A funny thing happened to me at the thrift store. As I was scanning the bookshelves for the latest literary cast-offs my daughter cried out to me after unearthing a slightly worn copy of my debut novel, Soon and Very Soon-with a signature, no less. I haven’t done many of these. This gave me pause. I was insulted. I felt the way I did when I found my favorite cassette tape of all time, New Edition’s NE Heartbreak album in the bargain bin at Sam Goody record store. Surely, it was a mistake. The owner must have been like those clueless sad-sacks who give away one-of-a-kind artwork only to find it out its worth later on the Antique’s Roadshow.

I made my daughter take me to the exact same spot where she found it. I examine the void it left on the shelf between an outdated volume of the Childcraft encyclopedia and another book as if it would give me some clue as to who could have given my baby away. I want to know this person’s identity more than anything. See, my book only came out seven months ago, and we were in my neighborhood. I was sure I could crack the case. That’s only a twenty-five to thirty mile radius to cover. Not exactly a case for Scotland Yard. I narrow the field of known residents that I had told about the book or sold the book to. Just when I think I have a list compiled, I think how ridiculous this whole thing is. How do you tactfully ask someone, did you happen to pitch my book out with your argyle sweater and Hammer pants? Was there no one you could personally give the book to? Ever hear of paperback swap, for goodness sake.

There had to be a logical explanation. The writer in me had me sit down at the kiddy desk set they were selling for just $7 to ponder a few possible ones. Maybe this person had a husband like mine who constantly threatens, “Don’t bring another book in this house.” But of course this person couldn’t resist my realistic tale about two pastors that marry and combine their churches. So she took the risk and discarded the evidence immediately after the last page. Yeah, that’s it.

Just when I thought I could rest a bit after a major signing at my sorority’s convention at the end of this month. Yeah, maybe I’ll do the Baltimore Book Festival in September, then the Capitol Book Festival. I’ve got a sequel to write. I can’t possibly create and promote simultaneously. Soon and Very Soon will do alright. Wrong. I got a few more calls to make, connections to follow-up on and weekends to book with signings.

“Look mommy, you’ve got that book.”

That’s my six year old who has gotten good at reading the spin of books. She gets caught up on the last syllable of Terri McMillan’s last name as she spots the hardback copy of A Day Late and a Dollar Short. I do own that book. I stood in line for hours while pregnant to get it signed at the crowded-to-overflowing Karibu books in the Bowie Town Center (Don’t get me started. That’s a whole nother lament). I would have loved to get it for $2.10. Just thirty more cents than my book was going for at the Waldorf Thrift Store.

God has a sense of humor. Just as I was about to grab my book up and discreetly pay for it at the counter like it was the last scandal sheet written about me left on the newsstand, I realized I’ve gotten some real good books here. I wasn’t thinking, poor Audre Lorde when I picked her book of poems up and added it to my library. I’ve found, read and treasured, Grisham, Jakes, Gaines, and Steele.

I could take it home, wipe the red colored pencil price tag off with a bay wipe and add it to the other books packed to go to Florida-for sale for $15 a pop. Generic signature could easily be personalized on the spot. Dead wrong-maybe, maybe not. ( I put this is print so I wouldn’t be tempted to do that)

I left the copy of Soon and Very Soon on the shelf next to the outdated volume of the Childcraft encyclopedia and the other book. God has plans for that book right there. My goal was that it would be widely read and that it would be a blessing to the reader. I couldn’t think of a better place for that goal to be accomplished. 

###
ABOUT SHERRYLE
Sherryle Kiser Jackson is the author of Soon and Very Soon and the soon to be released novel, The Manual (October 2009), which is dedicated to her only living aunt, Janette. Her passion is to one day preserve the graceful elegance of her nine aunts and their churching traditions in a Black Memorabilia collection called Church Lady Ways. THE MANUAL: 304 PAGES/ ISBN: 1601629354/ OCT. 2009/ URBAN CHRISTIAN

Sherryle Jackson describes her novels as too real to be preachy, Biblically based, and out-the-Christian-box. She has also branded herself as a book club’s best friend, making sure to be accessible to book club’s either in person or by phone conferencing during her 2009 book tour schedule. To schedule speaking engagements, book signings, online/telephone conference contact Author, Sherryle Jackson at www.sherrylejackson.com or email: sherrylek@aol.com 

Buy Books by author Sherryle K. Jackson at Amazon

For more information about Sherryle Kiser Jackson go to
http://www.blackpearlsmagazine.com/sherrylejackson.htm

 

Ask me anything and I will answer it here on the blog on next week. Promise…you can leave your name or leave one anonymously…I’m not scared (smile). I look forward to your questions.

