LOVE TRUMPS GAME
A NOVEL
Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2009 by D.Y. Phillips
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-4856-3
ISBN-10: 1-4391-4856-2
LCCN 2009924327
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DEDICATION
To Reginald,
if we could bottle and sell
your love, support and patience,
we’d be rich.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Very much like the old adage, “It takes a village to raise a child,” getting a book out is pretty similar. It almost takes a village to provide information, advice, feedback, editing and tips on which publishing houses have open submissions and which ones don’t. For this, I need to give a few shout-outs.
First of all, giving thanks to God, and yes, even for giving me the audacity and the ability to write an urban tale with a few steamy sex scenes and foul-talking characters. I still say that without Him, nothing worth having can be achieved as a blessing.
Thanks and kisses to my husband, Reggie, who patiently puts up with a wife that, on most days, spends more warm and cozy time with her computer than with him. It takes a special kind of man to put up with this. Reggie, my love, you’re that man!
Thanks to a few of my writer friends. I can’t remember each and every one of you, but you know who you are: Reon Laudat, Dyanne Davis, Tina Brooks McKinney and many more. Allison Hobbs, a special thanks to you for taking the time out of your own busy schedule to read my project and put in a few words to the powers that be. Good looking out, Ms. Allison.
To my dearest and fondest, Mary Monroe. I can’t think of another writer that I admire as much as I admire you. Your friendship is worth its weight in gold.
On the working side, thanks to Charmaine, your down-home patience is like a life-line to any author who’s anxious about what to do next and how to do it. Thanks to my agent, Dr. Maxine Thompson, for talking and explaining “stuff” to me more like a friend than a business associate. If you’re on your way to the top, scoot over so I can go with you.
To my all my reading fans taking this journey with me…let’s just do the damn…oops, I mean the darn thing!
D.Y. Phillips
[email protected]
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
ONE
Have you ever been in the same room with a monster?
Did you see how he did it? How he used fear as his weapon?
Could you smell, or see, death coming in his eyes?
What Hattie Sims saw when she came out from the bathroom of her home was a tall, muscular man standing in her living room. Her breath caught in her throat. She could have kicked herself for not remembering to lock that metal security door. After all, wasn’t that what it was for? To keep devils and monsters out?
“Why are you in my house?”
Topps Jackson was no stranger. Still, she hadn’t liked or trusted him from the first time she had laid eyes on him. Something about his eyes; they were dark and threatening. He had nice lips but rarely smiled.
“Chill out, Mama Hattie. I come in peace.” A toothpick was restless between his lips. Sneaky-looking eyes panned around her room as if he were casing the place.
“Your type ain’t welcome here.” Hattie refused to let her nervousness show. “And I’m not yo’ mama.”
He was dressed entirely in black. Large, muscular arms seemed more like thick, brown tree trunks protruding from the expensive jersey that he wore. “Good thang you not, or you’d be dead by now.”
It was probably ridiculous for her to attempt to manually remove him. She was a petite woman with delicate features. Still, Hattie straightened her back and stood her ground with the father of her grandchildren. His bodacious visit was what she got for not locking her metal security door; thinking that the delivery boy would be there soon with her grocery order.
“What is it you want? Say what you want and get out. You got no business being here.”
“Now see, that ain’t no way to be treating family.” Unfazed by her annoyance, Topps Jackson ambled over to a table and picked up a wood-framed photo of her daughter, Myra. “Pretty,” he said, then grunted. He placed the frame back and ran a finger along the top of the table. “A little dusty in here. You might wanna take care of that when I leave.”
“Look, if you’re looking for Neema, she ain’t here.”
“Not looking for Neema. Looking for you; the mama that keeps putting nonsense in Neema’s head. You know, that shit about taking my kids and moving away.” Topps sniffed, looked around her old, cozy living room. It was clean, but worn-looking. He frowned like it was a shame to have an average existence with no frills.
Hattie couldn’t imagine what Neema saw in him. True, he was tall, handsome, cunning and, from what she’d heard, drug-dealing rich. He had materialistic wealth, yet, he represented everything a mother should warn her daughter about. Stay away from men that degrade women. Men that hurt women. Stay away from men on the opposite side of the law. Stay away.
“Like I said, you have no business being here.”
“I disagree. I feel like this. If my kids spend a lot of time over here, I need to know what’s up. How you hanging. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?” All six feet of man turned and slowly walked down her hallway, padding along her carpet in his expensive-looking black sneakers. “How many bedrooms you got here, ole lady?”
“You listen here, young man…” Hattie was right behind him, clutching the collar of her floral housedress. “You need to leave.”
