The Resistance

About the Book

Title: Seven Threads

Author: Jason Atkinson

Genre: Short Story Collection

Seven Threads is a book of 7 short stories full of twists and turns. A girl on the run, a man accused of murder, a homeless man who finds his way, and much more. While each story is unique, they all offer the same human compassion that is sometimes lacking in today's world. The reader is sure to find each story a page turner full of emotions, and left wanting more!

 

Author Bio

Jason Atkinson is a 32 year old, married man with one adorable toddler. With Seven Threads being his third book, he certainly enjoys writing and also spending time getting to know new people.

 

Links

www.alifeofheart.com

 

Book Excerpts

 

 

1.

 

The Gentle Man

 

Part 1 - Forgiveness

With a somewhat stern and yet gentle approach in his voice, he suddenly spoke. "Forgiveness won't change the past - but it will change the future. Your future."

He looks around the room..."Ok." he said with a broad grin. "Who wants to go first?"

Scanning the room with expectant eyes.

A chair creaks as a man shifts in his seat uncomfortably, both from the metal chair being too harsh and because of the looming topic before him. Towards the back of the room, a cough was heard.

"No one wants to go first?"

 

The room, even though crowded with people, chilling and eery as if you in fact alone with your thoughts. No one s eye contact with him as that might have been a sign of indulgence into this new topic.

 

It getting late into the evening and usually at this time the wrap-up begins, ending the night the same way it always ends.

Wandering eyes look towards the coffee pot. A few towards the windows at the top of the walls. It snowing outside, gently, but consistent. The lamppost illuminate the flakes as the glided slowly down past the windows limited view. Even though the view may have looked quaint, it only resonate with the harsh reality of what inter often brings, and also what this group discussion can often bring

As the second hand on the clock tick awayhe leader of the group to his feet. Everyone watche.

"I think that will be all for tonight" with a meager smile.

Reluctantly and of course thankfully, sighs of relief filled the room. Chairs scraped the floor without a care now while people mingled amongst themselves and eventually dispersed into the cool night air.

Left alone to clean up, the man who had brought them all together

"Will my words ever get through?"

Walking away he head towards the door, turning around one last time to check the room clear.

There no smile this time. Only the face of a tired man, who just want to make one ounce of difference.

The lights out, and he out the door, up the steps, and onto the street above. The door slowly close, and the last noise that ever heard the latch of the lock clicking into place. The room once again dark, all except for that glimmer of light from the windows at the top of the wall.

 

 

 

2.

 

Life is a Rummage Sale

 

Part 1 - Feeling is elieving

The only sounds piercing his ears were heavy rain drops pounding the concrete slabs around him. The occasional engine humm by without a care, while he sat and closed his eyes. It was dark. The only light he saw was from the vehicle headlights that passed him by.

To his left was a cart of belongings, if you could call them belongings at all. To his right, an old dog with only an umbrella for comfort. He sat with his bum on the unforgiving slab his knees and feet drawn close to his chest. This was his only method of staying warm while the rain poured from the sky.

The he wore w at least longsleeve, but not thick enough to withstand the temperatures outside. They would have to do, though, as anything else he could wear was either torn or shortsleeve. His boots stole from a street vendor a few weeks ago. It was either that, or go barefoot, again.

His cart was the building block of a cardboard box that fit as his home. It wasn't much of anything really, but at least it covered all three sides. The opening ng his way, whereas a fully enclosed box would have isolat from the world. The cart held it in place by applying pressure to the side. Otherwise, would limp and useless.

This was his life. It always this way. There was once a time where he was prosperous and wellknown in his community. He had a house, a family, a job he loved, and of course a younger and healthierlooking dog by his side; life was good. It's interesting though how small turns of events can Blinding you with every turn until you finally see where you are and wonder how you ended up here.

Now, this concrete slab was home. Tired and alone, he looked over at his dog who was laying downtrying to sleep. He wished he was like his dogomewhat carefreenext meal and obeying master. That would be so much easier to deal with. He reached over and stroked the wet dog on the head, scratching behind his ear. The dog lay motionless but opened its mouth as a sign of enjoyment.

 

 

 

 

 

3.

 

The Runaway Tracks

 

Part 3 A Smooth Ride

 

The train was almost full, and the platform outside was starting to thin out. Looking at his watch, Pete proclaimed it was just about time to depart. His new friend sitting across from him, nervous but ever so determined would not be backing out now; if anything, she was in for the ride regardless.

