by Deena Bright
Dedication Page
I would like to dedicate this book to all the overworked, underappreciated wives, mothers, and teachers out there. If you find yourself going to bed at night, wishing for a way to create a contraption that automatically pumps wine into your bloodstream at all times, while you catch up on all the television shows you recorded or the books that you’ve always wanted to read but haven’t gotten a chance to do so, then this is your book. This book’s dedicated to you. Now, you can say that Deena Bright dedicated her book to you.
This work is a work of fiction, fabricated in the author’s mind. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter One
“Are you serious? 82 days, 82, as in 8-2??”
“Yes Jocelyn, I never should’ve told you. “ Damn it! I just had to go and open my big freaking mouth. My sister already hated Marcus. I knew better than to tell her this about our marriage. I never learn.
“Janelle, you guys should still be doing it like rabbits. What the Hell? You’ve been married like a year.” Actually, we’d been married for two years. “82 days since the last time you’ve had sex is way too long.” It was strange to listen to Jocelyn talk like this. She didn’t usually talk about sex this way.
“Trust me Joz, I know, I REALLY know.” I was mortified that I told her.
“Have you tried, I mean, like really gotten in there and been like, ‘hey man, we’re going at it tonight?” Mortified. Who was this woman? She was never like this.
“Well, I mean, I wore a nightie one evening and came to bed in it. I also tried the whole Pretty Woman thing. Ya know, wearing just his tie and sitting at the table with dinner ready.” There was no way I was going to tell her that he laughed and said, “You ain’t no Julia Roberts.” Then, he ruffled my hair and took his dinner to the den.
“And he didn’t ram it home right then and there? Unbelievable! He’s such a prick.” She screamed into the phone, nearly shattering my eardrum.
“Alright, listen, I’m almost home. I’m gonna talk to him tonight. Something’s gotta change or I’m gonna own stock in Duracell.”
“Eww gross. You know I hate masturbation-talk. Don’t chicken out.” She warned.
“I won’t! The three glasses of Pinot-courage will help. Love ya! Bonsai!” I bellowed into the phone. We’d been yelling “Bonsai” to each other ever since the summer we’d watched Karate Kid on HBO nearly fifty times.
After hearing her exuberant “bonsai,” I disconnected the call. My sister and I are close. Jocelyn has been married to a dorky family man for nine years. They seem happy enough. Rick is a good guy, but I wouldn’t let him anywhere near my panties—even as horny as I’d been lately. He is a total neat-freak, meticulous nut-job. He probably comes right in the toilet.
As I pulled into the garage, I realized the house was darker than normal. Marcus knew that I was going to be late, but he usually left a light on for me. Plus, I was a lot earlier than I thought I’d be, by two hours. I told him that I’d be home around 1:00 a.m. after having dinner and drinks with some of my teacher friends to celebrate the last day of school. Every year, we got all kinds of drunk and drowned the sorrows of the past school year. It was a drunken blast of fun, dancing, story-telling, and even a few hookups here and there. However, around 11:00 p.m., my tension and pending conversation about our diminishing and nonexistent sex life brought me home two hours early. I just hoped he wasn’t sleeping. Marcus slept like a rock and certainly wouldn’t get up to talk about our lack of sex.
The house was unusually dark, almost as if Marcus wasn’t home yet. Gatsby, our St. Bernard, wasn’t in his cage and was chained up out back. Marcus’ car was in the garage. I knew he was home. I threw my stuff on the island in the kitchen and started up the stairs to our bedroom, not seeing Marcus anywhere. As I walked up the stairs, I heard noises that sounded quite familiar, but dismissed what I thought they were. As I got closer, I realized that it was definitely moaning. At this point, I was just plain pissed and realized that I needed a new plan of attack . If he wasn’t sleeping with me, but was watching porn and getting off on his own, then I was going to blow a freaking, sexually-pent up and frustrated gasket. That bastard! I had been nearly begging for it, and he preferred to rub one out without me? I wanted to be quiet, so I could make sure that I caught him red handed.
