(Love After: Book 3)
By Alexandria House
Copyright © 2017 by Alexandria House
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing 2017
Pink Cashmere Publishing, LLC
[email protected]
http://pinkcashmerepublishing.webs.com/
Real Love
Outspoken and more than capable of backing up her words, loan officer, Denise Buhari, is finally back on her feet after years of rebuilding her life following a horrible marriage and divorce. But just when she is ready to head into a future she’s sure will be bright, the rug is pulled out from under her again.
Tattoo artist, Hasaan Peterson, meets Denise through her job, and although their relationship is initially contentious, it soon blossoms into a friendship that leads them to passionate feelings neither can deny.
Could it be that Denise and Hasaan are destined to share a love that is unavoidable and undeniable…a real love?
For love.
1
Mondays truly suck sometimes.
It wasn’t that I hated my job. I just didn’t like it. As a matter of fact, the only thing I liked about my job was the first and the fifteenth—my pay days. I also liked the fact that working at a bank meant I was off every time there was a red mark on the calendar. But some days, especially some Mondays, it was just too much for me to have to climb out of bed and make myself presentable so I could work with and around people I didn’t give half a shit about. But nevertheless, I did it day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year for seven years. This job at Union Central Bank was the first job I landed after graduating from college, the only job I’d ever had other than delivering the plates my mama sold to folks in our neighborhood every Friday and Saturday when I was growing up. And working with my mean-ass mother was almost worse than working at the bank.
Almost.
At least I was used to her attitude and mood swings. Sometimes I didn’t know what box the folks at the bank would come out of. And if some fellow employee or supervisor wasn’t getting on my nerves, it was the customers. As a loan officer, I said no to people far more often than I said yes, and their reactions ranged from devastated to violent. I had been called out of my name, had my door slammed, chairs toppled over, and there was one Caucasian gentleman who raked everything off my desk, including my computer monitor. Some people just didn’t understand that the process was not a personal one. If it were solely up to me, a lot of disapprovals would be approvals. But it wasn’t solely up to me. Credit scores and income and a whole lot of other criteria came into play. The bottom line was whether or not the bank believed loaning money to a person was a sound investment for them. What were the odds of them being paid back? That was their main concern, along with earning money off of the interest paid.
Anyway, this particular Monday I especially wasn’t feeling work. Threw on a business suit and my favorite wig and was sitting at my desk trying to rejuvenate myself with a cup of coffee when the loan department receptionist called and told me my first appointment had arrived. According to my schedule, it was someone who’d applied for a loan online, and after being declined, chose the “meet with a representative to go over the results of my loan request” option. What this usually meant to most people was they wanted a chance to plead their case and try to get the bank to change its mind. It was a waste of time for both them and me, but it was part of my job. So I hopped my ass up and headed out to the lobby to meet the customer and quickly saw that he was a reminder of everything that was going wrong in my life—that I was single, sexless (well, not totally sexless, but I’ll get to that later), and lonely. The man was fine with a capital F. About five-eleven to my five-feet-even and broad-shouldered and very muscular and handsome. Dark-skinned, just the way I like them. Hair cut low with a wave pattern most men would kill for. He was wearing a suit, and I could see a neck tattoo peeking from under his shirt collar.
Damn.
Well, I forgot it was a sucky Monday or that once we got in my office, I would merely be reiterating the fact that he couldn’t have a loan for a moment. Shit, I think I forgot I was at work. I smiled at him as I offered him my hand. “Denise Buhari,” I said, flashing him my best, flirty smile.
“Hasaan Peterson.” His voice was deep, rich, and it oozed over me like warm caramel.
I stood there for a moment and just took him in, wondered to myself if there was anything in the world finer than a black man in a suit. As he gave me a somewhat nervous smile, I decided there wasn’t.
“Um...I’m here about my loan application?” he said.
I finally snapped out of whatever trance I was in. “Oh, yes...follow me.”
Once in the confines of my office, I had to make myself concentrate on the task at hand. I offered him some coffee, and after he said no, I got right down to business.
I opened his file on my computer. “Mr. Peterson, it looks like you were denied a loan for a couple of reasons; one is a poor payment history and the other is a lack of revolving credit.”
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on me. “I understand that, but...will you at least let me tell you what I need the loan for?”
I would’ve usually said no, but he was fine and I enjoyed watching his lips move, so I nodded.
He straightened up in his chair. “Okay...first, I want to thank you for taking the time to meet with me this morning. Uh...I’ll admit I made some financial mistakes in my younger days...”
I glanced at my computer screen, which told me he was now thirty-four. A sexy-ass thirty-four.
“You know how that can be, right? The companies throw credit cards at you. I abused mine, and at the time, I was hopping from job to job and was just too stupid to pay my bills, but I’m working on cleaning my credit up now.”
Yeah…me, too, I thought.
