place a moratorium on the development of all our hotels and condos. If that happened, we could lose hundreds of thousands of dollars each day.
Shaking his head, my father stared at me. “Son, never make a business decision or a marriage proposal based on emotions. It always seems good on the surface. Take time to scratch a little.”
On high school graduation day, my friends got keys to cars. My father handed me the deed and the keys to my first home. I continued making sound real-estate investments. Every income stream from every piece of property I owned was attached to the 411-unit condo building and hotel I was developing in Atlanta. Partnering with Trevor would give me collateral leverage to build additional properties.
Mom entered the dining room. She stood behind Dad’s chair, as she often did to quietly show her support of my father.
Dad said, “Back to Honey. Son, your mother came to me. Ain’t that right, baby? But…” Dad paused, then continued. “I chose her. Not because she’s beautiful. Not because she’s white. I chose your mother because she has a loving heart.” He turned around, slapped Mom’s behind, then said, “And a big booty. Son, never marry a woman who believes you are responsible for her happiness.”
I watched my mother massage my dad’s shoulders. He stretched his neck side to side. Mom scratched his back.
“I love you, Ma,” I said, easing out of my chair to kiss her cheek. My mom was my number one lady, and my dad was my hero. “I disagree. I am supposed to make and keep my wife happy. Isn’t that right, Mom?”
Mom’s eyes widened, and she looked toward Dad. “I’ll be back. Tell him,” she said. Leaving the room, Mom glanced over her shoulder at dad. “Tell him now.”
Dad exhaled. “Yes. But deep down inside, an unhappy woman is bitter about something someone else did to her, and she expects you to make up for it,” he said. “You can’t make a fractured woman whole. Honey wasn’t prostituting because a hooker showed up at her high school on career day, telling her about the benefits. Something happened to her. That’s not your fault. Let her go. Please, son, marry a good woman, one with a loving heart and a big butt like your mother, and notice whether her eyes light up for you so bright that you can feel the goodness resonating from within her. That is the woman who will never forsake you. It’s better to learn to love a good woman than to fall in love with a bad one.”
I heard my mother yell from the kitchen, “Baby, snap out of it. She’s got you in a trance.” Reentering the dining room, Mom insisted we eat. She placed hash browns topped with sautéed onions, fluffy scrambled eggs, turkey sausages, and wheat toast, neatly arranged on a plate, in front of me and another plate in front of my dad.
She placed my plate down first. Oh, oh.
“Grant, your father is right. She’s not the one, baby,” said Mom, placing her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Go on and tell Grant the truth. If you don’t tell him before I return, I will. I’ve got to go to the hair salon. Call me later and let me know how things went.”
I was grateful my parents had taught me how to be a good man before becoming a father, lover, friend, or husband to a woman. I knew the woman I wanted to marry was Honey. Hopefully, my dad wouldn’t try to decide for me. Despite her lies, Honey had a sweetness I couldn’t deny. I just prayed she didn’t hurt me like Valerie had.
“Uh, uh.” Dad cleared his throat, looked directly into my eyes, then said, “Son, why are you still worried about that woman? Your brother already told you she’s bad news. Besides, if for no other reason, you don’t want to date a woman who’s dated your brother.”
“Not date, Dad. Marry. I want to marry Honey.”
A man never forgot his first love, and I’d never forget Valerie Jamison. In Economics 101, I fell hard for her the moment I saw those never-ending legs reaching from her ankles to her torso. We dated our freshman and sophomore years, but I couldn’t give Valerie enough of me no matter how hard I tried. Valerie lived for the spotlight. Depending on what sport was in season, she fell in love with the most popular athlete on campus.
A puff of air shot out of my nostrils. Placing a forkful of hash browns in my mouth, I tried eating my breakfast. “Since he has so much to say, let him say it to my face. Where is he?” I asked.
“I already told you I put him out,” my dad said emphatically. “He’s trouble. You made up your mind about that merger?”
Nodding, I said, “I’ma go for it.”
“Don’t. You’re not thinking clearly. Give it some time. Take every detail under consideration, and then consult with your lawyer for a month or so.”
“But—”
“But nothing. This Trevor guy needs you, dammit. You don’t need him. Just like Honey. You don’t need her, either. You’re wealthy, smart, successful, young, and good-looking. The right woman will come along.”
Yeah, right. What made any woman the right woman?
I never expected Valerie or any other woman to want me solely for my physical appearance. What if I got hit by a car or disfigured in a fire? What if my dick stopped working? Would the woman I loved still love me? I wanted the woman who would unequivocally answer yes, without hesitation.
I was no athlete like my brother, but my body would beg to differ. I worked out five times a week. The definition from my Adam’s apple to my dick formed a straight line; I had no bulging belly like other guys. My smooth six-pack abs were accented by parentheses. And my tight ass sat high above my thighs. I knew women wanted to fuck me before finding out I had a big dick. Damn. Where’d I put that card I got yesterday? Had I missed the party?
Biting my bottom lip, I couldn’t get Valerie off of my mind. When she’d said she was pregnant with my first child, the first words out of my mouth were, “Will you marry me?” I didn’t ask her to marry me before our baby was born because I felt obligated. I loved Valerie with all my heart. I wanted to do all the right things for and with her. But when Valerie said that she couldn’t keep my child, and that she’d had an abortion the day before she’d told me we were pregnant, I felt like my heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t breathe.
My dad picked up his plate, then said, “Keep thinking about everything, son. That’s good.” Then he walked into the kitchen.
I sat at the table, stirring my eggs in with my hash browns.
A few months later, Valerie got pregnant with the star quarterback’s baby. I’d never seen her so happy, until she discovered four other women on campus were also pregnant by him at the same time. Valerie ended up joining the seventieth-percentile ranks of those girls and black women who were single parents, while the quarterback walked down the aisle with his high school sweetheart shortly after going pro and clinching a thirty-million-dollar contract.
Valerie dropped out of college, and I couldn’t say I was sorry that I didn’t see her again. Why did black women claim they wanted a good man, then carelessly and continuously give themselves to men who were unworthy of them? If I ever saw Valerie again, I’d ask her one question. “Who’s loving you?”
My dad walked back into the dining room, placed his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Son, stand up and look at me.”
“All right.” Slowly, I pushed back my chair.
As requested, I faced my father and listened. “Son, your brother says she’s a murderer. That she killed a man,” said my dad. “Your mother and I are afraid that she might kill you, too. I hope that’s convincing enough. If you don’t let Honey go for yourself, do it so you won’t kill your mother. I can’t live without my wife.”
CHAPTER 8
Red Velvet
Whoever believed sex was overrated must’ve been asexual. I wished I could’ve stayed in D.C. another day with Grant, but after our fuck session, I had to fly back to Atlanta and go straight home so I could care for my son. This morning I