Did I mention that we’re doing Wine with Writers again this year? Yup. And this time it’ll be in Atlanta where my girls Jacinta Howard and Rae Lamar call home. Not only am I and Lily Java super-excited to hang out with them on their home-turf, we’re going to be welcoming two more authors to the conversation: DL White and Tasha L. Harrison.
Both are fairly new discoveries for me, but such amazing writers, I’m surprised I didn’t run across their work sooner. And they’re both especially suited for the conversation we’re going to be having, about ‘Identity and Individuality: A Movement toward Issue-Based Black Women’s Fiction’. What does that even mean? It means that it seems like Black women’s fiction is making more of a statement lately. We’re telling great stories but also exposing important issues and tackling them through our characters. It means, we want to entertain, but increasingly, we want to inform, and inquire. It means that our identities (and by extension, those of our characters) have become more symbolic of something larger.
As always, Wine with Writers is not meant to be a venue for us to simply hawk books, give you 3 minutes of light conversation and move you along to make room for the next person. It’s about getting to the real, like you do with your girlfriends, over a bottle of wine and with some sweet and savory treats nearby. It’s small, it’s intimate and it gives you the time to get into our heads, and let us get into yours.
It’s going to be at Windmill Arts Center, 2823 Church Street, Atlanta GA 30344 on March 10, 2018 at 5 pm. If it sounds like your vibe, come join us by RSVPing here.
Today though, I am super-excited to introduce you–if you don’t already know her–to one of this year’s Wine with Writers’ featured authors, Tasha L. Harrison. We’re already BFFs in my head because she’s hella-funny, and her writing just shines. But here’s a peek into her mind. And her, ahm, purse.
So Tasha, what is in your purse?
First things first, it’s not really a purse. I feel like it’s sheer size and weight have pushed beyond the purse description into bag territory because it’s a big ole bag. In my big ole bag, I carry my travelers notebook which usually has about three composition size books in it; a pencil bag with more pens, pencils, or markers than anyone could ever need or use in one day; my deck of tarot cards and sometimes a small deck of affirmation cards I like to keep on me; a bag of healing crystals—right now it’s carnelian, selenite, and rose quartz; my kindle because I don’t like reading on my iPhone; and a million things of chapstick that always seem to get lost in the bottom of my bag.
And what’s your favorite book you’ve written?
I don’t really have a favorite, but the one I had the most fun writing was Having it Both Ways, the third book in The Lust Diaries. It was just fun to write.
Are you spring, summer, fall, or winter?
I grew up in South Jersey, and I’ve lived in various cities in the Northeast most of my life. Summers always seemed so precious and tragically short.
August is also Birthday month. Me and my sons (fur baby included) are all Leos, and we usually spend it on the beach.
Mostly I love summer because I’m a sun worshipper. I tend to spend a majority of my summer evenings and weekends reading or writing on my back deck, slathered in sunblock, with a beer in hand, and the sun on my face.
And, weird as this sounds … if you were a city, which city would you choose to be and why?
New Orleans. It’s dark, dangerous, dirty, fun, loud, and it’s perfectly okay to be slightly tipsy most of the day. In fact, it’s encouraged. At any moment a band can start playing, and people will be dancing in the streets. Everyone is a weirdo, and no one cares. NOLA feels like the dark, gooey center of my soul.
Let’s say you could choose your age forever, what age would you choose, and why?
I turn forty this year, and I wouldn’t mind holding here. I feel young enough to do things but wise enough not to let those things get me arrested.
What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?
Hands down being a soldier in the United States Army. It was both the best and the worst job. The day to day stuff was tedious and dealing with people who wore their rank and ego on the same sleeve was mentally exhausting. However, it did offer me an opportunity to travel and experience a diverse group of people from all parts of the US. I also learned to respect weapons and qualified on quite a few. Handy skill to have.
What technology from science fiction do you wish existed?
That thing from Matrix where they could download information into a brain. There is so much I want to learn and know. Having a quick way to download it would be awesome.
You write relationships really well, so tell us: what’s the most crucial thing for a healthy relationship?
Definitely communication. If you can’t communicate effectively, all of your relationships will suffer.
Now here’s a touchy one. What do a lot of parents do that screws up their kid?
I think that parents spend a ton of time trying to make their kid into a mini version of themselves versus actually getting to know the kid and letting them be and become whoever they are.
When you write relationships, you have a tendency to analyze and think about them a lot. And by definition, you probably also think a lot about people who don’t have them. Why are there so many people who are lonely? Why is it so hard for people to make real connections when almost everyone wants to make real connections?
It’s really easy to blame this epidemic level of loneliness on technology, but I think it’s a large part of it. It’s definitely the reason why people have a difficult time making real connections. Words or a picture on a screen will never equal the real intensity of sitting across from someone and experiencing them in real time, but getting to the place where you can trust folks enough to let them in that way has become increasingly more difficult. We burrow in our hidey-holes and play on a tippy-taps (iPhone, computer, whatever) and create what feels like real relationships. You have to put in real effort to bring that relationship offline and into real life. Sadly, most people either don’t want to make that effort or have given up on trying.
As someone who is fulfilling some of their writing dream, what do you think are the most common roadblocks that stop people from achieving their dreams?
Mindset. A lot of what kept me from pursuing my dreams was rooted in an ideal image of the person I thought I was supposed to be. Once I changed my mindset and decided that an idea of perceived perfection was less important than being fulfilled and happy, things changed and pursuing my dreams became easier.
And this one is just for laughs: if you suddenly found out that your internal monologue for the last week was actually audible, how screwed would you be?
Completely and utterly screwed. I’ve had some thoughts this week about myself AND others that should remain in the brain vault.
You’re doing Wine with Writers. So … obligatory question. What’s the best wine pairing for your new release The Truth of Things?
Let’s check out a sample!
Walking through the doors of Camden County Police Department wasn’t something I ever saw myself doing voluntarily. Memories of the last time I was here flooded me as I stepped across the threshold of the precinct. I shook my head, pushing away those thoughts and the feelings attached to them and walked right up to the Sergeant’s desk.
“One second, honey.” The cop behind the desk said, holding up one finger to silence me as he continued to scribble in his notebook. I gritted my teeth.
Do not show your ass in this police station.
After what seemed like an eternity, the officer lifted his head. Within seconds his countenance went from rude and dismissive to leering. “What was it you needed, beautiful?”
