Embracing the Horror E-Book

Darline Dorce-Coupet

• Herausgeber: Proisle Publishing Services
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1277

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"Captivating.gripping.and smart. Steamy.delicious.wickedly sexy. Hip.sexy.funky fresh.a 21st Century Love Story. Rapturous.like liquid sunshine, Embracing the Horror packs a wallop. The pages sizzle and forbidden passion is taken to a new heights. Wandering from the club scene of South Beach to the exotic sandy beaches of San Juan and Costa Rica, Erin Arielle is one of the hottest heroines ever! Erotic Romantic Fiction at its best!"

Leseprobe

EMBRACING

THE HORROR

A Story of forbidden Love

EMBRACING

THE HORROR

Darline Dorce-Coupet

© Copyright 2024 by Darline Dorce-Coupet

ISBN

978-1-963735-85-7 (Paperback)

978-1-963735-86-4 (E-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Proisle Publishing Services LLC

39-67 58th Street, 1st floor

Woodside, NY 11377, USA

Phone: [phone])

[email protected]

Embracing the Horror

By Darline Dorce-Coupet

“Who could not fall victim to the author’s energetic and passionate writing? I certainly found myself turning page after page, well beyond the time limit I’d imposed for the first sitting. The dialog was ‘real.’ Some readers will no doubt find the direct style ‘too much’ while others will immerse themselves in it. The trick will be marketing to the chosen ones.”

Writer’s Digest

2001 National Self-Publishing Awards Finalist

More Praise for Embracing the Horror

“This book is great. It’s extremely unique… and will attract a diverse group of readers!”

–Elizabeth von Rentzell

Writer’s Digest

“It took off like fireworks. The characters were ‘rich’ and magnificent. The ending was unpredictable and the surprise element left me wanting more. EXCELLENT! Dorce-Coupet has an amazing storytelling ability and a fertile and naughty imagination. Writing is NOT easy, but for people with a gift such as hers -- it becomes second nature. Her love of writing comes through beautifully.”

–Marta Lewis, Editor

Words to Words

To my beloved daughter, Iman Elan Coupet,

You are the light that guides me through every chapter of my life.

Your presence makes my world vibrant and full of joy.

Thank you for being my constant inspiration.

To my wonderful husband, Ahmed Nawaz,

Your unwavering support and loveare the pillars of my existence.

I am endlessly grateful for you and the life we share.

I love you more with each passing day.

Acknowledgements

Reflecting on the past 23 years since I first published this novel, my journey has been nothing short of extraordinary. Four major moves, a divorce, another marriage, watching my daughter grow up, and so much traveling in between: first to Georgia, then to the Middle East, next to China, and finally repatriating and finding my forever home in Florida, I have had the privilege of visiting over 38 countries. As an international educator, I've immersed myself in diverse cultures all over the world. These experiences have enriched my life and, I believe, will profoundly influence my writing. I am eternally grateful for the adventure, the lessons learned, and the countless memories made along the way. Not to mention all the great people I’ve met along the way (the AZG Crew in the UAE notwithstanding—what would have I done without all of you??? Mere words can not express. Homage too to my BASIS crew and the friends I made at Concordia in Shanghai. You are my tribe, my traveling family, built through necessity but so crucial and pivotal in my life’s journey.

Years ago, though, I wrote the following acknowledgements, and I still hold these sentiments close to my heart. Here they are, updated to reflect the changes life brings:

First things first: Glory to God in the highest. With Him, all things are possible—big and small. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God, for finally making my dream come true.

My deepest and humblest gratitude to my amazing father, the late Jean David Dorce, who was the most fascinating person I have ever known. He taught me so much, but most importantly, to believe in myself. He was my greatest fan, my champion, and I hope if he’s looking down, that he’s proud of me. I also want to thank my wonderful mother, Marie Thérese Dorce, who has since passed. May she rest in splendor and grace, but I thank her for her counseling and for always guiding me in the right direction.

This book would certainly not be what it is without the help and guidance of my close friend and invigorating editor, Katia Mompoint. Thank you so much for everything you did. You are wonderful, fabulous, insightful, and delightful! I enjoyed writing and editing this novel with you. You made it all so fun, and I hope to work with you again soon. Good luck with your own novel; wishing you much success.

I am also very indebted and grateful to my writing teacher, author, and mentor, Dan Wakefield, who inspired me more than he’ll ever know. First, for firing me up and getting me excited in class, and then for showing me how it’s really done through his book, Goin’ All the Way. You’ve inspired me. Thank you!

I want to thank and give shout-outs to D.W.’s FIU Spring 2000 Narrative Writing class: Raul Aguila, J.L. Fallad, Marcia Han, Jennifer McGuire, Iliana Hakes-Martinez, Jonathan Cunningham, Jarad Fennell, Lourdes Navarro, Jose Rodriguez, Jo Wilder, Delroy Thompson, Elretea Lee, and Cessann Maher. Yes! You guys were awesome, and I miss you all. Hope you all get to read the book.

I also want to thank several other people: Cathy Jean-Baptiste, Autumn Etienne, Josiane Appollon, Shani White, Odine Lindor, Raphaelle Desrameaux, Jacqueline Armand, Danielle Dorce, Marcia Desai, Nadege Ysbeck, Edith Marc, Lola Nelson, Shirley Marc, Kimberly Dorce, Sheila Coupet, Lorna and DeJeanie Dorce for their love, support, and encouragement. Thanks, ladies and to my brothers, nieces and nephews and cousins—there are so many. You have all touched and enriched my life immeasurably.

A very special thanks to my models Gsa Gsa Talamas and Larry Lattimore, and to my ex-husband Marlon for doing the photography, and my amazing illustrator, Jean-Claude Bien-aimé (J.C.), thank you for listening and for drawing a picture that I simply love. Although you didn’t give me exactly what I asked for, you gave me something so much better—a painting that I absolutely adore! Thank you so much for taking your time and using your amazing talent, and for putting up with all the drama involved in getting that picture just right. Blood, sweat, and lots of tears, but it was all well worth it in the end. It was a pleasure to watch you work.

Lastly, a heartfelt thank you to Infinity Publishing. It’s truly exciting what you’ve started in the publishing world, and it’s a very exhilarating time to be a writer. My sincerest thanks to the entire staff there. You were all such a pleasure to work with.

