Changing Stiles Read online

  CHANGING Stiles

  CHANGING Stiles

  A NOVEL

  By

  Elaine L. Allen

  Perfect Perceptions Publishing

  www.perfectperceptions.wixsite.com/elainelallen

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, organizations, locations are used with the intent purpose to provide reader with sense of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All characters appear in this work as a product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

  Copyright © 2018 Elaine L. Allen

  All rights reserved.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or in any means whatsoever without authorization. For more information contact Perfect Perceptions Publishing.

  ISBN- 13:978-0-578-40189-8

  ISBN- 10: 0-578-40189-4

  LCCN: 2018961520

  Published by and for Perfect Perceptions Publishing

  Cover Art: Tiffany Black for T.E. Black Designs

  www.teblackdesigns.com

  Edited by: Patrice Harrison for Little Pear Editing Services www.littlepearediting.com

  Inside Photo credit Nakita TV (Shutterstock)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my sister, Crystal Allen who proved this year, that second chances are possible. She was diagnosed with two types of cancer this year and is still breathing. She is healing and strong and ready to live her best life. Her faith is amazing, and I love her to pieces and am humbled by her strength.

  And to Love…

  May we all find it…

  May we all have it…

  Acknowledgements

  Sometimes I remember the me I was before life started happening. It’s like fifteen years happened in a blink if an eye and I’m convinced I didn’t make all the right choices. But I am also a firm believer in the perfection of His timing. Through it, I’ve learned to have patience and plenty of it. I believe in love and all the in-betweens. I believe in do-overs and second chances for and want them for everyone wishing for one.

  Sometimes, love comes back around, right at the moment you're ready.

  Special thanks to my 1st round BETA readers: Latifa Scott, Kina DeShazor. I was hungry for feedback and y'all gave it to me… And my editor, Patrice Harrison for her dedication to her craft.

  To my supporting cast, My Golden Girls, I love y’all forever

  And My Nyah and My Mir

  To my readers, I want to say, THANK YOU for taking the time out to allow me to entertain you with words.

  DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE?

  AND

  SECOND CHANCES

  CAUSE…

  I WISH THAT WE COULD SEE…

  IF WE COULD BE...

  COULD BE SOMETHING…

  Prologue

  November 2013

  Alieas

  I already told you to stop texting me! My fingers, impatient with fury, slide across the small keys of my phone. I can feel the heat rising. My temperature and attitude are about to erupt, but I have to whooosa this ish out. It’s not worth it, and I should continue to ignore him, but the constant texting is about to make me catch a case. I’m at my wits’ end with this dating crap.

  You refuse to answer my calls. How else are we going to resolve this, so we can get over this?

  We don’t have anything to get over, Jermaine. You a fuckin’ liar and I’m too old and too good for you to explain or break it down. We are over.

  Lieas, answer the damn phone. It’s your birthday, babe. I have something special planned.

  Yup, the big three-three. Nothing to show for it if you ask my mother, except being an author, and an entrepreneur with a big-ass condo, luxury car, health coverage, and a nice nest egg. In this financial climate, you have to have something tucked away for retirement. And until the other day, I had reliable dick. It’s like I lost another one and that is all Nicole Stiles-Wright will be concerned with.

  The thought of it pissed me off to the astronomical level but I refuse— I mean refuse— to let it show.

  Do it with your fake ass cousin. I typed back. My petty attempt to let him know that I remember and there ain’t one ounce of nothing that’s going to allow me to forget it.

  Rolling my eyes, I make quick work of blocking his ass and deleting his contact info. Last time, he was slick and started calling me from his second cell phone. Second cell. Yeah, that should’ve been my clue. But my ole’ trusting, tryna-find-a-man-and-get-married-before-I’m-too-old-to-have-babies-ass was feeling kind of low and I backtracked. Nope, not this time. It didn’t get me any closer to the man of my dreams, marriage, or the cute behind babies I think I‘m destined to have.

  I guess I’m just going to put this out there to let it marinate. I’m going to be single for the rest of my life. Don’t have time for the foolishness of these modern-day fuckboys. If you’re confused, that includes the jobless, ambitionless dumbasses, lames, cheaters, cheap nuccas, roommates with their baby mommas “but there’s nothing going on ass nuccas”, live at home with their mommas, and the “got their shit together but not looking for nothing” type brothas.

  I hate them all.

  And I’m done.

  Don’t want to be done but I am until these nuccas act right. Like damn, how hard is it to be honest, respectful, sane, hardworking, good-looking, and can screw. At the same damn time?

  Karma ain’t sugar-honey-ice-tea. The thought slipped in there so quickly and slyly I don’t know where it came from, but it lives solely to remind me that I could’ve had it all, and I fucked it up because I wasn’t adult enough to articulate my feelings.

  I loved hard once and maybe I didn’t know how to handle it. And before I had sense enough to realize it for what it was, he was gone. He was not putting up with my stupid behavior. Whatever my excuses were, I’ll always say I deserved a second chance; at least a moment to explain and he didn’t allow time for any.

  No second chance. No happy ending. And no Carter Reed.

  And I’m still alone.

