I Made a Mistake; I Got to Know Him!

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BEAST – an emotionally-charged, romantic suspense tale.
 
Synopsis:
Put the beast behind bars? Take away his liberty, his life, for good? It would be an absolute pleasure; I was willing to do whatever it took to destroy him; I despised the SOB that much!

But then, I made a mistake; I got to know him, and boy did things backfire after that.  My lessons were profound. I learned that he was broken, scarred, with jagged edges. I learned that I was broken, scarred, with jagged edges too.
We were from different worlds, yet the same – damaged goods intent on hurting each other. In the end, a perfect fit.

Sadly, all that I learned, came too late. For me. For us. Way too late, for once I got to know him, my heart, my liberty, my life – I was willing to sacrifice everything for my beast!

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Warning: This romantic suspense novel is for 18+ and contains foul language, graphic sex scenes, sexual violence and racial themes.

EXCERPT:
“Maria, tell him I’m not hungry, I’m not coming to lunch, so for God’s sake, tell him to stop yelling for me!”
“But –”
“And Maria, tell him that my name is Payton, and that I would appreciate it if he could use my name, and not say, Gringaaa! Gringaaa! Gringaaaaa! I hate it when he calls me that. My name is Pay … ton, okay? You tell him that!”
Muttering under her breath, and with a worried look in her eyes, Maria leaves my room and shuts the door.

Minutes later, the door is flung open and Diablo’s bulk blocks the entire doorway to my room. He eyes me for a few terse moments, before he says, “Come, eat.”

I respond by turning my back on him.  

“Come … eat!”
I turn around and snarl, “Take your food and shove it!”
No one talks to Diablo like that? Well, clearly my anger management classes was a total waste of time.

Suddenly, he lunges at me, picks me up, throws me over his shoulder and carries me out of the room.

Didn’t expect that.
“Leave me alone!” I yell, kicking and screaming. He holds on. I am powerless to stop him – he is Kong, I am that li’l white chick.
Into the dining room he carries me, where the entire gang at Tana Merais having lunch. He dumps me unceremoniously into a chair. “Shut up and eat!”
At the sight of us, me bristling with anger, his no-nonsense look, conversation in the room ebbs, and the air becomes rife with excitement.
I glare at them – Whachu lookin’ at? You fuckers are probably thrilled with the matinee entertainment, right? Right?
My hostility only serves to amuse them further. They exchange fascinated looks between themselves and twirl their fingers at their temples. “Loco.”

Diablo takes a seat across the table from me, points his finger at me, then at my plate. Eat!
I will not eat. I sit with my arms crossed tightly over my chest, my face crimson from humiliation. He eats, I sulk.
The men and women soon lose interest and continues their feasting and drinking.   
Bored and mad as hell, I drum my fingernails on the table.
“Eat!” Diablo mouths.
My response is to drum faster, louder, ensuring that everyone hears me.
A man named Norman, seated next to me, leans in, and in a placating voice says, “Señorita Gringa wanna whiskey?
I look at Norman, look at the whisky, which I absolutely loathe, and give a giant nod. “Yes please, Norman. As a matter of fact, I do want whisky.”
Norman pours half a glass of whisky and places it in front of me. A mother of a shot, enough to knock out a horse.
“Thank you, Norman,” I say, bypassing the glass and reaching for the bottle.
Norman’s eyes grow huge as he watches me take swigs from the bottle.
At the sight of me drinking from the bottle, Diablo frowns.
I really hate whiskey – tastes like gasoline to me. “Damn!” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “This sure is miiiighty fine whiskey, bartender.”
I take a few more massive swigs, just in case they don’t believe me. Immediately, my anger ebbs and I start to feel a little warm in the toes.  
Everyone stares at me, probably in awe of my ability to knock back whisky from the bottle. Or amused by my unveiled defiance to their leader, who glares at me with hooded eyes, chin to his chest.
He’s angry? Good. You can’t be happy if I’m mad. No, you must be unhappy with me – that’s my motto. Why? Because I’m loco, remember?   
While everyone at Tana Mera merrily feasts on the sumptuous buffet served at lunch, I drink mine, just help myself to the array of whiskey, Tequila, Bacardi, Sambuca – you name it; I drink the lot, including the ‘you name it.’ Copious amounts, directly from the bottle. After which, I line the bottles in front of me and read the labels out loud.
“You should eat, Gringa,” Norman whispers, looking concerned.
I shake my head from side to side.
“Why?”
“I’m on a hunger strike, Norman.”
“Whaaaat?”
Those words just tumbled out of my mouth. Hunger strike? Me? No way!
With a nod, I take a swig from the bottle, then say. “I have no choice, Norman. I just have to end my miserable existence.”
Norman sits with his brow lined.
I reach over and pat his rounded shoulder. “It’s okay, Normal. I’m at peace with my decision.”
“Eh, Señorita Gringa, my name is …”
“Lemme pour you another drink, Norman,” I say. “You look like you need cheering up.” Before he can respond, I top his glass to the brim and hand it to him. “Cheers!” I clink my whisky bottle against Norman’s glass. And break it.
“Oops!”
Amidst laughter from the audience in the room, and from me, Norman scurries to pick up the broken glass and mop up the mess, muttering in Spanish.
Diablo shakes his head from side to side. In a somewhat combative mood, I tilt my head at Diablo – whachugonnadooo, huh? Huh?
For a while, we engage in a staring contest, my eyes flashing with insolence, his eyes turning into slits.
I look away first, but only to reach for another drink.
Diablo stops eating; he sits and stares at me, a thoughtful look in his eye. As if he is wondering how to handle me. Or how to kill me and spare himself the misery of dealing with my defiant self. The latter would be my choice, if I was to be honest. And if I was a killer, which I am not. Not yet, at least.  
The men pass pictures around the table. Usually, I pass on the pictures, because I’m not interested in seeing anything they have to show. But today, I’m bored, so I snatch them out of Norman’s hand. “Lemme see that, Norma!”
“Norma?” The group laughs.
I peer at the picture. “What kind of a flower is this?” I hand the flower picture back to him.
“Eh, Señorita Gringa, iiis not a flower, iiis a, how you say it…?” He snaps his fingers.
“Vagina!” someone shouts.
I peer at Norman. “What?! Gimmee that!” I snatch it out of his hands again and peer at the picture. “Mm. Can’t be a woman’s vagina. It’s too fugly. Has to be a man’s.” I flick the picture back at my bartender and reach for a bottle.
“Eat!” Diablo bellows, slapping the table. “Stop drinking. Eat!”
With a bottle at my lips, I say, “FYI, I’m on a hunger strike, and this is all the nourishment I am getting, so fuck you!”  
There is a collective gasp, before all eyes dart towards their leader. Heads are gonna to roll. My head.

His face turns red, but, to my chagrin, he dishes out a response in Spanish that has his friends and family guffawing. They ask questions in Spanish, he looks at me and answers in Spanish, they laugh, he chuckles, I fume.
“What did he say, Normal?”
“Diablo, he say, fucking you is like … fucking a Colchón sometimes. And, Señorita Gringa, and my name is not …”
“Colchón … mm … mattress, right? He said that, did he?” I let out a long, low whistle. “Well Normal, he should be the last one to talk. I mean, what the hell does he know, huh?” I smile at Norman. “Can I call you “Norm?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “You know Norma, he doesn’t know jack. Foreplay – hell, he thinks it’s something to do with his car’s steering wheel.”
“But Señorita Gringa, my name is not Normal, it is –”
“Oh, of course. It’s Norman, not Normal. What is wrong with me? Silly me. Sorry, Nor …man.”
“My name is Lucas, Senorita Gringa.”
I stare at the man for so long, he starts to flinch. “Lu … cas?”
He nods. “Not Normal, not Norma, not Bartender, is just Lu … cas.”
I blink rapidly at him. “Why didn’t you say something, Norm? Okay, okay, okay, from now on, I’ll call you Lu … cas.” Okay?”
“Eh …”
Troy, Diablo’s brother rushes up to me. “Gringa,” he whispers, “come, let me take you to bed so you can sleep it …”
“Take me to bed. Troy?” I turn my head to smile at him. “Are you better in bed than your brother? Christ, I hope so, Troy!”
Troy, red-faced, starts speaking in vowels to me, “A …e … I … oooo …” He shrinks back, all the while glancing nervously at his brother, who is back to being mad. Good!
“You’re pretty cute, Troy; anyone ever told you –?
Diablo suddenly whips out his knife and flings it ninja-style in my direction. It narrowly misses me and embeds into the wooden beam behind me.
At first, I’m as shocked as everyone in the room. But my recovery is swift. “Ooooh!” I cry, shaking both my hands mockingly. “I’m in trooouble now! Biiiiga trooouble.”

The crowd at the table start to cheer. “Ha, ha! Gringa, you are so funny!” a man says.
“Kiiill her, Diablo!” a woman says. “Kiiiill her, Diablo! Cut her fargin throat. Stab her. Kiiill her.”  
My head bobs. “Yup, the crowd is divided, but hey, that happens in fight clubs.”
With my mouth twisted, I stick up both my middle fingers, one at the murderous bitch, the other at Diablo.
A snarling Diablo jerks to his feet and creeps toward me. I kick back my chair and sidle around, using the table as a barrier between us. “Watch him move, like a … eh, how do you say walrus in Spanish?”
“You will farkin DIE!” he bellows as he chases me around the table.
“And who’s gonna farkin kill me, huh? You?” I dramatically throw my head back and laugh. Bad move – I almost lose my balance in the process.
Diablo strides over to his knife, grabs it off the beam and runs towards me. But, I’m already out of the villa and racing towards the cliff.
“I’m going to fargin kiiiill you!” he promises, as he chases after me.
“Fuck you!” I scream over my shoulder and sprint ahead, handfuls of my long dress in my hands to aid my running.

I’ve never seen the oaf run before, and I’m hoping he’s out of shape and slow. To my dismay, I can actually hear his breathing.  That big lunch and that booze has not slowed him down.
Me, I’m surprised at my slowness, because I’m an athlete – I run marathons on a regular basis, so this should be a breeze.
Then I remember the booze. “Shit!” I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I started running – my feet feel like they’re encased in cement.
Up the hill and through the dense cannabis foliage I run, trying to put distance between us, passing startled villagers tending the cannabis crops. They stop and stare, fascinated by the sight of Diablo chasing a gringa with a knife in his hand, some of them drawing crosses on their chests with their hands.
“That’s right, pray for him!”  I yell, as I run.
Following Diablo, are the men and women from Tana Mera, some on horseback, some on foot, all excited, all not wanting to miss the moment Diablo finally kills the insolent Gringa that has been making his life a living hell for some time now.
The cheering continues:
“Go, Gringa go! Run!”
“Kiiiill her, Diablo! Cut her throat. Stab her. Kiiiill her. Murder the fargin puta!”  
Yes, the crowd remains divided, Diablo continues to burp threats at me, and I run like my life depends on it, because … it does!
To my dismay, Diablo’s breathing grows louder with each step. Knowing that I’m going to die, has a somewhat sobering effect on me, and thoughts, some fitting, some random, fight it out in my inebriated brain.  
Maybe you shouldn’t have insulted him so much?
He deserved it.
In front of his peeps, Payton?
Mm.
Maybe you shouldn’t have drank so much booze? Measure your drinks in the future, will you?
Shaddup! Drinking is all I have right now. In France they drink at every meal.
Mm.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone on that hunger strike – it’s left me weak.
Hunger strike? What about the three-egg omelette you’ve had this morning? Four pancakes with maple syrup, bananas and strawberries?
Oh, yeah, I forgot about breakfast. Blueberries, not strawberries.  
Hey, don’t be so hard on me; alcohol can cause dementia.
You mean amnesia, right?
Whateva! Man, I wish I had my iPod running playlist right —
Payton, listen, you don’t wanna die.
I don’t care if I die.
Well, shouldn’t you kill him first? Before you die?
“I like the way you think.”
You don’t want to die today, Payton, so do something!
But what? This place offers me no protection from my murderer. What do I do? What? What? What? Tell me?
The rock pool?
The rock pool – of course!
I know for sure that Diablo is no match for me in the water. Very few people are.
I can do this! I can do this! I can save myself!
Energized from hope, and thanks to the voices in my head, I suddenly change course and race toward the water.

