Just Can't Let Go

Also by Mary B. Morrison

 

The Crystal Series
Baby, You're the Best
Just Can't Let Go

 

If I Can't Have You series
If I Can't Have You
I'd Rather Be With You
If You Don't Know Me

 

Soulmates Dissipate Series
Soulmates Dissipate
Never Again Once More
He's Just a Friend
Somebody's Gotta Be on Top
Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
When Somebody Loves You Back
Darius Jones

 

The Honey Diaries
Sweeter Than Honey
Who's Loving You
Unconditionally Single
Darius Jones

 

She Ain't the One
(coauthored with Carl Weber)
Maneater
(anthology with Noire)
The Eternal Engagement
Justice Just Us Just Me
Who's Making Love

 

 

Mary B. Morrison, writing as HoneyB
Sexcapades
Single Husbands
Married on Mondays
The Rich Girls Club

 

Presented by Mary B. Morrison
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders
(an anthology of fiction written by thirty-three sixth graders)

Just Can't Let Go

MARY B. MORRISON

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

 

DAFINA BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2016 by Mary B. Morrison

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016933897

 

Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3074-0

ISBN-10: 1-61773-074-2
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2016

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-075-7
eISBN-10: 1-61773-075-0
Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2016

 

Praising the Creator for keeping me mentally, spiritually, physically, and financially sound. The life I've been blessed to live for well over a decade, I do not take for granted.

Celebrating sixteen years in the literary industry with Kensington Publishing Corporation is truly a blessing. Steve and Adam Zacharius, you continue to own and operate a publishing empire that proves more successful each day with innovative and cutting-edge ideas. With you, I'm more than an author, I'm family.

I couldn't be happier for my editor and friend, Selena James, on birthing a beautiful baby boy into this world. Congratulations, mommy, also on your engagement.

I've adopted over a thousand (aspiring and published) writers into my circle. April 2015, I started a Facebook group to inspire my fans, family, and friends to write. The name of my group is Mary B. Morrison's Write a Book in 90 Days Challenge.

Many of you have a story to tell. Some don't know where to start. Others have a difficult time committing to the process. Encouraging you to do something you're passionate about is one of my ways to give back. By the time this book is in print, some of you will also be published authors. I'm looking forward to becoming your fan!

Always cheering the loudest for my son, Jesse Byrd, Jr.; his first novel,
Oiseau: The King Catcher,
was published in 2015. His content is for ages twelve and over. I've said it before and I'll say it again, “God gave me the right child.” I continue to pray all great things for Jesse and his beautiful fiancée, Emaan Abbass.

I have amazing siblings: Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel, I love you guys. My in-laws Angela Lewis-Morrison, Dannette Morrison, Roland Johnson, and Desi Rickerson are the best. I appreciate all that each of you has added to our family over the years.

My unmarried husband and true friend, Richard C. Montgomery, with an upstanding man like you in my life, I may never say, “I do.”

A special shout-out goes to Kenneth Todd, Bill Voget, Clarence Randall, and Edward and Tasha Allen. Also to Felicia Polk, Robin Green, Vyllorya A. Evans, Myra Evans, Marilyn Edge, and Patrease Watson for surprising the hell out of me when you guys walked into my dressing room for the production of my stage play,
Single Husbands.
I was moved to tears. I will never forget that moment. Margie Maisonett, the wine basket was right on time, lady. Taliseia and Gregory Charles, one of my favorite couples.

These standouts made
Single Husbands
stage play a huge success: my entire cast, Christal Jordan, owner of Enchanted PR, Kass Ish-mel and Briana Dixon of Enchanted PR, my best friend since third grade, Vanessa Ibanitoru, my nephew and personal assistant, Roland Morrison, promoter, Jeremy ‘JD' Hill, radio personalities Missy E. Partydoll and Joyce Litel, and photographers AJ Alexander and Jack Manning.

There are so many people I need to express my gratitude to. If your hands and/or heart touch my production, I am eternally grateful.

Kendall Minter, no entertainment lawyer reps like you and I'm blessed to be your client. You've supported me on levels that I can never repay you for. Congratulations on the release of your book,
Understanding and Negotiating 360 Ancillary Rights Deals
.

