Who's Loving You

by Mary B. Morrison

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

Synopsis

With her sudden windfall, Honey Thomas has enough money to make a fresh start. Leaving her old life behind in Vegas, Honey sets out for Atlanta, where she opens a counseling center to help victimized women. But just when she thinks she's finally getting a break, Honey's past comes back to haunt her . . . "Mix dirty red drama, relationship scandals, suspense, love and you get my girl Mary B. Morrison."—Vickie Stringer

Release date: July 1, 2009

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 384

Sample

Love sucks! I swore on my sister’s grave, I wished I’d never met him. His voice had lingered in my mind with crisp clarity every damn day, like he was standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

“Baby,” he used to say to me, and I would answer, barely above a whisper, “Yes?” Seductively, he’d say it again, “Baby,” in a tone that quieted me. “Yes?” I’d say softly. We’d go back and forth: then his long fingers and strong hands would gently caress the side of my face and massage my ears.

I’d quiver whenever he’d moan, “Ummmm, you’re fucking incredible. You know that? And I’m not talking about your bedroom skills. Baby, you are an amazing woman.”

His eargasms would make cool waterfall secretions flow from my pussy, wetting my lips, before he’d ease his hand between my thighs, pressing his middle finger against my clit. He was left-handed. I’d heard Dr. Oz say on Oprah that left-handed people were smarter, more balanced, and better capable of processing information than those of us who were right-handed. His index and ring fingers would straddle my shaft, nestling in the crevices of my lips, as he strummed my black pearl with his middle finger. That was my favorite finger.

Gasping at the sound of his voice in my head, I knew…I was incredible. But no other man had told me that. No other man had said to me, “I love you.” Grant was my first. I let the tears fall, then closed my eyes, visualizing our moments together, lifting my lids to see only me, surrounded by olive painted walls, bright lime cabinets, dark forest granite countertops, and a kitchen floor covered with new hundred-dollar bills that had been permanently laminated into clear ceramic tiles.

Green was my favorite color. I loved walking on men and money. I’d admit I was a little extravagant. A grand total of one million dollars—in hundred-dollar bills—was embedded in every floor of my home, including the bathrooms. Some preferred to walk on sunshine. Money was my visual reminder of where I’d come from. I wasn’t proud of how I’d stepped on and over a countless number of people to get where I was. Live and Let Die was my favorite James Bond movie and my motto. Standing in front of the kitchen counter, I slid an already sharp knife along the steel sharpener.

Grant had been my joy. We’d loved sharing Cherry Garcia ice cream while watching The Boondocks DVD series, and making love. In between orgasms, we’d laugh at Huey, Riley, and their granddad. One time we stayed in bed all day, eating, sleeping, and fucking until we wobbled like ducks when we made our way to the bathroom for a much-needed piss.

“Quack, quack,” I’d teased him.

“Quack, quack, quack,” he’d tease me back.

Then, suddenly, our relationship had faded to dark. He was out of my life, as if I had frantically awakened from the best dream of my life. Shutting my eyes, I fought to go back to him, to go back to sleep and pick up where we had left off, before he left me. I tossed and wrestled with my empty bed. I opened my legs, easing the memory foam pillow between my thighs, then pulled my red satin sheet around my erect nipples, trying to forget he was no longer mine. Opening my eyes, I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring at a blue crystal bowl filled with red potatoes.

How could my past ruin my future? I had tried my damnedest to give that man my best, and he had slammed the door to his heart in my face, as though I was a Jehovah’s Witness trying to save his spiritual behind so he would become the one-hundred forty-four thousandth person to make it…Where? To Heaven? Wherever that was. Who’d been there? What did they do to get in? Mistreat others?

From hot to cold, within seconds he had swatted me away like I was a fly landing on his food, regurgitating shit. I’d meant nothing to him. It was as though he’d truly awakened to a stranger.

Words were powerful beyond measure, but his silence hurt me more. He’d made me make myself go crazy. Wow. Love or the lack thereof could do that. Make one go crazy.

“Answer your damn phone. You wrong for this shit, Grant! Dead wrong!” I yelled. I grunted loud enough to release my frustrations, but not so loud that someone in the house would come running to my aid with a straight jacket. My house had thirteen bedrooms. Twelve upstairs. Mine was the only one downstairs.

