Zane's the Heat Seekers

by Zane

  Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Atria Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  “ABOUT YOUR LITTLE NOTE FROM LAST NIGHT, MISS THANG!”

  “Oh, that!” Janessa diverted her eyes to the floor, waiting for her tongue-lashing. “Listen, Tempest, before you jump down my throat, I’m convinced I did the right thing. If I’d left it up to you, another good man would’ve slipped through your fingers.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Janessa could feel Tempest staring a hole through her. Then Tempest stood up and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Thank you, sis!”

  “Thank you? Am I hearing things?”

  “No, you’re not hearing things. Thanks for hooking me up with Geren. I’m really looking forward to it.” Tempest opened her locker and got out her gym bag. “Come on, let’s hit the showers so we can go shopping for that bomb-ass dress you demanded I get for the wedding.”

  “Damn, damn, damn! Do miracles never cease?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. Like you said, he is attractive, successful and unattached. Why not go for it?”

  “Zane’s writing warms me, heats me up, satisfies me with a passion. This woman does incredible, erotic things with words. Read with a lover nearby.”

  —Eric Jerome Dickey, author of Thieves’ Paradise

  This novel is dedicated to my parents, who I affectionately call LIB and JIM. You are the original heat seekers, because if you had not sought out the heat in one another nearly fifty years ago, my siblings and I never would have existed, God never would have blessed me with this talent, and not even a single word of this novel would have ever been written. This book truly belongs to you.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: the seekers

  Chapter 2: we be clubbin’

  Chapter 3: let the games begin

  Chapter 4: to date or not to date

  Chapter 5: the bachelorette party

  Chapter 6: the wedding

  Chapter 7: the aftermath

  Chapter 8: the morning after

  Chapter 9: rollerblading hell

  Chapter 10: a night out on the town

  Chapter 11: one common goal

  Chapter 12: makin’ love

  Chapter 13: sistahgurls

  Chapter 14: reciprocity

  Chapter 15: mirror images

  Chapter 16: a lovers’ christmas

  Chapter 17: new year’s eve

  Chapter 18: just two black chicks shootin’ the breeze

  Chapter 19: the baby’s here

  Chapter 20: memories

  Chapter 21: when the other shoe falls

  Chapter 22: reactions

  Chapter 23: them there are fightin’ words

  Chapter 24: facing demons

  Chapter 25: the confession

  Chapter 26: the proposal

  Chapter 27: you’ve got a friend in me

  Chapter 28: home sweet home

  Chapter 29: chillin’ in the new crib

  Chapter 30: beginnings

  Chapter 31: startin’ over

  Up Close and Personal with the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I must thank the Lord for every single day that He grants me on this earth to rejuvenate and continue my thoughts from the previous day’s journey. Secondly, I must thank my parents for their support, encouragement, and understanding when it comes to my sometimes confusing and always time-consuming goals. My deepest gratitude goes to my children for giving me a reason to breathe, a reason to struggle, and a reason to rejoice. I would like to express thanks and appreciation to my immediate and extended family: Charmaine, Carlita, David, Rick, Jazmin, Arianna, Ashley, Aunt Rose, Aunt Margaret, Percy, Ronita, Trey, Franklin, Renay, Bo, Alex, Alan, Brittany, Dee, Dana, Janet, Karen, Miss Maurice, Uncle Snook, Beverly, Fran, Aunt Cle, Aunt Jennie, Carl Jr., Phil, and everyone else in the enormous family tree. That includes my honorary family members in Kannapolis, North Carolina.

  Sara Camilli, my literary agent, thank you as always for everything that you do to ensure that my career flourishes and for leading me down the correct paths. Thank you for the daily pep talks, even on the weekends, and for concerning yourself with my children when you have so many other things to do. Hopefully, my son will get that novel written in 2002 somewhere between skateboarding and his electric guitar, because his talent should not be wasted.

