a shit that he married her just months after I turned down his offer to make our platonic friendship something more. Just try.

I grab my Gucci briefcase. My goals to take corporate America by storm ain’t changed so I will just have to knuckle up, stroll into that paid internship with my head held high and my heart protected. I already turned down the offer to intern at Braun, Weber last fall semester because I couldn’t face Cameron Steele, who is the Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions for the large investment firm. He’s married now and living in New York. I’m fine with it. Time to move the hell on. New year. New things. It’s all about the MBA, baby. Trust.

With one last wink at my reflection that is a big old front, I left my bedroom. While I’m in school—working hard to be able to make the money . . . one day—I still live with Mom. She is the epitome of a divorcée who’d rather be anything else. Unfortunately, my dad doesn’t feel the same about reconciling as she does. One day, I hope to myself—and that’s one day my mom will move on and not one day my dad will give in.

I walk to the head of the wooden staircase. I hate the nerves that clutch my guts just before I can take the first step.

Having my leg broken in half makes me anxious as hell. Anything that can lead to me breaking it again fucks with me real bad. My panic only lasts in those moments just before my foot hits the steps, but it’s there each and every time. I shake away a flash of Rah’s angry face looking down at me as I lay on the floor just before he raised his foot and stomped my leg, shattering it in two. That dumb motherfucker is in jail for what he did to me. Just like my ex-friend Dom’s betraying ass is struggling to stay her project ass off of drugs.

Humph. My friend since high school slept with my man and then dimed me out to him about cheating. I walked into his apartment that night to find him fucking her nasty stripper ass and then he gone have the nerve to fight me. Ain’t that some shit?

I feel anger rising like crazy.

I stop, close my eyes, and breathe as I count to one hundred slowly. It’s a trick my therapist, Dr. Locke, taught me to overcome my anger. Shit, who wouldn’t be mad about the betrayal of a friend, the betrayal of your man with your friend, losing the real man you love because your immature ass was too caught up in thug appeal to appreciate a stand-up man like Cameron, and never being able to quite dance like I used to because that fool broke my damn leg. I have plenty of reason to be mad as hell. Not being able to dance hurt me more deeply than Dom or Rah’s no-good asses. I used to teach dance classes at Dana’s Dance Studio but with the internship and classes I knew I wouldn’t have time. Plus teaching and not dancing was hard for me.

Let it go, I tell myself. I try to think of Dr. Locke’s calm voice telling me that my anger will only hurt me in the end. “Ninety-seven . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred,” I finish calmly, grateful when the emotions bubbling up in me die down some.

I don’t give a shit what anybody says. I’m a strong woman to put up with everything I dealt with in the last year. I overcame it all. And on top of it all, my ass is celibate. No dick for me. It has been months and trust, for me that is a huge deal. Dr. Locke says I should focus all of my energy on healing myself and that welcoming another relationship into my life at this time would be a setback. So, I have sworn off dicks and gladly welcomed masturbation into my life. Today is just another test of my clit. Another check of how much of a woman I really am. All of these months in therapy got me ready for this. I got this. I can do this. No, fuck that. I will do this.

My BlackBerry begins to vibrate in the pocket of my thin wool trench. I rush to pull it out. This is what good friends—real friends—are all about. They check on you when they know your ass is scared as hell. “Hey,” I say in my little sing-song way.

“Are you okay?” Cristal asks in her mothering kinda way.

“Cris, what am I going to say when I see him?” I ask, not even trying to hold it back.

“I’m here too, Alizé.”

I smile at the sound of Moët’s voice on the line. Then I pause. These two bitches can be tricky when they want to. “Who else is on the line?” I ask with a voice that shows I ain’t even playing.

They both sigh. “Dom is not on the phone, Alizé,” Cristal says. “I am done trying to get you two back together. If you two do not care then I do not care anymore either.”

“Good,” I answer, even as I feel a little petty. Only a little.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cristal asks, changing the subject.