Changing route confuses Diablo, and for a few moments, to my relief, the gap between us increases, allowing me a generous lead. I sprint ahead, giving it my all.
To my surprise, big as he is, the son of a bitch leaps into the air, grabs me by the waist and takes me down.
“Let … go … of … me, you fucking freak!” I yell, as I twist, kick and scratch, summoning all that I learned in my self-defence classes.
“Stop it!” he says in a harsh whisper. “What is wrong with you?”
“Leave … me … alone!”
He holds on, we roll on the ground, the audience milling around us and cheering our smackdown.
“Go, Gringa, go!”
“Kiiiill her, Diablo! Cut her throat. Stab her. Kiiiill her. Murder her. You want help? I murder her for you.”  
Bloodthirsty bitch! I make a mental note to also kill her. After I kill Diablo. And make sure she dies screaming, Tarantino style.
Diablo does not kill me, he just holds onto me and tries to stop my thrashing.
Once again, pull a Mike Tyson and sink my teeth into his arm (his ear is out of reach), causing him to grunt in pain and release me.  
I’m free, I win. Yay!
I leave him on the ground and race toward the water.
When I look back, I see Diablo chasing after me, glinting blade in one hand, my white dress in the other, waving it like a peace flag.
Too late for peace, motherfucker!
Something perturbs me – my once cheering audience is unusually quiet. They’ve even stopped offering to murder me. Why?
I slow down to look back at them. Everyone, men and women stare mouths agape at me.
What?
It takes a few seconds for me to realize that Diablo has my dress.  
It takes another few seconds for my brain to register that I’m running in just my bra and panties. “Shit! Shit! Shit! SHIIIIIT!”
I’m at a loss. What do I do? My modesty or my life? My modesty or my life? My modesty or my …

End of adapted excerpt from BEAST – The Gringa Series. A romance novel, FREE for a limited time.

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When Good People are Forced into Doing Really Bad Things!

Excerpt From PAYBACK

“To keep the peace, I did everything an abused woman does – I ensured our mansion was covered in eggshells, tiptoed around Tom, said the right things, did the right things, wore the right things – anything to keep him from exploding.
It took its toll on me. Day by day, I became really unsure of myself, had an opinion about nothing (because I was a nothing – Tom had repeatedly told me that), and existed under a cloak of shame. Shame that I was the kind of woman who allowed a man to abuse me, then keep his dirty secret from our friends and from the world. Shame that I wasn’t strong enough to tell on him, call the cops, lock him up.

My self-confidence … well, I was fat, unattractive, stupid, and worthless – Tom had repeatedly told me that too, drilled it into my ‘thick’ head, remember? I believed him. 

Yet, at times, I would look in the mirror and ask, “Who are you? What happened to that bubbly girl named Arena? The once who loved to dance and laugh out loud?” I never got an answer from the stranger in the mirror.

As for sex – I hated it. If I never had sex again in my whole life, I would be the happiest woman alive, I concluded. Just about every woman I knew would hate it if their husband had an affair, a mistress. Not me. I prayed that he’d find someone, have a torrid sexual affair so that he could leave me alone. 

Yet, even though it was easier to stay with Tom and keep up the charade, allow myself to get used to the abuse, suck it up, I often thought about leaving him. I just couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. 

I realized that if he divorced me, he would have to give me half of everything. Then I remembered the prenup I had signed. My husband was a millionaire, but I would see not a penny of his money. He would make sure of that.  

My future seemed grey, cloudy, and those feelings of hopelessness compounded and sapped away all my energy. 

Then, one day, while I was cooking, Warren was nearby watching a television commercial for pasta. In the commercial, the father arrives home and says, “Imma home!” His three children rush to jump into the father’s arms. The wife follows. Group hug. A happy, sappy family, thanks to pasta.  

“Mom,” Warren said, his eyes fixed on the television.

“Yes, honey?” 

“Do daddies really hug their children like that?” 

I stopped what I was doing and looked at my son. Tom had never hugged Warren. In fact, he barely acknowledged our son, and when he did talk to him, it was to scold him about something or berate him for being too soft, a sissy. It was as if he despised our son.

“Look…” Warren pointed at the television.
Tears filled my eyes as I watched my son rewind the commercial and watch the children dived into their father’s arms. “See that, mom? See that?” 

It was the saddest moment of my life. I scooped up my son and held him tightly to my breast as fat tears rolled down my cheeks and spilled onto his little head. That was the moment that broke me. That was also the moment that I decided, come what may, I was going to leave Tom. He did not deserve me or Warren. 

It may have been the saddest moment in my life, but once I made a decision to leave Tom, I felt so much relief, that it also became the most energizing moment in my life. 

I was going to leave Tom and be free. Free! What a delightful word. With my son in my arms, I whirled around the room, laughing.

“Mom … ?”
“We’re free, Warren!” I said, speaking in the present tense. “We’re free, baby!”

He tilted his head at me, almost as if he understood what I was saying.
“Promise?”
I gave a giant nod. “Promise!”
He gave me such a beautiful smile, I stopped whirling around to deal with a fresh batch of scalding tears.

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Money – I would need money to escape. Cash to be more specific. Cash would be vital for our survival, especially in the first few days of my leaving him, I knew that much. But, where do I get the money from? That was a problem. I wasn’t gainfully employed, Tom did not allow me to have cash, just credit cards, which he monitored. Yes, ‘allow’ is the word. Tom had engineered my life in such a way, that I was totally reliant on him. Totally – I couldn’t make a move without him finding out.
So, after many hours of racking my brain, desperate as it was, I came up with a plan. I would siphon money from housekeeping – my grocery bill. That was the only plan I could come up with. Luckily, Tom never questioned my spending when it came to purchasing stuff for our home, so it was an avenue. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I could pull it off.  
However, I would have to be careful though, because Tom lived in a state of paranoia when it came to me. I do believe that he expected me to leave him someday and that terrified him. Hence the monitoring. Also, he was smart, shrewd and could smell a rodent a mile away.  
Through some creative moves, over the months, I managed to siphon quite a bit of money. I bought stuff I didn’t need, returned them to the store for a cash exchange, different stores to avoid suspicion, then put the money in my ‘Freedom Jar’. Each time I looked at it, excitement bubbled inside of me. My freedom was within reach. Our freedom was within reach. With each day, hope sparkled inside of me and my once trampled spirits began to climb like Jack’s beanstalk. Soon!

Of course, it was imperative that Tom not discover my stash – that would be an absolute disaster. So, I hid my Freedom jar in Warren’s bedroom, under a mountain of stuffed toys, because Tom had seldom entered Warren’s bedroom.   
My calculations told me that my jar contained more than ten thousand dollars, which was enough to tide me over the first couple of months after leaving Tom, while I made more permanent plans, and sought financial assistance from the government. Remember, the government would only assist me and my son after I left Tom. Every time I looked at my Freedom jar, I felt like singing. I would smile, kiss the jar, and perform a little jig to my son’s delight.  
Quietly, I went on to make enquiries about places to rent. They were nothing like the mansion that I lived in, but I did not care – I was prepared to live in a stable if it meant freedom from my abuser. I shortlisted a couple of places, then applied for a few. Everything was falling into place and my freedom – I could smell it! It smelt like summer rain.
Soon!
Then, one day, I returned home from shopping to find tom seated at the dining table, the money from my Freedom jar spread out in front of him.  

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My knees started to buckle, beads of sweat formed on my forehead and I tasted my breakfast again.  
How?
He would have had to have really searched to have found the jar. Why? Why did he feel the need to search? What tipped him off? Me? My actions? My behavior?
Maybe that sparkle wasn’t only inside of me, maybe it was also in my eyes? How could I have allowed that to happen?
“What is this?” His tone of voice was low, measured, the kind that usually preceded a balled fist.

Despite my horror, I was ready for him, having rehearsed my answer to that question time and time again in front of the mirror. How could I not anticipate such an encounter, such a question? I had my answer ready.
What I hadn’t counted on, was the terror I would feel when that loaded question was posed to me. Neither did my voice; it just gave me away.  “I … j…j…just teach …ing Warren how to s…s…save mon …ey.” Trying to sound casual with a strangled voice was an epic fail.
Tom stared at me. Just stared without a word.
I began to move around the kitchen, putting groceries away – anything to avoid those eyes, now slits, following my every move.
He began to tap impatiently at the table with his fingernails, his taps growing louder and menacing, causing my shoulders to rise up to my ears.
“There’s over eleven thousand dollars here.”
I stopped what I was doing, forced myself to turn around and meet his eyes. “Huh?”
“I counted.”

He counted. Deep breaths! Deep breaths!

“W … wah … well …” I cleared my throat several times, feeling like I had swallowed chalk. “I told Warren that if we … we save over ten thousand dollars, and if he did … didn’t nag me for t …toys all the time, we would surprise Daddy and b…buy tickets to Disneyland.” There! I got it all out. What a dumb reason for hiding a jar from my husband. Still, it was a response.
I rewarded myself with a glass of thrice-filtered water.  
Tom pushed back his chair, jerked to his feet, strode purposefully up to me, stood right in front of me and stared down at me.   
Deep … breaths. Deep …

He eventually reached for the glass, took it out of my hand and placed it on the table. After which, he grabbed a handful of my hair, wound it slowly around his fingers, pulled me close, so close, his breath fanned my face. My heartbeat gonged in my ears, and I was certain he could hear it.  
The corners of his lips curled ever so slightly. “Disneyland or … you … planning to run off?”
“W … wha …?”

Using his free hand, and with his eyes boring into mine, he walked two fingers in the air, taunting, toying.  
I blinked rapidly, as I braced for that slap, that backhand, or to be slammed into something. You know, the usual.  

For a few moments, his eyes roamed all over my crimson face, his lips still curled at the corners, as if he was enjoying the sound of my thundering heartbeat, having immense fun pulling off the wings of a butterfly.   
Then suddenly, to my surprise, he released me and stepped back. I stood frozen, unable to move. What now?
He walked over to the table, scooped all the money into the jar, along with my hopes, my dreams of freedom. “I’ll put it in the bank,” he muttered, “It’s safer there. ‘Sides, it’s not enough for first-class tickets.”

