Maneater (14 page)

“H
ello! Surprise! I'm back.”

I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Seven was in my living room, and Deuce was asleep beside me.

Scrambling to find my robe, I rushed to greet Seven.

“Don't tell me you're in the bed, too,” she said, sitting on my white sofa.

I was so happy to see her, I couldn't stay upset. I fell on her, hugged her like we hadn't seen one another in years.

Leaning back, holding her shoulders, beholding a true goddess, I said, “Hot damn! Where the hell did you go?”

Golden complexion. Seven's ankle-length cotton dress was tapered to her perfect body. Her grin stretched across her face.

“Come with me. I'll show you where I went,” she said.

“I've never seen you so happy. Let me get us something to drink,” I said, disappearing into my kitchen. I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor for a moment.
That bitch looks fucking fantastic!
I knew I should've gone with her. I wouldn't be trapped with this baby inside me if I had.

I poured two glasses of cran-apple juice, then made my way back into the living room. “Girl, we have so much to catch up on,” I whispered.

“I hear you have company. I'm going to get out of your way,” Deuce called from the bedroom.

Seven's eyes widened. “Girl, who is that? Seems like I'm not the only one who has a few lifestyle changes going on.”

Deuce entered the living room. His eyes froze; he stared at Seven. “Hello. I'm Deuce Callahan. How long have you known my Zena?”

Seven cut me a look, then answered, “How long have you been knowing my best friend, Zena?”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. You are the one with that gay fiancé,” Deuce said.

I interrupted, “Baby, don't. That's not proper. Seven is my friend, not yours.”

“Well, she is one hot, sexy friend who doesn't have to marry a gay man, that's for sure. I will find you a husband,” he said sternly.

“I'm good,” Seven said. “Real good. Don't need a man to define me.”

Grabbing his bicep, I ushered Deuce out the front door. He was infringing upon our time. After closing the door, I sat on the sofa with Seven. We hugged for a long time. “I seriously missed you. I'm so glad you're back,” I said, crying.

“I missed you, too. Sorry I wasn't much of a friend while I was gone, but, girl, I had the most amazing time. But what I want to know is where you've been hiding that fine-ass Nigerian man.”

Quietly, I said, “He's my husband.”

“Your what? How long? Wait. Reverse. I missed a whole lotta shit,” Seven said.

“That's the least of my problems. I'm pregnant.” I said, sipping on cran-apple juice, wishing it was a magical abortion serum.

“Preg…what? When did this happen? You don't want kids. You never wanted to have kids. You did this for him?”

“Accident,” I said. “Not his baby. Danté's.” My stomach churned.

“Whoa. What? Wait. Back up to the very beginning. I'm all ears,” Seven said.

As best as I could, in between tears, I gave the overview of how and why I'd married Deuce. How I had ended up in bed with Danté and was now carrying his child. How I planned to let Deuce believe it was his child.

“Stop crying,” Seven said. “Right now we have to think. First, do
you
want to have this baby? If you do, I'll be here for you. If you don't, we're going to the abortion clinic in the morning. It's your body. The one thing you can't do is let Deuce take care of another man's child, believing it's his. That's trifling. You'll ruin your life, his life, and your child's life. Lying is the one thing you are not going to do, you hear me?” she scolded.

Terribly confused, I asked, “Should I divorce Deuce? Does Danté have a right to know I'm pregnant?”

“Hell no, girlfriend. On both. What they don't know won't hurt them. My mother used to say, ‘Better to ask the Lord for forgiveness than to ask a man.' And that's exactly what you are going to do.”

“Would you say that if I hadn't sent you those photos of him with Maverick?”

Seven smiled, then said, “I just walked in on them booty grinding again. Danté had Maverick pressed against the bedroom wall, getting ready to ride him. I walked in by accident. I didn't trip. I got in my car and came over here. I'll get my other things from Maverick's house tomorrow. He wants to talk, but there's nothing he has to say that I want to hear. I wish him well. Them well.”

“I'm going to have an abortion,” I blurted, not believing the words I'd spoken.

Seven smiled at me. “See, aren't you glad you voted for Obama? McCain would've made you have that baby.” We laughed as she continued, “Zena, your body is your temple. There's nothing wrong with not wanting to spend the rest of your life regretting one night of pleasure. Don't trip. I'm your best friend forever. After you recover from terminating your pregnancy, I'll take you to this new spot I found. We're going to D.C. for six weeks.”

“You're not getting off that easy. Where did you go?” I asked.

