Never Play With a Woman's Heart - Excerpt

Chapter 1
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

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Yeah, I admit it, I fucked up…pardon me…messed up. I got caught up, and as a result, got caught out—there. But really? I mean, really? 

Of course my mother, God bless her soul, forewarned me about the wiles of a woman. She always told me to avoid at all costs, the three most dangerous things that life had to offer—a black Republican, spoiled seafood, and a woman scorned. But of course, that advice went through one ear and out the other. Unlike the other elites that I’ve dated in my time–the Tanyas, the Stephanies, the Monicas, the Tawanas, and the many others, these four chicks—yes, four—had something else in them…things that I was not quite prepared for. Put it this way, New York ain’t Hampton, Virginia. 

Women will have the initial cat fight with one another, but at the end of the day, after all the earrings have been snatched off, after all the Vaseline has been smeared over their faces, and after all the weave has been pulled out, they realize that "they" are not one another’s problem; there’s usually a culprit standing in the midst of their fury—a man. And that’s when they stop fighting one another and point their fingers at the true enemy—the one who’s lied to them, deceived them, but most importantly, the one that has shattered their already fragile hearts. 
As I stand in front of the bay area window in the living room of the place I’ve called home for the past eight months, I’m doing something I haven’t done in a very long time—engage in a little self-reflection. I’ve always been competitive-natured, both academically, musically, and as far as participatory sports were concerned. It’s that same competitive nature that has driven me to a place of exile. The desire to have it all once again—money, power, and women can take a man from being a humble servant to a greedy, arrogant, self-centered assshole. I surely learned that Every Dog Has His Day, but this is my second time around. What I really should have learned was: to never ever play with a woman’s heart.



The Beginning of My End

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I’m at the gym getting my cardio work in when the news preview flashes that a top New York City Housing Preservation and Development executive has been arrested. Having worked at HPD for a short stint, I got in pretty good with many of the higher ups. I make a mental note to call my man Mike Sherman, whom I have nicknamed Straw because he favors ex baseball player, Daryl Strawberry. I’m pretty sure that he’ll be able to give me the 411. That is, unless he’s the one that has been arrested. 

But it’s not until I get out of the steam room and go to my locker that I begin to have some sense of worry; I have twelve missed calls from Eitan on my cell phone. So I quickly gather up all of my belongings and head out. I call Eitan as soon as I get outside, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. He hasn’t left any messages, so I act on my intuition and call Mike Sherman now rather than later. His voicemail picks up as well. 

Panicked, I press the Browser on my iPhone and go to the local news section to get information on the story. I feel sweat drip from my forehead as I plow through the story. It’s Mike. He’s been arrested on thirteen counts of corruption, fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, and bribery, just to name a few. As if the story itself wasn’t shocking enough, the picture of Mike being escorted from the housing headquarters took it to another level. My legs feel as if they are going to collapse from under me. I feel weak. Mike is my business partner, so to speak. I know that it might only be a matter of time before the Feds come knocking on my door. And that’s the last thing that I need in my life now, especially being on probation. Prison is not a place that am trying to return to.

I know the way those people in the movies must feel when they can’t get the keys in the ignition properly. I must have tried at least five times before I was able to successfully start my truck up. 

The ride home seems excessively long. My mind is racing, thinking about a million things. What if they’ve already come looking for me? What if someone we know ratted us out? And if so, who? 
I am so paranoid that I even retrace my steps, meticulously going over the deals in my head. My nerves are at an all-time high. I pick up my cell and call Lori, trying to see whether anything is going down on the home front. I get her voicemail as well. Right about now, my stomach feels completely empty. I’m numb. I honestly feel as though I could straight out shit on myself. You ever had that feeling? Yeah, I know you have. Anyways, back to the story. I turn on the radio to 1010 WINS News to find out if I can get more details on the story. And sure enough, they are reporting the story. I gasp when the reporter says that there are more arrests to follow. 

Somebody get me a diaper. 

I try Eitan one more time. Again, his voicemail immediately picks up. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Trying to calm my nerves, I keep contemplating in my head, What’s the worst that can happen? And hell, the thought alone is enough to send me over the edge. Just as I’m about to turn the radio off, my phone rings. The Caller ID shows Eitan’s number. 

"Yo, what’s going on, man?" 

"Shit is going on, Myles; did you fuck us over?" The call is immediately disconnected.

Time out. What the fuck is really going on? Does this mother fucker think I ratted the team out? I don’t even have time to contemplate the scenario because as I pull up on my block, I see Lori just going in the house. I don’t get out of the truck right away. Instead, I park, turn off the ignition and sit there, scanning the area. And when it doesn’t seem as though anything is out of ordinary, I get out. 

I scan the area once again before I move toward the steps of my brownstone. The last thing I want is to let my neighbors witness the shit unfold right here. But because it looks as though it’s pretty safe, I proceed up the stairs, turning back intermittently. When I unlock the front door and pry it open, I feel safe, at least for the time being. 

"Lori," I call out, but she doesn’t answer. I call out to her again. And again, she doesn’t answer. I follow the direction of the noise, tracking Lori to the bedroom. She looks to be packing for the road. For a split second, the events that just went down within the last thirty minutes have escaped my mind. I stand there watching Lori stuff random garments into a duffle bag which is not her usual standard of packing. She has not acknowledged my presence, however. I am feeling ambivalent about her leaving for this trip, and not because of sentimental reasons, but because I don’t know what’s heading down the pike as far as Eitan, Mike, and I are concerned. After watching her for a few more moments, I finally speak. "So babe, when are you coming back?"
"Myles, I’m not going anywhere. Pay attention; this is your mutha-fuckin’ shit that I’m packing."

"Baby, what are you talking about?"

"Save that baby shit. Obviously, you have some shit going on. I thought that prison had changed you."

"Lori, what are you talking about?" I say, my heart imitating the sound of Congo drums of West Africa. 

"I’m done, Myles. I’m stepping out for a few hours. When I get back, I want you and all your shit gone," she says, looking up at me every few seconds. 

"Lori," I say, following her into the living room. But she opens the door and walks out without saying another word.

Nothing could have prepared me for the succession of events that followed. Buckle your seatbelts people because I’m going to explain to you how this all went down. Damn, I’ll never learn.++