When Somebody Loves You Back

Book 6: Soulmates Dissipate

by Mary B. Morrison

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

Synopsis

Former playboy Darius Jones is back on top. His high-profile legal trouble is finally behind him, and ahead is a bright NBA career--and the engagement to his soul mate, the irrepressibly sexy Fancy Taylor. But bad news has a habit of coming when you least expect it, and this time Darius could loose everything he has. . . The New York Times and Essence Bestseller!

Release date: July 1, 2008

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 304

Sample

I thank God for blessing me and I thank God for each of you, praying your lives are filled with joy and prosperity.

To all of the Hurricane Katrina victims, many of whom are my family and friends, stay strong; hold on to God’s unchanging hand. Although I cannot relate firsthand, I do know home (New Orleans) will never be the same for me, especially for you. Wherever you are, keep love and faith in your heart, and get every dime you deserve from the government. In my opinion, no amount is too much, because the government hasn’t done nearly enough to compensate you. Never give up hope. There is a brighter day ahead.

To my fans, writing the series was an enjoyable but not easy journey. After five novels, you’ve anxiously awaited number six, When Somebody Loves You Back, eager to find out what happens to Darius. All I can say is, “You are awesome!” I know many of you are still recommending Soul Mates Dissipate, and I cannot thank you enough for supporting my works.

To my deceased parents, I’ve never written a book without expressing gratitude, and I never will. In loving memory of my biological parents, Joseph Henry Morrison and Elester Noel. To my great-aunt and uncle who reared me, Willie Frinkle and Ella Beatrice Turner, I am eternally grateful.

To my loving son, Jesse Byrd, Jr., anything worth having is worth working for. Continue doing your best at all times. Take the bitter with the sweet. Visualize your success. As Chris Farr tells you, “Prepare for war in time of peace.” I know you can make it into the NBA if you bring your A game every single time. Adversity and success are teachers of life but only when you learn the lessons. Always respect yourself, respect others, and surround yourself with positive people who are good individuals. Stay humble. I’m proud of you, sweetie. You are truly a wonderful young man with great character and you are Mommy’s most cherished gift from God.

A special shout-out to Jason “JG” Grisby, a wonderful young man beginning college. Jason, your strength comes from within. You’ve overcome more mental and physical challenges than the average teenager and I’ve never heard you complain. Jason, you have a quiet sense of confidence that some, but not all, of us understand. Progressing to the next level, you need to step it up and verbalize your confidence. I’m not suggesting you become arrogant. It’s not what you say but how you say it. The key is to speak up, speak out, respectfully so, especially when communicating with coaches.

With mad love for my recently adopted godson, Robert “Chew” Owens, you have made Mama proud. You earned your number-one ranking in the Oakland Athletic League. A wise man, Mr. Al Cason, once told me, “You must always help someone. But when you choose that person, you’ve chosen wrong.” Mr. Cason made it clear that I could never help someone who didn’t want help. Chew, when I looked into your eyes, I felt your sincerity for wanting help. In many ways, I’m the one blessed because you’ve helped me to grow too. As you begin your first year of college, I want you to know, the thing I admire most about you, Chew, is your determination to succeed. No matter how challenging college becomes, hold on to your winning spirit. A man only fails when he fails to try. I will continue to be one of your catalysts. More importantly, I want you, on your road to success, to remember that you must help someone less fortunate. But when you choose that person, you’ve chosen wrong.

I’ve got nothin’ but love for the Oakland/San Francisco Bay Area college basketballers with game: Jesse Byrd, Jr., Antonio Kellog, James Morgan, Manny Quezada, Armondo Surratt, and Alan Wiggins, Jr., at the University of San Francisco; Timothy Kees at Menlo College; Diamon Simpson at St. Mary’s College; Larry Gurganious at Gonzaga University; DeMarcus Nelson at Duke University; Quinton Thomas at North Carolina Universisty, Jason Grisby, and Robert Owens, college bound seniors. Stay focused and I look forward to witnessing all of you play professionally.

To my siblings, you’re the greatest! I love Wayne, Derrick, Andrea, and Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, Debra Noel, and Brian Turner.

To my Sweeter than Honey sisterhood group, author Rachelle Chase, Onie Simpson, and Malissa Walton, I appreciate your love, respect, and wisdom, as we continue to support and empower one another in achieving our personal and professional goals. Let’s attain our group goal of becoming serial daters traveling around the world.

