Trouble Loves Company

by Angie Daniels

  Also by Angie Daniels

  Company

  In the Company of My Sistahs

  Trouble Loves Company

  Decadent Delight

  Put Your Name on It

  Standalone

  Fire in My Soul

  Watch for more at Angie Daniels’s site.

  Trouble

  Loves

  Company

  ANGIE DANIELS

  ISBN: 978-1-941342-50-3

  Copyright © 2020 by Angie Daniels, 2nd edition

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now know or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Series

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Excerpt

  Other Books

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank everyone who read my first book, In the Company of My Sistahs, and shared your opinions. I hope this sequel is everything you have been waiting for.

  To Sergeant William Green of the Columbia Police Department for answering all the questions that helped breathe life into this book. Dinner is on me.

  To my cousin Verl Powell Williams, the first lady at Sugar Grove Baptist Church, for helping me with every spiritual and biblical question I had. Girl, I know, I need to take my butt to church more often.

  To my home girls Tonya Hill, Norma Rhodes, and Kim Ashcraft, for just being you and making it easy to create these believable characters.

  I love to hear from my readers, so please don’t hesitate to drop me a line at angie@angiedaniels.com.

  The Company Series

  In the Company of My Sistahs

  Trouble Loves Company

  Careful of the Company You Keep

  Misery Loves Company

  Chapter 1

  Renee

  If I had known my girl Danielle was going to call and spend the last half hour whining about her sorry-ass boyfriend, I wouldn’t have answered the phone.

  “What do ya think I should do?” she asked in a low whisper, as if someone else might be listening.

  I clicked my tongue and answered, “You already know what I would do.”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t like you.”

  See, that’s one thing I’ve never understood. Why ask for advice when you really don’t want it? I have never been able to figure that out, especially when the answer is obvious. Kick his ass to the curb! As my grandmother always said, “Can’t nobody tell a woman to leave her man. She has to decide on her own when she’s had enough.” I understand what Big Mama was trying to say, really, I do. But it’s a shame how much shit a woman is willing to take before she finally decides enough is enough.

  Take my girl Danielle, for instance. Her ex-boyfriend Deon fucked around on her for years. Not only did he fuck around, but he brought home the kind of shit you have to take a trip to the free clinic to get rid of. Yet and still, she forgave his trifling ass. It wasn’t until one of his baby mamas clocked her upside her peanut head, while he stood by and watched, that she finally decided enough was enough.

  Now Ron, the latest thug in her life,' is never home, can’t keep a job, and has bitches calling her house at all hours of the night bold enough to ask for him, yet she’s determined to stick by him.

  I love my girl, really, I do. We talk on the phone at least five times a week and I know if I ever needed her, she’d have my back. Her brain is short a couple of screws, though. There ain’t no way, at thirty-six, I would be putting up with that kind of shit. But unlike me, Danielle loves a thug, and will go crazy without daily drama in her life. And that’s why her ass is always getting dogged.

  “That mothafucka got off work three hours ago, and I ain’t seen his ass yet. He’s got no respect for me,” she complained.

  I couldn’t help but laugh in her ear. “What do you expect? He’s only twenty-four. I doubt he respects his own mama.”

  “Yeah, right!” she laughed. “But that’s ai’ight ’cause he’s got the shit twisted. I’m gonna get all in that ass when he gets home.”

  Ooh! Like that’s gonna make a world of difference. “It’s been a year. He’s not gonna change. What you need to do is put his lazy ass out.”

  While Danielle tried to justify why she wasn’t ready to end the relationship, I rose from the couch, turned the light off, then moved up to my bedroom and changed into a nightgown. It was late and a school night, so my kids, Quinton and Tamara, were in their rooms, probably pretending to be asleep. That’s okay with me just as long as they’re in bed by ten.

  As Danielle ranted on I half-listened, because she really didn’t want to hear what I had to say. If it was me, Ron would never have moved into my house. So, instead of giving advice, I pretended to be paying attention and said, “Uh-huh” on cue. I really think she just likes for someone to listen. Shit, I ain’t mad, because I do the same thing. Nevertheless, it’s late and I am tired. I yawned rudely in the mouthpiece, hoping she’d get the hint.

  She didn’t.

  Okay, she’s has ten more minutes, then I’ll come up with some kind of excuse and hang up.

  I had just stepped into the adjoining bathroom and dropped my clothes in the hamper when I heard the garage door rising. “Oh shit!” I exclaimed as I dashed back into the bedroom.

  Danielle gasped. “What?”

  Leaning over, I turned out the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand. “John’s home.”

  “Already? I thought he didn’t get off work until midnight.”

  “He doesn’t, but I guess he decided to get off early.” I glared at the clock—it was barely eleven.

  “It must be nice being the boss.” I heard the envy in her voice.

