Close Quarters: A Novel (Zane Presents)

by Ray, Shamara

  Dear Reader:

  Close Quarters by Shamara Ray is a delightful, thought-provoking romance novel about how the laundry list of desired traits in a mate can fall short to the list of what is truly needed to make one happy. When a man and a woman become roommates out of financial desperation, needing to split bills, they have no idea that they are about to embark on a journey together. Melina is engaged to Ellison, a seemingly perfect man, but sometimes perfection is overkill and a man with flaws provides more excitement. Such is the case with her roommate, Malik, who embodies every trait that has always repulsed her in a man. Funny how life throws you curveballs.

  I am sure that many of you have found love in the most unusual places and when you least expected it. Ray does a wonderful job of making readers question their own decisions, or giving them newfound confidence that they made the right choice the first time around. I hope that you enjoy Close Quarters. As always, we appreciate your support of all of the Strebor Books authors and we strive to bring you powerful, cutting-edge literature from the most vibrant voices on the current literary scene.

  You can follow me online at www.facebook.com/AuthorZane or on Twitter @planetzane.

  Blessings,

  Zane

  Publisher

  Strebor Books International

  www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: Melina

  Chapter Two: Malik

  Chapter Three: Malik

  Chapter Four: Melina

  Chapter Five: Melina

  Chapter Six: Malik

  Chapter Seven: Malik

  Chapter Eight: Melina

  Chapter Nine: Malik

  Chapter Ten: Melina

  Chapter Eleven: Melina

  Chapter Twelve: Malik

  Chapter Thirteen: Melina

  Chapter Fourteen: Malik

  Chapter Fifteen: Melina

  Chapter Sixteen: Malik

  Chapter Seventeen: Melina

  Chapter Eighteen: Melina

  Chapter Nineteen: Malik

  Chapter Twenty: Melina

  Chapter Twenty-One: Malik

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Melina

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Malik

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Melina

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Malik

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Melina

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Malik

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Melina

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Malik

  Chapter Thirty: Malik

  Chapter Thirty-One: Melina

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Melina

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Malik

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Melina

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Malik

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Melina

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Malik

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Melina

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Malik

  Chapter Forty: Melina

  Chapter Forty-One: Malik

  Chapter Forty-Two: Melina

  Chapter Forty-Three: Melina

  Chapter Forty-Four: Malik

  Chapter Forty-Five: Malik

  Chapter Forty-Six: Melina

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Malik

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Melina

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Malik

  Chapter Fifty: Melina

  Chapter Fifty-One: Melina

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Shinda

  CHAPTER ONE

  MELINA

  The sound of scurrying feet and giggling trailed off down the hallway as I entered my darkened apartment. I braced myself and marched toward the source that suddenly illuminated the hall. Malik was bent over in front of the refrigerator, clad only in his boxers, shoving something onto the shelf. The picture became clear when he turned around and slyly grinned at me. Traces of whipped cream were all over his face and hands, some on the floor. I shook my head and stormed to my room, slamming my door behind me.

  My flight from Atlanta was full of turbulence and the cab ride home from the airport wasn’t much better. I was supposed to arrive at LaGuardia at eight p.m., but all planes departing from Hartsfield-Jackson were delayed. We didn’t touch down in New York until midnight. After waiting another twenty minutes for my luggage, I finally got in a cab headed for Brooklyn. As the driver hit every pothole on Atlantic Avenue, I concentrated on the soothing bath I planned to take once I reached home.

  Malik’s flavor of the week raucously laughed, pleading with him to stop doing whatever was causing her such pleasure. Our two-bedroom apartment was too small for their folly. I could hear everything. The bathroom separated our rooms, but sound traveled easily through our paper-thin walls. We lived on the second floor of a renovated brownstone in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn. I had called this apartment home for three years. For two of those years I used the other bedroom as a home office, but the steady increases in rent caused a sister to reevaluate her living situation.

  If I knew a year ago what I know now, I would have never placed an ad for a roommate. The string of characters that replied to my listing was frightening. I hoped to share my space with another woman, young and progressive like myself, but when Malik showed up at the door, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had met with too many unsavory, unemployed, uninspired losers trying to haggle with me on the amount for the monthly rent. Malik came with his resume, a three-month deposit, a great smile, a firm handshake and made a convincing case for why I needed to consider a male roommate. A week later, he moved in. A month later, the honeymoon ended.

  Music started pouring out of Malik’s room, the bass vibrating the walls. I understood it was Friday night—the start of the weekend—but this was intolerable. I snatched my Coach weekend tote from the closet and tossed in a couple of outfits. I changed into my velour sweatsuit, grabbed my bag and headed into the crisp, autumn night. I saw the ticket on my windshield before I even made it to my car. Damn alternate-side-of-the-street parking. I asked Malik to move my car for me while I was out of town at my conference, but apparently he couldn’t even do that.

