Read In Love with Ezra (Love Unaccounted Book 2) Online
Authors: Love Belvin
In Love with Ezra (Love Unaccounted Book 2)
In Love with Ezra
the Love Unaccounted Series
by Love Belvin
MKT Publishing
Copyright © 2015 by Love Belvin
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by
Visual Luxe
“They’re going to judge me,” she sighs, defeated.
My eyes shoot up from my tablet to meet her pensive ones that are now tracing each corner of my office. She’s been restless, dithering since arriving this morning for her session.
With a peaked brow I pointedly ask, “Who’s going to judge you?”
Rarely do my clients open a session with such concern about the anonymous ‘them;’ it’s counterintuitive.
Now with wild eyes she exclaims, “Your readers! Who the hell else?”
I place my tablet on the coffee table between us, sit back in my seat, and cross my arms and legs, silently inviting her to speak.
Within seconds, she takes the bait. “I’ve read
Love Lost
,
UnExpected
...” she falters.
I assist. “UnCharted—”
She gives a dismissive wave now that she’s gotten back on track with her thoughts. “...and
Redeemed
. Yes. I read Rayna’s story and saw all the judgmental reviews about her losing her edge once she met Azmir. They raked her over the coals about how she couldn’t possibly be so naïve, coming from the streets and all. And to be real, Love, if I hadn’t lived each moment of my story to understand how shit like that happens, I would agree with them, but...”
She slows again.
“But until you’ve been ‘bumrushed’ by love, you really don’t understand how life-altering it can be,” I add.
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes and smiles sheepishly, though unable to hide her emotions. “
Bumrushed
… I like that.” Her eyes grow wide. “See! You get it.”
I shrug, pouting my lips. “Sure, I do. It’s why I take on the couples I do. When you collide with love, it can reduce your most solid resolves, have you second-guessing yourself, and unwillingly make room for the other party’s views, opposing will, influence, lifestyles—”
“Kink!” she interjects her own factor.
Clearly, it’s what’s most troubling to her. Though I’ve never had a client on my couch tell me they’ve read my previous work, while theirs is still in session, her fears and apprehensions are normal. She’s one half of my fourth recorded couple and now that I’m growing established in my art form, I have to expect some clients to do their research beforehand.
Her arms are crossed as her eyes roll bitterly. This is really difficult for her. If I want this session to officially begin and move along smoothly, I have to give her some assurance.
I shift toward her over the table to express my keen observation. “Why do you believe you’ll be judged any more in this installment than you were in the last, Lex?”
“Because in the beginning I was in my own lane. I was on my Harlem Pride shit.” She pushed her fist into the air. “And what went down after that first spanking happened so damn quickly…”
This time I let the balance of her thoughts linger in the air between us. I observe Lex, the wife of Ezra Carmichael, and the second pliant female lead I’d taken on. She’s dressed in all black from her short sleeve mock cropped shirt to her high-waist gaucho pants and simple wide, flat, thong sandals showing her black painted toes. Lex’s unruly hair is pushed back into a simple ponytail, the ends reaching her back. Her makeup is almost nonexistent on her warm coffee, blemish-free, and even-shaded skin. Her nails are kept in their usual short, rounded shape and painted black.
Black…
Mysterious, hidden, unknown, secretive, unapproachable, unsure—or completely resolved.
“…that if it were not you, you wouldn’t buy it,” I finally threw a lifesaver.
Lex’s restless eyes round to meet mine. She’s right: these past few minutes have been filled with the presence of an uncharacteristic Lex Grier. I need to unclasp the strongholds.
“Lex, people make fruitless calls on strangers every day. One thing that has always struck me is how people love to remind others of not judging when it’s instinctive for human survival. We have to learn to ‘read’ people to be sure we’re attempting the best decision regarding them. We keenly evaluate new environments to decide if they’re safe. We wait on certain cues…keywords during the first few conversations with a man, to see if he’s being straight up. Some do the same with a crack-addicted relative before giving them money to see if they’re clean or not. We make judgments each day to survive, Lex, but one thing I can tell you is more often than not, those calls are subjective; they’re based on one’s personal experiences. No one person’s opinion is valid for all.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,
yeah
, folks will likely judge you. They will critique your actions and decisions—shoot, they’ll be judging me, too.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s a part of the game, Lex. It’s the same in real life. We’re harshly judged by relatives, people who claim to know and love us. You can’t be so concerned with what others will say. You have to stand firm on your decisions—good or bad—and learn from each of them. No one has the right to tell you how to go about your love life. If you’re not harming anyone, you should feel free to pursue it on your own terms. That’s what I enjoy about what I do.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t your story,” she reminds me coldly. “You’re just…transcribing it for the world to read and pick apart. No one even knows what you look like, who you fuck, or if you like men or girls. They only know the people you write about.”
