I took over my Daddy’s coffee shop after he died and thought everything ran smoothly. That was, until the new owners decided to jack up my rent at an unbearable cost.

Just when I was about to close down the shops and let go of the employees, I received numerous checks to keep me up float. Everything was going well until he showed up.

After I cashed the checks, he demanded the payment in full as he reminded me what he signed on the memos:

The first one: You.

The second one: Belong.

The third one: To.

The last and final one: Me.

I knew my guardian angel wasn’t that generous without some invisible and thick strings attached. He doesn’t want money; he wants me. Unless I have something to say about it, he will have me.

Finesse is a standalone erotic novella that deals with long-lost love, forgiveness, and starting over.


Funerals are not for the dead; they’re for the living to show off.

Every funeral I’ve been to it’s been one fashion show after another. From my uncles in their finest Stacy Adams to my aunties clutching their Tiffany pearls and designer black Gucci shades to the church ushers straight out of a beauty salon or a fresh fade.

You’ve been to one funeral, you’ve been to them all. They all have the same thing: a choir, a processional/viewing, somebody sharing great stories, somebody taking a bit too long and needs to hurry up and sit down. Somber music played. Joyful numbers people shout Hallelujah to.

Every funeral is the same except this one – my daddy’s.

It was just me and my daddy from since I was three. My mother decided motherhood and wifedom was just not for her so she bounced. I’ve seen my mother a handful times in the past 24 years of my life and each time I see her, she’s more unrecognizable than before.

It’s not necessarily her fault and I no longer have any ill will towards her. Daddy’s had plenty of girlfriends that have come and gone, but they’ve all left lasting impressions:

Keisha was the around the way girlfriend. She had her ears to the streets, but kept my daddy on his business. She taught me about puberty and boys. “Don’t trust them motherfuckers.” She’d always warned me. Lord knows I wished I listened to her.

Karen was the lone white woman Daddy brought home, but she could throw down in the kitchen. She could make anything from Asian, Latino, and even pretty damn good baked macaroni and cheese. She taught me how to cook. “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she told me, “give him a good meal and he’ll hand over his wallet, baby.” It was sound advice.

Shanice was the biracial girlfriend who was a walking advertisement for every name brand out there. She taught me about fashion and makeup. “You can’t have a face beat to the gods and look like you just rolled out of bed, booboo.” She’s never had a hair out of place.

Those are the top three I remember. They’re all here with me. The other girlfriends never made it past the front door. I guess Daddy knew better than to bring them inside to meet me. I respect his game.

Posted on March 4, 2020