“So, what I’m trying to do is open a tattoo shop. I’m a good tattoo artist, and I’ve been working out of a friend’s shop for a little over a year, so I already have clientele built up. I’m ready for my own shop now. Been working three jobs, saving up money for equipment. This loan would help me pay the lease on the space I want for a year, maybe two, pay for licensing, and help me get the rest of the equipment.”
I twisted my lip to the side. I really wished I could help him, and not just because he was fine, but because he sounded so sincere. But the decision wasn’t mine to make. It all came down to algorithms and banking rules. I was powerless.
“Mr. Peterson, I wish I could tell you the loan is yours, but I can’t. I can’t change the bank’s decision.”
He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “Then why are you here?”
I frowned slightly. “What?”
“If you can’t help someone like me who’s trying to get ahead in life, someone whose plight you should understand, then why are you working here? Does it make you feel good to sit in this office in your expensive clothes and look down on me, sister?”
I chuckled lightly. “Wow, and here I was thinking you’d be different and not try to play the race card with me like every other tattooed black man who waltzes through my office door. Look, I don’t owe you an explanation, but I work here because I need a job just like everyone else who works here. I work here because it’s a good job and I’m good at it, but there are rules, Mr. Peterson. Rules and criteria for awarding loans that were set in place before I was hired here seven years ago, and the fact that you and I both happen to be black doesn’t change the rules, and since my name is Denis
e Buhari and not Denise Union Central, I cannot change the rules. Nor will I bend them and jeopardize my livelihood for a stranger who happens to be brown-skinned.”
I stood from my desk and walked over to the door, snatching it open. “Now, you have a nice day.”
He stood, shaking his head. He stopped in the doorway and faced me. “I hope you wake up, sister. I really do.”
He left, and I slammed the door shut before reclaiming my seat behind my desk and mumbling, “Asshole,” to myself.
*****
“How’s Atlanta?” I asked, clutching my cell phone in one hand as I rifled through my mother’s huge deep freezer with the other. She’d taken to hiding her sweet potato pies from me, probably because I had a bad habit of stealing them. I was a stress-eater, but shit, with my life, who could blame me?
“It’s really cool so far. They put us up in a nice hotel for the duration of Nyles’ run at the club,” my friend, Trevia, said.
“So, you’ll be there for another couple of weeks?”
“Yeah. I miss Texas, but I love being here with my husband.”
I sighed. “Once upon a time I was the only one of us who was married; now, I’m the only single one. Shit, my life is pathetic.”
“No, it’s not. You have a nice apartment, a car, a great job, and you’ve really cleaned your credit up. You have a good life, Denise.”
“A good life where all I attract is shitheads. Kevin, Christian, a few nameless, faceless booty calls. And I’m tired of my job. I’m tired of folks going off on me when they can’t get a loan.”
“Well, you’ve been there a long time. Maybe it’s time for a change?”
I finally found a pie at the bottom of the freezer, wrapped in foil and enclosed in a Ziploc Baggie. I smiled. “It’s time for something. I’m tired of sleeping alone, Trevia. I’m tired of waking up alone and warming up my own car and paying all these damn bills. Kevin was a piece of shit, but at least he kept me warm at night.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But I know there’s someone out there for you, someone who’ll treat you right.”
As I exited my mother’s house and locked her kitchen door, I said, “I hope so.”
2
I skipped work on Tuesday. I just couldn’t bring myself to go in, so I called in sick and stayed in bed most of the day. When I finally got up around two in the afternoon, I called my semi-ex, Christian. I say semi because we never officially became a couple. We clicked and had fun talking for hours, and after I opened the door, we had a pretty good sexual connection, but he broke things off after only a few months because he said he still had feelings for some ex of his. Despite the fact that I kicked his ass when he cut me off, we still talked and screwed from time to time. My two best friends in the world, Greer and Trevia, didn’t know about our little arrangement, because to be honest, I was a little ashamed of myself, but hell, I had needs.
He answered his cell phone with, “Hey, I was just thinking about you; what’s up?”
“Nothing but being horny.”
He chuckled. “Horny at work?”
“I’m off. What are you doing?”
“I’m in Dallas at a car auction. Was gonna call you and see if you wanted to grab dinner, but I see you have something better in mind.”
“Yeah...so when are you gonna be done there? I’ll even cook dinner for you.”
“Dinner, too? Expect me at five on the dot. Am I spending the night?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
*****
My legs were on his shoulders, and I was folded beneath him as he thrusted while kissing me hungrily. I rubbed his bald head and moaned loudly as he slid in and out of my flooded core.
“’Nise...’Nise!” he shouted against my mouth. “Damn, girl!”
I caught the side of his neck with my teeth and bit down, causing him to yell my name again. He liked for me to hurt him. He never admitted it to me outright, but I could tell from his reaction when I bit him or clawed his back. He loved that crap. And since I was in such a frustrating place in life, I liked being aggressive with him. It was kind of therapeutic. So, we both benefitted from this situationship.