Her arms wrap protectively around her waist again, shutting me out.
“You don’t think I get called out, too? You don’t think I’ve developed a body of work that people now consider a pattern?” I toss my hands in the air for dramatic flair. “I gotta thing for manipulative and aggressive men and headstrong yet fiery women. I go for the broken, the beautifully packaged yet deeply scarred men and women and what’s beneath their shiny armor. It’s what I do.” I shrug deeply, bringing my shoulders up to my ears, hiding my neck. “Sometimes they like it, sometimes they hate it. The ones that love it, only love it as long as the book they fell in love with is my most current. People are fickle—”
“And judgmental!” she insists.
“…and judgmental. Americans are the worst. Why do you think American one-hit wonders are still able to tour overseas and make a living there as opposed to at home? People are inconstant.” I slap my thighs in finality. “But what keeps me going is this fiery passion I have inside that I refuse to dim for fear of—”
“Judgment.” Lex interjects.
“Exactly…judgment. For every person who will judge you on what you share in this installment, there will be several more that will absorb your yielding to Ezra so they, in some shape or form in their own lives, will be able to apply that same level of flexibility to make the right call when the time comes. So, for now, you have to remove the audience, and focus on your experience and what you’ve learned from it to better you as a person.”
“Yeah,” she mumbles while nodding her head. “This is my shit. About me. I know who I am. I’m a warrior…with
Harlem Pride
.”
Like a trainer to her prized fighter in the ring, I nod in agreement with Lex. Our eyes lock and I feel her courage return to the room. She’s not the same Lex we knew, who self-pleasured to fall asleep, but she is the one we met, who possessed the determination to make the people around her happy. She’s strong, just less secure and…wholly affected.
By Ezra.
~Lex~
I gestured to the waiter for the check then caught my father’s eyes suspiciously scanning the restaurant.
“You sure you good, Lexi?” he asked for the twelfth time since I picked him up to see his P.O. then brought him to
DiFillippo’s
for lunch.
“Again,” my chords slogged out painfully, “I’m fine. Why do you keep asking that?”
His forehead stretched to the point of that ‘v’ forming between his eyes. “Because you ain’t been as”—he tapped his right hand on the table, considering his words—“as perky as you used to.” I rolled my eyes. “Matter fact, you ain’t as bouncy as you was since that day your old man tried to flex on me when I dropped you off at that
other
fancy as shit restaurant to meet him. Did that sucka fuck witchu, Lex?”
I rolled my eyes again. “First of all, his name is Ezra. Second, Ezra ain’t fucking with nobody,” I lied. “Moreover, if I seem stressed it
could
be because I still haven’t found a job and neither have you. You said you’re looking, but I don’t see proof and don’t understand why you can’t just work with PeeWee at
Champion Runway
—for real!” The waiter appeared and I handed him my card without even looking at the check. I continued as soon as he left. “Now, that’s the shit that can stress somebody the fuck out,” I scolded.
“You don’t seem to be hurting”—his eyes scoured the restaurant again with appraisal—“gotta nigga eatin’ at this bourgeois ass place in Tribeca and shit. How much was that food anyway?”
I tried not rolling my eyes again. I came here because I love the food, especially the crème brûlée. I’d never liked the French custard dessert until Ezra introduced it to me a few months ago. Coming here made me feel connected to him, strangely. I sighed, planting my elbows on the table and brushed my face with my palms. Even that thought made me think of him, how he’d stroke his beard with his fingers when frustrated or in heavy contemplation.
Shit!
“Doesn’t matter,” I grumbled.
“Don’t matter?” he asked incredulously. “How the fuck you figure that? Oh!” he sang with sudden revelation. “Because your old man footin’ the bill?”
“Because the account where that money is coming from is dwindling so fast that it wouldn’t matter what the bill is. We’re in deep shit if we don’t find work!” I warned through gritted teeth.
“Wait.” He cocked his head. “You mean to tell me that preacher man ain’t takin’ care of you? You smarter than that, Lex. Tell me you ain’t losing it.”
