We Ain’t the Brontës Page 4

I lie in the bed, plotting, planning on how I will seduce my man and get what I need. I reach over on the nightstand and turned on a Barry White CD. When Barry’s sexy voice wafts through the bedroom, Jett enters right on cue. I wink at him and turn off the television set.

  “You have something planned, baby?” he asks as he slips between the sheets.

  “I don’t have to plan to make love to my husband. I just do it.” I kiss him boldly on the lips. He faces me and caresses my face and lips.

  “Aren’t you tired? We’ve had a busy day today.”

  I put a finger against his lips. “Shhhh. Let’s not talk about nonsense. I need you to show me how much you need me.”

  Jett pushes his hands between my thighs and sees that I am already lubricated. “Damn, you’re hot.” I can feel his smile.

  “Why, thank you, darling.”

  Slowly, his lips come down on mine, until they brush. Just barely touch. That one point of light friction is more of a tease than a kiss, and I love every second of it. I raise my head and loop my arms around his neck to draw him closer to me, lips and tongue, warm flesh to hot heat. In the darkness, I can still see that he has that look, the one that could melt wax. Predatory. He has me then. He knows it and I know it.

  He caresses my body like Casanova’s ghost. It is a cyclone of hot breath on naked skin, hot breath and warm kisses in all the right places. I arch my back and let his wet fingers perform their magic.

  “Tell me that you want it.”

  I stall and reach for him down low. I begin a symphonic stanza on his pulsating member, until I feel the warm fluid melt against my fingers. Ahhh. “I want you, sweetheart.”

  Just as I am about to make my move, Jett rolls on top of me. I wiggle and wiggle my buttocks until I leverage myself to be on top. I laugh.

  “I’m running this show tonight, mister.”

  He is about to laugh too when I begin rolling my hips in a way that pops his eyes out of his sockets. He gets serious.

  “Show me what you got, baby.”

  I ease him slowly inside of me and suck in my breath. I begin to ride him like the best rodeo rider in Texas. I can hear his heavy breathing. The harder he breathes, the more he turns me on. My timing is perfect. My hips roll like they’ve been oiled. Sweat coats our bodies like diamond dust. When I know he is ready, I suck in my breath even deeper and call on my pussy muscles to suck the life out of him. Even though my legs are beginning to feel numb, I don’t lessen my pace. I can feel him stiffen. I have him.

  “That’s it. Fuck me. Fuck me,” he says.

  I know it is mere seconds before he or I will sizzle and melt. I come first. He follows two seconds later. I fall on top of him, breathing like a banshee.

  We lie there for what seems like an eternity, until our breathing calms. Finally, I roll over and lie on my back.

  The final treat for Jett is to clean him off with soapy hot water. I go into the bathroom and retrieve a cloth. I soap it with hot water and ease back into the bedroom. By the way he is breathing, I can tell his eyes are closed and he is relaxed. I take my time cleansing and massaging him.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like the luckiest man in the world.”

  I rise, and come back to rinse him off twice. I cleanse myself and get back into bed. I can hear him lightly snoring. I nudge his shoulder. “Baby…”

  “Hmm. What?”

  “You want to keep your wife happy so that I can keep making you happy, don’t you?” I kiss his neck.

  “You know I do, baby.”

  “We’ve got to get to the bank and apply for a new loan.” I kiss him on the lips. “It’s important to me, sweetheart.”

  “I know.”

  “Can we go tomorrow? I can call in the morning and make an appointment.”

  “Okay.” He pats my buttocks. “Now let me get some sleep, baby.”

  “All right.” I pull up the sheet and tuck it around his shoulders, then give him a kiss on the ear. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”

  I lie on my back with my arms folded beneath my head. I smile to myself. Yep. That did it. After tonight, there’s no way that I’m putting this house up for sale. No fucking way. I turn on my right side and wrap my arm across Jett’s waist. When I fall asleep, there’s a smile on my face a mile wide.

