Addicted

by Zane

  HOOKED . . .

  “Quinton, you knew from jump I was married. Why did you get involved with me if you wanted more?”

  He turned around. “Hell if I know. I just had to have you. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”

  “Well, I can’t be the one.” I started up the steps to get dressed.

  “No, you aren’t going anywhere!” He caught up to me on the stairs, tore the robe off me, and pushed me down. For a brief moment I feared him. . . .

  Driving home that night, I wondered whether I should break it off with Quinton for good. In my heart, I knew it was the right thing to do, and only trouble could come out of it if I continued the affair. He had laid his cards on the table and made me well aware of his wants and desires. Continuing to see him meant three things: trouble for him, trouble for me, and trouble for my marriage. But I couldn’t stop. I was straight-up hooked. I was addicted.

  acknowledgments

  First off, I would like to thank God for not only everything that He has given me but also for everything that He has taken away—for without failure and a great deal of loss, one can never truly be inspired. I would also like to thank my parents for bringing me into this world, nurturing my creativity, and supporting all of my endeavors. To my children, “A” and “E,” thanks for the daily motivation to make something better of myself, for the moments of laughter, and for the patience you have shown while I am writing.

  Thanks to Charmaine and Carlita, my biological sisters, and my brothers-in-law, Rick and David, for their continuous support and encouragement. To my sisters-in-heart: Pamela Crockett, Esq., Shonda Cheekes, Pamela Shannon, MD, Cornelia Williams, Judy Phillips, Sharon Kendrick Johnson, Gail Kendrick, Lisa Kendrick Fox, Michelle Askew, Esq., Janet Black Allen, Karen Black, Renay Caldwell, Ronita Jones Caldwell, Martina Royal, Dee McConneaughey, and Janice Jones Murray, thanks for lending an ear when I need to vent, a shoulder when I need to cry, and a joke when I need to laugh.

  To Aunt Rose, my 83-year-old aunt and biggest fan, thanks for reading everything that I send you and giving a detailed evaluation. To the rest of my extended family: Aunt Margaret, Alan, Franklin, Percy, Carl, Jr., Aunt Jennie, and the rest of you, thanks for accepting what I have decided to do with my life with such sincerity.

  To my agent, Sara Camilli, thanks for entertaining the dozens of ideas I come up with, sometimes on a daily basis, and for sensing something special about them even when a lot of them are as far-fetched as my imagination tends to be. The daily pep talks are always a stress-reliever for me and they are deeply appreciated.

  To Tracey Sherrod, my editor at Pocket Books, her assistant, April Reynolds, and Judith Curr, the publisher, thanks for welcoming me into the Pocket family with such ease, grace, and kindness. I look forward to a long-standing relationship.

  To Eric, Wendy, and Maxwell Taylor of A & B Books, thanks for taking over for me when the daily grind of trying to ship hundreds, sometimes thousands, of books became way too much for me. After dropping that hand truck on my foot at UPS and landing in the emergency room on crutches, I needed someone to step in and help a sister out. Thanks for being there. That also goes for Learie and Gail of Culture Plus Books. I could never express my gratitude to all of you for being my backbone and getting the self-published versions of my books onto every vending stand and into every African American bookstore.

  To all of the book clubs, both on- and off-line, who have read one or more of my books as their book of the month, interviewed me on their websites, or simply just given me a shout out, thanks for showing how powerful wordmouth advertising can truly be. A special thank you goes out to R.A.W. SISTAZ for not only providing a great forum to discuss books but the business of writing as well.

  To AA-AHA (African American Authors Helping Authors), I am honored to be on the Steering Committee of such a tightly woven, groundbreaking organization that encourages unity among authors instead of division. I look forward to major things from AA-AHA and I am glad to be a part of it as well as the Prolific Writer’s Association.