I would be remiss now not to mention my new publisher, Proisle Publishing, who somehow found me and convinced me to do this, to republish and remarket this book. Little did I know this was just what I needed. Thank you to your team of professionals, who have been so extraordinarily patient and diligent, you rock!

And again, finally, to all you aspiring writers out there: never give up on your dreams because someday, some way, somehow, they’ll find you…or you’ll find them.

Enjoy!

Prologue

Few know the manner of their death with the certainty I know mine. But that would be jumping to the end of my tale while we were still at the beginning. I feel it important though to explain a little about myself before I get started. So let me not run ahead of myself and tell this story properly. Just as if we were on a first date. I prefer it that way.

I am Scorpio, but was born on the cusp, October 23rd, and can sometimes exhibit traits of Libra. I can fly as high as a noble eagle or can play it down and dirty and sting like a scorpion, both of which symbolize my astrological sign. People say I am passionate and intense, but they have no idea how passionate or how intense. My love can be overwhelming. I love hard. I love deep. I love long. My love can cut to the bone and drenches blood. On the flip side, I can also be envious, calculating and straight up vindictive. It’s not something that I’m proud of, but that’s just the way it is.

If you take seriously what I’ve just revealed to you, you might think I am making love all night and planning insurgencies all day. And you know, that might not be too far from the truth.

I am drawn to the occult, have supernatural abilities, although these powers scare me. No question about it, I desire victory. Always. But I also insist on fair play. It is not easy to defeat me because, like the fabled Phoenix, I rise from my own ashes and come alive, when most people would consider me dead and buried. I can keep a secret, adore surprises. I am sensual, and oh yes, an incurable romantic. My psychic impressions are usually accurate, my dreams vivid and prophetic.

I delve deep. I am the probing editor, the psychoanalyst, finder of lost souls, seeker of truth. I can be jealous and will fight for what’s mine. I seldom do anything halfway and can fall madly and inextricably in love. And God yes, this makes me completely vulnerable, unguarded, totally exposed. So naturally, I do get hurt. Sometimes really bad. Yet I possess retaliatory weapons that give my adversaries fits. For the most part, if you don’t fuck with me, I won’t fuck with you, but cross me at your own peril.

I tear down for the ultimate purpose of rebuilding on a more suitable base. I am creative, rebellious, fixed in my views, not easily persuaded. Although at times, I am willing to take a gamble, I prefer a sure thing. I put my money where my mouth is and I’m good at whatever I put my mind to.

It torments me that evil exists and pains me that life is so short. I abhor suffering. Especially when I’m the one doing it. But I am dynamic and dedicated when the cause is right. Oh yes, and above all else, I believe in the power of love.

Now listen. If I tell you any more about me, you might think you know everything and then lose interest. Of course, it goes without saying, that would devastate me!

So without further ado, let us begin where my story commences at around age thirteen. On the day I lost my visions, the day that my hope and faith were restored, and all was right with the world once again.

Port-au-Prince, HaitiAugust, 1988

We went to her home in La Plaine, where she conducted the ceremony in her backyard. At first I was amazed by the number of people there. It seemed her entire village was in attendance. She had orchestrated the entire thing, turning it into some kind of ceremonial pageantry. I guess she had to. After all, she had to give us our money’s worth.

“Do we need all these people here?” my grandmère asked with some concern.

“There is strength in numbers,” Florence replied.

Dressed in a glimmering white gown, with her hair wrapped in the same white cotton material, Florence, the mambo bent over a row of guttering candles set on stone slabs in preparation for the ceremony. “Lady of Lightning and Thunder, hear my call,” she chanted in Creole, her red-painted mouth moving steadily. “Erzulie, great goddess, I call on you now. Come to us now and give us our desires!”

A sudden gust of wind whistled through the surrounding almond trees, nearly extinguishing the lit candles as Florence, the priestess, got down on her knees and bowed low, her head touching the ground. “Thank you, oh great spirit, who has graced us with her presence.”

Turning to regard grandmère and I, who were standing off to the side watching her do her thing, she came over to me and took my hands, holding them firmly in hers—peering intently into my eyes as if she could see into my soul.

“Jeanine,” she said, addressing my grandmère all the while still fixing me with her penetrating gaze, “you sure you want to go through with this? She has a rare gift and her power is so strong.”

“Do it,” my grandmère hissed in Creole.

“She could be a formidable mambo if she had the inclination. And look at her. She possesses the very essence of Erzulie. Such power in the hands of someone with her beauty. She’d be a force to reckon with.”

“Get rid of it,” my grandmère said more forcibly. “Get rid of the miserable, horrible filth. You said you could do it. Do it now!”

The mambo hesitated. “I can…it’s just a shame that’s all. Such a waste. I could teach her so many things. She could be so powerful.”

“What nonsense. Our family does not serve the loa. We are strictly Catholique. We serve God, not the spirits. Can you do it or not? I’m paying you good money.”

The mambo nodded and the two drummers began beating their drums. “Now come child,” Florence said, bringing me to the center. Handing me a candle, she had already instructed me on what to do and say, and prodded me now, urging me on.

I was dressed similarly to Florence, as were the chorus of women who stood around us chanting something weird and unfamiliar. Walking around the slabs of stone I lit the first candle at the base of one of the stones. Turning towards the North I said, “To the North I say, Erzulie, I renounce your gift. Please release me.” Turning to the East, I repeated the same thing. When I turned to the South, I felt something come over me. At first it was a slow, tingling feeling which was teasing and tickling me, but as I turned to the West, it had mounted me completely. I started to talk in a voice that was not my own, “To the West I say, Erzulie, I renounce, I renounce,” I kept repeating. “I...renounce…”

“Say it,” grandmère said pleadingly. “Finish it.”

But staring at her terror, I only threw back my head and laughed. Hysterically.

“She has possessed her,” I heard the mambo say. “She does not wish to release her. She is too beautiful. Erzulie is also the Goddess of Love and Desire and she has chosen your granddaughter. She desires her.”

All of a sudden, I felt frightened. What was she saying? And why did I sound like that and feel like...I wanted to dance? I was swaying gently to the beat of the drums. “She is already mine. Has been mine long ago. It matters not what you do. She will always be mine,” I said in perfect Creole. I could hardly even speak Creole. I understood it, but didn’t speak it all that well.