  Pamela Crockett, Esq., thank you for the tremendous amount of effort you put into not only my business dealings but also our friendship. Thank you for sharing the frustration, for having my back through thick and thin, and for hanging in with me for the long haul. We share the same vision and the same ambition, and many times that keeps me moving, because failure has never been and will never be an option. Indira and Tislem have become my second set of children, and it is a delight to spend time with them. Also, a big shout-out to Tracy Crockett for hanging out with me when she comes down from NYC and for supporting my books.

  Shonda Cheekes, your time is coming, and when you hit the ground running, even I will be in awe. Thank you for being there from day one and for the lengthy telephone calls to help stabilize the fifty million things that are always running through my head.

  Tracy Sherrod, thanks for being such a wonderful editor and for believing in my work. I look forward to a long and prosperous future and appreciate the fact that you keep me informed about everything that involves my writing.

  Thank you to the following African-American distributors for helping me become a self-published phenomenon seemingly overnight: Eric, Wendy, and Maxwell at A and B Books, Learie and Gail at Culture Plus Books, and Sam at Seaburn. Thank you to the dozens of African-American bookstores throughout the country that have lined their shelves with my titles and recommended my books to readers.

  Thank you to Black Expressions, Black Issues Book Review, Quarterly Black Review, AALBC.com, Mosaicbooks.com, Timbooktu.com, NetNoir.com, BET.com, the RAW SISTAZ, the G.R.I.T.S., African-American Authors Helping Authors, the Nubian Chronicles, and all the other websites and book clubs both on- and off-line that have supported my books.

  Thank you to the following authors for their support, whether it was something major or something you might not even remember doing: Carl Weber, Robert Fleming, Eric Jerome Dickey, Franklin White, Marcus Majors, V. Anthony Rivers, Darrien Lee, Shonell Bacon, JDaniels, J. D. Mason, D. V. Bernard, Michelle Valentine, Delores Thorton, Karen E. Quinones Miller, Michael Presley, Laurinda Brown, Jamellah Ellis, LaJoyce Brookshire, Carol Taylor, Mark Crockett, Timmothy McCann, Alice Holman, Brandon Massey, Brian Egeston, Cydney Rax, Deirdre Savoy, Earl Sewell, Gayle Jackson Sloan, Gwynne Forster, Jacquelin Thomas, Marlon Green, Mary B. Morrison, Maxine Thompson, Pat G’Orge, Walker, Tracy Price-Thompson, Van Whitfield, Anthony Ri’chard, and William Fredrick Cooper. To all the other authors who have crossed my path, you are just as special to me, and I wish I could name every single one of you here, but I don’t want my acknowledgments to be longer than my book.

  Thank you to the sisterfriends who have all dealt with my eclectic personality throughout the years: Pamela Crockett and Shonda Cheekes, you get shout-outs again; Lisa Fox, Gail Kendrick, Sharon Johnson, Pamela Shannon, Cornelia Williams, Dawn Boswell, Tracy Jeter, Judy Phillips, Destiny Wood, Aliyah Bashir, and all the rest of you chicas.

  Thank you to all the people who have worked so diligently to ensure that my words come to life onscreen during the past, present, and future: David “Money Train” Watts and Futu
reX, Keith Plummer and NI4Pics Productions, Mike Phifer, Mehki Phifer, Anthony Ri’chard and Phifer Media Management, Toya Watts and SEPIA, and everyone else that has expressed interest in my film projects.

  Thank you to all the fantastic women that attend my networking/freakfest events at my home. It is such a pleasure to see dozens of women of all ages get along and compliment each other instead of engaging in the proverbial catfighting and jealous behavior. Our regular events will become legendary. Just wait and see.

  Thank you to all of the book clubs, all of the bookstores, all of the vendors, all of the people on my mailing lists, all of the people that frequent my sites, and all of the people that support my efforts. Every e-mail means the world to me, whether it is two lines or two hundred. Every word is significant, and every thoughtful gesture is deeply appreciated. If I have forgotten anyone, please overlook my mistake, for I adore each and every one of you. If nobody has told you that you are loved and appreciated today, I am telling you now.