  I did get a book out of it; so, I guess the experience was cathartic. He was at that point in his life where I am now. He’s probably happily married by now.

  Some nights, I dream of him and those dreams get shattered by the reality of the next morning when I wake alone, without him and still heartbroken.

  I know; it’s my fault. With everything that was going on, I put three states- worth of distance between us along with all my other fucked up issues. I ran, and he didn’t follow.

  So, I guess the love I felt wasn’t mutual or as unconditional and forgiving as promised. In the ten years since, I can’t really say I’ve loved, been in love, or felt anything as strong it was with him.

  Fuck men.

  I’m bad at love… but you can’t blame me for trying…

  “Whose ass are you are about to kick?” my business partner, Aylonah James, inquires when the creases in my forehead deepen and my eyebrows damn near touch one another. She knows all my faces. Had cataloged them so she could predict when I'd unleash my crazy, so she can talk me down.

  My temper and flip lip always require me to have someone around to talk me down. And for the past ten years, she has gladly taken on the task. We knew one another in passing through my cousin Briannah, who also happens to be Lon’s closest friend. They used to live up the hill on the other side of Susquehanna Ave. We had never really hung out in our teens. She was always studying and stayed busy. I knew her cousin Chrissy a ill’ bit better. She used to date Bri’s brother Brian and was around when my cousin and his squad flipped everything in the streets they had to in order to make a come-up. The late nineties was popping
for them.

  It has always amazed me that they were a family of full-blown Native Americans living in the heart of the hood. There was a period in time when everyone used to claim to have Indian in their family, attributing it to their “good” hair and exotic looks, but Lon and them really did. She’s half black, though.

  In any case, I happened to run into Lon at a flea market in Friendship Heights and discovered that we were both attending Howard for grad school and had somehow missed one another on campus. I was channeling all this emotional baggage regarding Carter and my father and wanted to get it out in book form. Lon had been writing for years, had an agent, and had already been published. So, she helped me grind to get my five-hundred-page manuscript turned into a real-life, in-your-hand, paperback book.

  We’ve been rocking and rolling ever since, using our collaborative efforts to open J.S. Publishing. With the advancement of the internet and other online services, we were able to maximize the initial rainfall of profits from the skyrocketing e-book market. The rocket is still in flight, and we’re still reaping the rewards. We’re opening a brick and mortar bookstore/coffee shop. Something small that reminds me of The Spot when I used to do spoken word. Even with the changing climate and the dimming future of physical books, people still enjoy coffee and muffins, intimate reading settings, poetry slams, and book clubs. So, it may be crazy, considering so many Barnes and Nobles and Books-A-Millions are closing all across the country. I look at the success of places like Busboys and Poets, and I see the potential for ours. That’s our plan but on a smaller scale. We're working tirelessly, building our brand. I have an interactive book reading and signing scheduled at the new Barnes and Noble on Temple’s campus for Saturday afternoon and some overdue bonding time with my girls and my mom.

  I almost miss real estate and rehabbing properties, the day-to-day checking work sites. The eye-candy. I shake my head. It was definitely another time. A time when I was trying to prove to my father that I could contribute to our family’s growing business. That I could be the respectable child that my older brother Grayson had failed to be. Gray is reformed, but me? I’m over it.

  Now, I’m like, “fudge it.” More so toward my father. Real estate was collateral damage in our relationship.

  Myself. I shake my head, tap my cell in the palm on my hand and solemnly say, “No damn body.”

  Lon frowned, not believing one word. “Your face is definitely saying something else,” she read me.

  Unfazed, I flagged the pestering thoughts surrounding nut-ass Jermaine and my mom’s voice questioning me about grandchildren and forgiving my father. “I’m getting the hell old,” I laugh.

  Lon hit her thigh and laughed a little. Her bronzed cheeks became rosy beneath the almost copper tone as she added, “You are.”

  I nudge her slim shoulder with mine as she settled onto the bench seat beside me. “Whatever,” I murmur. I look around. My mind is consumed with one thing and one thing only. “Where’s the damn cake?”

  In honor of my birthday, my office surprises me with lunch and a small party. I’m sure I would appreciate the effort and the thought if I wasn’t already on the edge of insanity.

  Lon chuckles, “Shhh, you need to stop.”

  I stretch my arms over my head and yawn at the same time. “I’m leaving in a few. I have to get on the road and make it to my parents’ before dinner.”

  Lon nods “You ready for your mom to be tripping about you still being single?”

  Nonchalantly, I flag my hand at the idea. If I allow it, my mother would drive me the fuck crazy from a couple hundred miles away, and I’ve concluded that I can do that all on my own. “I’m used to her badgering. It’ll be the unspoken way that all of my friends will be all crazy happy with their families.”

  Lon wouldn’t understand. I can’t remember the last time she was single. And just in the last year, her high school and college boyfriend Jason had shown up in D.C. with the intention of making her forget all their time apart. I would be surprised if she doesn’t call me soon to say he popped the question. What the hell are the chances of anyone I loved – really loved— just walking up to me, like, ‘Hey ’?

  I can’t imagine Carter popping up out of nowhere like, “What’s up?”

