The One I've Waited For Read online

  Also by Mary B. Morrison

  The Crystal Series

  Baby, You’re the Best ** Just Can’t Let Go ** The One I’ve

  Waited For

  If I Can’t Have You Series

  If I Can’t Have You ** I’d Rather Be with You ** If You Don’t

  Know Me

  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 Series

  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 sixth graders)

  The One I’ve Waited For

  MARY B. MORRISON

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 1 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 2 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 3 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 4 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 5 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 6 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 7 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 8 - Blake

  CHAPTER 9 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 10 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 11 - Blake

  CHAPTER 12 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 13 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 14 - Blake

  CHAPTER 15 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 16 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 17 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 18 - Blake

  CHAPTER 19 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 20 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 21 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 22 - Blake

  CHAPTER 23 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 24 - Blake

  CHAPTER 25 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 26 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 27 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 28 - Blake

  CHAPTER 29 - Blake

  CHAPTER 30 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 31 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 32 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 33 - Blake

  CHAPTER 34 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 35 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 36 - Blake

  CHAPTER 37 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 38 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 39 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 40 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 41 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 42 - Blake

  CHAPTER 43 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 44 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 45 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 46 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 47 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 48 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 49 - Blake

  CHAPTER 50 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 51 - Sandara

  CHAPTER 52 - Alexis

  CHAPTER 53 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 54 - Benjamin

  CHAPTER 55 - Devereaux

  CHAPTER 56 - Blake

  CHAPTER 57 - Mercedes

  CHAPTER 58 - Blake

  Discussion Questions

  Dafina Books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary B. Morrison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-6177-3080-1

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-081-8

  eISBN-10: 1-61773-081-5

  Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2017

  To a friend named David James

  Acknowledgments

  My world revolves around family, friends, and fans. I cannot thank you enough for supporting my literary career. The words I pen, stories I create, are a gift from God.

  A special thanks to my editor, Selena James; Steve Zacharius, Adam Zacharius, Lulu Martinez, Vida Engstrand, and everyone at Kensington Publishing Corporation for doing an amazing job!

  There is no way I can repay Julie Brown for taking our adorable Yorkie, King Max B Byrd, into their home when I relocated to Atlanta. Letting me continue to visit Max every time I’m in Oakland is priceless. I could not have shared Max with a more loving family. Dude is so spoiled. Thanks a million times infinity.

  I’ve adopted over a thousand aspiring and published writers into my circle. April 2015, I started a Facebook group to inspire my fans, family, and friends to write. The name of my group is Mary B. Morrison’s Write a Book in 90 Days Challenge.

  Many of you have a story to tell. Some don’t know where to start. Others have a difficult time committing to the process. Encouraging you to do something you’re passionate about is one of my ways to give back. By the time this book is in print, some of you will also be published authors. I’m looking forward to becoming your fan!

  Always cheering the loudest for my son, Jesse Byrd, Jr.; his first novel, Oiseau: The King Catcher, was published in 2015, retitled in 2017, King Penguin. His content is for ages twelve and over. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “God gave me the right child.” I continue to pray all great things for Jesse and his beautiful wife, Emaan Abbass.

  I have amazing siblings. Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel, I love you guys. My in-laws Angela Lewis-Morrison, Dannette Morrison, Roland Johnson, and Desi Rickerson are the best. I appreciate all that each of you has added to our family over the years.

  John Ferguson, rest in peace, brother-in-law, you are truly missed.

  My unmarried husband and true friend, Richard C. Montgomery: with an upstanding man like you in my life, I may never say, “I do.”

  My gurl squad: Vanessa Ibanitoru, Carmen Polk, Brenda Jackson,

  To the amazing women in my life: Barbara H. Cooper, Felicia Polk, Kimbercy Marie, Aje Huru, Yevonna Missy Johnson, Gricela Christian Chambers, Christal Jordan, and Numbiya Aziz.

  There are so many people I need to express my gratitude to, so let me say, “If your hands prepared a meal for me, and/or you sent prayers for a healthy recovery, I’m am eternally grateful.”

  Kendall Minter, no entertainment lawyer reps like you and I’m blessed to be your client. You’ve supported me on levels that I can never repay you for. Congratulations on the release of your book, Understanding and Negotiating 360 Ancillary Rights Deals.

  What’s life without social media, baby (pumping both palms toward the sky)! I can never have enough supporters, but I can say, “I love you!” McDonogh 35 Senior High Class of 1982, the mighty Roneagles celebrated our 35th reunion.