Yolanda Parks of TV One, Michael Baisden, Cherisse Gage, Lissa Woodson, Jeremy “JL” Woodson, Barbara Cooper, Carmen Polk, Shannette Slaughter, Larry Addison, Gloria Mallette, E. Lynn Harris, Lou Richie, Jessie Evans, Chris Farr, Brian Shaw, Phil Doherty, Bill Johnson, Pete Morales, Carl Weber, Victoria Christopher Murray, Ruth and Howard Kees, Vanessa Ibanitoru (my friend since third grade), Brenda and Aaron Clark, and my McDonogh No. 35 Roneagles family, thanks for your continued support.

To my entire Kensington family, Joan, Jessica, Mary, Maureen, Nicole, Steven Zacharius, and Barbara Bennett, I am grateful for all you do.

I love my editor, Karen Thomas. Karen, you have a magnificent head on your shoulders. You’re a powerful and brilliant woman operating the most successful African-American imprint, Dafina Books.

To Claudia Menza, my agent, although we’ve separated, I still love and respect you. When all of the contractual obligations are fulfilled, we will have presented eleven books.

Last, but damn sure nuff not least, Felicia Polk, you are forever my best friend and the world’s greatest publicist. May God bless you beyond measure. Thanks for believing in me.

The acknowledgments for my next book are dedicated to book clubs and bookstore owners and managers. I appreciate your love and support.

I have so many more people to acknowledge, but I also have other books to write, so if I didn’t mention you this time, forgive me now, remind me later.

Soul Mates Dissipate, Never Again Once More, He’s Just a Friend, Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top, Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This, and When Somebody Loves You Back are intertwined. I recommend reading the series in the order listed above. You can preview an excerpt of each novel at www.MaryMorrison.com and www.SweeterThanHoney.net.

Next is my Sweeter than Honey series. Pussy is sweeter than honey and more valuable than money. Women everywhere, after reading this series, will become sexually, spiritually, and emotionally empowered, learning, that is, if they don’t already know, women are a triple threat—possessing power, passion, and all the pussy in the world. Fellas, just when you thought it couldn’t get any sweeter for the ladies, more women are earning good salaries and/or owning and operating businesses. Therefore, men who are liabilities can kiss a Sweeter than Honey asset good-bye.

Sweeter than Honey women worship themselves. They don’t hesitate to sit on a man’s face, give him a taste, and ultimately do him right, but only if he comes correct. Sweeter than Honey women demand respect. I know what you guys are thinking…what about the women who disrespect men? Most women respond to the way they are treated. So don’t undermine a woman’s intelligence, expecting her to accept your chauvinistic behavior (i.e., infidelity, lies, control tactics, abuse, etc.). When you genuinely love your woman, she’ll truly love you, but it’s going to cost you. Sweeter than Honey women never give their sweetness away for free.

My Dicktation series is also forthcoming. Dicktation is set in my hometown of New Orleans, which was virtually destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Having grown up in, as we say, Nawlins, I’d like to bring the “City that Care Forgot,” back to life and create visuals for those of you who’d planned on but hadn’t visited New Orleans.

For those of you who’ve left your stamp or stench on The Big Easy by being oh so sleazy, and you know you were off the muthafuckin’ chain—one step away from starring in a Snoop Dog Gone Wild video—if the natives called you cheese-zy ba-ba you are going to love the series. For y’all, Dicktation will reignite fond memories of—Essence, Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, the French Quarters, Bayou Classic, Bourbon Street, Harrah’s Casino, Comic View, 7140, Second Lines, and all the shit you can’t tell nobody, probably ’cause your ass couldn’t remember, but couldn’t wait to do again.

New Orleans will forever be a city like no other, especially after the city is rebuilt, but it’ll never be the same. Therefore, I must do justice to both the before and the after depictions. Dicktation will arise and arouse like no other work I’ve done…until then, enjoy Sweeter than Honey, and remember you are what you eat, so stay sweet.

A black woman did it all…because she had to.

She did it all and she did it well, caring for others while neglecting herself. Four hundred and fifty years of birthing babies for white masters and black slaves sold off to the highest bidder, leaving her to raise her children all alone. Four hundred fifty–plus years struggling for freedom, while black men died, for what they seemingly couldn’t live with today, dignity.

Whose fault was that?