What's life without social media, baby (pumping both palms toward the sky)! I can never have enough Facebook fans, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram followers, and McDonogh 35 Senior High alumni supporters, but I can say, “I love you for supporting me!”

Wishing each of my readers peace and prosperity in abundance.
#Educate #Elevate
Visit me online at
www.MaryMorrison.com
. Sign up and invite your folks to do the same for my HoneyBuzz newsletter. Join my fan page on Facebook at TheRealMaryB; follow me on Twitter at @marybmorrison and Instagram at @maryhoneyb morrison.

PROLOGUE

Devereaux

“N
o! Stop! Stop! Stop! Please! Stop!”

For every “stop” I banged on the script in front of me. I stretched my arms toward heaven, then whispered, “Lord Jesus, please don't let me fling these papers in her face.” My fingers curled to fists; my right leg trembled. Refraining from calling her a bitch, I shouted in her direction, “Who in the hell are you?!”

The actress seated across the table from me was not the same woman I'd hired.

Her audition for the role of Ebony Waterhouse was spectacular. Her performance for the pilot was worthy of an Emmy nomination. My prediction upon executing her contract was she'd get better with each taping of my next ten episodes. But she hadn't improved over time. The talent of the person I'd chosen to star as the lead in my new show had disappeared, and the person I was looking at now made an early cancellation seem imminent.

The only thing that kept me from hurling these lines in her direction was a lawsuit. “I swear to you. I'll rewrite this script and kill your ass off in the first episode if I have to.” With each word, I pounded my fist on the table. “Do you hear me?” Coffee splattered onto the pages right before several sheets slid to the floor. The actress sprang to her feet.

Pointing at her, I yelled, “Sit! Your ass down!”

Moving in slow motion, her rear end descended until it touched the edge of the leather cushion. She scooted back and leaned forward.

My assistant picked up my mug, raced to craft service's corner of the room, returned with a fistful of napkins, cleaned up the spill, placed a fresh script in front of me, then gathered the pages near my feet.

Exhaling hot air from my mouth, I softly said, “Thanks, Tiera.”

“You're welcome, Ms. Crystal.” Hesitantly, she asked, “Would you like a fresh cup of coffee?”

“Not now.” I held my aching head in my palms, then grunted, “Ugh!”

Tiera sat in the seat next to me. Rolled her chair closer to mine.

Staring at the stranger facing me, I noticed that her high vanilla cheekbones didn't flush to any shade of red. She didn't move. Those big, bright hazel-gray cat-like eyes narrowed to a slither, but she didn't blink. She acted as though she were immortal.

Is this bitch challenging me?
If my office wasn't on the second floor, I'd . . . I heaved.

Her fabulous twenty-two-inch wavy blond human hair lace front wig draped her toasted tanned shoulders. She'd literally transformed herself into a million-dollar mannequin.

The black lace halter jumpsuit—suctioned to every curve of her upper body—barely covered her areolas. The pants hem flared above her red Manolo shoes. The Cartier diamond pendant and the six earrings (three two-carat studs in each ear) didn't impress me. All that bling, dazzling in the sunlight that beamed through the glass, added heat to my flaring nostrils.

Silence made me want to pick her ass up, put her in the window, and leave her on display. She wasn't supermodel runway chic when she auditioned, but the new look could significantly increase my ratings. Sexy as she was, this wasn't a goddamn game.

I massaged my shoulder.

The problem was apparent. She was flashy, but she wasn't refined. Hunger didn't loom in her eyes. The taste of a standing ovation from people around the world wasn't on the tip of her tongue. It was on mine and I'd die before I'd swallow.

“West-Léon, out! I have to find someone who really wants to costar with you.”

Handsome strolled alongside the conference table. His masculine, chiseled, mouthwatering body inspired me to flip his real name, Leon West, to something more suitable by hyphenating his first with his last and enunciating it with a French accent.

Each of my lead girls had two guys. Ebony would eventually have three. The third, the heartthrob of them all, the one who was sure to make millions of panties wet and some boxer briefs too. I wasn't revealing him until the finale.