  Wishing each of my readers peace and prosperity in abundance. Visit me online at www.MaryMorrison.com. Sign up and invite your folks to do the same for my HoneyBuzz newsletter. Join my fan page on Facebook at TheRealMaryB, foll
ow me on Twitter at marybmorrison and Instagram at maryhoneybmorrison.

  This is novel #3 in The Crystal series

  Shhh . . . Men are more insecure than women.

  PROLOGUE

  Mercedes

  My pussy. My prerogative.

  Our marriage certificate did not dictate where my husband dipped his dick.

  Divorce? Legally separate? Coexist for our kids’ sake? Fake it? God knew I tried forgetting her face. That was the one thing I could not do.

  Her dark skin, brown eyes, lash extensions, full mocha lips, thick brows, high cheekbones—the circus was missing an animal. I was sure of it. Only a savage beast would knowingly lie with another woman’s man. Short, slick, jet-black mane, parted on the right side, waved from her hairline to the nape of neck.

  All that effort and his mistress wasn’t feminine enough to win a local beauty pageant let alone a Miss America or Miss Universe contest. There was a wrestling, weight-lifting, or bodybuilding championship belt waiting to decorate her petite, muscular six-pack. I was sure of that, too.

  A piece of paper was not his license to share his dick and control my vagina. The tension in my neck created the onset of a migraine. Hate was demonic, yet an appropriate description of what I felt for his bitch. Not him.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Crystal.” Rising from her seat, the voluptuous receptionist leaned against the counter as I approached her. “We can’t proceed without your authorization. We need you to fill out the questionnaire, then sign at the bottom, please.”

  Her slender fingers held a clipboard with one letter-sized sheet of paper attached, then she pointed a pen toward me. Nobody forced me to do anything, including my husband. Intentionally, I made her wait.

  Signing would release their corporation of liability. There were a few implied exceptions. Negligence. Misrepresentation. Satisfaction guaranteed was a dying consideration soon to become extinct. I was sure of that as well.

  In retrospect, I wished reassurances would’ve come with executing my license.

  Repeat after me. The words the pastor spoke on our wedding day marinated in thought intensifying my headache. ’Til death do us part? Ha! I’d stood at the altar and taken that idiotic vow, as did all the other couples who were divorced, separated, cohabitating, or foolishly breaking and making up all the damn time but underneath their façade they didn’t trust each other.

  My dear God! What was the point of it all when my husband didn’t take his commitment seriously? Honor and obey. Forsake all others. Meaningless! Every single goddamn word he regurgitated to our minister as he held my hand and slid this—I stared at the diamond solitaire and infinity band on my finger—didn’t mean shit!

  Stop it, Minnie! Get out of your head before it explodes, girlfriend, my alter ego commanded.

  I couldn’t or I didn’t want to. Either way it didn’t matter that “Lovin’ You” by Minnie Riperton was our wedding song. If anyone had told me my husband would cheat on me, I would’ve called them a liar! Sadly, this was my reality.

  I was here and he was probably grinning in her ugly pug mug.

  I blew a shot of hot carbon dioxide into the receptionist’s face, and she fanned the space between us. Really, Mz. Thang? That was my way of releasing my stress. Scrolling my eyes down toward the text, thinking I better get air instead of snatching her ass from behind the counter and choking the shit out of her.

  Narrowing my eyelids, I said, “You swiped my Luxury Black Card upon my arrival fifteen minutes ago. Show some damn respect.”

  Silence lingered.

  Refusing to look up at her, I did not have to defend my impeccable oral hygiene against her rudeness. No apology was warranted. If she valued her job, she’d swallow her thoughts and get over it.

  “Is it blue?” I inquired looking at the blank signature line until the letters blurred into a blotch. Striving daily to be a perfect wife, whatever that meant, I struggled to find a reason for me to have a paradigm shift and forgive him.

  I couldn’t find a plausible justification. Perfection was unattainable for people who weren’t upstanding like me.

  “I’m sorry?” She frowned with one last wave—captured in my peripheral—that was closer to her face. Turning her back, she took a deep breath, exhaled, then stared at me.

  Young. White. Semi-attractive. Big boobs. What was she sorry for? The unbuttoned white coat revealed she had an ass bigger than mine. A female in her employable position possibly earning barely above minimum wage could come up overnight by fucking my husband. She probably had several socially degrading profiles sporting practically naked photos of herself in a G-string swimsuit. I was almost sure of that.

  Whores were the reason I was here. They enjoyed sucking dicks and surfing online! Plenty of Fish. Match. eHarmony. Black People Meet. Desperate, horny, sleazy, unscrupulous jezebels hunting for men on dating sites disgusted me!