What could I say? What could I do? All months of planning, all my hopes and dreams crushed. I had told my son that we were free. Spoke to him in the present tense, promised him in the present tense, remember?
I had misled him, promised him something I had no business promising. I was such a failure. Useless.
I wanted to cry. Sob, fall to the floor and howl like a disappointed, deranged woman.
I didn’t. Tears were a luxury for the free. I wasn’t free. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage.  
You know that scene in The Lion King, where Scar rules Pride Rock, which is overrun by hyenas? That grim scene where the female lions sit whispering, depressed and without hope? No Mufasa, no one to rescue them?
My life began to feel like that – depressed, discouraged and without hope, with Scar watching my every move, waiting to pounce.”

Excerpt from Payback by Eve Rabi, a FREE romantic crime read.  

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Synopsis of PAYBACK

When Arena escapes Tom, her abusive and vengeful husband, he vows to make her pay.

Luckily, she finds love in the arms of a wonderful man called Bear Shaw, and undercover cop. Bear is loving, generous and adores both her kids. He keeps them safe and they become a family.

Then, while Bear is away on assignment, Arena’s SUV is stolen with her sleeping toddler in it.

Arena is sure it’s Tom behind the theft. The police disagree – Tom was abroad when the theft occurred. Arena doesn’t believe it – she insists it is Tom.

When the police look to question Bear, they cannot find him. According to them, Bear Shaw does not exist.

Arena’s whole world begins to tilt. Who does she believe? Who does she trust? Had Tom sent Bear to destroy her?

………………………………………..

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So, Years Later, my Ex- Boyfriend Sends Me a Friend Request on Facebook.

I was seventeen, he was eighteen when we started dating. I was shy when it came to boys, so he was my first kiss, my first date, my first love, my first everything.
We were both college students, so money was scarce, yet he insisted on buying me a ring, despite me never having thought about one. All he could afford was this li’l diamond chip, bought with money from his student loan. Money that he didn’t have to spare. He was incredibly generous and spoiled me at every turn with gifts.
The ring became my most prized possession and it seldom left my finger. I recall no one being impressed with it, other than myself, I recall my aunt scoffing at it, but I didn’t care.
We dated for five years, made plans to marry, even chose names for our kids. We had the kind of love Savage Garden sang about – we were truly, madly, deeply in love with each other. Trust me when I say that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other – every deserted spot became a passionate make-out point, and oh, the passion!
However, as the years passed, something weird happened to me – I grew restless and longed for greener pastures.
My desire to venture away from him hurt and confused him, so we argued all the time about it. Eventually, we agreed that I would venture out in the wide world, and he would wait for me. When I returned home, we would marry, settle down and go on to have two children, a dog, a cat and fish in a tank.
Best. Laid. Plans.
Alas, the moment I left my city, my future husband and the intended father of my children was quickly snapped up by a close mutual ‘friend’, one who had encouraged me to go out and ‘taste the world before settling down.’ That kind of ‘friend.’ (How ‘bout that? You’ve got a friend like that? You do? Careful now …)
So, I returned home to claim him, only to find that he was no longer mine. Despite it being mainly my fault for leaving, I felt a sense of profound loss.
My dented ego and I moved on to greener, bigger and maybe even better, true, but, I could never forgot the boy I had left behind, the boy I had lost because of my need to see the world. The boy who gave me my first diamond ring. My first diamond chip, actually. The boy who gave me all he could, all he had, all the time.
I had my ring, though. She had him and I had his ring. I sound like that Patsy Cline song, She’s Got You, right?

I’ve got your picture,
That you gave to me
And it’s signed with love
Just like it used to be
The only thing different
The only thing new
I’ve got your picture
She’s got you

I moved to a different country, got married to a great guy, had children and achieved all that I had dreamed of, and even some of what I had never dreamed of.
Yet, I always thought about him – What are you doing now? Did you end up doing this, did you end up buying that? Are you happy now? How happy? Happier with her than with me? You are?
Then, years later, to my surprise, I get a friend request from him on Facebook.
I was shocked – my ex-boyfriend wants to friend me on Facebook?
Can’t be him. Not after all these years.
I checked out his profile – it’s him! OMG!!!!
With shaking hands, I accepted his request. Then then followed the lengthy online chats and emojis. (We lived in different countries, remember?)
Him: So, I finally found you. You hiding from me?
Me: Hey! Good to make contact with you again.
Him: Great to make contact with you. Wonderful in fact. We’re actually talking. Amazing! Wow!
His adjectives – I looooved them!
Me: Smiley face.
Him: Smiley face jumping up and down.
Me: Lol emoji 
Me: How is the wife?
Not that I wanted to know about her. I really don’t know why I even asked about her. Maybe, subconsciously, I wanted to hear that they had broken up. Divorced. She was doing badly – had a problem with various methamphetamines and alcohol, is in prison for murder … a rejected girl could hope, right?
Him: She’s okay.
Okay? Damn!
Moving on – in a quest to keep it light, I fired more safe questions at him.
Me: The kids?
Me: Work?
Him: All good. Kids grown, taller than me. Smart too.
Me: Same here. My kids know it all. They know everything. Seriously.
Him: Lol.
Me: From the age of five, they knew it all and I could teach them nothing. |
Him:  Sounds like someone we both know. Lol!
Him: Mm. Hey, you remember you once bought me a chain while we were dating?
Me: Um …
Me: You mean the silver one? Y?
Him: Still got it.
Me: What!
Him: Use it all the time.
Me: U serious?
Him: Absolutely. It’s my most prized possession.
His most prized possession? I felt like I’ve swallowed a handful of sunbeams. His most prized possession? OMG!
Me: Can’t believe it. Would love to see a pic.
Him: Hold on, will take one. Am wearing it now.
Me: Now? OMG!
Bristling with excitement, I waited for the picture. After a few minutes, I saw the chain, cheap, sterling silver. Really cheap.
My emotions were all over the place. I laughed with delight, yet cringed at its cheapness. He’s on the flashy side – gold chains, BMW, designer labels. So, I was surprised that he’d wear something so simple.
Me: OMG! Cringing.
Him: Don’t.
Me: Wow! Does wifey know ‘bout it?
Listen, I had to ask, okay?
Him: She thinks my mom gave it to me.
Me: Wow! 
That’s cheating, right? What a lie! I loved it!
Me: Seriously… wow!
Him: Yep!
Me: Hey, guess what?
Him: What?
Me: I still have your ring.
A short pause before he responds:
Him: U kidding me?
Me: Nope. I have it.
Him: Seriously?
Me: Seriously.
Him: Wow!
Him: You use it?
Me: No, for obvious reasons, but I think of you whenever I see it. 
Me: Seriously.
Another short pause before he responds.
Him: Weepy emoji 
Awwww! I nod to myself, a lump forming in my throat. I stop typing.
Him:  Can’t explain it. Tears emoji.
I smile.
Him: Kiss emoji. 
My smile broadens, despite that lump in my throat.
Him: Can I see a photo? Can’t remember what it looks like. Have an idea though. 
Me: Okay, I will send u one tomorrow.
Him: Now.
Me: Can’t. People around. Sorry.
Him: Now
Me: Tomorrow
Him: Pouting emoji.
Me: Smiling emoji. Still a big baby, huh?
Him: Yep.
Me: Smiley face emoji. Gotta go.
Him: Wait!
Him: Same
Him: time
Him: tomorrow? 
I think about it before I answer. Will I be at my laptop tomorrow this time?
Him: Say yes. I really wanna talk to u. You’ve been on my mind for so long n there’s so much to talk about. Right?
Him: Catch up.
Him: Please!
Me: K talk tomorrow.
Him: Cool. Supercool. Three smiley emojis.
People weren’t around – my nails weren’t done, that’s all!

That evening, in a delightful daze, I softened and pushed back my cuticles, exfoliated my hands, painted my nails a pretty blue and took a picture of me wearing his ring. My first piece of gold I had ever received from anyone. If only my fingers weren’t so fat, I thought as I inspected the photos. The next day, I sent them to him.
His reply was immediate.
Him: Wow!
Him: Cheap ass! Embarrassed to have bought u such a small diamond. Cringing, dying of embarrassment.
Me: Don’t. It’s one of my most prized possession, too. Kept it in the safe, tucked away behind all my other jewellery. Behind my last will and testament so that hubby wouldn’t find it and badger me into throwing it out. Like he did with all our photos.
That’s right, my husband made me burn all my photos.
That’s right, I was indirectly lying to my husband as well.
Him: I’m touched that you kept it. Hey, I remember the day I bought you the ring. You had this big grin on your face, and you kept waving your hands around so that everyone would notice. 
Me: Lol! I remember, I do. 
Him: You flashed it in every photo as if it was an 8 carat Harry Winston pink diamond or something the way u flashed it around.
A cold chill ran up my spine – did he give her an 8-carat Harry Winston pink diamond?  Please let it not be true!
Him: U there?
Me: I remember that day like it was yesterday. You paid cash in small notes too. All your money was spent on the ring, so we couldn’t afford a fancy lunch that day. We shared a pizza and a coke.
Yes, somehow, we had ended up in a high-end jewellery store with snooty assistants, who looked down at us when they saw our pathetic budget.
Him: Yeah, I felt like shit – poor! But I was so excited to able to buy my girl a diamond ring!
Me: Yeah. It was beautiful.
Him: It was beautiful. Awesome memories, right?
I smiled as the memories welled in my eyes and trickled down my cheeks.
There was a long silence before he typed again.
Him: U there?
Me: Yeah. College kids like us had no business dabbling in the world of adults, huh? What went …
Him: What went wrong? 
Silence.
Me: U there?
Him: Yep. Frog in my throat. Memories. 
Me: Ditto.
Another silence.
Him: Besides the times when you look at the ring, do you …like, I mean, do you ever …think about me? About us?
For five years he was my life, my sweetheart, my future. We spent every spare moment together, we planned a dazzling life together, named our babies – what did he expect my answer to be?
Him: Honestly?
I was not expecting this question and I felt conflicted. My head and heart went headlong into battle:
Heart: Tell him the truth – Yes, I think of you. I think of you often. More than I should. I wonder how you’re doing. I wonder if you’ve achieved all that you dreamed off. I wonder if you ever think of me, of us. I wonder if you hate me. If you love her the way you loved me. I wonder if you remember my birthday, ‘cause I never forget yours. I wonder –
Head: This man broke your heart – does he deserve the truth?
Heart: it doesn’t matter; water under the bridge. Tell him the truth.
Head: Do you really want to be vulnerable to a man who chose another over you?
Heart: It’s been years and I’ve really moved on, so –
Head: Despite your happy life, you’ve never gotten over the rejection. Just you remember that.
Heart: I left for greener pastures, remember?
Head: How quickly he got married. You’ve always wondered if he was having an affair while you were together, weren’t you? Does he deserve any truth?
Heart: Yes, but … Look, I … shaddup! Lemme think.
Him: U there? Yelllooooow? 
I cleared my throat.
Me: You first. 
Chicken.
Him: All the time.
Him: Every time I bought something new, achieved something, I thought of you. Anytime something monumental happened in my life, I don’t know why, but I thought of you. How nice it would be to tell you about it. Not because I wanted to showoff or something, but just because.”
I nestled into my cloak of smugness. He had thought about me. He thinks about me. All the time too. Wow!
Me: Like the time you got married? You called me that day, remember?
Him: Yeah, and you were such a bitch about it.
Me: What, you expected me to jump for joy?
He had no idea how painful that phone call was for me. How I pretended I didn’t care, all the while wanting to simply die at the finality of our break-up.
Him: Well, you could have –
Me: And she moved in with you right away, so clearly there was something going on between the two of you while we were dating! Of course, I was pissed off.  With her and you. She stole you from me!!!!!
Him: But you left me for –
Me: And anyway, I challenge you to find a girl who says, Congratulations, ex-boyfriend of five years. Hope you and that bitch lives happily ever after like Shrek and Fiona,’ and does a joyful jig.
Him: Shrek? Ha! Ha!
Me: And did your wife know you called me that day?
Him: Of course not. She’d die if she knew.
Me: Mm. Why did you call me? I mean, how could you, on your wedding day of all days, call me, your ex-girlfriend? Something was wrong with that picture, boy.
Him: Yeah, don’t know what I was thinking.
Me: Me. Clearly you were thinking about me.
Him: Clearly, I was. Laughing emoji.
Bastard.
A short silence.
Him: Listen, babe, I have to deliver a lecture. Three actually. Can we chat in about four hours? And can I call you? Whatsapp you?
He called me babe again! Never did I imagine I would ever hear him utter that word again. It pierced through my very soul!
Him: Please, I really want to hear your voice. Please.
Me: I …
Me: Look …
Me: I really don’t …
Him: Just this once. Please! Here’s my number!
Him: Message me your number now.
I hesitated.
Him: Please!
Me: k
Him: Promise?
Me: I will.
Him: No, say you promise.
I smiled to myself.
Me: I promise.
Him: Cool – Three smiley faces emojis with sunglasses 
Him: Xoxo.
I laughed and messaged him my number. How should I end the conversation, I wondered?
Xoxo? No, hugs and kisses – too forward for our first convo.
C u later? Too cold.
After much thought, I typed in five smiley faces and hit send. It was neutral enough and he could read into it whatever he liked.
I logged off and peered at the clock. Four hours.
I floated around to Patsy Cline’s, She’s got you, as I loaded the dishwasher, tidied the lounge, folded washing, fed the dog and cat and hastily assembled cheese sandwiches for dinner ( no time to cook, I’m too busy flirting with my ex!), all so that I could free up my time to talk to him in four hours.
To hear his voice after so many years – I didn’t think I ever would. The thought of it made me shiver with delight. I began to out-sing Patsy Cline.