  To my fellow authors, especially those who have reached out to me and been open to networking, I wish all of you the best because this is about all of us and not just individuality. I would like to especially thank the following authors: Carl Weber, Earl Sewell, Karen E. Quinones Miller, Brandon Massey, Gwynne Forster, Deirdre Savoy, William Fredrick Cooper, Linda Dominique Grosvenor, JD Mason, Shonell Bacon, JDaniels, V. Anthony Rivers, D.V. Bernard, Darrien Lee, Eileen Johnson, LaJoyce Brookshire, Delores Thornton, Pat O’George Walker, and Eric Jerome Dickey.

  Last but definitely not least, I would like to thank the thousands of dedicated readers who have supported my efforts from day one, overloaded my e-mail boxes with notes of encouragement, and visited my two largest websites: EroticaNoir.com and BlackGentlemen.com. I would like to thank every single street vendor, librarian, bookstore owner, and every single housewife, sisterfriend, or brother that has promoted my books for me. Thanks for reading my books and passing them on to a dozen friends or calling eight or more people on the phone to talk about them or for whatever hand you have played in my success. It is impossible to thank each and every one of you individually but know that your kindness has not gone unnoticed.

  Peace and Much Love,

  Zane

  I love you and this is forever!

  Always has been! Always will be!

  —Zoe Reynard,

  circa 1999

  prologue

  Droplets of rain cascaded down the windowpanes, and the sun was merely a figment of the imagination. The dark gray clouds held it prisoner behind their foggy mist, and the day was cold and dreary at best.

  Several times I wanted to dash out of the office, mumble a fabricated excuse for leaving to the secretary as I made my way through the waiting room, seeking sanctuary in the hallway. As much as I wanted to forget about the whole therapy session, the alternative was not acceptable. I desperately needed help, and it was time for me to face my fears. When I was a little girl, my mother always told me that courage is simply fear that has said its prayers. Over the years, I have tried to live by those words, and I managed to do so until this day.

  My mind began to wander as I stood by the window, looking out at the cars splashing up rainwater with their tires, their windshield wipers going back and forth like pendulums. It was early evening, not quite dusk, and the Friday work traffic was beginning to taper off in downtown Atlanta. Most people were already sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate, ordering a round of drinks with coworkers at happy hour, or settling down in the safety of their own homes to catch the evening news on television.

  I had been lucky to get an appointment at all, since it was my first time there and I had just called pleading to see the doctor that morning. A friend of mine once mentioned Dr. Spencer in passing while I was at the salon getting my hair done. She was an avid fan of the doctor’s, having used her services to get over the agony of being betrayed by her ex-husband and, ultimately, a stressful divorce. Never would I have conceived seeking her advice myself—yet there I was.

  Dr. Spencer’s office looked about how I had visualized it: dim lighting, expensive leather furniture, including the infamous chaise longue where troubled souls revealed their deep, dark secrets, and a big cherrywood desk with a banker’s lamp in the center. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a smorgasbord of degrees, certificates, and plaques adorned the wall between the two floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.

  I noticed that my hands were trembling, even though the office was warm and toasty, a complete contrast to the cold October weather outside. She was taking too long, and my nerves were shot. I craved for just one puff of nicotine but had no cigarettes, since I had kicked the habit several years before during my first pregna
ncy.

  Just as I was about to take the cowardly way out, walking over to the chaise and beginning to put on my black leather gloves, Dr. Spencer entered the office, making apologies for keeping me waiting. At first, I was speechless, and the words forming in my mind could not make their way to my lips.

  “Mrs. Reynard,” she said, more as a statement than a question, as she reached out a finely manicured hand to greet me.

  Hearing my name broke the self-induced trance. “Dr. Spencer. It’s very nice to meet you.” I gratefully took her hand and shook it. Just the warmth of her touch somehow comforted me. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  She was making her way over to her comfortable leather desk chair as she spoke. “It’s no problem, really. My secretary seemed to think your situation was quite urgent, and I’m always glad to do whatever I can.” I managed a slight smile as she continued. “Please, have a seat and make yourself at home.” She motioned toward one of the two leather wing chairs facing the desk opposite her own.