Create a playlist at MixPod.com

A friend of mine sent me a few links about Virgos. I read some of it and although a lot wasn’t true, I was amazed that some of the things were true. I’ll post some of the info with my comments in red.

Things About Virgos:

Virgo is known for her love of work and service to others. Virgos have a strong need to be needed and a talent for healing the sick, giving good practical advice and assistance, and solving problems for others. Their advice is usually worth following because it tends to be based on a thoughtful analysis of the pros and cons of a potential course of action rather than a knee-jerk emotional reaction.(True. I had to learn how to balance though. Before I would give more of myself to others than myself but there has to be some balance or you will get worn out. I finally realized I’m not superwoman and its not meant for me to solve everybody’s problems.)

You make a wonderful impression with your skilful insights and broad-based knowledge. Simply put, you are a most interesting person to be with. When others get to know you a little more, you can be a fascinating person with all sorts of useful titbits of information. (So true. I can’t tell a joke even if you give me a punchline, but I do like to have fun. If you don’t know me, take the time to get to know me…smile)

On the most practical level you really like to do things properly, meticulously by working through the work or service you perform on a daily basis. It doesn’t matter how small or large the task, you take pride in how well you do it. You investigate things before diving in. Once you have all the information required you complete your task to the best of your ability.  (I think this is why I make a good project manager. I’m a stickler for details…some folks hate I ask so many questions and hold them accountable to deadlines.)

Others who aren’t quite as precise in the way they carry out their own work find it hard dealing with you. In your own mind there’s no point in doing anything half-heartedly. You’d rather not do it at all. You are very clear on this.  (I hate when folks don’t follow up the way I think they should.  I feel if someone expects something from me, then they should live up to their end and provide me with the information I need in a timely fashion.)

Time is also important to you. So you like to make sure you use it well. It would be unusual to find a disorganised Virgo. Keeping a diary and making lists are a favourite pastime of yours. Of course having the right pen and paper to keep your lists is just as important so a favourite hangout for some Virgos is the local stationery supply store. It sounds a little weird sure, but you do need to have the right pen to write with! (Two hand snaps.  Time is of the essence is what I always say. I hate being late. I hate someone else showing up late. I don’t like turning things in late. I just like things done in a timely fashion.)

You are cautious about all manner of things from how much the food bill costs to what type of person is just right for you in your social or romantic life. You have a hawk eye and can spot an error a mile away. If that food bill is out by 5 cents you’ll pick it up. (Cashiers beware because I’m watching the cash register like a hawk and I also double check my ticket before I leave the parking lot. I am also cautious about who I let into my “innercircle.”)

Your Virgoan antenna is sharp as a tack and you’ll pay special attention to the fine detail of any subject matter. You’re also very well read and interested in a variety of topics. You consider yourself an eternal student of sorts. (True. I like to learn about new things because you never know when the information will come in handy.)

Some people think you’re shy and unassuming but this is only because you cautiously like to observe and analyse people and situations before jumping to conclusions.  (If you know me, I’m not shy. But I am quiet around folks I don’t know. I’ve learned that you learn a lot just by listening.)

Virgos are prone to worrying, agonizing over things, and in extreme cases, hypochondria or germ phobia. (I don’t totally agree with this. I do worry about things sometimes but as far as being compulsive about it–no.  I am particular about hygeine. If I’m in line and the cashier sneezes into their hands and doesn’t wipe them off or use sanitizer to clean them, I will get my stuff and go to another line.)

