J. Lovelace
Released July 29th, 2014
Strebor Books
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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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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Excerpt
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.
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Excerpt
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.
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