 

Your ticket will be validated soon. And when youre caught up here, will direct you to where you should be instead.

 

She just looked at him. Sure enough at that moment she the voice of the grim reaper himself. He was calling for tickets not too far away

 

Thinking about hiding she frantically looked around for somewhere to disappear, as that seemed to be her specialty. The only place was behind the bar, but that was not going to be wellmanaged, and if caught there, she feared an even worse punishment.

 

Pete,re you making this trip again? What is this? The fifth time now for you? They should get you a punch card.

 

If they gave me a punch card, youd be going out of business my friend.

 

As she sat there watching this incredible scene unfold, it would appear apparent that these two knew each other.

 

And whos this with you? Is that your niece youve told me about?

 

Seeing an opportunity, she held out her hand.

 

Hello, yes. Pleased to meet you, I thought it was about time I went on this trip too.

 

Ah yes indeed. Well, its nice to meet you, Selena.

 

She just smiled and then sat back in her seat. Pete and the conductor exchanged a few more words and then he was gone. Pete, sitting back in his seat now also, looked at Selena, and chuckled.

How did you know he hadnt seen a picture of my niece already?

 

Well if that were the case, why did he ask if it was me? We must look somewhat alike if he had seen a picture.

 

Wellplayed Selena. He hasnt seen a photo, but I have talked about her coming on this trip a lot. And you probably noticed he didnt even check our tickets.

 

I did notice. I also saw that I could have saved myself a chunk of change and gotten on for free. She gruffed at this, and Pete just laughed.

 

 

 

About the Book

Title: Grave Injustice

Author: Netta Newbound

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Geri and James return in their most explosive adventure to date.

When next door neighbour, Lydia, gives birth to her second healthy baby boy, James and Geri pray their friend can finally be happy and at peace. But, little do they know Lydia’s troubles are far from over.

Meanwhile, Geri is researching several historic, unsolved murders for James' new book. She discovers one of the prime suspects now resides in Spring Pines Retirement Village, the scene of not one, but two recent killings.

Although the police reject the theory, Geri is convinced the cold case they’re researching is linked to the recent murders. But how? Will she regret delving so deeply into the past?

 

 

Author Bio

Netta Newbound is the author of twelve popular thriller novels/novellas to date including the Adam Stanley Thriller Series and the Cold Case Files. Her debut psychological thriller, An Impossible Dilemma, shot up the charts in 2015 in both the UK and US reaching #1 in several thriller and horror categories. This rapid success gained Netta a name for herself in the thriller genre. The Watcher, another of her bestsellers that reached the top 20 in the Amazon chart, was published through Bloodhound Books, who will also publish her next book, Maggie, in October 2017.

 

Originally from Manchester, England, Netta has travelled extensively and has lived and worked in a variety of exciting places. She now lives in New Zealand with her husband. They have three grown up children and four grandchildren.

 

Links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.fr/dp/B0745SXJVR/ref=as_li_ss_tl?tag=geo01a-21&s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1500778508&sr=1-7&keywords=grave+injustice&linkCode=sl1&linkId=79c14f51cba8edfcc87c36b18111ec3f

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/grave-injustice-3

Book Excerpts

1

Dalton Lloyd closed the shutter on the serving hatch just as a doddering old woman appeared pushing her walking frame towards him.

“Am I too late?” she asked. “I only want an apple.”

“Do you see the sign? Kitchen’s closed,” Dalton barked.

The woman stepped backwards. A look of total shock played out in the deep wrinkles of her face, and her already watery eyes welled some more.

“Don’t look at me like that, you old witch. I do have a life, you know, unlike you lot sitting around here waiting to die.”

Another old codger, who had been sitting towards the back of the dining room, suddenly jumped to his feet and rushed towards them. “How dare you speak to her like that!” he cried, shaking his fist towards Dalton menacingly.

“And you can shut up, and all. What are you going to do with that? Beat me senseless?” Dalton boomed out a laugh as he turned off the light and exited the side door to where his dilapidated truck was parked. Climbing in, he turned the key and headed out the main gates of the Spring Pines Retirement Village.

Relieved to shake off his day’s work, he headed to his local pub to play on the fruit machines, something he did every night—or on the nights he could afford to, that is.