Virgos don’t fall in love easily and they are very choosy about their mates and friends. They are drawn to people through intellectual curiosity rather than shallow physical attraction or passion. Virgos need intellectual stimulation, and will quickly grow bored in the company of those who make small talk rather than speaking of serious, important things. (True.  I don’t fall in love easily but when I am in love–I’m in love. I don’t like superficial folks.  I’m attracted more to a man’s mind and how he handles himself day to day than to his physical statue…but don’t get me wrong, I like something good to look at too…smile).

Return tomorrow for when the real celebration begins–you’ll enjoy a music mix done by DJ Shelia (so don’t forget to stop on by…be there or be square).

Today I wrap up my favorite author feature with the prolific writer Donna Hill.

Enjoy the excerpt from Prize of A Lifetime – Donna Hill’s upcoming release:

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”  Mitchell asked a final time.

Sasha nodded, uncertain of what she would say if she tried to speak.

The sound of partygoers moved outside their door. Laughter rippled up and down the corridor drawing their attention.  For a moment the spell that they cast between themselves was momentarily broken.  The noise quieted by degrees, and Sasha and Mitchell returned their attention to each other.  He reached behind her and unzipped her dress.  She gasped softly, his eyes questioning her. Her answering response was an unequivocal, yes.

Sasha worked the buttons of Mitchell’s starched white shirt until it was completely undone falling away from the hard lines of his muscular chest.  She ran the tips of her nails across the rippled muscles of his six pack.  He drew in a short hot breath then eased Sasha dress over the curves of her body until it slipped away and pooled at her feet. 

“Oh… my… God,” Mitchell uttered, when his gaze fell upon the curves, the softness, the sensuous delight that was Sasha’s banging body.  He lowered his head and sought her lips.

Sasha’s eyes drifted close as she stretched her arms upward and linked her fingers behind the curve of his neck.

His gentle fingers played with her spine, causing shivers to run up and down her body. The hard bulge in his shorts pressed roughly against her and she felt her own desire rise and flow between her thighs.

A quick pop by nimble fingers released her strapless bra. Mitchell pulled it away and tossed it on the floor. He took a step back to take her in and it was a feast.

Her breasts were full, lush and perfect.  Her nipples hard and pointed ready to be tasted and he did.

Sasha let out a gasp of delight when Mitchell’s hot lips covered her right nipple, gently tugging, laving and sucking on it making her legs tremble in response. He massaged the other running his thumb across the hardened peak.  Any thought of doubt or misgiving vanished, replaced with a need so demanding that she was certain if she didn’t have him, and soon, she would explode. And she wanted to be sure that the explosion happened with Mitchell buried deep inside of her. She released his belt and zipper. His slacks dropped to his ankles. He kicked them out of the way.

She reached down, slid her hand beneath the band of his shorts and tenderly stroked the length of him, stunned by the silky texture that covered what felt like steel.

Mitchell shuddered. The muscles in his neck tightened like knotted rope. Something deep and dark rumbled in his throat. In a smooth move he reversed their positions until Sasha’s back was to the bed.  He eased her down.

She lifted her legs onto the bed and slid over to give him room to join her.

For a moment, he stood above her, drinking her in like a man starved for nourishment, before pushing his shorts down over his hips and stepping out of them.  Sasha drew in a breath of awe and alarm. Even in the dim light, he looked lethal.  She trembled.

Mitchell moved toward her, stretching the length of his body alongside hers. He caressed her face as she turned her head to kiss the inside of his palm.

His hand drifted down, trailing across the rise of her breasts to the hollow of her stomach to the hot darkness nestled between her legs. She jumped ever so slightly when he began patting her there, gently in a teasing rhythms that shortly had her writhing and moaning softly. He pushed away the barely there string of her thong to find her wet and ready.

Instinctively her hips rose as his finger played with the throbbing bud, slid further and up into the slick wetness of her opening.

Sasha gripped the sheets as her body took on a will of its own, moving up and down against the steady stroke of his fingers.

His rhythm built in intensity. Her head spun as an unbearable heat filled her.

“That’s it,” he cooed, urging her on. “You feel so good,” he murmured. He lowered his head and took her breast into his mouth as he continued to finger her.

