Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

New York Times bestselling author Mary B. Morrison believes that women should shape their own destiny. Born in Aurora, IL, and raised in New Orleans, LA, she took a chance and quit her near six-figure government job to self-publish her first book, Soulmates Dissipate, in 2000 and begin her literary career. Mary’s books have appeared on numerous bestseller lists. Mary is actively involved in a variety of philanthropic endeavors, and in 2006 she sponsored the publication of an anthology written by 33 sixth-graders. In 2010, Mary produced a play based on her novel, Single Husbands, which she wrote under her pseudonym, HoneyB. In 2013, Mary adopted a shelter (24-Hour Oakland Parent Teacher Children Center) and she’s helping to raise funds to support services for homeless women. Her wonderful son, Jesse Byrd, Jr., is writing novels for adolescents and is the owner of Oiseau Clothes. Mary currently resides in Atlanta, GA. Visit Mary Honey B Morrison on Facebook, Twitter @marybmorrison, and at MaryMorrison.com.

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If I Can't Have You

Dafina Books

Chapter One

"'You can't see it.... It's electric!' "

The music moved through me like lightning. Happiness filled the room with smiles and laughter. My hips swung to the beat and my feet moved along the hardwood floor as though my Louboutin red-bottom stilettos had wheels.

I was glad my girlfriend had let me sponsor her post-wedding reception at Black Swan and the Nest at Black Swan. My gift to her cost me twenty grand to rent out the entire space on their most popular night, Saturday. Food, alcohol, the champagne fountain, decorations, party favors, and all the trimmings were an additional thirty thousand, but Tisha was worth every penny.

We'd been friends since kindergarten, joined at the hip with Loretta. The stories we shared over the years from losing our virginity to pledging different sororities were beyond entertaining. What I loved most was, we weren't three of a kind. Each of us had unique looks and styles, and we'd taken separate career paths. At times our friendship was tested, but our bond was never broken for long. When things fell apart, Tisha was our glue.

As I spun around, the split in my green-and-gold spaghetti-strap dress exposed my left leg from my ankle to the space adjacent to my vagina. "Daring," "diva," and "delicious" best described my infectious personality. Every day I opened my eyes, I was ready to see the world and all the rich men in it. A broke man couldn't do anything to or for me.

I spun again, almost tripping over my man as he got down on one knee. I gyrated in his face. Feeling the heat of his hand against my inner thigh, I moved with an "uh, yeah, take that, and this" motion.

Damn, if the place were empty, I'd shake out of my thong and let him taste me.

My man strived to be the best at e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. I did too. Our individual success made us a dynamic power couple.

"I love you, Madison Tyler. Will you marry me?"

In the midst of grooving, with over fifty people surrounding us and doing the electric slide, I stopped dancing. The moment I'd been waiting for had arrived in style. I couldn't hold back the tears. What girl didn't want a husband to love and adore her for the rest of her life? I was positive I wanted to get married.

"Yes! Yes, I will marry you, Roosevelt!" I wasn't sure if he was the one, but he'd do for now. I was attracted to one of his assistant coaches, Blue Waters, but he wasn't the head coach or close to being hired as executive vice president/general manager like my man. Sorry, Blue. Any girl who knew her self-worth understood that status mattered.

Roosevelt didn't like his first name, but I appreciated it more than what everyone else called him, Chicago. I found Southerners strange in many ways. Being the fairest of Creoles from Port Arthur, Texas, I had a bundle of eccentric ways, but I wasn't crazier than some of my relatives who still lived there.

A teardrop clung to Roosevelt's eyelid. He had no middle name, so his family gave him a nickname when he was a toddler. They weren't from Chicago, and he hadn't visited the Windy City until he was in college playing football. The only rationale for his nickname was the Bears were his father's favorite team. Since he was firstborn, the name stuck, but his brother, Chaz, was always called by his real name.

The ice cube he was sliding on my ring finger blinded me. Damn! My heart pounded like a drumbeat. I held my hand in front of my face and cheesed the widest grin ever. I pulled Roosevelt to his feet by his lapel, leapt into his arms, smashed my lips against his, and held them there.

The "Electric Boogie" faded from blasting to silence.

"Did Chicago just propose to Madison?" DJ Chip asked. He was the DJ for our football team and mixed up the beat every Saturday at the Black Swan.

My arm shot up in the air. "He sure did!" I flashed my ring to all the bitches at my girl's wedding reception. All the single females' eyes melted in my shine. It didn't matter who caught the bouquet; I was the envy of them all.

The desperate ladies dying to get a man were not my problem. And if they believed catching a bundle of flowers was the way to change their status from single, all I could say to them was "good luck." I gave Tisha a big hug, because she had to be feeling really small right now. Wasn't my fault she divorced a cheating millionaire and married her broke-ass high school sweetheart in the name of love. What a joke.

Tisha trotted upstairs and into the Nest, the private room I reserved for her immediate family and her closest friends. Stealing the spotlight from Tisha wasn't planned. How was I to know my engagement ring would be a bigger solitaire than all the chips in her wedding band and engagement ring combined?

I'd turned to kiss Roosevelt again, when someone snatched my biceps. The grip was that of a blood pressure machine about to burst. My fingers automatically curled into a tight fist. As cute as I was, I wouldn't hesitate to knock a trick on her ass.

I didn't want to fight, but I swore if I turned around and saw one of those bold bitches who wanted my man was trying to ruin my moment, I was going to put my rock to work and lay her ass out, then glide over her as though I was on the red carpet.

These bitches were beneath me. All women were beneath me, including my best friends, Loretta and Tisha. When I saw it was Loretta, I uncurled my fist.

Loretta didn't have a date at the wedding because she'd wasted her time dating that loser construction worker, Granville Washington. She should've brought him, anyway. It was unladylike for a real woman to escort herself to a function. He worked for me. I'd heard of him, but I had never met him. I had too many employees to meet them all.

From what she'd told me, I told her not to do him. Told her just because that misfit allegedly had a big dick—"big" was relative to the woman—and since Loretta and I didn't travel in the same circle of men, I had no idea what he was working with. I said that she should leave him alone. He had nothing to lose. Outside of work, from what my girl said, he had no real interests other than taking her out, gazing into her eyes, drooling in her mouth, eating her pussy, and boning her.

From all the details she'd given me, Granville was a forty-five-year-old clumsy brute—six feet six inches, 285 pounds of muscle. The worst combination for a blue-collar man was to be good-looking, decent in bed, and to think he knew everything when what he truly was, was ignorant. Loretta should've taken my advice: took the dick and kept him moving. But no. Loretta always had to find the good in every man, until he treated her bad.

"Girl, let me—"

Before I finished protesting, I was being dragged off the dance floor, up the stairs, out the door, and onto the elevator.

"What the hell are you doing?" Loretta asked.

I flashed my ring in her face. "Duh. Trying to enjoy the moment. What's wrong with you?"

She pulled me through the lobby, then outside by the swimming pool. "You can't accept Chicago's ring. You're going to ruin another good man. You've already got what, six engagement rings collecting dust. It's women like you who mess it up for women like me."

"Correction. It's eight. This makes nine. And see, that's where you're wrong. It's women like you who allow men to dictate to you, instead of you training them like I've taught you. That's how you end up with fucked-up men like Granville. You give up the pussy, then...