  Last but definitely not least, thank you to my man, my boo, my soul mate, my baby, Wayne T. Stewart, for his loving support, encouragement, pampering, and understanding. While I realize that it is not easy dealing with an ambitious, workaholic sister like myself—on business calls after midnight, writing at three in the morning—you do it with ease. I have been in love with you since I was ten and I will be in love with you when I am a hundred. Thanks for being my heat seeker and allowing me to be yours.

  A glance into a passing car.

  A smile from a complete stranger.

  A brief exchange in an elevator.

  This is how it sometimes begins.

  A seductive dance on a crowded dance floor.

  A walk under the moonlight.

  A phone conversation that lasts all night.

  This is how it sometimes begins.

  Everyone searches for it at some point in their lives.

  The passion that will make them lose their senses.

  The kisses that will entice and rejuvenate them.

  They seek out the heat.

  The only question is:

  When they find it, can they handle it?

  —Zane, 2001

  CHAPTER 1

  the seekers

  tempest

  my hand hovered over the lighted dial pad of my cordless phone, debating about calling another sorry mofo. The first one wasn’t home, and it was just as well. Giorgio was this brotha I met while I was in line at Starbucks waiting on a mocha cappuccino. He was attractive, nice and the perfect gentleman. We kicked it a few times together. Everything was kewl until I found out the nucca had six toes on his left foot. Yes, I said six damn toes. He had this miniature one hanging off the side. I discovered it one night when he treated me to a foot massage, and I decided to return the favor. Normally I would never venture to caress a man’s feet, but I was being daring that night, and the shit will never, ever, ever, ever happen again. It freaked me out, that sixth toe, and it reminded me of that Stephen King flick, The Dark Half. I came to the conclusion that Giorgio had been genetically conceived as a twin but somehow swallowed his other half. For days after the gruesome discovery, I had nightmares about marrying him, waking up one morning, and seeing him standing there with a hatchet in his hand and grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. No, that nucca had to go. I know it sounds shallow, but I would rather be safe than sorry.

  I flipped through my version of the little black book, a tattered and worn four-by-six-inch plastic pink phone book with a black poodle on the cover. The only letters left from the word address were the a, the r, and the e. As I eyed the pages, a feeling of disgust overwhelmed me. So many names, so many sorry-ass mofos. And to think, I had allowed these nuccas inside my world, catered to their every desire and even performed on the parasites all the fellatio techniques I learned from that Monica chick’s book, The Complete Guide to Tongue and Jaw Maneuvering.

  Let me break it down for you.

  Sorry mofo number one: Trent, a twenty-six-year-old systems analyst. Fondest memory: practicing tantric sex with him and basking in the afterglow of the numerous earth-shattering yoni (clit) massages he bestowed upon me. Most traumatic memory: walking in on him bestowing the lingam (dick) massage on his roommate Bill. I will never forget that day for as long as I live, mostly because I hurled up my partially digested lunch, kung pao chicken, all over the two of them and my favorite suit, a black wool number I snagged a great bargain on from a one-day sale at Macy’s in Pentagon City Mall. I loved that suit. Damn them two homie-sexuals for ruining my shit.

  There I was infatuated, with what I thought was a prime candidate for the Pussy Eater’s Hall of Fame, when all along I was giving my sweet loving to a booty bandit, a rump wrangler, a sword swallower. No wonder he knew how to eat a pussy so damn good. Any man who can deep-throat nine to ten inches ought to be able to suck the lining and ovaries out of a pussy.

  I shook my head in disbelief at the very thought of him, muttered an expletive, and then scratched his name out with a red Magic Marker. Goodness knows I would spread my thighs open for a three-legged baboon with one eye in the center of its forehead before I ration Trent another millimeter of puntang.

  Sorry mofo number two: Hezekiel, a thirty-two-year-old produce manager at the friendly neighborhood supermarket. I know what you’re thinking. What woman in her right mind would date a brotha named Hezekiel? Sheeeeeeeiiiitttt, every sistah I know wanted to break a piece off to his fione ass. As for you brothas, you shouldn’t even fake the funk. If a sistah looked like Halle Berry but her name was Kizzy Kunte, you would be screaming out, “Work it, Kizzy! Work it!” in the bedroom.