Standing in the doorway, West-Léon said, “She's nervous, Devereaux. She'll be okay.” Then he exited the room.

For her sake, I hoped West-Léon was right. Now that I'd gotten my big break as creator and executive producer for my television series,
Sophisticated Side Chicks ATL,
she was reading for the first episode like she had a fart lodged in her brain. I had no idea whom I'd really put on payroll.

Disgusted with her staring at me, I pushed my chair back and stood. “Answer me, Goldie!”

She sat up, adjusted her breasts.

The blunt force of my pulse thumping nonstop against my temples gave me an instant migraine. I removed my glasses, pressed my thumbs into the sides of my forehead, and then took a deep breath. Slowly, I made my way to her, pulled out the chair with her seated in it.

“Get up,” I told her.

Quietly, she elevated herself on her six-inch heels and faced me. I moved so close I felt the rise and fall of her breasts against my collarbone.

Inching back, I lowered my voice. Calmly, I asked again, “Who are you?”

Tears clouded her eyes as her lips tightened.

“Save it for the camera. Answer me.”

A few days ago, I'd sat one-on-one with her as I'd done with my entire cast. She told me she was an artist first. Professed that her passion for acting took precedence over everything in her life, except her mother and father. They were natives of and resided in Colombia.

I didn't ask her to, she
told
me, if necessary, she'd place her career before the husband who made her a United States citizen. If she'd had a child, I sensed this woman might sacrifice being a parent to make sure she shared in this grandiose moment of my becoming a trailblazer on a mission to dismiss every double standard men had created to suppress women.

She took one step back. “I'll get it together. I promise. I just need a minute.”

This time I took the deepest breath I could. Slowly exhaled a fraction of an ounce of relief. I did not want to embrace her. If I did, good intentions could turn bad. My hands could wrap themselves around her long, narrow neck.

“Goldie, what's wrong? Did somebody die?” I asked, praying there was justification for her behavior.

At this very moment, the silence was deafening. Three of the producers were in the room with the three of us. They'd worked on numerous shows, had IMDB pages filled with notable credits. They'd generously invested their finances with me. The largest contributor loved my female empowerment platform, but their company insisted on remaining a silent partner. They'd come aboard like a knight in shining armor just in time to save our primetime slot. All I'd witnessed was the miracle of their paper trail. They were relying on me, not the actress I'd hired.

I was not a violent person, but I was ready to strangle Goldie. If I failed, no one would give these two black women a second chance. Our success was dependent upon one another. Tiera, my cast, my set designers, my technical staff, my drivers, wardrobe, hair, makeup artists, and everyone receiving a 1099 were all depending on a paycheck from me.

Atlanta was swarming with talented females who would do practically anything to snatch the role of Ebony Waterhouse. I had four leading ladies. Brea, Misty, and Emerald all read well. I'd saved the best to end our week on a high note, or so I'd thought. We were set to start filming shortly, and I refused to increase my bottom line to give Goldie additional time to get her shit together. My team was not working on the weekend, and I had a fiancé to please and other shows to pen.

Her real name was Goldie Jackson. I started to shut her out for that reason alone. My fiancé, Phoenix, had pleaded for me to give his client a chance. Phoenix had reinvented himself . . . again, boasting how over three hundred film projects had roots in Atlanta last year. Starting a talent consultant firm to advise models and actors on how to break into the industry was a challenging spinoff from his former role as publicist. He had no contracts. A few people he'd taken on never paid him. He'd insisted that Goldie was his golden ticket. I tried to offer him my attorney's assistance with getting legal documents executed, but Phoenix was my proud, broke man.

Since I'd refused to let him get involved directly with my production, I had to support him. His attempt at success was lame. A visionary had a plan. A dreamer had hopes. I gave this Goldie girl a chance based on Phoenix's dream. Now I might be the one fucked.

Staring into her eyes, I said, “You are no longer Goldie Jackson. You are Ebony Waterhouse. You live, eat, breathe, sleep, and shit as Ebony Waterhouse every second of every hour of every day. Until the very last episode is in the can, you are Ebony Waterhouse.

