Also by Tiffany L. Warren
Don’t Tell a Soul
The Replacement Wife
The Favorite Son
The Pastor’s Husband
Her Secret Life
The Outside Child
The Outside Child
TIFFANY L. WARREN
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Tiffany L. Warren
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0875-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0877-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0877-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2018
Acknowledgments
Thank God this book is finished. I have a process to these things: an outline, then a rough draft, and then edits. I work full-time and raise my family, so there’s a rigorous schedule that goes into getting seventy-five thousand words on the page.
This year was tough. Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, Maria, and Nate interrupted my life and my schedule.
But I am done! Thank God!
My thanks to my husband and children. Creamy chicken noodles and black beans and rice for days on end. Leftovers and all that. Saturdays spent watching me holed up in my writing cave (which is just my bed with the TV playing in the background). They’re here for it, and have been, since I started this journey almost fifteen years ago.
Thank you to my team at Kensington, especially my editor, Tara Gavin, who has the patience of Job. My agent, Sara Camilli, never lets me rest, either , and I thank her for that.
Thank you to my readers. Thank you to my author tribe. You know who you are! And for my besties who stay on the wall, and deal with my crazy, let’s go to the beach. I need some Miami in my life right now.
I am done.
Thank God!
Now pass the Moscato.
Prologue
“’Til death do us part.”
I hate the sound of this phrase. Of course, I say it with a smile on my face, because it’s at the end of my wedding vows. But why would I want to think about death on the very best day of my life? Why would anyone?
All I want to focus on is Brayden’s smile, his flawless ebony skin, and the love in his eyes. All I want to think about is Jamaica, where we first laid eyes on each other, and the beach where he took me on our first date. The same beach we are going to stroll down as husband and wife, on our honeymoon.
“By the power vested in me, by God and the city of Dallas, Texas, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”
Brayden had warned me that he wasn’t going to give me a chaste wedding kiss, so his mischievous grin doesn’t surprise me one bit. He scoops me into his strong arms as if I’m weightless.
His soft, full lips part as he gently pulls my face to his. His mouth engulfs mine; his tongue traces a familiar path. Brayden’s kisses are everything. I struggle not to embarrass myself by moaning.
Can we skip the reception part and go straight to the consummating part?
“I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Brayden Carpenter.”
How about Mr. Brayden Carpenter and Mrs. Chenille Abrams-Carpenter? My name doesn’t just disappear into his, nor do I disappear into him. At least I don’t plan to.
Hand in hand, my new husband and I face the cheering crowd of three hundred friends, family, and Brayden’s teammates on the Dallas Knights. I think my face might crack from smiling so hard.
“How does it feel to be an NFL wife?” Brayden whispers in my ear.
“It feels great being your wife. The NFL can kiss my ass,” I whisper back.
Brayden throws his head back and howls, probably because he knows I’m serious. I didn’t set out to be a football wife, and I don’t plan to do any of the typical football wife things. No, I’m not going to sit at all the games wearing his jersey and screaming at hecklers. I’m not going to start a YouTube cooking show, and I damn sure am not going to star in a reality show.
I have a career of my own: makeup artist to the stars. Well, the Atlanta stars, anyway. I built my business from the ground up, from doing fake lashes for my friends in our Clark Atlanta University dorm, to commanding an entire team on movie sets and backstage at concerts.
I don’t need the National Football League.
Brayden and I dance all the way down the long center aisle of the church, to “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire. I chuckle to myself as we pass Brayden’s mother, Marilyn, whose perfectly lipsticked little mouth is turned downward into a frown. She wanted us to dance out on a Kirk Franklin song. I vetoed that, just like I vetoed her menu of filet mignon and salmon, and her suggestion that we only have three bridesmaids and three groomsmen.
My man, my wedding and my choice.
Luckily, Brayden isn’t the mama’s boy his mother would like him to be. He cares more about how I feel than how she feels, and that is exactly how it’s supposed to be. I wouldn’t have it any different.
My parents beam with pride as we dance past their row. My dad gives Brayden a fist bump and my mom blows us both kisses. My parents are extremely excited to have an NFL son-in-law. Actually, any son-in-law is just fine for them. They were convinced that I would never get married an
d give them grandchildren. The family whispered behind my back at family reunions that I was probably a lesbian, because everyone in Atlanta flies the rainbow flag.