  “Look, I’ll holla at you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone, then slipped beneath the covers as quickly and quietly as possible and waited. As soon as I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, my stomach felt all tied up in knots. Damn! I can’t deal with him tonight. I was irritated, because if John got off early from work, it was for one reason and one reason only—he
wanted some booty. Girl quit trippin’! Everything ain’t always got to be about you. Maybe he’s tired, I thought to myself. Okay, maybe I’m being silly. Maybe I’m wrong.

  When John entered the room and turned the lock behind him, I knew my luck had run out.

  Shit!

  While he undressed, I lay perfectly still on my back and breathed deeply, praying he’d think I was asleep and would leave me the hell alone. From the corner of my eyes, I watched him move about the room in the dark. Then he stepped into the bathroom, took a leak, passed gas, and flushed the toilet I turned up my nose, totally disgusted, but relieved when I heard the water running. At least he washed his hands. A few minutes later, the mattress beside me sagged from the impact of his weight, and within seconds he was underneath the covers with his large arm pressed against mine. My nose began to itch, but there was no way in hell I was going to scratch it, because the slightest movement and John would spring into action.

  The clock on the dresser ticked and seconds became minutes and finally I began to relax. Yes! He’s not going to touch me tonight. Then, just as I started to really fall asleep, I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. I tensed because I knew that in the next five seconds, he was going to ask me that same stupid-ass question.

  “Can I have some?”

  I wanted to yell, “Hell nah, you can’t have none!” No, what I really wanted to say was, “If I wanted to give you some, I would’ve been lying in the bed butt- naked instead of in a long gown and a pair of grandma draws.” Instead, I remained stone-faced and tried to pretend I hadn’t heard him, but at this point it was obvious he wasn’t falling for it.

  “Hey, Renee, you hear me?”

  I gave a long, exasperated sigh because for once I wished my husband would just get the hint and leave me the fuck alone. “Not tonight,” I said as nicely as I could manage, then rolled onto my side. I even threw a little sleep in my voice since I hadn’t quite given up on that trick yet.

  “Aw, come on,” he begged. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  I know his quick. Thirty minutes of him playing with my left titty, then he’ll want me to play with his dick before he’d finally climb on top of me for another half hour of torture. I blew out another angry breath, then rolled over onto my back and looked up at him. “Why can’t you wait until I want you sometimes? I mean ... I can’t understand why you always want some when I’m not in the mood.”

  There was a long moment of silence and one would have thought I had hurt his feelings, but not John. He gave me this sad, pleading look. “So, you gonna give your husband a little bit or what?”

  I couldn’t help it. I tossed my arms in the air and gave a frustrated laugh. He was obviously not going to let up until I gave him some coochie. And as usual, I felt guilty as shit for depriving him of what he felt he was entitled to have on an “ass-needed basis.”

  “I’m not in the mood,” I snapped with attitude. “I don’t want no dick! But if you want it, if you really, really want it, then go ahead and do the damn thang!”

  Now any other brotha would have said, “Fuck you, bitch,” and rolled over. Not John. He rose long enough to shrug out of his T-shirt and tighty-whities, then eagerly climbed back in the bed. The moment I felt his limp dick on my thigh, I sighed because I knew I was in for a long night

  Lord, why me?

  Now, I could have refused, but Big Mama taught me never to bite the hand that feeds you, so as usual I gave in, and let him have his way. Within seconds, I felt his hand slide underneath my gown. I cringed as his fingers grabbed my nipple, tweaking it like he was trying to tune a transistor radio. I have discovered in the five years of our marriage that playing with my breasts for five to ten minutes is one of the only ways John can get an erection. The other is me going down on him, but that shit’s not about to happen. John lifted the gown over my head while I lay there like a stiff board. He suckled one nipple between his dry, cracked lips while he twisted and pulled at the other with his fingertips.

  The entire time, I stared at the ceiling fan twirling above while tears ran from the corners of my eyes and onto the pillow. I’m so sick of this shit, I don’t know what to do. Every time he touches me, I feel like I’m being violated. I’ve never been raped, but it can’t be too far from what I’m feeling. As he slid my panties down to my ankles, I allowed my mind to disappear to another time in my life. A time when I was free to do what I wanted with whomever I wanted. I then traveled back even further to happier times when I was in grade school before all the madness in my life had begun. My sister Lisa and I used to lie in our bunk beds, laughing and creating make-believe worlds. I bit my lip and forced myself not to cry. Even after a year, thinking about my sister still brought tears to my eyes. At thirty-eight, Lisa had lost her battle with ovarian cancer. I didn’t even know she had it until it was too late. One of her last wishes was for me to give my marriage an honest try, and because of her I was still trying to hang in there with John. As much as I loved my sister and tried to be a woman who stood by her word, I wasn’t sure how much more I could endure.