“I should kill him. Goddammit, son of a bitch!” I screamed. Sucking the stream of blood oozing from my finger, I threw the knife, the potatoes, and the crystal bowl in the damn trash can. “Fuck this shit!”

Love hadn’t hurt me. I was clear that I’d hurt the one I loved. Now I was the one suffering. Every time I got angry, so angry that I could harm Grant, something bad happened to my ass. Unzipping the first-aid kit, I pulled out a bandage.

“He probably has some other bitch in his bed, sucking his dick right now, while I’m over here trippin’ on unresolved issues that I can’t control.” Not by myself.

As I wrapped the Band-Aid tightly around my middle finger, thoughts of the way we had constantly been together replayed in my mind, reminding me of the irreplaceable love I’d lost. Where was I going to find another six-foot-five, 235-pound, twenty-eight-year-old, successful black man with a body sexier than any Chippendales dancer I’d ever seen? Grant was my man, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let him leave me. I just knew some ex-chick or someone hoping to be the next chick had been waiting for me to fuck up so she could move in on him, with him.

“Not on my watch, bitch! Get your own man!” I grunted.

Each morning I reached out my hand to touch him; rolled over, expecting to kiss him; opened my eyes, longing to see him. I called out his name, but he wasn’t there to answer, “Yes, Honey?” as he had so affectionately done. Had he been sincere when he’d said, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me”? I wanted another chance. Hell, I deserved the opportunity to explain why I’d lied. Not everything I’d told him was a lie. Actually, most of what I’d shared about my past was the truth.

“Grant, listen to me,” I said. “Are you seriously going to take someone else’s word over mine? So what if Benito is your brother! Hell, your own mama don’t like his ass. I can’t believe you’re upset with me about something that happened before we met. You’re not making any sense. Okay. Answer this one question. ‘Do you still love me? Yes or no?’”

I wasn’t getting the answer I wanted; he wasn’t here to respond. All of this vacillating in the kitchen, talking to myself, had to stop. One minute I loved him; the same minute I hated his ass to death. I stood topless and barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, text messaging him: Baby, it’s not what you think. Please call me. I was trying to give him the impression I was being patient with him, but my patience had run out a long fucking time ago.

You thought you knew a woman; then you found out shit you wished you hadn’t. The saying “What you don’t know won’t hurt you” could actually kill you. In retrospect, I wished our relationship would’ve remained platonic. That way even if our friendship hadn’t flourished, I could have continued respecting her.

We consummated our acquaintance the first day we met. From the airport to dinner, to dicking her down really good, Honey was one sweet lady. Nah, she wasn’t a lady; she was a woman. But was she that easy with every guy? Honey was hot and sexy, and my dick was hard and horny, and we clicked. My dick fit her pussy perfectly. I never wanted to wait to have sex with a woman I liked. What were we waiting for? The one thing I could’ve avoided this time, if I had waited, was having my heart broken. Broken heart and all, life went on. That was for sure.

Parking in my parents’ driveway, I contemplated whether to go in. I didn’t feel like pretending I was happy again today. Stopping by to check on my mom and dad was routine. As usual, my old man peeked out the front window; then he opened the door, motioning for me to get out of the car. I read Honey’s text message, slipped my iPhone in the holder, then smiled at my father.

We walked up the seven steps to the house, with my arm over his broad shoulders. Five inches taller, I towered over him. My dad retired five years ago; Mom hadn’t worked a day since they’d married. Her stay-at-home-wife job entailed taking care of my dad, my brother, and me, and although we could take care of ourselves, Mom still enjoyed taking care of us.

Inside the house, I greeted my old man, hugging him tight. “You got a class this morning, old man?” I asked my dad.

He lectured to high-school students during the day and taught entrepreneurial courses in the evening. I took over managing his rental properties when I opened my business, GH Property Management and Development, seven years ago. With Dad’s guidance, I’d done well for a twenty-eight-year-old.

“Still trying to outdress me, huh, son? You gotta figure out where my new tailor is first. Close the door before one of those nasty flies creeps in.”