If only a man could teach a boy how to become a man, then the question would be rhetorical. If the black woman birthed the black man, raised the black man, loved the black man she gave life to, then when did the black man begin disrespecting the black woman, replacing her birth name with bitch?

Bitch. Bastard. Incontestably the black man could win at one thing: throwing a boomerang. The black man’s life would forever remain incomplete until he learned how to love and respect the black woman. Good or bad—what he believed was golden—a dick didn’t mean shit when the black man chose not to give back to the black woman what she’d freely given to him. Unconditional love. Respect. Devotion.

Freedom came with a price, and now that the black woman could choose her mate, her fate was the same, leaving her to take on more responsibility than she should, but not more than she could, so she carried on doing all she could do, the best she knew how. It’s been proven that if one tried to do everything, one would risk doing nothing well.

After dropping off the kids, working nine-to-five and then sometimes five-to-nine, picking up the kids, cooking dinner, changing diapers, checking homework, and lying down for a four—should be eight—hours’ rest, did the black woman have any quantitative time to invest in her children’s future? If she made time, did she have any qualitative time for herself? If the mother was unhealthy, the children were unhealthy too.

When the alarm clock sounded, the next day was a replica of yesterday, and it seemed like the groundhog saw its shadow every day because each tomorrow for the next eighteen-years-plus brought sorrows that would make demands of the black woman to carry on, humming the same old hymn…“I won’t complain.”

Who would take care of the black woman while she sacrificed to rear her kids, pay the bills, and all too often, sleep alone at night, wondering if her direct deposit would post in time to keep the lights on, or balance her checkbook the day before payday to restock the refrigerator before emptying the cabinets, or feed her children the last few slices of bread while she watched them eat?

The black woman didn’t need anybody’s empathy. She was a survivor by nature. The Mother of Jesus, many denied the undeniable, but what the black woman fell short of was an epiphany: a lesson in how to love herself first. How to stop stressing about not knowing if her baby daddy—daddies—would ever show up at his children’s events, parent-teacher conferences, if he’d ever pay her child support, and ultimately to stop worrying about whom he had sex with when he wasn’t loving her, that is, if he’d ever loved her.

Love or the lack thereof, based on his mother’s mistakes, Darius reluctantly admitted to himself, what most men at some point in their lives experienced; he was terrified of two things: falling in love and failure. No one had taught him how to attain one while avoiding the other. Either, or would render him vulnerable. Destroy his character. Ultimately strip him of his manhood.

A man in love was weak for his woman. Would do anything for his woman. The more he gave, the more control she wanted. Darius didn’t want to be hard on women; he had to be. The cold, callous, careless, arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish person ruling his existence, primarily with his dick, wasn’t him. But if Darius didn’t protect his heart, who would? Surely not the women who’d emotionally broken him down. Like the one blabbering on the other end of his cell phone wasting his time, burning up his daytime minutes.

Sitting in the white Hummer limousine, next to his fiancée, Darius regretted answering his phone. If it were up to him, he would’ve ignored the call, but no, Fancy had to insist, “Answer, it.” Translation, “Put that bitch in check so I won’t have to.”

Darius was stuck again between the old and the new pussies.

Ashlee cried in his ear, “I’m sorry.” No, she wasn’t. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Yes, she did. Otherwise she wouldn’t have phoned. “And no matter what, I love you.” That was probably the one truth.

No woman could resist Darius’s six-foot-eleven, 240-pound muscular caramel frame with six percent body fat, his lustrous shoulder-length locks, chiseled chin, hazel eyes, perfect white teeth, his millions of dollars, or his big eight-inch dick and the fact that he knew how to sling Slugger and eat pussy oh so sweet that the strongest women submitted to him.

Ashlee continued, “But you need to know.”

Exhaling, Darius conceded, “Then tell me.”

Crying, like most women did when they wanted sympathy for something that was their fault, Ashlee said, “Our son, Darius Junior, died from HIV complications.”

Whoa, that was some cold-blooded shit to drop on a brotha on his wedding day. Hell, any day. “And you?” Darius whispered.

Sniffling, Ashlee said, “Positive.”

The numbness in Darius’s body caused the phone to slip from between his fingers.

Picking up the phone, Fancy questioned Ashlee. “What did you tell him?” Fancy looked at the phone, then said, “Hello? Hello?” Staring at Darius, Fancy began crying along with him. She muttered, “She hung up. Please tell me. What did she say?”

