The Eleventh Commandment
Page 1
Also by Lutishia Lovely
The Hallelujah Love Series
Sex in the Sanctuary
Love Like Hallelujah
A Preacher’s Passion
Heaven Right Here
Reverend Feelgood
Heaven Forbid
Divine Intervention
The Business Series
All Up in My Business
Mind Your Own Business
Taking Care of Business
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
The Eleventh Commandment
LUTISHIA LOVELY
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Lutishia Lovely
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Eleventh Commandment
1 - Friendships and Fatherhood
2 - The Ex Factor
3 - Sistah-Girls, Sistah-Chats
4 - Sistah-Girls, Sistah-Chats, Part 2
5 - Expensive Toys and Pretty Boys
6 - A Welcomed Distraction
7 - Doctor’s Orders?
8 - No Place Like Home
9 - No Friend Like an Old Friend
10 - The Woman I Am
11 - We’ll See What’s Up
12 - Happy Family, Happy Meal
13 - Nosy Nannies
14 - Friends and Facebook
15 - Assuming the Best
16 - Bump the B. S.
17 - Flashback to the Future
18 - Watch and Pray
19 - Three’s a Crowd
20 - Healing, Health, and Happiness
21 - That Cake, Cake, Cake!
22 - Friends and Favors
23 - Sounds Like a Plan
24 - For Old Time’s Sake
25 - The Trisha Temptation
26 - Game. Set. Match?
27 - The Juice
28 - Back to Malibu
29 - Family Affairs
30 - Freaks and Peeks
31 - And You Must Be . . .
32 - Get Here When You Can
33 - For Always
34 - The Million-Dollar Question
35 - You Want Me to Do What?
36 - Mama’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe
37 - Life After
38 - Choices
39 - The Bigger They Are
40 - Game On
41 - Lights Out
42 - That MF’er!
43 - Mr. R & B
44 - The Eleventh Commandment
45 - Everything Is Possible
46 - Break Up to Make Up
47 - A Reminder
48 - Revelations
49 - A New Day
50 - The Woman I AM
51 - A Pledge of Allegiance
52 - Marriage Vows
53 - As Long As It Takes
54 - Love Unconditionally
A READING GROUP GUIDE
Discussion Questions
Divine Intervention
Copyright Page
This novel is dedicated to Selena James, the kind of wonderful, true-blue friend you always want in your corner, and in her role as editor ... an author’s dream.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s the wee hours of the morning and I can’t believe it, y’all. I have just completed my . . . drum roll . . . twentieth novel!!! No research assistants. No ghostwriters. Just me, myself, and Zuri Day—in a little over six years—churning out page after page. I sit here amazed, humbled (and after pulling a fifteen-plus-hour day, a little delirious!), but filled with gratitude. I’m so blessed to get to do what I do, to have a career that I love, and a team of wonderfully gifted and talented people who support me.
When I sat down to type the first words to my first book in 2001, I had no idea where that act of obedience to Spirit’s gentle prodding would lead me. In 2004, when I felt I’d properly researched the industry and pulled my pennies together to publish Sex in the Sanctuary independently, and then channeled E. Lynn by pushing it in barbershops, beauty shops, gas stations, grocery store parking lots, and wherever else from the trunk of my car, I wasn’t sure how this whole literary career thing would turn out. I simply did what I could, when I could. And kept believing.
When after a year of ghostwriting and pushing my own product I determined I needed a book deal, and when I took three of my remaining inventory to something I’d heard of called Book Expo and told myself with absolute assurance that I would get a deal there, I had no idea how it would happen. That first entrance into New York City’s Jacob Javits Center, where more than ten thousand people were waiting for the doors to open, had a sistah intimidated. But I put faith over fear and began introducing myself to any and everybody as “the best-selling author who’d just sold out my first print run.” When I stepped into the Kensington booth, I had no idea that the woman I was talking to, the one who was showing more interest than the other publishers in other aisles, was an acquisitions editor. And when I finally followed up with her two months later, I had no idea that this AE angel, Hillary Sares, had been trying to reach me all that time!
