by Carl Weber
A READING GROUP GUIDE
SHE AIN’T THE ONE
CARL WEBER and MARY B. MORRISON
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are intended to enhance your group’s reading of Carl Weber and Mary B. Morrison’s SHE AIN’T THE ONE.
Discussion Questions
At what point, if any, do you believe Jay should’ve stopped dating Ashlee?
Have you ever dated someone with whom the sex was so good you did things you wouldn’t ordinarily do just to come again?
Have you ever had a G-spot orgasm?
Who do you think Jay loved more, Ashlee or Tracy?
Would you marry the character Jay? Why or why not?
How did Ashlee’s upbringing impact her relationship with men?
What do you think should happen to women who lie about rape?
Did Jay’s relationship with Ashlee move too fast? To slow?
How important is it to you to have an engagement ring? Should men have engagement rings?
In Jay’s relationship with Ashlee, how many warning signs can you identify that indicated this was not healthy to pursue?
What did you think of this collaboration?
The following is a sample chapter from Mary B. Morrison’s eagerly anticipated novel, WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK.
WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK is available wherever hardcover books are sold.
ENJOY!
Darius
“Los Angeles,” Darius instructed the driver, then raised the divider and flopped against the backseat, loosening his onyx wing-tip collar. Why had he fucked Ashlee? Kimberly? Crystal? Desire? Maxine? Ciara? The others were pissed at him, probably for life, but that was their problem ’cause each of them had moved on. Ashlee was the only dumb one who’d gotten sprung on cum. Sure, he was thirty percent, give or take five, at fault, but he’d grown tired of Ashlee.
Holding her dangling curls away from her face, Fancy laid her cheek in his lap. Her lips kissed Slugger.
“Ow, Ladycat, oh my goodness.” Darius’s dick expanded four times its size.
“Heeyyy, this is a pleasant surprise,” Fancy said, nibbling his head. “I thought you were too upset to get excited.”
“Shid, never that upset,” Darius said, nudging Fancy’s head closer to his dick.
“Let me take your mind off your troubles. We can and will talk later.” Gently she bit through his slacks.
Translation, she’d talk. He’d listen ’cause whatever conclusion Fancy conjured wouldn’t matter. She was a woman. He was the man. His castle. Her home. Maybe. If she’d act right.
Fancy unzipped his pants. Wrapping her hand around the shaft, she freed Slugger, letting him go. The tip of her tongue chased, steadied, then licked the underside protruding main vein right in the triangular groove below his pee-hole. Fancy licked his second hottest spot—next to the span from his asshole up to his balls—again.
“Yes, indeed, there is a God. Ooouuu.” Darius shivered.
Fancy cuddled his dick next to her cheek, closed her eyes, and sniffed.
“Ahhhhh.” That’s my girl. Worship your master.
Fancy’s tongue wavered along his vein from his balls up to his hole. Gently licking his spot right before engulfing his head into her hot juicy mouth, she devoured him.
“Ummmm,” Darius moaned, removing the diamond buttonhole links on his white tuxedo shirt, “that feels so damn good. Suck this big-ass dick.”
Precum seeped onto her succulent lips. Painting his semen like lipstick, his bulging head swayed corner to corner, covering Fancy’s lips. Darius gripped Fancy’s hair, commanding, “Don’t you dare stop,” desperately desiring to bust a nut or two.
Darius’s asshole tightened on the upstroke, relaxed on the down. Uncontrollable sexual energy danced in his balls, possessing Darius to lock his fingers into Fancy’s weave and thrust his shaft down her throat. He did. She gagged. Repeatedly heaving. Good for her if she regurgitated. What didn’t kill…fattened. In the zone, too deep to stop, past her tonsils, beyond her reflux ability not to swallow, Darius banged Fancy’s vocal cords.
“Oh my God, you just don’t know, ba-bee.” He pushed, knocking his nuts against her lips. “Ba-by, shit, yeah.” He stroked deeper. “Uh-huh. Aw, damn. Here it comes, whoa!” Thick fluids gushed toward her stomach like water from a fire hydrant, releasing his backup. Quenching his thirst. Pushing Fancy away, Darius stroked his afterflow cum and her saliva onto his dick.
