I'd Rather Be With You Read online

  Also by Mary B. Morrison

  If I Can’t Have You Series

  If I Can’t Have You

  I’d Rather Be With You

  Soulmates Dissipate Series

  Soulmates Dissipate

  Never Again Once More

  He’s Just a Friend

  Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top

  Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This

  When Somebody Loves You Back

  Darius Jones

  The Honey Diaries

  Sweeter Than Honey

  Who’s Loving You

  Unconditionally Single

  Darius Jones

  She Ain’t the One (coauthored with Carl Weber)

  Maneater (anthology with Noire)

  The Eternal Engagement

  Justice Just Us Just Me

  Who’s Making Love

  Mary B. Morrison, writing as HoneyB

  Sexcapades

  Single Husbands

  Married on Mondays

  The Rich Girls Club

  Presented by Mary B. Morrison

  Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders

  (an anthology of fiction written by thirty-three 6th graders)

  I’d Rather Be With You

  MARY B. MORRISON

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE - Madison

  CHAPTER 1 - Madison

  CHAPTER 2 - Granville

  CHAPTER 3 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 4 - Tisha

  CHAPTER 5 - Madison

  CHAPTER 6 - Johnny

  CHAPTER 7 - Granville

  CHAPTER 8 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 9 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 10 - Tisha

  CHAPTER 11 - Madison

  CHAPTER 12 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 13 - Johnny

  CHAPTER 14 - Madison

  CHAPTER 15 - Granville

  CHAPTER 16 - Tisha

  CHAPTER 17 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 18 - Tisha

  CHAPTER 19 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 20 - Johnny

  CHAPTER 21 - Granville

  CHAPTER 22 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 23 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 24 - Madison

  CHAPTER 25 - Johnny

  CHAPTER 26 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 27 - Madison

  CHAPTER 28 - Granville

  CHAPTER 29 - Granville

  CHAPTER 30 - Madison

  CHAPTER 31 - Madison

  CHAPTER 32 - Granville

  CHAPTER 33 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 34 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 35 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 36 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 37 - Granville

  CHAPTER 38 - Madison

  CHAPTER 39 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 40 - Madison

  CHAPTER 41 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 42 - Granville

  CHAPTER 43 - Loretta

  CHAPTER 44 - Tisha

  CHAPTER 45 - Granville

  CHAPTER 46 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 47 - Madison

  CHAPTER 48 - Chicago

  CHAPTER 49 - Madison

  CHAPTER 50 - Granville

  CHAPTER 51 - Chicago

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  The IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU series continues with

  Copyright Page

  In loving memory of Elester Noel, my mother, Joseph Henry Morrison, my father.

  Acknowledgments

  The list of individuals to acknowledge continues to grow as I’ve met some of the most amazing people. First and foremost, I thank God for blessing me with the gift to write, the courage to pen what’s in my heart, the continued growth in my career, and I thank Him for you.

  My son, Jesse Bernard Byrd Jr., is absolutely amazing. I often say, “God gave me the right child.” Not because Jesse has written his first novel, not because he owns his clothing business (www.OiseauChateau.com), or that he has a degree from UC Santa Barbara, but God gave me a child who is respectful and considerate of others. Jesse is passionate about his life, hardworking, and he’s fearless in the pursuit of his dreams.

  I’m happy my son has an awesome girlfriend, Emaan Abbass. The two of them are great together. They often plan surprise dates for one another. I’ve heard my son say, “If it’s going to bother Emaan, I won’t do it.” Most selfish things that couples do, in the end, isn’t worth it. An ounce of prevention can save a whole lot of heartaches. I’m glad my son and his girlfriend get it.

  Jason Grisby, you are the man! I’m proud of you. Thanks for sending me an autographed pair of Adidas tennis shoes. I love them! I’ve put them on the shelf so I can tell people, “I know JG.”

