by Mary Monroe
It seemed like the older she got, the more men she attracted. She predicted that forty years from now she’d be beating off dirty old men with her walking stick. Just last week somebody had stopped her on the street and asked if she was Kerry Washington, one of the most attractive black actresses in Hollywood. So why did her pussy feel like a condemned piece of property on no-man’s-land? Beauty was not the cure-all for loneliness that some people thought it was. She was probably one of the best-looking lonely women on the planet. But in her case, it was by choice. And it was all because the right man had not approached her in six months.
“At least you still got your health and a good job,” somebody—she couldn’t even remember who—had told her a few days ago. That same person had advised her to contact an online dating service. An online dating service! If that wasn’t the last refuge for the truly desperate and a paradise for predators of all kinds, she didn’t know what was. She’d made it emphatically clear that she was not that desperate . . . yet.
“I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.” That was how she always responded when some busybody’s nose sniffed in her direction and asked about her love life.
No, she wasn’t getting any and didn’t know when she ever would again. What the hell. She could live with it. She still had more things to be thankful for than a lot of other people. Yes, she did still have her health and her job and had been thinking about getting a cat.
Right now her job was the main focus in her life. She enjoyed being the Executive Publicity Director for Eclectic Records. The prestige and all the perks that went along with her high-profile position meant as much to her as the fat paychecks she collected twice a month. This was one sister who didn’t have to worry much about where she was going in the hectic business world and how she was going to get there; she had already arrived.
Unfortunately, a lot of Teri’s peers hated their jobs, so they didn’t share her vision or enthusiasm. She didn’t know of a single person in L.A. who wanted to be at work on New Year’s Eve. It was hard enough for most people to come to work on the rest of the days in the year. But work was where Teri Stewart was tonight (she’d also worked well into the night on Christmas Eve, too). Not because she wanted to be, but because she had to be.
Teri didn’t give a damn what everybody else in L.A. was doing. If nothing else, she was disciplined and considerate. To her, every commitment she made was important. Last year on a much-needed vacation to Puerto Vallarta, she had offered to take her friendly hotel maid and her kids to dinner. She didn’t think to ask the woman how many kids she had, but she expected at least two. When the maid showed up with all nine of her kids in tow, including the eldest boy’s wife and their two kids, Teri didn’t back out. Now here she was on New Year’s Eve trying to finish a monthly media report that was late because one of her sources had dropped the ball.
The building that was home to Eclectic Records was almost empty. But that didn’t bother Teri. There was a pit bull of a security guard at the front desk on the first floor at all times. The sixteen-story building was located on a busy street near downtown L.A. Even though there had been a few muggings in the area recently, it was still fairly safe compared to other parts of the city.
Holiday lights were still in place, inside and out. The soulful R. Kelly jam emanating from a CD player in the center of Teri’s cluttered desk in a corner office on the sixth floor didn’t do a whole lot to make her feel more at ease. Her mood was dark, and she was more frustrated than usual. The impatient frown on her face and her pouting bottom lip, which would have made a less fortunate woman look like a hag, made her look even younger than her twenty-nine years. She mumbled profanities as she searched for a document that contained information she needed to complete her report. “Shit!” she hissed as she thumped the button on the speakerphone next to the CD player, speed-dialing her secretary at home.
“Nicole, you didn’t put a copy of Reverend Bullard’s report on my desk,” she insisted, glaring at the telephone as if it were the source of her frustration. There was no answer. “Nicole, are you there?”
“Uh-huh, I’m here,” Nicole finally replied with a mighty hiccup. Somebody had popped open a bottle of champagne in the company break room to jump-start the New Year’s Eve festivities. Like a fish with a long swallow, Nicole had guzzled two glasses before she left the office two hours ago.
By the time Teri had concluded a tense conference call with two long-winded clients on the East Coast and made it to the break room, all the champagne was gone. If she ever needed a liquid crutch, it was now. She appeased herself with the reminder that she would make up for it in a couple of hours.
“I thought I told you to put a copy of the Bullard report on my desk. You know we can’t afford to not get our artists mentioned in the tabloids and the music rags whenever they do something good.” Teri was convinced that a story about an ex-con preacher making gospel CDs for troubled teenagers would be good press for the preacher and for Eclectic Records. “I thought I told you twice.”
“Well, I thought I did,” Nicole said with a burp. “I meant to . . .”
“You thought you did and you meant to, but you didn’t,” Teri snapped.
