It was over. Sadly, it had to be—for her sake.
Still, she hadn’t expected him to not call. And she hadn’t expected—for weeks—to be foolishly holding on to hope that he would. Picking up her cell, checking for messages and missed calls that she knew hadn’t been left.
It was torture.
And when the agony of not being with him, or hearing his voice had finally become too much for her, she deleted all of his contact info and changed her number—for her, more so than him. She couldn’t trust she wouldn’t try to call or text him, beg him, to come back to her.
But that heartless bastard hadn’t called her. Nor had he attempted to come groveling back to her on his hands and knees to apologize, to win her back—nothing!
He hadn’t stalked her to give him another chance, hadn’t sent flowers, cards, or gifts—not one damn thing to overwhelm her, to beg her for forgiveness. He’d simply given up, moved on with his life.
Fuck her, right?
The fucking manwhore was probably somewhere laid up, pumping his dick into some other bitch, slicing into her cunt, giving her all the heated pleasure he’d once given her.
She swallowed, hard.
What kind of man was he?
A man who’d never given a damn, that’s who.
And what kind of woman had she become because of him?
Weak.
Vulnerable.
Obsessed.
She felt like someone had taken a wrecking ball and smashed through her chest, knocking the wind out of her. She cried out. Slung the photo of the two of them—the one they’d taken while at the zoo, the one she’d been desperately clutching to her chest since the wee hours of the morning—across the room. The frame hit the wall, glass shattering everywhere.
Like her heart, her life was smashed into a thousand-and-one tiny pieces. Arabia felt herself starting to hyperventilate. She felt as if she would throw up at any moment. This, this pain was killing her. She could barely breathe. The sadness was strangling her.
She struggled with her tears.
She was helpless. Things that she had never wanted were now things she craved most for. She had never felt so, so . . .
Her cell phone buzzed madly. She sucked in deep breaths, and when her smartphone fell silent, the landline started to ring. She knew it had to be one of her sisters, most likely Maya out of the three. But she didn’t have the energy for any of them. Not at this time of morning. They’d have to wait until she was ready to deal with their inquisitions. And the inquiries would surely come, along with their opinions.
She sighed, breathing in regret with every breath.
Finally, she closed her eyes, and all that she saw in those few silent moments was . . .him. His smoldering brown eyes, his lips, his dimpled smile, his sculpted shoulders, his chiseled chest, his rippled abs, his thick, veiny dick; his beautiful muscled ass—every part of him.
Her lids snapped open.
Oh, God!
He was everywhere she didn’t want him to be—in her head, on her skin, on her tongue, on her breasts, on her clit, in her pussy, in every crevice of her soul.
Arabia despised weak women. Had snubbed them. And now she had become one. She was a slave to his memory, to his touch, to his thick black dick. This wasn’t her. Losing sleep. Being this needy, crying, bed-ridden, lovesick bitch.
Shedding a tear over a man was not who she was.
And, yet, here she was.
Behind closed doors, a sniveling hot damn mess!
Fuck you, Cruze Fontaine!
He was a liar! A goddamn thief! A user!
Wait. Who was she kidding?
He hadn’t used her for a damn thing. He hadn’t taken from her anything she hadn’t been willing to give. And she’d given of herself willingly. So, no, he hadn’t stolen anything from her. He’d taken her, roamed her body freely, because she had wanted him to. However, she’d almost gotten killed, thanks to him, and she couldn’t lose sight of that. Ever. The idea of being with him after what had happened frightened her. But the realization of not being with him scared her more.
And, now, a thousand questions raced through her mind: What if . . . what if she reacted hastily? Had she overreacted? Should she have given him a chance to explain? Was she wrong for her behavior?
After several painful moments of contemplation, Arabia shook her head, shaking loose the craziness of second-guessing herself.
No.
She’d done what she had to do. Her life meant more to her than having him in it. She had every right to be livid with him. He should have told her he had hit men out to do him in. He had no business dragging her into his deadly drama.
She knew better than to fall for a man like him. Men like him never changed. The streets were in them, stamped in their DNA, embedded in their brain. It flowed through their veins. Trouble followed them wherever they went. It was Karma. All the fucked up things they’d put out into the universe eventually came back to them. There was no escaping it. It always came back. No matter how far, or how fast they tried to flee from it, somehow, some way, that bitch Karma would find her way to them, and sink her teeth in.
And make them pay for their sins.
Arabia took a deep, burning breath. Her walls, her world, had come tumbling down because of him. She had been better off before she’d met him—fucked him. Before she knew him, touched him, smelled him, tasted him, felt him in every part of her soul. The realization made her blood boil. He’d ruined her. And, sadly, she’d let him.
Pull yourself together, Arabia! All a man like him would ever do is bring you down with his bullshit and drama. You’re better than that, girl. So get over it. Goodbye and good riddance!
Yes. Goodbye. She had to let it go. Let him go—all of him. She had to pull herself out of this chasm of depression that consumed her, and held her hostage.
Yes. It had to end. All of it.
Now.