It takes a village to raise an author, and I owe so much gratitude to so many that it’s hard to thank them all in one setting. But given the specialness of this occasion, I’d like to thank some now, even if I may have thanked them before. Hillary, thank you. Karen Thomas, who green-lit that first novel, much obliged. To Kensington, the literary family I’ve grown up in, the Team Lutishia who care so much and do so much and support me all the way: Steven Zacharias, Laurie Parkin, and all the executive staff, Doug Mendini and the sales team, Lesleigh Irish-Underwood, Alex and Alex, and everyone in marketing, Kristine Mills-Noble and the art team for my fabulous covers, Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, and the PR staff, Selena and the production team, especially Robin Cook. It would be easier to just reprint the company directory because I’m sure I’ve left someone out. But thank you, Kensington. Big hug!
To my agent, Natasha Kern, and my promotions guru, Ella Curry. To Debra Owsley, who hooks me up with great giveaway items, and to Jessica Wright Tillis for the wonderful excerpt pamphlets. Appreciate you, ladies! To those authors who are also my friends, who encourage me when I need it and give me a “get ’er done” to cheer me on! You know who you are and I appreciate you, thank you, and love you. See you at the next conference (or on the next cruise, Mrs. Brenda Jackson!). A special shout out to Football Widows author Pat Tucker for the Los Angeles Sea Lions who appear in this book.
I thank my family, who has encouraged me along every step of every journey I’ve ever taken. And then there is you, each of the readers/fans/supporters who are why I’m able to do what I do. Yes, you, the one who takes a novel that spent about nine months in production (not including the time it took me to write it ) and then reads it in one day. Yes, you, who writes me e-mails mad about what some character did and suggests what should happen in the next installment. And you, who tells me that you’ve seen yourself, or someone you know, in my characters and that what I’ve written has touched your heart. Or made you laugh. Or cry. Or curse. Or all of the above!
Though there are literally thousands of names that belong here, these are but a few I’ve gathered while working on this novel: Shannon Barnett, Doneisha Bridgeforth, Sonja Vann, Nora Hayes-Clark (your long wait is over sistah!—wink—), Kim Knight, and all of the service men and women who read my work while serving our country. Ryan Ivory, Denise Springs, GAYLE Jackson Sloan (yes, I’m shouting!—smile—), Sharon Blount, Denise Williamson-Garrett and her aspiring writer daughter, Sparkle, Norfolk, England’s Linda Berry (and all of my internation
al fans!), Shana Smith, Monique Menefee, Angelia Vernon Menchan, Synita Gardner, Allyson Deese, Lacha Michelle, Daphne Foreman, Sandy Barrett Sims, Andrea Corbin Huff, Denise Keese, Marsha Cecil, Eriq Cunningham, Zaundra Lewis-Cooper, Rose Jackson-Beavers, Audra Golson, Carmen Blalock, Angelique Pickett-Henderson, Antoinette Hunter, Denisha Miller, Janette Malcolm, LaKeesha “Missy” Jackson, Aquita Lane, Lynee Jordan, Nia Stanley, Angela Varnado, Nikisha Wallace-Smith, Valerie Butler, Tennille Madden, India Watson, Sharmon Lynette, Dionne Payton, Kandi Graham, Charliene Crowder, Christy Pantel, Valerie Martin, Charles Henry Hall, Monique Matthews Waddell, and Kenneth and Nicole Royal. To Yolanda Gore and Orsayor Simmons, who without my asking have gone above and beyond in promoting my work.