When we get to the back of the church, I stealthily slide out of the heels my wedding stylist forced me to wear, and into the bedazzled flats that were waiting for me. I will wear the heels in the wedding photos, but then I’m done.
I wish I could pull all the pins out of my hair and let it fall free. My big and heavy mane doesn’t like to be restrained. Kara, my maid of honor and my assistant, had done my hair in this intricate updo designed to show off my neck and the diamonds that adorn it. My hair is snatched so tightly that my already almond-shaped eyes are even more slanted.
The wedding coordinator makes announcements to our guests as the entire bridal party is swept away in two limo trucks. We’re going to do photographs at the country club before everyone else arrives.
This entire day is exhausting.
“You good, babe?” Brayden asks as he grabs a bottle of water from the limo refrigerator and hands it to me.
I nod. “Is there any wine, though?”
Kara shakes her head, and about three thousand curls all bounce simultaneously.
“Why are you shaking your head?” I ask.
“No wine. You need to stay hydrated. That tight corseted dress and this heat . . .”
I give her three slow blinks and then look at Brayden. “Why is this killjoy in our limo? Can we call security and have her removed?”
Brayden kisses my forehead and hands me the water. “She’s right. Water now, and you can have some wine later.”
I stick my tongue out at Kara, and she winks at me. I guzzle the water down—guess I was thirstier than I thought.
“Where’s my phone?” I ask Kara.
“It’s put away in your bag, where you won’t be able to get to it until after your first night of wedded bliss,” Kara says. “At the groom’s request.”
I feel my upper lip curl with irritation. I didn’t get where I am by ignoring calls for an entire day. That’s not how I run my business.
“I can look at it now. We’re in the car. I will put it away when we get to the reception venue.”
“No work today,” Brayden says.
“I could be missing out on money.”
“You’re not. I’m monitoring our email accounts. Everyone knows to text me if they can’t get you. Plus, who’s trying to do business with you today? Your wedding is all over the entertainment blogs. They know you’re not available,” Kara says.
They must not understand how naked I feel without my phone in my hand.
“If you miss out on any jobs, I’ll pay you for lost wages,” Brayden says. His best friend and best man, Jarrod, gives him a fist bump, and they all laugh—even the limo driver.
“You don’t have to worry about money anymore,” Jarrod says. His large rolls jiggle underneath his tux jacket with his laughter. “You can let another makeup artist eat now.”
“Oh, I am going to continue working. That’s without question.”
“You’re gonna have to get her knocked up real quick,” Jarrod says. “Then maybe she’ll sit down and be a wife.”
I close my eyes, inhale and then exhale. First of all, Jarrod doesn’t even have a wife, because he prefers being a man whore. So how does he know what a wife is supposed to do? Second of all, I know Brayden better get his boy before I do.
I feel Brayden’s strong hand squeeze my bouncing knee. He’s trying to calm me down, and I appreciate him for that. I don’t feel like cursing anyone out on my wedding day.
“Man, I didn’t marry her so we can have a bunch of babies. I married this woman because her hustle matches my hustle. Her grind matches my grind. We will never be broke, even if I leave the NFL today. My baby is a boss.”
Brayden kisses my cheek and squeezes my hand, but I still give Jarrod a glare that signifies my highest level of pisstivity. But Jarrod grins at me like he knows something that I don’t know.
“Kara, make sure you respond to every booking request that comes through over the next seventy-two hours. The bloggers are giving us a tremendous amount of press.”
And they are giving us that press because I sent press releases that made sure to mention Beat by Chenille and directed readers to my web portfolio. We’re spending eighty thousand dollars on this wedding—might as well make it an investment.
“Already on it, Nille. Don’t worry. I won’t drop the ball,” Kara says.
I believe her. She works as hard as I do. She’s the best partner I could ever have.
I flip my thousand-dollar hairweave and ease into Brayden’s one-armed embrace, satisfied that my business will survive a few days of my absence.
Finally, I return Jarrod’s grin. He doesn’t know anything about me, about us, and about this happily ever after. He’s a whore with whore ways who chases booty and then tosses it in the trash. What would he know about saying “I do” or being married to a boss?
Chapter 1
Two years ago
My nerves are shot.