“You must be crazy if you think you’re finished,” Fancy protested, watching him shake his heads. “After all I endured, here, put him in while he’s hard.” Eagerly, Fancy lifted her gown.
That was his woman, no panties. A gold-laced thong.
Fancy spread her lips, granting him full access. Never having left a woman dissatisfied, Darius unbuckled his pants, shoved them to his knees, popping the head into his pussy. But what if he had…Fuck! Darius shouted in his mind, pulled up his boxers, then his pants. Leaving them unbuckled and unzipped, he flopped on the cool leather.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Got a lotta shit on my mind, that’s all. Go to sleep.” What the fuck was Slugger doing? He’d zoned out and…damn, damn, goddamn. Darius removed his gold-trimmed black jacket, balling the coat into a pillow.
“I bet you do have a lot bothering you. I’ll give you a minute to stop trippin’, but I don’t care how frustrated you are, when we get home, you’re giving up the dick.”
As she stretched her feet across the seat, Fancy’s gold train spilled onto the floor. Her precious head weighed heavily on his thigh, facing his stomach. Darius could tell she was tired. He was mentally exhausted knowing he’d disappoint her again once they got home.
Darius wanted to sleep too, but all kinds of audiovisuals rewound in his head. Especially when Ashlee had the audacity to say, “I love you no matter what.” Liar. Love didn’t have shit to do with what she’d said.
The driver was already cruising on Interstate 5 South, practically a straight shot to L.A. but hours away. Moving his limp dick from under Fancy’s mouth, Darius closed his eyes, trying to understand how a woman’s need to be loved vastly differed from a man’s desire to love a woman. How did anyone ever get married? Better question, why? Should he marry Fancy, knowing that he might be infected? To his grave, one way or another he had to lie.
Perhaps his mother’s need for love or her desire to be adored was the reason it took Darius Jones twenty years to discover her lie. After a paternity test confirmed the truth, Darius took back—or should he say claimed—his real name, and irrespective of whether his mother was to blame he could never eradicate the pain or escape the shame of having to explain why, at twenty years of age, he’d changed his last name. From Jones to Williams.
With the exception of not marrying Fancy and losing his firstborn, the day his mother told him who his biological father was was the worst day of Darius’s life. Darryl Williams. That was his real daddy’s name, but how could Darius regain the years? Years lost. Not knowing the man he’d idolized growing up; his dad was a former NBA star. Darryl was his college basketball coach when Darius played at Georgetown.
Darius’s mother knowingly sent him to Georgetown, knowingly allowed him to play an entire season coached by his father, knowingly attended all of his high school games but never attended one of his college games, and knowingly never said a fuckin’ word until after she’d conned Darius into quitting the team, giving up his dream, to accept a six-figure executive vice president position at her company. To repay his mother, Darius fucked all four of her top-level executives the same way she’d screwed him, secretly. Man, he’d forgotten to add Heather, Miranda, Zen, and Ginger to the list.
Darius imagined what his mother might think now that four years had passed since her confession. “You still trippin’ on that? I’m sorry I fucked up your life, sweetie. Get over it. Move on. Be a man about it. Okay, if you won’t forgive me, then I’ll just have to forgive myself and you�
�ll have to get professional help.”
Women.
Be a man about it! About what? Her emotional autopsy gutted his insides, ripped out his beating heart, then tagged his toe with “John Doe,” like she’d done no harm. Like suddenly without cause he’d become a heartless stranger to her.
Women.
They always wanted men to forget their mistakes, especially after they’d told their cure-all truth. If a man lied to his woman, she’d nag the hell out of him, reminding him every chance she got. That’s why a man had two choices: bury the lie and never tell the truth, or bury his soul for the rest of his life. A man in love eventually forgot his woman’s lies, but his subconscious never forgave her. Ever.
A tear sat on his left eyelid as Darius struggled to disguise the bitterness in his voice. Lowering the divider, he instructed the limo driver, “Man, drive faster,” then raised the window. The ride from Oakland back to Los Angeles seemed a lot longer than the trip going.