  Anyway, enough of defending myself. Back to the matter at hand. Fondest memory: the way he used to like to get freaky and suck on my fingers, toes, and everything in between. I don’t know if it was due to his grassroots upbringing in the foothills of Kentucky or not, but the brotha was born with a platinum tongue. He told me once that he had a nipple fetish because it reminded him of milking his papa’s prizewinning cow, Bessie. To hear him tell it, Bessie won the blue medal at every Kentucky State Fair for ten years in a row. Whatever it was, the brotha had mad skillz. Not skills, but skillz. He used to make me scream out his name in forty-two different languages. Most traumatic memory: letting him have $800 to get his BMW fixed. I gave him the money out of the goodness of my heart. It wasn’t even a loan, mind you. It was a straight-up gift. Okay, I will confess. I was whipped. Tongue-whipped. At least until I found out the BMW was not even his but this beanpole anorexic bitch’s. I saw the two of them cruising down at Haines Point in it while I was jogging. The bastard had the nerve to almost run me over after his nerves got riled up from spotting me. I cussed his ass out, but all he did was haul ass and leave me in a cloud of exhaust. Even though the money was a gift, I contemplated taking his skank ass in front of Judge Judy and perjuring my ass off by claiming it was a loan so I could recoup my money. Trick ass!

  Needless to say, the chances of me ever letting him suck on anything else, even my asshole, are slim to none, and Slim’s scandalous ass is out of town kicking it with some hoochie at 135th and Fifth Avenue in Harlem. I put my Magic Marker to work again, and my phone book began to look like a toddler’s drawing pad.

  Sorry mofo number three: Scott, a twenty-nine-year-old graduate student. Fondest memory: having him recite his original poetry to me on our romantic five-day vacation at Hedonism II in Jamaica, making love in the sand under the island moon, erotic dancing to reggae music, and seeing if he could fuck me in every position known to modern man without breaking my back or putting himself in traction. Most traumatic memory: receiving my American Express bill and finding out the trifling-ass son of a Gila monster had charged the whole damn escapade on my card and neglected to mention it to me. That vacation cost me a grip, and if I ever see his venomous, hideous black behind again, I will unload my entire three-ounce can of pepper spray in his beady little eyes and finish him off with my stun gun. Twelve thousand volts to
the head of his dick will set his ass straight but good. I scratched his name out so hard, I ripped the page.

  Sorry mofo number four, and you are going to absolutely love this one: Kenny, a twenty-five-year-old bum extraordinaire who also happened to be my high school sweetheart and the one who busted my cherry bomb. Fondest memory: discovering the joy of sex together, sitting on the balcony of my aunt Geraldine’s apartment after cramming some of her delicious soul food into our guts, and making plans for the future together. Most traumatic memory: finding out from my best friend Janessa that Aunt Geraldine and Kenny not only were knocking boots but had gotten hitched by the justice of the peace the day before he was supposed to take me to our senior prom. I figured Kenny must have been out of his fucking mind, so I asked him, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” You know what that stinking, malicious relative of Godzilla told me? He said the only reason he chose her over me was because she was on public assistance, and therefore food stamps would keep him from starving, and their rent would only be twenty dollars a month. The really sick part is that Kenny is three years younger than my cousin Marcus, Aunt Geraldine’s son. I am tooooooo through with both of them, and I hope her old ass gets a leg cramp one night while they are fucking and ends up stuck in a pretzel shape from now until Armageddon. I ripped his old number out of my book and hers, stomped into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

  I was still holding the cordless in my hand when I came back out into the living room. I tossed it on my black leather sectional and headed to the kitchen in search of the pint of double-chocolate-chip Häagen-Dazs ice cream I kept hidden in the back of my freezer especially for nights when the maggots invaded my thoughts. I don’t know why I let them bother me. They were all out of my life, somewhere getting their freak on with another woman—or man, in Trent’s case. Yet here I was working myself into a hissy fit over the fetid shit they did to me.