  While doing research for this novel, I stayed thirty-one days at La Maison, an urban bed-and-breakfast in Midtown, Houston, Texas. The owners, Sharon Owens and Genora Boykins, definitely made me feel at home. The chef, Sergio, prepared breakfast for me every day, and Tommi tidied my room every day. Thanks, everyone!

  Preparing for the theatrical release of the movie Soulmates Dissipate, I decided to give my website a new look. Richard C. Montgomery, Fransis Young, Kim Mason, worked with Kensington’s experts, Lesleigh Irish-Underwood and Michele Santelices, to create the new www.MaryMorrison.com. I sincerely appreciate what each of you contributed.

  Raynard Richardson and Donald Hogan, thanks for taking me to lunch while I was in Houston. Sharing memories of the days I worked with you guys at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development was so much fun. Ray, that hookup with Harold V. Dutton, Jr. might work out. If not, I guess you’ll have to find me another Houston hubby. Good luck! Don’t introduce me to one of those “women are seen and not heard” kinda dudes. Not my type.

  Clemetric Thomas-Frazier, my Facebook friend who’s now like family, you’re a true jewel. I’m waiting for you to finish your book, chick. Stop procrastinating!

  “Someone old, someone new, someone borrowed, and no one blue” best describes the guys I connected with while in Houston. All shall remain nameless, but you know who you are. What can I say? I love a man in a suit and cowboy boots!

  To the Honorable Vanessa Gilmore, your assistance is greatly appreciated. You truly are a diva judge. I wish you and your son, Sean, the best.

  I spent countless “happy hours” at Pappadeaux, Pappasito’s, and Carrabba’s penning lots of pages. Thanks to all the bartenders who served me well. Andrew “Drew” Coleman at Eddie V’s, I wish you the best, man, and look forward to your modeling and acting career being a huge success.

  My friend since third grade, Vanessa Ibanitoru, I love you, sis. Brenda Jackson, Kenneth Todd, Bill Voget, Felicia Polk, Vyllorya A. Evens, Marilyn Edge, Carmen Polk, Malissa Tafere-Walton, Celeste Surrell, and Eve Lynne Robinson, your friendship is priceless.

  Marissa Monteilh, aka Pynk, Lisa Renee Johnson, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Victor McGlothin, you’re some of the most talented authors, and it’s truly my honor to know you.

  I often wonder what it would’ve been like to know my mother, Elester Noel, and my father, Joseph Henry Morrison. Well, those are opportunities that will never be on earth. I look forward to our union in the afterlife when that time comes.

  My great aunt Ella Beatrice Turner and my great uncle Willie Frin-kle reared me, and for that I am eternally grateful. Honestly, I’m not sure if I could do for others what these two did for me, but I’d like to believe that every day I would raise, educate, clothe, and feed four children who weren’t my own. God bless those who do. A
special thanks to my earthly mother, Barbara H. Cooper.

  Wayne, Andrea, Derrick, and Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel are my siblings. Thanks, guys, for always believing in me. More important, I pray you guys understand that I am eternally evolving. Artists are birthed from the womb, but I swear we come from the moon.

  I genuinely appreciate all of my Facebook family, friends, and fans, my Twitter followers, and my McDonogh 35 Senior High alumni. I don’t know many graduates that love their high school as much as we Roneagles do. I’m forever indebted to all of the teachers in my hometown of New Orleans at F. P. Ricard, McDonogh 36, Carter G. Woodson, and McDonogh 35. Many of you encouraged me to believe in myself, and that has made the difference in my life today.

  Thanks to my editor and friend, Selena James at Kensington Publishing Corporation. You’re the best. Appreciation to Steven Zacharius, Adam Zacharius, Laurie Parkin, Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, Lesleigh Irish-Underwood, and everyone else at Kensington for growing my literary career.

  Well, what’s an author without brilliant agents? I’m fortunate to have two of the best agents in the literary business, Andrew Stuart and Claudia Menza. You are appreciated. Kenneth Norwick, looking forward to it!

