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Authors: Mary B. Morrison

He's Just A Friend

BOOK: He's Just A Friend
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He's Just A Friend
Mary B. Morrison
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Dedicated to all my children. When each of you
are ready, love yourself first and choose
your friends carefully.
I love you
Jesse Bernard Byrd, Jr., my son
Rachelle Isadora Davis, my niece
Lauren Nicole Davis, my niece
Angela Dionne Davis, my niece
Delisia Noel, my niece
Jo Vanté Morrison, my niece
Janard “The Preacher” Morrison, my nephew
Roland Morrison, my nephew
Christina Morrison, my niece
Omar Noel, my nephew and godson
Marianna “Tomorrow” Morrison, my niece
Joseph Henry Morrison, II, my nephew
Annissa “Ladybug” Rickerson, my niece
Derianna “Muffy” Morrison, my niece
Ulalila “Lady” Lee Morrison, my niece
Acknowledgments
I render all praises to God. I'm thankful for my parents, the late Joseph Henry Morrison, Elester Noel, Ella Beatrice Turner, and Willie Frinkle. I don't know what I'd do without the love and support of my siblings, Wayne, Andrea, Regina, and Derrick Morrison, Margie Rickerson and Debra Noel.
Thanks to my wonderful son, Jesse Bernard Byrd Jr., one of Northern California's Super 100 basketball players, one of the top three sophomore ballers in Northern California, one of the elite Slam-N-Jam Soldiers basketball players, and most importantly, a brilliant academic achiever on track to becoming an NCAA Division-1 basketball player.
Continued love and appreciation to the greatest editor, my editor, Karen Thomas. Thanks to my agent, Claudia Menza, for also being my friend. To my entire Kensington Publishing family, thanks for your hard work and support.
Thanks to Felicia Polk, my publicist and friend. I love you and attribute a great deal of my literary success to your untiring efforts. Thanks to L. Peggy Hicks, my publicist, for working so diligently on my tours.
A special thanks to my guardian angels, Howard and Ruth Kees, Andrea and Regina Morrison, Malissa Tafere-Walton, Vyllorya A. Evans, Shannette Slaughter, Michaela Burnett, and Gail Fred. You guys stood behind me, believed in me, and supported me.
Thanks to all the bookstore owners, readers, radio and TV hosts for supporting my work.
A WOMAN'S FIRST ORGASM
A woman's first orgasm
Should be by masturbation
Or maybe from oral copulation
But never strictly penetration
She doesn't need permission
To explore herself
By herself
She should try herself
And hold on to her virginity
Not for infinity
But until he can prove
He's the one she should choose
Because penetration the first time hurts
Then she'll bleed
And perhaps end up on her knees
Praying to a porcelain bowl
Through the eyes of her unborn soul
Because he's left her holding his seed
Instead of a deed
Of trust
Signed joint partners
She doesn't even know what an orgasm is
Or how it feels
But oh well he's got his
And she's got his kid
He'll probably jump ship
Before he's burdened with a child
A child who has the same smile
She had when he first met her
Now that she's pregnant
She's no longer smart enough
Pretty enough
Pure enough
Nor good enough
To be his stuff
He'll leave her with a load of chores
Because he's out to score
With someone else
Who's willing to help
Add another notch to his manhood belt
Maybe it's the good girl
Whose parents merely said don't have sex
Or maybe it's the curious girl
Who was beaten for having a passion mark on
her neck
Or maybe it's the loud girl
Who doesn't understand self-respect
Or maybe it's the shy girl
Who couldn't talk openly to anyone about sex
Or perhaps it's the quiet girl
Who no one suspects
If only she knew how to please herself
A baby didn't have to be left behind
She could have taught him
How to stoke her mind
A woman's first orgasm
Should be by masturbation
Or maybe from oral copulation
But never strictly penetration
If someone had told her to spread her thighs
Look into her own eyes
Eyes that would not lie
Her vagina is a beautiful flower
Smile
Look
Look
And lick her fingertips
Then tease her clit
And don't be afraid to touch her tits
Oh there's so much
Her precious temple should learn