Book clubs! I can’t forget you: Readers of Paradise (Chi-town, yeah, baby!), Claritta Stinson and Sistahs of Color Book Club, Nikisha Wallace Smith & In the Company of my Sisters, Readers by Choice, Chi-Town Reading Circle, Readers in Motion, Deirdre Newsome and Beyond the Reading, Tanesha Mapson and AOOA, Bonita Thornton and Sistahs Thoughts from Coast to Coast, Black Faithful Sisters and Brothers Book Club, Lashaunda McKinley and Ebony Pages, OOSA, Sharon Blount and Building Relationships Around Books, Turning Pages Book Club, Yasmin Coleman, Priscilla Johnson, and all the reviewers and members of APOOO, Ebony Pages Book Club, Sisters United and Lisa Renee Johnson and Sistahs on the Reading Edge. A thousand thanks to all of you and a thousand more to those book clubs who’ve read me and I don’t know about and/or didn’t mention. Let me know so that I can give you a shout out! To Lissa Woodson and the Cavalcade of Authors. Chicago was a blast!
Spirit, the All That Is, You are indeed everything to me. Thank You. To my angels . . . I soar to success on your wings!
Whew, all that and I’m sure I still forgot somebody. I told y’all it takes a village. But don’t trip. If you’re not in here it just means I’ve got to write another book. So let me get to it! Book number twenty-one, here I come!!!
The Eleventh Commandment
It’s Lutishia Lovely coming to you with a little ditty that I
Wrote while I was hanging out in the city.
It’s the hook for my latest lit release,
Another hallelujah love about to hit the streets.
It’s got drama, twists and turns, humor, inspiration,
Both characters and readers gonna get some revelations.
We know there’s ten commandments, not five, six or seven,
Well . . . Now there’s about to be eleven.
You should know yourself,
And uphold yourself,
And let unconditional love be the only kind
That you show yourself. (repeat)
You’ve heard you should not steal and that you shouldn’t kill,
And that you shouldn’t bow down to an image outside Spirit’s will,
That you should not take the name of the Lord in vain,
And to keep the Sabbath day holy and free from strain.
Don’t lie on your neighbors or envy what they’ve got,
Honor your mama and your daddy, whether they’re good or not.
You should not creep and sleep with another’s boo,
and I’ll add: do to others what you want done to you.
** Eleventh Commandment**
This is the eighth installment of Hallelujah Love,
And I’m still getting story lines from up above.
So don’t worry that this is the last—not quite;
I don’t see an end to this series up in sight.
If you’ve heard or read or tried to follow, understand,
This is my own interpretation of the ten commands.
And you don’t have to agree with me for you to get to heaven,
But I sincerely suggest you try number eleven . . .
You should know yourself,
And uphold yourself,
And let unconditional love be the only kind
That you show yourself. (repeat)
1
Friendships and Fatherhood
“ Ooh, yeah, just like that, just like that!” Frieda Moore-Livingston cooed as expert hands moved up and down her bare back, across her shoulders and back down . . . kneading, rubbing, before coming to that sensitive dimpled spot just above her juicy assets. “That . . . feels . . . so . . . good.” “Oohs” and “aahs” surrounded each word that oozed from her lips. Strong, lean fingers continued down her thighs, paying special attention to the calves and feet before heading back the way they’d come, lingering at the small of her back, switching to feather-light strokes as they splayed across her shoulders and along the nape of her neck. Frieda felt as though she’d have an orgasm right on the spot. It had taken her a while to understand the hype. But now she was a true believer: there was nothing better than an afternoon massage.
“We’re done, pretty lady.” Tyson, the masseur to the stars and to those with star quality (translated, plenty of cash), tapped Frieda lightly on the shoulder to signal the end of their session. “See you next week?”
“Of course, baby,” Frieda said, turning over and getting off the table, shamelessly letting the towel fall on the floor. More than once Tyson had suggested she wait until he leave to begin dressing, but Frieda had other plans. Often, she’d wondered how it would be to have other body parts massaged during these sessions, but so far her not-too-subtle hints had only been met with a patient smile. The first assumption had been that he was gay. After all, who would turn down what Frieda called “pussy on a platter”? But her friend Stacy’s baby daddy, Darius, had told her that Tyson didn’t get down in that club and since the platinum-selling R & B singing sensation was patently homosexual and very much a part of that world, Frieda thought that he would know. If not for the fact that she was now headed to a thick link of sausage not far from her old stomping grounds, she might have been insulted. As it were, she simply laughed as Tyson quickly averted his eyes and left the room.