I had the best mom and dad. I loved my parents. Would do anything for them. “Hi, my angel,” I said to my mother, kissing her cheek. She hugged my waist, holding on a few seconds longer than usual. Mom’s hugs reassured me that everything was good. The prolonged hug made me wonder if everything was okay.

Mom whispered, “It’s already all right, son. Let go and let God. I know you want us to accept her, but she’s not the one for you.” Patting me on the back, she said, “You see your brother sitting over there? Speak.”

Like I said, I would do anything for my parents.

Benito got up off the sofa and hugged me. Mom hadn’t said anything about hugging that fool.

“Hey, bro,” he said. “You dump Lace yet? I told Mom all about Lace’s past. Take it from me, I keep telling you I dated her for three years. She’s bad news.”

Pushing him away, I said, “Her name is Honey, and I’m positive she’d plead temporary insanity for the entire three years.” Distancing myself from my brother, I followed my dad into the dining room.

Benito was right behind us. “Whatever you wanna call her is cool, but I’m tellin’ you—”

Dad interrupted him. “Benito, that’s enough. Why don’t you stop all the madness about that woman and tell us the truth about what’s going on with you? We haven’t seen you for twelve years, since you went off to college. And your mother just mailed Tyra a check for ten thousand dollars to pay your son’s tuition. You haven’t been home in a long time, but I raised you better. Even if your relationship with her is over, you need to go see your son. Now, why’d you come back here?”

Thank God. I wanted to keep the focus on Benito, so I asked him, “Yeah. Why?” I smiled, waiting for my brother to answer. Benito was two years older than me, but he looked forty. His years of partying and drinking were etched on his face. I wasn’t having any kids until after I got married. I wanted two, maybe three. All boys.

“I told y’all I kinda made a few bad investments, lost all my money. Then Lace kicked me out. I just need to stay until things settle. A few months. No longer than a year or two,” that fool said. Problem was he was serious.

My mother walked into the room, sat a plate in front of my dad, then me, and went back into the kitchen.

“What about me?” Benito yelled. “Why does Grant always have to be first?”

“’Cause I check on my parents every day I’m in town,” I said. “Your behind didn’t call after you left, not until you needed us.” I really wanted to say, “Nigga, your sorry black ass need to get up outta here and stop leeching,” but my parents wouldn’t have approved of that.

“Thank you, dear God, for this wonderful bounty, my mother, and my father. Amen,” I said. I blessed my stack of pancakes, strips of peppered bacon, and scrambled eggs and started eating. I had a business to run. Benito didn’t have shit else to do all day but lay up on my parents. I couldn’t believe my mother had paid his cell phone bill. He knew better than to ask me to do anything for him.

Staring at my brother, my dad didn’t blink once. Dad said, “You have one more time to disrespect my wife and you’re outta here.”

Benito was stupid, but not that stupid. He knew when to shut up. Mom walked back into the room and sat Benito’s plate in front of him. No thank you, no grace, no comment. Benito started chewing with his mouth open.

“Man,” I yelled at him, shoving his plate to the floor. “If you don’t stop disrespecting my mother, I’ma beat your ass! Show some fucking appreciation for her. She ain’t your damn maid!”

I stood over him, wishing he would push his chair back. My fists were tight. I wanted to punch him in his face. My dad scurried out of his chair and held my arms behind my back.

“Son, calm down. Sit. Finish your breakfast,” said Dad.

Benito slid my plate in front of him and started eating my food. Through a mouthful of my pancakes, he said, “You not mad at me, bro. You pissed because you didn’t know your sweet Honey baby was a hooker. Pass me the syrup, would ya?”

The morning was three hours away from noon. The sun was too bright to go back to sleep. The red potatoes were in the trash, my finger was aching, and I was still in the kitchen.

I texted Grant again. I give. You win. I stared at my phone until the time and date confirmed exactly when my message was sent. I waited five minutes, then an additional ten minutes, for his reply.