For a moment, Darius chuckled, flashing back on how neither Fancy nor he had showed up at their wedding in Los Angeles. Instead, both of them ended up at the pier in Berkeley—the first stop of their first date—forever their special place. Darius would never take another woman there. Most women he couldn’t remember where he’d taken them. What he did know was Fancy had better not take another man there.
Yeah, Fancy was right. They were two of a kind. Over five hundred miles away from their matrimonial service, they’d stood on the planks next to Skates Restaurant, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Undoubtedly Darius loved Fancy. Fancy excited him in every way imaginable. Challenged him. Confronted him on his lies.
In his heart, Darius also loved Ashlee. Only God knew how much he loved Ashlee. Ashlee, no matter what the circumstances, supported him. Every man needed a supportive woman. Ashlee shouldn’t have had to carry his baby nine months without him. Bury their son without him. Now that Ashlee needed him, she shouldn’t have to deal with her illness without him. He’d already failed her several times.
Glancing down at Fancy while she slept, Darius thought, Stop trippin’, dog. Your commitment isn’t to Ashlee. You’ve got the finest woman in the world on your lap.
Darius had already revealed more of his skeletons than he’d intended to Fancy, but how could he explain to his fiancée the phone call he’d received from Ashlee? He couldn’t. Hopefully, things would work out and he wouldn’t have to.
Not wanting to seem selfish—it was too late for Ashlee but hopefully not for him—silently Darius prayed, “God, I tried to pull out, but, but you know how good sex feels. Right? I’m not blaming You, Lord, we know the devil made me do it. Satan, I rebuke you. Lord, I know I’m on my second set of nine lives, but thanks to You I’m on a winning streak. I’ve rolled the dice again, please let’s not crap out. Too many people would lose their lives.” Darius leaned closer to Fancy, making sure she was asleep, and then he quietly dialed Ashlee’s number.
“Hey, how are you?” Ashlee answered like she hadn’t just given him the worst news of his life, next to the day she’d told him their son had died.
Angrily, Darius whispered, “How do you think I am? Were you serious about what you said earlier or trying to fuck up my wedding?”
“I was at your wedding. You weren’t.”
Darius’s lips tightened. “So what you sayin’? You was gonna drop that shit on me in front of over a thousand people?”
“You mean like the way you dropped me?”
Darius became quiet, biting his bottom lip. His eyes automatically shifted to the corners whenever he lied or avoided telling the truth. He had no nonargumentative response, so he waited for Ashlee to say something.
“Darius, I need to see you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, right now, or ever,” Darius replied, worrying how he’d feel about Ashlee if he did see her.
Firmly she asked, “Where are you?”
Darius whispered, “On my way home,” checking on Fancy, praying she was still asleep. Fancy was motionless. Eyes closed. Lightly breathing.
“Which home?” Ashlee asked.
Lowering his voice more, Darius mumbled, “The Valley. Why? What’s up with all the questions? You haven’t called me in months.”
“How close are you?”
Darius hissed, “Where are you?” then tightly ground his back teeth while flinching his jaw. Whenever his jaw tightened, Darius wanted to punch something or someone. Right now it was Ashlee.
“Close.”
“To what? Ashlee, don’t. Look, I can’t ignore what you said earlier, but right now I gotta go. Don’t call me. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m sick of being your fuckin’ puppet!”
Widening his eyes, Darius felt his forehead tensing in disbelief, giving him an instant headache, as he continued listening when what he should’ve done was hang up on the bitch. He didn’t mean to call her a bitch, but he hadn’t realized how attached she was to stupidity.
“Ashlee, please move in with me. Ashlee, please don’t leave me. Ashlee, I need you to work for me. Let me lick your pussy. Ashlee, let me fuck you! Well, I’m tired of being fucked!”
At any time she could’ve simply said no. Wasn’t like he’d held a gun to her head. Women. Was that why she’d fucked his brother?
“Doing every damn thing your damn way just to make you happy when you obviously don’t give a shit! About me!”
Maybe she should’ve given a damn about herself, less about him, and neither one of them would’ve had to have this conversation.
Ashlee continued, “So I’ma tell you the fuck what!” Gasping heavily into his ear, she softly said, “Better yet, hurry your ass home. I’ll talk to you when you get here.”