I’ve got your picture
That you gave to me
And it’s signed with love
Just like it used to be
The only thing different
The only thing new
I’ve got your picture
She’s got you!

I looked at the clock again. Only an hour has passed! Damn!
And who knew I could clean up this fast? Where did my energy come from?  
When my phone rang three hours later (not four), with an out-of-Area signal on it, my mouth went dry and my hands felt clammy.
For a while, I stared at the phone, before I hit, ‘Decline.’
Why?
It took me a few moments to realize that I was not ready to take things further than an online conversation. At that moment.
He messaged me back to say that he understood that someone was probably around, and that he would call again. So understanding, right?
We continued our messaging and also began to email each other after that.
Over the next couple of days, we floated down memory lane, trading rich, often poignant memories and umpteen ‘Hey, remember that time …?’
He’s a funny, witty guy who always made me laugh. He told me that I had always made him laugh, so our days were heady and fun, and I darted for my phone each time it pinged, reading the messages with a smile, savoriness them, then re-reading them.
Despite not wanting to talk to him over the phone, I reached for my phone the moment I opened my eyes to read his messages, and sent him a message before I closed my eyes at night.
I felt alive, energized, seventeen again, and I wandered through my days in a blissful state of nostalgia, belting out Kid Rock’s All Summer Long:

It was 1989, my thoughts were short my hair was long
Caught somewhere between a boy and man
She was seventeen and she was far from in-between
It was summertime in Northern Michigan

Yeah, despite me never having lived in Michigan, I sang out loud.
Then, as I was driving one day, head in the clouds, thinking about how my ex and I used to make plans to watch a movie marathon, get popcorn and chocolate and Coke ready and pizza for it, only to fall asleep ten minutes after the movie started, my sister called me to deliver some shattering news. My husband had discovered my emails with my ex and … he had been reading them for days!
According to her, he was so upset, he had reached out to her. He told her not to say anything to me, as he would confront me about it soon.
But, of course, my sister couldn’t stay silent, so she told me.
She sounded angry, but I knew her well enough to know that she was afraid of what was going to happen.
I was so stunned by what I had heard, I missed my turnoff, almost hit another car and had motorists honk and scream abuse at me, Eventually had to pull the car over to the side of the road to steady my shaking hands.
My husband had known all along? Yet, he had not confronted me about it? Why?
Then, I remembered that he had been a little snappy with me the day before, something I took little notice of. I guess I was so wrapped up with my ex and our ring and our trips down Memory Lane, that I had failed to pay attention to my husband’s change in demeanor.
Apparently, my husband was in tears when he had spoke to my sister about my shenanigans.
In tears?
My husband was a big man – six-foot-five, a burly, black-skinned biker with dreads, and I had never seen him tear-up before, so I felt terrible to have reduced him like that.
Knowing that my husband had read every detail of our messages – about the ring, my memories, the children’s names my ex and I had discussed … damn! I could just imagine his hurt.
What a mess I had created. I needed to fix it. The question was: how?
I was nervous to return home. What was in store for me?
Nothing.
That’s right, when I returned home, my husband said nothing to me; he just looked at me with probing eyes, while I avoided his. When I did meet his eyes, I saw the hurt. That’s when I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Bull by the horns – I cried as I put my arms around him and apologized. Profusely. After which, I went on to do everything I could to make it up to him, because I loved him dearly.
We fought and he yelled many things at me:
“It’s cheating! Messaging each other is fucking cheating!”
It didn’t feel like cheating. It felt right, harmless even. Just two ol’ friends strolling down Memory Lane. Hand in hand.
Maybe … arm in arm.
Um … Maybe even, cheek to cheek
But it was cheating.
Make no mistake about that.
My angry husband told me what he could do to my ex, or what he could arrange to have done to him, how he could walk away from me, and never look back, about what happens when you break a mirror …
I begged him not to re-arrange my ex’s face, to give me another chance, assured him that all those messages between me and my ex was nothing… I tried my best to apologise.
He said, “This guy really wants you back.”
I denied it and reassured him that it all meant nothing. What else could I have said?
Luckily, in the end, after a lot of yelling and fighting, my husband finally said, “I want to fight for you.”
Those words made me exhale. They also brought on a tsunami of fresh tears.
My ex?
When I told him that my husband had discovered our convos and that he must never contact me again, he begged me not to cut off contact with him, reminding me of the history we shared and other stuff.
He was so persistent, I ended up blocking him. I felt bad doing that, but my husband’s feelings and my marriage came first.
Thankfully, over time, we put that indiscretion of mine behind us and there was a certain newness (is this a word) to our relationship, which was delightful.
Oh, make no mistake, our marriage wasn’t perfect after that. It wasn’t perfect before that and it certainly wasn’t perfect after that, it just was.
But, I guess we loved each other to try to work it out. I was grateful for that.
The ring?
I threw it away.
Well, that’s not altogether true. I threw it in my sister’s direction for safekeeping, because, well, do you really expect me to throw it away? C’mon! It would have broken my heart to do that.
When my husband passed a few years ago, my ex reached out to me again. Somehow he managed to make contact with me.
We messaged each other, and again, he wanted to talk to me and even see me again, but I had no intention of resuming things with him, mainly because by then, I realized that I did not want to hurt another woman, despite what she had done to me. To us. The man she was married to, the one who she stole from me, would always hanker after me. I took comfort in that.
I just wanted to be left alone with my ring and my memories of my first love.
I still think of him though (how can I not?), and it’s usually with a wistful smile and sometimes a chuckle when I do.
But, for now, it’s me and Patsy Cline …
I’ve got your class ring
That proved you cared
And it still looks the same
As when you gave it, dear
The only thing different
The only thing new
I’ve got these little things
She’s … got …. You ….

END
(This blog post is an update on a previous blog post)

………………………………

Before you go, if you enjoy reading screwed up #LoveTriangles about past love and unrequited love and messy romance and you’re a sucker for angsty romance that promises to move your waterproof mascara, then you should check out Burn’s World (below).
It’s a tale about a street thug who doesn’t take no for an answer, a blue-eyed overprivileged athlete and a smart-mouth caught in the middle.  It’s free on Amazon and Smashwords, but only for a limited time, so grab your copy NOW!

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EXCERPT 

“So, what do you want from me? Money? How much?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“What?”
“Don’t want your money.”

“Then … what do you want?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Oh, I see – you want me because I belong to another man?”

“Um … because you belong to him.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am serious!”

“That … that’s pretty fucked up, you do realize that, right?”

“Yeah, but as you’ve said before, I am fucked up. So, what’ll it be?”

“Well, I mean … like, do I have a choice? You’re –”

“—blackmailing you? Yeah, yeah, yeah!  We gotta deal or what?”

“You have  some nerve. You’re not even trying to deny –”

“We got a deal or what? Huh?”

“-your indecent -”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – what’s it gonna be? We gotta deal or what?”

“Fine! But let the record show that … it’s against my -”

End of Excerpt

To read more about this complicated love triangle, click on this link:
https://smarturl.it/2on5aq

…………………………………………….

That One Time My Brother Cheated on His Wife.

When I was around fifteen, my married brother, Drake, who was years older than me, had an affair with a work colleague.
When I spied the other woman from a distance, I lost hope – that chick resembled Pamela Anderson. When she does her own hair and make-up. That Pamela, she drank bottles and bottles of beer and chain-smoked, using a shiny cigarette holder (I thought the cigarette holder was so damn classy, I wanted one even though I did not smoke).