“I went to Punany Paradise,” she said, grinning. “Met this guy named Jagger. He is absolutely wonderful, but I'm not ready to get serious with anyone. You know the shit men do to us. Fuck us. Kick it with some other chick. Travel all over, bragging about how they had sex with the finest woman in the world. Emotionally and physically detached, that's how I'm living my life, and it feels great. See if they can handle the stories I've got to kick back at them.”

Forget all that.
I had to stay focused so I wouldn't get left behind. “Oh, so you went to Punany Paradise, and you wanna take me to D.C.? I've been there too many times to count, and let me tell you, the men there are not all that,” I said, frowning.

Shaking her head, Seven said, “We're not going to Washington, D.C. Girlfriend, we are going to Dick City. My treat.”

“Hallelujah!” I said, kicking my feet in the air. “I'd better start repenting right now for my sins.”

Suddenly, life didn't seem so gloomy. My best friend had changed my heart. I wondered if we'd run into Oprah and Gayle in D.C. Probably not.

All I knew was I could not wait!

…To be continued in
D.C.,
Dick City

It's Monday, November 3, 2008.

First, I'd like to thank my Creator for blessing me with an honorable character. I live my life bettering myself while encouraging and helping others. In one hour, I'm heading to Obama headquarters here in Oakland to make phone calls to voters around the country. Tomorrow I'll do the same. Perhaps I will call you.

I love my editor, Selena James. Adore my agent Claudia Menza. Am grateful for my Kensington family: Laurie Parkin, who is never too busy for me, Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, Jessica McLean, Steven Zacharius, and Walter Zacharius.

My Grand Central Publishing family, Karen R. Thomas, my editor, Linda A. Duggins, my publicist, and LaToya Smith, you are absolutely beautiful. Thanks for your generous support. And to my agent Andrew Stuart, thanks for taking special care of me.

In
Character of a Man
, I allowed Seven, Zena, Maverick, and Danté to be true to themselves, hoping you will understand that our deepest internal struggles shape the core of who we are.

Do me a favor. Select one person in your life, open up to them, share with them who you really are. Share your fears, your goals, and your dreams. At the same time, get to know the same about another individual. I mean,
really
get to know them.

What I learned from writing
Character of a Man
is, like the characters, most people, myself included, don't have anyone who truly understands who they are. That could be because we don't open up, or the people we open up to don't hear us, or we simply don't understand who we are.

My pride and joy and love smile and shine through my eyes whenever I think of my one and only twenty-two-year-old, six-foot-nine, super-handsome, intelligent, and talented son, Jesse Bernard Byrd, Jr. He's a young man of great character. I love my son with all my heart, and that's the same way I love myself.

I want to thank another man with upstanding character, Barack Obama, for giving me hope that Americans will become united throughout all the States. I've already noticed a positive change. Some of you have opened your hearts, shared your personal experiences with me, and I appreciate you. From Gary, an eighty-year-old white man who openly told me about his sex life, to my dear friends Ed Fitzpatrick (owner) and Bill Gaines (the man) @ Coliseum Lexus of Oakland (I have bought three Lexus cars and am looking at the convertible now), to the married woman @ the Blackberry Bistro who shared intimate details of her marriage. Each of you has helped me to grow.

Obviously, without my parents, there'd be no me or my wonderful son. I'm eternally grateful to Elester Noel and Joseph Henry Morrison. Both of my parents have made their transitions, my mother when I was nine years old and my father when I was twenty-four years old. For those of you who are blessed to still have your parents, give thanks.

My parents also blessed me with the greatest siblings in the world—Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel. I love my siblings.

I hate that one of my sisters stopped speaking to me because she didn't like the way I asked her to repay me. Truth be told, she has a husband, and if she accepts his doing less than his part, personally that isn't my concern. If he'd done his part, she wouldn't have needed to borrow anything from anyone. Bottom line, I'm always going to love my sister, no matter how she feels about me.

For Tasty Tuesdays in the HoneyB VIP Suite, we come together at Arsimona Lounge in my hometown, Oakland, California, every third Tuesday of the month to discuss relationship issues and challenges. If you find yourself in Oakland during this time, e-mail me and become my personal guest.

I want to thank the friends who support me: Carmen Polk, Malissa Walton, Bernard Henderson, Kim Mason, Onie Simpson, and Donna Jacobs. Lisa Johnson, Malissa Walton, Eve Lynne Robinson, Denise Kees, Deborah Burton, thank you for reading
Character of a Man
and providing great feedback.

We're working to bring you
Making the List
, a literary Web site and television series. My coproducer, Richard C. Montgomery, is the best.
Soul Mates Dissipate
, the movie, has not been forgotten. It's taking more time than I anticipated, but I do believe the universe is in order and the movie will happen when it's supposed to and the timing will be perfect.

