Naughty Or Nice Part 19

Panther stood firm, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s high, dark skin glistening, full lips parted.

I remembered what Tony had said about wanting to kill Miesha's mother. About how he said he wouldn't do anything that would make it impossible for us to be together again. I wanted to make what we had new again, make it as exciting as what Tommie had with Blue.

She was Panther. A G.o.ddess scorned. Like a warrior, she stood her ground.

Women destroyed each other just as much as men destroyed women.

I'd like to believe that thought kept me from acting a fool. Or maybe I was just tired.

I stared at the closet filled with clothes, the boxes of new shoes.

Designer attire for a betrayed woman. A wh.o.r.e's wardrobe. That was all that was.

Panther had given me the most devastating, destructive, and unpredictable news she could. Shattered my illusion. That was the kind of petty thing a woman did. The way I nodded my head, the way I tisked told her what I was thinking.

I asked, "What's your real name?"

She smiled a one-sided smile. "Cynthia Smalls."

I smiled a one-sided smile too. Now she was no longer a stranger.

I shook my head. "I won't be coming this way again."

My p.i.s.stivity at myself had me heading out the door. Christmas air chilled my skin.

But I couldn't leave.

This wasn't over.

I startled her when I hurried back inside, my expression tight, mouth fixed for a verbal exchange, hands fixed for more than that. The way I pushed the door open, the way it banged the wall when I rushed back inside scared her to her feet. She jumped like she knew I was ready to take the shoes and leave her bruised body on the floor so Michael could find her a.s.s.

Her expression stopped me where I was.

So many tears were running down her face.

The G.o.ddess in her was gone, dissipated. She was a child named Cynthia, a long way from her Southern roots, alone on Christmas, willing to do whatever she had to do to not be alone on this holiday. A stripper who would do anything for a man who didn't love her.

She pulled her long hair away from her face, stared at the floor.

She snapped, "Get the f.u.c.k out, Olivia. Go home to your d.a.m.n family."

Women destroyed each other, but sometimes we tried to save each other as well.

I moved toward her. She trembled, backed away, picked up a housecoat, covered herself, lowered her head, wiped her tears away as she went into the bathroom; then she closed the door.

I asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Go back to school. Get your s.h.i.+t together."

I stood where I was. She remained inside the bathroom.

Her voice came to me, "Olivia . . . Take care of yourself."

"Yeah. You do the same, Cynthia."

My wounded fingers sang when I picked up the Blahniks. I didn't come back to fight. It was all about the shoes. No way in h.e.l.l I was going to leave them behind. I wasn't insane.

Scarf around my neck hiding my scars, I pulled my lips in and hurried back outside, brisk air drying the sweat on my face. My quick pace took me up the hill to my SUV. I placed the shoes in the pa.s.senger seat, and headed toward my home, not speeding, and never looking back.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This is a work of fiction.

As usual, I was mulling over a different novel when my former editor asked me about doing a holiday novel. What I was working on, in my opinion, was a little too dark for the seasonal thing, so I put that project down, put on my Santa Claus suit, and moved on to a lighter story. Needed to do a little comedy. I've heard actors say that after doing intense pieces, they wanted/needed to do something light to maintain their sanity, sometimes just to flex their acting chops, maybe to keep from being typecast. (Sometimes it's the reverse, after doing so many light pieces some actors want to do something heavier. Artists, writers, singers-I think most creative people feel that way.) What I love about fiction is just that, it's fiction. The writer has the freedom to change things, redo scenes until the flow is seamless, rework lies until they sound real, rewrite until what's been created is the best scene for the story. I love being able to do that. You can't rework the truth, which is why trying to write nonfiction doesn't work for me. You can't swap s.h.i.+t around or rewrite the real deal, not without people calling you, well, a liar. (Maybe some peeps will add some colorful expletives in front of that tag.) Which is what a good fiction writer is, a decent liar. And when two or more fiction writers are in a room, in the words of Richard Pryor, his voice bringing the character "Mudbone" to life, we sit around and "compliment each other's lies." It's our job to make it all seem real. Just like a good actor, we have to make you believe.