  Sternly, I replied, “Blue. Is the ink?”

  As one of few to maintain a 4.0 GPA up to and through college, I believed unnecessarily starting anything over was a waste of precious time. Filling out a form, reverting to being single, I did my damnedest to get everything right the first time. Filing for divorce was an embarrassment I didn’t want to become my future.

  Birthing kids out of wedlock was worse. Thank God I’d gotten procreation out of the way. Having another baby didn’t mean my man would stay. My mother was living proof of that not one, two, or three, but four times. Maybe I should have had a tubal ligation.

  Sighing heavily, I elaborated, “I only sign my name in blue ink.”

  There went that hand of hers swatting as though flies flew out of my mouth. She pinched her nose, held it for three seconds.

  Bitch, do it again and watch me snatch your fingers and bend them backward. Her brows drew closer as though she’d heard my thoughts.

  “My apology, Mrs. Crystal.”

  If she was my assistant, I’d fire her right then. One “I’m sorry” was one too many. I scanned her head to chest, my breasts rising as I inhaled. Felt my nostrils flaring a little. I shook my head. The strawberry matte lipstick smeared across her full lips was inappropriate for an establishment that primarily serviced women.

  Picking up a blank piece of paper, she scribbled, eyed me, then retorted, “It is blue,” handing the pen to me. The moment I held the ballpoint she let go. I took a deep breath. She stepped back.

  Fuck you too! I screamed in my mind.

  Was my decision to come here out of spite and for revenge? You damn right! After learning of my husband’s indiscretions I didn’t need his input. What I was moments away from doing would slice his heart in half and I’d happily watch him slowly bleed as he’d become emotionally distraught. The way I cried myself to sleep without him by my side last night, the night before, and the night before that was my deciding factor. He did not deserve to enjoy any parts of my vagina.

  There were only five yes or no queries. I circled no for each one. Angrily, I scratched up, down, up, down. Quick strokes, right left right tore a hole in the paper. I heaved. Slapped the pen onto the clipboard.

  “There,” I said as though she were to blame for my being here.

  The receptionist nodded. “You won’t have any regrets, Mrs. Crystal.”

  Mrs. Crystal. Hmm. Not for much longer. The title was all I had to change. I’d never taken his last name, Bannister.

  I rolled my eyes at her. Hissed, “How do you know what I’ll have?” This time her brows lifted toward her reddish hair. For the first time I noticed her freckles, small nose, brown lashes, the band on her ring finger, wondering if white women had it easier in their marriage. I was tired of looking at her plastic ass—she didn’t have to tell me.

  I told her, “I’ll have a seat and wait for the doctor.”

  Checking my messages, I saw that none were from my husband. A text registered from the private detective Dakota Justice, whom I’d hired to spy on Benjamin. She was the reason I knew his every move.

  I read, He’s at The Ch
eetah strip club

  At one p.m.? I replied, Is he with her?

  That skank mistress of his had no class.

  He’s alone. At the bar. Drinking.

  Probably waiting on Arizona to get there. Dakota sent me a selfie. That cheered me up, a little, seeing her disguised in a man’s suit.

  I messaged Dakota, Buy him 10 lap dances.

  I wanted to see how far my husband would go with a complete stranger and how his mistress would feel if she walked in and saw another woman grinding on his dick.

  CHAPTER 1

  Benjamin

  Why did I have a wife if I needed a mistress?

  A text registered, Pick up the twins. I’m with a client.

  That woman’s level of inconsideration made my blood boil!

  Early in our courtship her bossiness was cute. I voluntarily followed her lead. She immediately declared an exclusive on me, and my dick. I fell into her trap. Let her pick out her engagement ring and our wedding bands. On our honeymoon she’d planned what she’d referred to as our pregnancy. Before the first anniversary, I was twenty-five with two kids. Today I know for sure, I’d married the wrong woman but I wanted to do the right thing.

  Wished I’d waited.

  “Hi, handsome.” A soft hand caressed my shoulder. “I have several complimentary dances for you.”

  Pivoting my barstool sideways, a gorgeous topless tender with perky gumdrop nipples smiled at me. Automatically, my shaft slithered down my thigh.

  Exhaling my frustrations into my lunch–a glass of cognac–what was I fighting for? I’d done my time. Five years. One-fourth of a life sentence of disrespect substantiated my desire for a divorce based on good behavior. What the hell, tomorrow wasn’t promised.

  “Sure. Let’s take it to a private room,” I told her, covering my glass of water with a paper napkin to reserve my seat at the end of the bar.