A big hug, kiss, and thank-you to Noire for her contribution to our collection,
Maneater
. Noire is the absolute best!

Feel free to hit me up with a piece of your world at www.marymorrison.com. Peace and prosperity.

1. What's your definition of character? How important is a person's character to you? Why?
   
2. Did you take the maneater test? Are you a maneater? How do you feel about maneaters?
   
3. Could you marry a bisexual man or woman? Do you believe Maverick should marry Danté?
   
4. Did Maverick's father's rejection mold Maverick? How? Did Maverick's mother love him?
   
5. Would you vacation at Punany Paradise alone? What fantasy would you like to fulfill at Punany Paradise?
   
6. Should Seven have engaged in sexual pleasures with Jagger and Fletcher while she was unsure if she was pregnant?
   
7. Was Deuce Callahan loyal to Zena Belvedere? Should Zena have agreed to have a child/children for Deuce? Why or why not?
   
8. Was Zena a true friend to Seven? Was Seven a loyal friend to Zena?
   
9. Are you pro-choice? Do you believe Danté had a right to know Zena was pregnant with his child? Do you think Danté should have the right to approve or disapprove of Zena having the abortion? Why or why not?
   
10. Was Maverick responsible for Danté's emotional breakdown? Has a mate ever caused you emotional trauma? If so, did you act out of character when you experienced this trauma?
    
11. Should weight loss (or gain) become a factor for marriage during an engagement? Would you lose weight to please your spouse?
    
12. If you found XXX-rated photos or a video of your fiancé or fiancée, would you still marry him/her? Why or why not?
    
13. Would you take a vacation to Dick City? Why or why not?
    

Noire

This urban erotic appetizer is dedicated to B.D.G.C.

Yum, yum. You da man!

I
ain't never been the type of cat you would call fine or good looking or nothing crunk like that, but what I'm low on in the looks department I more than make up for with my earwax skills. See, I know shit. Secret shit. Scandalous secret shit. People must mistake me for their friendly neighborhood bartender or something 'cause they trust me with the type of shit they shouldn't be telling nobody but God.

For real. Let 'em pull some kinda dirty, nasty, diabolical stunt they too ashamed to talk about. Male or female, they take one look at me and all kinds of grimy, low-post skeleton bones start jumping outta their mouths.

You know my type. Never seen, hardly heard. I don't take it personal, I was born this way. Too chunky around the middle. Not quite tall enough. Thick legs. Nose on the wide side. Dark skinned, but dusty black, not pretty black. The kind of cat you can stroll past on the street corner or stand next to on the elevator and don't even see. Seriously. I could walk into a room with only two people in it and neither one of them would even notice me—until somebody shits all over 'em or they got a few guilt trips they need to unload. And that's when a nondescript, beer-bellied, can't-get-no-pussy anti-baller like me becomes a big fat earpiece in high demand.

Take Blow, my room dawg and fraternity brother from back in the college days. He's a real smoove nig, curly haired handsome, and got mad chick appeal. Me and Blow share a crib in North Jersey and his babe game is so foul he can stink up the whole damn house. Man, my nig's flow is so grimy that keeping his lips locked ain't even an option. Blow tells me
all
his dirty dirt, and I mean
all
of it. Shit. If Blow tried to keep half his rotten secrets in his mouth all his teeth would probably fall out.

So yeah. I'm a sound post for my boy, nah mean? Hell, I'm all ears. Twenty-five-eight I listen to his exploits, and then I keep everything he tells me right under my hat. C'mon. That's what homeboys are for. Right? Me and Blow are real tight like that, but if you thinking any of that, uhm, fluffy, fruity shit, you can just think again. I said I can't
get
no pussy, not I don't
want
none.

But Blow gets plenty, and we live under the same roof because it works out best for both of us. Blow draws chicks like he's got some kinda dick mojo, and he don't give a shit about none of them. They come up in the crib ready to strip butt naked at his command, and just like a heat-seeking leech I get off strictly through the association. And I mean I get
off,
too. All it takes is one good look at a sexy babe and I'm ready to grab some lotion, lock myself in the bathroom, and pay homage to the snake called Big Oscar who lives in my pants.

So like I said, it works out. Blow tells me his secrets, and I'm satisfied with living on the spare scraps he tosses off. If I start feeling a little low and unappreciated when he nuts up and clowns on me in front of all our boys, it's a small price to pay to be in his company.

See, Blow's a celebrity. He's a quarterback for the New York Giants. He's a Reggie Bush–looking cat with an outrageous cast of honeys constantly on his trail. We went to high school together and were roommates in college, too, but Blow ended up with a National League contract, and I ended up with…Well let's just say I ain't never had Blow's kind of luck.