Thankfully, the door was slightly ajar, so I could silently open it for a better view. I looked in and saw my husband-- Holy Mother Fucking Shit! I actually had to tell myself to breathe. I could feel my heart sink to my stomach and pound nearly out of my chest all at the same time. He wasn’t masturbating. His tongue was all the way up his secretary’s ass. She was moaning for all she was worth, begging him to go faster and harder. I realized then that he had a dildo inside her vagina too. She screamed louder and her whole body tensed, seconds before it began quaking with pleasure. Her release was stronger than anything I had ever experienced.
I couldn’t move. I was frozen in horror. Marcus had never even gone down on me. He said that oral sex was sloppy and dirty, and only whores allowed that. What did that make Lauren? Was she a whore for letting him suck her asshole? Definitely a whore for doing my husband. My husband! Why couldn’t I move? They began to change positions. I ducked further into the hallway. Lauren, his sweet secretary that I bought Christmas presents for, was going to screw my husband right in front of me. He laid back on the bed, while she handcuffed his wrists to the bed. Handcuffs? Who were these people? What happened to my good, wholesome family man? The man who stood before a priest and vowed to love me until death do us part? Well, something died tonight, our damned marriage died tonight.
An eerie calm came over me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t slam doors. I just walked out of the house and thanked God that we’d never had children.
Marcus was the second man I ever loved. It was a typical, everyday relationship, courtship, engagement, and wedding. We met at THE Ohio State University. He was a business-finance major, two years older than I was. He said that he always wanted to marry a teacher; it was the perfect job for a woman and wife. We met at some Kappa Sig Reggae Fest; he walked me back to my dorm. His drunk- ass slob of a friend puked all over me. Marcus and I hooked up that night—sort of. I wanted it badly. Seemed like I was always the one wanting him, begging him, persuading him. The second we entered my college suite, I was on my knees, taking out his penis, stroking and licking him. I should have known then that I wasn’t enough for him. He asked if we could leave my dorm room door opened, so people could see us when they walked by. I was so toasted and turned on at that moment, I didn’t care who saw me suck off this hot Frat guy. Nobody walked by. Once I sucked him dry, he patted me on the ass and said, “Thanks Janet.” I remembe
r thinking, “Damn, my name is Janelle, is that it?”
He left. I despised myself for being such a slut—even though I had only had sex with one other guy at the time. I felt like such a tramp. I saw Marcus at a few parties after that. He would nod to me like an old baseball buddy. Then, one night, summer semester, we ran into each other at a local dive bar. He looked at me and said, “Let’s go.” I went. We went back to his place. We had sex all night long and even the next day, making him the second man that I had ever slept with. I asked him the next day why he finally wanted me. He said that his “Plan A” fell through. I accepted that answer, which was asinine. I should’ve had some self-respect.
Looking back now, I must have been, must be, some crazy glutton for punishment. I let his words roll off my back and started seeing more of him. If I’d only known that I couldn’t tame that son of a bitch prick. We women are ridiculous. Why would I think that it would be different if we were in a relationship, in love? I cannot believe that I went ahead and married that dickless cheating bastard.
Based on what I had just seen in my own bed, Marcus and Lauren had been hooking up for quite a while. They were so in sync, tuned in to each other’s every need and want. Marcus and I didn’t come close to having that. When we were going at it, still, it seemed like we were fumbling through the motions. I couldn’t get the scene out of my head. I would be forever haunted by this image. Marcus “hath murdered sleep.”
I walked down the stairs, out of the house, got into my car and left without saying a word or making a sound. Once in the car, I picked up the phone to dial Jocelyn and tell her everything. Seconds before I pressed the last digit, I threw the phone on the passenger’s seat. I wasn’t ready for that conversation, all of those “I told you sos.” I thought about calling my brother, Jasper, but knew his business, Garrity Advertising, was sponsoring a Cure for Cancer Marathon the next morning. My brother would be in bed to “rest up for the big run.” I couldn’t deal with him yet either. Char!
