Married on Mondays

by HoneyB

  No broke-ass dick

  Acknowledgments

  I thank God for His creations—birds, bees, flowers, trees, you, and me.

  I am grateful for my blessings seen and unforeseen.

  I pray the words I write will encourage you to think about your life. I appreciate my readers who love my work; I sincerely thank you. To those who are uncomfortable with erotica, sex, or sexuality, yet you continue to read my books, I appreciate you. When we open our hearts and minds, we find the beauty in our differences is learning to understand one another and not judge our family, friends, and neighbors.

  Wholeheartedly, I invite you to either step outside of or slip inside of your comfort zone as you read HoneyB. HoneyB is my pseudonym. Mary Beatrice Morrison is my birth name. My HoneyB novels are erotic. My Mary B. Morrison novels are sexually explicit. All of my books have thought-provoking plots and messages relating to relationship issues, some of which you may have encountered.

  Jesse Bernard Byrd, Jr., my loving son, is my perfect child. He brings me joy. Seeing his face lifts my spirit. Son, I’m proud of you and of your accomplishments as a columnist for the University of California, Santa Barbara Daily Nexus newspaper, your determination, dedication, and commitment to the UC Santa Barbara Men’s Basketball team, and your being an honorable gentleman. You are a brilliant writer. Keep rising to the top.

  There are two more gentlemen I congratulate with pride and joy, my nephews who graduated from Houston High School in Warner Robins, Georgia: Janard Bryant Morrison for his commitment to the United States Marines and Roland Henry Morrison for continuing on to college. I pray for your continued health, safety, success, and happiness.

  To my editor, Karen R. Thomas, you’re the best. Your endless smile brightens my day. Even when you are overwhelmed with professional and personal obligations, you find time to respond to my concerns. Thanks so much.

  To Linda A. Duggins, my fabulous publicist, who gets it all done without breaking a sweat, I thank you. Jamie Raab, you are wonderful. Thanks for having me as one of your authors. And to LaToya Smith, congratulations on becoming an editor, and I appreciate the fact you are never too busy to assist me.

  Andrew Stuart, my guardian angel agent. Thanks for understanding my needs as an author, a businesswoman, a single mom, and an individual. There are many words to describe your undying support but genuine comes to mind first. I’m grateful for all you do.

  Both of my parents have made their transitions into eternity, my mother when I was nine years old and my father when I was twenty-four years old. Now they are my angels in heaven. They’ve blessed me with the greatest siblings—Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without each of you. Thanks for keeping it real.

  To my family and friends who support me 24/7, I love you: Treece Johnson-Mallard, James Mallard, Bryan Turner, Valerie Jackson, Angela Lewis-Morrison, John Ferguson, Danette Morrison, Roland Morrison, Desi Rickerson, Edward and LaTasha Allen, Rachelle Davis, Lauren Davis, Angela Davis, Felicia Polk, Vyllorya A. Evans, Carmen Polk, Malissa Tafere, Onie Simpson, Barbara Cooper, Valeta Sutton, Eve Lynne Robinson, Mother Bolton, Shannette Slaughter, Marissa Monteilh, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Noire, Richard C. Montgomery, and my McDonogh 35 Senior High (New Orleans) peeps… “Ya heard me.”

  Mad love and thanks to Michael Baisden, the Bad Boy of radio, for having me as a recurring guest on your show. I appreciate your generosity. And Michael, you know I have to thank George Willborn too. George, you are so hilarious. I love you both.

  Real love to my KBLX family, Nikki Thomas, Kevin Brown, Jacques Pryor, and Maria Costen, for heavily supporting me and my “Tell It All” relationship real talk with no limits venues in the Oakland/San Francisco Bay area.

  To Bernard Henderson of Alexander Book Company in San Francisco, Vera Warren-Williams, owner of Community Book Center, Michele Lewis, owner of Afro-American Book Stop (both in New Orleans), to Gwen Richardson of Cuschcity.com in Houston, and to Curtis Bunn of Atlanta, I thank you for always including me at your national book events, in store at Alexander, Essence Music Festival in New Orleans, the National Black Book Festival in Houston, and the National Book Club Conference in Atlanta.

  There are many of you who support me by reading, selling, or promoting my novels, and our paths may cross via email, between the pages of my novels, or in spirit, but for everything you do, I say, “Thank you, and I wish you the best of everything.”