But while Blow and two of our fraternity brothers, Nap and Tomere, got signed straight out of college because of their superior athletic skills, I had to fall back on my interpersonal groveling skills to get on the team, because no matter how much shit people liked to tell me, secrets didn't pay the rent and they sure didn't fill up my size 48 jelly belly.

I humbled myself and asked Blow for a hookup, and not long after my boys suited up in the blue and white, Blow put in a good word for me with the team's administration and I got on with the Giants as an assistant to one of the senior athletic trainers. It was a real sweet deal, too. I wasn't actually playing the game, but I was
in
the game, if you know what I mean. Working with the athletes was great, and the perks allowed me to indulge all my vices free of charge. I pulled in decent bank, grubbed down on somebody else's dime every day, and traveled all around the country first class with the team.

The senior athletic trainer was a fat Polish old-head who got hired back when icing knees and taping swollen ankles was about all an athlete could expect. He wasn't up to speed on MRIs and electronic nerve stimulation therapies and all that new technology, so he left me alone and let me do my thing.

And my thing was straight, too. But I couldn't say that about Blow, Nap, or Tomere. Those cats was superior athletes, but they were also borderline idiots who wilded out on the regular.

Especially Blow. I stayed by his elbow, kinda keeping an eye on him, ya know? It wasn't easy though, because Blow had been living dirty ever since I'd met him. He'd come real close to getting kicked out of college for taking a rival football player out, and not during a game, neither. If it was one thing Blow couldn't stand, it was competition. He had to be tops on every list, but especially on the football roster, and if he sniffed out somebody he thought might give him a little run, he'd take 'em out without even blinking. We were juniors when Blow got accused of masterminding an accident and ending the season for a second-string quarterback who was bucking hard to be the starter. The cat was just walking with his chick toward campus when a car jumped the curb and according to witnesses, deliberately sideswiped them, breaking the girl's collarbone and dude's ankle and his shin.

Blow wasn't nowhere around when it happened, but he laughed like hell when we found out ol' boy's season was through, and right then and there everybody knew he'd set it up. Blow was a master at getting somebody else to do his dirty work, and he had a crew of flunkies waiting on the sidelines who would do all kinds of shit just to be down with him.

Nap and Tomere were just as bad. Nap was a shady businessman who pulled Internet real-estate scams, and the stingy niggah was also taking bets and shaving points on games. Tomere was a bobby-sock bandit. He liked real young girls. Not babies, but not grown women, either. He was a fake mentor for young kids in the hood, but he also dropped a big bankroll as front money so the youths could invest in crack and then return him a real nice profit.

You wouldn't believe the kinda capers these cats pulled, then sat around and bragged about 'em like it was nothing. They punked the shit out of each other, devising stupid pranks and practical jokes that usually cost a whole lotta doe to pull off. Blow was the worst of the three by a long shot, but they had a one-man-up thing going on between them where they were constantly trying to outdo each other and Nap and Tomere were catching up to Blow pretty fast. I had nicknamed the three of them Dirty, Dastardly, and Depraved, and they laughed like crazy at that shit. I'd thought I was dissin' the nigs, but they wore the names like quality traits and then joked me to death because I didn't have none myself. They were right, too. I couldn't compete on that level of griminess and I didn't want to, neither. Them boyz told me things that made my ears hurt, and they slid through life dogging anybody they chose.

But in the second week of the training season Blow messed around and got his ass stuck in a hole for real. Him, Nap, and Tomere fucked around with the
wrong
niggah, and all their chickens started heading home to roost. I mean, they'd gotten away with some real grimy capers in the past, so some might say that payback was a mutha. But my boys couldn't have known what this particular stunt was gonna cost them. They just
couldn't
have! I mean, not even
God
could have prophesied that them three boys was gonna run up on something so sweet, so wicked, so tantalizing and formidable that not even a fat, loyal frat brother with good listening skills could save them.

So now you wanna know what went down, right? Well, I'm about to put you on, but don't blame me if your gangsta can't take it. I mean, I could pretty this thing up and make it sound real sweet for you, but that's just not the way it happened. It went down nasty and dirty, and that's exactly how I'm gonna give it to you, so chill for a minute and let me flow, because this is a story about three of the sexiest, most devastating chicks I've ever run across. These three gorgeous yummys rolled up in the joint with Blow, Nap, and Tomere, but they rolled back out like a cyclone or a tsunami, wrecking everything that stood in their way. Some guys would prolly call these gangsta chicks names like scandalous, grimy, or sheisty, but where I come from you reap what the fuck you sow, so for the purposes of this story I'll just call these three vicious babes Sugar and Honey, and the coldest and slickest of them all, Ice Tee.