Moments later, Frieda clicked the locks on her shiny new Lexus LX and slid inside. Ever since she’d purchased the pearl wonder with light tan seats, she’d given to wearing outfits and/or accessories in the same color, often finished off with Louboutin pumps and pearl-colored Gucci shades. Frieda’s picture could have appeared next to the word materialistic, but she didn’t mind. She’d learned how in LA image was everything. She had faked it until she made it and snagged a doctor in the process. Thinking of Gabriel, the hardworking husband and sponsor of the designer duds she wore, caused a tiny tinge of guilt as she turned down Martin Luther King Boulevard and headed toward where she used to live. Passing row after row of modest apartments much like the one she’d rented upon arrival from Kansas City, she reflected on her journey from then till now, and how far she’d come in less than five years. When she’d left the Midwest and a drug-slinging boyfriend to join her cousin and best friend, Hope Taylor, in the City of Angels, all she’d hoped for was a good time. And now here she was a wife and mother, living in a tony Westside neighborhood amid five-thousand square feet of luxury, a bank account courtesy of her husband that never boasted less than five figures, credit cards with no limits, a chef, a maid, and a nanny/house manager. Sometimes she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. And sometimes she had to do what she was doing now. . . . go slumming for something that money couldn’t buy—a thick piece of sausage.
“Get in here, girl,” a tall brothah said as he opened his apartment door. His island accent was as sexy as his long thick locks, his ebony skin, his straight white teeth, and his washboard abs. “You know me don’t like to wait for ya.”
Frieda was nonplussed as she threw her purse on the couch. She kept silent as she unzipped the front zipper on her pearl-colored mini and let it fall to the floor. Her cell phone vibrated, but she ignored it as she reached behind her and unclasped her bra. The youngblood’s eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. That’s right, she thought. This caramel goodness is worth the wait, isn’t it? Her nanny/house manager’s son, Clark, could say whatever he
wanted just as long as he did what she told him to. And he did. Long and hard. Every single time. “Stop sulking and get over here,” she said, looking fierce while wearing nothing but a wispy thong, five-inch pumps, and a smile. “And show Mami how much you’ve missed me since I’ve been gone.”
Two hours later a totally satiated and satisfied Frieda left the hood and headed back toward the Westside, and her appointment at the spa. The man was a beast, and she needed professional help to wipe the just-been-sexed-to-within-an-inch-of-my-life look off her face and body. It would be the last appointment of the day before heading home to a quiet evening, probably alone. Even though it was likely that Gabriel would work well into the night, Frieda always scheduled a spa visit after her romps with Clark. She never wanted to make her husband suspicious and had learned early on that the astute doctor didn’t miss much. No, tonight she was not in the mood for a lecture on what he sometimes called “behavior inappropriate for a doctor’s wife.” There was already enough on her mind. Like Clark, and how she was going to continue to have her cake and eat it too.
Her phone rang and as she looked at the dash, she again felt a twinge of guilt. The last thing in the world she ever thought would happen was that she’d go soft. The old Frieda wouldn’t have given two hoots about what anybody else thought or felt. Undoubtedly her cousin would attribute it to the Holy Spirit that Hope swore never left Frieda’s side. I hope that Brothah took a break just now. Otherwise, He got an eyeful! Frieda thought it was less likely divine intervention and more probably motherhood that had unearthed the heart she’d buried during her teenage years, fending for herself on Prospect Avenue, perhaps dug up by the three-year-old who had both his parents wrapped around his finger. Or maybe it’s you, she thought, reaching to connect the call. She could honestly say she loved the somewhat stodgy, somewhat geeky doctor whose work was his passion. Even though he bored her to tears.