Sunday, April 29, 2007

FAQ for Sylvia Hubbard & Sex Weed Coming Soon

FAQ for Sylvia

I’m making a Frequently Ask Question Section in my NEW website ( and I would like you, my readers, to give me more than what I have.

Email your questions to: or if you’re reading this on a blog, just add to comments.

Starting tomorrow (May 1st), I'll be posting twice a week to the Sex Weed story. I know you're all interested in what's going on with Dyson and Melissa.

Thanks in advance and have a great Monday.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

A request from Your Author, Sylvia Hubbard

Thank you all for your kind words about my book that I've received in emails and in my guestbooks for the following books: Dreams of Reality, Stone's Revenge & Mistaken Identity.
If you ever have a spare moment, it would be a great help if you could post a review of it on and let other potential readers know why you liked it.
It's not necessary to write a lengthy formal review - a summary of the comments you sent me would be fine. Here's a link to the review forms for my books
Dreams of Reality:
Stone's Revenge:
Mistaken Identity
Thanks for the reviews in advance and for the ones that have done a review, a big thank you and kiss as well.
If you have read Stealing Innocence only and would like to post a review, I will be hitting you up in the upcoming months once I upload the book to Amazon, so keep a look out for it. It's available in major distribution, but we're still working with Mobipocket as we speak to get it to the site.
Now if you haven't bought any of these books, then I invite you to check out my new website: and you can purchase them along with all my other minor distributed titles.
Haven't been to my website in a while? (Even in the past week?)
It's changed in a major way and you should check it out. Leave me a new message in my guestbook to let me know you stopped by and just say hi.
Thanks a lot and I really don't mind you passing the word to others about my books. Matter of fact, I would LOVE it if you did.
Your Author always!!!

Sylvia Hubbard - Author and Founder of Motown Writers Network
Want to promote your book:

Ahhh...imagining that irresistible "new car" smell?
Check out new cars at Yahoo! Autos.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Sex Weed Coming in May - Get a Toke

I know I said something else, but I go wherever my creativity may take me.
And I do appreciate you guys enjoying the ride. LOL

Start reading Parts 1 thru 6


I’m still making changes updating pages slowly but surely, yet I wanted to give you guys an opportunity first to see the site.

Let me know how you like it. Make a comment in my guestbook.
I’ll make a formal announcement to everywhere by May 1st!

To the person that purchased Sex Weed from Lulu

Please email me offloop so I can refund that dollar back.

I didn't mean to attach a price to the download and i'm so so very sorry but it warms my soul that you wanted to support me to read it that bad.

Please email me offloop immediately and I will make ammends for you doing that, but also thank you so very much!!!

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Author Interruption

Hello guys,
Sorry for the delay but my mother is hospitalized and I haven't been close enough to a computer to put something new on. Where it is, I'm not. I cannot guarantee that I will be back before April ends, but I will try. Please send out a prayer for my family, esp my mother, because we are in a dogfight this time. Take care and just know I've enjoyed you.


Friday, April 13, 2007

Payback, Inc.- Installment 5

Okay it is. Hope this will stave off the razing for a minute at least.



After ushering Mrs. Brownings out, I hesitantly placed the check on Stellae’s desk for her to deposit. I knew the moment she confirmed we had a new client and the amount of the check indicating how much work they needed to have done, she’d want to be a part of it.

Unfortunately for me, Stellae saw herself as a budding actress. She thought that being a part of the scenarios would get her “street acting skills.” No where in that gelled head of hers had she considered what those skills really entailed or what they might end up costing her. I readied myself for her onslaught and I was not disappointed.

“Mo. I see we’ve got another client that needs the works,” she began off-handedly.

“Yes, we do.” I walked past her desk, intent on heading to my office.

“Hey, Mo,” she called, stopping me. “What does she need…I mean, I know you guys haven’t asked and you don’t seem to need my input…but I think I could make the scenes really interesting. You know…unique.” I saw the pleading look in her eyes.

“Did I tell you I had written a play?” she asked, knowing good and well she’d told me and even given me a copy of it. I nodded my affirmation. “Well the truth is, I really want to direct, not just act. I think that I’m a much better director than actor, anyway.” She bobbed her head, convincing herself. “I’m saying that I think you’re not using all the talent you have available to you. I’m good and I know you’ll like what I come up with,” she finished, hope all over her face.

I’d heard this before and something in me just wouldn’t allow her the chance. I knew she wasn’t ready for the real deal. It’s easy to fantasize about what we do in the field, it’s another thing, totally, to be where the action was. Even we’re afraid when things go differently than planned. Men don’t take well to being messed over by women, especially when it’s done in the name of the wife. The knowledge that if we messed up…we could very well be finished. Or dead, my mind chimed in, my body hitting subzero in a flash. A sense of déjà vu pushed at my skull. The memory close but…elusive. I rubbed my arms absently before shaking my head. “No, Stellae. You’re not ready,” I replied firmly.

“I can get ready. Just give me a chance to prove myself. That’s all.” Face still hopeful.

Much as I wanted to give her the chance, my mind wouldn’t allow me to do so at this moment. Resigned, I shook my head again. “Maybe later. After much training and classes. I can’t risk you right now.”

Her back slumped back in the seat. Defeated. “I see.”

I knew she didn’t, but there was nothing I was willing to do to put her at risk at this stage of the game. She was only twenty and a bullet or a bully could put her in a wheelchair for the remainder of her life or worse…six feet under. Without another word, I left the lobby and entered my office.

As I fixed another cup of coffee, Schi entered and closed the door quietly behind her. “I heard,” she stated plainly.

“Yeah.” I nodded back. “She been asking you about this?”

“Not straight out. Just hints.” Schi sat in the chenille covered chair in front of my desk. Leaning back, she pulled a long, dark cigarette from her pocket. One of those imported kinds that cost a few bucks each and had a plastic tip. She lit the end and drew in a long breath before continuing. "Do you think we should replace her? I don’t want her to start looking through the open files, deciding to help us without us knowing it.”

I hadn’t thought about that at all. Normally, when we finish a case, the file was shipped out to a security controlled storage facility for one year. When a year was up, they were automatically shredded. That ensured that if we had a break-in, no one obtained information they shouldn’t be privy to. It also kept our butts out of a sling.

While we do everything in a legal manner, we do tap-dance on the edge of breaking the law in some situations. Enough so that an irate husband could drum up some trouble and we would have to explain ourselves to the authorities. The next thing would be a search warrant. We weren’t looking for that at all. If we’re not anonymous and discreet, we’re finished.

“I don’t think we’ll have to do anything about it right now. We’ll just keep a close eye on her and double-check the locks on the file cabinets for now.” I took a sip of coffee. “Ready to get down to business?”

“Uh huh.” Schi inhaled a lung full of toxins. “I need to make a run across town.” A smile lurked in the corners of her mouth.