  “Play with it,” John instructed as he reached for my hand and moved it over to his limp dick.

  I practically yanked at his shit because I just don’t get it anymore. For the last year his dick has only half worked. Not that it has mattered to me. Even when it was still fully functional, the sex between us had been bad. I just didn’t think it was important. Seriously! It may sound crazy, but I really thought that what I was getting out of the marriage far outweighed what I had to give in return. That shit sounds crazy as hell now. When he met me, I was a broke bitch trying to rub two nickels together and when he asked me to marry him, I jumped at the chance, thinking that life could only get better. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  By the time my hand was about to fall asleep, John’s dick finally rose to the occasion. Quickly, before it grew soft, he climbed between my legs and searched for the hole. “Help me find it.”

  I don’t understand why he can’t find my coochie! Damn! We’ve been together five years, but he still aims for the wrong hole. What the hell is up with that shit? Reaching over into the top drawer of my nightstand, I pulled out a tube of KY Jelly because my coochie was as dry as the desert. I squeezed a little in my hand and lubed the head of his dick. Damn! He was starting to get soft already.

  “Mmmm, baby, that feels good. Rub some more on me,” he crooned.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, then squeezed another dab in the palm of my hand and jacked him off some more. By the time he was hard again, I quickly guided him to my hole, and he entered me.

  I sighed while he pumped his little dick like he was hurting some damn body. He was moaning so loud; you would have thought it was me. As he thrust, his fingers tweaked my nipples. And tweaked and tweaked and tweaked some more.

  “Dammit, would you stop before they fall the fuck off!” I yelled, then slapped his hand away. I’ve told him I don’t know how many times to stop playing with them so much, but that shit goes in one ear and out the other. I don’t even think plastering a note across my chest that read, “leave them the hell alone,” would have made a difference.

  John sighed, then slid me down to the middle of the bed and entered me, again pumping and pumping like he was doing some damage. I could have lain there and gone to sleep if he wasn’t dropping balls of sweat all over me. I put a pillow over my face to stop the next droplet that was sure to fall in my damn eye. Thank goodness he paused long enough to wipe his face off on the sheets. He then tossed my pillow aside.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yeah, just hurry up,” I managed through gritted teeth.

  Draping my legs over his shoulders, John began to plunge all three hundred pounds into me. I couldn’t feel shit, but I knew if I wanted this ordeal to end, I had to pretend that I did, so I started to moan. As usual, the sound of my voice excited him.

  “That’s it, baby. Come with me,” he said as he reached for my nipple. Instinctively, I slapped his hand
away, then rocked my hips and met him stroke for stroke. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m about to come.”

  I was so happy to hear that, I started moving my hips faster, moaning even louder, and urged him on. “Come on, big daddy, you can do it. Come all inside this pussy!”

  “Okay,” he said like a good little boy. “Okay.” He pumped faster.

  I reached up and stroked his nipples, since he seems to get off on that shit. “Come on, Daddy. I want to feel you nut inside of me. Wet that pussy!”

  “Yeaaah! I’m getting ready to come!”

  “Me, too!” I lied.

  While he was howling like a hound dog during a full moon, I felt that wet, warm feeling as he squirted inside of me. The bed rocked. John was slamming the headboard against the wall so hard, I know the kids heard it, until finally, he collapsed on top of me. Thank you, Jesus! I lay there waiting for him to get off of me. He finally rolled over and within seconds he was snoring. Overcome with relief, I eased out of bed and went into the adjoining bathroom and cleaned myself up. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the tears began to fall again. What has my life become?

  I’m miserable, but nobody seems to believe me. Especially not the big mothafucka who happens to share my bed. I feel trapped. Being trapped in a bad marriage is bad enough but being trapped in a marriage with a good man who you don’t love makes you want to stand in the corner and bang your head against a cement wall. Don’t get it twisted. If it wasn’t that John was an excellent provider and that my kids adored him, I would have left a long time ago.

  John and I have been married five years and I’ve been miserable for three. A one-night stand I met at a club. I was horny and after a night of no other prospects, I went home with him. I was too drunk to remember the specifics of his performance. The only reason why I know we fucked was because I woke up naked and spotted the condom wrapper on the nightstand beside me. We dated a couple of times after that. None—to his disappointment—ended with sex. I found John to be a kind, generous man, but too damn nice and touchy-feely for my taste. Not to mention he wasn’t much to look at—dark, five-eleven, over three hundred pounds, with a waist I couldn’t even wrap my arms around, and a round face. But despite his appearance, he had a six-figure salary, which meant he took me to the finest restaurants in town, his company had box seats to all the sporting events, and he drove an Escalade. I know my reasons for dating him were purely selfish, but hey, it isn’t every day a girl from the streets gets the opportunity to sample the finer things in life. After a while, though, even those weren’t enough reasons to make me want to keep seeing him.