My grandmère looked truly horrified, as if she saw something utterly terrifying and grotesque.

I looked from one to the other and then felt my mouth curve up into a smile. But it wasn’t my normal smile but the kind that would spread across the face of a movie star—an actress or a beauty queen—when she was trying to be sexy. I’d never forget that smile. Later, I would call it my beauty contestant’s smile. I was at the loa’s whim.

Going over to Florence, the loa was moving through me and I was moving to the rhythm of the music. Taking her hands and making her move with me, we were dancing together, gently at first. But feeling the music deep within me, I was drawing her closer, pulling her to me. “Do not do this,” I warned her pleasantly but sternly. “Or you’ll be sorely punished.”

Florence hesitated. I could read the fear and panic in her eyes. Even though I was held captive in the trance—still, I could appreciate her hesitation. For fear is our most ancient and most powerful emotion. And the promise of death, its silent stalker.

“Do it,” I could hear Grandmère seething with rage. “End this mess now!”

But taking Florence’s face between my hands and staring into her eyes, I locked her mouth to mine and pulled her down to me. Slam, bang, and we connected.

The drummers were beating frantically now, and I let go of Florence, who looked totally dazed and started dancing like crazy. Dancing and twirling, round and round, I was dancing on the balls of my feet, my legs were a blur.

“Make her stop!” Grandmère was now pleading with Florence. “For the love of God!”

Florence made her way to the chorus of women who had all been standing as if in a trance and gave an invisible signal. Locking hands they chanted together and then Florence commanded, “To the West I say, the child renounces your gift. Erzulie, release her, now and forever!”

Mid-twirl, I fell to the ground and doubled over, my hair falling forward. I felt a rip in my brain, the loa was struggling to remain in me, but Florence was chanting something else and it was tearing me apart, killing me. I let out a blood curling scream, my fingers digging dirt.

“In the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary, with all due respect, release her Erzulie!”

I screamed again and started throwing up as something heavy seemed to rip out of my throat. Pain and fear coursed through my veins as I sat there hugging myself around the middle, my head whirling. I was retching as I inhaled the stench from my own vomit, my stomach and chest muscles aching, as my head continued to spin in dizzying circles and my stomach muscles continued to spasm.

“It is done,” I heard Florence say, as she came over to see to me. “Li liberé,” she told my grandmère who was now also by my side.

“She is free? You sure,” Grandmère said smoothing my hair back away from my face, away from the dark vomit which had formed a puddle on the dirt floor.

“She is cured,” Florence said with authority.

Part One

Desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,

And all the world becomes a garden close

In which we wander, you and I together,

Believing in the symbol of the rose,

Believing only in the heart’s bright flower—

Forgetting—flowers wither in an hour

—Langston Hughes

1

A Flash of Lightning

Nine and a half years later…

It was Friday night and close to midnight when the gleaming, ultrachic pearl limo I was in neared the club. As always, Ocean Drive was gridlocked and Washington Avenue was no better, especially tonight. Although it was late January and the rest of the country was gripped by winter snowstorms and freezing cold, Miami was sultry, unseasonably warm; perfect for Superbowl weekend. This Sunday, the game would be played at the Pro Player Stadium, formally known as the Joe Robbie Stadium, Superbowl XXXIII. Anyone who was anybody was in town. There were all kinds of parties and concerts and celebrity charity benefits happening—you name it and it was going on this weekend. Of course, Mecca Miami had to be there to cover all the parties, concerts and happenings. And sincecelebrity profiles, interviews and covering the lifestyles of the rich and decadent was becoming my new thing, I was taking full advantage of the Superbowl and all these celebs being in town to paint the town crimson. I was becoming really good at finagling my way into most places and usually got the scoop. The hard part was usually getting to the celeb.

I was chatting on my cellphone with Biandra, my friend and coworker, as the limo crawled slowly towards Española Way. Biandra was covering the party at the Cameo, which she said was really happening. Of course it was. Luke, As Nasty as They Want to Be of 2-Live Crew fame was throwing it—and he definitely knew how to throw a party.

“Girl, there’s a serious ass party over here,” Biandra crooned. “You should get here. It’s da bomb! Forget about Cedric. He doesn’t even do interviews. Especially not impromptu ones.”

“Ha! No way. I have a feeling about tonight.”

“Hmmm…Well, I hope you get it, girl.”

“Yeah, wish me luck.”

“Girlfriend, with your looks, you don’t need it. But good luck anyway.”

“Thanks, B. Gotta go!” I said and pressed end, as the limo pulled to the curb outside the club. Wehad finally arrived.

SoBe, short for South Beach, with its profusion of chic nightclubs, avant-garde boutiques, bustling outdoor cafés and sophisticated dining rooms was bursting at the seams. There were literally hundreds of thousands of people on the streets, lining the sidewalks, waiting to get passed the velvet ropes. I arrived at Club Indigo in style, courtesy of Mecca. Guillermo, the cute but tacky Cuban chauffeur who had been flirting with me all day, hurriedly got out to open my door.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he said helping me out.

“I’m sure,” I said, with a toss of my head, showing much attitude.

He threw me a leery grin.

I had been “handling” him all day long, but he had still managed to make overtures regardless. God, he was such a creep. He had been licking his lips at me, coming on to me with these tired and trite remarks, he was so pathetic. The only thing that stopped me from reading his ass was one: my manners and two: that I had come to suspect he might be mentally retarded. So I bit my tongue and held back.

“Say, I’m off in another two hours and I really wouldn’t mind swinging back by to pick you up—no fee. On the house.”

“That won’t be necessary. But thanks anyway, Guillermo. It’s been, uh…real.”

“Buenas noches,” he said tipping his hat, still smiling at me, despite my chilly demeanor.

“Buenas noches,” I said back as I started walking off. The guy was persistent, I’d give him that. I could still feel his gaze on me, and knew exactly what he was staring at. I purposely swung it a little harder to give him a better thrill. Men, they were shameless. Poor Guillermo would just have to eat his heart out—or learn to get a better rap-on. Anyway, I heard his rumbling laughter and was relieved when I heard the limo start up and drive away. Thank God for small miracles.