  In loving memory of E. Lynn Harris, a friend and a man with a passion and compassion for life and people. I’m honored to have shared precious moments with him. His spirit and contribution to the literary world will dwell in my heart forever.

  Oh, I cannot conclude without giving a shout-out to my FaceBook friends. If you are not my friend yet, please make a request at www.facebook.com/mary.b.morrison.

  Feel free to email me at mary@marymorrison.com and sign up for my HoneyBuzz Newsletter at www.marymorrison.com.

  DARIUS JONES

  by Mary B. Morrison

  Darius

  CHAPTER 1

  For once in my life, I was happy. I mean genuinely happy.

  My mother, wife, and son were my world. My mother was my rock. My wife was my rib. My son kept me focused on what was important in life… family.

  Some thought me to be arrogant, cocky, a shit talker, an asshole. Others thought of me as the shit. Fans begged for my autograph, photo ops, or lingered near the arena exit to touch my jersey or shake my hand. Groupies stalked me, followed me from city to city; some even knocked on my hotel door, praying for a chance to suck or ride my dick.

  I considered myself the best. I was the best in the professional basketball league. I worked out and practiced every day. Shot around on game day. I lived and breathed basketball. I could easily get into a zone and block out people and the things happening around me.

  My wife taught me to make time for her and my son, who by the way wasn’t her son. I slipped up and got my stepsister pregnant. At first, that was the worst mistake of my life. But having my son in my life was no mistake. Couldn’t have created him with any other woman.

  My mother showed me that people are more important than things and that things happen. Not beyond our control, but sometimes because we lost control. Letting ourselves go with the flow, we occasionally chased the people and things we felt were good for us, but not important to us. Mom said, “Sometimes we’re right. Sometimes we’re wrong. Darius, what’s more important than making mistakes is learning from your mistakes.”

  I was happy my wife hadn’t given up on me. Fancy was the only woman who could satisfy me. In my heart, my head, and the bedroom, that woman drove me fucking nuts. My nuts were hers and hers alone. I wasn’t tripping off of no groupie chick tryna suck or ride my dick. I’d had enough head to know no woman sucked my dick better than my wife. And Lord, no woman had fucked me senseless until I’d met LadyCat.

  MaDear, my grandmother, probably rolled over in her grave whenever she heard me say or even think of using the Lord’s name in vain. But I was sure the Lord didn’t mind my using his name to express how excited my wife made me.

  I didn’t ask my wife to sign no prenuptial agreement. I came from a self-made millionaire mom. Made my own millions. Although my wife had earned her own millions selling real estate, my money was my wife’s money. Money didn’t make Darius Jones. Took me awhile to realize that shit.

  I looked at my wife and smiled. “Baby, I love you so much, I want to marry you again.”

  Her hand was at the top of the steering wheel. She slid her hand down and around, turning onto Wilshire Boulevard, then letting the wheel slide between her fingers as the tires realigned with our SUV. Damn, she had the sexiest mannerisms. Her hair flowed over her bare shoulders. Her titties were perched high under her summer dress.

  “I’d marry you again in a heartbeat too,” she said, smiling back at me.

  “Daddy, I want you to marry my mom
my. Can you marry her too?” my son asked.

  Kids say the darndest things, but my son was brainwashed by his mother, Ashlee. No telling what would come out of his mouth. Ashlee had planted so many seeds in his head about our being a family one day and how he shouldn’t call my wife “mother” or “mommy” but to call her by her first name, Fancy.

  Fancy chuckled at DJ. I turned to my son, who was strapped in his car seat, and said, “My man, marrying two women would send your daddy to jail. You don’t want me to go to jail, do you?”

  “Nope, but Mommy does.”

  I shook my head, then dialed my mom. She answered, “Hey, baby.”

  “Ma, what’s wrong?” I asked right away. The tone of her voice indicated she was disturbed about something.

  Fancy looked at my face. She frowned too. I held up my hand to my wife, letting her know I’d handle whatever was bothering my mom.

  “Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

  “You still joining us for dinner tonight?” I asked her. “We’re almost at Wolfgang’s Steakhouse.

  “I’ll call you back and let you know. I’m not sure,” she said somberly.