I had a good guess as to what this was about. That cat slick grin was always there when sex was on her brain. And it was always on her brain. “This a booty call?” I couldn’t help but ask.

She blew out a plume of smoke. “And you know this. Just a quick pick-me-up before we get started on the day.” Schi laughed.

“Why couldn’t y’all do that last night?” I inquired through my laughter.

“We did,” she squealed.

I shook my head at her antics. My smile slowly left my face as I wished fiercely that I could do the same thing.

“I know what you’re thinking, girl,” Schi said, seeing the change in my expression. “You know your condition isn’t a death sentence. If you’re up front with a guy and practice safe sex—”

“I know, Schi,” I cut her off midsentence. “I’m just not ready to…to…expose myself yet.”

“When are you going to be ready? When you’re sixty? When you’re sitting in a wheelchair? When?” Schi stood and leaned over the desk. “You’re not the only one with this problem. Other folks get out there and live with it everyday. They enjoy themselves. I can’t stand how you just let life pass you by. Do you think I’d let it stop me?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I have it and you don’t, so it’s not the same, is it?” I finished.

“Maybe so. Maybe not. I just wish you’d try to do more than work these cases and go home and play with Millionaire and Billionaire,” she said, referring to my two Schnauzers. “That ain’t living.” Schi stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the corner of my desk before standing.

“I know,” I replied quietly. “That ain’t living, it’s existing. And right now, I don’t know how to do anything else. I…I know I can’t take rejection at this point in my life or maybe never.”

“You might be surprised how many men won’t reject you. I don’t know what to tell you. If it were me, I’d read up on the new advances with this disease and figure out what I had to do to protect my partner.” Schi scratched at her head. “Hey. You know I read about an Internet service that’s for people with Herpes…”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe I had it, much less entertain the thought of sex with someone else who had it. If I wanted that, I could have stayed with Jontel.

“It was just a suggestion. Don’t rule it out. Yet. Hey, I’m out of here. I’ll be back in an hour or so. After I get back, I’ll work through lunch. So if you have pulled the preliminary stuff, we can map out the ‘big show’ for Mr. Bill.” Schi laughed.

“And a big show it will be,” I confirmed, waving her out. “Have a good time for me too, will you?”

“Now, if I’ve got to get yours and mine, I might have to take the rest of the day off.”

“On second thought, just have a good time for yourself. You need to get your butt on back here as soon as feasible.”

“Feasible is in the pants of the beholder. Adios.” She winked as she walked out of the door.

God! I’d give my left leg to be in her position! Why me? Why not someone else? But…who? Who else deserved to have Herpes? What if I’d never met Jontel, never given my love, my heart, my…body to him? Where would I be now? I had no answers to the questions still slinging out of my brain. My mind was jumbled with “what ifs?”

Somehow, I managed to refocus my attention on our “festivities” for tonight. I pulled the checklist to me before dialing up Mrs. Hatcher.

I chuckled to myself after hanging up with Barbie Hatcher. Her plan truly made me think twice about ever crossing her. In fact, as quirky as her mind apparently was, I didn’t understand why Les was in the streets. Hell, he had a freak fest at home!

Roofing composite. Check.

Barbie had asked for a splosh party for ole Les. Now, I didn’t have a clue to what a splosh party was but Barbie had narrowed the learning curve pretty fast. Apparently, it’s a party where you get aroused by pouring and smashing edible things on your body prior to having sex. From the photos I viewed on the Net, nothing was off limits—cake, honey, syrup, bread, pudding, mashed potatoes, ice cream, if you can smush it, mash it, smash it or pour it, it was fair game.
Sticky foreplay, they called it. I shuddered. Sticky food all over me was not my idea of pleasurable foreplay.

Red Paint. Check.

At first, I had to pause a bit because this request was so unusual. Yeah, Les liked being beaten and taking it up the ass, but how the heck would we get him to join into a sploshfest?

Black paint. Check.

The answer was quite simple: money. Oh, not for Les. For Annette Hawkins, his dominatrix slash porker buddy. Laugh if you want, but the power of money is no joke. Five grand and Annette—think the WWE’s Chyna—was in Schi’s pocket. Schi said she looked like she wanted to be in her pants too. Ugh! Annette said she had no problem beating Les’ ass then pounding him raw before we did our thing.

Paint brushes. Check.

She then let us in on another secret. Like many men, Les still hung on to a college tradition that had been a career killer for countless others: he didn’t mind toking a little marijuana… provided it was free and in the comfort of a select environment. After all, who’s drug testing the CEO?

Annette offered to let him puff a bit, mellow him out, before she cowered him into submission. Worked for us. As long as we didn’t offer the drug, it’s fair game. The way I saw it, it would definitely make him more “agreeable” for our leg of the night anyway.
Feathers. Check.

One thing for sure…we were definitely going to find out!

I scanned my list a final time as we waited in the rental van outside Annette’s building. Les hadn’t shown up yet, but he was a man of routine. He hadn’t missed one of their dates previously so I was betting he wouldn’t tonight either.

Schi covered a yawn and shook her head.

I gave her the look. This heffa hadn’t come back right after lunch like she’d promised. She’d just managed to ease into the office in time for us to have a final run-through before we picked up the van. “Now if lunch time nookie is gonna make you too tired to work, you need to do like Nancy Reagan suggested and ‘just say no,’ Miss Act- Like-She-Don’t-Know-How-Long-Lunch-Is,” I nipped.

I was met with an eye-roll to rival any sistah’s. “I am not tired from get some at lunch. And for your information, I got held up in traffic. That’s why I was late.”

I gave her a you-think-I’m-retarded-don’t-you eye-roll in return. “Ahem.”

“Look. We’ve been working our tails off for the past few months so I’m on the verge of exhaustion. When we finish with Bill Brownings, I think we ought to take a vacation.”

Vacation? I hadn’t taken a vacation in four years. Solitary vacations weren’t my idea of fun and the last one I went on with Schi may as well have been a solo one. She’d definitely left her “mark” on the men at the resort. You’d have thought we were at Hedonism because if there was a Wall of Shame, she’d have been the top photo. I was so appalled, I forced her into sex rehab when we returned. What a joke. She had the teacher in bed in less than a week!

“We?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes, we.” Schi pursed her lips. “What? You think I’ll leave you again or something?” She waved the air. “You know I’ve slowed down considerably since that time. I was just working out my frustrations back then.”

“I’ll bet.” Can’t see any difference now if you ask me.

“It’s true. Now, I choose carefully…then wear their asses out in bed.”

We were both giggling at that when a blue Porsche caught my eye. I snapped my fingers. “Time to work.”

Les Hatcher aptly fit the description nondescript. If anyone had told me he owned a leading software company, I’d have sworn they were lying. He was pasty, wore tight Duckhead’s pulled high over his gut, a blue sweater, had sneakers on his feet and needed a trim bad. The Porsche was the only thing giving anyone a clue he wasn’t just your normal nine to fiver.

Looks do deceive.