“Ughhh. Motherfucker! What or who are you doing that’s more important than me?” I yelled. Again, he had refused to answer. He was lucky I lived in Atlanta and not in D.C., or else…or else…What was his fucking problem? “Forget you, too, Grant. You’re too old for this childish bullshit. A real man would have the decency to give closure to his relationship.” Who was I fooling? I was angry because Grant was a real man. A real man with parents who loved him.

Lionel Richie’s voice resonating through the kitchen’s intercom created a much-welcomed distraction. One of the girls upstairs had decided to play songs, and since I insisted on the best, we had speakers in every room of the house, including the bathrooms. Softly, Lionel sang, “I do love you…still.”

As Lionel’s voice faded, I heard Luther singing, “Time rushes on. And it’s not fair. When someone you used to love, is no longer there…now you’re running back to me, to forgive you your mistake. Kinda makes me sad to say…it’s a little too late.”

Rushing into the spacious white-marbled foyer, I yelled up the U-shaped stairways. “Turn that shit off!”

Grant had helped me find this eight-thousand-square-foot home in Buckhead, which I’d paid cash for, so my escorts could quit fucking men for a living and for once be comfortable and focus on what they really wanted to do with their lives, and this was how they thanked me?

Whosoever had decided to play Luther Vandross at nine o’clock in the morning was lucky I hadn’t raced upstairs and slapped the hell out of ’em. They knew Grant and I had recently broken up. I didn’t need to hear that depressing-ass music right now. The feelings of rejection palpitating in my heart fluttered up to my throat, suffocating me. Fanning myself, I could hardly breathe.

“Damn,” I whispered, wishing I had the courage to hop a flight to D.C., show up unannounced at Grant’s front door, and make him talk to me. But I didn’t. What if a woman opened his door? I’d kill ’em both. For real.

Clenching my teeth, I scratched my neck. I was so frustrated, I felt like taking my damn iPhone, raising my arm high above my head, then slamming the iPhone on the ceramic floor and watching it shatter, like my heart, into tiny splintered pieces. What good was a communication device when I couldn’t get a response from the main person I wanted to hear from? Trembling, I exhaled heavily, then quietly sat my PDA on the counter and resumed cooking breakfast.

Flipping bacon in the frying pan, feeling lonely, I stood in my new home, inhaling the sweet aroma of thick strips of sizzling pork and watching grease specks splatter onto the stove. I hadn’t had a normal appetite in almost two weeks. The burning energy in the pit of my stomach had melted away ten pounds in the fourteen days that I hadn’t seen or spoken with Grant. I had gone from a size ten to an eight.

Outwardly, I struggled to appear calm so my girls wouldn’t think I was going crazy, but inside, I’d lost control of the hatred raging through my body, knowing I could easily slap or curse, for no rational reason, the first person that said, “Good morning.”

Onyx, my personal assistant, peeked her head inside the kitchen. When my eyes narrowed and shifted to the corners, I caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the foyer.

“Let me know when breakfast is ready,” she blurted, quickly trotting upstairs.

After my favorite escort, Sunny, Onyx, with her sweet black-cherry pussy, had earned me the most money when I was their madam. Men of every nationality had lost their fucking minds when they saw Onyx in my lineup of whores. I was glad I wasn’t exploiting women anymore.

I wasn’t proud of my past, but I was one of the few lucky ones that had got out of the escort business before it was too late. I was thankful that I hadn’t been arrested, like my ex-boss Valentino James, who was awaiting sentencing in a Nevada prison for thirteen counts of pimping and pandering, plus one count of first-degree murder. That could’ve easily been me sitting behind bars, facing the same charges.

There was such a thing called luck. With the help of a woman I barely knew, undercover police officer Sapphire Bleu, I’d escaped the prostitution arena in Las Vegas, and I’d avoided incarceration for the horrible things I’d done. Why she decided to help me, I wasn’t sure. But I’d learned never to question where my help came from. Sometimes the person I least expected to help me helped me the most.

Footsteps crept over my head, reminding me my girls were safe upstairs in the entertainment room. I prayed none of them would ever have to revert to prostitution. Girl Six was my only escort who’d remained in Las Vegas. She was reluctant to come live with me in Atlanta. Couldn’t say I blamed her, considering I’d kicked her in her stomach and fractured her ribs for showing up at work one day with a pimple on her ass.