The White Hart had been his local since leaving school. He didn’t like change and was perfectly happy to go about his daily routine until the day he popped his clogs. He didn’t like working at the retirement village—it did his head in. But the feeble-minded old people more than made up for it with their gullible attitudes and more money than they could possibly spend before they carked it.

He had a few favourites that he’d groomed over the past few months. Befriending the needy bastards had been a doddle—offering to pick up a bit of shopping worked every time and would always culminate in the offer of a cup of tea, leaving him to have a good mooch about their bungalow.

No matter how many times they were told to put their money into a bank or building society, they never seemed to listen, and he would always find a stash of notes either under the mattress, in a large old teapot in the kitchen, or in a shoebox in the wardrobe. They wouldn’t have a clue how much they had and, better still, they would add to it every week. So long as he wasn’t greedy, and didn’t take the lot, they were none the wiser. It was easy pickings to top up his wages with.

Pushing his last pound coin into the slot, he prayed for a win. It was much earlier than he usually left for home, but he’d have no choice if he didn’t win any money. And that would also mean no dinner as he hadn’t a scrap of food in the house.

When the last of the credits spun away, he slammed the heel of his hand on the play button and kicked the front of the machine. “Fucking rip-off piece of shit!”

“That’ll be all for tonight, Dalton, buddy.” Wayne, the hefty barman, lifted the hatch and shuffled his paunch through it. “Come on—or you’ll give me no choice but to bar you. Again.”

Dalton shrugged Wayne’s hand from his arm. “Get your stinking paws off! I’m going. But you wanna get someone out to look at that fucking machine. It’s rigged.”

“You don’t complain when you clear it out though, do you, Dalton?” Wayne grabbed his arm again and shoved him towards the swinging door.

“Alright. Take it easy. I’m going.” Dalton scowled at the much larger man, and then at the pub full of people who had all stopped what they were doing to focus on him. “What the fuck are you lot looking at?” He slammed through the door and out into the chilly night air.

As he approached his vehicle, he dropped his keys in the gutter and, after picking them up, he was startled by a man standing beside him.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The man didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward and punched Dalton on his chin.

Dalton laughed, and then began choking. The punch hadn’t been hard, and yet something was seriously wrong. He lifted his hands to his chin and gasped when he saw the amount of blood covering his fingers. He looked back up at the man before falling forwards to his knees and sprawling in slow motion to the gutter.

The last thing he saw was the man’s brown leather shoes as he walked away.

 

2

Bill Featherstone was fed up with his life.

After thirty-five years of marriage, his wife, Marianne, told him she didn’t even like him anymore, and moved out of their family home. Now, less than three weeks later, he found he was poorer than he’d been in his entire fifty-three years on the planet. Not only had she left him, but she’d systematically cleared out their savings in the months leading up to her declaration. Then, she took off with her fancy man.

As a self-employed electrician, Bill needed to take on extra jobs simply to pay the mortgage this month, a mortgage that had steadily increased over the years while he thought it was being paid off. It turned out Marianne had re-mortgaged several times, forging his signature. The crux of it was she’d screwed him, big time.

Zooming into the retirement village at just after 4pm for his fifteenth job of the day, he almost mowed down a bent up old man on a Zimmer frame. He was crossing the road as though he had all the time in the world.

Bill slammed on the brakes and wound his window down. “Get out of the way, you idiot. You’re gonna cause a fucking accident.”

The old man carried on, completely unaware of him.

Bill slammed the heel of his palm on the horn which made no difference to the situation, but brought plenty of nosy old codgers out from their bungalows.

Once the man had climbed up onto the curb, Bill zoomed off and parked his van a few hundred meters away. Then, he grabbed his toolbox and rushed to the address.

“Mrs Jones?” he asked the pleasant-faced lady who answered his urgent door rapping. She reminded him of his grandmother.

“Have you come to fix my oven?”

“I certainly have, love. Can you quickly tell me what keeps happening?”

“The problem began a few weeks ago when my niece and her boyfriend came for a visit. I wanted to make them some scones—they love my scones—I won awards for them back in my younger day...”

“That’s all very lovely,” he interrupted, “but can you get on with it. I’m a busy man.”

“Oh.”

The stupid old woman seemed shocked and although he felt a little awful, he knew what these old people could be like. She’d probably drip feed him her life story before getting down to the problem in hand.