We watched him set then reset the car alarm three times before heading into the building. Honestly, his silhouette passing under the streetlight dampened my enthusiasm for tonight’s activities a bit. Seeing all the gloriousness that was Les—naked—was gonna be hard on the eyes. But like they say: You’ve got to take the good with the bad sometimes. This was surely a bad sometimes.

My cell phone was ready. Annette would give me a call when Les was relaxed, pliable and totally unaware of the humiliation awaiting him. I smiled.

Let the sploshing begin!

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Payback, Inc.- Installment 4


The woman seated in the chair was nervous. Slim legs crossed and uncrossed. Manicured nails bit into the chair. Worry lines wiggled across her forehead. No botox there. Every brunette strand of hair was in place and her clothes screamed “expensive!” Didn’t matter. Neiman Marcus or Sears, rural or urban, the women all had the same problem: a man.

I greeted her warmly. “Hello, I’m Cassieta Modine and I believe you’ve already briefly met my partner, Schi LeMons.” Schi’s nod affirmed this.

“Y…yes, on the way in,” the brunette said in a shaky voice. “I’m Margaret Brownings. One of my friends… recommended you.”

“I see,” I responded pleasantly as I seated myself across from her. “What can we do for you, Mrs. Brownings. It is Mrs., right?”

“Yes.” The eyes looked at the floor. “Yes, it’s Mrs.” The voice was flat. Beaten.

“I know this may be hard, but if you let us know what the problem is, perhaps our firm can help,” Schi sympathized.

Mrs. Brownings took a deep breath. “Well…it’s my husband, Bill, or rather William. I call him Bill for short.” Her hands covered her mouth. “We’ve been married nearly twenty years and I recently found out that he has a…a mistress.” The distress of this statement was evident in her voice. “A mistress. Can you believe that?”

Yes, that and plenty more.

“How did you come to find out about this mistress, Mrs. Brownings?” Schi began in her lawyer voice.

“It’s funny, really. He’s an executive with a big oil firm and he’d been on a trip. Not a long trip but a weekender.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, he was asking for some specific socks that he wanted to wear with one of his suits. I told him to just grab a pair from the drawer and be done with it, but he just wouldn’t stop hounding me about those damn socks. I got so frustrated when I couldn’t find them anywhere and he was steadily breathing on my neck, that I decided to look in his suitcase to see if maybe he’d left them in there. Stupid move. Not only did I find the socks, I found a pair of thongs. Worn thongs.”

I scrunched my nose up since I knew that there were only a few ways to discern whether underwear had been previously worn. None of them appealing or sanitary.

“Uhhmp. That must have been a shock,” I said, stating the obvious. The distress was still clear in her face.

“A huge one. I thought that everything was fine between us. Matter of fact, I was always bragging to my friends how Bill was the ‘perfect’ husband. Humph.” She snorted. “Just goes to show you how stupid I am.”

“Oh, you’re not stupid at all, Mrs. Brownings. He is,” I pointed out.
“I sure feel stupid.”

“That will pass. Now, does he know you know?” I delved.

“He sure does!” Spittle flew from her mouth. “I confronted him. Showed him the nasty thongs and asked him whose they were!” Her eyes were flashing now.

“And he said what?” Schi interjected.

“Said he didn’t know whose they were. Had no idea of how they could have possibly gotten into his suitcase. He even had the nerve to insinuate that maybe they were mine,” she huffed. “He knows good and well I’ve never worn thongs. They are so cheap!”

Can’t tell from the thousands of women with them plastered to their ass, now can you?

“Now, Mrs. Brownings, do you have any idea of whose thongs they are?” Schi continued in a smooth voice.

“No. None. Up until a week ago, I thought I had the perfect marriage. No inkling that he had some honey on the side,” she asserted.

“That’s usually how it goes. The saying ‘the wife is always the last to know’ is quite true.” I stared at her. “My question to you is, what do you want us to do about it?”

Mrs. Browning slumped back into her seat, began wringing her hands. I saw tears collecting in her eyes. “I…I don’t know,” she whispered.

I patted her hands. Schi passed her a tissue and began her “Mother Hen” routine by hugging her gently while rubbing her arms. I don’t do too much ‘mothering’ of the clients. It’s not my style at all. With Schi, it works, however.

When she seemed to have herself under control, I began again. “Mrs. Brownings, our company offers a number of services. If you are interested, we can do anything from trying to identify who this ‘mystery woman’ is to acting out a scenario of your choice. It’s all up to you,” I indicated.

“The first question, you need to ask yourself before you decide is: Do you want a divorce?” Schi suggested.

“A divorce?” Mrs. Brownings eyes were wide and shocked.

“I guess not.” I surmised from her reaction.

“No…I never thought about a…divorce.”

I’ll bet old hubby has.

“So, you’re saying that you don’t want a divorce, correct?” I asked for clarification.

“I’m not…I don’t know.” Confused eyes stared at me. “Should I?”

I held my hands in front of me. “That is not for me to decide. However, it will be a factor in how our firm helps you. We can do investigative work, such retrieving phone records, to setting up a tail for your husband.” She nodded her understanding. “Or we can do something significantly more mind-altering, such as act out your rage through my partner and myself. You can choose what elements you’d like to have in the scenario and we’ll do the rest,” I finished with a smile.

“You mean to say that you guys will act out my rage and fears on him?” Astonishment shined on her face.

“That’s correct,” Schi affirmed. “You tell us how you want to pay him back and we’ll do it. Legal, of course,” she summed with a laugh.

Mrs. Brownings shook her head. “I…I just thought that Sheila was only joking. I figured that you guys were private eyes or something.”

“No, were not private investigators. We’re on a whole ’nother level.” I lifted my eyebrows at her.

“I see.” She leaned closer to the table. “So, if I only wanted to find out who his mistress is…how much is that?” She questioned.

“Our flat fee for routine investigation without a tail is two thousand,” Schi announced. “If you’d like us to tail him and return with photos, that is five thousand for one weeks work.”

“And if I want the pay back scene thing?”

“That’s a fee of twenty-five thousand dollars,” Schi finished.

“Ouch! Are you sure it’s worth it?” Mrs. Browning searched my face.

“You have to ask yourself that question. I can provide you with a few satisfied clients that would be willing to talk to you if you’d like,” I supplied.

“I…I have to think about this. It’s so sudden. But then again everything has happened so sudden. Last week I was in suburban heaven. This week, I’m…I’m in walking hell.” Her eyes began to tear again.

Schi cooed, “We’re here to help you, no matter what you decide to do. Marriage counseling may work for your situation. I don’t know. Only you do.”

“That’s correct, Mrs. Browning. We only help if you think you need us to. We will not, ever, interfere where we are not asked to,” I emphasized. “If you decide that you want to try a more traditional route, we’ll forget that you were even here. Even if you pay us for a job and change your mind, no repercussions whatsoever.”