  I hopped in my BMW 335i Coupe and put on Jill Scott. Her voice relaxed me as I raced down Fulton Street toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Traffic was light to Manhasset. I cruised off the exit and navigated the familiar winding roads, the moon casting barely enough light through the trees. I turned onto a private road, slowing down as the gravel popped underneath my tires. Dimming my high beams, I approached the secluded home at the end of the road, pulled into the circular, cobblestone driveway and parked behind the Hummer. I stood on the doorstep, riffling through my bag for keys. I rested the bag on the top step and knelt down, digging my hand beneath the clothing.

  The wind kicked up, sending leaves scraping across the ground. I looked over my shoulder at the dark thicket of trees, into the shadows. I lifted the tote and shook it from side to side. I was dreading the possibility of ringing the doorbell when I heard a faint jingle emanating from a side compartment.

  I hadn’t bothered to call Ellis on my way over because I knew he was already asleep. He didn’t believe in staying up late, not even on weekends. According to Ellis, as long as there was work to do and money to be made, it paid to rise before the sun. He’d be up and running a couple of hours after my head hit the pillow. I was not a morning person and usually didn’t get up until after noon on Saturdays.

  I passed through the marble foyer and ascended the spiral staircase. The double doors at the end of the hall were slightly ajar. I slipped into the room and padded across the floor to the bed. Ellis was on his side, sound asleep. I kicked off my sneakers, climbed on the bed and snuggled up next to him. He rolled over and clic
ked on the lamp.

  Ellis sat up, frowning at me. “Melina, you’re on my bed with your clothes on?”

  I turned away from him and retreated to the bathroom to undress. “Good to see you, too,” I mumbled.

  Voices in the hallway stirred me from my sleep. The clock on the nightstand said it was two in the afternoon. Ellis entered the bedroom, his mother filing in after him. I sprang up and quickly put on my robe.

  “Mother Harlow, I didn’t know you were here,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t, dear, since you’ve been in here snoozing the day away. Just like Sleeping Beauty,” she said wryly.

  I finger combed my hair, which I was certain was all over my head, and cut my eyes at Ellis. Why his mother was standing in the middle of his bedroom—at that very moment—made absolutely no sense to me.

  “Mother is staying the weekend. She arrived yesterday evening. We just came back from North Shore Hospital. The dedication of the pediatric wing in honor of my father was today.”

  His mother pulled a handkerchief from her purse, right on cue. “God rest his soul,” she said, dabbing her dry eyes.

  I went over to her and patted her back. “I miss him, too, Mother Harlow.”

  She whipped her head around and glared at me. “You could never know the pain I feel. I spent forty years of my life with that man.” She straightened her posture and smiled stiffly. “And I told you, call me Bebe.”

  She pivoted on her Manolos and left the room, her expensive perfume lingering in her aftermath.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and shook my head. “Ellis, why didn’t you tell me the ceremony was today?”

  “I thought I mentioned it to you.”

  His nonchalant behavior told me otherwise. I would have remembered something as important as a dedication ceremony for his father. Ellison Harlow II was a beautiful man. One of the most respected pediatric surgeons in the country. Three months ago, he died of a heart attack. It was so unexpected—he was the picture of perfect health.

  “You thought? Never once did you mention today was the dedication,” I said.

  “Are you sure, Melina?”

  I had a sinking feeling in my gut. “You also didn’t say anything about your mother being here. You could have at least told me this morning.”

  Ellis came and sat next to me on the bed. “You know how much you hate to be disturbed in the morning. You appeared so peaceful, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you.”

  “Of course you should have. You know how much I loved your father.”

  He kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Lina. I wasn’t thinking. Mother and I finalized our plans last night and my schedule was hectic this morning. I had a breakfast meeting, and then I had to pick up Daniella—”

  “Great. So Daniella thinks I was a no-show, too.”

  “I told my sister and my mother you’ve been out of town all week. They understand you arrived home in the wee hours of the morning. Forgive me?”

  He was missing the point. I could not care less about being tired. I would have never missed such an important event.

  “So how was the ceremony?”

  He shrugged. “Kind words. Everyone touting the noble Dr. Ellison Harlow’s many accomplishments. A few requisite tears. Just what I expected.”

  Since his father’s death, Ellis had been extremely cynical when talking about him. He always showed his father tremendous respect. I chalked his recent behavior up to grief and the anger that sometimes came along with a sudden loss.

  “I would’ve really liked to have been there.”

  “I’ll take you to see the new wing next weekend.” He walked toward the door. “Get dressed. Mother is having a small reception downstairs.”

  “I don’t have anything appropriate to wear for one of your mother’s gatherings. I only packed jeans.”

  “Just put your jeans on, Melina.”

  “Right. I’ll stick out like a hooker in church. I’m going to head back to Brooklyn.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Stay up here if you want. The guests will be downstairs for an hour at the most.”

  “Spend the day with your mother. I know this is a hard time for her. I’ll call you later on.”

  I didn’t appreciate that Ellis neglected to inform me about the dedication and then invited me to the reception as an after-thought. If the truth be told, I wasn’t interested in being around Bebe or her snobby friends, anyway.