  I thank everyone that is making the Soulmates Dissipate film series possible—Leslie Small, director/producer, Jeff Clanagan, CEO of Codeblack Entertainment and producer, Dawn C. Mallory, Jesse Byrd Jr., and all of you at Lionsgate. It’s Hollywood, baby!

  Wishing peace and prosperity in abundance for each of my readers. Dream with your eyes wide open.

  Visit me online at www.MaryMorrison.com, sign up for my Honey-Buzz newsletter. Join my fan page on Facebook at Mary-Honey-B-Morrison, and follow me on Twitter, @marybmorrison.

  I can’t thank my fans enough, but it’s Granville time, y’all! That dude is still crazy, as we say in N’awlins (bay-bay)!

  This is novel #2 in the If I Can’t Have Yo u Series

  PROLOGUE

  Madison

  If there were a hell on earth, my wedding day would’ve been there. A month ago, we were at one of Houston’s five-star hotels near the intersection of Main and Ewing. The one man who wanted me more than my husband did show up at our wedding reception. The luxurious poolside was lined with guests dressed in the finest attire. Budding lights garnishing the walls and columns dazzled. The white lilies, roses, and gardenias surrounding us smelled heavenly. The blue water below the high arch where my bridal party stood sparkled like someone had tossed a handful of diamonds on top.

  My brilliant smile vanished and the flowers couldn’t keep a wilted spirit from consuming me. When I saw his face, I thought I’d die. He frightened me more than the gun he’d pointed at my head from across the room. Out of anger, not concern for my safety, my newly married husband pushed me away. My heels slipped off the arched stairway above the swimming pool and I fell into the water below.

  Fear ordered my next steps. I swam along the bottom to the opposite end, climbed out of the pool, and escaped along with my guests. I couldn’t blame my husband for being upset. I’d denied having sex with any man during our engagement.

  Men lied all the time. For me, it was once.

  The loser who showed up at the hotel during the toast wasn’t a man I’d ordinarily open my legs for. If I could’ve changed one thing about that night, I wouldn’t have recorded a video to prove to my girlfriend I’d won her stupid bet. I’d gone all the way with her ex.

  We both knew the guy was mentally unstable. But neither of us thought he’d do the unimaginable. Intercourse with her ex turned violent, sending me to the emergency room. He stole the tape, downloaded it, and sent a link to my fiancé. When my fiancé came to my house, showed me the footage, and asked me to explain, I did what any respectable Southern girl would do. I said, “He’s someone I dated before we met.”

  My man loved and believed me, until Granville Washington showed up at our reception and shot my husband three times.

  CHAPTER 1

  Madison

  Have you ever loved someone so much you could kill him? My signature was a heartbeat away from doing that. I’d signed the authorization to take my husband off life support. He was a good man. But there were times when being a good person wasn’t enough. Some would say he did all the right things in our relationship, but he did them for the wrong woman. I’d disagree. Unlike most women, I knew my self-worth. The brilliant diamond wedding ring on my finger was there because I’d earned it.

  “Mrs. DuBois,” the doctor softly said. “I still have the paper in my hand. It’s not too late to have a change of heart.” He stood in front of me as though my time was up.

  In a small private space, there was a desk, two chairs, a computer, the doctor, and me. The door with a large square windowpane was closed.

  The room suddenly got colder as though someone had locked me in a morgue, alone, with the Grim Reaper. The chill penetrated me so deep I froze from the inside out. Reminded me of a trip I’d taken to New York City to celebrate New Year’s Eve. I was in the midst of tens of thousands of people bundled in coats. Their faces were wrapped with scarves. My feet were stuffed in fur-lined boots. My hands were inside cashmere-coated gloves and I was in Times Square, freezing.