Bam!

“Madam! Please stop! Don’t! I’m sorry! I won’t let this happen again,” Girl Six had cried. “Pleeeeaaaseeee, Madam, stop!”

Wham! Bam! Stomp! Kick!

Girl Six had balled up into a fetal position, holding what I had hoped was a few broken ribs.

“You are costing us fifty thousand dollars a night every time I have to send your ass home. You’ve got one more time to have a rash, a cold sore, or a pimple, and I will beat your ass into the ground, then fire you. Put your clothes on, and get the hell out,” I’d said, dismissing her.

Valentino had trusted me to run his multimillion dollar business, and the johns who paid ten grand an hour had demanded flawless women with beautiful bodies. At that time, my reputation meant more to me than sparing Girl Six’s life. Today I felt remorseful. In my heart, Girl Six was now family, and I’d given her a one-way airline ticket to Atlanta, the same as I’d done with all my girls. I wasn’t going to call her. She didn’t need another invitation when she already had a standing welcome to join us.

Thinking about my top-producing escort, Sunny Day, I whispered, “I couldn’t save them all.”

“I’m out. Bye, Dad. Bye, Mom,” I said.

“Bye, bro. I’ll see you later,” Benito’s sorry ass said, gnawing on a piece of my bacon.

Stopping in the restroom adjacent to the foyer, I took a piss, shook my dick, washed my hands, then left my parents’ house. I got in my car. “Ooh-wee, I wish he wasn’t my damn brother,” I said, checking my messages. Honey had texted again, at nine o’clock. I give. You win.

“Good. No, great. Me too. I hope you mean it this time,” I said. “I hate when Benito’s fucking ass is right.” I was angry at Honey. She had made me look like a fool in front of my parents. Wasn’t she obligated to disclose beforehand situations that could embarrass us?

I pulled into Starbucks to get a grande soy White Chocolate Mocha Expresso, no whip, extra hot. I’d stopped adding the whipped cream after Honey and I broke up. The things she could do with whipped cream made me shiver. Damn. The line was long. I’d wait. Give myself time to cool off before getting to my office. I swear, I wished I could’ve hit Benito’s ass one time, right in his big mouth.

“Ooh, he’s got a nice big one,” I heard the woman in front of me tell the lady she was with.

Frowning, I thought, Is she talking about me within listening range? D.C. women didn’t hold back on anything, particularly on pursuing men.

Her friend turned around, looked at my dick, smiled, then nodded. “He sure does, girl. Good looking out. You don’t miss anything. That’s big enough to share. We could double-dip fuck him at the same time.”

The woman who’d checked me out first handed me her business card. “Call me, on my cell. We’re having a private party tomorrow night. We’d love for you to come with us.”

I didn’t want to embarrass her by saying, “I’m not interested,” so I took the card and said, “Thanks,” putting it in my pocket.

Her opening line reminded me of a cheerleader I’d met in Las Vegas damn near fourteen years ago. I was fourteen years old at that time.

“Ooh, you got a nice big one. Please let me suck this pretty dick,” she’d pleaded. “That is why you invited me over, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts, silly. Come here and shut up,” she’d said, peeling the plastic off of a small square pack of…peanut butter?

Frowning, I’d stood by the edge of my hotel bed, looking down at her. “What’s that for?”

“It’s my favorite,” she’d said.

A devious grin had crossed her face. She’d scooped the peanut butter onto her tongue, smeared it all over my dick, then jokingly asked, “Got milk?” Then she’d opened a small packet of strawberry preserves. Layering the preserves over the peanut butter with her wet tongue, she’d put both of my nuts in her mouth at the same time.

“Ooh, my lord that feels good,” I’d said, trying to control my shaky teenage legs.

Gripping my dick like a microphone, she’d spat on it, started singing like she was on stage, then licked everything off, including my cum. I’d recalled thinking, Girls in D.C. don’t swallow.

“Sir, you’re holding up the line,” the cashier said. “May I please”—her eyes darted down to my dick—“take your order.” She smiled a little too hard.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, ordering my drink. I had to see what they were seeing. Damn! Those freaky-ass women. I had to start wearing underwear. One of them could’ve told me my dick was out. Tucking myself away, I dug into my pocket and pulled out a twenty.

