When Somebody Loves You Back
Also by Mary B. Morrison
Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top
He’s Just a Friend
Never Again Once More
Soul Mates Dissipate
Who’s Making Love
Justice Just Us Just Me
Coauthored with Carl Weber
She Ain’t the One
Copresented with Lou Richie
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders
(An anthology of fiction by Lou Richie’s sixth grade class)
When Somebody Loves You Back
MARY B. MORRISON
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
This book is dedicated to the man I am most proud of:
Jesse Bernard Byrd, Jr., my son
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREFACE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 Candice
CHAPTER 2 Darius
CHAPTER 3 Ashlee
CHAPTER 4 Candice
CHAPTER 5 Darius
CHAPTER 6 Darius
CHAPTER 7 Darius
CHAPTER 8 Fancy
CHAPTER 9 Ashlee
CHAPTER 10 Candice
CHAPTER 11 Ashlee
CHAPTER 12 Fancy
CHAPTER 13 Jada
CHAPTER 14 Darius
CHAPTER 15 Jada
CHAPTER 16 Fancy
CHAPTER 17 Candice
CHAPTER 18 Ashlee
CHAPTER 19 Darius
CHAPTER 20 Fancy
CHAPTER 21 Ashlee
CHAPTER 22 Jada
CHAPTER 23 Fancy
CHAPTER 24 Darius
CHAPTER 25 Darryl
CHAPTER 26 Darius
CHAPTER 27 Ashlee
CHAPTER 28 Wellington
CHAPTER 29 Darius
CHAPTER 30 Fancy
CHAPTER 31 Jada
CHAPTER 32 Darius
CHAPTER 33 Fancy
CHAPTER 34 SaVoy
CHAPTER 35 Simone
CHAPTER 36 Melanie
CHAPTER 37 Fancy
CHAPTER 38 Darius
CHAPTER 39 Jada
CHAPTER 40 Fancy
CHAPTER 41 Darius
CHAPTER 42 Jada
CHAPTER 43 Ashlee
CHAPTER 44 Jada
CHAPTER 45 Darius
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank God for blessing me and I thank God for each of you, praying your lives are filled with joy and prosperity.
To all of the Hurricane Katrina victims, many of whom are my family and friends, stay strong; hold on to God’s unchanging hand. Although I cannot relate firsthand, I do know home (New Orleans) will never be the same for me, especially for you. Wherever you are, keep love and faith in your heart, and get every dime you deserve from the government. In my opinion, no amount is too much, because the government hasn’t done nearly enough to compensate you. Never give up hope. There is a brighter day ahead.
To my fans, writing the series was an enjoyable but not easy journey. After five novels, you’ve anxiously awaited number six, When Somebody Loves You Back, eager to find out what happens to Darius. All I can say is, “You are awesome!” I know many of you are still recommending Soul Mates Dissipate, and I cannot thank you enough for supporting my works.
To my deceased parents, I’ve never written a book without expressing gratitude, and I never will. In loving memory of my biological parents, Joseph Henry Morrison and Elester Noel. To my great-aunt and uncle who reared me, Willie Frinkle and Ella Beatrice Turner, I am eternally grateful.
To my loving son, Jesse Byrd, Jr., anything worth having is worth working for. Continue doing your best at all times. Take the bitter with the sweet. Visualize your success. As Chris Farr tells you, “Prepare for war in time of peace.” I know you can make it into the NBA if you bring your A game every single time. Adversity and success are teachers of life but only when you learn the lessons. Always respect yourself, respect others, and surround yourself with positive people who are good individuals. Stay humble. I’m proud of you, sweetie. You are truly a wonderful young man with great character and you are Mommy’s most cherished gift from God.
A special shout-out to Jason “JG” Grisby, a wonderful young man beginning college. Jason, your strength comes from within. You’ve overcome more mental and physical challenges than the average teenager and I’ve never heard you complain. Jason, you have a quiet sense of confidence that some, but not all, of us understand. Progressing to the next level, you need to step it up and verbalize your confidence. I’m not suggesting you become arrogant. It’s not what you say but how you say it. The key is to speak up, speak out, respectfully so, especially when communicating with coaches.
With mad love for my recently adopted godson, Robert “Chew” Owens, you have made Mama proud. You earned your number-one ranking in the Oakland Athletic League. A wise man, Mr. Al Cason, once told me, “You must always help someone. But when you choose that person, you’ve chosen wrong.” Mr. Cason made it clear that I could never help someone who didn’t want help. Chew, when I looked into your eyes, I felt your sincerity for wanting help. In many ways, I’m the one blessed because you’ve helped me to grow too. As you begin your first year of college, I want you to know, the thing I admire most about you, Chew, is your determination to succeed. No matter how challenging college becomes, hold on to your winning spirit. A man only fails when he fails to try. I will continue to be one of your catalysts. More importantly, I want you, on your road to success, to remember that you must help someone less fortunate. But when you choose that person, you’ve chosen wrong.