If Fancy had kept her damn mouth shut, he wouldn’t be trippin’ over Ashlee’s bullshit. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his phone?

“Move! From now on, don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me! Fine, forget I asked. You think you can handle everything by yourself. In here,” Fancy scolded, pressing her finger into Darius’s temple. “Well, you can’t. And I’m not marrying a man who doesn’t need, trust, or value my opinions.”

Softly, Darius said, “It’s not like that. I do respect you.” Her opinion was what he didn’t care for. Darius pressed a button, lowering the divider window, then instructed the driver, “Man, take me straight home.”

“Oakland or Los Angeles?”

That’s how Darius wanted his life, clear cut. Black or white. A or B. Gray areas were like women, ambiguous and complicated. Darius answered, “Los Angeles.”

Banging his face against the limo window, Darius worried, was his HIV test, taken years ago, a false negative? How many women had he possibly infected? Darius could start with the one sitting next to him.

Alone, Candice sat in Jada’s guest bedroom by the large bay window, enjoying the second-floor view. Inside the cozy space, a plush queen-size bed with a red satin buttonhole headboard rested catty-corner facing the door. The sparkling fuchsia duvet adorned a dozen tasseled pillows. A pink leather bench perched adjacent to the footboard.

The glass-top computer desk faced outside, snug beneath the redwood window frame. Candice’s fingers skated along the keyboard, sixty, seventy words a minute:

I had a dilemma many married women shared: Should I divorce my impotent husband or not? I’d instantly trade in a broken car I couldn’t fix or sell a run-down house that cost more to maintain than its value. My husband wasn’t a thing; he was a human being. A cheating man, who’d fucked around for over twenty years, with the same woman.

Candice paused, gazing at the rolling green hillside resembling the peaks and valleys of their friendship. Jada was Candice’s girl, her best friend, her right hand. They’d partied together, laughed, cried, double-dated. Met their husbands the same night at Cityscape in San Francisco at a Will Downing, Rachelle Farrell concert.

That was BM, before marriage, those were the good old days. Jada met Wellington. Candice met Terrell. Wellington fucked up, Jada married Lawrence. Terrell fucked up, Candice married Terrell. They both relocated from Oakland to L.A but not together. Jada moved to get away from Wellington. Candice would’ve moved anywhere in the world to be with Terrell, who lived in Los Angeles.

Terrell was five years younger, an international model, and, so she’d thought, wealthy until she married him, realizing Terrell lived well above his means. He owned a huge house with a waterfall, bought her an expensive wedding ring. The first sign of financial trouble was when Terrell purchased matching his-and-hers Mercedes Benzes, with her money.

Accepting Terrell’s ring, Candice felt obligated to get married. What if she didn’t get another chance to meet a man like him? If Candice had remained single, and Jada had gotten married, they wouldn’t have stayed friends. Not close friends.

Assuming their wives weren’t intelligent enough to think, insecure married men objected to their spouses kickin’ it with single girlfriends. A selfish man could ruin a good friendship. Hoping she and her girl would stay close, Candice said, “I do,” shortly after Jada called off her engagement to Wellington.

The main thing Candice tried to avoid happened. Thanks to Terrell’s controlling ways, Candice lost touch with her best friend. For years. Without a friend and time on her hands, Candice wrote and sold a screenplay about Jada’s life. Putting Jada’s business on the big screen got Candice a not so warming house visit. After Jada got over being pissed, they were friends again. How long would their friendship last this time, considering Candice was temporarily living in Jada’s house, secretly writing part two of Jada’s life? Tapping the keys, Candice continued:

The empty twenty-count blue Viagra tablets he’d hid in his office drawer weren’t used for my womanly pleasure. He’d found the sexual stamina to stick his dick in another woman, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make love to me. He was eager to sign the divorce papers until the doctor told him his prostate cancer had spread and they had to operate immediately. What’s my obligation to stay with a two-timer? I’m clear. I have none. But I do have a conscience. I won’t leave him while he’s down, but after the surgery, she can have him.

Candice sighed. “This is too boring. I’ma have to throw in some cussing to sell this one. Let’s see,” she said, backspacing, then revising:

That muthafucka emptied a twenty—you hear me?—a twenty-count of Viagra on that stank-ass bitch. If his sorry ass wasn’t dying I swear I’d kill that dead-dick bastard! Twice!

Anger was better, Candice thought, mesmerized by the fading sunrays.