“I want to file a complaint.”
His mouth twisted into a sour expression. “For what?”
“Property damage. I was detained by a couple of your officers last night and one of them damaged my lens. I’m a photojournalist, and I need that lens for work.”
The desk sergeant sighed and reached under his desktop. “Fill out this paperwork, and someone will contact you about reimbursement.”
No-fucking-body was reimbursing me for the damage to this lens. I mentally assessed the balance of my credit cards and tried to figure out if I could replace it as I filled out the complaint form.
When I was done, I brought the clipboard and my form back to the desk. “Can you give me some info on two men arrested last night?”
“What are their names?”
“Two guys with the first names Emiliano and Khalid.”
“Do you know the names of the arresting officers?”
“Raymond and Stevenson.”
The desk sergeant entered the names into his computer and took some time to scroll through the records. “Looks like Emiliano Perez was released this morning. Khalid Williamson is still in custody.”
“Okay, thanks.” I pushed away from the desk and turned to leave…
And slammed right into a sweaty, panting Officer Levi Raymond.
My eyes didn’t know where to land first. His gorgeous face, dark brows, thick dark lashes. He wore a stretched out singlet top which was basically a rag meant to strategically cover his nipples. Remnants of last night’s dream flickered through my mind as I watched a droplet of sweat trickle down his chest, a chest covered in curling, wet hair. Slightly damp sweatpants hung low on his hip bones revealing those two lines on either side of his abdomen that said hey, look down here! Iliac furrows, that’s what they were called and, holy shit, was that the imprint of his—
“Ms. Greene? Is everything all right?”
I managed to drag my eyes away from his crotch and back to his face.
“Those guys didn’t come after you did they?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned. “Did something happen?”
I shook my head, eyes tracking a droplet of sweat from his neck to his chest. “No. No…I…” My mouth was suddenly very dry…Can I please lick that droplet of sweat off of your chest? “Your partner broke my camera lens,” I blurted. “Came in to file a complaint.”
His brow furrowed. “Okay. I’m sorry to hear that your property was damaged. I’m sure the precinct will take care of it.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure they will,” I said rolling my eyes, annoyance about my damaged property overriding my sudden lust-triggered, bashfulness.
He stared at me a moment longer. “Is there something else you need? Are you confused about something?”
“Excuse me? Confused? No, absolutely not.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.” He gave me an uneasy smile.
“Well, I did want to thank you for walking me home.”
Wait. No. That’s not what I meant to say at all.
“Really? You didn’t seem all that grateful last night.”
“Yes, really. I’m not usually that rude. Well, no. That’s a lie. I am usually that rude, but maybe I was a little too harsh—”
“Miss Greene…it’s fine.”
“Call me Ava.”
“Ava,” he said, his voice filled with the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You can call me Levi.”
And suddenly I was thinking about how that voice would sound in a much lower, much more secretive tone.
“But I did overstep. I apologized.”
“No, it wasn’t—you didn’t overstep. I still should’ve been more gracious.”
“Okay, how about this. How about you treat me to a cup of coffee?”
“Buy me a cup of coffee, and all is forgiven,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.
“I…but I’m on my way to work.”
“So I’ll take a raincheck.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them just a bit lower and short-circuiting my brain.
“Is that appropriate?” I asked.
And more importantly was this what I wanted? When I walked into the police station, I meant to file a complaint for damage done to my camera lens and maybe check on Emiliano. But Levi, standing in front of me all sweaty and hairy and manly in all the right ways, demanded more of my attention. And he smelled so good. How could he be so sweaty and smell so good? God, he smelled like something I wanted to hold in my mouth, roll over my tongue, and savor for a good long time.
Buy the book on Amazon:
The Truth of Things/ http://amzn.to/2GJ4vJL
Promises, Promises …
I don’t know why you guys put up with me. I really don’t. All of this year, I’ve been thinking about, and planning to write the final book that closes out the stories of what some of you call the ‘Commitment crew’, the three core couples, Shawn and Riley, Brendan and Tracy, Chris and Robyn; and, though most of you might balk at them being included … Jayson and Keisha.
Having written their stories over the past five years (can you believe it?) I feel like I know them all inside and out, and I overestimated my ability to crank out their final words over a short period of time. Writing, though–at least for me–does not work like that. While I’ve been courting those couples, others have been coming to me, and so I wrote those. And the time and emotion dedicated to those stories, unfortunately, took me out of the headspace to complete the Commitment story this year.
So, it is with apologies and regret, that I have to let you know that that book, titled ‘Four’ will not be coming in 2017. I could make many more excuses, but I won’t … I’ll just say that sometimes you have to let it come when it comes, and not force it. Especially when you want it to be good; especially when you have real affection for the characters, as I do.
I won’t promise you a date (another bad habit of mine), but just say that when they show up, I’ll write the rest of their stories. In the meantime, even though we have a few weeks to go, I want to thank you for your unwavering support in 2017. I tried new things, and you all cheered me on. You offered me constructive feedback, and challenged me to write new things, and do better with some of the old things.
I’m still writing, and may even have one last project to close out the year if time permits and the characters speak. But even if I don’t, please know that everything I write, I dedicate to you.
Love & Light,
THE SHORTS Series, continues with Book 4, ‘TABLE FOR TWO’
After taking a high-profile position, Rand Reese’s visibility is once again on the rise; but returning to the public eye also means revisiting some of the uglier parts of his past. That past has Dani questioning whether anyone can make a relationship work under the glare of fame and notoriety. Even two people committed to making it work.
From ‘TABLE FOR TWO’:
People, places, and things.
The first time I ever heard that refrain, was from my boy, DaQuan. He was my teammate, and maybe the closest friend I had at the time. Quan was with me on that infamous night in Las Vegas when I wound up pulling out my dick and stopping traffic to relieve myself in the middle of Fremont.
In the clip from TMZ, Quan was right there, laughing, egging me on at first, and then dragging me away when, in the distance, we hear the approaching wail of sirens.
Two weeks after that, Quan was avoiding me like the plague, and when I stepped to him about it, he gave it to me straight.
‘My wife ain’t nothin’ like yours, Rocket,’ he said. ‘She saw that tape and dang near lost her mind. Says I need to stay away from people, places and things that lead to that kind of shit. Or she will leave me. And she don’ play.’