Mrs. Brownings tented her fingers and pinched the bridge of her nose, deep in thought. I could see the cogs working in her head. Suddenly, she slapped her hands on the table. “Let’s do this. There’s no telling how long this affair has been going or how many other mistresses he’s had. It was unlucky for him that I found out when I did!”

All right!

I leaned across the table, my hand held up for a high-five which she gave me with a resounding slap.

Schi took over at this point. “Now, what do you want us to do?”

“Let’s make that rat I married regret the day he strayed into somebody else’s thongs!” Mrs. Brownings yelled, a ready participant now.

“You want the full deal?” I discreetly crossed my fingers.

“You bet I do,” she said, as she began rummaging around in her purse. A checkbook emerged seconds later. “How much again?”

“Twenty-five thousand for the entire package which includes a full investigation, a tail and a scenario of your own creation,” Schi chimed in, not batting an eyelash.

“Who do I make the check out to?” Mrs. Browning inquired, pen held aloft.

“Modine and LeMons,” Schi supplied. “I would say Payback, Inc., but your husband might become suspicious then.”

“I like that term, payback. Fitting name for a fitting situation.” She smiled as she tore the check out and handed it to Schi.

Let’s get this party started!

“I’ll need the preliminary information: your home phone number, his work number, cell numbers, type of car he drives, place of work.” Schi wrote down the answers as quickly as Mrs. Brownings supplied them. She then read the information back to her to avoid any mistakes. Mistakes are costly. In these types of situation, they could be deadly.

Yeah, if you don’t choke. My body chilled suddenly. Where did that come from? Flashes of a dark room flitted past my open eyes, but…I couldn’t place the where, why or what I was doing there.

“Mo? Mo?” Schi repeatedly calling me name brought me back into focus. “I said, would you like to discuss the health phase with Mrs. Brownings?” Schi had concern written across her face.

“Sure.” I gave a sorry smile and drew my attention to our client. “First, I recommend that you get a full checkup, including a STD evaluation.”

“What? Are you sure that…it’s…necessary?” Mrs. Brownings frowned.

“Very. Here’s the card of a good OB-GYN I recommend. She’s discreet and if anything is found, she’ll discuss treatment options in depth.” If there are any.

Mrs. Brownings deflated into her chair. “I never even thought about that. Oh God, what will I do if I have HIV or something?”

“I know this sounds harsh, but you’ll find a way to deal with it.” Just like I am, I didn’t say. “It’s better that you know than you don’t know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Brownings, it is very necessary. We care about you, not just your dollars. There are millions of women who this has happened to and they never knew until it was too late. We don’t want the same thing to happen to you,” Schi said gently. “This is about survival and living like you want to live. With or without Bill.”

I imagined that a multitude of memories, hopes and dreams burned up in the few moments it took her to respond. “All…all right. I’ll make an appointment.” She held out her hand for the card.

“Next, we get to the fun part. What type of scenario are you considering?” What she tells us lets us know the time frame we are working with.

“Now that you’ve put all this other stuff on my mind, I’m definitely looking for something excessively humiliating. I don’t know…something like naked and chained to a pole in front of the Capitol building.”

“We can do something like that if you’d like. The Capitol building might be difficult, but we can sure do one of those mighty oaks in front of it or across the street.” I winked.

“Butt-naked?” The light was back in her eyes.

“As a baby’s ass,” I reassured her.

“I can’t wait!” she squealed. “Oh, I do have one ‘special’ request though.”

As she told us what she wanted to have done, I almost wet my pants laughing. This was either going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back or the needle in the haystack that sewed them back together. One thing for sure, ol’ Bill was going to be one naked, mad son-of-a-bitch when it was all over and done with.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Payback, Inc.- Installment 3


Mul-Ty’s I’ve Been Looking for Love, flowed from my Hummer’s stereo, his smooth voice making me smile wider as I churned up I-55. Hell, I was in a great mood! I had an appointment with a new client who said she had a big problem. I loved it when they said big problem. Big problems meant big money.

I cranked the music up and let the windows down, deciding to share some of Mul-Ty’s flavor with the great folks of Jackson, MS. I knew it was ghetto of me, but sometimes you just want be ghet-to.

I slow-danced in the driver’s seat, my body writhing in moves long unpracticed as the wind whipped through my hair, ruffled it up as I ran through the list of things I’d have to do before our “scenario” tonight with Les Hatcher.

Les Hatcher. What a piece of work this dude was. His wife, Barbie, had hired us to track him since she was well aware he was having an affair. She just wanted to know the who, the what and the where.

Well, let me tell you, Les surprised all of us. Yes, he met up with the expected tall brunette, but something about her struck me as strange. I guess a corporate executive hanging with a tattooed wonder just didn’t fit in my mind. And after viewing the film from the secret cameras we’d place in her apartment, I knew why. Seems that Les has a thing for a dominatrix wearing a strap-on—by request—and all the pleasure the strap on could bring. This man gave the cliché “dog in heat” a whole new meaning.

After tonight, he’ll understand what the meaning of “tearing him a new asshole” meant too. I jumped in my seat in anticipation of the “festivities.”

The beeps from a car horn halted my mind. I looked over to see a houpty driven by an underage THUG—the happily undereducated generation—complete with the requisite set of gold teeth and two scrubs, and all of them were waving like I would actually give them the time of day. Get on. Y’all ain’t got nothing this sister wants! I pushed down on the accelerator with them still waving in my rear view mirror.

Taking the Jefferson Street exit, I flipped the visor down to survey the damage to my hair and turned the volume of the stereo back down. My short hairstyle, a la Halle-Berry-before-the-Benet, fitted my dark, rounded face. Thick eyebrows, a small “cutie pie” nose and firm, lush lips were complimented by the short cut. Girl, you got it going on and it’s known! A quick brush through set everything right as rain. I resumed singing along with Mul-Ty as I coursed down the tree-lined lane, turning on Amite Street.

The buildings in the downtown area were an interesting mixture of contemporary and traditional. Antique brick and blue steel resided side by side, each trying looking like it belonged. Kind of like the people, the good old boys and the “can we all get along” liberals. Except for a few high-rises—if you call buildings with fifteen stories max high-rises—nothing much was over two stories high.

I slowed to enter the parking garage and Malcom, the garage attendant, gave me his customary wink as I slid my card into the card reader. This brother was bad—broad chest, slim waist and a booty that a girl could hold on to, if you know what I mean. A student at Jackson State, he reminded me of Malik Yoba gone “high yella.” And everybody that knows me knows I love me some Malik Yoba. Ummmm. A walking, bald-headed clit jumper. Scrumpdilliliscious.

Ever since, he’s tried to come on to me time and time again. His lines were convincing and the sparks sizzled the air. The fact that he constantly stared at my slim, compact body—especially the booty—when he thought I wasn’t looking was a bonafide turn-on. I won’t lie. This brother awakened tinglings in me that were buried five years ago. Feelings that were cremated on one fateful day...