“Will you please calm down? You’re making me nervous.”
“Calm down, my ass. I’ve got a job to do and I can’t do mine if you don’t do yours.” Teri paused and let out a loud breath. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t like to take out my frustrations on you. I just want to finish what I started and get the hell up out of this place.” Teri let out another loud breath, inspected her silk-wrapped nails, and glanced around the spacious office that she spent as much time in as she did her condo near Hollywood.
“That’s better,” Nicole mouthed.
Nicole Mason sat on the edge of her bed in the apartment she shared with her son. With a heavy sigh, she rose and wiggled her plump but firm ass into a pair of black lace panties. “Try the file cabinet behind my desk. The report should be in the top drawer in a green folder,” she said. The panties felt a little too tight, just like almost everything else she owned. Especially the black slip she had on now. She made a mental note to curtail her ongoing relationships with Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’n Waffles, Popeye’s, Marie Callender, and Sara Lee or else she’d have to introduce herself to Jenny Craig and Richard Simmons. “Teri, you know you are my girl, so I know you won’t take this the wrong way . . .”
Teri responded with an exasperated snort.
“Girlfriend, you need to get a life,” Nicole told her. “You know it and I know it. Everybody else knows it, too.”
“I have a life, thank you. I am on my grind,” Teri reported, as she continued her search. She entered Nicole’s work area, which was right outside her office. She fought her way through an assortment of large, live green plants on the floor that decorated the area like a rain forest. She found the green folder right where Nicole said it would be. With another frown, she returned to her office with the folder and leaned over her desk, glaring at the phone. She sucked in her breath so hard her chest ached, but before she could speak again Nicole’s voice cut into her muddled thoughts.
“Miss Girl, I thought we were supposed to be hanging out tonight. Come on, this is New Year’s Eve and we happen to be in one of the most exciting cities on this planet. And, in case you forgot, Lincoln freed the slaves.”
“I have a job to do, Nicole,” Teri reminded her.
“We all do. But we all have lives outside of our jobs, too,” Nicole said firmly.
“I know, I know. I just need to tweak a few more sentences on this damn report. It won’t take that long. And why are you rushing me? You are not even dressed yet.”
“How would you know that?” Nicole quipped, tugging on the waistband of her panties.
“Because I know you,” Teri remarked. Flipping through the green folder, her eyes got big and a smile formed on her lips. “I found it!” she exclaimed, clutching the missing document to her bosom as if it contained the secrets of
the universe. She breathed a sigh of relief and flopped down into her chair, which was so comfortable with its soft black leather and adjustable seat that she didn’t want to move again. “Let the games begin!”
Nicole rose and stood by the side of her bed, which was just as cluttered as the rest of the bedroom. She ignored the clothing and music magazines that she had tossed to the foot of her bed. “Uh-huh. So, now you can—” She was cut off by the annoying buzz of a dial tone. “Hang up on me then, bitch.” She laughed, shaking her head. “I’m too scared of you.”
Enjoy the following excerpt from Mary Monroe’s
SHE HAD IT COMING
Available now wherever books are sold!
CHAPTER 1
I saw my best friend kill her vicious stepfather on the night of our senior prom. While our classmates were dancing the night away and plotting to do everything we had been told not to do after the prom, I was helping Valerie Proctor hide a dead body in her backyard beneath a lopsided fig tree.
Ezekiel “Zeke” Proctor’s violent death had come as no surprise to me. It happened sixteen years ago but it’s still fresh on my mind, and I know it will be until the day I die, too.
Mr. Zeke had been a fairly good neighbor as far back as I could remember. When he wasn’t too drunk or in a bad mood, he would haul old people and single mothers who didn’t have transportation around in his car. He would lend money, dole it out to people who needed it, and he never asked to be repaid. He would do yard work and other maintenance favors for little or no money. And when he was in a good mood, which was rare, he would host a backyard cookout and invite everybody on our block. However, those events usually ended when he got too drunk and paranoid and decided that everybody was “out to get him.”
When that happened, barbequed ribs, links, and chicken wings ended up on the ground, or stuck to somebody’s hair where he’d thrown them. People had to hop away from the backyard to avoid stepping on glasses that he had broken on purpose. There had not been any cookouts since the time he got mad and shot off his gun in the air because he thought one of the handsome young male guests was plotting to steal his wife. In addition to those lovely social events, he’d also been the stepfather and husband from hell.
