Enjoy the excerpt from D.Y. Phillips new book – Love Trumps Game.
Have you ever been in the same room with a monster?
Did you see how he did it? How he used fear as his weapon.
Could you smell or see death coming in his eyes?
What Hattie Sims saw when she came out from the restroom of her home, was a tall, muscular man standing in her living room. Her breath caught in her throat. She could have kicked herself for not remembering to lock that metal security door. After all, wasn’t that what it was for? to keep devils and monsters out.
“Why are you in my house?”
Topps Jackson was no stranger, still, she didn’t like or trust him from the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Something about his eyes, dark and threatening. He had nice lips that rarely smiled.
“Chill out Mama Hattie. I come in peace.” A toothpick was restless between his lips. Sneaky-looking eyes panned around her room as if he were casing the place.
“Your type ain’t welcome here.” Hattie refused to let her nervousness show. Men like Topps Jackson preyed on such. “And I’m not yo’ mama.”
He was dressed all in black. Large, muscular arms seemed more like thick, brown tree trunks protruding from the expensive jersey he wore. “Good ‘thang you not or you’d be dead by now.”
It was probably ridiculous for her to try to manually remove him. She was a small woman with delicate features. Still, Hattie straightened her back and stood her grounds with the father of her grandchildren. His bodacious visit was what she got for not locking her metal security door thinking that the delivery boy would be there soon with her grocery order. “What is it you want? Say what you want and get out. You got no business being in my house.”
“Now see, that ain’t no way to be treating family.” Unfazed by her show of unwelcome Topps Jackson ambled over to table near her picture window and picked up a wooden frame of her daughter, Myra. “Pretty,” he grunted. He placed the frame back and ran a finger along the top of the table. “A little dusty in here. You might wanna take care of that when I leave.”
“Look, if you’re looking for Neema, she ain’t here.”
“Not looking for Neema. Looking for you, the mama that keeps putting nonsense in Neema’s head. You know, that shit about taking my kids and moving away.” Topps sniffed, looked around her old, cozy living room. It was clean, but old looking. He frowned like it was a shame to live average with no frills.
Hattie couldn’t see what Neema saw in him. True, he was tall, handsome, cunning, and from what she’d heard, drug-dealing rich. He had materialistic wealth, yet, still he represented everything a mother warned her daughter about. Stay away from men that degrade women. Men that hurt women. Stay away from men on the opposite side of the law. Stay away. “Like I said, you got no business being here.”
“I disagree. I feel like this, if my kids spend a lot of time over here, I need to know what’s up. How you hanging. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?” All six feet of man turned and slowly walked down her hallway like some invited guest padding along her carpet in his expensive-looking black sneakers. “How many bedrooms you got here, ole’ lady?”
“You listen here young man…” Hattie was right behind him, clutching the hem of her floral house dress. “You need to leave.”
“You gotta a man up in this ‘mutha?” Topps inquired as he opened doors and surveyed one room after another. “What? No nigger laying that pipe down? That explains a lot.”
“That’s not your business,” Hattie snapped. The nerve of his fool talking this way to me.
“That’s how I feel when you stay up in my business with Neema. See,” he grunted, looking down at her, “if you had a man tapping that ass, you wouldn’t have that problem.”
“Neema’s my daughter. I gave birth to Neema, not you.”
Topps had to turn to get in her face. “I don’t care if you shot Neema out your wrinkled, grey-covered ass twice. She’s my boo-bitch now. Mine, so get over it.”
“I’m calling the police.” And she would have too, but his bulk in the narrow hallway was blocking. She could smell the toothpaste he’d used earlier, the cologne. That’s how close he stood. The monster grinned. Eyes red. Nostrils flared. He snatched up her hand like she was some bratty-child trying to slip away.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me!”
“This the deal here. You need to stop putting crazy ideas in Neema’s head. She ain’t no child no more. She ain’t going no ‘muthafucking place. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Let me go!”
His dark-eyed stare was so intense it could make a baby cry. Hattie felt like crying herself. The scowl on his face promised worst. It was the second time she’d seen his face up close and personal. She hoped it would be the last.
“I’m warning you ole’ lady, if I hear my bitch-boo say one more time about she wanna take my kids and move away from me, I’ll have to come back for a longer visit. We’ll be doing some real talking the next time. Know what I’m saying ole’ lady?”
When she didn’t answer, he squeezed her hand harder causing a hot pain to zip through her hand and up her elbow. Pain nearly brought Hattie to her knees. “You hear me or not?” he prompt again.
“I…I hear you.” The nuance of not being able to do anything about his presence grated on her nerves. At five foot-three, one hundred and eighty, she was no match.
“That’s better,” Topps said, smirk-smiling. The shine of soft hate was in his eyes. He patted the top of her head much the same he would do for a pet dog. “See, Mama bitch. I’m not so bad, am I?” It could almost be a term of endearment. All women were bitches to Topps Jackson – - female dogs that had to be kept on a mental leash– controlled. Sometimes even old, Mama-bitches had to be dealt with. “You alright,” he released her hand.
“I want you out of my house.” Hattie massaged her hand while Topps removed a moist Clean’n Wipe cloth and wiped germs from his hands.
“Not so fast, ole’ lady.” Topps made a show of checking out the ceiling, knocking on a couple of walls. “Not a bad house, but if my kids gone be coming and going up in this ‘muther you need to be living better. Check this out, ole’ lady. If you ever want to sale this dump I’ll give you a pretty price. Enough to get you a new house that smells better.” Frowning, he sniffed a few times. “Smells like loneliness and moth balls in here. What you think?”
Hattie didn’t answer.
“Yeah. Just what I thought. You need some time to think that shit over, huh?”
Her front door bell rang. It had to be the delivery boy with her grocery order.
Topps acted like he owned the place the way he headed for the metal security door and greeted the delivery boy with, “What’s up my man? It’s all good. How much I owe you? You can sit those bags down by the door.”
He processed the bill information, took a wad of cash from the pocket of his black sweat pants and peeled off two crisp hundred dollar bills. “Keep the change, bro.”
Once the pimped-faced delivery clerk was gone, Topps turned back to give Hattie one of his famous sneers. “One last thing, ole’ woman. You mention this little visit to Neema and I’ll have come back to see you. Maybe I can stay longer next time. Better yet, I might have to take my frustration out on Neema’s sweet little ass for bringing yo’ name up.”
Hattie waited after her security door banged shut, rushed over to it and locked it. Frowning, she watched the monster walk to his big black vehicle, get in and drive off.
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d.y.phillips is the alter ego for author Debra Phillips, who has written four books. Love Trumps Game is her latest. She lives in the high desert of southern California with her husband Reggie, and is currently working on her fifth novel.
To find out more about the novels by Debra Phillips, please visit her at her website at: www.debraphillips.homestead.com.
Chemistry is a 34 year old romance/erotica novelist and a part time student,s tudying to be a LPN.Among her many talents, she is a book club president, E-Mag owner and blog talk radio host. Chemistry reads and reviews books in many genre’s, such as erotica, romance. mystery and fantasy.she is also the author the short story titled “Almost Doesn’t Count” released in 2007, which is available on Amazon. february 2009 she launched an online magazine called Go Getta’s Magazine, by women for women, along with other contributing authors.