  My heart races in anticipation of another of my friends tying the knot. I sound like a Debby Downer, but I really do love to see people in love. I'm a romance writer. I love all things love. I just hate when that nagging ass fear that it’ll never be me just plays on repeat.

  They dim the lights and begin to sing. A chorus of off-key voices singing two different versions of ‘Happy Birthday,’ fills the room.

  Happiness seeps in with the clashing vocals of my everyday eight. I listen, happily amused, despite my need to wallow in self-pity. “Haaap-py Birthday to ya…” “Happy Biiiiirthday to you…” Finally, the cake makes an appearance. It’s a replica of my latest book, 30 Last Dates: A Comedic Tale of Dating in Your 30s. Three long-stemmed sparklers help illuminate the darkness of the room and my mood. I clap my hands in wonder, taking in the fact that these people genuinely appreciate and care for me. The warmth of their laughter and obnoxious singing hypes me into standing up. Lon quickly stands up too, leans in, and nudges my shoulder again.

  “Go ahead and make a wish,” she whispers for my ears only.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up; the signing stops for a moment but only in my mind, though. My palms get sweaty and my entire life flashes before my eyes in a three-second blink.

  Fuck everything I said. I still want love. Am ready for everything that comes with it.

  Closing my eyes, I blow at the sparklers. “I promise I’m ready,” I think to myself, praying that God is listening. On one last blow, the sparklers finally extinguish, and I wish for, a second chance.

  ******

  I checked into my hotel and found myself thoroughly impressed with the accommodations. The bookstore had sent over a beautiful bouquet of seasonal flowers and an edible arrangement with chocolate-covered strawberries. Of course, that was a welcoming surprise. I would love to just fall into the plush-looking king-sized bed with its fluffy, inviting pillows. But I still have to go to my mom’s before turning in. Gray, Nesha, and the kids are going to be there. Bri had texted that she'd see me there, so I’m certain my mom cooked dinner and is trying to surprise me with a get-together. I guess I should adjust my attitude to the likely possibility of being up all night with my family. I know I had cake already, but there better be another one involved. My mom makes the best cakes from scratch with thick, buttercream frosting and a handwritten love note that she designates especially for the birthday recipient.

  I chuckle. I've shed at least one hundred pounds collectively in my lifetime, but I'm still a fatty at heart.

  Not sure how I left my toiletry bag, but it was missing when I unpacked. So, I’m browsing the aisles of Target on City Line Ave, picking up a bunch of shit that I do not need. I swear Target is the devil. Come for a tube of toothpaste and leave with everything except what you went there for in the first place. I head to the mini book section, hoping and praying that I at least see one of our titles on the shelves. Definitely praying that 30 Last Dates is featured. I'm always nervous in a way I can’t explain when I’m in the store and I’m wondering if they carry me. I get straight crazy when I see my distribution dollars at work.

  The familiar rush of pride settles as I see them there nestled in between other African-American authors. I squat down because, of course, they need to be displayed in a prominent space to get some immediate focal attention. I quickly rearrange them to a corner display and move a couple other titles. Folding my arms, I breathe in deeply and smile. I know as soon as they reshop the floor, they’re going to go back to where they belong, drowning in the middle of a sea of other books.

  More pride consumes me when I see a woman take a copy. I observe her as she opens it up, reads what’s on the page, and then smiles that confident buyer, happy reader smile.


  “Yes,” she murmurs to herself.

  Yup, that’s me. And as obnoxious and attention-seeking as I can be, I don’t feel like it tonight.

  She lets out an embarrassed chuckle when she realizes that I'm watching her. She holds the book up in the air.

  “I love her books.”

  I laugh and from a safe distance, I say, “Me too. Enjoy.”

  “She's doing a book signing tomorrow,” she continues. The smile on her face paying me more joy than any Facepage comment or IG post could.

  I can say she fits my targeted demographic. African-American, late twenties/ early thirties, maybe. She dressed down for a Friday night, so it’s probably a good book and hot cocoa type of evening for her at home.

  “Hold up!” She flips to the back cover and stares at me with more scrutiny as her brows bunch up. Then she tilted her head to the side and the smile widened. “Oh my gosh. You’re her!” she laughs.

  Authors aren’t actually celebrities, so I never expect to be recognized unless I'm at a book related event. But I have a sizeable following on Instagram and Twitter, though. I’m completely flattered. Though, I'm sure my current get-up does not do any justice to my professional cover photo. I’m dressed rather warmly for the biting cold weather in Uggs, jeans, an oversized mule cape, tan baseball style cap, and a Gucci tote slung over my shoulder. I would’ve worn my shades, but I hate when there’s no damn sun and people be sporting sunglasses inside a building.

  I kind of smile and shrug my shoulders. “Yes. I’m her.” This is usually the part when we smile, take pictures, and I autograph the book. I’m not even going to front. I fucking love knowing that readers enjoy my work. This is why I write.

  Well, I’m also crazy. so aside from the joy of love, drama, and mystery, it’s the only way to get away with murder without committing an actual crime. And everyone can have a happy ending if I want them to.