“The fuse keeps tripping when I turn on my oven.”

“Okay, lead the way.”

In less than a minute he located the fault. “Bloody hell,” he barked.

“What’s wrong?” Her trembling voice irritated him.

“Basic common sense, love. Look at this? Tell me what you see?”

She began trembling so badly she appeared to be shaking her head at him. “I-I don’t see anything.”

“This!” He jabbed at a piece of foil lying in the bottom of the immaculate oven. “Would you shove a knife in the toaster?”

“No, of course not.” She gripped the work surface as though to steady herself.

“Then why shove a load of foil into the bottom of the oven? It’s touching an element and shorting out.”

“I’m sorry. I only had gas in my last house. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Well you know what thought did, don’t you?”

“Is there a problem, Gloria?” An equally doddery old man appeared in the doorway.

“No. It’s my fault, Eddie. Go back through to the lounge and I’ll make another pot of tea.”

The man eyeballed Bill before stroking the woman’s arm. “Don’t worry, love. I told Sandy I’d take him for a game of dominoes. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Positive.”

Bill ripped the foil out and tested the element before turning the oven on.

The woman returned from seeing her friend out. “Is it okay now?”

“Should be. When does the fault happen? As soon as you switch it on or after a few minutes?”

“Pretty much right away.”

“Well it seems to be working alright now. I’ll leave the oven running while I pack up my van and fetch my invoice book.”

Out at the van, he shoved his tool box into the back and sat just inside, his right foot resting against the open door. He looked up, startled when a shadow fell over him.

“What the—?” Bill wasn’t able to say anything else. A searing pain that began under his chin, exploded in the back of his head.

Then nothing.

 

 

 

 

About the Book

 

Title: Ariella’s Escape

 

Author: Carolee Croft

 

Genre: Epic Fantasy Romance

 

 

 

Ariella had always believed that the life of a warrior should include indulging in wine and men whenever they were on offer… And in Chaldea, the capital of the old empire, they certainly were.

 

Especially the man she finds in her bedchamber, a slave provided by her hosts to entertain her in any way she wishes.

 

But when betrayed and surrounded by enemies in a strange land, there is only one man she can trust—the slave who was meant only for her pleasure but is much more than he seems.

 

Demetrius had been captured in a battle at the age of fifteen, and slavery was all he had known in his adult life. When his chance for freedom comes along, his fate is bound to the noble warrior maiden whose voice and body he cannot resist. Duty calls him to return to his kingdom, but the journey will take him places that will change him forever.

 

Together, they make their way through a den of thieves and an enchanted elf forest, but the biggest danger of all may be their fiery attraction to each other and the secret that will draw a dividing line between them.

 

Author Bio

 

Enchanted by romance on page and screen, I have always tried to write my own versions of the perfect fairytale. As for real life, I believe I may have already found the man of my dreams, but I still haven’t found the dog of my dreams. Currently, I’m obsessed with Italian greyhounds. I can usually be found enjoying the outdoors or relaxing with a good book on the west coast of Canada.

 

Connect with Carolee:

 

Blog

 

Twitter

 

Facebook

 

Goodreads

 

Links

 

Amazon US

 

Amazon Canada

 

Amazon UK

 

Nook

 

Kobo

 

iTunes

 

Book Excerpts

 

Excerpt 1

 

It was strangely reassuring to know that he was not Chaldean, judging from his sun-bronzed skin, fine eyebrows and long brown hair, a shade so dark it was nearly black. And his eyes… like two pieces of a summer sky. She had always been a fool for a blue-eyed man. Judging by his elegant speech, very likely, he came from a noble lineage but was held here as a hostage to ensure peace with another kingdom.

 

“Then what is it, my lady?”

 

He sat down beside her on the bed, the scent of some innocent field flower with something more heady and musk-like tempting her to get closer to his bronzed body. She tried to discern his age… late twenties perhaps. His forehead was unlined, but there was something about him that made him appear older, a world-weariness perhaps behind his charming and carefree disposition.

 

There had been one or two times when she had bedded a man after less conversation than this, but this was strange territory with too many possible complications, and she could not afford to indulge herself on a whim. There was also his status to consider. As a slave, he was obviously not free in his choices, and she could sympathise with that. Ariella knew she would loathe being ordered to “entertain” guests in this manner were she in his place.

 

“Do my looks please you?” she asked tentatively.