At the time, I focused only on that first part: ‘my wife ain’t nothin’ like yours’.
And I was pissed at Quan for calling out what was I desperately trying to distract myself from—the fact that my marriage wasn’t a conventional marriage. Some people—me included—might say it wasn’t a marriage at all. I didn’t focus on the fact that I, Quan’s best friend, had been labeled by his wife as one of the people in his life who would lead him into self-destructive behavior.
Quan would use those words again over the year following. Whenever I would try to entice him to come to the club, to hook up with some highly-motivated groupies buzzing around us in a bar, or some other ill-advised mess, he would grin, shake his head and say, ‘Nah, man. People, places and things.’
When my wife died, Quan was the only one of my teammates, only one of my so-called friends who kept calling, over and over, and over again. Even though I never took those calls. He hollered at least once a week, up to eighteen months after Faith died. I heard he moved back to Alabama and runs a football camp or something like that now.
Anyway, I’m thinking about Quan now, as I mill around in the foyer that leads into the colossally huge house of one of the LA team’s marquee players, a wide receiver named Chris Spencer. Spencer is as cocky as they come. He greeted me at the front door as soon as I arrived, with a woman on either side of him, and dressed in a black velour robe, Fila sandals and a tight boxer-style swimsuit.
“C’mon through, Rocket,” he said, a cigar between his teeth.
I almost laughed, he’s such a cliché. Not even thirty yet, thinking he’s king of the world because he can induce pretty girls with barely a high school education who don’t bring much to the table as far as native intelligence, to come sit by his pool, drink his booze and blow his friends.
I shouldn’t be so judgmental, because I used to be Chris Spencer. Hey, we all gotta travel our own journey, right? But this kid, if my read of his stats is right, will have a much shorter journey in the League than he realizes.
So, I went through to the back, grabbed a glass that was handed to me by a passing server, and looked around. And it was basically what I expected. Lots of guys, but lots more women, playing the kinds of games in the pool that we used to play back in high school. Except with a lot of alcohol to loosen things up. I knew the scene so well, I may as well have choreographed it. After nodding my acknowledgment to a few folks, I turned and went back inside and to the foyer, where I am now.
As usual, the women fell into three categories, the Young and Dumb ones who were so doggone happy to be at a pool party at the home of an NFL player, they were allowing liberties—ass-groping, nipple-tweaking—that never led anyplace good, while they squealed and ran around pretending it was all in good fun. Four out of five of those women will wind up naked under some dude who is too drunk to truly please them, or fending off the attentions of some second-string low-rate player who’s only here to get Chris Spencer’s leftovers.
Then there were the Long Gamers. Those were the women who remained a little more aloof, choosing to sit in conversation with one particular dude rather than playing the entire field. Those chicks were older, definitely north of twenty-five, and coming up on the dreaded age of twenty-nine, around which time they either needed some baller to wife her, or knock her up; but preferably both. Otherwise, damn, she might have to find herself a better job than the one she has working in that high-end boutique on Rodeo Drive. Those women aren’t running around half-naked, but sitting on a lounger in a casually elegant cover-up, legs demurely crossed, sipping champagne.
And finally, there were the Old Heads. Not old at all, they were my age-group, thirty to thirty-three, or so. Most of those women were standing here with me in the foyer, drinking something with very little alcohol, like a white wine spritzer or something like that. They had arrived—and intended to remain—fully-clothed in maxi- or sundresses, even though they knew it was a pool party.
Not only were they not trying to compete with the Young and Dumb chicks with the tight, supple, barely-out-of-high-school bodies, but they had been there and done that. No longer too interested in scoring a baller, they were here for men like me—executives and sports personalities who had likely done all their share of running around and were looking for a quieter life, with a wife who “still looks damn good” and has learned to conduct herself with a little more poise than the chicks outside shrieking by the pool.
Yeah, so I’m standing here, rum and Coke in hand, bored out of my mind and already wondering how soon I can leave because I know this scene way too well. But there’s another part of me that feels anxious, like a former crackhead wandering into the “bad” part of town where they know they can score a hit way too easily.
I’m not looking to score anything, other than brownie points with my new ESPN bosses, two of whom are here, valiantly trying to network with players who only have pussy and drinking on the brain. But we’re all in town for the ESPYs, which is like the prom for the network. Lots of the suits who spend most of the year in Bristol or New York only ever get to meet the stars who are their bread-and-butter at this time of year. And so, some of them are starstruck and will be hanging around for a while.
Reaching into the pocket of my lightweight blazer, I pull out my phone and look at the face.
Nothing from Dani.
“Shit,” I mutter.
She has one last session before she can make it to the airport to join me out here, and I asked her to text me when she was done, so I’d know she would make the flight.
I warned her she would be cutting it close, but she insisted she wouldn’t, because she would be “rigid” with her client about ending on time. Dani is never rigid about anything, so I knew that was BS. She is like putty in people’s hands. Her pain-in-the-ass so-called best friend who walks all over her and she lets it happen, Little Rocket who can get her to do his bidding with even the hint of a pout, and … yeah, me too. But for obvious reasons, I don’t mind as much when she spoils, or gives in to me.
“Rocket Reese,” a voice says, as I look up. “I can’t believe it.”
My eyes fall on a woman in a form-fitting but tasteful, pink summer dress that has a print with little white blossoms all over it. She is a dark-haired Latina, very pretty, with a long, asymmetrical bob that brushes one shoulder. She looks like a sexy Sunday School teacher, who has learned to harness the sexiness. But this is no Sunday School teacher.
I should have known as soon as I set foot in Chris Spencer’s house. People, places, and things.
THE SHORTS Series, continues with Book 3, ‘JUST LUNCH’, coming October 6th. This one is the continuation of the story started in ‘COFFEE DATE’ !
About the novella:
Randall “The Rocket” Reese is beginning to reclaim his life, both professionally and personally, with a new outlook, and a new woman in his life.
But the lure of old habits from his past, and new possibilities in hers are presenting them with challenges that might prove insurmountable for a relationship that started one serendipitous afternoon with a completely inconsequential coffee date.
From ‘JUST LUNCH’:
I’m stretching with one knee bent and the other leg extended behind me, when I look up and see him again. We run on the same schedule almost every morning. I get to the track around ten, and he’s generally already there and stretching, or comes shortly after I do.
