March excerpt of Not Guilty of Love

“Hey, man. Roland has superficial wounds to the shoulder and upper chest. He’s going to be okay, but doctors are keeping him a few days for observation.”
Malcolm digested the information, relayed the update to Hallison, and disconnected. Her hands flew in the air in silent praise. Afterward, she sniffed, but said nothing as she hurried inside the police station. The lobby was small with a metal protruding counter and a few chairs against white walls. The counter’s opening was protected by glass as if it was a drive-though bank teller’s window.
“May I help you?” a woman behind the window asked as she sat at a desk. She didn’t bother to look up.
As Malcolm opened his mouth, words spewed from Hallison’s non-stop. “Yes. Our friend, Grandma BB—I mean Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon—we think she shot somebody. I mean that’s what we heard. We really don’t know.”
Malcolm contained his amusement. He loved it when Hallison was flustered. She was downright sexy. Malcolm gently scooted her over and took charge. Smiling, he winked at Hallison then cleared his throat. “We would like to pay Mrs. Beacon’s bail.”
The woman casually licked her fingers before flipping a page in a magazine. “She’s at Christian Northeast Hospital.”
Malcolm supported Hallison’s body as she wavered. She searched Malcolm’s eyes with hers before turning back to the window. “Oh, my God, was she shot, too? What’s her condition?”
The clerk shook her head, took a sip from a reusable Big Gulp cup and sighed. “She looked okay to me. We’ve got a running tab up at the hospital because suspects feign heart, asthma, or bladder attacks. One woman even said she was having a baby. It turned out to be cocaine she swallowed. It’s all stall tactics. The officer will finish the booking process when your grandma returns,” she said dryly.
Facing Malcolm, Hallison’s brows knitted with concern. She whispered, “She doesn’t have a heart problem or asthma. I don’t know about her bladder control. That woman is shooting at people and lying, too.”
“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” the eavesdropping clerk interjected.
“Why be a saint when being a sinner will do?” Malcolm mocked then brushed an unwelcome kiss against Hallison’s ear.
Stepping aside, Hallison leaned unnecessarily closer to the security glass. “Thank you for the information. We’ll head up to the hospital.” They turned to leave.
“Ma’am, she’s in police custody, so you won’t be able to see her,” the clerk said with finality, slurping from her empty cup.
Malcolm folded his arms, contemplating their next move. He didn’t mind spending time with his ex. He just didn’t want to do it at a police station. “Okay. We’ll wait in the lobby.”
“Unless you’re her doctor, clergy, or attorney, you won’t be able to see her here either. After she’s charged and warrants are signed, she’ll be transported over to the St. Louis County jail.”
“Hali, we can go home and wait until tomorrow, but I know you. You won’t be able to sleep.” Grimacing, he stroked the hairs on his beard. His behind was already protesting a wait longer than fifteen minutes in an antique chair, but with Hallison, he would have to tough it out. “Do you really want to wait?” He knew the answer when she gave him her bring-a-man-to-his-knees angelic expression.
“Please, Malcolm.”
He counted to three as he appeared to consider her request. “Okay. C’mon, girl. I’ll try to hang.” With Hallison’s hand still latched on to his, Malcolm allowed her to lead him to a set of chairs pushed into a corner and they took a seat.
“Thank you.”
“Hali, why are you thanking me?” He looked from their interlocking hands to the full lips he had kissed earlier. In the corner under a dimmed light and no audience was the perfect setting for a tryst, but he wasn’t in the mood to fight with her over what she perceived as unwanted advances.
“Because I know I can’t make you understand why I broke it off—”
“No, you can’t,” he said, shifting in his chair. He was starting not to recognize himself from the clipped tone he was using more and more with her. She was driving him insane.
Sighing, Hallison pleaded, “Please don’t hold it against me, Malcolm.”
One more request from his ex. He turned over their connected hands, admiring the slight contrast in skin tones, his—light toast, hers—medium toast. Hallison’s back stiffened waiting for his response. Instead, he guided her head to his shoulder. Hallison complied without arguing. “I will always love you, Hali.” She relaxed.
“I’ll never stop loving you, too.”