 

“Yes,” he replied, a slight hoarseness in his voice.

 

His eyes scorched her, and she had to look away.

 

“It’s just that… I do not wish you to do this merely out of a sense of duty…” she said softly, “that is… if you did not want to…”

 

“My lady, I want to,” he said.

 

Excerpt 2.

 

“Now tell me the truth, Demetrius,” she asked, a smile playing at the edges of her lips, “Did the king send you here to find out my secrets?”

 

“The truth…” he lay back, cradling his head in his hands, a pose that the huge muscles of his chest stand out even more. “The truth is, this is a gesture of hospitality. But yes, he did want me to report anything you might say in regards to the negotiations. However, I don’t believe that he was interested in any information regarding your swifthounds, so that secret is safe with me.”

 

Ariella burst out laughing. She wanted to playfully slap his shoulder, but she was afraid of where it may lead.

 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, “But does he really expect me to spill the muckpitts to you, especially when you’ve just told me of his plan?”

 

“I admit, I find it rather far-fetched myself,” he replied, “but then again, when I’m embracing you in the heat of passion…” he scooped an arm under her and rolled her over to face him, “who knows what political secrets you might reveal.”

 

When he had first seized her in mock abandon, she laughed, but then feeling the embrace of his strong arms around her, seeing his face just inches from her own, she suddenly froze, not wanting him to let go.

 

“It’s doubtful I will reveal anything,” she said slowly, “but we won’t know until we try, will we?”

 

They lay there facing each other, and he still did not let go. This seemed so wrong, Ariella thought. She knew she was in danger here, and that this man could very well be posing as a friend to gain her trust, though she knew not for what purpose. The ease with which he confessed to being sent to her bedchamber as a spy was suspicious, or on the other hand it could mean that he was no spy at all, that he was only teasing her.

 

She couldn’t read much in the clear blue fount of his eyes, more liquid than fire now, except a strong yearning for closeness.

 

His lips were slightly open, just inches away from hers. She realized she was now beyond any reasoning. She leaned into him, inhaling that ravishingly innocent smell, and her lips just lightly touched his.

 

Ariella suddenly wondered if she had had too much to drink after all, for in that moment when their lips had barely touched, she felt as if his lips were the most sensuous, delicious lips she had ever kissed.

 

As if disbelieving her own senses, she pulled back for a moment – though a moment long enough to see he looked as overwhelmed as she was – and then her lips encountered his once more, with a more determined pressure… Ariella was completely lost in the kiss, which sent the whole room spinning and the blood rushing through her body in a furious tempest.

 

Excerpt 3.

 

Ariella was supposed to enter onto the stage to begin the scene. Her hands were trembling, but she took a deep breath and commenced walking towards the low stage. One small step brought her up to Demetrius’ level, and he pretended he had just sighted her.

 

“What do I see?” he exclaimed, his smooth voice carrying well to the back rows, but not so loud as to be overwhelming. “Are you a spirit? A ghost sent to torment me for my misdeeds? Why do you take on the shape of one so dearly loved, who has too soon departed from this sad earthly abode?”

 

He had spoken his lines with great conviction, but then, just for a split second, he dropped his act and winked at her with his right eye, unseen by the audience.

 

Ariella took another couple of steps towards him.

 

“I am no spirit,” she replied.

 

“But I received word that you were dead…”

 

“That is what I wanted everyone to believe. But I did not drown. When I fell in the river, I breathed through a reed and swam away, and then I waited for you to regain your kingdom.”

 

The audience laughed at this facile explanation for Aurilia still being alive.

 

“I did so,” Demetrius continued, unfazed, “and I avenged my father’s death. Now we can be together, my beloved.”

 

He embraced her, and suddenly his mouth was claiming hers, and she nearly forgot where she was. After this, the dialogue ended, and it was all up to them. Ariella was breathless, from the kiss and her nerves. But she buried her face in Demetrius’ long dark hair, determined to carry on.

 

“We can do this,” he whispered to her.

 

She squeezed his hand in thanks.

 

Still hiding her face from the audience, she trailed kisses down his neck. The scent of his skin, which still held whatever perfume it was he had used in the palace, now mingled with sweat and the pine smell of the forest. It enticed her to lick his skin, to lose herself in his kisses and his caresses.