  Tapered to my body, the sleeveless black dress I’d chosen to put on this morning was midthigh. The back of my legs stuck to the hard plastic chair. I hugged myself, then slid my hands up and down the chill bumps covering my arms. I wiggled my fingers; they were stiff. I pressed them together; then I rubbed them back and forth. I wanted to cry for my husband, for myself, but this was not the time to break down. There were too many what-ifs in my mind competing for attention; it felt like my head was going to explode. My unchanging heart was heavy and numb. I’d heard the doctor, but I didn’t respond.

  I sat staring at the beige tile beneath my four-inch black platform stilettos. What if my husband died before I made it to the hospital’s exit? What if all of his football fans blamed me for his death? What if I hadn’t had sex with that idiot, Granville? What if the baby growing inside me was the result of my infidelity? What if the tape Granville stole from my house of us having sex ended up online for millions to see? What if I continued to delay having surgery for my breast cancer? What if something went wrong with my operation and I ended up on life support? Would I want someone to take me off?

  Gazing into the doctor’s eyes, I told him, “My decision is final.”

  He remained quiet for several minutes, then said, “Okay. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be in the room when he’s disconnected from the machine, but I have to—”

  “Ask?” I paused, then continued, “No, you don’t.”

  Already dressed for the possibility of becoming a grieving widow, I stood, with one foot in front of him, and opened my mouth. I wanted to ask how long did he think it would be before I received the call saying my husband was dead.

  Don’t do that, Madison. The doctor will think you’re insensitive.

  The truth was, I did care for Roosevelt. Hopefully, his transition would happen within twenty-four hours. Just in case he lingered more than a day, I’d already approved comfort care for him. The staff could insert an IV and administer morphine as often as needed to eliminate the pain I had caused.

  In the end I’d done what was best for my husband. Now it was time to start focusing on my health. My father had made arrangements for my mother and me to leave the country. At his request I’d given my dad full power of attorney to handle my business. Papa didn’t want me being constantly threatened by strangers, and Mama didn’t want me to be in a foreign place all by myself.

  How hundreds of thousands of my husband’s fans could hate me, when they didn’t know me, meant Papa had done the right thing. I wished people would tend to their own situations and leave me the hell alone.

  Mama and I would stay gone for almost a year, until I had my baby and recovered from surgery. Southerners were accustomed to sending pregnant teens away, letting them give birth, pu
tting the baby up for adoption, then allowing them to return home as if nothing had happened.

  My circumstances were different. I was a grown woman. Regardless who the father was, I was bringing my child back to America. By the time we returned, Papa believed things would’ve calmed down and someone else would be media worthy of inexplicable hatred.

  A woman’s love for a dying man could make him want to live. Out of respect I should have wanted to say my last good-byes but I didn’t want to encourage Roosevelt to live longer. Tears burned my eyes. Was my husband scared? Was he tired of holding on and ready to let go? Without me by his side, my husband would soon exhale for the last time.

  “Mrs. DuBois. Roosevelt is an icon in our community. Look, he’s the youngest GM in football. He’s on the league’s ethics committee. He’s brought our team back. He could possibly take us to the championship. More than just you love him. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” the doctor asked. His eyes watered with sadness. “It’s not too late to rip this up,” he said, waving the paper in my direction.

  The doctor probably sensed I was torn, but it was my decision to make my life—make that our lives—easier. My husband wasn’t strong enough to survive on his own, and I didn’t want to spend our future taking care of him. I mean, what if I had to push him around in a wheelchair? Or hire someone to bathe and feed him? I was a beautiful, vibrant, sexy, thirty-five-years-young woman ready to share the spotlight of being an executive vice president/general manager’s wife. I didn’t sign a license to be his caretaker.

  Oh, well. I’m convinced. A blissful marriage is never going to happen. At least not with Roosevelt “Chicago” DuBois. His professional administrative football career is over.

  Letting Roosevelt go was easier than telling my husband the three-month-old baby inside me might not be his. There was a chance I could give birth to a child who would remind me every day that I’d cheated. Why? Because of the bet I’d made with my girlfriend.