As I studied the other woman, I concluded with dismay, that my sister in law Cheryl, stood not a chance against the blonde bombshell. Compared with Pamela, Cheryl was plain. Plain, but nice with a nurturing nature. (I like her, hence the alliteration.)
Now Drake, my cheating-ass bro, he was a tall, green-eyed dude who had slept his way around the neighborhood prior to getting hitched. Prior. Maybe it had something to do with those tattoos of skulls on his arms and his awesome tan.
Luckily, once married, Drake had morphed into a caring family man and stopped fucking around.  Growing up in a family of turmoil, Drake was my father-figure and protector. He still is and I love him dearly. (It’s the kind of love that brings tears to one’s eyes as you write about it. Ever had that?)
Since we all lived in a big, overcrowded family home (I was one of seven children – that’s right, a child for every day of the week), I was privy to the arguments between Cheryl and Drake, which I eavesdropped on. (We didn’t have Tik Tok then, so we drew entertainment from wherever we could.)
Prior to the affair, Cheryl and Drake had a great relationship, and I had always taken comfort in their solid marriage. So, when Drake had the affair, I was crushed. I felt so betrayed by my brother’s behavior, my fifteen-year-old hurt self urged my sister-in-law to leave his cheating ass.
She didn’t leave him, which made me lose a bit of respect for her.
Nevertheless, I hung around my hurt sister-in-law, trying to find ways to comfort her. For the first time I can remember, I actually helped her with household chores, mainly because she was OCD about cleanliness, and I was anything but.
I figured the best way to comfort Cheryl was to help her clean up the house and make her endless cups of tea with sugar, which she never said no to.
One day while peeling potatoes, the conversation between my sister-in-law and myself went like this:
Me: “Leave him! He’s a bloody cheat! Leave him, Cheryl.”
Cheryl: “Peel a little thinner; you’re peeling too thick, Eve.”
Me: “He’s a bloody cheat!”
Silence.
Me: “Why do you want to stay with a dog like that?” (Yeah, I called my beloved bro a dog. But it was a Golden Retriever, not a Rottweiler.)
Cheryl: “Eve, when you have a good man, other women want him because he’s good. All the things you found attractive in him, those women are also attracted to, and that’s why they want him. He may fight them off for a while, but sometimes temptation gets to him. You must understand that.”
Me: “Mm. Is this enough, or must I peel more?”
Cheryl: “You can’t just give up on your marriage. Two more, but peel thinner. Sometimes the affair dies off and then he realizes that the fun part is over and he returns to the marriage. Yes, thin like that! Drake is worth fighting for, you know. So … I’ll fight for him. I must have patience.”
Patience, my ass!
Me: “You want a cup of tea?”
Cheryl: “Yes, please, Eve.”
See what I mean – Cheryl never said no to tea.
I worried about the ‘fighting’ bit, though. Not only did I believe that Cheryl didn’t stand a chance against the striking blonde, but I also wasn’t sure about Cheryl’s pow! wow! skills. I believed that the blonde would win in both instances. Not sure why, but I believed that.
I was however, determined to stand by Cheryl and beat the crap out of the other woman, if need be. I was the type to insert myself into a fight, mainly to separate. Except when someone was fighting with one of my siblings; then I would band with my sibling and kick the crap out of the person. Or try to. I was from the hood, so I knew a thing or two about fighting, having had my fair share of punch-ons, my fair share of fight clubs.
So, I braced myself for the rumble, to scratch out her blue eyes (if need be, because they were so pretty), pull at her long blonde mane (if need be because it was so glorious) and to steal her cigarette holder (even though I didn’t smoke, I would feel cool).

And if my cheating-ass bro got in the way, much as I loved him, he’d cop a blow or two as well, because he would deserve it. Maybe sixteen or seventeen blows, so he’d better stay the fuck out of it, just be an observer to the rumble. As if he was a guest on Springer, not a participant. 

But … the fight didn’t take place. I cannot remember why it didn’t.
For a couple of weeks, Drake was AWOL and Cheryl went to bed alone, long after everyone in the family went to bed.
Our family rallied around Cheryl, trying to comfort her, the air around us thick with uncertainty and disappointment. Except for my mother – I did not see her comfort Cheryl at all. I think she didn’t care too much for Cheryl because … well, maybe it was because Cheryl cooked and cleaned for our family, washed our clothing, shopped, took care of her husband’s younger sisters and did everything a mother would for the family, while my mother did nothing. Maybe that was the reason my mother resented her daughter-in-law. But, since Cheryl was my surrogate mother, I loved her enough to punch out the lights of the other woman.

Late one night, I heard my brother’s Ford  (a bottle green one with a noisy exhaust) pull up into our yard. I got up from my bed and peeped through the window. Drake had parked the car, but he hadn’t alighted from the vehicle.
I waited.
Almost half an hour passed, and he remained in the car.
What the hell?
Then, through the window, I watched Cheryl stride up to the car. I was sure she had a brick in her hand. I expected her to, because that’s what I would have had in my hand – two bricks, one for backup and because I believed in spares and pairs.
Anyho, I got scared and then excited – fight! fight! fight!
I braced myself for Cheryl to lose her shit, to slam the brick through the car window, to smash it against my cheating brother’s head, for him to burn rubber as he raced away from the scorned wife, blood dripping down his head.
I further mentally prepared to race downstairs and separate the scorned wife from the cheating Golden Retriever if there was a physical altercation. I even braced myself to cop a few blows in the process. I would take them for Cheryl, but I prayed they would not come from the brick for as much as I loved my sister-in-law, I loved my body, my skull too, and a brick was a brick and ouch!

Although, I didn’t want Drake’s skull to get crushed, because he was the kind of guy who, as a teenager used his pay on essentials for the family like a clothes iron and kettle. He was that kind of boy. Sweet. Caring.

What I saw next confused me. I watched my sister-in-law open the car door, take Drake’s hand and lead him out of the car. She hugged him, dried his tears with her hands, then led him into the house.
Then there was silence. Oh, I did eavesdrop, but I heard zilch. Bemused, I took my tired self to bed, where I slept with one eye open, just in case.
After that, Cheryl and Drake lived happily ever after.
No seriously – Pamela and her cigarette holder fucked off, Cheryl and Drake went on to have another beautiful daughter, and we all lived happily ever after in our overcrowded home.
I kept a keen eye on the Golden Retriever after that, brick in sight, waiting for him to slip up and return to his errant ways. But, Drake was so good to Cheryl after that, so attentive and such an amazing husband, Cheryl became the envy of all the women around, including those who Drake whored around with in the neighbourhood.
Not only that, but Drake was an amazing dad to their two children, and they love him the way I love him. I wanted to marry a man just like Drake, so that I could have their marriage.
Recently, I visited Cheryl and Drake, and during one of our long walks down memory lane, Cheryl coughed twice. Just twice. Drake immediately got up and fetched her a glass of water. She hadn’t even asked him for water. Good doggie, right? I thought how lucky Cheryl was to be married to an attentive man like Drake. I thought how glad I was that she did not take my advice during our potato-peeling session and leave.
They recently celebrated their 40^th wedding anniversary, which I was unable to attend as we live in different countries.
So, the moral of the story? The reason I air my family’s dirty laundry? (Some of it, I have tons, believe me).
Well, no reason, really. I just wanted to share with you what my wise sister-in-law told me years ago.
Have I ever used that advice?
No.
Why?
Because my  ego is too fucking big!
Look, people are quick to say, “Walk away! No man is worth fighting for.” Yeah, they may be right.
However, if your man is abusive, I would tell you to pick up two bricks. I’m kidding (I’m from the hood, remember?) No, I would tell you to leave in a heartbeat.
If a man wasn’t attentive or if your marriage needs resuscitation, I’d advise you to talk to him about it. Several times. Handcuff the motherfucker to a chair and force him to listen.
If he doesn’t listen, or consider your feelings, I’d ask you to ditch him. Simple.
Or stay married to him, but have an extramarital affair with the pool boy with an out of control libido. Simple.
What? Like you’ve never fantasized about it?
Over the years I’ve had lots of women tell me off, when I suggested not being too quick to leave their cheating significant other. And that’s okay, I get it. But, what if he’s worth fighting for? What if you could survive this blimp on the road to your fortieth wedding anniversary? Mm?
Food for thought? (post updated for correction – it should read fortieth not fiftieth.

End of Blog

…………………………………………….

Anyway, since we’re on the subject of whoring around, have you read The Other Woman by Eve Rabi (that’s me, BTW).
You haven’t? OMG!!! Why not? You’re missing on a mother of a rumble, believe me!
Check it out here:
Question: A seductress steals your husband, rips apart your family and shatters your dreams.
You:
a) Wish them luck, and walk away with your head held high (because that’s what society expects you to do)?
b) Quietly seethe, but accept that there is just nothing you can do about it (because it easier for everyone if you do nothing)?
c) Dig up dirt on the b**tch (because someone like this would undoubtedly have dirt), use it to sabotage their relationship, then sit back with a glass of Pinot Grigio and watch them buuuuurn!?

Answer: C. Totally C. Oh, God, C!

The Other Woman $0.99c for a limited time!

A mild-mannered wife awakes one day to find that she has been replaced by a cunning seductress. Helplessly, she watches the other woman help herself to her husband, her children and her life. Then one day, she snaps. With nothing to lose, she sets out to fight, win back her family, take back all that is hers.
Her techniques are dirty and underhanded, causing untold misery to her nemeses, rocking the foundations of her ex-husband’s new marriage.
Trouble is, the other woman does not believe in losing, has no intention of backing down and is an even dirtier fighter. The result? A scandalous collision between the wife and the mistress, where mayhem and murder follow.
********
If you’ve enjoyed Gone Girl, Girl on the Train, HBO’s The Affair and Fatal Attraction, you will enjoy this fast-paced, action-packed romantic suspense thriller about lust, betrayal, revenge, and somewhere along the line, steamy romance.

$0.99 cents for a limited time!
To read more from The Other Woman  click on this link:

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How to Resist Forbidden Love – Foolproof Ways to Forget About him and Move on.

1. First, make a firm decision: I will tame this heart of mine, I will conquer it, I will forget about him! Tell yourself of your decision in a bold, determined voice.
2. Focus on the harmful and negative outcome should you pursue this love – the consequences, which are often dire. Forbidden love is usually forbidden for a reason. A good reason. Trust me on this, I’m an expert.
3. Resist from remembering how your heart races at the mention of his name and how your cheeks flame, how your eyes sparkle at the mere thought of him and how alive he makes you feel and how … look, forget all of that absurd stuff – stow those thoughts in the attic of your mind, okay?
4. Out of sight, out of mind – distance between you and him will help dull the ache and constant longing, so, move house, move cities, move countries if need be. Yes, I’m asking you to run! Trust me on this, I’m an expert.
5. Draw a line down the centre of a page and list all the pros on one side, and the cons on the other side of the forbidden love in question. You will undoubtedly prove to yourself, because you only really have to prove this to yourself that there are more cons than pros if you were to continue to hanker after said love.
6. Talk to yourself often about your decision to walk away from him, three, four, five times a day. Brainwash yourself even, because, hey, drastic situations call for drastic measures. Trust me on this, I’m an expert.
7. Substitute forbidden love with sensible, practical love, one who is good for you and then stick really close to him. Do not hesitate to use that sensible love as a crutch until your heart is fully tamed.