He is tall and chocolate-brown, with a wiry but well-muscled frame. I notice him not only because he is often here at the same time as me, but because he has amazing calves. They are the calves of an Olympic sprinter. As he walks up, to begin stretching next to me at the two-foot high wall that surrounds the track, I am actually in the process of letting my eyes drift downward to his calves yet again when he speaks.
“You again, huh?”
I shrug. “Me again. It sucks, right?”
“What does?” He takes off a fleece pullover and tosses it so that it’s draped over the wall.
“When you’re about to have a silent, meditative run, and some stranger wanders up and ruins it?”
He laughs at that, and extends a hand. “I’m Eric,” he says as I take it. “And yeah, it does suck. Unless the stranger is a pretty woman in fluorescent green shorts and a bright yellow tank top. And matching sneakers …” His eyes fall to my feet. “Very impressive how you got all that to … line up like that, color-wise, by the way.”
I know he’s basically making fun of these obvious markers that I’m a newbie runner.
I nod solemnly. “It wasn’t easy.”
“In fact, it was quite a project. I went to like, four stores before I found exactly the right shade of yellow.”
Then we are both laughing and I have a guilty jolt of recognition.
This is what they call “flirtatious banter.” And I am having it with someone other than Rand. It feels treacherous, because flirtation of any kind is Rand’s and my thing. It is peppered throughout every conversation we have, and carries just a hint of the sex we are about to have, have just had, or—if we’re on the phone—sex we are thinking about having.
Even the most mundane exchanges between us are like that. And for some reason, I thought it was something that could only happen with him. Our irrational chemistry carries over into almost constant teasing and flirting that I thought of as unique, because it hadn’t happened to me with another person before.
But this man, this Eric, is showing me otherwise, and I resent him for it.
I think I may have mentioned a long, long, long time ago that I have a little trouble connecting to books written in the first person. But then I read a few authors, who made me rethink that prejudice. And this summer, I experimented a little with writing in the first person myself, in my ’30 DAYS, 30 STORIES’ vignettes. The challenge as I see it, is making the voice of each character not only interesting , but distinct. And since I love a challenge when it comes to writing, I thought I’d give it a shot in this novella, set to go live on Sept. 15. It’s about remaking and re- imagining your life, and how sometimes, you can do it on your own, but at other times, you just might need a little push. I hope you enjoy!
THE SHORTS Series, continues with Book 2, ‘COFFEE DATE’, coming September 15th!
About the novella:
You can find out a lot about yourself during the course of a single day.
On the anniversary of the most tragic event of his life, Randall “The Rocket” Reese must face down paparazzi outside his house, a big sister who won’t stay out of his personal life, and a coffee date with an “old classmate” from high school whom he barely remembers.
His plan is to wallow in solitude, but Fate has plans of its own.
I’ve been too lazy to do much promotion, but ‘THE TAKEDOWN’ is here! I barely made it under the wire for the promised August release date. It came out on the 31st. (I know. Smh.) But I did it. It was a difficult book to write in some ways, mostly because I wanted to explore lots of people, and lots of dimensions of love. Not just romantic love, but many of the other kinds as well. Did you know there are SEVEN types?
- Eros: Love of the body. Eros was the Greek God of love and sexual desire. …
- Philia: Love of the mind. Also know as brotherly love, Philia represents the sincere and platonic love. …
- Ludus: Playful love. …
- Pragma: Longstanding love. …
- Agape: Love of the soul. …
- Philautia: Love of the self. …
- Storge: Love of the child.
‘The TAKEDOWN’ helped me crystallize what and how I want to write in the future, and by reference to those types of love, helped me think about how the characters–not just in this book, but also in the ones I intend to write–relate to each other.
Here’s a quick sample, but what I really want is for you to buy or borrow it, read the whole thing and tell me what you thought. Send me a note, write a review, post on my Facebook wall, whatever works for you. But talk to me. I love hearing from you.
SAMPLE … ER, TUESDAY
From, ‘The Takedown’
MADISON FLIPPED HER BANGS AWAY from her face, and Jamal grinned as she blushed under his scrutiny. Reaching for her napkin, she unfurled it and spread it across her lap, then looked up at him again, smiling.
“You look beautiful, Madison Avenue,” Jamal said.
It was true. Madison had added a few pounds to her once-slender frame, and cut her hair even shorter than it had been when he’d last seen her almost a year ago. Now it wasn’t as severely straightened, and the pleasant waves, bobbing about her chin, softened her features.
She was also wearing a lot less makeup than she used to. Overall, she looked like a woman much more comfortable in her own skin. That, more than anything else, made her much more attractive.
“Thank you,” She blushed again, and glanced needlessly down at her lap.
“So, who’s the lucky dude? And why the hell did he send you to New York unaccompanied to meet with the likes of me?”
Madison laughed her delicate tinkle of a laugh.
“His name is Jake, and he’s an attorney, like us.” She laughed again, still sounding a little flustered, and was unable to look him directly in the eye. “And I don’t think he would have sent me here unaccompanied if he knew what a flirt you are.”
“Just me being me,” Jamal said. “And all that passes these lips is truth. You look damn good.”
Was he flirting? Jamal wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a habit, or maybe it was because Madison had always been so easily thrown off balance where he was concerned. Thinking back to the days they’d been together, Jamal remembered a woman who quivered, and was incredibly responsive when he touched her, whose breathy sighs had a way of keeping a brother ready for more.
But, better not to walk down that path on memory lane. This was probably exactly the kind of reminiscing Kayla feared when she found out about this little get-together in the first place.
“How’d you and Jake the Lawyer meet?”
“Through work,” Madison said. “I was pretty much a recluse when I moved back down there. Didn’t have any plans to date for a while, and then, poof. There he was, like magic.”
“Sometimes, that’s how it is, right? We plan, and God laughs.”
“That how it was for you?” Madison asked. She had reached for her menu and had taken on the tone of someone straining to sound casual.
Jamal had known that her curiosity would probably get the better of her sooner or later. But he had banked on it being ‘later’.
If he had a dime for every one of the women he used to kick it with who wanted to know what magic Kayla had worked, he would double his already considerable salary. The thing was, there was nothing he could tell them that would satisfy that curiosity. He wasn’t sure himself what happened. All he knew was that for as long as he could remember, he was his own safe harbor. Everyone’s friend and confidante, but with no one who could be those things for him.