  Once she sat down at her desk, I was able to get a better-look at her. Dr. Marcella Spencer was a strikingly beautiful and classy woman. The thin lines on her face betrayed her age of about forty, yet she exuded the glow of a woman twenty years younger. Her deep chocolate, satiny skin reminded me of the fudge brownies my mother would prepare for the school bake sales to benefit the PTA, and her eyes looked like black pearls. They were hypnotic.

  She wore an olive green business suit, accentuated by a sexy split up the back of the elongated skirt. The suit was even more alluring due to a cloister of overlaying matching buttons. A silk floral scarf worn around her neck added an air of class, and gold earrings gave the outfit a polished look.

  “Well, Mrs. Reynard.” She started searching through her center desk drawer for something, finally retrieving a gold-plated cigarette case and matching lighter. “Shall we begin?”

  “Dr. Spencer, I have a request.”

  “What’s that?” She noticed the way my eyes were diverted to the cigarettes as she snapped open the case and pulled one of the long, slender brown cancer bandits out. “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “No, thank you. Thank goodness, that’s one addiction I no longer have to battle.” I was trying my best to seem relaxed, but it wasn’t working very well.

  “Then what can I do for you, Mrs. Reynard?”

  “If I’m going to be revealing all my hopes and dreams, my fears and nightmares, all the dragons I’m battling, it would make me much more comfortable if you would call me Zoe.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem, Zoe.” A slight giggle escaped from her mocha-painted lips. “The majority of my patients prefer to keep our sessions on a first-name basis. Please call me Marcella.”

  “Thanks, Marcella.” Our eyes met. “I’ll do just that.”

  She started reaching around in a drawer again—the right-hand top drawer instead of the center one. When she placed a pad, pen, and microcassette recorder on her desk pad, I almost catapulted out of my seat. The reality of being in a head doctor’s office hit me, and I began to quiver all over again.

  She obviously sensed my discomfiture. “Zoe, I’m sorry if the tape recorder makes you feel uncomfortable, but I need to tape the sessions so I can go over them later for my notes. You understand?”

  The way she was talking to me reminded me of my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Zachary, the old battle-ax. It made me laugh. “Sure, I understand. It’s not like I’m considering becoming a movie star or anything like that, so blackmail’s out of the question.” I started pulling at a loose string on the leg of my black pantsuit. “Besides, don’t you doctors have to take some sort of oath or something?”

  “Yes, we most definitely do, and anything you tell me is strictly between you and I. It will never leave this room unless you request me to talk to someone, your husband for example, on your behalf.” She pressed the record button.

  “My husband!” I uncrossed my legs, got up from the chair, and started pacing the heavily carpeted floor of her office. “Oh, God, what have I done?”

  “Zoe, would you like to lie down on the chaise? You don’t have to. Only if it makes you comfortable.” She never lost her cool. I guess she was used to nervous people.

  “No thanks.” I sat back down in the chair. “I’m ready to begin. I know time is of the essence.”

  “Well, not exactly. You’re my last client of the day, so we can talk as long as you like. You seem to be very distraught, and I would like to help you if I can.” A kindness in her eyes halfway made me believe she was my best friend.

  I blurted it out. “My husband, Jason, and I are having marital problems.” My eyes dropped down to the floor. It was humiliating to even speak the words.

  “I see. Zoe, have you and Jason sought any form of counseling for your problems?”

  I began to laugh out loud then, but it was a laugh of dismay. “No, hell no! Jason doesn’t even know we have any marital problems.”

  I couldn’t even manage to look at her. I felt like a child awaiting punishment by my priest for committing a mortal sin, a sacrilege against the church. “Zoe, I don’t understand you.”

  “Jason doesn’t know about any of the things I do. He hasn’t a clue and if he ever found out, I would die.” A single tear fell and began to creep down my left cheek. “I could never imagine living in a world without him. That’s how much I love him.”

  “But you don’t feel you can talk to him about your problem?” She leaned forward, placed her cigarette in the ashtray, positioned her elbows on the desk, and intertwined her fingers.