 

The thought of being watched melted away as passion coursed through her body. She was much more aware of being slowly undressed, the laces of her tunic unwound, of Demetrius removing his silken robe and pressing her against his broad chest.

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About the Book

 

Title: Until Ray

 

Author: Cheryl Robinson

 

Genre: Women’s Fiction

 

Two people in the same city but worlds apart.

 

Until Ray is an unconventional love story of how two young people transitioning into adulthood find each other and develop a bond that will be tested through three decades.

 

HE IS LOST…

 

Ray lives in northwest Detroit in a four-family flat with his mother. When he’s not at home, Ray’s either at the mall selling women’s shoes or in the club. In both places, he's focused on one thing—picking up women. Dissatisfied, dysfunctional, and leagues behind his peers, Ray's ready for a change but isn’t sure how to make it happen.

 

THEN SHE ARRIVES…

 

At twenty-four, Sarita has an MBA, is a CPA, and works in upper-level management at GM. But all that success comes at a cost: she’s lonely and craves the one thing she’s never had—attention from men. Until now. Dr. Graham Emerson wants to marry Sarita, and her parents expect her to, but Sarita isn’t convinced he’s the one for her. On a blind date, she meets Ray Saint and is immediately drawn in by his good looks and sense of humor. But his reputation for being a ladies’ man raises several red flags. Ray swears he’s changed. Is giving up a sure thing for a maybe worth the risk?

 

Set in the mid-eighties, Until Ray explores life and love through the lenses of colorism, classism, and family dysfunction.

 

Author Bio

 

Cheryl Robinson was born in Detroit, Michigan, the youngest in a family of five. She grew up in Palmer Woods, a residential historic district that is now one of the settings in her forthcoming novel, Until Ray. For the past fifteen years, she has been busy writing contemporary women’s fiction. For Penguin/NAL, Cheryl wrote six novels: If It Ain’t One Thing, It’s Like That, Sweet Georgia Brown, In Love with a Younger Man, When I Get Where I’m Going, and Remember Me. Cheryl is now an independent author and the owner of Rose Colored Books. With her company, she has published The One, Like Mom, and the forthcoming Until Ray Trilogy.

 

Cheryl currently resides in Florida.

 

To learn more about Cheryl and the Until Ray trilogy, please visit www.untilraytrilogy.com

 

Links

 

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Until-Ray-Book-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B07379LFY5/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1498667646&sr=1-1&keywords=until+ray

 

Barnes and Noble:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/until-ray-cheryl-robinson/1126651597?ean=2940154430439

 

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/until-ray

 

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/732095

 

 

 

 

 

Book Excerpts

 

RAY

 

_________

 

“If it isn’t Raymond Saint. What’s up, man?” I hear a familiar voice coming from behind me as I pose in front of a floor-length mirror in the women’s shoe department at Hudson’s admiring the suit I just got out of the layaway at Man-oh-Man. I have two more to get out next payday.

 

Joseph Morris steps into my view, and I turn to face him. “Joe, man, what’s up? I haven’t seen you since we graduated.” We share a brotherly handshake. “How’ve you been?”

 

“Couldn’t be better, honestly. Life is real good. I’ve been in town for about a week, visiting family. I’m actually flying back tomorrow. I was just picking up a few things before I go.”

 

“You moved out of state?”

 

“Yeah, after I graduated from U of M. I’m starting my second year of law school at Stanford.”

 

I’m pretty sure Joe’s father is either an attorney or a doctor.

 

“Man, good to hear that.” Joe was part of the crowd I hung with at Cass Tech. I’ve been out of high school since 1980. Six years now. Damn, that’s a long time to still be doing nothing.

 

“I see you’re still staying sharp.” Joe brushes my lapel.

 

“Trying to.”

 

“So, man, what are you doing these days?”

 

“You know, the usual. Right now I’m just waiting for my girl.”

 

He nods. “Where did you end up going to school? It’s hard to keep up with everybody. Cass is so big, and we knew everybody, didn’t we?”

 

I place one finger up to signal for Joe to wait, and then I unclip my pager. “This is my girl paging me right now actually. I need to find her.” I’ve got to get rid of him before he finds out the truth and every Cass Tech alumni knows that the guy voted most likely to succeed is now selling shoes. Why am I in denial? I’m sure most of them already know.

 

“Really, that’s cool. I was on my way out. I got what I came for.” Joe raises a Hudson’s shopping bag.