“You gotta man up in this mutha?” Topps inquired as he opened doors and surveyed one room after another. “What? No nigger laying that pipe down? That explains a lot.”
“That’s not your business,” Hattie snapped. The nerve of this fool; talking this way to me.
“That’s how I feel when you stay all up in my business with Neema. See…” He grunted, looking down at her. “If you had a man tapping that ass, you wouldn’t have that problem.”
“Neema’s my daughter. I gave birth to her; not you.”
Topps turned to get up in her face. “I don’t care if you s
hot Neema out your wrinkled, gray-covered ass twice. She’s my boo-bitch now. Mine; so get over it.”
“I’m calling the police,” she said.
And she would have, but he was blocking the narrow hallway with his bulky frame. She could smell the toothpaste and cologne he’d used earlier; that’s how close he stood. The monster grinned; eyes red and nostrils flared. He snatched up her hand like she was some bratty child trying to slip away.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me!”
“This the deal here. You need to stop putting crazy ideas in Neema’s head. She ain’t no child no more. She ain’t going no muthafuckin’ place. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Let me go!”
His dark-eyed stare was so intense, it could have made a baby cry. Hattie felt like howling herself. The scowl on his face promised worse.
“I’m warning you, ole lady. If I hear my boo-bitch say she wanna take my kids and move away from me one more time, I’ll have to come back. We’ll be doing some real talking next time. Know what I’m saying, ole lady?”
When she didn’t answer, he squeezed her hand harder, causing a hot sting to zip through her hand and up her elbow. The pain nearly brought Hattie to her knees.
“You hear me or not?” he prompted again.
“I…I hear you…” She wanted to scream. Not being able to do anything about his presence grated on her nerves. At five feet three, one hundred and eighty, she was no match.
“That’s better,” Topps said, smirking. Hate was in his eyes. He patted the top of her head, much the same he would have a pet dog. “See, mama-bitch. I’m not so bad, am I?” It could have almost been misconstrued as a term of endearment. Clearly, it wasn’t. All women were bitches to Topps Jackson. “You alright.” He released her hand.
“I want you out of my house.” Hattie massaged her hand while Topps removed a moist cloth from a packet in his pocket and wiped germs from his hands.
“Not so fast.” Topps made a show of checking out the ceiling, knocking on a couple of walls. “Not a bad house, but if my kids gonna be coming and going up in this muther, you need to be living better. Check this out. If you ever want to sell this dump, I’ll give you a hefty price. Enough to get you a new house that smells better.” Frowning, he sniffed a few times. “Smells like loneliness and mothballs in here. What you think?”
Hattie didn’t answer.
“Yeah. Just what I thought. You need some time to think that shit over, huh?”
Her front doorbell rang. It had to be the delivery boy with her grocery order.
Topps acted like he owned the place, the way he headed for the metal security door and greeted the delivery boy. “What’s up, my man? It’s all good. How much I owe you? You can sit those bags down by the door.”
He took a wad of cash from the pocket of his black sweatpants and peeled off two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change, bro.”
Once the pimple-faced delivery boy was gone, Topps turned back to Hattie. “One last thing, ole woman. You mention this little visit to Neema and I’ll have to come back to see you. Maybe I can stay longer next time. Better yet, I might have to take my frustration out on Neema’s sweet little ass for even bringing yo’ name up.”
Hattie waited until her security door banged shut, rushed over to it, and locked it. Frowning, she watched the monster walk to his big black vehicle, get in, and drive off.
TWO
“I said, c’mon now. I don’t have all day, Brandon. You get yourself up those steps now! You, too, Raynita.”
Neema Jean wiped beads of sweat from her honey-brown forehead as she stomped up the dusty, concrete steps to her mother’s house with her two kids in tow. It had to be over ninety-nine degrees in the shade; add a summer breeze and it felt like she was inside somebody’s new convection oven. She used the ball of her fist to bang hard on the metal security screen door.
“Who is it?”
“Who you think it is?” Neema was surprised to find the door locked. In no time her mother was at the door unlocking it, then ambling back to her seat. Neema marched inside after her children. The heavy door banged shut behind her.
“Lock my door,” Hattie ordered.
Neema made a face. “Why? You ain’t been locking it.”
“Neema, I said, lock my door behind you.”
“Whatever.” Neema stood and blew out a weary breath. “Mama, can you watch my kids for a few hours?”
The Compton house was almost as suffocating as the August heat outside, only adding to her irritation. She fanned her face and looked around, like she was expecting her sister Myra to be lingering in the house someplace. Myra was always around, brown-nosing.