“Oooooh, God,” she cried, as the first spasm was unleashed and roared through her in a wave that curled her toes and separated her from reality.  Her chest rose and fell in hard knocks as her orgasm slowly subsided leaving her weak yet wanting even more.

Slowly she opened her eyes and stared into his.

“Ready for me now?” he asked, slowly easing his fingers out.

She whimpered, suddenly feeling empty. Numbly she nodded her head, then reality hit.  “Wait,” she managed to say. Pulling herself up on her hands and knees she crawled to the edge of the bed and felt her for purse on the floor. She took out two condoms then returned to her spot next to Mitchell.

“Why don’t you do the honors?” he said.

With shaky fingers she tore the packet open and removed the thin sheath. Nervously eyeing him she placed the condom on his swollen tip and rolled it down his length.

Mitchell bit down on his bottom lip to keep from groaning out loud. The heat of her hands, the way she subtly jerked him up and down while putting on the condom was nearly his undoing.

He gripped her wrist.  “Okay, okay . . . you gotta stop,” he said.

Amusement sparkled in her eyes and a sense of power flooded through her that she could make him feel anywhere near as awesome as how he’d made her feel moments ago.

“What would you have me to instead?” she taunted.

“Lay back and open your legs for me. Let me in.”

Locking her gaze with his, she did as he asked.  He reached around her and snatched a pillow from the head of the bed. “Lift up,” he ordered, and slid the pillow beneath her hips.

He moved into a position above her, snug between her parted thighs. He cupped his hands beneath her knees and rose up on his. He pushed her thighs back toward her chest until they were wide, stretched out on either side of his shoulders.

He didn’t need a hand to guide him. Like radar he found her opening. That first contact was electric and shot through the both of them. He pressed. The head breached her opening and she gasped, feeling her insides begin to spread as he slowly pushed into to her.

Mitchell lowered his head and kissed her, filling her mouth with his hungry tongue, muffling her moans as he began to move in earnest deep within her.

The nothings that he whispered in her ear were anything but sweet. They were hot, erotic, down right good and freaky. And she gave just as good as she got.

About Donna Hill:

Donna Hill began her career in 1987 writing short stories for the confession magazines. Since that time she has more than fifty published titles to her credit since her first novel was released in 1990, and is considered one of the early pioneers of the African American romance genre.

Three of her novels have been adapted for television. She has been featured in Essence, the New York Daily News, USA Today, Today’s Black Woman, and Black Enterprise among many others. She has appeared on numerous radio and television stations across the country and her work has appeared on several bestseller lists, including Essence, Emerge and The Dallas Morning News among others. She has received numerous awards for her body of work—which cross several genres including The Career Achievement Award, the first recipient of The Trailblazer Award, The Zora Neale Hurston Literary Award, The Gold Pen Award among others, as well as commendations for her community service, during her tenure as Director for Kianga House—a transitional residence for homeless teen mothers and their children.

Donna co-wrote the screenplay Fire, which enjoyed limited theater release before going to DVD. As an editor she has packaged several highly successful novels, and anthologies, two of which were nominated for awards. She organizes author-centered events and workshops through her editorial and promotions company Donna Hill Promotions and provides publicity and marketing services for authors.

She is also a writing instructor at The Frederick Douglass Creative Arts Center in New York. For the past year, Donna has been a writing instructor with the Elders Writing Program sponsored by Medgar Evers College through Poets & Writers, with a goal of compiling the memoirs of the elders for publication.

Donna currently lives in Brooklyn with her family and works full–time, as a writer, for the Brooklyn Borough President’s office.

Be sure to pick up a copy of one of her latest books. To find out more about Donna Hill, go to: http://donnahill.com.

I love those character interviews Shelia does and decided to do the same thing on my guest blog for her. Here’s my “chat” with the heroine of my new contemporary romance, Save The Best For Last (Bunderful Books, trade paperback, 257 pages).

Q. What is your name?

A. Genevieve. My friends at home in Paris pronounce it Zhuhn-vyehv. You Americans say it, Jen-uh-veev or even Jen-uh-veev.