I’ve got nothin’ but love for the Oakland/San Francisco Bay Area college basketballers with game: Jesse Byrd, Jr., Antonio Kellog, James Morgan, Manny Quezada, Armondo Surratt, and Alan Wiggins, Jr., at the University of San Francisco; Timothy Kees at Menlo College; Diamon Simpson at St. Mary’s College; Larry Gurganious at Gonzaga University; DeMarcus Nelson at Duke University; Quinton Thomas at North Carolina Universisty, Jason Grisby, and Robert Owens, college bound seniors. Stay focused and I look forward to witnessing all of you play professionally.
To my siblings, you’re the greatest! I love Wayne, Derrick, Andrea, and Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, Debra Noel, and Brian Turner.
To my Sweeter than Honey sisterhood group, author Rachelle Chase, Onie Simpson, and Malissa Walton, I appreciate your love, respect, and wisdom, as we continue to support and empower one another in achieving our personal and professional goals. Let’s attain our group goal of becoming serial daters traveling around the world.
Yolanda Parks of TV One, Michael Baisden, Cherisse Gage, Lissa Woodson, Jeremy “JL” Woodson, Barbara Cooper, Carmen Polk, Shannette Slaughter, Larry Addison, Gloria Mallette, E. Lynn Harris, Lou Richie, Jessie Evans, Chris Farr, Brian Shaw, Phil Doherty, Bill Johnson, Pete Morales, Carl Weber, Victoria Christopher Murray, Ruth and Howard Kees, Vanessa Ibanitoru (my friend since third grade), Brenda and Aaron Clark, and my McDonogh No. 35 Roneagles family, thanks for your continued support.
To my entire Kensington family, Joan, Jessica, Mary, Maureen, Nicole, Steven Zacharius, and Barbara Bennett, I am grateful for all you do.
I love my editor, Karen Thomas. Karen, you have a magnificent head on your shoulders. You’re a powerful and brilliant woman operating the most successful African-American imprint, Dafina Books.
To Claudia Menza, my agent, although we’ve separated, I still love and respect you. When all of the contractual obligations are fulfilled, we will have presented eleven books.
Last, but damn s
ure nuff not least, Felicia Polk, you are forever my best friend and the world’s greatest publicist. May God bless you beyond measure. Thanks for believing in me.
The acknowledgments for my next book are dedicated to book clubs and bookstore owners and managers. I appreciate your love and support.
I have so many more people to acknowledge, but I also have other books to write, so if I didn’t mention you this time, forgive me now, remind me later.
PREFACE
Soul Mates Dissipate, Never Again Once More, He’s Just a Friend, Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top, Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This, and When Somebody Loves You Back are intertwined. I recommend reading the series in the order listed above. You can preview an excerpt of each novel at www.MaryMorrison.com and www.SweeterThanHoney.net.
Next is my Sweeter than Honey series. Pussy is sweeter than honey and more valuable than money. Women everywhere, after reading this series, will become sexually, spiritually, and emotionally empowered, learning, that is, if they don’t already know, women are a triple threat—possessing power, passion, and all the pussy in the world. Fellas, just when you thought it couldn’t get any sweeter for the ladies, more women are earning good salaries and/or owning and operating businesses. Therefore, men who are liabilities can kiss a Sweeter than Honey asset good-bye.
Sweeter than Honey women worship themselves. They don’t hesitate to sit on a man’s face, give him a taste, and ultimately do him right, but only if he comes correct. Sweeter than Honey women demand respect. I know what you guys are thinking…what about the women who disrespect men? Most women respond to the way they are treated. So don’t undermine a woman’s intelligence, expecting her to accept your chauvinistic behavior (i.e., infidelity, lies, control tactics, abuse, etc.). When you genuinely love your woman, she’ll truly love you, but it’s going to cost you. Sweeter than Honey women never give their sweetness away for free.
My Dicktation series is also forthcoming. Dicktation is set in my hometown of New Orleans, which was virtually destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Having grown up in, as we say, Nawlins, I’d like to bring the “City that Care Forgot,” back to life and create visuals for those of you who’d planned on but hadn’t visited New Orleans.
For those of you who’ve left your stamp or stench on The Big Easy by being oh so sleazy, and you know you were off the muthafuckin’ chain—one step away from starring in a Snoop Dog Gone Wild video—if the natives called you cheese-zy ba-ba you are going to love the series. For y’all, Dicktation will reignite fond memories of—Essence, Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, the French Quarters, Bayou Classic, Bourbon Street, Harrah’s Casino, Comic View, 7140, Second Lines, and all the shit you can’t tell nobody, probably ’cause your ass couldn’t remember, but couldn’t wait to do again.
New Orleans will forever be a city like no other, especially after the city is rebuilt, but it’ll never be the same. Therefore, I must do justice to both the before and the after depictions. Dicktation will arise and arouse like no other work I’ve done…until then, enjoy Sweeter than Honey, and remember you are what you eat, so stay sweet.
PROLOGUE
A black woman did it all…because she had to.
She did it all and she did it well, caring for others while neglecting herself. Four hundred and fifty years of birthing babies for white masters and black slaves sold off to the highest bidder, leaving her to raise her children all alone. Four hundred fifty–plus years struggling for freedom, while black men died, for what they seemingly couldn’t live with today, dignity.