With the flurry of activities that had been going on at the office, coupled with all the events I had had to cover, I hadn’t had time to run home to take a quick shower and change into proper evening attire. No problem, though. I’d have to make do. I undid two extra buttons at the neck of my taupe-colored blouse, hiked my skirt up several inches by folding it twice at the waist. Then I unbuttoned my constricting blazer and dabbed on some red lipstick, spruced up my hair, which was swept up in a tousled upsweep with tendrils caressing my face. Good thing I had come to work that day Prada’d down from head to toe, ultra fashionable in a black nylon lycra suit with matching hose and high-heeled sling-back pumps. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances—understated, yet sexy.

People were coming from all directions, the stream of pedestrian hipsters dressed to kill mixed with café-goers and people-watchers all flooding the sidewalks and street front dining rooms. A street musician playing a sax warbled a plaintive tune. A fur-swathed pair emerged imperiously from a cab waving profusely as they joined some friends already standing in line. A young woman with henna-tinted hair, leopard-patterned tights and a serious boob-job cheek-kissed her arriving companion, a multi-earringed twentysomething punk. Both nearly knocked me to the ground trying to cut in front of me. I smiled slightly as they were denied access at the door. Served them right. Lowlife punks.

“Sorry, you’re not on the list,” the bouncer announced to their dismay.

I, on the other hand, had better be on there or I’d kill Michael. As well as have to do some serious flirting with this guy to get in—and it wouldn’t be the first time I had used my looks or my charms to gain entry. In fact at Mecca, I was the secret weapon they sent when doors were air-tight. Somehow or another, I would find the code and unlock them. I didn’t mind schmoozing on the phone, digging real deep and chasing leads even if it meant standing all day on people’s doorsteps to get my story. Usually, I didn’t have to go to those lengths. But I was tenacious and I’d do what I had to do.

“Ah, Miss Symonette. Yes, there you are. Welcome,” he said allowing me entrance.

Once inside, I passed the lobby and open bar area which was thick—not only with smoke, but also bodies—wall-to-wall. Ten feet from the grill, the line for food was extremely long. People were pushing and shoving each other, I wouldn’t have been surprised if a fight didn’t erupt soon. No way was I braving that mess. There went my plan to grab a bite to eat. My empty stomach would have to stay that way, which meant, I couldn’t really drink. Damn, that was no fun.

I slipped easily in through VIP with my press badge, strolled past the bar to the sitting area, all heads turned at the same time, including Michael’s, my Jamaican pal and old college friend. Michael was now a big-time promoter on SoBe and at the center of where it was at. He waved to me to join him and his friends at their table. The champagne was flowing. Cristal, Möet, Dom Pérignon, all expensive, all French. Also, everyone was smoking a stogie, with supermodel wannabes bouncing on one knee. This was promising to be a wild night, and all of a sudden I was feeling ridiculously happy for no reason at all. Well, other than getting the chance to meet Cedric.

“Yo, baby. You look tight,” Michael remarked, shouting a bit over the loudness of the music amped up to the last decibel. His eyes raked my figure with a casual hunger. “Hmmm, real nice.”

Smiling sweetly, I took the hand he extended and we did the standard multi-cheek kisses that all the fashionable folks did on SoBe, where cheeks brushed cheeks and the kisses fell somewhere in the air. “So, did he come,” I asked, slipping into the seat beside him.

“Yeeeah, girl! I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I told you I’d deliver,” he said slipping me the key.

“When’s he going on?”

“In about fifteen.”

“Good, so I’m right on time.”

Michael’s gaze remained focused on me with that hungry longing in his eyes. When he noticed I wasn’t oblivious to his intense stare, he quickly recovered. “So what’s your poison? Would you like some champagne?”

“Nah. That’ll go straight to my head. No, I’ll have a martini. Dry.”

“Hmmm...girl, I’m scared of you.”

“Oh, and if it isn’t too much trouble. I’ll have some conch fritters and a crab salad too. I’m starved.”

He smiled widely. He had a nice enough face, a toothy grin, and stood about six feet five, a giant, massively built and probably hot stuff around this circuit. But he had that gangster muscle-head mentality thing going on, which was definitely not attractive to me in the least. Michael was the kind of man that women either crawled all over or ran from for dear life. And I was the running kind. He was too bulky, too tall, too virile, just too much man for me. Luckily for me, he understood that.

“No problem.” He signaled one of the waitresses and placed my order then turned back to me, taking a puff on his cigar and blowing from the side of his mouth. “So here’s how it’s gonna go down. After the show, give it a few minutes, then you slip in. I’m not gonna even mention anything to him because that way, he can’t say no.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan. I’ll handle the rest.”

My drink arrived first. Michael clicked my glass with his. “To getting your story.”

“Hear-hear,” I said.

The houselights dimmed and the club became crazed. Michael had excused himself, and now I heard his voice addressing the standing-room-only crowd who had now given him their full attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that Club Indigo welcomes tonight, Mr. Cedric Courage, who’s gonna rock the house!” A roar tore from the crowd. You could feel the excitement building, breathing, as the crowd waited breathlessly in anticipation for the funky prince of rock, rap and hip-hop. You could hear the pandemonium brewing outside too, where the line was almost half a mile, curving along several city blocks. Inside, the blessed few who had been allowed in had paid dearly for the privilege. But that was okay ‘cause everyone there knew Cedric would deliver. And did he!

The noise was deafening as the crowd welcomed him with mad applause. Almost immediately, the light show began. Moving with the bravado of a prizefighter ready for combat, he approached the mike with the muscular, purposeful power of a panther, strutting his macho stride, exuding masculinity. His smooth, rhapsodic voice pierced the darkness. And so the show began. Crude in his creativity, nimble in his delivery, with a manner that absolutely seduced, it wasn’t hard to figure out why the song he was singing, In Yo Backyard, had become the number one single, remaining on the Billboard Hip-Hop chart for thirty-two weeks straight, becoming a national anthem for Generation-Xers, the hip-hop culture.

“Where’s the Third World at?” Cedric began.

“In yo backyard!” came the crowd’s excited response as they interacted, rocking to the rapturous beat.

“Where’s the Third World at?”

“In yo backyard!” The crowd screamed even louder this time.