Q. You just have one name?

A. Of course not. But it’s a little complicated. Here in the States, I use Shane for sentimental reasons. My real last name is (glances around to see if anyone is listening, then speaks in a whisper) L’Esperance.

Q. L’Esper who?

A. That’s one reason why I use Shane.

Q. There’s another reason?

A. Yes, but I won’t tell you what it is.

Q. What’s your most prized possession?

A. The sapphire necklace that was a gift to my late mother from my father, who is now (voice trails off into a whisper) deceased as well.

Q. That’s a tough break. With no family, who do you trust?

A. No one. I’ve got too much to lose to go around confiding in people. In a pinch, I’d probably choose my doorman, Z.L. I’ve known him since I was about twelve. (pauses) I’m twenty-seven now.

Q. What about the people you work with?

A. I’m a freelance graphic artist. So I see different people all the time, and they’re my clients, not my co-workers.

Q. Why do you keep to yourself so much?

A. I can’t tell you that.

Q. No family, no friends…no wonder you’re closest to your doorman. Speaking of which, that freelance work must bring in big bucks, huh? That Upper East Side of Manhattan where you live isn’t exactly a low-rent district.

A. Well, if you must know, it’s my father’s condo.

Q. Didn’t you say he passed away?

A. Yes. Uh, I guess that does make it mine now. But I won’t discuss the financial details.

Q. Are you sure you don’t have any family? Don’t I see you every now and then in the company of an older gentleman with a receding hairline?

A. Oh. You mean Barry.

Q. Who’s he, your uncle?

A. No! He’s my…my friend.

Q. Boyfriend?

A. No. We’re just friends. Like you mentioned, he’s a little older than me.

Q. A little older? He looked old enough to have firsthand memories of the JFK assassination.

A. No, of course not. That was over forty-five years ago. Barry is only forty-one.

Q. Wow. That’s ancient. Can he still, you know…function?

A. You’re getting way too personal here. And if you must know, I wouldn’t know about that. Like I said, Barry and I are just friends. Everybody needs to have at least one friend.

Q. There’s something else everybody needs, too. And if he’s not even trying to…well, as they say, something’s rotten in Denmark. In this case it’s so rotten that I can smell it all the way over here. Tell me, Genevieve, have you considered that you’re not the only one keeping a secret?

To find out Genevieve’s secret, the deal with Barry, and how it leads her to Harlem and a man named Dexter, you’ll have to read Save The Best For Last. It’s not available in bookstores, only on-line at Amazon.com and through my e-store.

Also check out Bettye’s latest novel of mainstream women’s fiction, A New Kind of Bliss (Dafina Books, trade paper, 321 pages) which is available in stores, as well as at on-line retailers.

I’ve been a fan of Bettye Griffin’s work for years. It’s hard to pick one favorite book because they all are my favorites. To learn more about Bettye Griffin and her books, visit her website:  http://www.bettyegriffin.com.

“I’m pleased to have this opportunity to introduce you to CORNERED, my newest thriller, which hit stores last month. What’s the book about? I like to think of CORNERED as my ultimate, family-in-jeopardy suspense novel. It’s about a family man who has some very dangerous secrets in his past . .. and those secrets suddenly come back to haunt him and his family in ways he never imagined possible.

I’ve always strived to write a fast-paced thriller, but in CORNERED, I wanted to pull out all of the stops and write a story that was impossible to put down. Did I succeed? Pick up the book and find out!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this excerpt . . .”

CORNERED
by Brandon Massey
In Stores Now

With Nowhere To Run…

Corey Webb is living the American dream—successful business, beautiful wife, gifted daughter—but the dream he worked so hard to achieve is about to become a nightmare. When a chance encounter brings him face to face with the dark past he’d long since left behind, Corey knows the threat to his life and family could be deadly.

…It’s Do Or Die

Unpredictable, intelligent, and terrifyingly ruthless, Corey’s stalker will settle for nothing less than complete submission. He’ll stop at nothing, and sacrifice anyone, to get what he wants. There’s no point in running, no chance of hiding, and no hope for Corey and his family to escape unscathed…

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

The morning that Corey Webb’s past finally caught up with him, he was taking his daughter to a doctor’s appointment.