What am I thinking?

He should definitely be ashamed of himself! Tempting me. Especially since I’m only fifteen years older than him. Then again, once upon a time, I would have found out if his interest was for real or if he was just selling wolf tickets. I sighed. That was then. Now, I only winked back.

After a quick stroll, I reached my building. It was a brick one-story with Modine & LeMons, written in gold lettering on the wood door. Nothing at all to call attention to what we did behind that door. If anyone asked, I always said we were consultants. And we were…kind of.

In reality, I operated Payback, Inc., the only legal revenge service in the world, here. We offered surveillance, background checks and, of course, revenge services—humiliating situations that made a man understand what it meant to have a woman’s anger directed totally at him— relayed through me and Schi, my partner. No advertising and our phone number was not listed.
I guess we must be good because the referrals kept coming in.

It’s funny, though. I never in a gazillion years would have imagined the life I’m living now. Nevertheless, curveballs get thrown your way, and you either change or shrivel up and waste away.

Take Schi. She finished in the top ten percent of her law school class, was courted by numerous firms, finally was selected by one of the most prestigious ones in the country and had a fat six figure salary to go along with it. Model looks, a slamming body and a brain to boot. Men usually go gaga when they spot her.

The only thing is, Schi has one big problem. She’s a nympho. As in nymphomaniac. No other way to say it. She likes sex, sex and more sex. Anytime, anywhere, any way, man, or woman. Therapy has been nothing but a pure waste of good money.

Oh, she managed to hide it well…at first. But, during a company Christmas party in which she had one too many glasses of champagne, the secret was out. Schi entertained all of the willing men—and women— that wanted to take a stroll in her secret garden. Unfortunately, somebody took pictures. When they were distributed throughout the law offices, the partners discreetly asked for her resignation…including some of the same partners that had participated in the lustfest.

Schi lived off her savings—screwing her way into oblivion—until we stumbled on each other in a bar.

Me? Well, my odyssey began a few years ago. Five years to be exact. There I was living what I thought was a dream life—good job, good money and a fiancé, Jontel, that just loved me. Life couldn’t get better tha2n it was. But like they say, all good things must come to an end. And mine did with a belligerent screech.

It all begin with what I thought was a yeast infection two weeks before my wedding. The problem had been going on longer than I thought it should and hadn’t responded to the over-the-counter medications, so I decided to get a stronger prescription from the gynecologist. I didn’t want to have a yeast infection on my honeymoon. That would be so uncool.

To my horror, after examining me, the doctor hesitantly explained that I didn’t have a yeast infection at all. I had Herpes. Incurable Herpes.

My scream could be heard two blocks over.

After an hour or so, in which time my screams had turned to incoherent blubbering and finally a steady stream of tears, she calmly discussed the disease. I was so numb, I missed most of what she was said. In the end, she just hugged me with sisterlove, pushed some pamphlets into my limp hands and gave me a prescription for Valtrex.

My mind was reeling. I knew that I hadn’t been with anyone since Jontel. And you don’t get Herpes from thin air. You need contact. Pubic contact. That meant that the man that said he loved me, needed me, could not live without me… was screwing around on me.

Needless to say, Jontel’s reaction was typical of a man caught—denial, reverse accusations and refusal to accept any responsibility for the mess he’d caused. His finger-pointing and doublespeak so angered me, I slapped him. He retaliated by pushing me with enough force that I flipped over the couch and bruised my back.

To say that we were over was an understatement. He left town and my life the next week. All that remained was his “little present” and a depression slowly suffocating me. Thirty five years old, no kids, only been with two men in my life…and I’d never have sex again. Couldn’t risk it.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

That realization is what sent me to the bar, drowning my troubles in a cup of hard liquor…

I looked like shit and felt worse. The brown liquor I swirled around in the glass was my fourth or fifth. Who knew? Who cared? All I knew was it was murky, just like my future.

Jontel. Asshole.

Why me? Why not somebody else? We were supposed to get married, have the big house and the 2.5 kids plus a dog thrown in for good measure. Now, you might as well just cut my coochie out and sew it up ’cause I’ll never use it again.

Before I knew it, the tears poured down over my shaking hands, snot trailing unchecked down my face.

I heard the soft voice to my rear.

“Hey, girl. It can’t be all that bad.”

I turned and in my hazy mind I saw an All-American girl gone Latin. I tried to speak but only a hiccup came out.

“Looks like you’ve had more than your share tonight, girlie,” the woman said, a hand reaching to
grab the glass from me.

Who the hell did she think she was? I didn’t know her from Eve. I slapped the reaching hand.
“Stop it!”

“Hey. Calm down,” she replied quietly, hands now held up in front of her. “I’m just trying to help here.”

“Yeah? Well, I know a lying, cheating asshole I need to kill,” I surly announced.

Her eyebrows rose to the sky as she assessed me. Then, she…smiled. Lifting her hips onto the adjacent stool, she dryly said, “I’m just going to love your story. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. I’m Schi, by the way.”

We spent the remainder of the night having a slamming pity party, swapping stories and trashing men and life in general. At some point, I wished out loud that there was a service you could call to extract revenge against a man that’s done you wrong. No, not kill them, just put something on their mind. Something to make Jontel remember me for the rest of his natural born life. Schi dug into that idea like a pit bull.

Kicking the idea around, I finally realized that we could do it. All we needed were some classes in self-defense, martial arts and investigative work. Schi worked the logistics out in that precise brain of hers and it was a done deal. Payback, Inc. was born. Now we both do the investigative work, but Schi does the tempting and I do the guarding. I guess you could say Schi’s the booty and I’m the brawn.

I laughed aloud at that analogy as I opened the door.

Stellae, our receptionist, was talking animatedly on the phone, her slender hands speaking with her. Today, she was as flamboyant as ever in a yellow dress that seemed to send her ample bosom to the sky and hair that was gelled and slicked even further into the stratosphere. Normal operating dress for her. She held out a stack of call messages for me as I passed her desk, not once taking a breather from her conversation. Just as I entered my office, Schi yelled out a hello.

My intercom buzzed before I could push the button of my coffee maker.

“Yes?” I answered, irritated. She knew I needed coffee before I started my day.

“Ms. Modine, your first client is here and Mrs. Hatcher called twice already about tonight,”
Stella said before clicking off without giving me a chance to respond. What’s new?

Shrugging out of my suit coat, I pushed the button on the coffee maker before I walked down to Schi’s office to alert her. No matter who the client asks to see, we always worked a case together. The two heads are better than one thing.

I knocked lightly and entered without being asked. Schi was leaned back in her executive chair, feet on the desk, ankles crossed. The phone was glued to her head as it always was. If she wasn’t talking to a client it was usually one of her string of lovers. The way she smooched into the phone before hanging up, I surmised that it definitely better be one of her men…or women.

“What’s up? The new client ready?” Schi said while slowly extracting her limbs from the desktop.