The above measures are foolproof, so they should work.
Well, the above measures aren’t quite foolproof, but they usually work.
Maybe not usually, but they work. Sometimes.
Well, sometimes would be an exaggeration and … look, remember when I stated that I was an expert and that you should trust me? Mm?
Well, I may told you a white lie. Like, a couple of white lies. Like, a ship-load of them. I’m no expert.
What? It’s no big deal. It’s what everyone does when it comes to love, because who the hell is an expert on love? Huh? No one!
So, if the above measures don’t work, then all you can do is give in to temptation, okay? Give in to that intoxicating, exhilarating love, because that heart of yours, let me tell you, it wants what it wants and denying it will leave you in a permanent, What If? state.
Anyway, as they warn, forbidden fruit is the sweetest, fools fall in love, love makes no sense, love is blind… blah! blah! blah! So, why fight it?
(From Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers, (An angsty tale of forbidden love) by Eve Rabi)

Excerpt From Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers ( An angsty tale of forbidden Love) 

“I’m ashamed of my need to be held by him. I guess … well, I guess it’s been a while since I felt a man’s arms around me. Warmth, affection, tenderness – I crave them now and he’s offering all of that. I know, I know, I should move away, end it right now before things spiral out of control, but I don’t. I guess, I like lying in Reed’s warm arms, my back nestled against his broad accommodating chest, the faint whiff of tobacco mingled with his familiar aftershave soothing and comforting my sleepy self.
As our breathing synchronizes, Reed’s hand moves to capture mine. Here again, I think about pulling my hand away, a feeble and somewhat ridiculous attempt to stop him, considering I’m in his arms, but I don’t, I just let him.
His fingers entwines in mine. You can tell by the contented sigh escaping my lips that I like it. Judging by the way he squeezes my fingers, I suspect he likes it just as much.
Snug in a tender, but illicit embrace, we doze.
When I wake up in the middle of the night and find myself in Reed’s arm, reality sinks her teeth in me  – You’re married, he’s off limits, what the hell are you doing? He’s the frigging enemy for crying out loud! The enemy!
The bite is so sharp, I slowly, to avoid waking him, ease out of his arms and tiptoe away. From the other side of the room, I sit and watch him, longing for his embrace despite it being profoundly wrong, hypnotized by the rise and fall of his broad chest as he sleeps.
Minutes pass, before he opens his eyes and looks at me, sitting with my arms wrapped around myself. For a while, he just stares, before he eventually gives me a tiny nod of understanding.
Okay, he gets it. Okay. Makes it easier for me to resist. Okay.
Then … he opens his arms to me.
I frown at him.
He opens his arms wider.
As I glare, then stare at his inviting arms, I will myself to shake my head from side-to-side, to say something like, No thanks, we shouldn’t be doing this. You just caught me at a weak moment. I’m okay. Really, I am. Use a light-hearted voice and add a smile for good measure. No hard feelings, okay?

I do nothing of that sort. Instead, I find myself floating over to him and melting into his embrace. This time, he turns me around to face him. Embarrassed by my neediness, I rest my forehead against his chest, avoiding his eyes.
With a chuckle, he tightens his arms around me and kisses my forehead several times.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” he whispers.
The way he hugs me, the way he kisses my hair, the contented sighs he gives as he draws me closer, tells me he wants this as much as I do. Makes me believe that he, well, needs me. My husband has never needed me, never held me that way. Not that way. Not once. I’d remember if he did.
We fall asleep entwined in each other, despite knowing the consequences we face.”
End of adapted excerpt from Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers 

To read more on this emotional tale of forbidden love, which is priced at just $0.99c for a limited time, click on this Amazon link below:

https://smarturl.it/nmw6va

Other books by Eve Rabi

 

So this group of snobs decide to mock a hotline psychic … big mistake. Huge!

 

A group of socialites are dining in their mansion during a mother of a storm one evening, minding each other’s business, when the electricity goes out. Worse, they are rudely interrupted by a knock at the door. It’s a rain-drenched woman who complains about car trouble and begs for shelter from the storm. At first, the hosts refuse to help her, because of, you know, stranger-danger and stuff. That, and the fact that she looks poor and sort of homeless. However, when they learn that she is a hotline psychic, they say, “Come on in!” The reason for their change of mind? To get her to entertain them during the storm with palm readings. For free, of course. Sounds reasonable, right? They give her shelter, she gives them free palm readings … win, win. Yeah, they’ve got limousines and mansions, but still – they’d like to save a buck where they can.

The look on their faces when the psychic refuses to read their palms? Priceless, I tell you.
The snarky women in the group start to mock and ridicule her, call her a scam artist and demand that she demonstrates her “so-called” psychic abilities, or else.
Since the “or else” is not an option because of the raging storm, the psychic, having no choice, goes ahead and read their palms. But … here’s the kicker – she retaliates by openly revealing their deepest, darkest secrets. That’s right, maliciously drags it all out in the f**king open and flings it into their Botoxed faces. Cool, huh?
The snobs, horrified at the psychic’s ‘lies’, lose their sh*t – the women in the group gang up on the psychic, bully and hurls insult after insult at her.
You feeling sorry for the psychic? Well, don’t, because the feisty thing fires back in more ways than one, even crossing the line and doing something unforgivable – she flirts with their husbands! Damn, it gets ugly! I’m talking CoronaVirus, toilet paper shortage, ugly. Soon, friendships are fractured, relationships are wrecked, and the inferno inside the mansion, man, it is more catastrophic than the storm outside!

And then?

Well, there’s plenty of “and thens”, too many to mention here, so you’ll have to read the book for yourself to find out more. (I suggest a pitcher of tea when reading this book. Long Island Tea, that is, with extra shots of everything. Not chamomile, please, because it’s a pretty screwed up tale.)

This is a scandalous crime and suspense novella and it’s FREE for a limited time on Amazon and Smashwords. So, go ahead, hit one-click.
Click!

Wait! One more thing: this is a standalone, no cliff-hanger book and it’s … FREE, as I’ve said, so, go ahead, hit one-click.

Click!

Wait! One more thing – this isn’t the kind of book that would make Oprah’s book club, because it has violence, cussing and sex, so … sorry, not sorry. So, go ahead, hit one-click.
Click!

Wait! One last thing: someone gets murdered too. I forgot to mention that. Silly me. So, add murder mystery to that genre, will you?
Click!

Whachu waiting for?
Oh, you’re waiting for the book links, are you?
Well, here they are:
Amazon link:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087CMMZ85

Smashwords link:
https://www.smashwords.com/dashboard/edit/1016972

Click! Click! Click!

 

 

Make Sure Your Mascara is Waterproof!

Ever loved someone so much, that you would die for them? You would? Okay! Great! Superb! Fantas … hey, how about murder – would you … would you kill for them?
What? You’ve gone all quiet on me?
Cat got your tongue?

When Arena escapes Tom, her abusive and vengeful husband, he vows to make her pay. Luckily, she finds love in the arms of a wonderful cop called Bear Shaw. Loving, generous Bear adore her kids, they in turn adore him, and soon they are a family. Life is perfect, Arena is a success story and they have the HEA.
When Arena’s SUV is stolen with her sleeping toddler in it, Arena immediately points at vengeful Tom. He did it. she is convinced of it, because he had vowed to make her pay. To her surprise, the police point at Bear, because Bear cannot be found. Worse, according to them, Bear Shaw does not exist!

GRIPPING CRIME & SUSPENSE with unexpected romance!

EXCERPT FROM PAYBACK

SYDNEY AUSTRALIA – 2012

Operator: “Police helpline, what is your emergency?”

Caller: “Eh, a woman, like, she’s screaming her head off. Can you send
the police? Please, please, please!”

Operator: “What seems to be the problem?”

Caller: “She says…she says that someone stole her car and stuff…”

Operator: “State and town please?”

Caller: “Eh, Sydney…St Ives…”

Operator: “Yeah, where about in St Ives?”

Caller: “Warrimoo Avenue, outside the eh, shops and stuff.”

Operator: “Would that be…corner Dalton road and Warrimoo?”

Caller: “Eh, let me see…yeah, that’s it.”

Operator: “Is anybody hurt?”

Caller: “No. Just the baby.”

Operator: “Baby? Did you say a baby was hurt?”

Caller: “No, no, she was in the car. The baby. Sorry, I’m just fifteen so…”

Operator: “She was in the…are you saying that the car was stolen with
a baby in it?”

Caller: “Yeah. Can you hear her? The mother? She’s screaming her head
off like a ban—”

Operator: “Yes, I can. What’s she saying?”

Caller: “She’s saying…hold on…eh, she says she knows that it’s her ex, like,
he’s behind it, and she’s screaming and running up and down the street,
going mental.”

Operator: “O…kay. I need you to stay on the line. What’s your name?”

Caller: “Carly. But my cell battery is dy—”

Operator: “Hello? Hello? Carly, can you hear me? Hello?”

…………….

The first time Tom hit me, I was highly pregnant. Slapped me across the face so hard, I saw tiny white stars even though I was indoors. I was twenty-two, he was thirty-five.

I was eight months pregnant and waddling around like a duck; he was approximately one hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle. He took part in triathlons, ran five kilometres every day, had wheatgrass and quinoa for breakfast, a green salad with no dressing for lunch, and usually ate lean chicken breast with three different colored vegetables for dinner.

Fit, disciplined, and focused – that was my husband.

Throughout my two years of marriage, I’d seen bursts of his rage – towards me and others, and his road-rage, now that was the worst – it terrified me. Especially since he liked to take on truck drivers. The bigger the truck, the greater his rage. Usually, people steered away from trucks, but not Tom; he took them on, provoked them until I was shaking with fear.

Deep down, I guess I did fear being hit by him one day, but I didn’t expect it that day – the day of my second wedding anniversary.

I was so stunned by the slap, I didn’t move away or try to defend myself. I just stood and gaped at him, one hand on my cheek, the other on my swollen belly.

“I take care of everything!” he hissed. “All you had to do was chill the Cristal, and you forget to do that. A small thing like that. Chill. The. Cristal – how hard is that, huh? HUH?”

To celebrate our wedding anniversary, Tom had invited eight couples to a four-course sit-down dinner at our house, located in the upscale suburbs of St Ives, Sydney.

He had hired caterers, waitstaff, and a barman for the occasion. Like all of Tom’s parties, it promised to be interesting, excessive, and showy.

It was true – all I had to do was chill the Cristal, as he had taken care of everything else, without consulting me once about anything. Not even asking me who I’d like to invite. Solo – that’s how Tom operated.

I didn’t mind. Tom was extremely capable, highly efficient, and most of all, he had flair. I didn’t, so if I did make a suggestion for just about anything, he’d usually scoff at it and shred it to bits, making me feel like the hillbilly I was. So over time, I stopped suggesting or contributing, and left everything in Tom’s highly capable hands. That suited him just fine.

With pregnancy hormones, my brain sometimes became a pile of mush, and I would walk into a room and forget why I was there. I often forgot which level I had parked my car on at the mall.

It annoyed the hell out of Tom as he called it foolish, and God knows, being as astute and intelligent as he was, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

As my pregnancy progressed, everything I did was foolish and stupid to him, and he became increasingly irritable with me, and finally, he hit me.

“See what you do to me!” he snarled, his nostrils flaring, his lips a thin white line. “You make me act like this.”

After throwing me a look of disgust, he stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusted his tie, straightened his five-foot-eight frame, and walked towards the door of our bedroom.

At the door, he paused and turned to look at me. “Put on a darker shade of lipstick, wear the necklace I bought you for Christmas, and be downstairs in five,” he said before he walked downstairs.

With my hand on my cheek, I sat on the bed, shrouded in disappointment and disbelief.

How could he hit me? I asked myself. How could he hit a pregnant woman? His pregnant wife – who does that?

There was no way I was going to go to his party after that. I would leave quietly through the back door before our guests arrived. I wouldn’t even tell him that I was leaving him. To hell with him and his party.

Just then the doorbell rang. Too late. Our guests had arrived.

“The place looks wonderful, Tom.”

“Thank you!”

“Yes, it’s just fabulous, Tom. Marvelous. Where’s Arena?”