Tuesday, June 10, began hot, windless, and bright. The clear sky was cobalt blue, the blistering sun giving it the gloss of a glazed porcelain bowl. Although it was two weeks before the first day of summer, the temperature was forecast to peak in the mid-nineties, the heat worsened by a strength-sapping humidity that would guarantee thousands of air conditioners cranked to the max throughout metro Atlanta.

Cool air humming from the vents of his black BMW sedan, Corey navigated the crawling rush-hour traffic on Haynes Bridge Road in Alpharetta. His wife, Simone, and their nine-year-old daughter, Jada, were debating an R&B song that had been playing on the radio, a track apparently titled “Get Me Some.” Corey had changed stations within five seconds of hearing the song’s lewd hook—and had been treated to Jada singing the rest of it word for word in a pitch- perfect voice, drawing a gasp from Simone and a blush from Corey.

“I can’t believe you knew the words to that awful song, Jada,” Simone was saying. “And you tell me you can’t recall where you’ve heard it, which I simply do not accept.”

Corey had to admit that even after all these years, he got a kick out of watching Simone play mom. With her penny- brown eyes, jet-black hair styled in a cute bob, milk-chocolate complexion, and prominent dimples, she might have been a fresh-faced coed, not a thirty-four-year-old woman with a PhD in clinical psychology.

She was a great mother, though. He liked watching her at work.

Twisted around in the passenger seat, Simone subjected Jada to her penetrating gaze and awaited a satisfactory answer.

“Mom, I said somebody at school played it on their phone,” Jada pleaded from the backseat.

Keeping quiet, letting Simone handle this her way, Corey glanced in the rearview mirror. Jada had pecan-brown skin, gray eyes, thick dark eyebrows, black hair woven into tight cornrows. He’d once worn his hair like that when he was a kid. It struck him that the Corey from back then and his daughter looked so much alike they could have been twins.

“Who’s this somebody?” Simone asked. Her voice carried a gentle breeze of her Alabama accent. “Give me a name. I want to talk to their parents.”

Last month, Jada had completed fourth grade at Alpharetta Elementary. She currently attended a three-week summer program in Roswell for gifted students. Nevertheless, high-performing youngsters, like all other kids, obviously found the time to enjoy lascivious songs that would have shamed their parents, and they did it on their cutting- edge cell phones that performed every conceivable task short of whisking you to the moon.

Sometimes, when listening to his daughter talk about what she and her classmates did these days, Corey felt as if he had grown up in the Middle Ages.

“Somebody,” Jada said. “I don’t remember who it was. Everyone in class has a phone except me. When can I get a phone?”

Corey held back a smile. His girl was a clever one. When you couldn’t win the debate, change the debate.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Simone said.

Jada frowned, caught red-handed. A chuckle slipped out of Corey.

Simone turned to him. “Why are you laughing? This is serious. Your daughter was singing about having sex.”

“No, I wasn’t, Mom,” Jada said. “I was singing about getting some till the morning comes.”

It took every ounce of willpower in Corey to hold back a laugh. Simone flashed him a deadly, don’t-you-dare-laugh glower.

Corey cleared his throat. “Umm, that’s not the kind of song you should be singing, Pumpkin. Seriously.”

“Why not?” Jada asked.

“It’s a song for adults, that’s why,” Simone said. “It’s not appropriate for you to sing. Understood?”

“Okay,” Jada said with a sigh. “Then I won’t sing it any more.”

“Good,” Simone said. “And if you hear one of your friends play it again on their phone or iPod or whatever else, you’ll tell me who did it, because none of the children in your class should be listening to that song, either.”

“Yes, Mom,” Jada said in a defeated voice. Then she piped up, “But when can I get a phone? Daddy said I could have one.”

Corey cut a glance in the rearview mirror again. Jada was grinning at him. Nine years old going on nineteen.

“You told her that?” Simone asked him. “I thought we had an agreement. No cell phone, at least for a few more years.”

Corey shrugged. “All of her classmates have them.”

“Yeah, Mom, everybody does,” Jada said. “Everybody except me.”