 

“Ray.” I hear the forceful voice of a female. I turn to see Cynthia Meyers. This has the potential to get real ugly, real fast.

 

On Saturday, my off day, I open the side door and notice a white Ford Escort parked out front. Cynthia Meyers is sitting in the driver’s seat. She’s at my mom’s house. I never brought her here or told her I live here. Is this girl stalking me? I’ve never had a stalker before. I’ve had women come over here after I stopped calling, which usually happens after we have sex. A few got on their knees, grabbed my ankles, and begged me to stay with them. But none of them have ever stalked me. It took my mom to get those women straight, and I never heard from them again. My mom has to do the same with Cynthia Meyers because I never want to see or hear from that girl again.

 

I rush into the kitchen in a panic. My mom is at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other reading obituaries in the Free Press, her favorite pastime. “Miss King, listen, there’s a crazy woman outside. I need you to talk some sense into her.”

 

My mom sets her cup down and takes a long drag of her cigarette. “The only reason there’s a crazy woman outside is because you just like your daddy. Y’all drives them womens to be that way. They ain’t born like that. But once they get to messin’ with a Saint—your last name should be Sinner—they get to losin’ they mind.” She shakes her head and puckers her lips. “What you do to the girl? And don’t lie.”

 

“I ain’t do nothin’ to her. She too loose.”

 

“Loose? She loose ’cause you mens made her that way. You mens kill me, callin’ a woman loose. You the one laid down with her, what that make you?”

 

“But she’s too young to be that loose.”

 

“Young? How young? You best not be messin’ with no teenager. You almost twenty-four years old. You need to grow up and start actin’ your age. Get your own place. When you movin’ out?”

 

“She’s not that young. She’s twenty-one. Just talk to her, please.”

 

“Where she at?”

 

“In her car, sitting outside our house.”

 

“Stakin’ your ass out. Ain’t it sad the lows some womens go to behind mens. Let her ass sit there. I don’t care. It’s a free world, and last I check I don’t own any of these city streets, includin’ Santa Clara.”

 

SARITA

 

_________

 

Celery. Baby carrots. Yogurt. Alfalfa sprouts. Whole wheat bread. Lots of cheese. Raisins (I do love those). Leftover salmon. Milk—now I have an idea. I plan to drive to the Boston-Edison area to Mr. Fo-Fo’s and get one of those huge slices of chocolate cake that’s large enough to feed three, even when one of them is Boone. That’ll go great with a tall glass of milk.

 

I take a deep sigh. When the highlight of my Saturday afternoon is eating chocolate cake, something’s gone terribly wrong. I’m not that old.

 

The doorbell rings.

 

“Sarita,” my mother says through our intercom system.

 

I walk over to the unit and press down the button to talk. “Yes, Mother.”

 

“Please answer the door. That’s the new landscaper who’s coming to take a tour of our grounds. If you don’t mind starting it off, I’ll take it over in just a bit. I’m on the phone with Mrs. Emerson, and we’re discussing you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you. I’ll tell you later.”

 

“Okay.”

 

It’s a good thing this isn’t one of my lazy Saturdays when I sleep in until noon and then dwell on the fact that I still don’t have the life I want. This is one of those Saturdays where I got up and got fully dressed, opting for one of my Norma Kamali dresses, which has huge shoulder pads and two oversized pockets that flare at my hip in a way I really like. It’s the same color as my mood usually is—gray, which is the color of independence and self-reliance as well as evasion, noncommitment, and loneliness. Half of my wardrobe is that color.

 

“Oh, and don’t get any thoughts. From what I hear, if it’s the son, he’s a good-looking man. Just remember he’s here about our lawn. He’s not a doctor making house calls.”

 

“Mother!”

 

I stroll to the door, and as soon as I open it, I see stars. Good looking is an understatement. He’s not as beautiful as Presley Okafor at Georgetown, but close enough for me.

 

“Hi, I’m Raphael Adams—the landscaper. Are you Dr. Sarah Deering?”

 

“No, that’s my mother. I’m Sarita, her daughter. But I guess I didn’t need to say that part. If she’s my mother, then I’m obviously her daughter, right?” I clear my throat when he doesn’t respond and instead stares at me as if I have two heads and I’m talking out the side of both of them.

 

My mother strides out toward him. His eyes bulge, and I wouldn’t be surprised if something else didn’t, too.