I could call Charlene, my dearest friend. Relaxing, I eased my sadness and worry just by dialing her number. Voicemail. SHIT. It was Friday night; she was certainly out with this week’s man of the hour. Char had never met a cock she didn’t want to ride. Except for Marcus’. I didn’t know who hated him more, my sister or my best friend. I am so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I decided that I wasn’t going to deal with this tonight. I wanted to get drunk. I wanted to wallow in self-pity and detestation.
Chapter Two
I chose a bar just outside of town. I wanted liquor and started with tequila shots, my college favorite, quickly realizing that I wasn’t the sexy sorority girl I once was, who could drink any man under a table. First of all, I was buying my own drinks. Nobody was offering to let me do my shots off his body. And, after shot #3, I was pretty lit. This was all just too depressing, hitting me hard, crumbling my already-shattered ego. As I was about to call it a night and get a cab, I heard, “Miss Garrity!”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I hadn’t been Miss Garrity in two years. The only people who still called me Miss Garrity were students I had in class. Everyone knew that I was Mrs. Marcus Flowers now. Or was.
I turned around to see who was calling me and my jaw dropped to the floor. Briggs Alexander. Briggs was a senior in my class my first year teaching. He was good-looking back then, but time had been fine to him, very fine. If I recalled correctly, he was quite the “playa” in high school. He was one of those students who was always touching me, offering to rub my back, anything for close contact. Oh, he was a trip. He’d say things in class, like “I’m not hittin’ up Homecoming unless Miss G’s the lady on my arm. Whaddya say Miss G.?” Back then, no female was off limits. That first year, I felt like I was fighting him off every day in class. It was exhausting, yet flattering too.
Briggs was an all-star running back who signed with Ohio State early during his senior year. That spring break, he went with his buddies to California where he was convinced that he could surf if “that one-armed white bitch could.” Apparently, he was so stoned that none of his friends could stop him. He actually rode a few big waves until one wave rode him straight into the rocks. He hit the crags badly, splitting his head open, and severely fracturing his skull in three places. He was unconscious for a few days; the concussion and damage were so severe, no doctor anywhere would clear him for football again. It was tragic; he had a future in football, pretty much his only future. Academically, he barely got by. I’m pretty sure that I inflated a few of his grades just so he could graduate. Once he knew OSU was never going to happen, he gave up. It was awful to see.
“Briggs Alexander, oh my God, how are you hon?” He hugged me. He was still as solid as a rock. He had a beautifully built body. His skin was a dark mocha color, a stunning lighter-skinned black man. His muscles rippled in his Under Armor tight-fitting shirt. His thighs were chiseled and firm. Briggs was no longer a boy; I was standing looking at a man, a gorgeous specimen of a man.
“Damn Garrity looks like you’re still the hottest teacher in school, lady. Looking sharp,” he said as he gave me a once-over and an all-knowing wink. He was still as cocky as ever. He told me that after a few years of getting drunk and drifting around, he pulled his life together, taking large course loads, bound and determined to finish school. He was actually going to graduate in December with a psychology degree. He planned to counsel athletes whose lives took a turn for the worse, ending their careers. He was going to work for ESPN. ESPN wanted to get on the bandwagon of reality television and Briggs Alexander was going to counsel these athletes right on camera, exposing their raw emotions about leaving the sport that was their only livelihood, only passion.
I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes. Briggs Alexander was articulate, healthy, and had a future ahead of him. But was still the player I knew him to be. He was cocky with confidence oozing out of every ounce of his being. He knew where he was going and had success written all over his future. My future was just thrown out in a condom in my own house! That bastard! Forget going home. I needed another drink. Now. I slowed it down and ordered a Tangueray and tonic. As I was retrieving my money from my wallet, Briggs placed his hand on mine, and said, “Put that away Miss Garrity, I got this. I owe you a lot more than one drink. I wouldn’t have finished high school without you.”