Simone shot him a rebuking look. “Baby, you know I don’t agree with keeping up with the Joneses.”

“Who are the Joneses?” Jada asked. “Do they live near us?”

“It’s just a form of expression, Pumpkin,” Corey said.

“It means getting something you don’t need, only because everyone around you has it,” Simone said. “It’s giving in to peer pressure, which we’ve discussed before.”

“But what if I need a phone?” Jada asked.

“You don’t need a phone, honey,” Simone said. “You want a phone. There’s a world of difference.”

“It could be a good security measure,” Corey said. “We could get one of those phones for kids that would call only the numbers we program into it—like ours and your mother’s.”

“But if we’re doing our jobs as parents and keeping track of our child, she would never have a use for a cell phone.”

“Things don’t always go as planned,” he said. “I like to take extra precautions. At the end of the day, better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”

Simone got quiet. They both knew she could never beat him in a debate about security. He was co-owner of a firm that installed alarms and surveillance systems in residences and businesses throughout the region, and their own house was a marvel of high-tech surveillance and monitoring. Debating the merits of security with him was like debating criminal justice law with a judge.

“You still shouldn’t have promised her a phone before discussing it with me,” Simone said.

“I didn’t exactly promise her a phone.” He looked in the mirror and caught Jada’s eye. “Pumpkin, did I promise you a phone? Didn’t I just say maybe?”

“Yes.” Jada nodded vigorously. “Daddy said maybe, Mom.”

“Didn’t I say that I’d have to discuss it with your mother, first?” he said.

Another eager nod. “Daddy said he’d have to talk to you about it, Mom.”

“See?” Corey grinned at Simone.

“You two co-conspirators are full of it,” Simone said.

She shook her head in what was meant to be an aggravated expression, yet a smile broke through the mask, accentuating those killer dimples. The disciplinarian role she played so well was only an act, Corey knew; her heart was as sweet and soft as melted caramel.

“So can I get my phone?” Jada said.

“Your father and I will discuss the subject later,” Simone said.

“Can you talk about it now?” Jada asked. “Please?”

“Later,” Simone said firmly.

Jada made a whiny sound, but Simone gave her a warning glare, and she fell silent. Simone settled back into her seat, mothering duties concluded for the moment.

Corey took Simone’s hand, squeezed. Glancing at him, she returned the squeeze, lips curved in a soft smile.

On mornings like that one, Corey felt like the luckiest man alive.

Growing up, he’d never imagined that he would one day have a life like this. A beautiful wife. An adorable daughter. A successful business. Most people thought they never got what life owed them, but he considered his own story as proof that sometimes you actually got more than you deserved, that God smiled on sinners and saints alike.

He’d been raised by his grandmother in one of Detroit’s toughest neighborhoods. He’d never met his father, didn’t so much as know the man’s name. As for his mother, she had abandoned him when he was three to follow some long- forgotten Motown crooner to California. She’d died twenty- five years ago with a needle in her arm in a seedy Los Angeles motel.

Grandma Louise, a big-hearted woman from Arkansas with a penchant for quoting Bible scriptures and packing snuff inside her cheek, had done her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, but her old-fashioned teachings couldn’t compete with the siren song of the streets. Considering the things he’d gotten into and the dangerous crowd he’d run with, he should have wound up either in prison, or dead.

But he’d been spared, had escaped the chasm that claimed so many black men just like him. Rarely did a day pass when he did not count his blessings.

Idly scanning the dashboard, he noticed that he had only twenty miles’ worth of gas left in the tank. A QuikTrip convenience store was coming up ahead, the fuel service islands busy as people gassed up on their way to work.

He turned off the road and parked beside the only available pump.

“That time again?” Simone checked the price of the gasoline, clucked her tongue. “My goodness, remember when it was less than a buck a gallon?”

“Those bygone days,” he said.

“Can I help you put the gas in, Daddy?” Jada asked.

“Sure, Pumpkin.”

“Don’t be too long, guys,” Simone said. “It’s twenty to nine. We can’t be late for our appointment.”