“Yes,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I am going to walk in there and be nothing but business all the way. In fact, if he doesn’t want to talk anything but mergers and acquisitions then that is fine with me. In fact, that is perfect for me.”

“You’ll be fine. Just say a little prayer and make sure you call one of us as soon as you get a chance,” Moët says in a positive way like only Moët can.

I shook my head even as I said, “Yes, I will.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Alright, Ze, I have to go before I am late to work.”

“I’ll call y’all as soon as I can,” I promise, before ending the call and sliding the BlackBerry back into the pocket of my coat.

With one last shake, I press my Donna Karan suede round-toe platform onto the first step. The rest are easy. Now if I can just convince myself of the same about seeing Cameron for the first time in months.



“Welcome back, Monica.”

I look up from the company manual I’m skimming over to see him standing across the table from me. All of the air leaves my body. Suddenly the large conference room feels small as hell. My eyes eat him up. The tall muscular frame. His fine-ass square features. The way his suit fits his athletic frame. Here he is. The man that I loved and lost.

Breathe, Alizé, breathe. I rise and present him my hand in full professional mode. “Hello, Mr. Steele.”

Cameron focuses his deep-set eyes on my outstretched hand. “Mr. Steele?” he asks with a sardonic tone before he enfolds my slender hand into a shake.

His touch reminds me of everything we never shared together. Everything my dumb ass pushed away. Our eyes lock. His hands feel so warm in mine. I feel so attracted to him. So pulled into him. But I have to remember that he’s married now. This man belongs to someone else.

Not that I ain’t never dealt with married men. Just not any that I had feelings for. Cameron Steele is—was—the first man I ever loved.

Thankfully, the conference doors open and the rest of the staff wander in. Cameron releases my hand with one last long look before claiming his spot at the head of the table. I only have moments to get myself together. I prayed no one notices that my nipples are rock hard. Sitting up in the meeting sweating like a crack fiend ain’t a good thing.

I’ve never even kissed Cameron but throughout the entire meeting I have to make myself stay focused and stop daydreaming about him stripping me naked and fucking me doggy style in the middle of the conference table. Pulling my hair, slapping my ass, popping my pussy....

I twirl my Mont Blanc pen in my hand as I cross my legs hoping to stop that steady throb of my clit. Ba-doop. Ba-doop. God, I am so horny and Cameron’s married ass is looking so damn good. As I set the tip of my pen against my bottom lip, I wonder just what kind of lover he is. Gentle and sweet? Rough and ready? Deep and demanding?

What size dick does he have?

Does he eat pussy?

Would he talk nasty while pounding in this here pussy?

Is he a freak?

That day in my bedroom when he admitted that he loved me I should have at least given him some consolation pussy. I should’ve jacked my broke leg right on up to the sky and let him fuck away some of the pain of me turning him down. Now he is married to someone else.

I level my eyes on him as some random executive rambles off some report about something or other. Cameron is writing something on a notepad and just the strong, tight way he grips the pen makes me hot. It’s not like me to not be focused on learning all I can but right now my celibacy and being within feet of Cameron has my mind all fucked up.

He looks up suddenly and catches my eyes on him. He looks away as if I am nothing but a stranger. No lie? My feelings are hurt.

I force myself to pay attention in the meeting. Getting my MBA is more important to me than sitting here sexdreaming about a married damn man. A married man that I still love.

I’m fucked.



I spent most of the day cooped up in another small office that is just an inch bigger than the closet they masqueraded as my office last summer. Delaney, Cameron’s assistant, followed his instructions and made sure I had plenty of office manuals to read over. I saw Cameron in passing a few times but he never once cracked his neck to look in my direction. Wifey must have his ass on a tight leash.

Or Cameron is the stand-up, reliable man that I know he is. I sucked air between my teeth. Man, you know what? I don’t give a fuck how faithful his ass is. Shit, he . . .