  “Not this problem. Not now, not ever.” I zeroed in on a tiny lint ball on the carpet. It appeared to be slightly moving every time I blinked my eyes.

  “Relax, Zoe. Let’s try this a different way.” She took another puff of her cigarette and then picked up the pen, preparing to take notes. “When you mentioned earlier that nicotine was one addiction you no longer had to battle, it gave me the impression you’re addicted to something else. Are you?”

  The tears started flowing. It took every ounce of selfcontrol I could muster not to start wailing like a banshee. “Yes! I’m addicted!”

  “Drugs?” I shook my head. “Alcohol?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what are you addicted to, Zoe?”

  I looked at her finally through tear-drenched eyes and vocalized the word before my guilt forced me to suppress it. “Sex!”

  The look of astonishment on her face revealed her surprise. She was probably used to dealing with people addicted to cocaine, amphetamines, booze, food, but I got the distinct impression sexual addiction was a whole new ballpark for her.

  “Marcella, I don’t know where to begin. I have plenty of excuses for this, but no real reasons. I’m so scared my addiction to sex will destroy everything I have; my marriage, my relationship with my children, everything.” I darted my eyes away from hers and concentrated on the smoke rising from the cigarette, now burned down almost to the filter.

  She pulled a tissue out of the quilted dispenser on her desk and reached across the desk, handing it to me. I gladly took it and dabbed my gradually swelling eyes with it. “Well, Zoe, the best place to start is always at the beginning, so why don’t we commence there and work our way to the present.”

  I retreated into the bulky wing chair, letting my shoulders sink deep into the cushions, and crumpled the damp tissue in my hand. “The beginning . . .”

  chapter

  one

  The first time I ever laid eyes on Jason, I thought he was a junior-mack-daddy-wannabe that probably sat around on a Commodore 64 computer drinking grape Kool-Aid out of a peanut butter jar while watching Good Times. I couldn’t stand his ass.

  The feeling was mutual, though, because our first physical interaction was when he gave me the finger and then spit on my saddle shoes. We were in the fifth grade, and from the day my parents and I drove up in our Ford station wagon, I knew he was trouble.

/>   The movers got there about an hour after we did. I was sitting on the curb playing jacks when the big truck came flying around the corner, practically tilted on one side. I figured the driver was going to lose control of the truck for sure, and every valuable possession we owned would end up strewn all over the street.

  Being the wonderful and unselfish little girl I was, my main concern was that my black Barbie didn’t lose a limb or anything in the process. Table lamps, my father’s eight-track tape player, and my mother’s dishes were all replaceable, but the hell if I was going to be able to replace my Barbie. She was my pride and joy. I had even painted her fingernails with glittered polish and made her a sexy dress out of the red bandannas my mother made me wear to bed so my pressed hair wouldn’t frizz up. Other than that, I was worried about my Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, and that was about it.

  Jason and his parents lived directly across the street. He was outside that day trying to get some mail-order rocket to soar into the heavens. What a rip-off! The whole time I was watching him, the stupid thing never made it a yard off the ground. It was after about the hundredth try, when the movers had half the truck unloaded, that I noticed his ass rolling his beady eyes at me. I was using a piece of pink chalk to draw a makeshift hopscotch diagram on the street in front of my house when he approached me. His Kangol hat and leather bomber jacket made him look like a pint-size pimp. All he needed was a couple of gold teeth.

  “Girl, you better quit! I’m gonna tell my momma on you!” I glared at him, smacking on a wad of Bubblicious like a cow.

  “Little man, you better go play with your cheap broken-rocket and leave me the heck alone!”

  He got all the way up in my face then. “Girl, don’t you be ordering me around! I’ll stomp your skinny behind into the concrete!”

  “Oooooooh, I am sooooooo scared!” I rolled my eyes, chastising him.

  Then, the miniature version of Shaft flipped me the finger, made a disgusting noise while he gathered saliva in his mouth, and then spit on my brand-new black-and-white saddle shoes. I beat his little ass too. We were the same age, but I had him by a good three inches in height. Milk wasn’t due to start doing his body good for a couple more years.