“Yeah. You ready?” I looked her up and down. Every hair was in place and when she stood, I could see she had dressed to impress in the navy button down suit she wore.

“Sure thing. I’ll buzz Stellae to put her in the conference room.”

“Great. Let me grab a cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.” I hurried back to my office and poured the small amount of liquid that had already collected in the carafe into my coffee mug. Not a full cup, but it would have to do in a pinch. With another quick glance at my looks, I strolled into the conference room.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Guys Sylvia's short, SEX WEED, is already smoking. The cliff-hanger queen has got me getting my plane fare together. Stay tuned at


Payback, Inc.- Installment 2

Thank you for the wonderful comments. Here is installment 2. Enjoy



The bar’s atmosphere sizzled. The smoke hugged the ceiling like smog; strobe lights barely making a dent. The volume of the speakers was obviously turned up to LOUD AS HELL. It took great effort to even think, much less converse.

A crowd encircled a couple. Center stage. The floor all to themselves. The man was tall, dark, and impeccably dressed as was his partner, an equally tall, mocha-colored, blonde bombshell. Their bodies writhed to the samba music. Swing in. Swing out. Twirl. Their bodies like spinning tops whirling across the floor. But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d added an African flair to the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-fucking.

His tongue trailed down her neck, saliva glistened in the light. Fine-boned hands massaged her stomach then skimmed up, ever so slowly, to cup her fabric-encased breasts. My nether lips twitched.

I crossed my legs to stop the sexual impulses that were trying to grab a foothold. I wasn’t here to get off but to do a job. Him. John Pendergast. The mark. A cheating husband who I’m being paid to get the goods on by his wife. My partner, Schi, was the woman he was all over. The dumb fuck.

With steady hands, I snapped a few shots of their antics with my spypen. The music ends with the man’s lips pressed deep between the valley of the Schi’s breasts. In amusement, I wondered how many other women he’d been on this same floor with, licking the same way.

Suddenly, the hair rose on the back of my neck. Trouble.

Scanning the room, my radar honed in on one specimen striding confidently my way. Strobe lights illuminated him in snatches. From what I could see, I liked—caramel, tall and built like a male brick shithouse except…for the Danger sign embedded in his forehead like a neon light.

Turning back to the bar, I crossed my legs; appeared nonchalant. He took the stool next to mine. Cologne teased my nostrils. A hand is placed open-palm near mine.

Looking up, I find my eyes captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, caramel face. “I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink.” His voice is just as I expected. Gritty. Rough around the edges. Danger oozing from his pores. An unwanted distraction.

“Mo, and I’ll have another Singapore Sling.” I said, ignoring the hand and tossing back the last of my drink, my brain screaming Run! Run! Run!

I should be scared…but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.

He glanced at the couple leaving the floor. Bodies fused. “Know them?” He asked, surprising me.

Normally, this is where I have to give a long soliloquy about my name. It doesn’t seem to faze him at all. I looked at him with greater appreciation.

“No,” I said with a taunt, fake smile.

“Looks like you want to,” his deep voice rumbled out.

“They were just putting on a show and I didn’t want to miss the encore if there’s one,” I finished, eyebrow lifted. A dare.

“Ahem. A voyeur.” He stroked his goatee.

“Not really. But, hey, if you don’t mind screwing where I can see, I’m damn sure gonna watch.”

“Touché.” He said, his hands moving to lightly touch my exposed back.

This is a bold brother here. Playing me cheap. I stiffened and removed his hand. A hand that had awakened nerves I’d buried years ago. Not by choice. Had to.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “My bad. Guess I’m moving too fast for you,” he chuckled.

“For yourself, too.” I replied succinctly, refusing to be drawn into sexual play I couldn’t, wouldn’t participate in.

Smirking, Meylon turned and asked the bartender to freshen my drink. I glanced over at the couple now situated in a booth. Still at it I saw. The mark’s hands were now inside the V of Schi’s dress, her tongue licking her lips. Damn! I need another photo! I maneuvered the spypen up and in their direction, clicking imperceptibly.

Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “You sure I’m not intruding?”

I turned back to my fresh drink, keeping the couple in my periphery. “No. Why’d you say that?” I gave him a hard stare.

“Looks like you’re more interested in that dude and lady than me. That’s a first,” he snorted.

Scanning him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Stacy Adams encased toes, I realize that was probably true. Well, no reason for me to swell his head bigger than it obviously already was. “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”

He leaned closer. “We could be the encore,” he said, his liquor sweetened breath bathing my face. “Mo…I so want to—”

I interrupted whatever line he was about to try on me. “Please. Give it a rest. Okay?” I was not in the mood for some new variation of a trite come-on and I think I’ve probably heard them all. They usually start with ‘Baby you are so fine’ or ‘When my eyes met yours, I knew you were the one for me.’ Only problem is, they always forget to add the ‘Let’s fuck tonight’ to the end of them. And that’s all they want to do. But, I’m not interested.

His nostrils flared. Eyes became hooded. Defensive.

I saw the man and woman suddenly rise from the booth, coats in hand.


Without another word, I swung down from the barstool and strode towards the door.

“Hey!” Meylon called after me.

I didn’t even break stride. I had work to do.

“Hey! Mo!” I heard him yell. Closer. I kept walking until a hand grabbed my upper arm, stopping me in my tracks.

With ease of practice, I grabbed his thumb, twisted and lifted upwards. He cussed in pain. Seeing a chair next to us, I gave him a solid punch to the solar plexus. He grunted and slumped forward. I caught him and pushed his gasping body into the chair. His eyes spoke volumes as they burned into mine. Time shifted. Then, I tore my eyes away and without another glance, walked out the door and onto the street, Meylon’s eyes haunting me as I began the second phase of my night work.

I pushed those eyes from my mind as I jogged over to my nondescript Crown Victoria and cranked the engine while watching the door. John’s Mercedes was parked five cars up.
They exited the club, still hugged up tighter than welded metal. Schi gave me a discreet “thumbs up” sign before he seated her in the car. I let a few vehicles pass by before I pulled out to trail them. Thankfully, a busted taillight— courtesy of yours truly— made surveillance an easy task.

After ten minutes of riding, they pulled into the Grommet Hotel. I whistled. Hey, now, big spender! This is one of those hotels that start at two-fifty a night. That he would spend that kind of money on a woman he just met was obscene to me.

I parked across the street from them, grabbed my large “suitcase” purse and walked confidently towards the entrance. The attendant opened the door, a pleasant greeting sliding from his lips. Entering the lobby, I saw John retrieving his key from the desk clerk. Thankfully, the elevators were in clear view, so I walked purposely towards them, my progress hidden from view of the clerk. They followed on my heels and we entered the elevator together.

“Floor?” I asked pleasantly.

“Ah…” John began, looking down at the key, “ah…twelfth.”

I pushed the button for the twelfth floor. I guess John truly was an exhibitionist since he began ardently fondling Schi before the doors closed completely; totally disregarded my presence.

