Bad
as in Good
J.
Lovelace
Released
July 29th,
2014
Strebor
Books
Teeming
with dramatic plot twists and wickedly delightful erotic frills, a
passionate story about two lovers struggling with heartbreak,
heartthrobs, and self-fulfillment.
Many
of us fall into unrelenting cycles that lead us to inevitable
heartbreak—a knee-weakening, nearly unbearable period of withdrawal
where we curse our indiscretions and promise to do better next time.
But why? Why do we do this to ourselves?
That’s
the question Erin is constantly asking herself.
Along
for the ride is Tariq, a young man battling his past as well. While
their romantic lives intertwine, they find it almost impossible to
break free of the merciless beast that is love and its ugly
stepsister, heartbreak.
At
first, Erin’s attraction to Tariq is like a drug addiction she
can’t ignore, but as drama ensues and the ugly past comes back to
visit, both Tariq and Erin realize how bad—as in good—love truly
is.
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Chapter
1: Tariq
Four
years ago…
There
she was. My boo. My wifey. My ace boon-coon. Whatever people or I was
willing to call her, minus the official title of wife, she was. And
there she was tonguing some other poor soul down in the middle of the
Japanese steakhouse she’d been fighting to get me to take her to. I
wasn’t down for all that teppanyaki and sushi. I always passed,
but that ain’t stop her from going out and finding her another dude
to take her there while she used the guise of “shopping with the
girls” to keep me from being on to her games. I eventually realized
that when she kept coming home glowing with no shopping bags, she
wasn’t really shopping.
She
ain’t know I followed her this time. Well, technically, I wasn’t
really following her. Ain’t like I waited ten minutes after she
left to hop into my car, turn off my headlights, and tail her from
streetlight to streetlight while I stayed two cars behind. I was
smart and less crazy about all this. Outside of her credit cards not
being maxed out on Prada bags and Gucci shoes, I had no real proof
that she was stepping out on me. I couldn’t justify, to my mama or
myself, that I had a reason to stalk my own woman. However, I had to
consider the asinine possibility that my congeniality may have forced
her into the arms of Mr. Convenience. I thought up the least likely
place she’d expect me to spot her, grabbed the darkest table I
could find, and posted up.
The
first hour there, I was amped. I sat there with the menu covering my
face, dodging waiters and customers who ain’t feel comfortable with
a black man hiding out in a dimly lit booth of a Japanese steakhouse.
Every time a woman walked in, I hid my face and gorged on saké. The
second and third hour, I couldn’t dodge the waiters anymore. I had
to order something or risk being thrown out for looking plain weird.
After filling up on Kobe beef, rice and broccoli, I lost the initial
zeal I had. I started to settle into the notion that I was paranoid
and my woman really was out there watching her money and enjoying the
comforts of window-shopping.
The
fourth hour, I asked for the check. To my server’s delight, he
dropped my dinner bill on my table and skipped away. As I pulled a
few bills from my wallet, I noticed a tall, statuesque woman stroll
in. Large bumblebee shades covered her eyes and rested on top of her
high, taupe cheekbones. She wore a tight black dress that pushed her
breasts together and cuffed her ass in all the right places. Her
brown, curly hair bounced on top of her shoulders as she glided to an
empty table. I stared her down and watched her remove her glasses.
Bright, almond-shaped chestnut eyes, shaded by long overlapping
eyelashes, almost took my breath away.
My
waiter returned asking for his money, but I shooed him away to watch
as my woman sat alone and waited. I was hoping she was waiting for
her girls to roll through. Maybe they needed to eat before heading
home, I thought. After a quick glance at my cell, I ignored the fact
that she didn’t call me to let me know she’d be home late while I
focused on how that wasn’t the dress she was wearing when she left
the house. When the waiter handed her a drink without even taking an
order, it was clear that she’d been here long enough to have a
usual.