  I knew I’ve only momentarily sidetracked my husband’s demand to sell the house, but the bitch in me ain’t worried about shit.

  We apply at Signature Bank, where we have another account. They turn us down. We are, in fact, turned down by several banks, which will ultimately make us late on our mortgage payments. I try to hide this from Jett. If he finds out, he’ll be furious. He lets me handle all the finances, and up until recently, I was a pretty good money manager. But like the old adage, you can’t get blood out of a turnip.

  I am tempted to ask Jett to pawn his prized 1966 convertible Mustang. This morning I called the pawnshop. He can get at least fifteen thousand dollars for it. Then I stop myself. I can’t believe I’m that desperate.

  Finally, we get a call from Consumers Bank. “Mrs. Evans, my name is Dion Hill. I have good news. My manager at Consumers approved the loan for ninety thousand dollars.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hill.”

  “No, thank you. We welcome clients like you and Mr. Evans.”

  “I’m so pleased, as well as relieved. Are there any stipulations to the loan?” I ask.

  “No, except, of course, that you’re not late with your payments.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Hill. All of our payments will be on time. And when I receive a new contract, I’m hoping we can continue doing business. Mr. Evans and I are hoping to build a pool on our property, and we hope that Consumers will finance the loan.”

  “We’d love to do business with you. Just give me a call whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hill. Good-bye.” I hang up the phone smiling. I knew a bank would give us an equity loan. I can’t understand why Jett was so worried.

  Now that I will have this loan to pay back, it’s even more urgent for me to get a new book contract. I know I can do it, but I need to buy some time. I must keep Jett satisfied so he’ll stop talking about selling our house. I decide to turn on the charm. I seduce Jett every day for a week and don’t mention money or writing. I wake him up in the middle of the night and make him believe that making love is all his idea. By day eight he’s worn out and ready to talk. Reluctantly, he agrees to give me a year. If my novel doesn’t sell by then, I promise him that we’ll sell the house.

  7

  “We need to send your novel to a book doctor,” Arlene tells me when I finish it. It’s the first week of December, cold as hell outside and inside of this house. I’m really not in the mood for bullshit. “If you don’t, it’s never going to sell. All of the editors are saying the same thing: the book needs doctoring. I’ve e-mailed you the names of three book doctors who I believe will do a good job. It’s your choice.”

  Within days, I contact all three. I settle on the one who impresses me the most over the phone. Her name is Kate Connley. I tell her I’ll get in touch with her again soon.

  Even though I know better, I think about phoning Lynzee. We haven’t spoken since June, when she dropped the bomb on me about Jett’s daughter. I’m still afraid she’ll tell Jett, and a little baffled that she hasn’t done it yet. Maybe that’s a good sign; maybe it means she doesn’t intend to follow through with her threats.

  And then there’s the issue of the blacklisting. I hate to believe that she’s so intimidated by my writing, but with Lynzee, anything is possible. Still, I’m desperate for a contract, and she knows the industry. Her advice could help put me over the top. I want to believe that her sisterly love for me will trump our other problems. Instincts warn me to be cautious, but I go with my heart and call her. She can’t be guilty of the blacklisting, she just can’t be.

  “Lynzee, I could really use your help,” I say humbly.

  “Have you told Jett about April?”

/>   “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look. Stop bugging me,” I say, finding my backbone. “I’ll get to it when I get to it.” It kills me to ask, but I say, “Have you met with her yet?” In my mind’s eye, I can envision this girl: at least five-foot-ten, chocolate-colored skin tone, thin eyebrows and lashes, full lips, and Indian cheekbones.

  “No, I haven’t. She’s been in the hospital with a bout of pneumonia. We plan on getting together when she’s better.”

  Thank God. That gives me a little more time. “In the meantime, I still need your help.”

  “Oh.” I can almost see the scowl on her face. Her tone is like a boss to his secretary. “Tell me what you need.”

  Here goes. “Can you recommend a good book doctor?”

  “Why?”