 

“Dr. Deering. I’m Raphael. My dad sent me in his place. I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“Why would I? I’m sure your father has taught you his business well, and you’ll provide an adequate assessment. But, if you don’t mind, I need to run over to one of the neighbor’s for a quick chat.” She smiles at me, and then turns back toward Raphael. “I’ll be back shortly. My daughter can answer any questions you have. She’s brilliant and knows about this home and the history of the neighborhood better than I do. She gets that from her father.”

 

“That’s fine. I’ll keep walking the grounds with her, and I’ll wait for you to return so that we can go over the assessment.”

 

“You can go over that with my daughter as well.”

 

“I’ll wait.”

 

My mother waves and floats away, and Raphael’s eyes follow her. She’s fifty-four years old and gets more attention from men than I do.

 

“Did you have any questions for me?” I ask, trying to snap his attention away from my mother and back to me.

 

“Your mother is—for lack of a better word—beautiful. Damn. But I guess you hear that a lot, don’t you?”

 

“All the time.”

 

“And is that all her hair?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Damn. At least now I have a vision of exactly how I want my wife to look.” His eyes assess me as if I’m one of the hedges in the backyard that needs shaping. “You must look like your father.”

 

“Just like him. My sister looks exactly like my mother.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“In Boston. Married.”

 

“Of course she is.”

 

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish showing you this lot and quickly go around to the other. I have plans, and I can’t be out here all day.” I’m ready for my chocolate cake and milk. I’m used to men falling out over my mother. I’ve always been in the shadow of her and my sister.

 

Well, maybe not always. I had that kind of attention, once, when I was a child. My hair was once almost as long as my mother’s. The length of a woman’s hair can be a great source of power, and it’s not my fault that I lost mine. But I’ve managed to compensate for it in other ways. Just not physically.

 

When I finish meditating, I set my Bible on my nightstand and rest my rosary on top of it. My gray Norma Kamali cotton shirt dress—a different one than the one I wore when the landscaper was over yesterday—is laid across the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. The heels of my sling-back pumps kiss on the hardwood floor in front of the entrance to my bathroom.

 

Would it be rude if I never made my way downstairs? My mother wouldn’t allow that. This is her dream for me. I climb through the curtains, slip on my dress, and then step inside the closet and stare at my three favorite Coach purses: the Dinky, the Slim Satchel, and the Stewardess. I can’t decide which one to take.

 

I love each for different reasons. And I can’t narrow it down by color because all three are black. Coach doesn’t have a bunch of colors to choose from to begin with, and if I’m spending that much on a purse, I want to make sure I use it often. I’m not like my mother. Coach isn’t high end enough for her. She prefers Gucci and Louis Vuitton. But I’ll take black glove-tanned cowhide leather over some initials on canvas any day. Besides, black goes with everything.

 

“Sarita, Dr. Emerson is waiting for you downstairs,” my mother says as she enters my room.

 

“I know, Mother.” My hand inches in the direction of my Dinky, which is inside its own little white square of the built-in purse display.

 

“Well, if you know, what’s taking you so long? Not that we don’t enjoy talking to him because, of course, we do. He’s such an intelligent young man, and his parents are dear friends of ours, as you know. He likes you, Sarita, and he’s not the play type. He’s serious. He’s looking for a wife.”

 

“I understand, Mother.”

 

“What do you understand? Do you understand I’d like for you to smile at Dr. Emerson, show those great teeth, stay engaged in his conversation? He’s a very rational man.”

 

“Mother, I’m not stupid. I went to college. I have two degrees.” I start transferring the contents of my Stewardess into the Dinky. It can’t fit nearly as much, but all I really need are some bobby pins and a small comb in case my updo comes undone; my Fashion Fair Lip Moisturizer, my slim wallet, and my keys.

 

“I never implied you were stupid, Sarita. I know you’re very intelligent. I just understand how you are, and I know that you feel that once you leave work, it’s over, but everyone doesn’t feel that way. Dr. Emerson is passionate about his work, so please act as if you’re interested. Do you remember everything that I taught you about dealing with men of his stature?”

 

I nod. “Yes, Mother.” I’ve been around men of his stature my entire life. My daddy is a man of his stature.

 

“Good, because if you do exactly what I’ve taught you over the years, you will be married to Dr. Emerson by next spring.”