Arabia swiped her hands over her face, sweeping fresh tears from her flushed cheeks. Holding a hand to her quivering stomach, she inhaled, deeply. Steadied her racing heart. Her mind was made up.
These were the last tears she’d ever shed over the likes of him, or any other man.
Groaning in misery, Arabia swiped away a lone tear and flopped back onto her bed, the back of her head swallowed by the king-size pillow. Lying in his shirt, she brought its collar to her nose and inhaled the faint scent of him, for one last time.
It was over.
Yet, he was everything she knew she shouldn’t want.
And, still—haunted by his eyes, and his touch, and by the last time they’d made love and every other time in between, she slid her hand between her legs, where she ached most.
Oh God, yes.
This would be the last time she told herself as her fingertips slowly brushed over her clit.
Oh God, oh God.
Her body arched up from the mattress, her fingers delving inside the empty space of wet heat, where she craved sexual healing most. This would be the last time she’d allow herself to feel anything for Cruze Fontaine, she promised herself as she felt herself quickly coming undone, melting under the sheets.
It just had to be.
Thirty-Eight
Hair matted. Face crusty. Everything in her body ached. Burned. She was raw and empty and broken-hearted.
And she hated him for making her feel this pain. This was what she’d spent her entire life avoiding. And now she was hurting . . . because of him. How dare he come into her life and disrupt her entire existence with gunshots and bloodshed?
Goddamn him!
And he still hadn’t come to her, hadn’t tried to beat down her door . . . nothing! Maybe he hadn’t cared after all. Maybe all she’d ever been to him was a good piece of ass, another wet hole to dump himself in.
Served her right for all the yea
rs of whoring with married men.
This was her payback for all the hearts she’d broken over the years—unintentionally or not.
All they were ever supposed to be was a fuck-n-go. Nothing more.
She blamed Ashley for this shit. Had it not been for that bitch Peaches taking ill, Ashley would have had her ass in Philly that day instead of sitting around at some stinking-ass vet with a sick dog.
“Fuck you, Ashley!” Arabia snapped out loud. “The minute I’m out of this funk, pack your shit! You’re gone, bitch!”
She let out a loud groan.
Who was she fooling? She’d never fire Ashley. If it weren’t for her keeping things running smoothly, her advertising firm would probably be going under right now. No, Ashley and her team of execs were holding it down while she . . . while she recovered from her terrible . . .accident.
Yes, that was what she’d told them. That she’d been in an accident. That she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That, that . . . three gunmen tried to carjack her at a red light. Then when she’d sped off, they started shooting at her. And she was too shaken up to return to the office. That was her lie for the first two weeks.
Now this week, she’d been stricken with the flu. Yes, that’s right. She had the flu in the middle of June. The lie had rolled off her tongue before she even had a chance to realize it. So she’d run with it.
Truth was, she was sick.
Sick of still missing him.
Sick of still wanting him.
Sick of still aching for him.
Sick of breathing him in her dreams.
Sick.
Sick.
Sick.
And being sick with the flu paled in comparison to what she was feeling this very moment.
Lovesick.
She couldn’t shake this burning hell she was now in.
She couldn’t shake him.
She couldn’t even say his name. It seared the back of her throat like acid.
She was such a pathetic bitch.
Over him.
A man!
This didn’t happen to her. But it had. And now . . .
She swallowed back another sob.
Then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply until it burned her lungs. Her funk overpowered the smell of him still on her skin. But, no matter how bad she smelled, he was still here, lingering, hovering, in the air around her.
She exhaled.
She reached over from the bed, where she’d been lying for the last four days, and grabbed another Philly cheesesteak from off the plate on her nightstand. Cheesesteak deliveries were the only time she opened her door. She’d stay hidden behind the door and crack it open so her doorman could stick her sandwiches in. She’d snatch them from his hand, then hand him his tip, before slamming the door in his face.
She bit into her sandwich, and cheese and ketchup oozed out and dripped down her chin.
Using the back of her hand to swipe away the gooey cheese and ketchup mixture, she started crying again. She’d taken to eating the messy sandwich loaded with onions, because her life had become such a smelly mess, like this stupid-ass cheesesteak.
She hadn’t bathed. Hadn’t shaved. Hadn’t brushed or scrubbed. Or bothered to change her panties.
Her life stunk. And so did she.
She just lay in bed and watched reruns of Being Mary Jane. What a sad bitch!
God, she hated Mary Jane. She was a weak bitch.
And she hated herself. Because so was she.
She choked back a sob, and reached for the remote to her stereo, turning on her CD player again. Jennifer Hudson’s “Giving Myself” started playing—again. Arabia sat up in bed and rocked and cried and hummed along to the song. And then she looked up and called out to God.
“God, why’d you do me like this?” she cried out. “Why are you torturing me? Have I not been obedient?” She shook her head. “Okay, scratch that. Maybe I haven’t been. But damn it, I’ve been loving and kind, haven’t I?” She shook her head again. “Okay, okay. Maybe I haven’t been that, either. But do you think . . . do you really think I deserve this? If this is my punishment for sleeping with married men, I swear to you, Lord, if you find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll never sleep with another married man. I swear. Cross my broken heart and hope to . . . well, I don’t hope to die. But this pain is killing me.”