  “Is that Grant Hill guy pressuring you? Is he tripping again? I told you I can make him disappear from your life permanently.”

  “He wants me to go to a movie premiere with him tonight. I wouldn’t mind if his ex Honey wasn’t going to be there. Just not sure I’m feeling up to any drama, that’s all.”

  “I’m sending a car for you, Ma. Come have dinner with us. It’s not often we’re back in our hometown of LA at the same time.”

  “I’m okay, sweetheart. I’ll call you in a few and let you know what I decide. Give my lil’ man a kiss for me.”

  “That I can do too, Ma. I love you. Thanks for always being there for me. Let me be there for you.”

  Mom sniffled, then said, “I love you too, sweetheart. Bye.”

  DJ was too far away for me to kiss his cheek, so I kissed my hand, touched my son’s hand, then said, “That’s from your grandma.”

  I had no problem showing my son love and affection. Had no problem keeping him in line either. Didn’t want him to become the spoiled brat I was. I’d had so many women, I’d lost count by the time I’d met Fancy. I was glad I hadn’t married Maxine, my first fiancée. She’d contracted HIV. Sometimes I wondered if that was my fault. Wasn’t sure Maxine would’ve cheated on me had I not cheated on her. With my promiscuous ways, one would think I would’ve contracted the disease, not her. Maxine had two lovers: me and the dude that infected her. I was the male whore, so to speak, and not ashamed of my past, mind you. My whoring around before settling down made me a better man.

  The women I’d fucked, including my son’s mother, Ashlee, had come to me with their pussies on silver platters. Well, that wasn’t exactly true about Ashlee. I pursued her. There was something pure and innocent about her. Ashlee was beautiful, friendly, and naïve. She believed in me, like my mom. And perhaps, at one time, I was in love with Ashlee. Until she fucked my brother. I would’ve cut her off, dismissed her, gotten rid of her, all of that, if she’d fucked any other man.

  But for her to have fucked my scheming, scandalous, trifling, conniving brother Kevin, the only brother I had alive since my brother Darryl died, was too much. I tried to bring Kevin’s ass up, and he tried to bury me by stealing over a million dollars of my money and fucking Ashlee. Talk about ashes to ashes, that dude was dirt. Scum. Blood didn’t make him worthy of my respect. Kevin deserved to die in that fire he’d set to my office building. He’d thought I was inside. Instead, Ashlee was the one burned. Her face, like her heart, was permanently scarred.

  Fancy’s hand slid from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom. “Baby, is your mother okay? We can cancel dinner if you’d like.”

  That was what I loved about my wife. She always considered my feelings. “Nah, I’ll call her from the restaurant.”

  My wife looked at me and smiled. The steering wheel slid between her fingers.

  I pointed at the car speeding in our direction. “Baby! Watch—”

  Crash!

  “Oh, my God.” In seconds, my air bag inflated, jamming my body against my seat. My face was pressed up sideways against the headrest. My wife’s air bag hadn’t deployed. Her forehead was split from her hairline to her nose.

  “Daddy!” my son screamed.

  Fighting my way from underneath the air bag, I reached into the backseat and unbuckled my son. I pulled him into my arms and held his body close to mine, shielding his face from Fancy. My wife wasn’t moving. All I saw was blood gushing from her head. I don’t know how much time passed before a paramedic opened Fancy’s door. All I could do was cry, “Please, save my wife.”

  I got out of the SUV with my son and ran to the ambulance to be close to my wife.

  “Sir, we’ve got to go,” the paramedic said, slamming the door in my face.

  Anger consumed me. I stormed over to the driver of the other car. “What the fuck have you done!”

  His eyes were blood red, but he wasn’t bleeding. His face was distorted. His apology—“Look, I’m sorry, man. Hope your wife is okay”—was slurred.

  I wanted to punch him in his drunken face. “For your sake, you’d better pray she’s all right.” Another paramedic and a police officer approached me, so I knew I couldn’t leave the scene. So I did the best thing—dialed my mom.

  My son locked his arms around my neck. “Daddy, I’m scared,” he cried.

  “Me too, son. Me too.”

  Bambi

  CHAPTER 2

  The way to a man’s heart was through his mother.