“She’ll be down in a sec,” I heard Tom say. “Honey, our guests have arrived,” he called in a sweet voice from the foot of the steps. “Arena, sweetheart?”

I panicked. What do I do? How could I possibly not show up when guests had already arrived? In all honesty, I’m ashamed to say, I chickened out. Feeling pressured, I decided I would go downstairs and be civil and courteous to Tom’s friends, but I would leave immediately after the party. If he tried to stop me, I would have it out with him and call the cops if I needed to. I may have been twenty-two years old, but I realized that Tom had crossed a line and I wasn’t going to accept it.

I scrambled up from my king-size bed and walked over to a mirror where I eyed my cheek, red from his slap.

I picked up some concealer and dotted it over the redness. Didn’t work. His imprint on my cheek and the welt showed through the concealer.

I tried green concealer. That did the trick and that was the first time I learned that green concealer worked better on bruises better than yellow or beige concealer.

Over the years I used a lot of green concealer, and I became an expert at concealing “flaws.”

Luckily, my deep mahogany hair was in a bob and fell in a sharp point two centimeters below my ears. (Styled as per Tom’s strict instructions. He ordered me to wear my hair exactly that way, because he was in awe of Victoria Beckham.) That night, with the help of a little wax, I pulled the edges forward so that it covered my cheek. Just in case the green concealer let me down.

Then I went one step further and decided that if the concealer faded and someone enquired about the marks on my face, I would simply say that I had an allergy – a new facial that didn’t quite agree with me. (Over the years, my friends were surprised at how many facials didn’t agree with me.)

Still dazed, I adjusted my clothing, darkened my lipstick, put on the chunky gold necklace that Tom ordered me to wear, and waddled downstairs. As instructed.

When I reached the last stair of the spiral staircase of our 2.6-million-dollar home in Sydney, which had a spa, sauna, tennis court, and an Olympic-size pool, I plastered a smile on my disappointed lips and murmured greetings to our guests.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Tom watching me with elevated eyebrows, probably waiting to see if I would tell on him, or indicate marital discord in our supposedly perfect marriage.

I ignored him and focused on our guests. I would deal with the bastard later.

After a while, his eyebrows returned to normal and he moved towards me. As if nothing had happened, he slipped his arm around my waist. I stiffened, then casually tried to shrug it off, but he held on, his fingers digging into my side, tacitly warning me to behave, or else.

After our last guest had arrived, Tom rattled a knife on a Royal Doulton goblet. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for me to give my beautiful wife her anniversary gift.”

With a fake smile plastered on my darkened lips, I allowed him to take my hand.

He led us all outside, where a silver BMW X60i E75 was parked in our driveway, a huge red bow on it. I knew that it cost more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, as I had gone car shopping with him weeks ago.

“For you, my love,” he said.

All eyes were on me, most of them filled with envy.

Overwhelmed by the slap and by the present, I remained mute.

He pinched my waist. Hard.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured quickly, feeling pressured to say something. It truly was a lovely vehicle, although the one I was driving, a Mercedes four-wheel drive, was just as beautiful.

I looked at him. “But, I didn’t get you anything, Tom.” My voice felt strained and high-pitched.

He hugged me. “You are my gift alone, Arena. You bring me so much joy, my love.”

“Aaaawwww!” I heard a guest mutter. “How sweet!”

My guests had no idea that less than an hour ago, this man had slapped his pregnant wife.

“And that’s not all,” he said and produced a pretty red-and-gold box. Tom opened it, revealing a chunky diamond bracelet. He slipped it onto my wrist, then kissed my hand and bowed obsequiously.

Back inside, gasps of delight and more unbridled envy abounded, which Tom seemed to visibly revel in.

Envy was Tom’s currency – his elixir of life. Without it, I do believe that he would have shriveled up and simply died.

Then he took me into his arms and once again, lovingly embraced me. When he kissed me, he threaded his fingers into my hair and slipped his tongue into my mouth. His kiss felt horrible – like sucking on raw steak. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, and I wanted him to stop the Broadway show. I was a lousy actress and a terrible leading lady for sure.

When I jerked slightly away, his fingers gripped my hair and pulled hard, a silent warning – Play along or else.

Having no choice, I became a supporting act in his show and felt like the phony I was.

Then the doorbell rang.

He released me and said, “Will you get that, darling?”

I was surprised, because Tom always answered the door. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the door and caught my breath at the sight of the biggest bouquet of roses I had ever seen.

“For Mrs. Arena Botha,” the delivery guy said, struggling to carry the bouquet.

Again, the room echoed with oohs and ahhs!

Of course, I was not one bit impressed with any of his gifts. It was not that I was ungrateful. Sure, his gifts were lovely, but I would have preferred if he had given me the gifts that morning, when it was just the two of us, or if he had sent me the roses during the day.

These gifts were all about him and his ego – Look at me. Look how successful I am. See what I can give my woman. Don’t you wish you were married to me instead of your husband? When you leave here tonight, you’re gonna wish you were Arena. You’re gonna wish you were Tom Botha’s wife.

I did leave the house that night, but it wasn’t because of Tom’s slap. I went into early labor and had to be rushed to the hospital that very night. Three hours after our last guest had left, I held in my arms a beautiful blue-eyed boy called Warren, who became the silver lining in my life.

All thoughts of leaving Tom and ending our marriage went out the door after that. I continued living with Tom, starring in his Broadway shows and buying copious amounts of green concealer.

One word to describe living with Tom – suffocating.

Every time he was around, I felt like I had a pillow over my face. I dreaded the hour when he would walk through that door, and when he left the house, I felt like the pillow had been lifted from my face.

Weekends were the worst – the pillow seldom lifted, and unlike most people, Monday was my best friend. I looked forward to it.

The moment Tom left the house for work, I would let out a long sigh, make myself a cup of hot chocolate, and as the morning progressed, my shoulders would slowly drop from around my ears and I would smile.

My Sunday morning psalm: Monday my love, where are you?
………………………………………………………………………………………………….

PAYBACK, a stand-alone #romantic #suspense #book is #FREE for a limited time.

To read more about good people being pushed into doing very bad things, click on
this image/ link below:
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You love him? Oh, please! We’re talking five years in prison! Get real, okay?

 

“Your love is a crime,” the law says and throws you both behind bars.
You:
a) Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love?
b) Lie like hell – claim that you’ve never seen before, that he took you
against your will, yes, throw him under the bus without a second thought
and secure your freedom within minutes?

Which will it be?
What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but
we’re talking serious prison time for you here, so get real now. What
will it be?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

A heartbreaking, fast-paced romantic suspense tale of love, betrayal
and unrequited love.

 $0.99 cents for a limited time
Also available on #Kindle #Unlimited!

EXCERPT FROM COLOR BLIND

“My low spirits, self-loathing continued for the remainder of the day. When
I wasn’t crying, I was close to it. At the dinner table that night, I barely
touched my food. I stole glances at my father. He appeared unperturbed,
swirling his glass of red wine, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t
caused Miss Annabel to run off.

“This apricot lamb is very lekker,” he said.

Shut up! I hope you choke on it!

“Dankie,” my mother said.

“As if you cooked it!” I said.

My mother jerked her neck to look at me, her eyebrows raised.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Katrina shake her head, silently urging
me to shut up before I got bashed by my mother.

“Ja, what’s your problem?” my mother asked. I do believe she was surprised
that I was being openly mouthy.

I didn’t answer, I just pushed my food around in my plate.

“Ay?” She pressed on, not drunk enough or she’d have ignored my … well,
she would have ignored everything I said. “Why your face like a horse?” She
took a sip of her drink. “Ay?”

“Miss Annabel left, today,” I said. At the mention of Miss Annabel’s name,
my voice grew watery.

She took a sip of her wine. “So? For how long?”

“For good. Forever. She’s never coming back. Ever!”

“Why?” My mother seemed genuinely surprised.

“Why, because, ma, she does not want to teach me anymore!”

My mother jerked back in her chair. “Ay? Ding! Dong! is gone forever?
That stick-in-her-arse woman left?” She chuckled at her joke. “Why?
What you do, Sarie?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything,” I said in a voice filled with icy control.

She giggled over her glass. That caused my anger to accelerate. I glared
at her. How dare you laugh when I have lost my beloved Miss Annabel?
Why can’t you see my pain? You’re an adult, my mother, you should see it!
Why aren’t you seeing my pain, mother? Why the hell are you laughing,
you drunk!

“Sarie, eat up so you can get your ice cream,” Katrina said from the
kitchen, in a voice imbued with warning.

My eyes shifted to Katrina. She shook her head, urging me to shut up. My
eyes shifted back to my mother’s – she was still laughing. I knew exactly
how to wipe that smile off her face, and I did. “You should ask Pa; he took
Miss Annabel into his study when you wasn’t around and they had a … a
long chat. After that she was crying, then she left, because she said she
couldn’t take it anymore. He used to see her often in the study. But only
when you were away, ma. He used to touch her face and ask her to call him
Schoeman. I think he like her more than Popsicle Laurika, Ma. First Miss
Annabel, then Popsicle Laurika, then the maids, then you. Actually, I don’t
think he like you anymore, Ma.”

Even I was surprised at my blatant bitchiness. Hurt and anger had brought out the little bitch in me. My passive aggressiveness sure wiped the grin off my mother’s face. She stared at me with huge eyes, glass mid-air, mouth open. I held her gaze, a slight smirk on my lips. That’s right, he’s been seeing all those women. Your little daughter knows it. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows that Magda is not enough for her husband. Don’t think you are. Whose laughing now, huh?

My mother swung her head to look at my pa who was sitting with his eyes now fixed on his honey, apricot lamb, appearing outwardly calm. His white knuckles around his wineglass told another story.

“Schoe … man …”

My father kept his eyes on his plate, but I noted with satisfaction that his body had turned rigid with fear.

“Schoe … man …”

He tried to shrug off what I was saying, but fear caused his shrug to present like a fearful twitch. After a murderous look my way, my father looked at his plate again.

Taking on Schoeman Vorster was akin to a suicide mission, daughter or no daughter. I knew that, but at that moment, I didn’t care; I wanted a fight, a chaotic brawl, something that could give me an excuse to scream, cry and punch and kick back, hurt someone, something, anything! I wanted an excuse to weep loudly and release some of the pent-up hurt I was experiencing over the loss of my beloved Miss Annabel. I was grieving and I had gone straight into the anger phase.

I sat back and waited for … whatever! I just waited for the outcome. So far, they hadn’t sent me back to my room, so I was excited at the prospect of witnessing a fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Katrina in the background, signalling desperately for my attention. I looked at her. With her eyes bulging, she patted her lips vigorously – Shut up Sarie before you get it!

She was right, I would get it for sure. But, I didn’t care. They could beat me, I just didn’t care. The pain from a physical beating would be less than the emotional pain I felt. I ignored my keeper and focused on the impending explosion. There had to be one – Magda Vorster hated the idea of not being the only woman in her man’s husband’s life. Being as beautiful as she was, meant that she should be, because looks alone is what satisfies a man. Well, that’s what her pea-brain believed.

There’d be hell to pay if the man who was supposed to adore and cherish her was adoring and cherishing another, one with no plastic crown to prove that she was the fairest in the land. She had turned a blind eye to popsicle-loving Laurika, because she had no choice but to, but this was too much.