Before feeling the burning sensation
Of his manhood's penetration
He should kiss her lips
The moist ones closest to her eyes
Like it's his favorite dish
And his only wish
Is never to make her cry
Or degrade her womanhood to his boys
By creating a bunch of lies
Then she could return the favor
And they both could savor the flavor
His manhood would be intact
Because he knows his girl has got his back
With a smile
Instead of a child
Not my daughter one might say
Well like or not
The girl will someday
Have sex anyway
Ignorance does not prepare
A lover who's unaware
Will learn from someone out there
Someone who probably doesn't care
And despite the parents' good deeds
Someone is willing to share his seeds
With a female harboring unfulfilled needs
A woman's first orgasm
Should be by masturbation
Or maybe from oral copulation
But never strictly penetration
She doesn't need permission
To explore herself
By herself
She really should try herself
And hold on to her virginity
Not for infinity
But until he can prove
He's the one she should choose
To carry his last name
Before carrying his baby
She must be taught to respect herself
Love herself
No if but and or maybe
Because far too often she's still somebody's baby
It's a new generation
And boys masturbate all the time
Let's teach our girls about masturbation
Let's empower our girls with alternatives
To unhealthy situations
A woman's first orgasm
Should be by masturbation
Or maybe from oral copulation
But never strictly penetration
Talk to your child(ren) about sex
Please
CHAPTER 1
“H
ow could you be so stupid?!” Fancy yelled in the mirror at her reflection.
Swish. Swish. Swish!
Her fists chased the July summer night's breeze blowing through the patio screen into her lonely bedroom. How could she have not known that Byron Van Lee was a married man? A man she'd done everything with. A man she was willing to do anything for. What was she going to do? Fancy swiftly turned, landing three blows against her shadow. Mimicking Laila Ali she struck faster. Harder.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
Long strands of black hair whipped around her neck and clung to her sweaty face.
Fancy massaged her heaving breastbone in an attempt to give her aching heart relief. Maybe if that were the first time a man had lied to her about his marital status, she'd forgive him. Not this time. Not this one. This kind of shit was supposed to happen to other women.
“Why me? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why me?” Fancy questioned herself repeatedly. Why was it so difficult for her to find an honest man? Byron would definitely regret playing with her emotions.
Perspiration beads gathered on her feverish forehead. The salty streams burned her cheeks. White lines remained where tears once flowed. The angrier she became the more she perspired. The more she cried. New salty lines replaced old ones as Fancy recalled the lies Byron had told on their very first date.
Byron had unmistakably said,
“Actually, I'm happily single. Thirty going on thirty-one. Never married. Would love to have two kids, a boy and a girl, but I hardly have time for myself.”
That night over dinner his roaming brown eyes traveled from her face down to her cleavage and back to her glowing smile. Then he had proclaimed,
“And so far I love what I see, Ms. Taylor.”
Following his statement, Byron gradually fed her a large chocolate-dipped strawberry. Setting the green stem aside, Byron eased his manicured nail between her lips.
Fancy shivered at the memory. She felt foolish as she visualized sucking the juices off Byron's finger, pretending it was his dick. “Fuck you, Byron! I hate you! I hate your lying ass!” Fancy hugged herself so tight the only thing missing was a straightjacket.
Maybe if Byron hadn't lavished her with everything she wanted. Maybe if he hadn't spoken all the right words. Maybe if he hadn't spanked her with his colossal dick. Maybe. Just maybe she could think straight and delete his phone numbers from her cell phone book like the rest of her rejects. Tears flowed. The red squiggly veins in her eyes doubled. Tripled. Quadrupled. She hated the thought of letting Byron go, but did she hate Byron enough to let him go?