Then there were his dancers who were breaking down and jamming to the music. Hypnotic and grooving with a definite reggae flavor, Cedric began his assault:

Synthetics, genetics, command your soul,

Trucks, tanks, laser beams

Guns, blasts, submarines

Neutron, B-bomb, A-bomb, gas

The White man says the Third World’s

in a far away place

Not true I tell you, they try and pacify you

Cause the Third World’s right beside you.

The ghettos are teeming with poor, illiterate folk

Where teenaged mothers are mixing crack

and powdered milk

Where the child she’s carrying will be born blind

Drug dependent and just plain sick.

But that’s not what will kill him, you see.

He’ll die from a bullet straight to the head,

At the corner liquor store on

Martin Luther King’s Street.

Where’s the Third World at?

In yo backyard!

Where’s the Third World at?

In yo backyard!

Generation-Xers, a generation of slackers

So our parents say, what do you stand for?

Will we ever unite, and fight the good fight

We pay our taxes, but do we even vote?

So there goes everything that our parents fought for

That great Constitution, which the White man wrote

We have it easy—but they made it so

Never realizing they left us nothing to fight for

Generation X-ers, look in your backyard!

Where’s the Third World at?

In yo backyard!

Where’s the Third World at?

In yo backyard!

Oooooooh!

And then with that, he flowed into another groove, a really hot dance number this time, The Voodoo that You Do, dancing hard and fast, his feet a blur in perfect rhythm with his dancers, who were all surrounding him, his singing seeming to waft up from the bottom of his soul. He was just warming up, while still going for gold. I was amazed by all the energy he was exerting, in awe of their tightness. They were perfect, totally in sync, seeming not to miss a beat as they all came together on cue and came to a sharp halt, stopping at the exact second that the band stopped playing. Perfect.

The crowd was screaming, hollering and demanding more—and I was thinking Whoa! He’s really fucking great! The brother is baaad! Da bomb! Looking real fly in his signature leather, he tore open his white silk shirt exposing his glistening chest and six-pack stomach that was shimmering in the light. He was buff. So much hotter than I remembered. Um-um-um, he was kicking, yes, bucking hard. Strapping his guitar on as the whooping and hollering continued, he shouted, “Hello Miami!”

The crowd went wild. Berserk.

“It’s so great to be here with you tonight. And by the way, I love this town...” The noise level amped even higher. “Listen now. I’m feeling a little romantic,” he said, flashing a grin showing perfect white teeth. “I’d like to slow things down a bit, you know, and put everyone in the mood right along with me.”

The girls were hysterical. And the men were all smiling. Cedric would get the ladies in the mood all right, but it was them who would reap the benefits.

“Anyway, we’re all grown-up here, right? Are there any minors in the house?!”

“NO!” Everyone shouted in unison.

“Good! Cause I’ve come to get down!”

My ears were immediately assaulted with rhymes that were too raw for print. Christ, the brother had some mouth on him, and it was like he was making it up as he went along. I was blushing, it was that bawdy. He went on to perform a few more ferocious tunes and then towards the end of the show, he had two girls kneeling before him who he was simulating sex with. He was playing with their hair and at one point, he knelt down and kissed their stomachs. The club was going ape shit, as he gazed into their eyes like a lover. One of the girls looked as if she were about to faint. And I was watching it all with a rapt fascination. Just how far would he go? Had to admit, I was starting to feel more than a little heated. It had been a while since I had indulged in any kind of sexual recreation. And so now this brother had my juices flowing. He was causing me to burn the fuck up. As I listened to him croon a sweet tune, which was juxtaposed with the show he was putting onstage with those girls, I was thinking how a story wasn’t all I wanted from him tonight. After such a long drought, Cedric Courage would feel as right as rain. Or thunder. Hmmm…and to think I knew him when...

I knew I’d have my work cut out for me. Cedric Courage was not an easy person to get to or to interview. For one thing, he was known to have a well-organized entourage of band members, friends, roadies, security—not to mention a couple of dozen groupies who followed him wherever he went. To reach him, you had to pass through that barrage of people. For another thing, Cedric was a bit of an enigma and rarely gave interviews or talked to the press. So if I could get him to agree to talk to me, it would be a major scoop. With a heavy sigh, I contemplated how nerve-racking that was going to be. I hated to be in situations that I couldn’t control. Still, I was determined that I would get through. I’d get my interview.

Heck, I had gotten to Leonardo DiCaprio, the last time he was here. I cornered him at the Bar Room one night. And he was another one who was pretty damn difficult to get to. Getting to him had not been easy but being that he liked to frequent nightclubs, it was just a matter of finding out where he was, getting there, pulling a fast one to get right up to him on the dance floor and the rest was history. Yes, that had been pretty fucking challenging. Mission Impossible, Biandra had called it. But I had actually come back with the scoop and pictures to boot. That was right before he shipped out to Thailand to go shoot The Beach. Everyone at Mecca had to respect me after that. No one could believe I had done it or that I had gotten Leo to agree to do a cover.

And I was going to rub everyone’s nose in it again tonight when I scooped Cedric Courage, who was known for his evasiveness and media shyness. He was not overly friendly, I had been told. And when he wasn’t performing, he rarely cracked a smile, seeming to be in a constant state of quiet introspection. And I knew this firsthand because I had gone to college with Cedric—well, my first year of college anyway. Freshman year. I think he was a sophomore during my first year, and anyway, we had lived in the same dorm—Beatty Towers at the University of Florida in Gainesville. Even though Cedric and I saw each other regularly in the elevators, around campus, at the Rathskeller, and around town, he had never spoken to me. Well, beyond just a polite, “Hi, how ya doing?”

And truthfully, before he became a big star, I hadn’t given him a second thought. He was definitely not my type. I usually went for the more preppy, intellectual types. So a moody, brooding artist type, growing dreads and who had tattoos, both ears pierced, and a tongue ring—who I also felt was not very friendly to boot—I was not having anything to do with beyond the professional. Except tonight, watching him perform, I was reevaluating this position. Even though I didn’t find him exceptionally handsome—not in a conventional sense. He had one of those faces that was so finely wrought and well-defined as to render him distinct. His face would be hard to forget. Especially his unusual-shaped eyes and full, sexy lips. His looks were a question mark. A what is he exactly? He couldn’t be fully black but seemed to be a few more other things in between. Combined with his raw sensuality, I found him more than a little unsettling. Yet and still, until tonight, I hadn’t considered Cedric my cup of tea. But he’d become all of that and a bag of chips soon enough. As I set out to meet him, I had no idea how very much my life was about to change.