The room went quiet. I was disappointed – no explosion? How could that be? Please God, let there be an explosion.

I think, for the first time in my life, my prayers, even though I had become an atheist, came true.

With a snarl, my mother jerked to her feet, lifting up the table at the same time, toppling it, sending crockery and cutlery and crystal glasses and honey apricot lamb and red wine flying. Mad Magda was in the room!

“Magda! What the … FOK!” Pastor Schoeman bellowed.

Mad Magda responded by grabbing a steak knife from the floor and plunging it into my father’s shoulder.

“Yes!” I cried out loud, thrilled at the way things were going. I had gotten more than I bargained for, to my delight. To my horror too.

My father screamed and fell forward, while I jumped back, out of harm’s way. If only his congregation could see this now, I thought, before, I panicked – what if she killed him?

This was more than I expected. She was going to kill him. Okay, then!

I realized very quickly that I didn’t mind her killing him. It would save me the trouble. Would they kill each other? I realized very quickly that that would be okay too.

Sadly, my mother did not kill my father, because he recovered, lunged at her, grabbed the knife out of her hand and flung it across the room in Katrina’s direction. I heard Katrina scream and duck just in time.

He grabbed my mother’s flailing arms and pinned her to the wall. “Are you foking mull?”

That to me was a rhetorical question, but my mother answered anyway. “Ek is nou!” (I am now!) and clawed at my father’s face, drawing streaks of blood. She was way smaller than him, but she was like a china cracker, compact, loud and dangerous, and the pastor could hardly restrain her. Finally, he punched her several times, managed to partially subdue her, grabbed her by the hair, dragged her kicking and screaming all the way into the bedroom and shut the door.

I stood with a trembling Katrina outside the closed bedroom door and listened to the screaming and shouting and loud thuds.

“You better hide,” Katrina whispered in a panicked voice, pointing at some heavy drapes. “Your pa is coming for you next.”

I knew that, so I bolted downstairs and hid behind the drapes.

Minutes later, I heard the thudding of my father’s footsteps, his heavy breathing, then, “SARIEEE!”

I held my breath, trembling with fear – I was probably in for the disciplining of my life – at the same time, exhilarated at having been able to rattle him. He deserved to be rattled – my mother deserved to be rattled, the whole world deserved to be rattled, because I had lost one of the most life-altering people in the universe – my precious Miss Annabel because of my parents. Yes, my mother was also to blame for my loss. She dared make fun and laugh at Miss Annabel? Miss Ding! Dong!? Really? Who’s laughing now?

“SARIE!” The varying tempo of my father’s voice told me he was searching room to room for me.

Then, I heard him feet away from me. “Where the fok is she?”

“Gone to her mother’s room,” I heard Katrina lie. “I think.”

That was a good answer, because silence followed.

Curious, I peeped at him from behind the curtain. There he was, staring at the closed bedroom door, his shirt blood-stained from the shoulder wound, his chest heaving, the bloodied lines on his face causing him to look like he had lost a fight to a dozen feral cats.

“Careful,” Katrina said. “Mevrou got a corkscrew thingi.”

His hand flew to his neck, probably because the woman he called his wife and others called Mad Magda was capable of plunging the corkscrew into his jugular. After mumbling angrily, he took his car keys and almost ran out of the house. At the sound of screeching tyres, I came out of hiding and walked over to my mother’s bedroom and put my ear to the door and listened. It was quiet. I opened the door and peeped inside. My mother lay on the floor in a tangled mess – my father had knocked her out.

I should have checked up on my mother, called an ambulance even, but I didn’t, because I guess I didn’t care enough, and I hurt too much. Which was a sad thing for everyone, because every single person on Earth should love their mother more than anyone else in the world. My guess is that I had come into this world loving my mother. However, bit by bit, her behavior over time, had eroded that love and eventually, caused my love for her, for my mother, the woman who brought me into the world to dissolve completely. How could such a thing not be painfully sad? It was more than sad, it was tragic.”

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MY BROTHER, MY RIVAL – Angsty, drama-filled Romantic Suspense

We warned her, “Don’t fall for Cody, he’s a player, he’ll break your heart. Guaranteed. Ignore that chiseled six-pack of his, those rugged looks, that melting grin – all of it, and go for his brother, Scott, instead. Scott, now there’s a gentleman, intelligent, kind, shy, and just as good looking as Cody. Really, he is. The kind of man who won’t break your heart. Husband material.”
Did Bridie listen? Nope.  And where did it get her? A broken heart – that’s what she got. As expected. Of course, none of us said, I told you so. We wanted to, but we didn’t. Why? Because we were young and dumb once. 
Anyway, life has a way of screwing things up, as you know, and in this case, it did. In a big way. Huge, I tell you. Cody, Bridie and Scott were quickly thrust headlong into a heartbreaking love triangle that destroyed the brother’s relationship, ripped apart their family and left them drowning in heartbreak. Sad. 
It didn’t end there. Oh, no – years later, circumstances forced the trio to interact and even live together – that’s right, two of them were to live together!
Buried emotions surfaced, old wounds were picked at, and a tsunami of heartbreak followed.   

And then? you ask. 

Well, there are a lot of ‘And thens’, too many for me to list. So, my suggestion: make a giant pot of coffee, because you’re going to be reading this fast-paced romantic suspense thriller through the night. (Add whisky or rum or brandy to the pot if you need to.) Oh, and keep the tissues handy, because you’re going to cry. Ugly cry. Guaranteed. Like really ugly. Hey, we’re talking about two brothers and their hearts here – how can this story not be sad?

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EXCERPT

I was silent as I drove my family to dinner. They weren’t – they chatted away in high-pitched voices about … I have no idea what the fuck they chatted about, because my mind was reeling with the betrayal – my girl and my brother, my girl and my brother, my girl and my FUCKING BROTHER!
How could they do this to me? I loved her with every fiber of my being, and she would do this to me? What about him? He was my brother – I’d die for him in a heartbeat, he knew that, and he could do this to me? Why? How? When? Where? The fuck I knew. I just felt the urge to break something. In fact, my urge to destroy became so intense, I found myself turning my Hummer around.

“Wha … where you going?” my mother demanded.

I didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question,” she said, her voice filled with panic.  “Where you going?”

My response was to hit the gas.

My dad sat upright in his seat, his neck turning wildly around, a look of fear on his face. “Son?”

I stared ahead at the road as I floored it.

“Bro, stop!” Jenna said. “I know where you’re going! You stop right now. This minute! Bro …”

Ignoring all their pleas, I gunned the Hummer toward Bridie’s old place. That’s where she’d be. She had to be there.  She’d better be there.

I made it just in time – she was in the parking lot, about to get into my brother’s Roadster.

Okay.

I spotted him in the driver’s seat, talking on his phone.

I braked hard, and without killing the engine, hopped out of my Hummer.

Within seconds, my family was chasing after me in tandem, my sister behind me, my father behind her and my mother behind him, all chorusing for me to stop whatever I was about to do.  

When Bridie saw me, she mouthed my name, her blue eyes filled with surprise at the sight of me.

With a mirthless smile, I picked up a brick from the side of the road and strode toward my brother.

When she saw me pick up the brick, it was Bridie’s turn to scream. “What are you doing with that brick? STOOOOP! What are you doing? STOOOP!”

I ignored her and stomped over to my brother. What did she think I was going to do with the brick, huh? Smash his skull with it until his brains decorated his beloved Roadster – that was the plan. Simple.
His window was opened. Good.

The first thing I did was boot his door several times. That caused the door to buckle and trap him inside the car. Exactly where I wanted him to be.
When he saw me above him, brick in hand, a manic look on my face, the phone slid out of his hand. Amidst the pleas of my family and the screams of woman who betrayed, I raised the brick.

His eyes grew large – the largest I’ve ever seen.

Through clenched teeth I said, “You and my girl, bro? Yeah? Well, guess what? Today you die! Bro.”

PRAISE FOR MY BROTHER, MY RIVAL

“Dishes didn’t get washed, supper didn’t get cooked, nothing got done. This book was like a drug; I had to know what happened.”  

“It’s so hard to find a really good book these days. Every so often you find a jewel. My Brother, My Rival, is such a good read! You won’t want to put it down.”

“There are very few books that can make me cry. Ugly cry. I’m giving this a perfect 10.”

“If you have something to do during your day, DO NOT start reading this book! ’Cause once you start you won’t put it down!”

“I love love love this book so much. I’ve read it twice.” 

“This book has been playing in my head all night. I dreamed about it, woke up thinking about it. Serious book hangover coming up. You will need tissues a few times in this book.”

“If I could give this book a 10, I would! It has everything. Brilliant! I’m a fan for life.”

“I could not go to sleep until I finished this book, then I woke up the next morning to reread it.”

“You will laugh, cry and yell with this book, you won’t be able to put it down once you start reading it! THIS IS A BOOK NOT TO BE MISSED!!”

“Fabulously realistic and colorful, the descriptions of people and events are great.”

“Brilliant story. Made me laugh and cry. Have recommended it to family and friends.”

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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense about unrequited love – book 10 now available on Amazon!

                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom within minutes? What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but hey, we’re talking serious jail  time for you here. Which would you choose? Be honest now.  

She was the face of racism, the daughter of an evangelist hellbent on segregation among the population. No one knew her secret – she was in love with the grandson of an African servant.

Since their love is considered illegal, soulmates Sarie Vorster and Shabba Mxenge have no choice but to love each other in secret. Either that, or face imprisonment under the laws of apartheid. However, one night, the police kick down their door and arrest both of them for contravening the Immorality Act, which prohibits sexual relations between the white population and people of color. Sarie faces five years imprisonment, while Shabba faces ten years. When Sarie’s father, Pastor Schoeman Vorster learns about Sarie’s arrest, he is horrified – how does he face his congregation, his supporters, his peers who are staunch crusaders of racial segregation? To save his family’s reputation, the influential Pastor goes into damage control and comes up with a foolproof plan, one that has been used time and time again with great success – Sarie must simply state that Shabba has raped her. That he targeted her because of her stance against apartheid, kidnapped, then raped her. If she does, she will be free within hours to return to her over-privileged lifestyle, and most importantly, Pastor Schoeman and his family will save face among their apartheid-loving church. Who cares that Shabba would then face more 20 years in prison? Sarie does. As much as she longs for her freedom, much to the ire of her father, she refuses to lie. She states that she would rather do time, than betray the man she has loved since childhood. The pastor is furious at her and launches into plan B – together with a band of racist wardens, the man of God engineers situations in prison to systemically break his ‘rebellious’ daughter and force her to lie. Life in prison becomes a nightmare for Sarie. Time and time again, she finds herself at breaking point.

The question is; how long can the teenager be strong for love, for the man she pledged to love forever? Will she eventually cave and lie to secure her freedom?

Color Blind books 1-10 are now live on Amazon! 

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Praise for Color Blind:

“The style of writing this author uses is unique to every other writer out there. The humour is funnier than comedy and the horror is tear-jerking. I read this in less than a day.” “Read this book in one night! Great read and couldn’t put it down!” ‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected humor, this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better, you surpass yourself! I am biting my nails, wondering what will happen next!’

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