Rocking back and forth on the gold padded stool, Fancy snatched the red washcloth from her vanity and vigorously dried her tears. Sniffles accompanied short quick breaths that escaped her runny nose. Byron had recently dropped her off after another one of their sizzling dates in the city. Again, he'd taken care of her, showing her off to his rich male friends. And in return—just moments ago—Fancy leaned in Byron's lap while he drove across the San Rafael Bridge, en route to her apartment in Oakland. She sucked his head, because that was all she desired to fit into her mouth. Fancy stroked Byron's shaft long and hard until his cum became hers. With each suck, she'd hoped Byron would change his mind and spend the night at her place, but the screeching sound of his tires as he pulled out of the circular driveway still echoed in her ears.
Removing her tan designer minidress, she tossed it across the foot of her bed. Fancy enjoyed prancing around her apartment in the nude and as soon as she made it home, her clothes made it to the bed. This time all except her neutral-colored thigh-high stockings, a thong, and a garter belt. She forced her fingernails inside the runs she'd created shuffling back and forth on the white carpet and ripped a larger hole.
“Why couldn't he just tell me the truth?”
Even if Byron had told Fancy he had a wife, she still would've fucked him. But she wouldn't have fallen madly in love with him.
Snatching the cordless phone from the charger, Fancy punched in the home number she'd memorized earlier from Byron's cellular ID. After he'd hung up from that call, suddenly their night, which was just getting started, was over. “We've gotta go,” was all he said, because Byron never offered an explanation or an excuse. He wasn't slick. He was the one who was stupid! Not her. If he lived alone, who'd call him from home?
Shaking Byron from her thoughts, Fancy dialed the number. A woman's voice muttered, “Hel-lo,” as though she'd been awakened.
Faster than a Polaroid snapshot sliding out of a camera, a million thoughts flashed in Fancy's mind. The sun rays peeping through her vertical blinds were fading. Fading right along with her undeveloped hopes and dreams for a future she'd fantasized about for well over six months, with Byron. Friday night happy hour at the Pacific Heights members only club that Byron had taken her to wasn't over until eight and according to her clock it wasn't quite seven. Maybe his conniving ass had returned without her so he could fuck the black Amazon goddess with the London accent all the other men were idiotically hounding and drooling over. Beads of sweat resumed popping out on her forehead. Fancy watched as a thin liquid necklace formed in the crevices above her collarbone.
“Hello?” the woman's voice repeated.
Sitting quietly at her vanity, Fancy pressed the mute button, then rocked back and forth, staring at her reflection in the oval-shaped mirror. “Why do you keep choosing the wrong man?” She rocked faster. Not adoring herself at the moment, Fancy rolled her eyes so hard her green contacts shifted, revealing her natural brown eyes. Green. Gray. Hazel. Violet. Fancy owned a pair of lenses in every color except blue. She flipped the swivel mirror horizontally so she could no longer see how pitiful she looked.
This was insane. What was she going to do if the woman was his wife? Stalk her? Harass her? Make her divorce Byron? Shoot her? Maybe Fancy could beat the woman with the belt she used to spank Byron with during role-play.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” the woman asked with a tone indicating if someone didn't speak up this time, she would hang up.
Suddenly Fancy stopped rocking, pressed the mute button again, and delightfully said, “Hi! Is this the lady of the house?”
Fancy wondered many things about the woman on the other end of the line. Was she the same woman who was with Byron the night they'd met? Was she Byron's wife? If so, how long had they been married? Did the woman have a nine-to-five job? Maybe they weren't married. Maybe they were separated. And in the process of getting a divorce. That's probably why Byron hadn't mention he had a wife.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Lee.” Mrs. Lee's voice was choppy and faint, like she should have cleared her throat but she didn't.
Fancy spoke happily. “I'm calling from the
Chronicle Tribune.