That’s all right. He’ll know who I am in a few.

The elevator shot up to the correct floor. I held the door open button as they shuffled out; arms wrapped around each other like a cocoon. I followed, stopping to stare at the arrow signs, appearing to anyone watching that I was trying to locate my room.

They ambled down the hallway to my left. After a few seconds, in which time I saw John fumble with and finally open a room, I retraced their steps.

My adrenaline was surging as it always was at this point of the game. If everything went as usual, then Schi should have suggested that the mark “freshen up” in the bathroom while I enter.

I knocked lightly.

Schi immediately opened the door. No words were exchanged. None were needed. As I sat my bag on the floor, we heard the sound of the toilet flushing.

John stumbled out wearing only his boxers, his erection evident. He stopped short when he spied me. “Who the hell…what the hell…” he fumbled, eyes vacillating between me and Schi. “What’s going on here?”

“Baby, I thought we’d finish the night off with a bang!” Schi said breezily as she walked over and boldly began massaging his pole through his shorts. Kisses rained down on his neck and chest for added persuasion. “I thought you’d enjoy a threesome. Hell! What man doesn’t?” She finished with a laugh.

He closed his eyes as she pulled his rod free of his shorts, his body involuntarily consenting to anything and everything.

That’s my boy.

Schi maneuvered him onto the bed willingly. I joined the party, rubbing him all over his chest. His hand pushed into the neckline of my dress without preamble. John moaned as Schi stroked him, bit his chest.

Reaching behind me, I removed two sets of handcuffs. Schi never stopped biting as I passed one set to her over John’s still closed eyes. I mouthed the numbers and on the count of “Three” we each snapped a cuff over a wrist. John’s eyes flipped open with the first click. Before he could fight, we quickly snapped the other end to the headboard. Thankfully, they had iron beds in here, otherwise I’d have to use the rope and it’s more difficult.

“What the fuck is going on!” he roared. “I don’t do no freaky tying up shit! Turn me loose!”

Ignoring him, we each grabbed a leg, intending to handcuff his ankles to the footboard. Sensing this, John began thrashing about; feet kicking at us.

“Watch out!” I screamed just before his foot connected with Schi’s chest and she thumped onto the floor.

“What’s this shit about?!” he screamed at me, spittle flying in my face.

This beyotch better be HIV negative!

Angered, I punched him in the stomach, silencing him. I grabbed a now-complacent foot and handcuffed the ankle to the footboard. I repeated this with the other ankle before checking on Schi. Pulling her off the floor, I saw that she was shook up, but otherwise unhurt.

“What…is….this…about?” John gasped, eyes wide. “My… money… is… in… my…wallet.”

I tsked him. “This is not about money, at all,” I assured him. Not from him, anyway.

“Well…what is it about?” His voice grew stronger, meaner. “I mean, I pick up this bitch at a bar,” his eyes darted to Schi, “and you join us and tie me up. If it’s not about money, then what the fuck is it about?”

The thing about me and Schi is, you can think we’re bitches all you want to. Just don’t call us one.

Schi shimmied over to my bag and retrieved a short whip.

“Wait, girl. Don’t mark him up!” I told her, knowing how vicious she could be when angered. And calling her a bitch will do it every time.

“I’m not gonna mark this asshole up. I’m just making sure that Mrs. Pendergast gets her money’s worth. Grab the damn camera!” Schi urged, a devious look in her eyes. I did so with a smile.

“My wife!” John sputtered. “What the hell does she have to do with this?” Realization dawned.

“I’ll pay you double what she’s paying you! How much is it?”

“Save your money, sweetie. After you called me a bitch…I’d do this for free.” Schi whispered with a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach past her nose.

“You bitches, you! I’m gonna get you for this! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

I shook my head. He was screwing himself into a tight corner.

John pulled, pushed and wiggled in an effort to free himself to no avail.

Schi looked at me. “Ready?”

“As ever,” I affirmed.

Camera in position, Schi forcefully slapped his exposed rod with her bare hand. His mouth opened in anguish and Schi positioned her nipple close—but not too close—to his open mouth. Through the camera lens, it looked like he was taking a break from sucking, ecstasy etched in his face. I clicked with relish.

She then sat on his chest and inched her body forward. John began bucking, knowing what she was about to do. She stopped scant inches from his mouth and thigh-locked his face. For all the world, it would appear that he was performing oral sex, especially when she arched her back and palmed her own breasts.

I snapped photos like crazy, my own panties wet.

John must have felt it too because his previously deflated erection rose to attention.
Schi changed positions and leaned towards the erection. John pushed upwards, obviously fooling himself that he was gonna really get some action. Schi let her hair fall forward, shielding her lips and the top part of his rod. From the side, it looked like straight up fellatio.

And half of the estate goes to Mrs. Pendergast!

Schi wrapped the whip around the base of his rod, giving the set shot a sex-frenzy feeling. Like he and she were really into this thing. From the way John was grunting and shifting around trying to locate her mouth, I think he was really into this thing.

After eating up two rolls of film, Schi slid off the bed and began putting on her clothes.

“What? That’s it?” John asked perplexed. “I’m really not getting any? This is really for my wife?” I heard the fear return to his voice.

“Yep. You’re not and it is,” I said before returning the camera to my purse.

“What about the keys? You aren’t going to just leave me here like this, are you?” He looked between us, discerning the answer for himself. “Please. Please. Don’t do this.”

Let the groveling begin!

John rattled the cuffs against the bed. I never turned to look at him, my job now finished.
“I’ll get you bitches! I’ll cut your hands off and slit your throat! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” John screamed at my back.

Give me a dollar for every time I’ve heard that statement or one of its variations, and I’d be nearly a millionaire.

“Ready, girl?” I looked towards Schi as she stood.


We walked out the door without another glance at John, him continuing to shout obscenities at out back. As the door clicked shut, we high-fived each other and sista’ strutted towards the elevator. Ahhhhhhhh. Another lying/cheating/philandering asshole bites the dust.

The alarm clock screamed, jolting me awake, my dream now only wisps of disconnected memory bites leaving me somehow…uneasy.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Sydney Molare and Payback, Inc. Introduction

Hello All!
Let me take a moment to introduce myself. I'm Sylvia's alter ego. Just kidding. But I truly feel that we are connected to each other. I'm hoping that I can fill her shoes just a little bit, at least. This month, I want to let you take a peek at my upcoming suspense novel, Payback, Inc. Now I'm sure many people on here would love it if there were truly a service to "pay back" someone who's done us wrong...or maybe that's just my way of thinking. But that's how the idea for Payback, Inc. came about. It's the only legal revenge service in the world--a service that puts something on a man's mind that'll stick.

Enough of my chatter, here is the first installment. And as always, enjoy!

PS. Please give feedback!

Payback, Inc.