“I want you to think like her. Walk, talk, fuck like her. Close your eyes. Listen to me. When West-Léon comes back in this room, I need you to unleash on him! You are that brilliant bitch who brings it each and every time. No regrets. No apologies. You reign supreme over
all
dicks. Men beg to be yours and you let them crawl to you on their knees. Now sit down and read your part from the top.”

Ebony took a deep breath, slowly opened her eyes, and then stared at me. Based on her talent and sexual prowess, we could have the number-one show of all the networks combined. We could top
Empire.

She stood five eight on those platform heels. Towered three inches above me in my flats. One hundred ten pounds. Tiny waist. Cute banging booty. Perky breasts. Twenty-six years young. She looked hot, but her appearance alone wasn't going to win us anything.

“Time is money, Ebony. My money. My investors' money. Right now, you are a liability. Not an asset. Is there a problem?” I asked, staring back.

Couldn't wait for this day to end so I could go home, indulge in a glass of cabernet, and get me some good Friday night loving.

I was a fiancée, mom of a two-year-old princess, the eldest daughter, and a sister to three siblings. When I wasn't on set or writing (which was almost always), my world revolved around family.

I motioned to Tiera. “Bring me my cell.”

I asked Ebony, “Do I need to have my casting agent find your replacement? If your double showed up to read for you today, get the hell out, and don't either of you come back until you find my character.”

My iPhone was in my hand. I'd do it if necessary. I was willing to take a chance on replacing her. I refused to risk letting her drag both of us down.

“Can I have a ten-minute break?” she asked.

“Sure. Hell, take twenty. Thirty max! But if you don't have it together before you step in this room, don't bother coming back.”

I didn't get this opportunity being empathetic, or letting anyone—especially men in the industry—walk over me. This was my first shot. I was going to make sure it wasn't my last. I started the stopwatch on my cell.

Excusing myself, I went across the hall into my private office, closed the door, and called my fiancé, Phoenix Watson, the person responsible for this madness.

“Hey, babe. How's it going?” he asked, sounding cheerful.

A portrait of Phoenix, our daughter, and me was in a frame on my desk. Hearing his voice made me smile on the inside, then told him, “Ebony, I don't know what's wrong with her. She was excellent when we filmed the pilot. You saw it. Now she's freezing up on me. I know she's your recommendation, but I might have to replace her.”

“You mean, Goldie.”

“Ebony Waterhouse is her name from now on. Goldie is dead to me.”

He didn't respond.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, babe. Sorry 'bout that. You worry too much. I know this girl. She's your star. She'll be just fine. Maybe I can help out and take Ebony on as a full-time client. She—”

“And do what? Babysit her psycho behind?” I asked, checking the time on my cell. Five minutes and counting. If she was two seconds late getting back in the room, her services were terminated.

Business for Phoenix was getting slower. His checks were dwindling. A lot of models and actors in the ATL had agents or PR reps. They didn't want to pay a consultant to brand them. From escorting them onto the red carpet to getting them on VIP lists, the title “publicist” was one artists preferred.

Phoenix was a great father. With his part-time schedule, and help from his mom, I never had to worry about having Nya dropped off at my office or on set. I was cool with the idea of him managing talent full time in about three to five years when our daughter could communicate better. Not now. There were some things I couldn't put a price on, and not having our daughter be raised by people we didn't know was one of them.

“Dev, let me manage Goldie's, I mean Ebony's, career. I'll keep her focused. You know actors need a person to keep them from slipping up off set too. Listen, you pay Ebony. She pays me. You don't want to lose her. Realistically, you don't have time to find her replacement. This can work out for everybody, babe. Think about it.”

I was thinking about the pros and the cons. It might not be a bad idea to have my man closer to me without putting him on my payroll. His mother was retired. I could pay her to care for Nya full time during the week. Plus, my silent partner made sure Ebony was earning eight hundred thousand this season. I loved Phoenix. I had to trust him and give him this chance.

“Okay,” was all I said.

“Babe, that's my mom calling. Let me hit you back.”