February excerpt of Not Guilty of Love

Not Guilty of Love
Laughter, lively conservations, and jazz spewing from the surround-sound speakers couldn’t drown out Malcolm’s trademark entrance. The doorbell buzzed twice, paused, and buzzed again. As if knowing Parke’s door would be unlocked, Malcolm waltzed into the living room.His presence demanded attention. Without asking, he got it. Hallison’s heartbeat accelerated. It had been months since Hallison had seen him. She had purposely avoided him when she visited Parke and Cheney. A few times they had come face-to-face, but Hallison had a ready-made excuse to flee. “Oh. Hi, Malcolm. I’m on my way out. I don’t want to be late for church,” she would say, reciting a practiced line.His speechless response was also pre-set with an amused expression, challenging her truthfulness. Twice, she had driven to the church and sat in the parking lot, repenting for the fib. She couldn’t keep running away from her temptation, so she refused to bolt this time.Months ago, she had invited Malcolm to what she considered their final intimate dinner. Surrounded by the restaurant’s romantic ambiance, Hallison sobbed silently as she placed the four-carat diamond ring back into his palm with a shaky hand.Begrudgingly, Malcolm accepted more than the ring. It symbolized their engagement had officially terminated and their couple status had been dissolved.Malcolm wasn’t the one who got away, but was instead the man God instructed Hallison to give away. The Lord had issued the ultimatum: Malcolm, the love of her life, or Him, the One who gave her life.Women would be waiting on the sidelines, ready to steal Malcolm’s affections with a no-option-for-his-release clause in a relationship contract. On the outside, Hallison felt she was a fool to let a good man go, but spiritually, as a self-proclaimed backslider, her salvation clock was ticking. To her, the decision was a smart move, one she couldn’t explain, except to a few church friends. God had let her know loud and clear she had to first deny herself of her fleshly desires, pick up her cross, and follow Him.How long would I have to fast until I would be spiritually strong enough to quench my craving for Malcolm’s voice, his touch, and his smothering eyes? she questioned God as she controlled her breathing to keep Malcolm from seeing how much he affected her.

About Not Guilty of Love

Not Guilty of Love
Malcolm Jamieson and Hallison Dinkins have the charisma, the chemistry and the commitment of an everlasting love until God shatters their foundation.Malcolm isn't the man who got away, but the one God instructs Hallison to give away if she’s serious about her walk with Him.Malcolm becomes suspicious with his fiancée sudden religious conversion. It doesn’t take long for him to find one hypocrite: gun-toting widow, Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon aka Grandma BB. She professes the same salvation on Sunday, but seeks revenge on Monday to settle an old score.Malcolm issues Hallison an ultimatum, “Fine, if we’re meant to be, we’ll find our way back to each other. If not, there is a stronger love that awaits us.”Unbeknownst to him, God gives Malcolm exactly what he didn’t ask for—a woman not after God’s own heart. Someone has to retreat, and God doesn't lose a battle.