I should be ecstatic, thrilled, overwhelmed, and every other adjective to describe a makeup artist on their first big celebrity gig. It’s in Jamaica, for crying out loud. That alone should make my spirits soar.
But all I can think about is my brand-new ex-boyfriend, Cody. He was supposed to be here with me. We were going to make love in our suite during my downtime. We were going to lie on the beach and plan our future. We were going to have the time of our lives.
But he couldn’t keep his penis out of other women’s vaginas.
Every time I close my eyes I think of what I found on his phone. I wish I hadn’t looked, because everything had changed after that. Two weeks ago, everyone had looked to us as their relationship goal. Now, we are irretrievably broken.
I remember the events of that night. We had gone out to dinner to celebrate his birthday, had great sex, and were resting in his huge bed.
I’d picked up his phone, intending to text myself the cute selfie we’d taken at dinner. His phone had been unlocked, because he always kept it unlocked. We’d trusted each other.
I’d clicked on his photo, and found the selfie, but I mistakenly clicked on the video that was next to the selfie. It played, and my jaw dropped.
It was Cody and some random girl. He was taking her from behind as she cried, “Happy dirty thirty, Daddy.”
I hadn’t even roused him from his sleep to argue. I’d gotten dressed and snuck out of the bed and his condo. I’d sent him a text later, congratulating him on his birthday conquest. He’d called me insecure and petty.
So instead of holding hands with my man and looking out at the clouds, I’m on this first-class flight with my best friend and assistant, Kara.
“I can’t believe we’re about to land in Montego Bay,” Kara says as she peers out the airplane window.
“I know. I’ve never been out of the country.”
“If I had a boo, it would be perfect. Maybe I’ll pull one of these ballers with this thong bikini.”
Kara will pull someone this weekend, even if it’s a temporary fling. Late last year, she’d hopped another flight to the Dominican Republic and had all the fat sucked out of her size-fourteen stomach and pumped right into her booty. She’d already had big breasts, so now she looked just like the letter S, with a teeny, tiny waist.
The flight attendant announces that we’re about to land, so I make sure my seat belt is fastened, my tray table stowed, and my seat is in the upright position. Kara does none of the above.
The landing goes smoothly, and we emerge from the plane into the Montego Bay airport. I have to say, I was expecting more from an international airport. It’s small like a regional airport in the States, and it’s sweltering hot, like the air conditioning is broken.
Kara fans herself and cusses as we stand in the long line for customs. I can’t even get worked up about the wait. I think after crying for two weeks, I’ve emptied myself of emotion
s.
We walk toward the hotel shuttle van that has been reserved for the concert attendees. I see people pulling tickets out of their wallets and bags—everyone except me and Kara.
“Were we supposed to have a ticket?” I ask.
Kara made all of the arrangements for this trip, with my credit card, of course. I haven’t seen any of the confirmations, because Kara has booked travel for me before.
“I wasn’t provided any tickets.”
“Oh, okay.”
I walk over to the pile of bags next to the shuttle van, to make sure mine and Kara’s luggage is there. It is.
“Are we supposed to have tickets for this shuttle?” I ask the bag porter.
“Huh?”
“Tickets. Do we need tickets?”
The porter’s eyes widen. “Oh, you think I work here?”
His American accent immediately makes me know that I’ve made a mistake.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just that . . . you have the same kind of outfit as . . .”
Kara walks up with a huge smile on her face. “You’re already meeting celebrities, I see, and we haven’t even gotten to the resort yet.”
My stomach drops with embarrassment. Who in the world is this guy? I feel like an idiot that I don’t know and Kara obviously does.
“Brayden Carpenter,” the porter lookalike says as he extends his hand to me. I return his firm handshake, but I still have no idea who he is.
“She’s not into sports,” Kara says. “He plays for the Dallas Knights. NFL. I’m Kara.”
“Oh!” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mistake you for a bag porter. It’s just that I see everyone with a ticket, and . . .”
“She’s just nervous,” Kara says.
“Not a problem,” Brayden says. “Are you guys going to the Tropical Get Down?”
“Yes, of course,” Kara says.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you there,” Brayden replies.
“I’ll be working,” I say.
Why did I say that? I’m one hundred percent sure he’s just being nice and doesn’t care whether he sees us or not, but I had to tell him that I’m working.
The Outside Child Page 1