I laughed and told him that he would’ve. He asked me if I would join him at a table for a drink, so we could catch up. Briggs said he had known I had gotten married, but didn’t know my new last name. I wanted to tell him that my name would be going back to “Garrity” soon enough, but knew that I could not tell one of my students, an old student, something so personal and devastating.
“It’s ‘Flowers; I’m Mrs. Flowers now.” I cringed at the name and all that it meant now—nothing. Janelle Flowers was a broken-hearted, embarrassed, horny woman. Miss Garrity had her whole life ahead of her. She was going to change the world, one student at a time. Now, I didn’t know what I was going to do tomorrow, let alone for the rest of my life. “But honestly Briggs, I need to get going. I can’t sit and chat with ya.” I took a long drink of my cocktail, and said, “I’m just gonna finish this and get outta here. Good luck to you though, hon.”
“Whoa, wait a second Miss Garr—Mrs. Flowers, just give me a few minutes.” He looked so sweet sitting there, begging me to have a drink with him. Hell, I didn’t have anywhere to go.
“Alright, but drop the Mrs. Flowers business, I’ll always be Miss Garrity to you.” I couldn’t bear to sit listening to “Mrs. Mrs. Mrs.” all night, knowing that I would not be married much longer.
Yeah, I couldn’t stay married to him. Right? Of course not. I just didn’t know if I was ready to let him go just yet. I loved him, loved being with him, loved his scent, his touch, his body. That bastard. He broke us. Yeah, we had our issues, especially in the bedroom. Mostly in the bedroom. He didn’t have any issues with Lauren in the bedroom. Maybe I should just screw the shit out of some guy and call it even. Find some guy, have my way with h
im and…Maybe…
“Miss Garrity, whatcha thinking about?” Holy crap. Busted. Alright Janelle, bring yourself down lady. He was one of your students, albeit a gorgeous, hot, virile student, but a former student nonetheless. Cool it down, honey.
“I was just thinking about how glad I am that it’s summer vacation. I think I’m ready for a break, maybe even a change.” I followed Briggs’ eyes; he was staring at my hands. Absently, I had been twisting and turning my wedding ring, sliding it on and off my finger.
“Damn , did you get tatted up?” He was looking at my ring finger. On our honeymoon, I decided it would be romantic to tattoo our ring fingers, so that we’d be happily married even when our rings weren’t on. Marcus said that he’d do it, too and loved my “dedication to forever.” I went first. I got a little strand of flowers around my ring finger to signify my new last name, Flowers. I would forever be Flowers. I loved how into our marriage and each other we were. When it was time for Marcus to get his ink, he realized that he didn’t have enough cash with us and could only afford my tattoo. At the time, I believed it was an honest mistake. Hell, we were in Cabo on the most romantic honeymoon getaway that money could buy, or at least my brother, Jasper, could buy.
Looking at my finger now, I wanted to chop it off, to “de-Flower” myself. How could I be so stupid, so full of trust in a man, who deserved none? I downed my drink in two large gulps and said, “Yeah, that’s how in love I was. I mean, am.”
Briggs looked at me thoughtfully, started to say something, but stopped. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand, slipped the ring off my finger, and kissed the flowers on my ring finger. My mouth went dry, opening slightly. My breath caught. He was staring straight at me with the most crystal blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a black man. I pulled my hand away, shuddering quickly. “So Briggs, what’s with the blue eyes anyway? That’s not typical with African-American men.” I asked.
He laughed, really laughed, as he was spinning my wedding set on the table. The diamond was still the shiniest rock I’d ever seen. “Miss G, don’t YOU do your homework? I’m mixed; my dad’s a pretty good-looking, blonde-haired, blue-eyed white man. He’s a stud.” That can’t be true. I met his parents a few times throughout his senior year. They were a powerful African-American couple.