Like the bull he was, quick sharp puffs of steam hot enough to form smoke balls escaped Darius’s flaming nostrils as he shut his eyes, rolling his eyeballs to the top of the sockets. “Ashlee, you’d better not be at my house.” Darius wanted to exceed her anger but instead he said, “Fancy’s carrying my baby and she doesn’t need to deal with your nonsense.”
Darius could’ve simply said Fancy was with him, but Ashlee already knew that and that wouldn’t have convinced Ashlee to stay away from him. Damn, did he trust Ashlee wasn’t daring enough to trespass on his property that he hadn’t changed the locks? Fuck! How ignorant of him.
“Our house. I love you, Darius. I’ll see you when you get home. Bye, baby.”
Smothering his voice, Darius hissed, “Ashlee. Ashlee. Damn it,” then sucked in all the oxygen he could before blowing the hot air out of his mouth, fogging up the window.
A woman sure knew how to fuck with a man’s head. Heads. Both of his were in pain: one from not getting enough pussy and the other from hearing too much bitchin’. Was any of the shit Ashlee said true? Or was Ashlee jealous of Fancy and willing to do anything to keep him from getting married? Women.
How could Darius tell Fancy he was sorry he came in her mouth and that he couldn’t make love to her? Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe never again. He definitely didn’t want Fancy to hear the bad news from Ashlee. Why, of all days, had Ashlee called him on his wedding day to fuck with him?
Interrupting his mental monologue, the limo driver said, “Mr. Williams, you’re home,” cruising into the driveway.
Darius lowered the rear passenger-side tinted window, staring at his house.
Fancy opened her eyes. “What was that all about?”
The living room, dining room, and kitchen lights were on. Seconds later, all of the lights in his house went out.
Oh, shit, Darius thought. Holding his breath, he prayed for the best and prepared for the worst.
The following is a sample chapter from Cal Weber’s
eagerly anticipated upcoming novel
THE FIRST LADY.
It will be available in January 2007
wherever hardcover books are sold.
Enjoy!
Prologue
“Hey, Charlene, you ready to get started
?”
My good friend and confidante, Alison Williams, smiled as she walked into my hospital room. I tried to smile back when she kissed my forehead, but the abdominal pains I was experiencing wouldn’t allow it. So, I lay there in my bed, grappling through the pain as I watched her sit in the chair next to my bed and pull out a notebook and pen. I pressed the button that controlled the morphine drip in my arm, and Alison waited patiently for my pain reliever to kick in. Six months ago, I refused to use any type of pain medication, but now I understood why the Lord invented addictive drugs like morphine and Demerol. Without them, I probably would have died from the pain of my cancer weeks ago. As it was now, I was pushing the damn drip button every fifteen minutes and I was on the highest dose there was, which meant I only had a few weeks left to live.
I wasn’t afraid of dying, though. I’d lived a good life, married a wonderful man, Bishop T.K. Wilson, raised two fantastic children, and had the honor of being the first lady of absolutely the best church in Queens, New York. If the Lord was ready to call me home, although I considered myself still pretty young, I was ready to go. The only thing I was afraid of was what would happen to my family—more importantly, my husband, T.K., after I was gone. So, I was making preparations to make sure my man was taken care of from the grave.
You see, as good and honorable a man of God as T.K. was, he was still just a man with desires and needs; and men, no matter how bright they may appear to be, are very naive when it comes to women, especially slick-ass church women. I could see it now. Fifteen minutes after they put my body in the ground, those church heifers would be in my house trying to figure out the best way to redecorate my shit out. Say what you might about my choice of words, but I’d seen these so-called church women in action too many times in the past.
Last year when Sister Betty Jean White passed away, within six months her worst enemy, Jeannette Wilcox, had weaseled her way into that woman’s house and was sleeping with her husband. A few months after that they were married, and if you walk into that house today, there’s not one memory that Sister Betty even lived there. So, I could envision T.K. in his moment of grief and loneliness letting somebody manipulate him into doing just about anything she wanted, and I was not about to allow that. That’s why, with the help of Alison and possibly my daughter Donna, I was making plans to stop her and any other threats to my family.