  I knew she was going to ask that question. Right then I know she wants to shout to the world that her little sister is an imposter, that I can’t write to save my sons’ life. She wants to tell the world that I don’t deserve the millions of dollars that Mitchell and Montague paid me.

  “Arlene submitted my book to my publisher and they turned it down.” I don’t want to tell her that my book is being shopped all over New York. It is really none of her damn business.

  “Oh,” is all she says. I could slap the bitch.

  On average, book doctors in New York demand between five and fifty thousand dollars for their work. Two of my previous books needed book doctors. I shelled out more than thirty-five grand, but didn’t need one for my last three books.

  I give her Kate Connley’s name. Lynzee says that she’s heard of her. Of course she has. She knows everybody.

  “She’s white, Charity. Do you want your book to sound like a black person wrote it or a white person did?”

  “You know that I want my work to sound like a sister wrote it,” I challenge.

  “I know the perfect editor,” Lynzee says, her voice lifting. “We’ve been friends for almost twenty years. I’ll call her and see if she’s busy. If she’s not, I’ll ask her to give you a call.”

  “You’re not talking about Zedra, are you?” Zedra is Lynzee’s best friend. She’s a writer, too, but hasn’t enjoyed the success that Lynzee has.

  “No. Just be patient. This woman’s work is top-notch and she’s in high demand. It’ll be a miracle if she’s even available.”

  A warning bell should be going off, I suppose, but I decide to take her recommendation. When I tell him about it, Jett cautions me that I am making a mistake trusting Lynzee. I’m wondering if he’s merely acting like he hates Lynzee. Maybe in truth he still wants her. After all, they had a child together.

  “Why shouldn’t I trust my sister, Jett? Do you know something that I don’t?”

  For a moment, he can’t look me in the eye. “I’m just saying that Lynzee can’t be trusted. She’s always been jealous of you and you know it.”

  “What are you really trying to say?”

  “Forget it. Don’t let me be the one to come between you two.”

  I want to be blunt. I want to ask him about his sexual liaison with Lynzee. But I don’t. I’m human. I’m also a coward, and time is running out. Sooner or later Lynzee and April will meet, and then who knows what will happen.

  For the next week, Jett and I avoid each other. I feel that we both have more that we want to say, but neither wants to be the one to rock the boat. We used to be able to get over little arguments like this pretty quickly, but it seems like lately, neither one of us is willing to forgive the other. I know where my anger is coming from, but I wonder about Jett. Is his anger really about me trusting Lynzee, or is it something deeper pulling us apart? Each day, the tension between us builds. By day six, Jett is apparently horny. That night, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t kiss me or hug me. He merely turns me over to my side and does his business. I’m so turned off, I’m stiff as an ironing board, but he manages to get off anyway. Afterward, he grumbles something inaudible and turns over to his side. Seconds later, he’s asleep. I just stare at him. I’m hurt that he used me this way. I’m angry that he thinks that we don’t need to talk this mess out. If he thinks the situation will work itself out, he’s wrong. I’m not putting my career on the back burner for anything. If that means I have to deal with my sister, then so be it. He can accept it or go to hell.

  When the editor calls, we hit it off immediately. Her name is Shirley Berry. I e-mail the book to her, and she reads it twice before she calls me back.

  “I love the theme of your book, Charity. And I can really identify with the main character.”

  “Thanks, Shirley.” She’s probably just stroking me so that I’ll give her the job.

  But before I can get too euphoric, she hits me with the fee: $25,000. I am shocked shitless, but I have no options. I have only seven months left before the money runs out on our equity loan.

  “Remember, Shirley, I don’t need a ghost writer to totally rewrite my book. I only need an editor to make better transitions and line edit my writing.”

  “I’m following you, Charity,”

  “Good. I want my book to sound like I wrote it.”

  “That’s my goal.”

  “Good. And you say that you only need six weeks to finish the manuscript?”

  “Yes. I flipped through it, and I don’t foresee too many problems. Remember, I do this type of work all of the time. You’d be surprised how many big-name authors I’ve helped.”