Valerie’s mother, Miss Naomi, bruised and bleeding like a stuck pig herself after the last beating that she’d survived a few minutes before the killing, had also witnessed Mr. Zeke’s demise. Like a zombie, she had stood and watched her daughter commit the granddaddy of crimes. Had things turned out differently, Miss Naomi would have been the dead body on the floor that night, because this time her husband had gone too far. He had attempted to strangle her to death. She had his handprints on her neck and broken blood vessels in the whites of her eyes to prove it.
To this day I don’t like to think of what I witnessed as a murder, per se. If that wasn’t a slam dunk case of self-defense, I don’t know what was. But Valerie and her mother didn’t see things that way. They didn’t call the cops like they’d done so many times in the past. That had done no good. If anything, it had only made matters worse. Each time after the cops left, Miss Naomi got another beating. They also didn’t call the good preacher, Reverend Carter, who had told them time and time again, year after year, that “Brother Zeke can’t help hisself; he’s confused” and to be “patient and wait because things like this will work out somehow if y’all turn this over to God.” Well, they’d tried that, too, and God had not intervened.
“None of those motherfuckers helped us when we needed it, now we don’t need their help,” Valerie’s mother said, grinding her teeth as she gave her husband’s corpse one final kick in his side. She attempted to calm her nerves by drinking vodka straight out of the same bottle that he had been nursing from like a hungry baby all day.
Miss Naomi and Valerie buried Mr. Zeke’s vile body in the backyard of the house that Miss Naomi owned on Baylor Street. It was the most attractive residence on the block, not the kind of place that you would expect to host such a gruesome crime. People we all knew got killed in the crack houses in South Central and other rough parts of L.A., not in our quiet little neighborhood in houses like Miss Naomi’s. Directly across the street was the Baylor Street Mt. Zion Baptist Church, which almost everybody on the block attended at some time. Even the late Mr. Zeke. . . .
The scene of the crime was a two-story white stucco with a two-car garage and a wraparound front porch that was often cluttered with toys and neighborhood kids like me. The front lawn was spacious and well cared for. A bright white picket fence surrounded the entire front lawn like a houndstooth necklace. Behind the house, as with all the other houses on the block, was a high, dark fence that hid the backyard, as well as Valerie’s crime.
Miss Naomi’s house looked like one of those family friendly homes on those unrealistic television sitcoms. But because of Valerie’s stepfather’s frequent violence, the house was anything but family friendly. He had turned it into a war zone over the years. Valerie’s baby brother, Binkie, referred to it as Beirut because Mr. Zeke attacked every member of the family on a regular basis, including Valerie’s decrepit grandfather, Paw Paw, and even one-eyed Pete, the family dog.
Even though there was blood in every room in that house, that didn’t stop me from making it my second home. Over the years I had learned how to get out of the “line of fire” in time to avoid injury whenever Mr. Zeke broke loose.
That night, I had innocently walked into the house and witnessed Valerie’s crime. As soon as I realized what was happening, I threw up all over the pale pink dress that had cost me a month’s worth of my earnings. I continued to vomit as I watched Valerie and her longsuffering mother drag the body across the kitchen floor to the backyard so casually you’d have thought it was a mop.
Before they reached the gaping hole in the ground that had several mounds of dirt piled up around it like little pyramids, they stumbled and dropped the corpse. There was a thud and then a weak, hissing sound from the body that made me think of a dying serpent. Somebody let out a long, loud, rhythmic fart. I could smell it from where I stood in the door like a prison guard. And it was fiercely potent. I couldn’t tell if it had come from Valerie, her mother, or if it was the last gas to ooze from the asshole of the dead man. It could have even been from me, but I was such a wreck, I couldn’t tell. I squeezed my nostrils and then I froze from my face to the soles of my feet.
I held my breath as Valerie stumbled and fell on top of one of the mounds of dirt. Miss Naomi, breathing hard and loud, fell on top of Mr. Zeke’s corpse. One of us screamed. I didn’t realize it was me until Valerie scolded me. “Dolores, shut the fuck up and help us.” Why, I didn’t know. With the tall dark fence protecting the backyard like a fort, none of our neighbors could see her. “We need to get him in this hole now,” she said, huffing and puffing. I couldn’t believe that this was the same girl that Reverend Carter had baptized less than a week ago, in the church across the street from the scene of her crime.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Monroe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7383-3
ISBN-10: 0-7582-5160-2