Jada always had one man on her arm and another on her charm bracelet dangling from her wrist. The ten years she was married to Lawrence, Wellington was in the background. Once Jada married Wellington, Lawrence disappeared and Darryl bopped side to side, doo-wopping as backup, waiting to sing lead in her chorus.

One man at a time was Candice’s style. Terrell wasn’t that bad in the beginning. They’d still be married if she’d been woman enough not to let him change her. Candice never found peace with wanting but not having a child. Terrell didn’t want kids. Too late now, premenopause and a baby who’d stare at her for crying, yelling, snapping, swearing, and forgetting things would drive Candice crazy.

Not so long ago, Candice remembered her husband was her life. In many ways, having Terrell was like having a child and an overprotective father. At first marriage was kinda cute, him telling her what to do. That chauvinistic shit got real old, really quick, but she hung in there till they damn near hanged one another with misery. Candice thought when, he left her, she’d fall apart. Wrong. She didn’t lift him up to put herself down. Surprisingly the second his shadow walked out the door, the sun seemed brighter. So was her spirit. Like before she’d gotten married, Candice felt stress-free. The days of him telling her how to dress, “Cover your breasts. Take off that skirt. You’re not leaving this house looking like that,” were gone.

Like what? A sexy male magnet? The way she used to dress when he met her, wearing a peach minidress. But he could bare his masculine chest or muscular thighs whenever he desired, saying, “You know, baby, it’s different for a man.” And he had no problem being admired by women. Because of her, he’d made a great career move after their divorce that guaranteed him access to more pussy than he could eat. Terrell went from modeling to acting; she’d bartered with the casting company and secured him a supporting role in Soul Mates Dissipate.

Candice was happy for her ex, happier for herself. Thankful that over the years she’d respected her body by exercising, eating healthy foods, sleeping six to eight hours a day. She’d aged gracefully. Single, available, with no intentions of remarrying, she knew she was sexy and thanks to her girlfriend’s never-a-boring-moment life, she had an eight-figure bank account and the waterfall house to cushion her divorce. Nice landing.

Tap, tap.

The finger mouse centered on the dash. Click. The screen faded to black. Candice minimized her document, closed the laptop, picked up The Guide to Becoming a Sensuous Black Woman by Miss T, then answered, “Come, in.”

Peeping her head through the door, Jada asked, “What are you doing?”

“Just reading this book on how to seduce a man. Nothing you’d be interested in,” Candice said, parting the pages.

Smiling, Jada moved closer. Slyly Candice propped her elbow on her laptop.

Glancing at the book, Jada said, “You right. I need one on how to unseduce your husband. Do you mind going to the store? Wellington wants some more snacks.”

Candice stood. “Sit down for a while.”

Massaging Jada’s neck and shoulders, Candice said, “You are tense.”

Jada rotated her head, neck, and shoulders. “Um, that feels so good. Thanks, girl.”

“How’s he doing?” Candice asked, not giving a damn because Wellington’s sorry ass didn’t want Jada to leave his side for more than five minutes at a time.

Candice gave up on investing her energy into finding a faithful man who was honest, considerate, loving, good-looking, and wealthy. If a man had three good qualities, she’d take him for what he was worth. How long he stayed with her depended upon when or if he became useless. Candice pressed her thumbs into Jada’s muscles.

Jada sighed. “Not good. He’s in a lot of pain. I’m glad he’s checking into the hospital soon, because he’s wearing me out and not the way I’d like. All he wants to do is watch television, kiss me to death, and rub on my titties like he’s doing something.”

“Like this,” Candice said, groping her hands on Jada’s shoulders.

Laughing, Jada said, “Exactly. He works me all up for nothing because he doesn’t want to lick my pussy, and I’m tired of playing with her to entertain him. Girlfriend, I’m too young for this sexual frustration. There’s nothing wrong with my pussy.”

Candice thought, First it was beer, now snacks. Couldn’t he make a list? replying, “You know how I feel. Get some dick lined up on the side. You’ll be well within your right, and ain’t shit he can do from a hospital bed.”

Standing, Jada said, “I can’t be like him. I can’t cheat on my husband for the sake of having sex. I have to love the man I’m with.”

“You’re delirious. That’s why I’m here. For you.” To write all this shit down so next time Jada got a man, probably Darryl, she wouldn’t forget.

Jada lived a fairy-tale kind of life, suppressing reality to suit her beliefs. Jada could watch her. . .