  I had every news article on Darius Jones since he’d played basketball in high school. I also had a video of all his games and his wedding. I was at Madison Square Garden when he was drafted, went to all of his home games in Atlanta, traveled to all the away games. I had photos of his son, his son’s mother, his wife, his mother, his step- and biological fathers. Some of the pictures I’d printed from the Internet, others I’d taken. I slept in his jersey each night, made life-size six-nine body-length pillows with images of him. I even picked up a dreadlock that fell from his head when he was sitting on the sidelines during a time-out. I was Darius Jones’s number one fan. He just didn’t know it… yet.

  Being a private investigator by trade made me a professional groupie. It was no accident that I’d discovered Darius’s mom, Jada, was attending the movie premiere for Something on the Side. Savvy groupies befriended celebrities all the time. Velvet Waters, the star of the movie, had become this overnight Hollywood sensation. I added her to my list of people to know because Velvet used to live in Atlanta. She’d stripped as Red Velvet at Stilettos Night Club in Atlanta before landing the lead in Something on the Side. She was paid by Trevor to fuck Grant Hill before Grant started dating Darius’s mother. Anyone attached to Darius, directly or indirectly, was also attached to me.

  I’d been sitting at the bar one day inside LA’s most popular five-star hotel, passing time between games, when I met Velvet. While waiting to head to LAX for my flight back to Atlanta to see my Darius play for our home team, I noticed Velvet stroll in. Hair flowing. Makeup immaculate. Money had done her good.

  She sat next to me, and I overheard Velvet confirm that Grant Hill would be at her premiere. There was such a thing as luck in the PI world. I was at the right place, right time.

  I hadn’t been in pursuit of Velvet at that moment. I’d flown from Atlanta to temporarily distance myself from Darius, to avoid having Darius’s paparazzi get a snapshot of me in their photos. I was careful because I didn’t want to be identified as a maniac stalker like the chick who was pursuing Fisher.

  After Velvet ended her call, I said, “Hi, Velvet. Congratulations. You are my she-ro. And you’re so beautiful.”

  She answered with a flat “Thanks.”

  I leaned closer to her and said, “Girl, you went from stripping at Stilettos to Hollywood.” Then I lied, “I used to make i
t rain on you, but you’re big time now. Probably don’t remember little ole me.”

  Velvet had stared at me as if trying to recall my face. How could she remember me? I hadn’t sprinkled her with dollar bills. How could anyone remember me even if they’d seen me? I was a chameleon. I changed my makeup, hair, and wardrobe every other day.

  As she continued studying my face, I said, “Carl Weber is my favorite author. Is he going to be at the premiere? I’d love to meet him.” I smiled at her. Shook my head. “My apology. Who am I to think I could ever go to a premiere? Good luck, girl.”

  Velvet eased down from her bar stool. Took five steps. I counted each one before she turned around and took five more in my direction.

  “Give me your address. I’ll mail you a ticket, but I can only give you one.”

  “Are you serious?” I said, handing her my card with my Atlanta post office box.

  She glanced at my card, nodded, then walked away. No “good-bye” or “nice meeting you.” A few weeks later I was back in LA to attend the premiere.

  Preparing to walk the red carpet, I sat at the vanity in my hotel room. I braided my natural jet black curly hair into eleven cornrows, then covered my hair with a mesh net stocking cap. I applied a small amount of eyebrow glue to the back of my 100 percent human hair eyebrows, then perfectly layered each blonde-colored brow over my jet black brows. Then I glued and attached my light brown eyelashes. I trailed a thin line of glue along the edge of my hairline, then attached my full-lace twenty-two-inch-long strawberry blonde wig. I stood, held my head upside down, brushed, then fluffed my hair. Instantly I went from being a fair-complexioned African American woman to looking like a Caucasian woman with the perfect tan.

  I applied my concealer, foundation, and brown eyeliner. I stroked on various hues of sparkling blue eye shadow, toned it down with a hint of magenta, and brushed a soft pink lipstick on my mouth. I inserted my light bluish-gray contacts. After easing into padded butt booster panties that would make Serena Williams jealous, I stuffed silicone breast pads into the sides of my bra to sandwich my D cups into a façade of DDs that gave me amazing cleavage. I stepped into iridescent stilettos, picked up my purse, and double-checked to make sure I had my ticket. I kissed the plastic covering on my photo of Darius, then placed it back in my purse. His picture was my good luck charm. With Darius by my side, all things were possible.