Whose fault was that?
If only a man could teach a boy how to become a man, then the question would be rhetorical. If the black woman birthed the black man, raised the black man, loved the black man she gave life to, then when did the black man begin disrespecting the black woman, replacing her birth name with bitch?
Bitch. Bastard. Incontestably the black man could win at one thing: throwing a boomerang. The black man’s life would forever remain incomplete until he learned how to love and respect the black woman. Good or bad—what he believed was golden—a dick didn’t mean shit when the black man chose not to give back to the black woman what she’d freely given to him. Unconditional love. Respect. Devotion.
Freedom came with a price, and now that the black woman could choose her mate, her fate was the same, leaving her to take on more responsibility than she should, but not more than she could, so she carried on doing all she could do, the best she knew how. It’s been proven that if one tried to do everything, one would risk doing nothing well.
After dropping off the kids, working nine-to-five and then sometimes five-to-nine, picking up the kids, cooking dinner, changing diapers, checking homework, and lying down for a four—should be eight—hours’ rest, did the black woman have any quantitative time to invest in her children’s future? If she made time, did she have any qualitative time for herself? If the mother was unhealthy, the children were unhealthy too.
When the alarm clock sounded, the next day was a replica of yesterday, and it seemed like the groundhog saw its shadow every day because each tomorrow for the next eighteen-years-plus brought sorrows that would make demands of the black woman to carry on, humming the same old hymn…“I won’t complain.”
Who would take care of the black woman while she sacrificed to rear her kids, pay the bills, and all too often, sleep alone at night, wondering if her direct deposit would post in time to keep the lights on, or balance her checkbook the day before payday to restock the refrigerator before emptying the cabinets, or feed her children the last few slices of bread while she watched them eat?
The black woman didn’t need anybody’s empathy. She was a survivor by nature. The Mother of Jesus, many denied the undeniable, but what the black woman fell short of was an epiphany: a lesson in how to love herself first. How to stop stressing about not knowing if her baby daddy—daddies—would ever show up at his children’s events, parent-teacher conferences, if he’d ever pay her child support, and ultimately to stop worrying about whom he had sex with when he wasn’t loving her, that is, if he’d ever loved her.
Love or the lack thereof, based on his mother’s mistakes, Darius reluctantly admitted to himself, what most men at some point in their lives experienced; he was terrified of two things: falling in love and failure. No one had taught him how to attain one while avoiding the other. Either, or would render him vulnerable. Destroy his character. Ultimately strip him of his manhood.
A man in love was weak for his woman. Would do anything for his woman. The more he gave, the more control she wanted. Darius didn’t want to be hard on women; he had to be. The cold, callous, careless, arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish person ruling his existence, primarily with his dick, wasn’t him. But if Darius didn’t protect his heart, who would? Surely not the women who’d emotionally broken him down. Like the one blabbering on the other end of his cell phone wasting his time, burning up his daytime minutes.
Sitting in the white Hummer limousine, next to his fiancée, Darius regretted answering his phone. If it were up to him, he would’ve ignored the call, but no, Fancy had to insist, “Answer, it.” Translation, “Put that bitch in check so I won’t have to.”
Darius was stuck again between the old and the new pussies.
Ashlee cried in his ear, “I’m sorry.” No, she wasn’t. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Yes, she did. Otherwise she wouldn’t have phoned. “And no matter what, I love you.” That was probably the one truth.
No woman could resist Darius’s six-foot-eleven, 240-pound muscular caramel frame with six percent body fat, his lustrous shoulder-length locks, chiseled chin, hazel eyes, perfect white teeth, his millions of dollars, or his big eight-inch dick and the fact that he knew how to sling Slugger and eat pussy oh so sweet that the strongest women submitted to him.
Ashlee continued, “But you need to know.”
Exhaling, Darius conceded, “Then tell me.”
Crying, like most women did when they wanted sympathy for something that was
their fault, Ashlee said, “Our son, Darius Junior, died from HIV complications.”
Whoa, that was some cold-blooded shit to drop on a brotha on his wedding day. Hell, any day. “And you?” Darius whispered.
Sniffling, Ashlee said, “Positive.”
The numbness in Darius’s body caused the phone to slip from between his fingers.
Picking up the phone, Fancy questioned Ashlee. “What did you tell him?” Fancy looked at the phone, then said, “Hello? Hello?” Staring at Darius, Fancy began crying along with him. She muttered, “She hung up. Please tell me. What did she say?”
If Fancy had kept her damn mouth shut, he wouldn’t be trippin’ over Ashlee’s bullshit. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his phone?
“Move! From now on, don’t tell me what to do.”
“Don’t you dare turn this on me! Fine, forget I asked. You think you can handle everything by yourself. In here,” Fancy scolded, pressing her finger into Darius’s temple. “Well, you can’t. And I’m not marrying a man who doesn’t need, trust, or value my opinions.”
Softly, Darius said, “It’s not like that. I do respect you.” Her opinion was what he didn’t care for. Darius pressed a button, lowering the divider window, then instructed the driver, “Man, take me straight home.”
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