In some ways, he didn’t just manage performers, he was a performer himself. Always on the move, always up for a good time. When he slept, it was with a bedmate almost as often as it was by himself. And yet, he never felt less than alone. Never lonely—he was too busy for that—but alone.
Makayla studied him with her warm, brown eyes, sometimes staring at him when she thought he wasn’t aware of it. And Jamal could tell she wanted to know not just the face he showed the world, but lay beneath. But unlike other women, unlike Madison, she didn’t force it, she just let it happen. Before he knew it, she was behind the walls.
“Didn’t know what hit me,” Jamal said to Madison, shrugging. It was a cliché, and one he hoped would shut down all talk of him and his woman. What he had with Kayla was the most private and sacred of spaces in his emotional world. And there was only room for two.
“I was surprised when Robyn told me who it was. I wondered whether … Why don’t I just come right out and ask.” Madison straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “Were you and she involved while we were?”
Jamal took a breath. “That’s a difficult question to answer.”
“Actually, it should be a very easy question to answer, I think,” Madison retorted. Her eyes still rested squarely on his.
“Is this where we ‘settle all family business’?” Jamal asked, taking a sip of his water.
A waiter hovered close by and Jamal shot him a quick look, shaking his head to indicate that they needed a little more time to make their selections.
Madison shrugged. “Whatever you’d like to call it. I just wondered,” she said. “Whether my memory of what a good guy you were is faulty or not.”
“I was never sleeping with you both at the same time,” Jamal said, trying to be as frank as he knew she needed him to be. “But when you left me with that proposition that time … that’s when she and I got closer. Nothing …sexual ever happened, until …”
Madison held up a hand. “I don’t need more detail than that. I just wondered, that’s all.” She shook her head and looked down at the menu again, seemingly embarrassed now about asking the question in the first place.
“Hey,” Jamal said. “Look at me.”
She raised her head.
“It was never anything about you that made us not work, Madison. We just …” It was his turn to shrug.
“If there was one thing you had to say, about why you and Makayla do work, what would it be?”
Jamal laughed. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”
“Can’t think of anything?” she teased.
He could think of several things.
“It wasn’t right away,” he admitted. “But after a while, whenever I was away from her, even if it was for a day, and then came back? The first thing I thought, the first thing I felt when I saw her was … home. That’s it. She was my home. She still is.”
From ‘KEEPING WILLOW’ by Jacinta Howard:
BACK THEN. DEVIN.
“Low Low, you gotta get up.”
Nothing. The lump in the bed didn’t move.
“Willow.” I touched her shoulder, partly because I couldn’t see her head. It was buried underneath my comforter.
“Baby, you gotta get up.” I shook her shoulder this time, and she finally stirred, blinking up at me sleepily. I smiled, even with tired eyes and her hair wrapped in up in a red sleep rag thing, she was gorgeous. Just stupid pretty. My gaze dropped to her full lips before meeting her eyes.
“It’s almost 3:30.”
She blinked heavily again. “Already? Shoot.”
The fact that she was wearing her nighttime hair tie meant she was serious as hell about that nap. “You’re gonna be late.”
I sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed, searching for my shoes. It was mid-afternoon but it’d been cloudy all day. The light trying to stretch its way through the window was muted, casting a soft blue-ish glow over the room because Low insisted on buying me blue curtains a couple of months ago.
“It adds dimension to the room,” she told me. I didn’t care about curtains but they did make the room look more relaxing, I couldn’t lie. Marvin Gaye was playing on my record player and I grinned because Low had finally really gotten into the warm sound of vinyl after fighting me about being “old school.”
She yawned and rolled onto her back and tucked her arm underneath her head, like she didn’t need to be at the airport in Dallas by 5:30 to catch her flight home.
“I have a little time. It only takes an hour and half to get to Dallas and my flight doesn’t leave until seven.”
I shook my head, eyeing my shoe underneath her backpack. Other than her bag in the floor, the room was clean and airy, because of Low. It was so comfortable, I felt like crawling into bed with her and crashing too.
“You’re pushing it,” I told her instead. “You still gotta get dressed and you know what an event that is.” She wasn’t wearing anything except my old red Hawks t-shirt. “I don’t want your dad thinking I’m the reason you missed your flight home.”
Willow sighed audibly when her phone buzzed on the bed next the pillow. She picked it up, squinted at the screen, and tossed it back onto the blue comforter.
“My mom,” she answered my unspoken question. “I just didn’t want to talk to her while I was over here.”
“What’s up with that?” I met her eyes, brow furrowed.
“She thinks I’m ‘playing house’ with you because I’m over here so much.”
“Since when did she say that?”
Willow shrugged, pulling off her hair thing and tossing it onto the bed. “The other week. She says she doesn’t know why they pay for me to live on campus when I really live over here.”
I bit the inside of lip, my gaze scanning the room. Willow’s books were on the small desk she insisted on getting for me. Her clothes took up practically half of my closet space. One of my dresser drawers now belonged to her and her soaps and girly whatnots were in the bathroom shower rack. But I liked it that way. I wanted her near, all the time.
We hadn’t spent a single day apart in months and I was kinda tripping because I really didn’t want her to leave now, even though I knew she needed to see her fam for the Thanksgiving holiday. She was flying in to Houston a little earlier though, since she’d be coming into Atlanta the day after Thanksgiving to be with me. Our new manager, Jay Little, had three shows lined up out there— Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Trav was still hesitant about buddy but these gigs proved he was ready to handle us, in my opinion. Plus, I was looking at what he was doing with another band out of Atlanta, Black Bottom. They were blowing up and had just brought him on as their manager a few months before.
Doing the gigs in Atlanta was big but I also wanted to check for my moms and Omar, see how they were doing. Moms finally landed a job, not where she wanted, but it was something at least, working in the cafeteria at Omar’s middle school. But the gap between unemployment and her finding work left them in a tight spot. And her punk ass landlord went up on her rent. I’d been sending money when I could but my paper was low too.
“Can you give Kennedy back her headphones for me?” I looked down at Willow, who yawned and stretched again. She worked the early shift at Aroma today, the coffee shop near campus where she started at the beginning of the semester.
“Where are they?”
“On your dresser somewhere I think. Or maybe in your truck?”
She twisted her lips, thinking. “You’re bad as Jersey, losing other people’s stuff.”
“They’re not lost!
“But you don’t know where they are.”