I have no idea what's going to happen until I start writing. Don't have a clue who is going to show up, banging on the door, begging for a part in the story. In the book you're holding, Livvy's job changed along the way. Her relations.h.i.+p with her sisters changed. Livvy was single; then she was married. (And Livvy wasn't her original name.) The nationality of her husband changed too. How they met came to me weeks later. Frankie's height and weight both went up and down. About halfway through I changed my mind and moved her from a duplex to a house. Her dates with the legion-of-whatever-she-called-them changed a thousand times. Tommie's tone changed and her back-story was softened up a bit. Characters from other books showed up, got deleted; then others showed up and refused to leave, no matter how much I prodded. There was even a chapter told from one sister's POV, then switched at the last minute. (Don't ask because I'm not telling. Gotta have some secrets. ) The point is, well, the freedom in writing fiction is that I don't have to worry about facts, not in the nonfiction sense of the word. Don't get me wrong, that doesn't make it any easier-it's still hard work. Even you have "talent," you still need to study, put in the hours, and even then if you don't have the discipline to complete a project . . . 'Nuff said. I always encourage people struggling with writer's block, do what you have to do, finish the friggin' project. It's a labor of love, and I have the same struggles. One day you love what you're working on, the next you're ready to kick your laptop off your desk and take up basket weaving.

Some pretty cool people have asked me, "How can I be a writer? What do I have to do?" Which I find curious. Not trying to sound . . . dunno . . . guess that logical side of my brain kicks in whenever I hear that question. I was in software development for nine years, and when I told people what I did, no one asked what it took to get that gig. (Then again, no one was really impressed-no one wanted to know how to get a job where you wore a pocket protector and sat in a cubicle and watched other people scratch their a.s.ses. Oh, the glamour! And the high-brow humor. "Is that a hard drive in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?") All that to say, peeps knew it required a lot of studying. A h.e.l.la lot. They knew I had to start with the basics of computer design and learn the craft from ground up. That meant a lot of cla.s.ses. (Arrgh! Pardon me, had a flashback.) The same, in my humble opinion, goes for writing. I'm not saying you need a degree from Harvard, but I always suggest finding your way into somebody's cla.s.s or workshop, start with the basics, get an understanding, build a foundation. (Actors, singers, artists, dancers, comedians, anybody in the arts will tell you the same thing-what they do may look easy, but it's not a no-brainer and you have to put in your time.) There are no secrets. Just hard work. A lot of falling and getting back up. If you love writing, that's what you'll do. It's not about fame; it's about writing. I still take cla.s.ses when I can, wherever I can. I love learning, even if it's just getting a fresh perspective on old ideas. Anyone who tells you they know all there is to know is a bona fide idiot. Run away from them as fast as you can. And be careful what you wish for. If you don't mind deadlines and sitting in a dungeon (sort of like being an engineer, only you don't have to watch people wearing pocket protectors scratch their a.s.ses). If you don't mind working a capella while the rest of the world goes out to play on a sunny day, this might be the gig for you. From revisions to recasting, from frustration to elation, a lot happens to a story before it makes it this far. Whenever I look back at my notes (and sometimes flowcharts) from any book I've written, the evolution of each project amazes me.

For the people who've asked me how I write in a female voice, I've tried to answer. That Q finds its way into every book signing, every interview. But here's the kicker, I've never had a good answer. Close to ten years have gone by, still no good answer. And I can tell you why. Hold the book up to your ear so I can whisper the truth. Closer. Little closer. Not that close. Don't want to get earwax on the pages. Ready? Here goes. Because I have no idea. Serious. I don't. There it is. I said it. Now I'm an official member of the Do Not Know How He Does It Club. To be honest, if there is some secret, I don't want to know. If a bird knew the secret to his flying, he'd probably crash. And if a bird knows, he ain't telling, cause he's too busy flying. I'm flying and I love the feeling. All I can tell you is this: I try to create characters old and young, male and female, many nationalities. The same amount of energy gets put into each one. I guess what is seen depends on who is doing the reading. Nothing wrong with that. Whatever floats your boat. Either way, cool by me. Much better than being ignored.

