Too Close for Comfort

by La Jill Hunt

  Too Close for Comfort

  La Jill Hunt

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Father, God, in Heaven, You know I always have to thank You first. For the insight, the talent, the opportunity and the strength to do this once again. Your grace and mercy have once again brought me through and I’m living this moment because of You.

  To my parents, my grandmother and especially to my daughters, for having the strength to endure. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it . . . I love you.

  To my beloved Pastor Kim W. Brown, for all of your leadership and brutal honesty as I continue on this journey and walk in my favor. To Elder Valerie K. Brown, for all of your constant encouragement and advice and most of all for challenging me to just do it! I will never, ever, ever forget those words . . . in the true essence of Oprah, that was my “ah ha” moment and I love you for it! To my Mt. Lebanon Missionary Baptist Church Family, your prayers, smiles and support are to be commended. I couldn’t ask for a better support system.

  To my brother/cousin Braxton, the older we get, the closer we become and I thank God that we are able to share our accomplishments together. I always have your back... and now that book four has dropped, maybe one day I will pay my cell phone bill on time, LOL.

  To my girls, Joy, Shan, Saundra, Tonya, Cherie, Robin, Mechellene, Pam, Toye, Roxanne and Selena . . . no matter the reason, or the season . . . you are my lifetime friends.

  To my guys, Roy Glenn, Dwayne S. Joseph, K Elliott, Big CTY, Chris Booker and Torrance Oxendine . . . you always got my back and I love you for it.

  To Carl Weber, although I piss you off, I know you still love me and I’ll always be your li’l sister . . . one day I’m gonna make you proud, just wait and see. To Martha Weber, who causes me to inhale every time I sit down to write . . . you are so special and I thank you for leading me in my craft.

  To Yvette Lewis, you know you are the best friend/personal assistant/business partner/ personal shopper/stylist/therapist/beauty consultant /loan officer a girl could have . . . love ya!!!

  I gotta thank ‘DA ROW’ at work for putting up with the chit chatter as I talked about what I was gonna write about: Angela Burleigh, Donna Gwathney, Jodina Ford, Chenay Cuffee, Ms. Susan Allgood, Andrea Jones, and Dawn James . . . y’all have got to be the most hilarious people in the world.

  To Omedia Cutler, Milly Avent, and Crystal “Nardsbaby’ Gamble . . . you are THE BOMB! I couldn’t ask for a better reading crew!

  To David L. Porter, my rainbow at the end of the storm . . . for yelling and pushing and ignoring me for days; not accepting my attempts at procrastination . . . thanks for reminding me this isn’t even about me and who it’s for . . . I love you!!!

  To Kym Lee, the baddest makeup artist the world has ever seen. Thank you for your time and talent and sharing your stories with me . . . if they think Yaya is wild in this book, wait until the real deal hits stores. You are a true gift and I am blessed to even know you.

  To the other folks, who are always in my corner: Arvita, Robilyn, Ms. Frankie, Cheryl, Danita, Yolanda, Vicki, and Tasha . . . thank you.

  To Stephanie Wilkerson and LaTonya Townes who stepped up at the last minute, literally and helped me pull it together! You are no joke and I appreciate you!

  To all the book stores, book clubs, readers, fans and every person who has ever read anything I’ve written, I say thanks. None of this would be possible without you.

  To those who still don’t get it . . . I guess I’ll have to keep on reminding you:

  I don’t fight, I write, so make me, please!

  —Stephanie F. Johnson,

  author of Desperate Sisters

  Habakkuk 2:2–3

  God is no joke, believe that!

  Now I know, after all this, there was a purpose

  behind all the DRAMA!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the John L. LeFlore

  Magnet High School of Communication and

  Performing Arts Class of 1991

  If I could go back to my high school years, and

  relive them all over again, I would not change a

  single, solitary moment. It was the most perfect,

  most entertaining, most enjoyable four years in

  my entire life. Thank you all for the moments,

  the memories and most of all, the laughs!!

  Orange, orange, orange, orange

  Green, green, green, green, green

  Go Rattlers!

  Prologue

  “Qianna, you got twenty minutes to get the hell back here before I—”

  Yaya hit the end button on her cell phone before Jason could finish his sentence. She couldn’t even believe he had the nerve to be calling her, let alone threaten her. After all she had been through the night before, a threat was the last thing she was trying to hear. She’d just returned from Los Angeles after working on a movie set for two weeks, the biggest job she’d landed since becoming a makeup artist two years ago. She was finally starting to make a name for herself.

  A seven-hour flight and a thirty-minute drive for this?—I don’t think so. She sat up in her bed. He’s lost his mind for real. I coulda stayed my ass in Cali and worked another day, but that’s what I get for trying to surprise his ass.

  She picked up her ringing cell phone and flipped it open, not saying a word.

  “Qianna, I ain’t playing with you!” Jason addressed her by her first name again, as if that would make a difference.

  “Oh, and you think I am?” she said calmly into the phone. “This ain’t no game, and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about my shit. I can’t believe you did this to my place. My CDs are all jacked up, my clothes are everywhere, and where the hell are my shoes?—I know you did this!”

  “I didn’t do anything, Jason. I haven’t been to your place. As a matter of fact, I just flew back into town this morning. And why the hell weren’t you at the airport to meet me, huh?”

  “Yaya, your ass got back last night. Stop playing with me. I know you came back last night. I also know you got your car too, so drive your ass back over here . . . now!”

  I know he ain’t yelling at me! Please don’t tell me he has the nerve to be yelling at me! I will turn this car around, drive back there, and kill his ass!

  He was right about one thing—she did get her car back. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in front of his condo, where she’d parked it two weeks ago before she left. Instead, she and her friend Monya spotted it in front of them as they were on their way from the airport.

  “Girl, there’s Jason right there, isn’t it?” Monya pointed at the champagne pink Lexus two cars ahead in the lane next to theirs, the tag reading
MS Q 2U.

  “Yeah, that’s him. He’s probably going to replace all my damn gas he drove out of it while I’ve been gone.” Yaya laughed as the car turned into the gas station. “See . . . what did I tell you? Go over there so I can see my baby. Besides, you need some gas anyway. Your car is always on E.”

  “Gas is high. Besides, you better be grateful I drove all the way out to the airport to pick you up.” Monya signaled to turn into the parking lot.

  “Nobody told you to run out and get an Expedition anyway.” Monya checked her reflection in the mirror. “If you can’t afford the gas, then you don’t need the car.”

  “Whatever.”

  Suddenly, Monya stopped the SUV abruptly.

  Yaya would’ve busted her head on the windshield if she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. “What the hell?” She looked at Monya like she was crazy.

  “Uh-oh!”

  “What?” Yaya looked to see what was causing her friend to act like she had seen a ghost. At that moment, she spotted her car door open, but it wasn’t Jason who got out. “Aw, hell naw! Who the hell is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They watched the lanky, long-legged girl, scantily clad in some raggedy shorts and a tank top, get out of the car. She was chitchatting on her cell phone.

  Yaya was thinking that the chick must’ve stolen her car. She was all set to call 9-1-1, until she noticed the girl take the keys she was holding in her hand and aim it at the car. The familiar sound of her alarm and the flashing of the taillights let Yaya know that someone had given the stranger permission to drive it.

  I’m going to kill him. Yaya’s eyes squinted in anger. “Ain’t this a bitch,” she whispered to herself. She could feel heat throughout her body. She reached into her purse and pulled out her keys. “Pull over there.”

  Monya frowned. “What are you about to do?”

  “I’m ’bout to get my shit!” Yaya grabbed her purse. “I don’t know who this chick is, and I don’t care. All I want is my car.”

  “What about Jason?”

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t you wanna find out if he has an explanation?”

  “Nope.” Yaya got out of the truck and closed the door behind her. She used her own keys to disengage the alarm and unlock the doors.

  Just as Yaya got in and started the engine, the “chickenhead” girl came running out of the store, a Slurpee in one hand and a six-pack of Heineken in the other. “Stop thief!”

  Feeling the stares and not wanting to beat the shit out of the girl in front of a crowd, Yaya rolled down her window. “Look, I don’t know you, and I don’t give a damn who you are, but this is my car.”

  “Your car? This ain’t your car; this is my man’s car! I just borrowed it to drive to the store because he had mine blocked in—”

  “Your man’s car? Can you read? Did you see the tag?” Yaya snickered. The situation seemed hilarious to her for some reason. “Okay, well, maybe you ought to call your man and have him drive your raggedy shit over here and get you, since it ain’t blocked in anymore. Oh, and let him know Yaya’s back in town and I got my ride. Get out the way before I hit you.”

  As the girl reached for the door, Yaya kicked the car into reverse and pulled out so fast, she almost hit Monya’s truck.

  “You a’ight?” Monya yelled out the window.

  “Yeah, I’m cool, girl. Let’s get the hell outta here!” She sped out of the parking lot.

  She picked up her phone and dialed Jason’s number. “Damn,” she said after his voice mail picked up. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She loved Jason with all her heart and had worked too hard and come too far to let some half-dressed, Slurpee-drinking, beer-toting trick mess things up for them.

  Being with him these past three years had given her a sense of completion. He was a strong, smart, and successful man, one her mother never thought she had been capable of becoming involved with. It was Jason who introduced her to French restaurants and Broadway shows. As an investment banker, he often had to take clients and their spouses to dinner and was proud to have her by his side.

  She made a U-turn in the middle of the street and headed to his house. I’ll just wait for him to come home. She grabbed her ringing cell phone, thinking it was Jason calling.

  “Yeah,” she answered, irritated that it wasn’t him.