Even during his time at UF, Cedric had started to build a following. I saw one of his performances with a band he was playing with at an after-hours club one night, and I remembered thinking after hearing his voice and seeing him perform that his star was definitely in the ascendant. A recording contract was clearly on the way and it was just a matter of time. He was an undeniable talent.

And now, after his stellar performance, determined to meet him again, I waded my way through the crowd of groupies, which were flooding the corridors from stage to dressing room, assuming as much authority as I could muster, squirming my way through the mass of girls. And they were girls—little more than seventeen, eighteen and nineteen—all in micro minis, bellies exposed, hoping to catch a glimpse or his eye. But I was determined to beat them all to the punch. I wanted an interview, an exclusive and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to get it.

Michael had owed me a huge favor. So he was more than happy to give me the key to his dressing room and served him up willingly. Michael had gone to school with us too. He and Cedric had kicked it for a while at UF. Still I didn’t know how he had managed to convince Cedric to play his club since this was definitely no longer Cedric’s scene. He was way past playing bars and clubs. Known for being a little eccentric, though, sometimes just for kicks, Cedric would treat his fans to these small, intimate performances.

Marching through the sacred door, unlocking it with the club’s key, slipping in from the chaos that was brewing outside in the hallway, I hadn’t quite decided what my game plan was other than actually getting there. On first view, Cedric and his band were slumped on a variety of folding chairs and sofas, and looked to me like beaten gladiators. Even exhausted though, Cedric stood out, his aura glowing like a candle, a robust orange. He was charged, still trying to get off his high. And gosh, had he rocked the club that night, having jammed for nearly an hour—exuding the same energy all the way to the end as when he began. He was an amazing performer. He riveted me and I had never seen anybody with such power on stage. I was more than a little awestruck, ‘cause I really dug his music.

The door clicked into place as I closed it. He looked up sternly and said, “Hey, how’d you get in here?” But then came the recognition in his eyes. “UF, Beatty Towers.”

“Yup,” I smiled. “Erin Arielle Symonette.”

“Yeah, but you go by Arielle, right?”

Oh, shit, he actually remembered. I had doubted very seriously Cedric would remember me, but was so absolutely delighted when he did.

“How the hell have you been,” he was asking now, seeming genuinely happy to see me.

“Great! Don’t have to ask about yourself.”

“Yeah-yeah, can’t complain.” Sighing heavily and looking weary to me, he went on, “Yeah... me and the boys were thinking how the hell we’re gonna get outta here tonight without getting mauled or killed.”

I smiled. “No doubt. But, I guess you don’t know about the back door.”

“Not gonna work. Totally congested with people,” he replied sullenly.

“Yeah,” the drummer from his band cut in. “Looks like everyone else knows about it too.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Short of a bomb threat, there’s no way this club is getting cleared out,” I said.

“Shit, why didn’t I think of that,” Cedric said seriously.

“Fuck, yeah,” his bassist said, giving him a high-five.

“Who’s calling it in,” the drummer asked.

“It’s a felony offense,” I reminded them gently.

“So is murder, and I’m telling you, we’re gonna get killed tonight if we don’t take matters into our own hands,” Cedric said. Snapping his fingers, he gave a signal to one of his roadies to get on it. Fifteen minutes later, the club and all surrounding areas were cleared. Making our way out to the back now, where his Humvee limo was waiting out in the alley, he turned to me saying, “Hey, you are coming with us, aren’t you? Hell, you just saved our lives,” he said beaming, a flash of lightning hit me, something so rare it left me weak-kneed.

The stretch Humvee limousine was fabulous. Fifteen passenger, disco lights, booze, music, videos, it was great. Once out of the club and out of a fix, Cedric turned on the charm, introducing me to all his crew, putting me at ease. Afterwards, we hung out with his boys and a few of their girlfriends in the limo hitting clubs, crashing parties, it was too fun. Much later still, sometime around eight in the morning, we went to breakfast at Wolfie’s and by that time, we were seriously flirting. And he wasn’t just smiling but laughing his ass off. His crew was kind of surprised at how much attention I was getting. This was not his style at all. Other then bagging babes, generally Cedric did not just hang out with women—and especially did not spend the night and the following morning just talking to one.

And that night, I was at the center of attention since I was a local and knew most of the ins and outs of SoBe, knew where the clubs were, as well as where all the hot parties would be. So Cedric and his crew were pretty much at my mercy, and it was a good thing I had come along. Throughout every party, I made my mark and made sure I kept Cedric right there beside me. And anyway, he didn’t seem to be running away. He liked to dance and I was right there jamming with him. I laughed uproariously when he told me I danced like a Soul Train dancer. I wasn’t sure if that was a dis or compliment. With Cedric, you never knew. I was tickled though, that even though there were plenty of girls—girls galore—he seemed content to stand there and dance or talk to me. I was flattered, but I was doing plenty to keep that interest too. To the dismay of his regular ladies—or maybe they were his dancers. There were two of them dressed in identical black bodysuits with long, blond-streaked hair—store-bought. One sounded Jamaican and the other was definitely British with a thick Cockney accent and much attitude. Sort of reminded me of Scary Spice of the Spice Girls. I think her name was Anaya.

“She’s a journalist,” I heard her whisper to her partner at one point, saying it as if “journalist” was a bad word. They had both been looking me up and down the whole night. Sometimes staring me down. Especially every time I danced with Cedric. “God, she thinks she’s sooo cute,” Anaya whispered loud enough for me to hear. Then noticing that I had actually overheard her, she gave me a ventriloquist’s smile, totally phony. And I responded with a smile that was just the opposite, stunning her and her twin-mate with my pearly-whites.

The first party we happened to hit was at the Cameo, where we joined Luke and his crew. L.L. Cool J., DMX and a number of other rappers were performing there. I was hoping to hook up with Biandra, except she was nowhere to be found. We hung out there for a minute before heading to Liquids. People had waited until 1:30 in the morning to see Cher perform, Do you Believe in Love. But I got us in and then quickly out. After watching her perform, it was off to the NFL Players party where Spike Lee, Oliver Stone and a number of other stars filming Any Given Sunday were and we ended up chilling there for awhile before heading to the Groove Jet where we really got our party on. Then finally it was to breakfast at Wolfie’s.