  I showered and dressed, then made a covert departure through the back door, walking around to the front of the estate. Daniella waved to me from the window as I put my bag in the trunk. I smiled and waved back. I had always liked Daniella—she was cool—it was her mother I could do without.

  I drove away from Ellis’s mansion wondering how I’d possibly fit in there.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MALIK

  It took a while, but Cinnamon finally got the message and took her ass home. When she stopped by last night with her six-pack abs and a can of whipped cream, a brother could not resist. Cinnamon and cream—oh so tasty. But like most sweets, you pay the price later. I used to hook up with Cinnamon regularly, but she started to get attached. I had to cut her back. But every once in a while we’d get together because the sex was banging.

  I broke out the mop and busted a move on the kitchen floor, then cleaned the bathroom and straightened up the living room. I knew Melina was going to be bitchin’ when she got back and I refused to give her the satisfaction of complaining about the house being a mess.

  It was a good week. No nitpicking. I watched what I wanted to watch on the TV in the living room, and best of all, the honeys kept a brother company without Melina scaring them off with her dirty looks. She needed to go out of town every week. Melina could be wound a little too tight, but we got along all right. She was an only child and it showed. Everything had to be her way. Nothing out of place. When I moved in, she told me to make myself comfortable, this was my home now, too. I wouldn’t have known it. Shortly after moving in, I slightly repositioned the angle of the couch and she almost evicted me. I knew then that although she said mi casa es su casa, what she really meant was—you may pay half the rent, but this is still my apartment.

  My boys were ringing my phone off the hook, trying to convince me to come down to our favorite watering hole to watch the MLB playoffs. On any other Saturday evening I would have been down, but thanks to my unexpected visitor last night, I didn’t have a chance to work on my project that was due Monday at work.

  I placed the package of sanitary napkins on the coffee table and gaped at them. How was I supposed to come up with a catchy ad for pads with designer scents? Did women really want the scent of Chanel No. 5 permeating from their panties? I opened my folder and read the product profile. Feminine products scented with essential oils, not designer perfume. Fragrant oils with therapeutic benefits designed to energize, relax or alleviate stress. The concept wasn’t as bad as I thought, but still not my ideal assignment.

  The projects assigned to me lately had been tumbling downhill, but no matter how bad the product, I managed to outshine the fair-haired boys at the agency. Regardless of my performance, I got stuck with the crap no one else would touch—the bottom of the barrel. I called a meeting with my boss to discuss the prospect of getting a crack at some of our larger clients and he had the nerve to tell me that I had to prove I could handle the responsibility. I’d spent six years at the company and could honestly say I was the most talented, not to mention creative, account executive they had at Newport and Donner. My multi-concept campaigns had never failed to appease the client and, despite my portfolio of unusual products, I had the highest ad acceptance rate. Since my next step at the firm didn’t seem to be up, it would have to be out—the door.

  My bank accounts were swelling, my investments were growing and I was entertaining the idea of starting my own agency. I’d hit the glass ceiling at Newport and Donner and starting over at another agency was not an option. I’d only shared my plans with one person,
my father. He’d been helping me with my business plan and, if our projections were correct, I’d be opening my own agency within the next year.

  Tupac’s classic, “I Get Around,” rang out from my cell phone. I checked the caller ID. Cinnamon. I let the call roll over to my voice mail. This would go on for the next couple of days until she realized nothing had changed between us. One night of good sex does not equal a relationship. No matter how upfront I was in the beginning, women always expected more than I was willing to give. I wasn’t ready to settle down. I thoroughly enjoyed variety and in the immortal words of R. Kelly, “I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.”

  The cell phone rang again. Melina.

  “Meet me at Night of the Cookers,” she said.

  “Bet.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MALIK

  I found Melina at the bar drinking her usual—a glass of Riesling. Annoyance flashed across her face when she saw me coming. I sat on the barstool next to her and signaled to the bartender.

  “What’s up, Roomie? How was your trip?” I asked.

  “You know I got a ticket while I was gone, right?” she asked tightly.

  “Don’t sweat that. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Damn right, you will.”

  “Mel, let me get a drink before you rip me a new asshole.” I impatiently signaled to the bartender again. I ordered a Johnnie Walker Black and then told her to make it a double. It was going to be one of those nights. The bartender poured but not fast enough. I should have told her to give me the whole damn bottle. I took a healthy swig of my drink and then turned to Melina. “I know you asked me to move your car, but I didn’t come home Thursday night. I apologize.”

  She nodded; her long reddish-brown ponytail bobbed up and down. Silence was never good when it came to Melina. It either meant she was pissed or extremely pissed. She raised her half-filled glass to her lips and polished off the wine. Extremely pissed.

  “Malik, if you had a girlfriend—which we know is a ludicrous thought—but if you had a girlfriend, and she neglected to tell you about an event that she knew would be important to you, what would you think?”