Suddenly,
some dude walked in with a bouquet of flowers and a big-ass smile. He
was a tall linebacker-lookin’ dude with a thick neck and a wide
frame. His skin was dark as night with eyes that were beady and
mischievous. His long, oblong face reminded me of a walking horse,
yet, as he held a bouquet of flowers, my woman stared up at him as if
he was a modern-day marvel. Although according to her, she hated
flowers, but her face lit up as she jumped up and down in her seat
when he placed the bouquet in her arms. I wanted to believe that this
was their first time meeting. I could forgive an innocent slip-up.
But the way he kissed her hello, the way he wrapped his arm around
her waist as if to proclaim that she was his boo, wifey, or ace
boon-coon only solidified the telling fact that they were more than
first-time acquaintances. I noticed the way she giggled and blushed
as he brushed her hair behind her ears. The way he rested the palm of
his hand on her lap irked me. But what really did me in was how he
squeezed the back of her neck, my woman’s neck, to exude his
dominance, then pulled her in close to devour her lips to prove his
ownership of who I thought was my woman. From the outside looking in,
she was his woman and I was another poor sap that couldn’t help but
stare.
I
glared at them. Even as my waiter rudely tapped his foot, my eyes
stayed glued on the show they put on before me. She ain’t care who
saw. I contemplated walking out and dealing with her when she got
home, but that wouldn’t be the type of guy I was. I slapped the
money for my meal on the table and bumped my server as I walked in
their direction.
“Deja,”
I said when I reached their table. “How you been?” I spread my
lips to show off all my teeth and continue the charade she put on.
I
wanted her to jump when she saw me and stutter her words as she
scrambled to determine how to recover. When she looked up at me, she
dropped her shoulders and took a sip of her drink. Her date asked
her, “Do you know this guy?”
I
tensed my jaw and squeezed my fists. “This guy?” I asked. “Yea,
Deja, do you know this guy?”
My
woman avoided eye contact but refused to move away from his hold. He
kept his arm around her waist and she kept her hand between his
thighs. Luckily, for them, a table separated my anger and my fists.
“What are you doing here, Tariq?”
“I
finally decided to try this place out like you been begging me to. It
ain’t half-bad. What the fuck are you doing here?”
She
took a deep breath and exchanged glances with her date. Staring at
the dude, I realized that he had pulled his lips in while he squeezed
his fists as if he were uncomfortable with me standing there. “I’m
Traevon. How you two know each other, bruh?”
“Well,
she used to be the woman I was fuckin’. The same girl I pay all the
bills for. The bitch who come home to me every night. How the fuck do
you know her, bruh?”
“Don’t
cause a scene, Tariq.”
I
was more pissed at how they still stayed so close together. The
longer she touched him only introduced the blatant disrespect she had
for me to my face. When her waiter came by, he only added fuel to the
fire. “Is everything all right? Do I need to escort this gentleman
to his table?”
I
hated the role I was forced in. Deja and fucking Traevon were
together while I stood back and watched—as if I was wrong for
questioning the whereabouts of who I thought was my woman. I took a
deep breath and refrained from doing anything that would get me
arrested. “I’m gone.” Without saying another word, I walked
away. I didn’t punch the dude’s eye socket in—even though my
fists were itching for the feel of blood. I simply gathered the
strength I needed to go home and contemplate how I handled being the
man to play the fool in a relationship I had considered taking to the
next level.
Deja
snuck into my life and set up shop, but there she was dating another
man in my face as if I didn’t matter. I’ll take blame in the
matter and say that I ignored the signs, but who was I to think that
my woman had it in her to lie and cheat? I drove back to the
apartment we shared and gripped the steering wheel as if I was
gripping Traevon’s neck. I wish he would’ve met me outside. I
wished I had the opportunity to avenge my broken heart by tearing the
fool apart. Then again, I wished I hadn’t caught my woman claiming
another man right in front of me with no remorse. Even though my eyes
watered, I wouldn’t allow myself to bitch and moan over a woman who
obviously had no respect for me. I wiped my face and drove in
silence. I patiently awaited the unraveling of the life I thought I
knew.
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J.
Lovelace is a freelance journalist, editor, and published author. She
earned her undergraduate degree from the University of South Florida
with a bachelor’s in Creative Writing and Public and Organizational
Communications. She lives in Orlando, Florida, with her husband,
daughter and son while pursuing a graduate education.
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