The cashier held her hands up in the air. “Uh, that’s okay. The ladies in front of you paid for whatever you wanted,” she said, grinning. “Here’s your Starbucks card. You have a ninety-five-dollar credit.”

I was flattered but not convinced to call. Waiting for my mocha, I continued thinking. I’d never forget my first blow job. That shit felt ooh-wee! incredible, but I couldn’t say I loved, strongly liked, or even knew the girl who’d done it. In fact, I lost respect for her because she didn’t respect herself by going around and sucking dicks for fun while all the guys on our sophomore field trip in Las Vegas talked bad about her.

“Man, she’ll suck your dick in the bathroom, in the hallway, in the stairway, anywhere you want,” one guy had said. “All you have to do is pretend you like her ass, give her a few compliments, and that trick will drop to her knees and let your nuts bang against her chin until you cum in her mouth.”

To see if they were telling the truth, I joined in the experience. I felt like shit immediately after I’d cum in Tiffany Davis’s mouth. I doubted the other guys even knew her name. From that day forth, I promised myself I’d never disrespect another woman. If I didn’t care anything about her, I wasn’t putting my dick inside any part of her, no matter how attractive she was.

Tiffany was definitely not the type of woman I wanted to call my own or invite to my house to meet my parents. Damn! What made that girl do that shit? At times I wondered who or what had made Tiffany that way. What was she doing now? Probably somewhere prostituting. What had made my Honey fuck strange men for money?

“I guess I’ll never know,” I said aloud.

The only thing better than having sex was getting paid to have sex. I lived for the next orgasm. Cuming, squirting, and sucking dick was my natural high. Masturbation was a satisfactory last resort. I was born that way. Sexy. Sexual. Overachiever. I had shown my cleavage the minute I grew big, beautiful, perky breasts, had worn the shortest shorts I could find to show off my boo-tee-licious ass, which made me popular with all the guys, and had experimented with make-up until I found the products that were a perfect blend for me.

A few months after I started stripping for Trevor Williams, all the men wanted a stroke of my Red Velvet pussy. Trevor had propositioned me, offering me a special relationship with unique benefits. Our agreement was I kept him and his clients happy, and he made certain I got compensated with movie auditions, clothes, jewelry, and some cash.

“Velvet, image is everything,” Trevor had said. “If you look like money, people treat you like royalty. If you look poor, people ignore you. I’m going to make sure you have the best opportunities to become a star. Remember good pussy ain’t never broke. You’re a complete package.”

No, I wasn’t a complete package. No one was. But I did have big dreams and high hopes. After I graduated from high school, my mother paid for me to attend a one-year hands-on program at the New York Film Academy. At one of the workshops, I met an agent based out of Los Angeles who said I had tremendous potential. I felt good saying, “Call my agent.”

I visualized myself on the big screen one day. Not as a porn star. I was destined to become a famous movie star. All of my sexual free-lancing would help me get my big break, meet the right producer, and become huge in Hollywood. I wanted celebrity neighbors, limo drivers, and I wanted never to have to show ID again, because everyone would instantly recognize my face and they’d know my name. Trevor had promised to help me if I helped him.

On a day like today, I couldn’t say no to Trevor, so I begged my mother to keep my son for a day while I accompanied my boss from Atlanta to D.C. on a business trip. Our two-hour direct flight arrived at Dulles Airport at about eight in the morning. It took almost another two hours to get our luggage and for the driver to get us to our hotel on Connecticut Avenue. The lobby was huge, with an elegant circular bar centered underneath the largest chandelier I’d seen.

“Have a seat while I check us in,” Trevor said to me, handing the receptionist his credit card.

Browsing the lobby, I peeked over my sunglasses and into the gift-shop window. On every trip, after I got paid, I bought something for my mother for watching my son. Usually nothing over a hundred dollars. I usually got her a nice scarf or a black figurine to add to her collection.

Trevor walked by me, dialing his phone. Motioning for me to follow him, he handed me my room key while speaking into his Bluetooth. “Yeah, Grant. How far is your office from Dupont Circle? Meet me at. . .