  “I probably would. Just please give me the same quality of work that you gave them, and I’ll be one happy writer.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you in a few weeks.” She hangs up.

  I need money so bad right now I don’t want to wait another day to sell my book.

  Shirley ends up taking nine weeks. Before she mails the manuscript back to me, she tells me that she is confident that the book will sell.

  As it turns out, the editing is horrendous. I nearly lose it when I see what she’s done. There are so many grammatical errors, as well as misspellings and numerous inconsistencies. A five-year-old could have done a better job. On top of that, the ending makes no sense at all. The main character left her home twice in the same scene. I did not tell her to change the ending. How could a reputable editor do such an unprofessional job on my book? I am dumbstruck. I know that there is no way that I can turn the book in to my agent in its present state.

  I have a deadline. Only three days remain before my agent is supposed to read the revised version. I wake up with the birds. I work nearly twenty hours a day until I revamp the manuscript.

  Ultimately, it’s a complete waste of time, and twenty-five thousand dollars. As much as I try to ignore what seems obvious, I can’t. Has Lynzee done this to me on purpose? Did she know in advance that Shirley was going to sabotage my book and I wouldn’t be able to sell it? Only the Lord knows.

  Arlene calls me. “Hello, Charity,”

  “Hey.”

  “I don’t know how to say this, but the book was turned down by several editors.”

  “Why?”

  “They feel that the characters aren’t fleshed out well enough, and the ending seems rushed.”

  “Damn, Arlene, I did the best I could under the circumstances. I told you what happened.”

  “Yes. What a waste of money. I can try a couple more editors, but from the feedback I’m getting, it’s really useless.”

  “Wow. I’m embarrassed and hurt. I shouldn’t have trusted my sister to get me a good editor.”

  “I’m going to stay out of that one.”

  “I don’t blame you. Just know that I haven’t given up. I’m going to start on another book right away, and this time I won’t need a book doctor.”

  After I call Lynzee and admit that my book is rejected, I tell her I want my money back from her friend. She quickly gets defensive.

  “Charity, I spoke to Shirley while she was editing your book. It needed a ton of work. Your characters all sounded exactly alike.”

  “I told Sh
irley not to talk to anyone about my book.”

  “That didn’t mean me.”

  “In my book it did.”

  “Nevertheless, you handed Shirley a book that she wasn’t able to fix. It would have taken her three months to rewrite that novel.”

  “I didn’t ask her to rewrite it, just edit it.”

  “You should just face the facts, Charity. You’re not a very good writer. Shirley said as much.”

  “That bitch! How dare she discuss my writing abilities with you?”

  “Like I said, we’re friends. Maybe you should try going back to being a makeup artist. I hear that movie stars pay up to ten thou—”

  “Fuck you, Lynzee. I’m not doing that shit again.”

  “Well, you were good at it.”

  “I’m a writer, Lynzee. If Shirley were that good, why hasn’t she written a book herself?”

  “She has.”

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Like you, she wrote under her maiden name. The sales were good.”

  “Then why did she screw up my book?”

  “Shirley didn’t screw up your book. You did.”

  “You’re going to take your friend’s side over mine?” I feel my anger rising.

  “I trust Shirley.”

  “Then fuck you and Shirley.” I hang up.

  It hurts me to know that my sister can be so cruel. It saddens me to believe that she is so resentful of me. Does she want me to lose my lifestyle? My home? My husband?

  I receive a large envelope in the mail from Lynzee. I haven’t spoken to her since our fight about the editor. What does this bitch want now?

  I’m stunned when I open it and find that she’s mailed me a picture of her and April. I guess it’s her way of telling me they’ve finally met. Perhaps it’s a warning that my time is running out to tell Jett what I know. Just like the picture from the private investigator, this one leaves no doubt in my mind. April looks more like my husband than Javed and Jamone do.

  “Did you tell him yet?” Lynzee says when she follows up the picture with a call.