Body and soul, she’d given herself to him.
Unexpectedly, she’d handed herself over to him.
And now she was left with nothing. Not him. Not her heart. Not her dignity.
Nothing.
She’d lost everything she was to him.
Some reformed thug who’d almost gotten her killed.
Her life flashing before her eyes, she reached for the box of tissue on the other side of her bed, and blew her nose.
And when she had enough of Beyoncé singing her version about how she’d rather go blind than to see her man walk away, Arabia was curled up in a ball bawling her eyes out.
Her cell buzzed.
She refused to look over at it. Refused to lift it up from the nightstand, where it laid face-down, to see who it was this time, calling her. So she took another bite of her sandwich, and savagely chewed, her stomach bubbling as she swallowed.
She had gas. Bad.
But she suffered through it, chomping away at her sandwich as a reminder that he’d introduced this sandwich to her, and this was her consequence for opening herself to him. A knotted stomach filled with gas.
She was dying inside. All she needed was a coffin and a gravesite. And she’d be ground ready.
Her cell buzzed again.
Then her landline.
Then her doorbell.
Then came the banging. Loud. Obnoxious banging.
And then—oh God, no . . . there were voices.
The blood in her face drained.
Not one, not two, but three very loud voices.
“Open up, Arabia! We know you’re in there!” That was her sister Tamara.
Then Alexis: “If you don’t come open this door, I’ll call the police to have it knocked open! Try me!”
More banging.
“God, please don’t tell me she’s in there dead over some man,” she heard Tamara say. More banging. “Open up this goddamn door, Arabia!”
Then came Maya’s voice: “Arabia, open up, girl. Please. We’re worried about you.”
Arabia groaned. Then glanced around her room in horror. She couldn’t let them see her. Not like this.
Then came the pounding again. “You have ten seconds to open this damn door, Arabia. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
Arabia threw off the covers, knocking over her sandwich, stepping over dirty dishes and old sandwich wrappers.
“Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .”
She raced to the door. “All right, all right . . . I’m coming. Damn!”
She held her hand up to her face and blew out a breath. She made a face, her lips twisting. Her breath was wretched.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
Arabia slid back her locks, then slowly opened the door.
“God, you’re so ugly right now,” Tamara hissed, pushing past her. “You’re so fucking selfish, Arabia.”
One by one, they barged in, jostling Arabia out the way.
“And you smell,” Alexis chimed in, pinching her nose together.
“Yes,” Tamara added, “your ass stinks. What the hell? Why are you moping around here letting your cat-juice marinate in your drawers? I smelled you all the way out in the hall.”
“Will you bitches shut up,” Maya snapped. “Can’t you see our baby sis is hurting?” Maya pulled Arabia into her arms and hugged her tightly. Arabia couldn’t hold back the tears. She sobbed on Maya’s shoulder.
She needed her sisters more than she realized.
She’d thought she could get through this alone. But she couldn’t.
And that knowing tore her up even more.
Maya coughed, then gagged. “Okay, okay. Girl, I love you,” she said, prying herself out of Arabia’s hold, “but you smell like sewer water. No offense, but I’m choking here.”
Tamara rolled her eyes. “I told you this bitch stinks.”
Arabia nearly bared her teeth. “I don’t need your insults right now, Tamara. If you don’t like the smell, then leave.”
Tamara fixed her with a hard stare. “Bitch, I’m not going any-damn-where until after our intervention. Now go wash your ass, so we can nurse your grieving ass back to health.”
Alexis and Maya took one look at Arabia and their hearts ached for her. The love bug had finally bitten their baby sister and it had torn her ass up real good.
“Yes, go clean yourself up,” Alexis said, almost pleadingly.
“Please and thank you,” Maya added.
Arabia sucked her teeth. “All right. Y’all sit,” she said, relieved that her bedroom was the only place that looked as if it’d been turned into a war zone.
The three sisters eyed Arabia as she walked off.
Tamara scowled. “If I ever see the bastard who did this to her, I’m going to claw his damn face.”
“Girl,” Alexis said, “his dick must have been dipped in gold for him to turn Arabia’s ass inside out like this.”
Arabia cringed. “I don’t need you bitches talking shit about me behind my back,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I need your support. Not a bunch of ridicule.”
“Girl, bye,” Tamara said dismissively. “You’re getting both—our support and ridicule. So, go. Wash. That. Ass. We’ll be right here still talking about you when you get back.”
Arabia shook her head. God, she loved her sisters. She truly did.
• • •
“Much better,” Maya approved when Arabia finally emerged from her room forty minutes later, wearing a pair of pink lounge pants and matching top. Her still-damp hair was in a French twist. And she’d managed to slip on a pair of diamond-hoop earrings, a little bling to brighten her otherwise bleak existence. She felt somewhat better. Not as tense. It was amazing what a little—okay, a lot—of soap and hot water could do. The shower was nice. She even gave herself a facial. But she still needed a good soaking.
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