 

It was training season. Go to it time. The only time in professional football when you're competing against cats who are wearing the same damn jersey as you. Everybody wanted to be a first stringer, so tensions were high on the team. There were all kinds of crazy contests going down. Pissing contests, biggest dick contests, heaviest nuts contests, hardest hit contests, you name it. Professional male athletes and extreme competition go hand in hand, and like I told you, Blow, Nap, and Tomere were some straight-up competitive nigs.

Blow was a real cocky mahfucka, too. Handsome, charming, and fast as hell on his feet. But he'd committed one too many errors in the last season and had single-handedly ruined the team's only chance at the ring. Taking responsibility for his shortcomings wasn't even in him. He blamed those sacks and fumbles on everybody from the towel boy to the franchise owner, so management figured they needed to teach him a lesson.

They brought in Charlie Baker. Charlie had been an outstanding quarterback on an extremely shitty team, and you can bet Blow wasn't happy when the handsome, light-skinned cat showed up on our field wearing a practice jersey.

Charlie was young and just as hungry as Blow was. He was a damned good quarterback, too, some said the best in the league, and to cap it off, unlike Blow he was a public relations dream. I mean, the cat was so clean he fucked all our heads up. He didn't drink, didn't smoke, went to church every Sunday. His handlers kept the groupies and the hoes a mile back, while the press followed him around cracking jokes and writing shit about him that made the public believe he could walk on water.

And from what we could tell, he prolly could. Charlie was a square. He'd been born and raised in Harlem, but there wasn't a speck of grime on him. He kept a smile on his face and his attitude was always positive. Sports analysts showed up to watch him on the practice field, and rumor had it that management was hoping he could lead us all the way to the Super Bowl.

But you know how it goes. Niggahs are dirty. Especially when you jockeying for their position. There's more than one way to crush a man's dreams, and when you fuckin' with crazies like my three homeys, anything was liable to happen.

I caught a glimpse of what was coming the moment Charlie stepped into the locker room. He was a real threat and the guys didn't like him. At least most of them didn't. Blow and his boyz bum-rushed him from minute one, like the big-ass kids they were. They put shaving cream in his helmet. Ripped up his equipment. Slid some itchy shit into his bottle of jock powder—you know how bullies do it.

But Charlie wasn't no punk. He didn't even get fazed. He was a handsome cat, and in better physical condition than any player I'd ever seen. No matter what kinda tricks Blow and them pulled, he rode that shit. He didn't cut up and wreck shit, and he didn't complain to nobody, neither. Charlie got all his get back on the field. He outran Blow like that niggah was standing still eating a Double Whopper. Charlie clocked stats and put out numbers that were unbelievable, and if there was any doubt in management's mind about which quarterback had earned his place in our starting lineup, Charlie showed his ass on the grass and squashed that noise immediately.

We were still a couple of weeks away from our first preseason game, and Charlie's name was at the top of the shrinking roster. That shit pissed Blow off so bad he got sick. He kicked all his bottom bitches outta the crib, tossed off his entourage, and stayed on his side of the house all by himself for three days straight. He wouldn't even let me come over. Wasn't nobody welcome except Nap and Tomere.

“Get the fuck outta here, Ribs,” he said, closing the door in my face. I was surprised, because for the first time that I knew of, Blow was keeping a secret from me. “Your square ass ain't in this shit.”

That messed me up. Blow told me
everything,
didn't he? I didn't know what kinda scheme them cats was cooking up, but I know they stayed locked up in the huddle for a whole day. And when it came time to check back in at the stadium, Blow was one happy dude again.

 

They caught Charlie after the whistle.

I was kneeling on the sidelines, wrapping tape around Stanley Johnson's sweaty toes when it happened. I looked up, and I swear it seemed like the sun got a little dimmer. Almost like a dark cloud had eclipsed it as I witnessed the last play of Charlie Baker's professional football career.

I didn't wanna believe my eyes. Nap went at him high. Then Tomere charged in and clipped him low. And as a final coup de grâce, Blow's flunky Pierre Hampton somersaulted through the air and dove directly down on top of Charlie with his shoulder, landing hard and completely destroying Charlie's knee.

I heard the bone snap way across the field.

I was on my feet and running toward them before anybody could raise the alarm.

“Stand back,” I hollered, breathing hard, big belly jiggling.

They were still laying on top of him. Holding him down. Charlie's face was almost blue as he held on to his knee and moaned through big gulps of air.