“Daddy, it isn’t Ezra’s job to take care of me. He didn’t marry a child. He married a grown ass woman, capable of fending for herself. He does far more than I’m comfortable with, but we”—I gestured with my index finger between the two of us—“have to do our part. We need jobs!” I couldn’t contain my alarming volume.
“Okay, but you good, right?” Rasul actually appeared concerned. “I mean, he hooks you up with some cash every now and then, right?”
This time, I
did
roll my eyes. The inquiry reminded me that I had access to two of Ezra’s accounts. I was sure he had more than two, because it was clear that I had no access to monies from his family’s portfolio, per his father’s insistence before we married.
Yup
. We’d signed a prenup. I really didn’t give a damn and had even fought Ezra on putting my name on his personal accounts. I certainly didn’t offer him mine. It didn’t matter that the balance in them were laughable compared to his; he didn’t have to know that. Nonetheless, he certainly put me on two with quite a few zeros that followed whole numbers. I’d never left the house with the cards, giving access to those. I was good with my own cards: the one racking up charges from gas and tolls from coming in and out of the City, and the other diminishing from paying bills for an apartment I no longer lived in and a cell phone I didn’t use.
I couldn’t share this with my father. He’d never understand our arrangement. For all he knew, I believed I was in love with Ezra and etched his name on napkins with starry-eyed feelings for him. He’d never understand that I married a brilliant, influential, super-spiritual, freaky, mind-fuck who liked to spank me.
A shiver ran from the top of my spine to the tip.
I spazzed the fuck out and swung on him.
I still couldn’t believe my reaction. What was more disturbing was that I was more regretful of my outburst than I was the spanking.
Before my swings landed, Ezra caught both my fists with effortless agility, swiftly turned me in his arms and pulled my back into his hard chest.
“Calm down, beloved,” he murmured forcefully into my ear.
“Get the fuck off of me before I kill your ass!” I demanded, boiling violent rage erupting.
“I will just as soon as you catch your breath.” He kept his voice low and in control.
Ezra was always in control, even when he whipped me. His lashes were measured, rhythmic even. I felt like a damn animal rather than the cherished lover he’d typically create the parody of. He was enjoying hitting me.
“You didn’t safeword, Alexis,” Ezra noted lowly, vocals producing an edge of reproach.
“Fuck a safe word! I got something better for that ass!” I yelled with scratchy chords. I was out of breath, imploding with uncontainable adrenaline.
I wrestled fruitlessly in his thick and knotted arms, imagining the ways I could bring him to his knees in crippling pain. He would never think to put his hands on another woman again. I didn’t advance much as I grunted and attempted to throw my weight onto him. This went on for a while until my energy depleted and legs gave out on me. Ezra held me in the air, preventing me from hitting the floor, effortlessly carried me up two flights of steps, and gently laid me on the bed, covering me with the comforter. When he closed the door behind himself after leaving me alone, something in me broke. I felt…ashamed.
Urgent lunges from my diaphragm made it difficult for me to keep my cry tamped down. This man had caused me to cry more than enough tears in the past few months. But I was no longer seething angry with Ezra. I was now embarrassed by my reaction. I’d invited him to ‘punish’ me—incited him, even when I recognized his hesitation. I’d practically begged him to do it. My actions humiliated me. Ezra and I were still strangers. He’d always carried himself with an air of dignity… And I’d spoken to him as though he were a block-hugger. I was prepared to attack a damn ninjutsu fighter! He could have killed me if so inclined. I didn’t believe deep in my gut that Ezra wanted to harm me, so much as he wanted to challenge me. But for what? And why in that manner?
I exhausted myself to sleep from the hyper-activity of my diaphragm with my tearless cries and running questions, bleared revelations. I didn’t awake until nightfall. The bed was empty. I showered and ate before searching the house for Ezra. By midnight I found him, sleeping shirtless in one of the guest bedrooms. My belly wrenched at that notion. This was his house.
It was also rejection. Ezra didn’t return to our bedroom—his bedroom—for three nights. His knee hitting his side of the bed, hurling me from my sleep a few nights ago was what prompted me to get waxed the following day. I missed Ezra terribly. It wasn’t any sappy desires for his doting or affection. It was the powerful tool between his columnar thighs, his practiced tongue, talented lips, and masterful big hands that lit a fire when they grazed my skin. I wanted to fuck him, and while I was embarrassed by my extreme reaction to his spanking last week, I was less ashamed of the need.