  “I’m just calling to make sure everything’s cool,” Monya replied. “Where are you going?”

  “To Jason’s.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “No. His voice mail keeps picking up. I’m going inside to wait for him.”

  “Yaya, don’t do anything crazy while you’re there.”

  “I’m cool,” Yaya lied.

  “Qianna Westbrooke, you know how you—”

  “I told you I’m cool. Look, just take my luggage to your house. I’ll come by and get it later.”

  “Yaya—” Monya didn’t have a chance to say anything else before the phone hung up.

  Arriving in record time, she pulled in front of Jason’s dimly lit condo and cut the engine off. She used her key to open the door and stepped inside. Putting her phone in her pocket, she flicked on the lights and looked around.

  As usual, his apartment looked like a scene from a Pier 1 commercial, decorated in an array of taupe, brown, and red. His furniture even looked like it had never been sat on. The big-screen television took up most of the wall, and next to it were shelves on each side holding hundreds of CDs and DVDs, all in alphabetical order. Each time she took one out to watch it, he always warned her about putting it back exactly where she got it from. He was so damn picky about his things.

  “Seems mighty funny you weren’t picky when it came to my car, huh, Jason? You just let whoever drive it, right?” she said aloud, grabbing the discs and flinging all of them to the floor. The force of her arms were so strong, the discs went crashing into the glass coffee table in the center of his floor. She was stunned for a moment, knowing he was going to have a conniption when he saw the mess. But remembering the hoochie driving her car quickly brought her back to reality, and her anger returned.

  She walked into his bedroom and looked around, hoping to find something. Opening his closet door, she looked down at his shoes, lined perfectly along the floor. There had to be close to a hundred pairs. Her eyes glanced up to the clothes hanging perfectly. Everything was so damn perfect. Suits were hung on one end, then dress shirts, then casual clothes, jeans, etc. Even his shirts were color-coordinated. His neatness was usually something she liked about him, but now it just made him seem anal—An anal, cheating liar who lets chickenhead ’ho’s drive my car! I’m gonna get his ass, though.

  She picked up one of his black Kenneth Cole loafers and tossed it across the room. As it landed on the side of his bed, she got an idea. She walked into the pantry and grabbed a garbage bag. She shook it open and put every single right shoe that Jason owned inside it. You got the right one, baby! By the time she was finished, she could hardly carry the full bag to her car.

  Popping her trunk open, she hoisted the heavy bag and tossed it inside. Satisfied with her handiwork, she got back in her car and drove home.

  Exhausted from the long day she had, she took a shower and climbed into bed. She cut her cell phone off and fell into a deep slumber.

  The sound of her house phone woke her. Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she saw it was after three in the morning. She was too tired and angry to deal with Jason.

  Soon, the phone stopped ringing, and she took it off the hook. I’ll handle his ass tomorrow. She turned over, turned her phone off, and went back to sleep.

  When she woke again, it was after eight. She cut her cell phone on, and as if on cue, Jason called.

  They had been going back and forth for an hour now.

  “What took you so damn long to call me anyway, Jason? I know that hoochie called and told you I took my car.”

  “I tried calling your ass, but the damn vo
ice mail kept picking up.”

  “I can’t believe you let some trick drive my car.”

  “I ain’t thinking about your car now, Qianna—I got a meeting in an hour, and I don’t have no shoes to wear.”

  “You know what, Jason—I ain’t thinking about your shoes or your meeting right now.”

  “Dammit, Yaya . . . you know what—I don’t have time for this right now, I got something for your ass.” Jason hung the phone up.

  Yeah . . . whatever.

  Quianna looked through her closet for something to wear. Deciding on a pair of jeans and a white tank top, she took a hot shower and quickly got dressed.

  Thirty minutes later, just as she was about to walk out the door, the phone rang again.

  “What the hell do you want, Jason?”

  “Um . . . Ms. Westbrooke, this is Officer Crandle with the county police department. Ma’am, you have about fifteen minutes to get here and return Mr. Taylor’s items, or we’ll have to come and pick you up for criminal trespass, among other charges.”

  Qianna closed her eyes and tried to fight the nausea that had suddenly crept over her. Monya’s voice echoed in her head: Don’t do anything crazy. Regretting that she didn’t listen to her friend’s advice, she knew that, this time, her temper had taken her too far.

  Chapter 1

  I’m going to jail, Paige thought. Quincy pulled into the driveway of what used to be her home. He hadn’t even put the car into park before Paige was out of the car and headed to the doorway. She reached into her purse and pulled out her keys, praying that the locks hadn’t been changed.

  As she slid the key into the brass knob and it turned, her heart skipped a beat. She opened the door wide and stepped inside. She looked around and noticed that nothing really looked different. But there was a different smell. It smelled like Ms. Lucille’s house, a stale mixture of cheap perfume and liquor. She had rarely been to Marlon’s mother’s home, but the odor was distinct those times she had been inside.