We have an introductory special that your family is guaranteed to enjoy. We're combining the best articles and advertisements, and we have a fabulous sports edition I'm sure the man of the house would love! Instead of ordering two papers or missing out on both, your family can be among the first Bay Area residents to get all the news in one paper! Delivered to your front door! For an unbelievable price of twenty-nine ninety-nine for an entire year.”
“Really?” Mrs. Lee spoke slightly louder. “I'm sure my husband would love that. But then again . . .” she hesitated. “We—”
“Your husband is a sports fan, isn't he?” Fancy asked, already knowing Byron sat on the Board of Directors for the Oakland Coliseum. Byron had suite tickets for the Warriors, Raiders, and the A's games. He also had season tickets for the Sacramento Kings. He'd taken Fancy to enough games for her to know if she ever met Chris Webber face-to-face again she'd become Mrs. Webber. What sense did it make for her to be loyal to Byron's lying ass?
“He's the biggest sports fan. Okay, why not. It's only thirty dollars.” Mrs. Lee had finally spoken in a normal tone. “We'll sign up.”
Nervous, still wondering if Byron would arrive home soon, Fancy said, “Wonderful! All I need is your name, delivery address, phone number, and credit card number with the expiration date. And you'll start receiving the paper in three to five days.”
“Can you hold for a moment?” Mrs. Lee asked. “I was trying not to wake the baby but he's crying.”
Fancy pressed her ear to the phone and listened carefully.
“Waa. Waa.” She heard crying in the background.
Oh, hell no! Fancy jumped up from her vanity stool and began pacing the floor. What baby? How old was this wailing kid that sounded like a lamb? Byron was a father, too! Maybe Mrs. Lee was baby-sitting. Or the bitch had Byron's baby, trying to trap him so he wouldn't divorce her ass.
“Hello. Are you there?” Mrs. Lee questioned.
“Of course I'll hold.” Fancy smiled to brighten up her voice, then said, “After all, we are a family oriented newspaper group.” Fancy hit the mute button and screamed, “Hurry the fuck up!” then pressed the same button again.
When she reached the patio door, Fancy turned around. This time she was too angry to cry. When she reached the bedroom door she turned back around. Too pissed off to sweat. She turned back around again. Too upset to stop moving. She turned again.
“Thanks for waiting. Here's our information.”
Racing to the stool, Fancy grabbed her pen. Her naked shoulder pressed the phone to her ear while she listened carefully. She drew a bold letter X across the front of one of her business cards, then wrote Mrs. Lee's information on the back.
Byron could be replaced, perhaps by her boss, Harry, but definitely not by her friend Desmond. Finding a man of Byron's caliber, great looks, and dick stature would be virtually impossible. Byron's six-foot four-inch, two-hundred-thirty-pound frame appeared to have zero-percent body fat. His dark brown skin was smooth. Each time Byron came to her apartment he drove a Benz, a BMW, a Cadillac, or he was escorted by a driver. Whenever he opened his wallet, all Fancy saw were Benjamins and platinum credit cards.
Begrudging Mrs. Lee, Fancy said, “Thanks for your subscription.” Fancy gazed at the address so long that her vision blurred. Byron's address in Oakland Hills—the house he'd given her keys to, the house where they had spent many nights and almost every weekend together, the house she'd partially decorated—was different from the one she'd written down. Mrs. Lee lived in one of the most prestigious areas in Northern California. Cupertino.
“Excuse me, but isn't a supervisor supposed to call me back to—”
Fancy's inner voice yelled inside her head,
Fuck you!
right before she hung up the phone. If Fancy had had an ounce of religion, between Byron and Mrs. Lee, she would have truly lost it instead of losing her mind. Fancy ruled out killing Mrs. Lee because of the baby.
The Nanny Diaries
would read completely different if Fancy Taylor had to care for another woman's kid. Fancy loved Byron too much to just let him go. But another woman was living under her future roof, married to her future husband. One way or another that bitch had to go!
BOOK: He's Just A Friend
8.81Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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