“They’re somewhere near here. I do know that.” She smiled, as I absently rubbed her calf, since she still hadn’t made a move to get up. “Oh my gosh, last night she was amazing, right?”
Kennedy joined the band as a singer at the beginning of the semester, when she moved to Tyler to stay with her grandma Pepper, Trav’s neighbor from the down the street. Kennedy changed everything when she joined Prototype. Zay elevated the band when he’d joined. But Kennedy completed it. She’d changed Travis too, because dude was in love with her on some “alter my entire existence” type shit. Buddy actually told me that the other day, and was dead ass serious.
“She’s next level. She’s startin’ to get why she’s dope, which is the key. You can’t just be good. You need to know what separates you from everyone else so that you can lean into it.”
Willow’s eyes were lowered when she looked at me and she tugged at the bottom hem of my t-shirt.
“I love it when you talk like that.”
“Like all…” she shrugged grinning. “Devin-y. I’m gonna get t-shirts made with your quotes.”
She bit her lip, still smiling at me. I knew that look in her eyes and I grinned, my groin tightening because that look, coming from Willow Elizabeth Harden, was better than any high I’d ever known.
“What’s up?” I asked, letting her pull me toward her by the hem of my shirt, wrapping me in her coconut scent.
“We have a few minutes,” she breathed, against my lips. She bit hers, then released it.
“Nah, we don’t, love.”
She nodded against my mouth, “We do,” she whispered, reaching and wrapping her arms around my neck, pressing her mouth against mine, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips, making me uncomfortably hard.
She pulled back suddenly, and in one quick motion, pulled her t-shirt over her head. Her eyes were still on me, her cheeks flushed because she was still brand new and getting used to her body, and to me looking at her body. But she liked it.
“We do,” she said again, as she kneeled on the bed in nothing but a pair of purple underwear. The afternoon light creeping through the blinds left a zigzag pattern on her belly that I traced with my fingertips. I bit my lip shaking my head as I took her in.
“You better look and see what time the next flight is.”
AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON!
And, as a bonus, check out the ‘Keeping Willow’ playlist on Spotify ❤
‘THE TAKEDOWN’ COMING AUGUST, 2017
When you’re riding high, there’s almost always someone looking for the chance at a takedown …
Newly-installed as President & CEO of the Scaife music empire, Jamal Turner is undeniably at the pinnacle of his career. And to sweeten the triumph, he has Makayla Hughes at his side—a woman whose wide-eyed wonder at their good fortune keeps his feet firmly planted on solid ground. In a profession that thrives on artifice, Makayla is the realest and most meaningful thing in his life.
Jamal’s biggest problem—and the only conflict in his relationship—is finding time to keep his commitment to participate in planning their wedding. Well … that’s almost their only conflict. The other, is Devin Parks, Makayla’s omnipresent best friend whose demands on her time and heart keep pulling her back when Jamal needs her to move forward.
But those may not be their only issues. Devin’s career-rise has attracted some unwanted attention, and unbeknownst to them both, so has Jamal and Makayla’s almost-too-perfect relationship. Someone, somewhere, is gunning for the new ‘It Couple’, and looking for the chance at a takedown.
From ‘The Takedown’:
“What’s the damage?” Jamal asked.
“The room is, well … it’s trashed, sir. It’s going to be out of commission for a least two weeks while we redo it,” the manager said.
Jamal grimaced and gritted his teeth to prevent himself from cursing aloud. The Mandarin Oriental Hotel was no cut-rate joint. Even the ‘cheap’ rooms ran about nine-hundred per night. The one that Kendrick had wrecked was far from cheap. In fact, it was a Premier Central Park View Suite that ran close to three-thousand per night. While Jamal was in the flower store with Makayla, waiting for her to pick some peonies or something, he’d returned a few phone calls; nothing too urgent, just the ones he needed to cross off his list so he could enjoy the rest of the Saturday afternoon uninterrupted.
And then the call came in from Gayle, his assistant, telling him he needed to call the Mandarin because Kendrick Cruise, one of his most valuable and lowest-maintenance artists was about to be arrested for disorderly conduct.
‘Kendrick?’ he’d echoed.
That didn’t even sound right. Kendrick was a smooth R&B crooner, who acted like he was the Black Frank Sinatra. Always soft-spoken, wearing a suit, and with impeccable manners.
‘Yes. I don’t know what happened, but I’ve been told he asked for you.’
‘Where’s Bryant?’ Jamal demanded.
His new A&D guy was supposed to be on top of stuff like this. And with him, their publicity folks, who lately had taken on the role of “fixers” as well.
‘He’s over there,’ Gayle said. ‘But Kendrick is insisting that it needs to be you.’
And with that, Jamal’s quiet Saturday with Makayla was done for. Now, he was in the private office of one of the Mandarin’s managers, trying to assess the scale of the problem.
“I can take you up there to show you what was done if you’d like.”
Jamal got the sense the man wanted to show it to him. Wanted to be there to witness the look of shock that would undoubtedly cross his features, and ensure that someone felt shame for what transpired, since Kendrick was both drunk, and unrepentant. And Jamal also knew he should go see it, if only because he needed to make sure the bill would be proportionate to the repairs that would be necessary.
“That’s okay. I’ll have my colleague go up with you in a few minutes and do a walkthrough. I just wanted to stop in and personally apologize for …”
“Yes, thank you, sir. But you do understand that we won’t be able to host Mr. Cruise here in the future.”
Jamal nodded. “I understand.”
A few feet behind him, Bryant stood, waiting, arms folded.
“And the costs, both for the repairs and the time the room will be out of commission will be considerable, I’m afraid,” the manager continued.
He was a small owlish-looking man, wearing an expensive suit, and a tasteful tie. The staff at the Mandarin were always difficult to distinguish from the guests. Everything about the place reeked of opulence.
“Yes, I understand.”
Jamal held out a hand, which the manager took briefly. Behind his obsequious smile was a little judgment, a little contempt. No doubt, he wished there was some way he could bar all entertainment types from the Mandarin.
Turning to nod at Bryant, Jamal took his leave. In the anteroom, Kendrick was slouched on a sofa, flanked by hotel security. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt untucked, his pants rumpled. He had played a show the evening before, and from the looks of him had neither changed, showered, nor slept since.