“Mama! I said, I need someone to watch my kids. I can’t find a job if I don’t have no babysitter.” Remembering to pout, Neema rolled her big brown eyes and folded her arms over her ample chest.
Hattie rocked a few times in her new La-Z-Boy chair. A recent gift for her forty-ninth birthday, it was the nicest piece of furniture gracing her living room. She was still a little upset about that fool, Topps, popping up at her house, but didn’t dare bring it up. Topps could make a believer out of Satan. If she mentioned his threatening visit, there was zero doubt that he would take it out on Neema. Even worse, possibly even take it out on the kids.
“Hi, Nanny.” Raynita waved her little hand.
“Hey, baby. How y’all doing?” Hattie barely blinked in Neema’s direction as she reached over to click on her tabletop fan. Cool air, mixed with heat, ruffled the hem of her thin housedress. “Come give Nanny a hug.”
The heat was enough to fight the devil, but Hattie remained unfazed. Surely she hadn’t been foolish enough to think a Saturday would slip by without Neema contacting her in need of something.
“Mama!” Neema stomped her foot. “I know you hear me talkin’ to you.”
“Not really,” Hattie said calmly, picking up a magazine to fan her face. “Child, I feel too blessed to be stressed today.”
Thank God, she had a high tolerance for drama; especially when it came to her youngest child, Neema Jean. “Drama” should have been Neema’s middle name. Hattie kept her eyes trained on her television set where Soul Train was on. The volume was lowered to a comfortable level. The sight of smiling faces and young bodies gyrating to music made her wish for younger days when no one used to barge into her home with demands.
“Humph,” she said aloud. Neema Jean knew better than to disturb her during one of her favorite programs.
“Mama, I need you to watch my kids!”
“Neema, I heard you the first time. You need to calm down and stop all that shouting up in my house. “Bout to give me a headache.”
Neema Jean frowned. “Well?” she prompted with clear anguish in her voice. She assumed her ready-to-do-battle pose: eyes hard and locked, a hand to one hip. “Why you acting like you don’t hear me then? You watching ’em or not?”
“Not with that attitude, I’m not.”
Hattie barely looked up, almost as if a herd of wild horses stampeding through her living room couldn’t deter her attention. A smile tugged at her thin lips as she recalled a time when she could move her body like Soul Train dancers. Heck, she thought, I still got a few good moves at forty-nine. The thought made her grin.
“I told you, I have a job interview, Mama. You keep saying how I need to be independent and how I need my own job, but what I’m s’pose to do with these kids?” Neema made a gesture with her hand, before staring in the direction of her children. Six-year-old Raynita and seven-year-old Brandon stood quietly next to the faded-blue sofa. “Y’all put them backpacks down.”
“What for, Neema? They’ll be leaving right back out with you.” Hattie shot her full attention to her daughter. Neema Jean was her youngest of two; the spoiled one; the one that often behaved like the world and everyone in it owed her something. Frankly, after twenty-three years of that girl’s selfish and demanding behavior, Hattie was sick of it. “Nee, you should have thought abou
t all that when you was laying up making them babies.”
“Does that mean you watching my kids or not?”
“You figure it out.”
Hattie sniffed. Darn if that girl wasn’t the spitting image of her father, Bomann. So much, in fact, that sometimes it pained Hattie to glance at her. It made it difficult to forget that six years ago, Bo had walked out on their marriage, claiming that he needed time to find himself. Just up and walked away from twenty-nine years of marriage and two kids like it had meant nothing. Well, not small kids, but grown girls that still needed parental guidance; especially their youngest, Neema. The last Hattie had heard, Bo was living somewhere in Louisiana with a thirty-year-old female, drinking heavily, doing drugs, and still trying to “find himself.”
“Tried to tell you that you weren’t ready for kids at sixteen, but you wouldn’t listen. Heck, you still need some rearing yourself.”
“Well, it’s too late to be saying stuff like that, Mama. They here now, so we have to deal with it. You gonna watch ’em?”
“We?” Hattie huffed.
“I said, are you watching ’em, Mama?”
“Lord, why me?” Hattie gazed upward and sighed. To have the luxury of sitting in her own house with total peace and quiet, alone; that’s all she really desired. “Nee, how many times I have to tell you that I’m not your readymade, instant babysitter? Don’t get me wrong here. I love them babies as much as you do, but heck, they spend more time here with me than they do with you. Yeah, I took an early retirement from my job, but that don’t mean I need you to give me a second career. I’m tired.”
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