So, yes. I made an appointment to get waxed as my hair had begun to grow again. He clearly preferred me bare down there or else he would’ve never arranged for the brutal hair removal while we were away on our honeymoon in Kamigu, over two weeks ago. While I was on the table, I didn’t need to go inside my head to cope with the pain. I used memories of Ezra’s lush touch to goad my bravery. The new sensations I felt when he ravished my bare pussy far outweighed the pain of having it ripped from me. And I considered my next move while enduring the torture.
“Here you are, ma’am. If that will be all, you two have a great day.” The waiter returning with the check broke my reminiscent bubble.
“
Th
-thanks,” I stumbled on my words, receiving the leather portfolio. I added the tip and signed before looking over to my father, who was tapping away at his phone—the second one I’d purchased since his release. “I’m ready.”
He nodded and we left the restaurant with his head buried in the device. As my father yapped on the phone the entire way back to Harlem, I thought about how I would get things back on track with this impossible man. When I pulled up to my old apartment building, my father had just finished up a conversation that had seemed suspect. I fought to not confront him on it, not wanting to waste any more time in New York. Strangely, I was yearning for the woodlands of Jersey.
He pushed the door to my glistening gray metallic
F-Type
and let one leg out before turning back to me. “Yo, Lex, I’m down on cash. You could spot me a twenty?” he asked, applying that infamous mask of humility that used to twist my heart when I didn’t realize it was being used as a weapon to manipulate me.
“For what, Daddy? I just got you a fridge full of groceries two days ago,” I inquired, doing the typical role reversal of parent and child. “And if you let Leon and them eat it all after a day of drinking, you’re up a creek without a damn pa—”
“For cigs and pocket money, Lex! Damn!” He grimaced. “I get tired of asking these niggas for money. You think I don’t want my own shit?”
I took a deep breath. My funds were decreasing quicker than I anticipated, now with him as a dependent. Ms. Remah had never relied on me to this degree. But I didn’t like my father having to ask the homies for money because it made him look weak, and in Harlem world the moment you were caught slipping was the one someone would inevitably try to test your chin. I didn’t want my father back behind bars from trying to maintain his reputation. He was getting too old for that shit.
I went for my purse. “This is going to have to last you at least a week. I don’t get paid until next week—”
Fuck!
I let that slip.
“How you get paid with no job?” he barked. “See, this the shit I be talking about. You be holding back like a mufucka, Lex!”
“It’s my last check from my job. They closed the doors early and still have to pay us the little money left over in payroll,” I grumbled my lie.
It was my last check; however, it was a balloon check for paid time off the city owed me.
“A’ight, so we good then.” He tested the theory, issuing a searing gaze.
“No the hell we aren’t! After paying these bills”—I tossed my arm toward the building—“that’s it for me! No more money coming my way.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him the only bill in there. “Here’s a twenty spot. Hold on to it, Daddy!”
“Okay, baby girl,” he cooed before reaching over to pull me into a hug and kissed my cheek.
That manipulative gesture warmed my heart. It didn’t matter that it was game. He was my father and I yearned for his affection, similar to the way I desperately wanted to get back on level ground with Ezra. I needed these two men happy with me and would do what was necessary to make that happen.
“Get the fuck outta here,” I murmured while giving him a soft nudge.
He laughed at my telling smirk. As he exited the small car he crooned, “If there was…such a thing as a wish come true. I would wish…for you to love me just as much as I love yooooou…”
And I knew the serenade. The Whispers’ “Chocolate Girl” was our song. He’d sing it through good times and bad, and especially when he was gaming my ass. Sometimes gaming didn’t involve naiveté on the part of the receiving party. There were times that one party didn’t mind being in the know of the manipulation just to receive the implied interest of the gamer.
As I pulled off, my father continued belting our song. He even continued while I was at the light, waiting for it to turn green so I could get the hell out of Dodge.
My first stop, once in West Milford, was the grocery store. I needed a few items to prepare my husband’s favorite: braised lamb chops. I’d called his mother a couple of days ago for her recipe.
She loved that shit, and I loved indulging her for my own agenda.
At the register, when I swiped my card, I couldn’t look the cashier directly in his eyes. My heart pounded at the possibility of my card coming up declined. I don’t know why, I was 70% sure I hadn’t reached my balance, but still filled with anxiety. When the payment cleared I let out a silent breath and whisper of gratitude to the Man upstairs before hauling my ass out of there.