Without a word, Jamal jerked his head in the direction of the door, and Kendrick stood, following him out of the room his head bowed. The security guards followed them all the way out and through the lobby, and waited until Jamal’s car was brought around and Kendrick had gotten in. They had only driven a half a block before Jamal’s will broke.
“The hell is wrong with you?”
“Jay, man, you know I …”
“Shut up! You know how much all that shit you caused is gon’ cost? And I don’t even mean just the damage to the room. Everybody in that joint is gon’ expect a gratuity just to keep their mouth shut.”
“I know. I know. But …”
“Were you high?” Jamal demanded.
“No. You know I don’t mess with …”
“I can smell you, Kendrick. You been into somethin’.”
“Drinkin’. Just drinkin’. I swear.”
Glancing over at him in the passenger seat, Jamal saw that Kendrick was slumped over, face in his hands. And he did smell. In fact, he reeked—of perspiration, booze, and God knew what else.
“My wife, man. She’s leavin’ me. She found out about this trick I messed with in Miami, and …”
Jamal tuned the rest out.
Kendrick had been married for only about eight months. But that didn’t make any difference. Not in this business. The problem was what it always was in these situations. Some dudes like Kendrick, even though they were stars, maintained a tiny streak of normalcy in them. And that streak made some of them smart enough, when looking for a spouse not to choose some starstruck, gold-digging groupie, but a regular chick with a regular job. A woman who, against all the odds, loved him for who he was and not what he had.
But the traveling, the shows, the hordes of pushy and often beautiful women could test the will of most men. And most men failed the test. Miserably. And when they did, their “regular chick” wives were one of two types: the types who were willing to forgive the transgression as an occupational hazard and hope it never happened again; or the type who believed that the monogamy clause didn’t get suspended just because your husband was famous.
Apparently, Kendrick’s wife was of the latter variety.
“She had her lawyer come serve me the damn papers while I was in the hotel room, man!” Kendrick was sobbing now. And there was nothing more pathetic that listening to a grown man sob. “Here I am thinkin’ she about to come spend the night with me before I have to make it to Chicago and instead here come this nigga talkin’ ‘bout I been served! You know how that … I love that girl, man! I shoulda known when she missed the show! And that shit in Miami was just …”
“And so you trash the damn room, Kendrick?” Jamal hissed his teeth. “I wonder how your wife gon’ feel about you once she hear that. Her daddy’s what again? A preacher, right?”
At that, Kendrick’s head snapped upward and he looked at Jamal, his eyes desperate. “Fuck!” he said. “She never gon’ take me back now.”
Jamal shrugged. “Nor should she. ‘Cause you’re an idiot.”
“Jay, how you gon’ do me like that? You know …”
“Here’s what I know. I know I was about to spend the day with the woman who’s gon’ be my wife. And you know what else I know? Instead of spending the day with her, I’m with your stupid ass, fishin’ you out of some trouble you ain’t have no business gettin’ into in the first place. And …”
“But J …”
“Shut up. I’m not done. And listen to this real close right here … the next time you do some shit like you did today? Do. Not. Call. Me. This shit is not my job any longer. You feel me?”
“Oh so you too big for all this now, huh, Mr. CEO? Well fuck you, J.”
“Fuck you, too, Kendrick,” Jamal said affably. “Now where am I takin’ you? Because you damn sure ain’t comin’ home with me.”
~ANNOUNCING A NEW SERIES OF E-SHORTS~
It doesn’t matter how much we try to force it, not every story is a novel, or even a novella. So once in a while, just to satisfy the urge to see a narrative through, I write shorts. And sometimes I post them on Facebook, or this blog, because even if not a novel, I want you to read it.
So, for those stories–my short stories–I’ve decided to publish them anyway, and make them a series, which I’m calling (because I was feeling literal) ‘The Shorts’. About once a month or so, I’ll publish, on Amazon, short stories that will be about 20 pages or so, for free, or 99 cents. There’s something else about these stories that I want to share. It’s my little experiment, with writing differently, or writing different genres. And I warn you, it may not be everyone’s cup of tea. If these stories read differently than things I’ve written in the past, it’s because I’m trying something new on for size. This one, ‘Still’, the first one, was previously published as part of the anthology ‘Women: Withstanding All Anthology’, now no longer available in print. I’m re-releasing it as a standalone e-short, available on July 16, 2017. Part of this story was available on my Facebook page for free. I wrote it in a single sitting, and the writing of it felt natural, and enjoyable. I hope you enjoy it too.
In her life, there have only been three lovers. But Leslie doesn’t lament the meager number, she only truly mourns the second one. In her youthful arrogance, she turned him away, thinking there would be many more chances. Now, she lives two lives—one in the present, and another plagued by bittersweet memories of the past.
But maybe, even now, it might be possible to reconcile the two.
NEW RELEASE FROM CHICKI BROWN!
About the book:
A quiet bookworm, Tangela Holloway has always been content working at her an independent bookstore in the sleepy little town of Eufaula, Alabama. But lately, Tangie discovers that she’s bored and frustrated, especially since the man she’s been dating for two years seems to care more about his business than he does her. When Reese Turner rides into town on his Harley, Tangie’s heart feels like it’s beating for the first time. She not only sees the most exciting man she’s ever met, but also a chance to experience something other than backyard BBQs and fishing at the lake.
After ending a drama-filled relationship with a high-maintenance fashion model, Reese wants nothing more than to make a road trip to Florida with his motorcycle club. Never did he expect a quick stop at a small town bookstore would introduce him to a shy bookworm who makes him re-think his vow to remain single and unattached.
From ‘Born to be Wild’:
“Are they not used to you coming here with a man?”
“Other than the man I’ve been seeing, no.”
Ahh. It only made sense that such a smart and attractive woman would already be booed up. “How long have you been together, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Going on two years.” The way she avoided looking me in the eye put questions in my mind.
“So it’s serious then.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Her lips pressed together in a slight grimace, and then she shook her head. “We’ve been together a while, but there are no plans for the future on the table.”
The hint of annoyance in her voice made it clear there were issues in their relationship. I don’t know why I wanted to smile at the thought, but I kept my pleasure hidden. “I guess it means you two aren’t exclusive.”
“I guess you’re right.” A shadow of a smile crossed her face.