Talk to Me

On Thanksgiving Day, at nine-thirty in the morning, I fell in love. It was swift and irrevocable. In other words, I lost my common sense. Without warning or fanfare, I succumbed to Mackenzie Norton’s allure. Love is such a strange emotion—never enough time to savor all the sweet moments. It’s hindsight now that I’ve lost her.
Sometimes the memories taunt me, other times they provide comfort. When my eyes close, Mackenzie appears. Her brown eyes twinkled, causing a sexy glow to spread across her face. Her hypnotic trance released strong vibes that were undeniable. She was such a puzzle, allowing me the pleasure of seeing how her pieces fit together. Inside the church walls, she was sober. With me, her mischievous antics would issue challenges.
Mackenzie. The way she commanded her body possessed my senses. Thank you, God, for my eyes to see. With deliberate movements, Mackenzie’s hands beckoned to me, sprinkling magic along the way. Long, slender arms danced with the grace of a swan.
For the initial five seconds I laid eyes on her, I dismissed her until she demanded my attention without trying. A gentle spirit tempered her powerful personality. Yes, Mackenzie’s magnetism was undeniable. She became my teacher and I, her willing student. I chuckle at the memories.
Mackenzie had the most enchanting smile. Ah! Did I mention her lips? They were my worst distraction and her best asset—shapely and full, in a natural pout. They moved like a musician manipulating his instruments. Have I mentioned she was a feisty, five-foot four-inch beauty who was committed to her convictions?
Glistening skin reminded me of wet brown sugar—my attraction. A head of messy curls was her crowning glory. On any other woman, the look would’ve been scary, but it was Mackenzie’s trademark—stylish, sassy, and sexy.
During our quiet time, we mouthed promises to each other. We honored each word with sincerity and care, vowing not to break one. It happened anyway. Mackenzie was to blame, or maybe I was.
One evening we savored the quietness. We were being silly as we watched the sunset at a deserted playground. I spoke aloud a wish as I pushed Mackenzie on a swing. “I miss dancing. The final song I heard was Donna Summers’ “Last Dance.” How prophetic. More than anything I wish we could dance the night away,” I had told her.
Mackenzie dug her heels into the ground, halting the swing. Turning around, she finger-kissed the sadness, disappointment, and pain from my eyes. “I promise, Noel, one day, we’ll dance.” I didn’t hear her, but I knew she was sharing a secret when she always touched me. Now our chance will never come. I hate broken promises.
It had nothing to do with me being one of twenty-eight million Deaf Americans. It wasn’t from birth. I was almost sixteen years-old when the doctors delivered the tragic news to my parents that I had lost my hearing. They were in shock. My mother cried, knowing my family lacked the skills to communicate with me. I’m lucky—no, I’m blessed—to be alive, unlike my childhood buddy, Keith Morrow, who died in the freak explosion near a fireworks plant. He was an only child.
Anyway, I grew accustomed to interpreters signing at events, but it was Mackenzie’s contagious enthusiasm that sucked me into a storm, whirling me into the eye of the hurricane. Never had I witnessed an interpreter wrapped up in so much pleasure and total involvement in communicating what was happening around me. Not only did I see and feel; Mackenzie made me believe I could hear the choir’s rendition of “My Life is in Your Hands,” a Kirk Franklin song I had never heard.
My heart jumped at a thunderous rumble inflicted by Mackenzie’s imaginary wooden drumsticks, pounding invisible drums and tapping fictitious cymbals. With confidence, her fingers stroked pretend piano keys. Her expression, most humorous, depicted the altos’ deep voices and the sopranos’ melodious high pitches.
Who knew that when I stepped into that church, I would enter utopia? Suddenly, I felt like praising God for what I had—my eyes to gaze, hands to enjoy her soft skin, and a heart that throbbed faster when she was close. At that moment, for some unexplained reason, I thanked God that I was deaf. Can you believe that? I thanked God for allowing the worst event to happen in my life, because it made me the happiest. How else would I’ve met a woman whose love was fierce and unconditional? Then months after our meeting, I, Noel Richardson, lost Mackenzie Norton.
***LET ME EXPLAIN HOW IT ALL HAPPENED...Read more excerpts at http://www.talktomebook.blogspot.com/