Outside the car, Corey let Jada slide his debit card into the card reader slot, enter his PIN, and select the grade of gasoline. He inserted the spout into the tank, and told Jada the total price he wanted to pay. Her gaze riveted on the digits climbing on the price display, she ran her fingers through her cornrows, absently adjusting the tiny black speech processor hooked behind her left ear.

Jada had been born with profound hearing loss. When she was two years old, Corey and Simone had arranged a cochlear implant, a modern medical miracle that served as a prosthetic replacement for the inner ear, electronically stimulating auditory nerve fibers to produce a sense of hearing. Years of intensive speech therapy had enabled Jada to attend mainstream school from kindergarten onward, and she enjoyed as active a social life as any girl her age—Girl Scouts, ballet, play dates, the works.

In spite of her social and academic success, she enjoyed hearing in only one ear, a condition that posed unique challenges when she was in environments where sounds came at her from all directions. That morning, they were taking her to a specialist in Marietta who would evaluate whether she was a good candidate for a bilateral implant: a cochlear implant in her other ear.

“Almost there, Daddy,” Jada said.

Corey squeezed in a few more cents and returned the nozzle to the pump. Jada handed the receipt to him.

“Can I go inside and get something to drink?” she asked.

“Actually, I could use some coffee myself.” He tapped on Simone’s window. “Want some coffee or juice, babe?”

Simone checked her watch; the doctor’s appointment was at nine fifteen, and she was a stickler about being on time. “If you can be quick about it, sure, orange juice would be great.”

“You heard your mother,” Corey said to Jada. “Let’s be quick about it.”

“Yeah!” Jada performed a happy dance.

Together, they went inside the minimart, Jada skipping beside him, her hand in his, swinging his arm around between them as if he were a piece of playground equipment. He directed Jada to the glass-fronted coolers at the back of the store, while he went to the hot beverage station adjacent to the cash register.

He filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and flavored it with cream and sugar. Checking his watch, he went to collect Jada.

Hands on her hips, she was examining the brands of orange juice inside the refrigerated display case.

“We’ve gotta go, Pumpkin,” he said.

“I don’t know what kind of orange juice Mom likes,” she said.

Corey started to reply that Simone liked Tropicana, when he noticed someone standing in an aisle a few feet away, observing them.

It was a colossus of a man. Corey stood about five-ten and weighed a hundred and seventy-five, and this guy had at least six or seven inches and a hundred pounds on him. Fairskinned— what Grandma Louise liked to call “high yella”— he wore faded denim overalls over a white T-shirt, muddy work boots, and a tattered Atlanta Braves cap cocked on an unkempt, bushy Afro. A stubbly beard made his pudgy face look soiled.

The guy’s brown eyes were oddly flat, as if they were painted on his face. But Corey realized the guy wasn’t looking at him at all.

He was looking at Jada. Gawking at her.

Jada was a beautiful child, but this man’s intense attention was far from that of an innocently admiring adult. His was the naked leer of a pervert, a parent’s ultimate nightmare.

Oblivious to Corey standing there, concentrating solely on Jada, the man licked his lips, his tongue leaving a glistening trail of saliva.

Disgust and anger wrenched Corey’s gut. He sat his cup on a shelf, grabbed Jada’s hand and pulled her to his side, shielding her from the giant stranger.

The pervert blinked as if awakening from a reverie, and only then did he look at Corey.

His stare was as empty as a scarecrow’s. A chill trickled down Corey’s spine.

Something’s wrong with this guy, he thought. Dude’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.

“Daddy, what is it?” Jada asked. She hadn’t noticed the man.

“We need to go, sweetheart.” He nudged his daughter along with a firm hand on her back.

“But I wanted apple juice.” She looked over her shoulder.

“Don’t look back there. We have to go. We’ll get your apple juice later.”

He ushered Jada outside. The hot air was thick as cotton, but refreshing compared to the bone-deep chill he’d felt inside the minimart.

A man called out: “Corey? Corey Webb? That you, man?”

In midstride, Corey stopped. He knew that voice, that piercing falsetto. He had not heard it in probably fifteen years or so, but he would never forget it.

Could that be who I think it is? Corey wondered . . .

To learn more about Brandon Massey and his books, go to: http://www.brandonmassey.com