I climaxed first, squeezing his nipples hard in the process. Then it was his turn, and he screamed so loud I was afraid one of my neighbors would call the cops. A few minutes later, he grabbed me and pulled me closer to him, whispering into the darkness, “I’m sorry, Denise.”
“For what?” I asked, as I snuggled into the warmth of his long body.
“Breaking up with you. I was confused about my feelings then.”
I was silent for a few moments before saying, “So you’re sure of your feelings now?”
“Yeah. I know what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“You. I know we’ve been doing this booty-call thing, but I want you back as my woman.”
“For how long this time?” I asked.
“Damn...okay. I can understand why you’d ask that, but I want you to believe me when I say I’m serious about you, about us. I wanna be with you, ’Nise. I really do, for as long as you’ll have me.”
“You want a future with me?”
“Yes. I could see us married one day.”
I smiled.
“Does that smile mean yes?”
I peered up at him and lifted my head from his chest. I was so tired of being alone, and Christian was a good catch—tall, handsome, a successful business owner, and kind to me until he dumped me. But I had to get something clear with him. “You hurt me. You know that?”
“I do...” he said softly, “and I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you again.”
“So you’re over Serena or whatever her name is? You’re sure?”
“I was sure I was over her when you kicked my ass. I realized how much I cared about you then.”
“Look, I’m sorry about that. I have this temper that I probably should get help for...”
“I like the fight in you, Denise.”
“Christian, do you like it when I hurt you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Answer me honestly, and I’ll think seriously about being your woman again.”
“In that case. I fuckin’ love it.”
I rose from his chest and straddled him, reached down and slapped him across the cheek. Almost instantly, I felt his manhood rise. Shit, we both needed help.
3
“So, you and Christian have been together this whole time?” Greer asked.
I sighed into the phone. “No...not really. We’ve just been hooking up pretty regularly.”
“For how long?”
“A while...since right after we broke up, actually.”
“So wait, y’all started hooking up right after you beat him up? Girl, did you beat his ass into submission?” She started laughing before she could get her entire statement out good.
“Shit, I think I did,” I said, laughing, too.
“Well, I’m happy for you, ’Nise. I know you’ve been feeling neglected since Trevia got married.”
“You abandoned me, too!”
“No one abandoned you, ’Nise. I just got married and had a baby.”
“And you moved. You and Trevia left me here in Dallas alone,” I whined.
“First of all, Trevia still has a house in Dallas. Second of all, how many times have I asked you to move to Houston? You have a good employment record, so I know you’ll find a job. Hell, Derek would hire you in a heartbeat. Plus, Christian is here. You would be closer to him.”
“I know, but my mom is here and I don’t wanna leave her.”
“’Nise, who are you tryna fool? You know that I know that you can’t stand to be in the same room with your mom for more than ten seconds. What are you afraid of?”
I leaned back against my couch. “Starting over…and failing.”
“But, Denise, look at how you had to start over after you left Kevin. You ended up on your feet, and you’re doing great now!”
; “With a lot of help. Thank you again for that.”
“Girl, it was my pleasure. You think it wasn’t hard for me to leave my life behind and start a new one with Derek? Well, it was. But it was worth it, and we have a wonderful life together. I don’t regret making the change. It was what I needed even though I had no idea at the time. I think a change is what you need, too. Sometimes the things we fear are the things we need.”
I held the phone, trying to let her words sink in.
“Just food for thought,” she added
I could hear my goddaughter, little Kennedy, crying in the background, so I said, “Okay, hey…go get my sugar booger. I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right. Think about what I said.”
“I will.”
“And know that I’ll always have your back. Trevia, too.”
“I know.”
4
I met Kevin Buhari at a college graduation celebration my mom organized for me. He came with some random cousin of mine that I knew by name only. The celebration was held in my mom’s backyard, and I was standing next to the grill pestering my mother’s boyfriend, a married man she’d been dating since I was about twelve but only referred to as “Friend”, about when the ribs would be done. If Friend couldn’t do anything else, he could grill some meat. Anyway, when Kevin stepped into the backyard, it was like time stood still. He was the product of the union of Jerline Buhari, an African American woman, and Kalu Buhari, a Nigerian immigrant with smooth, dark-brown skin. And when he smiled? Lord have mercy! Dark lips, bleached white teeth. He was gorgeous, the handsomest man I had ever seen. After my cousin introduced us, we spent the rest of the party talking. Three years later, we were married. Three years after that, I left him. And with my failed marriage went my credit. Kevin Buhari annihilated my 750 credit score by opening accounts and credit cards in my name, charging them up, and not even attempting to pay them—all without my knowledge or consent. When I finally got wind of what he was up to, I tore his ass up with my hands and took a bat to the precious Camaro he’d had since high school. I went after him with the bat, too, but his long-legged ass outran me. Not that I stood a chance since I was over a foot shorter than his six feet, two inches. And then I divorced him and spent years trying to repair my credit.
Real Love Page 1