Guilty of Love

Durham, North Carolina

“Larry,” a trembling voice whispered into the phone, “I’m pregnant.”
Gripping the receiver, Cheney Reynolds sniffed back tears. She waited and waited—for soothing words of comfort, shouts of jubilation, or any response from her boyfriend. Instead, silence ensued. Seconds dragged into minutes.
A boom of laughter exploded in the hall outside her dorm, startling Cheney. High-pitched voices consumed with gaiety seemed to belittle her predicament. Fellow Duke University students were making plans for a night of partying. Cheney had to think beyond tonight. Somehow, she had lost focus and allowed her promising, secure future to be in the hands of one man.
Larry Thimes exhaled a restless breath through the phone before speaking as if his teeth were glued together. His words measured, his tone stiff, like the ugly all-season brown curtains hanging at her dorm window.
“Then you know what must be done,” he responded in a clipped tone.
“No. What?”
“Get rid of it.”
“Just like that? No discussion?” Cheney shut her eyes as darkness invaded her mind. “But—” She tasted the bile racing up her throat. “Oh, my God, no. You can’t mean that.” The room began to spin. She closed her eyes, but the dizziness was already set in motion. This wasn’t suppose to happen. She and Larry had practiced safe sex. Now she wondered if the phrase was a misnomer.
“Sweetheart,” Larry said as if talking to a child, “you’re scheduled to graduate next semester, remember?”
“I know, but—”
“You’re enrolling in Duke’s Global Executive MBA program. Plus, I’m completing my J.D. and will be busy studying for the bar.”
“Maybe—”
“I can’t even support myself. Sorry, a baby isn’t an option for us right now.”
Stress deepened the lines in Cheney’s forehead. What Larry said was true. In addition, Cheney did want to be married before she had a baby. At least that’s what society deemed acceptable. Cheney didn’t think about etiquette when she was with Larry. What would her parents say about her pregnancy? Her mother would faint from the thought of embarrassment. Her philosophical father would gather his thoughts before advising her of his disappointment. Her older sister, Janae, would be shocked, and her twin brother—he would be ecstatic. Rainey always loved children.
Sifting through her situation for the third time that day, Cheney had to concur with Larry. A pregnancy wasn’t in their plans. After all, she had won a four-year scholarship. I can’t just throw it all away. She was an educated, up-and-coming professional, but her heart pounded against her chest, refusing to comply. “Larry, maybe we should think about this. There has to be another way.”
“No, Love. There isn’t.”
She gnawed on her fist, crying. Larry was the calm, reasonable and decision-maker in their relationship. He was the strong black man every sistah craved and every woman would endure drastic measures to keep. His charm opened doors for him as if he were royalty. He had showed her how to love and was now the father of her child. Larry mocked her when he didn’t hesitate to say, “kill it.” No, it was like a slap in the face from her lover.
A collage of their romantic moments played in Cheney’s mind. She sighed, visualizing Larry’s long, dark-chocolate fingers outlining her lips when she smiled or right before he smothered them with kisses.
Cheney remembered the night they shared their first slow dance at a campus fraternity party at the end of her freshmen year. At that magical moment, she wanted to be with Larry for the rest of her life. At the end of her sophomore year, she had shared her entire being with the self-confident, look-twice-handsome and sensitive Larry Thimes. I could use some sensitivity right now, she pleaded silently. Didn’t Larry realize how much in love she was with him? Their souls had connected in passionate lovemaking that had produced a little miracle. A baby, their baby. Cheney shook her head in disbelief. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare. “Larry—”
“Cheney. There’s no point to keep discussing this.”
“There is no discussion. You’re dictating to me.”
"We’ll have another child later,” he consoled before snapping, “How could you’ve been so stupid and allowed this to happen anyway?”
“Me?”
Did he just blame me? Larry’s harshness caused Cheney’s head to pound. Her heart ached as her stomach contracted. Suddenly, her prenatal, P-M-S, post-menopause, and any other hormones that scientists had yet to identify kicked in. I am not the one to mess with, she shouted inwardly. She couldn’t talk anymore, much less breathe. Without a goodbye, she slammed the phone down.
It had taken Cheney seven days to accept the fact that she was a pregnant, unmarried college student. Larry only needed five seconds to give a responding, “no.” At least she had juggled the idea of motherhood versus a career, and the sacrifice they would have to make.
“Why couldn’t he say, ‘A baby? Honey, that’s wonderful, or ‘What do you want to do?’ or ‘We can get married now or later’,” she fussed to no one. Instead, Larry had failed the ultimate test. Sitting still on her narrow twin bed, Cheney listened as water dripped from a corner sink and voices shouted in her head.
The boisterous women had moved inside to the adjoining suite connected by a small bathroom. Mentally tormented, Cheney collapsed against the wall, rubbing her belly. The phone rung, but it was her prerogative to ignore it.
She couldn’t stand Larry’s name at the moment. “I sure don’t want to hear your voice,” Cheney said, needing time to think and pray. She sobbed instead.
As an hour ticked by, Cheney’s swollen eyes half-registered the room’s blackness. To wake up from a bad dream, she forced her body to the sink and patted cold water on her numbed, red face. She sighed at her tousled reflection. “I’m pregnant.” Cheney yanked her long, black hair as if she was about to extricate weeds from a manicured lawn. “Career or motherhood, what am I going to do? God, if I ever needed you, it’s now.”