All I’d been expecting from this week was an enjoyable ride, seeing some of my buddies and maybe hooking up with a couple of the available women who showed up at these bike rallies. They made no bones about the fact that they were attracted to bikers, and they didn’t want any more than a few days of fun. At the end of the rally you kissed and said goodbye with no expectations or demands. Since my last serious relationship ended, a non-committal arrangement suited me just fine, so I didn’t comprehend my fascination with her subdued sexiness. I wanted to see her again, and I had good reason to.
“Does that mean you’ll be free to have dinner with me when I come back through to pick up the book?”
Her brown eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and she dabbed her full, bow-shaped lips with a napkin before she answered. “What day are you coming back? We have a nice restaurant here called the River City Grill. It’s a few doors down from my store. The food is excellent and the atmosphere is nice.”
“How’s three o’clock? If I leave Panama City Beach around noon, I should be pulling in around then.”
My groin tightened at the way her gaze took me in from across the table, but then she said, “This is first Sunday, and we have communion, so I’ll be a bit late getting out of church, but I’ll be home by one-forty-five at the latest.”
“Do you go to church every Sunday?”
“Uh huh. You don’t?” Her question didn’t sound judgmental, just curious.
“Haven’t been in a while.” The confession made me uncomfortable, which I didn’t understand.
“How long is a while? Weeks, months or years?”
“Years.” My confession made me feel inadequate. Funny, but it never bothered me before.
“Too bad. It always helps me deal with whatever I have to face during the week. You know, like when you jump a weak battery.”
“Interesting analogy. I guess I’ve gotten used to working on Sundays. I don’t build, demolish, paint, or dig up anything, but I reserve the day for paperwork.”
“Hey, you can’t work all the time. It’s not good for your mental state.”
“You’re probably right. My mind is constantly on the current project, and each one is time sensitive.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“When I buy a house, it’s important to get the house on the market as soon as possible. I’m losing money with every week that passes. The longer it takes, the more daily interest is mounting up on a property. The longest I hold on to a house is ninety days. If it hasn’t sold by then, I know there’s a problem.”
Tangela clasped her hands under her chin and leaned forward as though she was sincerely interested. “Like what?”
“The listing price could be too high or something has happened in the neighborhood to turn potential buyers off.”
“How long does it usually take you to sell?”
“Two or three weeks.”
“Seriously? Isn’t three weeks unusual?”
“Not when you buy a property in a good neighborhood and renovate it to be one of the best in the area. People are willing to pay for quality.”
“So you don’t actually do the work yourself then?”
“Some of it, but the majority is done by the construction and landscaping companies I subcontract.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you learn to flip houses? I know Tarek and Christina were realtors before they got into the house flipping business.”
She was really interested. “It’s a long, boring answer.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“Not at all. Okay. I got my degree from Texas A&M in construction management, and initially I went to work for a big commercial construction firm for a couple of years. It didn’t take long for me to realize I didn’t want to be the guy in a dress shirt and tie, walking around the job site with a clipboard. Actual involvement in the project is what I need.”
“You need to get your hands dirty,” she said with a smile.
“Right, and my degree covered planning, cost estimating, scheduling, supervision, building systems, scheduling, cost estimating, construction management, and business/labor relations.”
“So you knew you had what you needed to run your own company.”
The admiration in those pretty brown eyes as I spoke gave me a sense of pride I hadn’t felt in a long time. Many Atlanta women weren’t impressed. To them what I do for a living sounds like nothing but manual labor. Very unromantic. I wasn’t a lawyer or a doctor or a pro baller. I nodded and finished my salad.
Buy the book:
About the author:
Contemporary women’s fiction/romance author Chicki Brown has been featured twice in USAToday. She was the 2014 B.R.A.B. (Building Relationships Around Books) Inspirational Fiction Author and also the 2011 SORMAG (Shades of Romance Magazine) Author of the Year. Chicki was also a contributing author to the Gumbo for the Soul: Men of Honor (Special Cancer Awareness Edition).
A transplanted New Jersey native who lives in Atlanta, Georgia, Brown still misses the Jersey shore, the pizza and the hot dogs.
Nia Forrester, Beverly Jenkins, Iris Bolling, Lisa Kleypas, and J.R. Ward are among her favorite authors.
Connect with Chicki Online:
Amazon Central Author Page: http://amzn.to/l2kjXQ
From THE TAKEDOWN
coming August 2017
About the book:
Ryann Walker knows she’s a difficult woman; difficult enough that it would take a rare, and special breed of man to take her on permanently. Thankfully, she isn’t looking for that. What she does want is a baby. And after a rash decision made during a one-night stand, she just may be having one, with the very successful, good-looking, but completely wrong for her, Spencer Hall.
But once Spencer learns that he may become a father, Ryann just can’t shake him. He isn’t interested in being an absentee parent; and she isn’t interested in having a man hang around who is hell-bent on crawling into her heart, breaking down her defenses and unearthing all her secrets, including the ugliest one of all.
Available now, exclusively on Amazon.
About the book:
Lia Hill isn’t a model. But she’s pretending to be.
Just for a few days, and just because she stands a earn a ridiculous amount of money. The thing is, her mind-numbingly boring job as a receptionist at a modeling agency while she tries to sell her art isn’t exactly paying the bills in her crappy apartment, and she’s desperate for cash. So when the wealthy and handsome Blake Morgan contacts her agency looking for a girl who’s “not ostentatiously attractive” to accompany him to a family getaway, Lia leaps at the chance, sending her on the adventure of a lifetime with Blake, his sister, Nicolette and Kevin, his somewhat reserved, but super-hot “assistant.”
The Morgan clan is young, beautiful, loaded and tons of unexpected fun. So what’s the worst that could happen?
Available now on Amazon.
YOUNG, RICH & BLACK: AN AFTERWARDS NOVELLA
About the book:
When Chris “Deuce” Scaife, Jr. and the campus revolutionary, Zora Diallo have an unexpected and powerful encounter just before winter break, no one could have been more surprised than they were. While they’re home for the holiday, what started as a temporary fling continues and strengthens. But will their new bond survive their return to campus?
Back at school, Deuce’s reputation as a wealthy and directionless player, and Zora’s as a young-woman-to-watch mean that their friends, priorities and maybe even their values might be sharply at odds. Can the power of their newfound passion for each other withstand their differences? Zora is looking to change the world, but Deuce is just enjoying being young, rich and Black. And ultimately, maybe the pull of their divergent paths will be stronger than the pull toward each other …
Available now on Amazon.