The atmosphere in the bar was electric. Smoke hugged the ceiling like smog; strobe lights barely penetrating. The speaker’s volume was obviously turned up to LOUD AS POSSIBLE. It took great effort to think, much less converse.

The crowd on the dance floor was gathered around a couple. Center stage. The floor all to themselves. The man was extremely tall, dark and impeccably dressed as was his partner, an equally tall, mocha-colored, blonde bombshell. Their bodies writhed to the samba music. Swing in. Swing out. Twirl. Like spinning tops whirling across the floor. But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d added an African flair to the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-humping.

My lower lips twitched as the man’s tongue followed the curve of the woman’s neck, saliva glistening in the light. Fine-boned hands massaged her stomach then skimmed up, ever…so…slowly, to cup her fabric-encased breasts. I crossed my legs in agony; gave the barstool a futile private lap dance.

As the hormones zinged through my body, I reminded myself of why I was there in the first place. Him. The mark. The errant husband sexing it up with whoever, whenever. This whole scene was courtesy of his wife — the one footing my bill.

Hands shaking, I snapped a few shots of the couple’s antics with my spypen. The music ended with the man’s lips—succulent lips meant for licking, biting, sucking, kissing—pressed deep between the valley of the woman’s breasts. In fact, his lips had me so ensnared, I failed to sense the danger behind me.

Big danger.

Turning back to the bar, I found my eyes captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, enigmatic face. Cologne teased my nostrils. Strobe lights illuminated him in snatches. From what I could see, I liked—caramel, tall and built like a male brickhouse. Danger was tattooed on his forehead like a neon sign. He was the kind of man your mama warned you to watch out for...the kind of man you wanted to sheet wrangle without even knowing his name.

I should be scared, but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.

He glanced at the couple leaving the floor, bodies fused. “Know them?” His deep voice rumbled like cello plucking my backbone.

My eyes darted to the couple then back. “No.”

Who is this man?

“Looks like you want to.” No facial expression. Danger pheromones strummed my nerves.

“Naw. They were just putting on a show. I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one,” I flipped, determined not to be ruffled by this unnerving stranger.

“Ahem. A voyeur.”

I coughed over my drink before regaining some composure. “Not really. But, hey, if you don’t mind screwing where I can see, I’m damn sure gonna watch.” I struggled to sound confident.

“Touché.” His hands lightly touched my exposed back.

This is a bold brother here. Putting his hands where nobody asked him to; assuming that it was okay with me…I don’t tell him to remove his hand.

“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink.” His lips parted, showing blinding white teeth that belonged on dentures.

“I’m Mo. I’ll have another Singapore Sling,” I tossed back along with the last of my drink.
He placed the order while his fingers continued their light assault over my back.

“Mo, huh? The only Mos I know are guys. Is that short for anything?”

Here we go. I usually get this question when I give them my name and it always rubbed me the wrong way.

“Meylon. Is that short for anything?” Sarcasm dripped from my voice.

“No. It’s the name my mama gave me. You?” Eyebrows lifted, daring me to lie.

“We’re in the same boat.” The lie slid from my tongue easily.

I glanced at the couple now situated in a booth. Still going at it. The man’s hands were now inside the V of her dress, her tongue flicking over her lips.


My stomach clenched involuntarily. I needed another photo but how the hell was I gonna get one with Mr. Meylon breathing my air in as I breathed out?

Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “You sure I’m not intruding?”

I turned my legs back to the bar, keeping the couple in my periphery. “No. Why’d you say that?”

“Looks like you’re more interested in them than me. That’s a first,” he laughed, motioning to the bartender to refill my drink.

While waiting for the bartender to slide my drink over, I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Stacy Adams encased toes. His statement was probably true.

I sipped my drink before replying, “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”

He leaned closer. “We could be the encore. Excuse me for being so forward, but Mo…I so want to be up in you.” His liquor-sweetened breath caressed my face.


Two pairs of eyes locked on each other, both of them smoldering with sexual energy. My pelvis tilted on its own accord. The alarm in my head screamed. I squeezed my thighs tighter and took a gulp of my drink, trying to cover my jangling nerves. Mental images of his unclothed physique made my body flit hot, cold. Flashes of what it would be like to have his lips on my ni—Oh! Stop it, girl! My attention was mercifully diverted as the couple suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.

“Your friends are leaving,” Meylon said in my ear, his breath searing my lobe.

I leaned back; slowed the pace. “They aren’t my friends,” I emphasized.

He straightened and opened his jacket. “Mine either,” he growled just before the nose of the .45 cleared his coat.

Shit! Guns, particularly ones I’m not holding, are something that do scare me.

Before I could react, the couple was upon us. “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled, body tensed, eyes looking for an opportunity to disarm him.

He ignored me as he slid from his stool and stopped in front of the man. “Oh, this how it is? You think you can run around and screw my woman and this woman and that? I’ll kill you!” he sneered, gun aimed at the man’s chest.

Someone in the crowd screamed “He’s got a gun!” and people surged towards the exit.

The man’s face was contorted in fear. The woman’s, a portrait in fright—eyes wide; mouth in the proverbial “O.” The dick of a man roughly pulled the woman between him and the gun.
You chickenshit, you!

Knowing that I needed to get control of this situation, I lashed out with a front kick towards Meylon’s gun hand followed by a chop to his exposed neck. I heard him grunt, but he held onto the gun.


I punched at his head, neck and chest; felt the solid thuds. But…they didn’t seem to faze Meylon. This was a confirmed fact when he pimp-slapped me with the gun. I flew backwards; thudded into the bar. Crazed eyes pinned me to the floor.

“Bitch, you’ve lost your damn mind!” he sneered.

I knew this was not a Matrix moment for me as I watched his finger slowly cock the gun, my body refusing to respond. What about our conversation?! What about how you wanted to be all up in my stuff?! my mind screeched. I saw his finger squeeze the trigger—


The dream ceased.


Everyone knows that if you die in a dream, you’re dead for real.


I heard the clock ticking on my nightstand, affirming that I was still alive.


Suspended between consciousness and sleep, unable to will myself to move, speak or even open my eyes. Ineptness. A state in which I’ve always been afraid. Scared of…I don’t know. Maybe ghosts communicating with me. Maybe the devil holding me captive. Maybe of being suspended in this state…forever. I pushed those thoughts to the side; willed myself to not be afraid because I know I’m alive. The incessant ticking constantly reminded me.


Yet, I almost died. A black belt in judo, numerous self-defense training sessions and…I choked. This helplessness gnawed my brain, worried my soul. Would I fail when I needed me the most?


My mind slowly calmed; heart rate followed suit as the dream world slowly pulled me into its depths.


Sunday, April 01, 2007

Coming Soon: Sydney Molare

Guest Blogger, Sydney Molare will be taking over for April. She is a great suspense romance sci-fi writer that will defintely keep you on your toes.

You'll enjoy her work.

Check out her work in her newest anthology excerpt, Satisfy Me!

A must read!!!


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