I had shown them a really good time. They knew it and I knew it, and Cedric seemed to be really enjoying my company to the dismay of Anaya and her pal. I loved fucking with catty women, liked to come in and destroy their shit. I was terrible like that. What they couldn’t possibly realize was how I was getting off on the fact that I annoyed them so much. My claws were sharp and out completely. Grrrr…

At Wolfies, I stood and waited while Cedric signed autographs for several people who nearly rushed him as we entered the restaurant. He glanced up at me and smiled sweetly, a slightly self-deprecating grin on his gorgeous face, and I was somewhat surprised by the air of normalcy he displayed. Before hanging out with him tonight, I had thought he would have an outrageous ego, be so full of himself, except the reality of it was he seemed pretty down-to-earth considering. Several more people approached, begging for autographs. By then his security force stepped in to block off the throng of people that was beginning to form.

“All right. All right,” his massive personal bodyguard (I believe his name was Deuce) told the people starting to mill about. “Mr. Courage needs to eat. Give ‘em a break y’all.”

Yeah, and it was also time for my break. After all, I had played nice all night long, and now it was time to get my story before it was too late. Thinking fast on my feet, I intentionally arranged it so that he and I were seated in a booth by ourselves. The restaurant was packed and as we were being seated, I purposefully slipped into a two-seater and breathed a deep sigh of relief when he slipped in beside me. I smiled as the others followed the waitress and filed into the large booth next to ours. Sensational. Plan in motion, I forged ahead, grilling him over coffee, lox and bagels. I had heard that there were a number of things he didn’t like to talk about, and normally, if you were even granted an interview, which was usually a feat in itself, his publicist would hand you a form stating the do’s and dont’s. I questioned him about this. “What the hell is that all about,” I asked candidly. “What does that mean?”

He paused, satisfaction flooding his face. “Make no mistake about it. I’m the baddest sonofabitch to have hit this industry in years. So in response to your question, I’ve just got it like that,” he boasted but then winked at me as he searched his shirt pocket and came out with a pack of Newport Lights and offered me one.

At first I shook my head no, but then changed my mind and accepted one. I was a social smoker. I figured if I had to inhale smoke second-hand and end up with cancer, I may as well indulge and at least enjoy it.

Snapping his gold lighter in front of me, he lit my cigarette, then his and next leaned back into his chair, fixing me with a penetrating gaze as he took a deep drag. I knew in an instant he knew everything I was thinking, and I him—like whether we’d be smoking another one of these later together in bed. Not a bad prospect. I don’t know, I was actually open to it. So what if he didn’t respect me in the morning. (Hell, actually it was morning.) I’d be happy and satisfied and probably would never see him again in any case.

“Did that answer your question,” he asked crisply.

What question? Who remembered, who cared? “Hardly,” I replied, my voice low and kittenish, vaguely flirtatious.

His eyebrows knitted into a question. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. It’s just one of those days…you know. Where everything’s fucked. Everyone sucks. Ever had one of those days?”

“Um-hmm,” I smiled. “Although I’d hardly call today one of them, but yes. I have.”

“No doubt. No doubt. You’re sitting here with me, understandably so. Today must be fabulous for you,” he said straight-faced, looking quite serious. “I don’t just grant anyone an interview.”

My smile faded. Asshole. “Oh, and I guess I should be flattered…”

“Very,” he said dryly, taking another puff off his smoke. “In fact, Veronica’s gonna have my ass.”

“Who’s Veronica?”

“My publicist.”

“And do you always follow her instructions? Cause like who works for whom?”

“You do have a point there, but still. I don’t exactly enjoy interviews, and she buffers all of that,” he explained, an amused little smile tugging the corners of his lips. “Except in your case, I’m making an exception.”

“How magnanimous of you,” I said my voice dripping sarcasm.

Oh, he was insufferable and swore he was hot stuff. Actually he was, but it annoyed me to no end that he knew that. Maybe he did have an ego after all. Anyway, it was hard to tell. I couldn’t make up my mind if he was kidding or serious. Guess I didn’t know him well enough. But regardless, I was determined to crack him. Break him. Bring him down a few pegs. He was suddenly a challenge. Obviously, he had been cocooned for too long, sheltered by his protective publicist and her all-enveloping P.R. But I wasn’t going for that angle. I wanted the nitty-gritty and was prepared to get it. That and probably much, much more.

“I’m sorry,” he offered now. “I don’t mean to be an ass—”

“Oh?”

“It’s just that I’m functioning on so little sleep, and I don’t think it’s gonna be any different today. I’ve had about an hour’s rest in two days.”

“Hell, the way you partied. I find that hard to believe.”

He took a sip of his coffee, shrugged. “It’s hitting me hard right now just how tired I actually am.”

“Oooh, poor baby,” I said coyly. I had always suspected famous people needed a lot less sleep than normal folk and here was my proof. But I wasn’t allowing him to go to sleep just yet. “Now about the B-word,” I countered wanting to liven things up, “I’m sure you get asked this question a lot. But where do you get off calling women that?” I threw in next, intentionally wanting to antagonize him. Besides, it was a word being tossed around like lettuce in salad around the music universe—especially in the rap and hip-hop world.

“I mean no disrespect in using that word,” he confessed. “Cause look, baby, this is a man’s world. Will you admit to that?”

“Ah, I guess I can concede to that.”

“Concede to it. You have no choice. That’s just a fact. This is a man’s world. It’s a man world,” he sang, doing a really good impression of James Brown.

I laughed. So did his crew over in the next booth. He was cracking us up.

“That being the case,” he continued, “sometimes in order for a woman to be heard, she has to assume an attitude. This persona, if you catch my drift.”

I nodded.

He added, “and so a bitch is what we call a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I smiled sweetly at him. “Ahem,” I said clearing my throat, “That’s deep. It’s even sweet. But it’s total fucking bullshit.”

“Oh, you bitch,” he teased, to which we both laughed.

I think that sort of broke the ice a little. He definitely had a sense of humor—thank God! It made me comfortable enough to rib him back. I had been laughing right along with him, but then I stopped and deadpanned for effect. “Just for the record...”

“Yes...” he said expectantly, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.

“That’s the last time you get to use that word with me.”

“Ooohhh...so what happens if I...uh...slip,” he said leering at me, his bite-able bottom lip in a provocative pout that was oh, so sexy. “You know, it happens sometimes. I can blame it on bad manners, an improper upbringing,” he smiled. “If I slip, do you get up and walk out on me?”

I smiled back. “No,” I paused, locking eyes with him. “That’s not all I’ll do. But I’ll kick your ass too.”

“You and what army?”

“No army, just me.”

He smirked. “Yeah, right, baby. All right. You have my respect, tough girl.”

“Oh, and don’t try to placate me, cause you have no idea.”

“How so?”

“Because you said that so lightly, so nonchalantly. Just making an observation, as if you don’t believe me—except you have no idea how astute you’re actually being.”

He was laughing again. “Ah, man! You crack me up. Christ, you have to learn to be a little humble—even if you’re only pretending to be.”

“Why? Have I offended your macho sensibilities? Does it offend your mighty ears to have a woman who...uh...knows who she is or what she wants.”

“You know, the Bible says, the meek shall inherit the earth.”

“Surely you jest. Cedric Courage, are you quoting scripture to me?”

“And what if I am?”

“How is that even possible...” I asked “...if none of the meek will be bold enough to take it?” I shook my head, tossing my hair, starting to feel myself now. “No, to hell with pretending. I pretend for no one. I am and will always be exactly who I am. Take it or leave it, baby. I say toot your own horn. Go for what you know. If you like something or want something, go for it, with both barrels loaded.”

“I don’t believe you.” he said simply, looking me over. I noticed how his gaze kept straying to my mouth.

“I’m not sure why.”

“So what do you do when you see a man you like? How do you let him know you like him?”

“I stick my tongue down his throat.”

I could hear his brain trying to process the information I had just passed on to him. Would he be getting some tongue action tonight? God, I certainly hoped so. I could already taste him, almost feel him pumping right between my thighs. Relished the idea of him deep inside me. Ahhh, I was terrible, (I know) but I was really past the point of caring. It had been much too long, and well, Cedric was really turning me on, sexy pout and all.

“Yeah, sure sign,” he said zeroing in on me for another lingering look, then turning his head after a beat, he exhaled cigarette smoke, reminding me to take a puff on mine. “That’ll definitely let a brother know straight away you have an itch for him.”

I smiled trying hard not to blush but wasn’t sure I was successful.

“You know, I’ve always thought, a girl lets me kiss her that means I can bang her,” he said staring intently at me. “What’s your take on that?”

“I’m the interviewer, you’re the interviewee,” I admonished gently. “So do you read any of your press,” I asked, deliberately changing the subject. Even though it was a subject that I very much wanted to pursue, Suddenly, I felt shy. The conversation had gotten way too risqué and had huge disaster potential. Better to stay clear.

“I try not to,” he answered politely letting me off the hook. “The stuff I read about myself is always made up or pieces of the truth collaged to create the media’s own truth. When it’s bad, it makes me cringe. And if you get upset by it, it’s pointless cause there’s not much you can do about it short of suing. So what’s the point? Then if it’s good, I still cringe. It’s a strange place to be, cause the last thing you want to do is start believing any of that shit. So it’s all pointless.”

“Do you read your fan mail?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you mean by sometimes?”

“Well, it used to be that I tried to read everything. Then it got too out-of-hand. Now I have people who read and answer for me. Sometimes, when they get something that’s totally outrageous or just plain funny or something they think I’d enjoy seeing—then it gets passed on to me.”

“You have several dozen web sites. Some official, some unofficial. Do you ever surf the web and see what the fans are saying about you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you give a damn what anyone says or thinks about you?”

He laughed. “Sometimes.” Moistening his lips, he sighed. “I’m not a good interviewee.”

“Oh, you’re all right.”

“Don’t lie.”

“All right. You suck,” I said and tried to smile it off.

“Okay, let me try to do better,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s like why should I spend valuable time worrying about people who don’t know me, who don’t give a damn whether I live or die. Why do that to myself and wallow in a cesspool of sadness? So long as I see myself clearly and the people I care about do the same, what does it matter?

I looked at him, smiling like a damn idiot. “See…you can do this.”

“Ain’t that something?”

“So which do you prefer. The East Coast or West Coast? I know there’s a war raging about which coast is the best?”

“Well, from a purely social point of view, in L.A., people are well, less real. Out there, people kiss your ass and tell you you’re great. But in New York and Miami, they keep it real. People will tell you ‘you suck’ to your face. They put you down, they don’t give a fuck. I like that. Just like you just did. Keepin’ it real.”

“Hmmm, that’s why you spend so much time out west, huh? Now I understand.”

“Ha-ha! Tee-hee,” he laughed again. “Yeeeah, baby. I think I like you.”

Mmmm…and I liked him too. Maybe a little too much…oh baby, oh baby. “So who you dating these days?” I slipped in next. Hardly mattered though. That still wouldn’t stop me from taking him to my boudoir and getting jiggy with him. Of course, he didn’t know that.

He grinned and exhaled slowly. “No one,” he said straight-faced.

“Really?” I smiled back. “Not even Lil’ Kim?” There had been rumors.

“Pleeeze.”

My smile deepened, oh how I adored that response. That smile grew into a huge grin and finally exploded into laughter. “Now why’d you say it like that? Kimmy’s got it goin’ on. She went from being Biggie’s outspoken mistress to a diva in her own right. What did she proclaim herself—Queen Bee. Anyway, I thought she was a rapper’s wet-dream.”

He snorted. “Well, if you like that kinda thing,” he said guardedly. “Also if you’re a thug. Thugs love her. But as for me, if I want a white girl, I’ll get a white girl, know what I’m sayin’. I’m not into the fake hair and eyes plus all the surgery I’ve heard she’s had. I like it real,” he added, eyes twinkling. “I also like ‘em dark.”

I was prepared to kick him in the balls if he said anything stupid like “the darker the berry the sweeter the juice.” I was a dark, dusky brown and got that a lot. Luckily for him, he stopped there. Plus I was busy gazing into his super sexy Eurasian eyes. Tyson Beckford had eyes like those. “Um-hmmm…that again,” I said exhaling smoke. “It’s all about keepin’ it real with you, huh?”