'Nuff said.

So far as what I was working on before the phone rang and my former editor made me an offer I couldn't refuse, the day is still young and I have plenty of ink in my printer. The Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be getting back to that project as soon as I finish sending a few shout outs to the crew. No man is an island and no writer can do it alone.

To my wonderful agent, Sara Camilli, once again, thanks for looking over every scene change, word change, from beginning to end. Thanks for pointing out a few errors along the way, and thanks for the phone conversations and listening to my everchanging ideas while I worked my way through this one. Your suggestions were priceless.

To the people in publicity, Lisa Johnson, Kathleen Schmidt, and Betsy Dejesus, a kazillion thanks and just as many hugs. You peeps are awesome to the nth degree.

Carole Baron, thanks for believing in me. MUA!

Brian Tart, Amy Hughes, thanks for picking up the ball on this project. Much love.

Rose Hilliard, thanks for handling all of my requests with a smile.

And to my warm, close, personal friends . . .

Olivia Ridgell, thanks for the feedback, Boo! Much love to you in Chi town.

Denae Marcel, thanks for the input. Once again you've been a tremendous help.

And, as usual, I have to thank Yvette Hayward in NYC for reading the scenes as I wrote 'em. (Whaddup Jamez!) Ronnie L. Adams, II (MD), thanks for the medical info. It was great meeting you and your few words were a great help in shaping a key character.

Amy Mason, thanks for your comments. You're a regular Evelyn Wood.

Tiffany Pace, thanks for the copyedits. You're the best. (I stopped there but, nnnnooo, Tiff got a little beside herself and wanted me to add the following.) I don't know what I'd do without you. Your work is beyond compare. I'm learning to like the smell of cigarettes on my ma.n.u.scripts. I'm giving you a raise.

J. McDaniel, thanks for all the feedback and info on all that Derma stuff.

Dominique Simone d.i.c.key, I love your poetry! MUA!

Audrey O. Cooper, Robert (Bobby) Laird, Travis Hunter, thanks.

To the wonderful people at Trillion, many thanks to Kathryn Tyus Adair and Laurent Zilber. Thanks to Steve Lapuk for the enthusiasm and interest in my work. And many hugs to Deborah Martin Chase and Martin Chase Productions.

In case I forgot anybody, break out a pen and get ready to fill in your name! This book would not be possible without ______________________'s help.

To the readers who have been hanging out with me and my imagination for the better part of the last decade, thanks. I mean that. If it weren't for you, I'd still be at the post office licking stamps. Unfortunately I can't go back because my old job has gone away, replaced by self-adhesive stamps. Technology is a beast.

Laugh, cry, get mad, I just hope you have (or had) fun reading Naughty or Nice.

Special thanks to the peeps who went out and bought books as soon as they hit the stands. To everyone who took the time out of their schedules to show up for the book tour, thanks. I look forward to meeting you year after year while I'm on the road.

Now, all the writer birds out there . . . get to flying.

Peace, blessings, and happy holidays. Virginia Jerry's grandson signing off . . .

eric ferome d.i.c.key.

07/07/03.

www.ericjeromed.i.c.key.com.

ALSO BY ERIC JEROME d.i.c.kEY.

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Thieves' Paradise.

Between Lovers.

Liar's Game.

Cheaters.

Milk in My Coffee.

Friends and Lovers.

Sister, Sister.

ANTHOLOGIES.

Got to Be Real.

Mothers and Sons.

River Crossings: Voices of the Diaspora

Griots Beneath the Baobab.

Black Silk: A Collection of African American Erotica.

Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing