Momma's Baby, Daddy's Maybe Read online

  Praise for Momma’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe

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  “Sensual and intriguing! Dames weaves a tale full of swing and passion. A sassy new voice in contemporary fiction.”

  —Tracy Price-Thompson, author of Black Coffee

  “Jamise L. Dames has crafted a superb novel that will keep your eyes locked on the page with intrigue. With surprises, plot twists, and fascinating turns, Momma’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe is a tale that will touch your heart and stay with you long after you’ve put the book down.”

  —Earl Sewell, author of Taken for Granted

  “Momma’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe absolutely sizzles . . . Eavesdropping never felt better. I loved it!”

  —V. Anthony Rivers, author of Daughter by Spirit

  “Jamise L. Dames is a sassy new novelist on the scene. Make room for her on your bookshelf.”

  —Linda Dominique Grosvenor, author of Like Boogie on Tuesday

  “Dames’s debut novel, Momma’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe, starts off fast and sexy and keeps that hot pace throughout. Interesting characters, with plenty of attitude and drama, make this story fresh and readable. Dames is a new AA writer on the scene with the talents to back up her stay in the literary arena.”

  —Shon Bacon, Chief Editor, The Nubian Chronicles

  “Great novel! Suspense, drama, and tragedy—a great combination. It made me laugh and cry . . . I didn’t want to put it down, not even at the end. Dames is to be commended.”

  —Michael Porter, MPTN

  “Momma’s Baby, Daddy’s Maybe is a literary treat and then some. From its succulent love scenes, to the finger licking good drama, you will find it difficult to resist coming back for seconds and thirds.”

  —Nakea Murray, founder, As The Page Turns Book Club

  Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.

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  For my love, my life, my everything—my three reasons for laughter, smiling, hope, prayer, patience, and consistency: TreDayne, Cinque II, and Kyran, upon your graduations.

  IN LOVING MEMORY

  Vera Howard, my most cherished aunt and true friend. May your soul ascend high enough to tickle the angels. I miss you . . . I love you . . . and I feel your presence. Take care of your buddy.

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  As I sit here compiling names of the people who have positively touched my life I realize that I’ve been extremely blessed. So in advance I’d like to thank you all. Thank you for being you and for the role that you’ve played in my life. Please forgive me if I have a memory lapse and forget to include your name . . . my memory lapses—not my heart.

  First and foremost I thank the Creator for giving me a gift so wonderful and special that I am compelled to share it with the world. I’ll do my best not to let you down.

  For my mother, Barbara Gill, I love you more than I can say and you can imagine. Your unconditional love defines unconditional love; my grandmother, Viola Box, another beautiful soul. Thank you for being a positive, steady force in my life; my figure skating aunt, Judy Box, your beautiful words of encouragement means more than you know; my great-grandmother, Pearlie Box, you’re the backbone of five generations and loved by all.

  My appreciation and gratitude goes out to all of those who I’ve mentioned in the previous editions. Life would be monotonous and unentertaining without you. Special thanks to those who have supported me endlessly and realize that I’m in the business of writing novels, not giving them away. Selfless acts do not go unnoticed or unrewarded. Therefore I have to especially thank Michelle Green, Lashon Fryer, Nickie Blakely, Nakea Murray, Sharone Box, Robin Box, Shelly Box, Riccardo Box, Chuckey and Lynne Charles, Bill Murray and Raven Cannon, Stan Penix and family, Howie and Stormy Rickerson, Tommy and Crystal Whipple (The bouquet was wonderful as is your constant demand for more chapters! Thanks x2), Trevor Randolph and family, Divine Saddiq Dubar, Jerry and Gary Dorton, Ms. Carolyn (Cal) Groom, Danny and Joann Smith, Paradise Payne, Doug McCory, Marc Buckner and family, Robbie Farwell Rivers, Velma Wade, and LaRoy Berry.

  * * *

  Many heartfelt thanks to the amazing people who’ve made this literary journey a pleasant one: My literary manager, Ken Atchity—serendipity it is—let’s make the best of it. Here’s to us . . . Cheers; the ever reachable and always upbeat Margaret O’Connor; my extraordinary and amazing editor, Brenda Copeland; Chandra Sparks-Taylor, who never misses a beat; Ron Martel, Mr. divine design; the irreplaceable Kim Rose, what would I do without you? Thank you for being more than a publicist; Nicole Childress, producer, publicist, researcher—renaissance woman . . . Simon says red; Wade Blackman, the excellent attorney; Susan Mary Malone, Michael Porter, and Michael Slaughter.

  To my fellow authors who’ve positively influenced either my life or career—thank you: Tracy Price-Thompson, Travis Hunter, V. Anthony Rivers, Toni Staton Harris, Shawna Grundy, Carla Rowser Canty, Brenda Thomas, Earl Sewell, Gerald K. Malcom, Cherryl Floyd Miller, David Charles, Shonell Bacon, Carl Dean, Jr., Alex Hairston, and Steve Perry.

  A great big thank you to two wonderful professors at my alma mater, UCONN. Dr. Willena Kimpson Price, a wonderful altruistic woman. The guidance and care that you so easily give are untouchable; Michael Bradford, a dazzling playwright and Mr. dialog himself. I may not have followed all of Aristotle’s rules in the Poetics but I paid attention.

  Cinque, if love were visible it would be you. You’ve supported me in everything, caught me when I thought I’d fall, and held my hand every step of the way. You believed in me when I was too tired to, and reminded me never to let go of my dreams because they’re mine for the taking. If I could live up to just one-tenth of the faith you have in me I’d be supernal. I can never thank you enough.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you to my children, TreDayne, Cinque II, and Kyran, by order of birth, not importance. I love you all equally. Thank you for all the patience that your young hearts muster up while I write. I do this for you. So, please do as Mommy does, not just as I say . . . don’t just follow your dreams—make them happen. All of me . . . to all of you—in all ways for always.

  Rukiya La’Shay Murray, Eligio (Zap) Bailey, and Christopher Ferraras—God-Mommy loves you all very much.

  A special thanks to the wonderful people who’ve played a major part in the success of this novel: Learie and Kevon at Culture Plus Books, Eric and Karen at A & B Books, Reflections Bookstore, Staten Island Book Club, Jonestry Book Club, As the Page Turns Book Club, Sisters in Sprit Book Club, R.A.W. Sistaz Book Club, Odysseys Book Club (Janice Aaron and friends), Girlfriends Reading Circle, Circle of Friends X, Psst Book Club, Jackson Mississippi Readers Club, and the great people at Nile River Coffee House. Also many thanks to the Alpha Kappa Alpha, and Delta Sigma Theta sororities for their warm support.

  For my terrific readers who’ve made my career a fulfilling one—I couldn’t ask for better, more honest, encouraging, and truly fantastic people. Your letters, emails, and comments are appreciated equally as much as your showing up to book signings in the rain, sleet, snow, and sun. I aspire to make your support worth it. And for those who’ve asked, pushed, and reiterated for Pushing Up Daisies—it’s on the way. I promise.

  Love, laugh, and enjoy life as carefree as children.

  Enjoy,

  Jamise

  JOY

  * * *

  A million dreams swimming

  To a beautiful beginning

  So precious in
deed

  Just one in a million received

  The strongest union conceived

  And from the moment they first breathe

  So hard to believe

  The joy a baby brings

  A joy . . .

  Wondrous like Niagara Falls

  Magnificent like China’s Great Wall

  Everlasting like the Pyramids

  Precious like all children

  Count the fingers, count the toes

  Count the greatest blessings this side of Heaven knows

  All the joys a child brings to one’s soul

  Must be placed back within the child as they grow

  So they too will know

  They are precious indeed

  Truly unique

  Thus within their soul . . . a wonderful feeling

  They are truly, ONE IN A MILLION

  —Carl Dean, Jr.

  ~ 1 ~

  Kennedy Jacobs eased off her lover, Michael Montgomery, enjoying the delicious ache lingering between her thighs. If Simone could only see me now, Kennedy thought with a tad bit of guilt. Her sister would kill her. Kennedy knew Michael was off-limits and of course she understood why, but when it came to Michael, she was powerless to control herself.

  Michael had taken Kennedy to heaven and back with just his mouth. He was everything any woman in her right mind would need or desire. Simone must be crazy if she thinks that she can keep me away from this man, Kennedy thought and smiled to herself.

  She gathered her clothes from the floor, wondering how the hell she’d fallen asleep on top of him. Michael hadn’t even penetrated her, and still, she’d be sore all day. Every step she took would force her to think of Michael and how he’d orally pleased her to ultimate climatic heights. Carefully she tiptoed into the bathroom, determined not to wake him, although it was doubtful he would hear anything over his satisfied snores. Checkout time was at one o’clock. She decided to let him sleep until noon, and let his alarm clock be the sound of the hotel room door as it closed behind her.

  She really hated sneaking around, especially to hotels. In a way she wanted to be found out. So tired of lying and making up excuses, she wanted everyone to know that she and Michael were together. Hell, her best friend Miranda didn’t even know who Michael was, only that he existed and that Kennedy was not telling.

  She noticed Michael’s burgundy silk boxers lying on the cream-colored marble-tiled floor and picked them up. Crushing the suede-like slick fabric between her fingers, she pressed the boxers to her nose and inhaled his scent. His masculine essence overpowered her, washing over her in succulent waves. Damn. Even the man’s underwear smelled good. She was hooked. Who had ever heard of such a thing? A woman smelling a man’s underwear? Her smelling a man’s underwear? She heard the sheets ruffle and then the bed creak, and immediately threw his boxers back on the floor. Pulling back the shower curtain, she turned the chrome spigot and allowed the rush of water to cascade over her freshly manicured hand. She adjusted the dial until the temperature was on hell, as Michael would say, referring to how scalding hot she preferred her water. A swishing sound made her pause and listen. Michael was dragging his feet on the carpet. When the swish grew louder by the second, indicating his closeness to the bathroom, she jumped into the shower as if she’d been there all along.

  Above the sound of the water, Kennedy heard the distinct beeping of Michael’s pager. Hers was in her purse, on vibrate. Seconds later, she heard his voice, low and smooth, apparently talking into the telephone. Concentrating on the soothing baritone whispers coming from his mouth, she gradually decreased the water pressure to almost a trickle, hoping Michael wouldn’t notice, and listened intently to his private conversation. Who had the gall to page him and interrupt their lunchtime rendezvous? Like anyone would know that lunchtime was Kennedy’s time. She heard him say Simone’s name and cringed. Damn, didn’t the heifer know when to stop? She was always calling or paging or something. Anything.

  Kennedy knew her sister had every right to contact Michael, but whenever she did, somehow Kennedy still felt betrayed. The stolen afternoons belonged to her alone. Michael was on her time, not Simone’s! The mere thought of Michael made Kennedy’s jealousy dissipate into steamy lust, and before she could stop herself, she reached between her legs and began a slow, sensual soaping of her throbbing triangle.

  Caught up in her rapture of self-pleasure, Kennedy spread her legs, then leaned weakly against the marble shower wall. She never heard the end of Michael’s call. Never heard him enter the mist-filled bathroom and close the door softly behind him. As he pulled back the shower curtain, a gust of chilly air caressed her, making her nipples harden. Her eyes shot open and her jaw dropped, embarrassed by being caught in the act.

  Instead of teasing her, Michael covered her mouth with one hand and fingered her parted lips with the other. Grinding slowly, he pressed his naked body against hers. His hardness moved back and forth between her legs. Shuddering and bending slightly forward to accept him, Kennedy invited Michael into her temple to be baptized by her heat and soft wetness. Declining the invite, Michael turned her around and kissed her passionately. His hand never left her spread; his fingers delved deeper as he touched, rubbed, and explored her until she literally screamed, but her scream was muffled by his full lips and expert tongue. Thank God for Michael’s kiss because hotel security would’ve been banging on the door. Kennedy began sliding down the wall, drained and limp. Reaching out to catch her, Michael washed and rinsed her and himself off and stepped out of the shower, smiling. Apparently satisfied with his work, he never uttered a word. Dazed and dizzy, Kennedy reluctantly turned off the shower, got out, and began to dry off.

  “Kennedy, I’m sending my pants down to be starched and pressed. Do you want me to send down your dress?”

  “No thanks. It’s not really necessary.”

  Michael laughed as he walked into the bedroom. “Are you sure? Did you see it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. But it’s okay. It’s linen, and linen always wrinkles. Besides, no one will ever be able to tell the difference between me walking around in it or rolling around in it. Don’t you just love linen.” Kennedy playfully batted her eyes. “Oh, before I forget, did someone call here? I told the front desk that we didn’t want to be disturbed, but I could’ve sworn that I heard you on the phone.”

  “No, no one called, but Simone paged me and I had to get back to her, it was important.”

  “Damn, Michael, it’s like she knows when we’re together. I mean I could put money on it and win. She never stops. I hope you haven’t given her any indication. Have you, you know, about us? Because I don’t know how I would explain. I don’t want to have to try to explain. I mean, I know that I should feel guilty—and I do, in a way. She is my sister and I love her, and I know she loves me, but she would never understand or accept it. If I was in her position, I can’t say that I would either. But I can’t help myself. Even if I could, knowing you the way that I do, I still don’t think that I would even try to restrain myself. Maybe I’m wrong, but I just wish the wench would get a grip and stop paging you on my time.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows, exhaled loudly, and rubbed the stubble growing on the side of his face. “Kennedy, don’t call her that. You know that’s not right, she’s just doing her job. Simone and I work together, not sleep together. Anyway, she was just calling me to give me an important message about a meeting we have tonight, that’s all. Okay?” Michael grabbed her chin and kissed her.

  “Fine, but remember there are only seven days in a week. And if she can have you the majority of the time, I feel that I’m entitled to at least the weekends, most of them anyway, and when you’re on your lunch break. Remember, Michael, I am a client, too, even if I’m not a paying client, I’m still in the books.”

  Michael’s pager went off again. With pleading puppy-dog eyes he looked at Kennedy, then down to his pager, then back at Kennedy, and back down to his pager again. He shrugged. As he was reaching for the
phone, Kennedy rolled her eyes in disapproval and turned and walked back into the bathroom, picked up his boxers from the floor, and stuffed them into her overpriced black Chanel purse. She made a beeline to the front door and Michael reached out to stop her, but the phone cord wasn’t long enough. Immediately she looked down and stared at his privates, which were no longer private but fully exposed and hanging, and then reached out to grab his penis. She squeezed it, bringing life back to it. She kissed the tip of it and blew it a kiss just to make Michael stutter during his conversation with Simone. She walked toward the front door.

  Michael stammered and quickly told Simone that he’d call her right back just as Kennedy opened the door. “Kennedy, wait. Don’t leave, not like this.”

  Kennedy rolled her eyes, turned around, and seductively licked her mahogany-glossed lips. “I bet you wish you hadn’t sent your pants down to be pressed,” she said as she walked out and slammed the door behind her, hard.

  Leaving the hotel, she reached inside of her purse for her car keys and saw Michael’s silk boxers. She laughed out loud. He thought that she was going to do him while he was on the phone. Surprise! The only blowing that he’d get was when he was free and swinging in the wind. Besides, one was never supposed to leave a man the same way that one met him.

  In the car she reached into her purse and pulled out his boxers and rubbed the silk. Again she inhaled his scent and shivered. Even the man’s dirty drawers smelled good. Her chest heaved as she collected herself, and threw them on the passenger seat. “A token, just a token,” she said and started her car. Her cell phone rang.

  “Yes, Michael,” Kennedy answered.

  “Who in the hell is Michael?” Jared Reid, her daughter’s father, asked.

  “Nobody. And why are you concerned anyway?”