The Hot Box: A Novel

To my ninety-two-year-old Aunt Rose, my biggest fan. Thanks for making my years in Kannapolis, North Carolina, exciting, even if my only adventures were driving you to Walmart to buy housecoats and to Johnson’s Superette to get the baked chicken, pinto beans, tossed salad, and ingredients for your homemade sweet potato pies and cornbread, which you would cook for twenty-five-plus people every Tuesday for more than twenty years.

In my spare time, which was plentiful in the small country setting, I was finally inspired (bored) enough to begin my writing career. So while I was born in Washington, D.C., Kannapolis, North Carolina, was the birthplace of Zane, beginning with The Sex Chronicles: Shattering the Myth and Addicted.

Here is another one to add to your collection beside your rocking chair, one side piled up with Bibles and the other piled up with my books.

Hot Box is a baseball drill that can be played with three or more players and two to four bases. The players take turns being fielders and runners, ultimately trying to tag the rest of the players out. People often practice this drill in real life, but instead of tossing around baseballs, they toss around hearts and emotions. Once a person becomes damaged, he or she begins to damage other people; trying to beat the other party to the punch and often orchestrating the demise of his or her relationships in order to hasten what he or she perceives as the inevitable.

More and more people have stopped believing in lifelong and unconditional love, choosing instead to live in the moment and satisfy their urges and desires by sleeping with friends with benefits. No matter how much people try to convince themselves that casual sex is enough, no matter how much they attempt to adapt to their environment, there is still nothing purer and more satisfying than true love. It may not come when we want it to, or in the form that we want it to, but it does exist. Things happen when they are supposed to happen. Remember, if God doesn’t give you what you want, that’s because it’s not what you need.

CONTENTS

PART ONE: CURVEBALLS

PART TWO: BASES LOADED

PART THREE: THE SWEET SPOT

PART ONE

CURVEBALLS

Lydia

I DON’T know how I got so lucky. Phil and Glenn working two different shifts at the Freightliner factory was like celebrating Christmas and New Year’s every fucking day. And every day was a fucking day.

Okay, let me break it down for you. Glenn and I were in a committed relationship for three years, and everything was copacetic. He was fine, sweet, romantic, and he had a scrumptious dick. Glenn was the man . . . my man. But here’s the thing. No matter how terrific he was, I still needed a little variety and extra spice/dick in my life.

When I was younger, I believed in the fairy-tale kind of love. One woman per man and vice versa. Then, by the time I was in the tenth grade, I realized that shit like that really only did happen in fairy tales. Men were dogs—straight up pit bulls, Rottweilers, and Doberman pinschers. Either they were a new breed, different from previous generations, or people swept a ton of shit underneath the rug back then. Personally, I assumed it was a combination of the two. Surely, women stayed and endured a lot of drama, cheating, and abuse because they were scared, destitute, or ashamed to have to admit to a failed relationship. A ton of women still did that, but a lot of chicks decided to stay single.

I was single—meaning unmarried—by choice. I was so sick of all the articles, blogs, and news stories preaching and whining about how the majority of African-American women would never get married. And? What was the point of getting married? If a man was going to fuck around on you, disrespect you, and possibly bring some incurable shit home to your ass, you were better off running a game on him while he thought he was running one on you. It is going to get to the point when women will have to ask themselves the question, what man would you prefer to die for because he cannot keep his dick in his pants?

The only exception was if the brother was paid—majorly paid. Men with money could always get it. Women of all ages, races, and walks of life were willing to drop their drawers and spread them for the right amount of money and prestige. All except for my best friend, Milena. She was on some unrealistic, mind-bending shit.

She had it all in the palm of her hand and ruined it. Well, I kind of facilitated the drama—truth be told. I didn’t have a choice. If I’d kept a secret like that from her and she’d found out later on that I’d been privy to it, our friendship would’ve been history. Milena was not the forgiving, or forgetting, type. Those two words were simply not in her vocabulary. So I told her, and the proverbial shit hit the fan.

It was a new day though. Jacour Bryant was back in Kannapolis and Milena needed to wake the fuck up and smell the coffee. She needed to hook back up with him before some other chick pussy whipped him. Jacour was a pro-baller who had suffered a knee injury that had ended his career but not his bankroll. He’d decided to move back to the area, and the town council was having a big shindig for him the next night. I hadn’t seen him yet, but the hoochie grapevine had alerted me that he was finer than ever.

All of us had seen photos of him throughout the years, and I’d even watched several Yankees games to see what had been up with him. He’d dated all of the top celebrity divas; he’d run through them like they’d been bases on a diamond. It had seemed like he’d been tied to a different woman every other month. That hadn’t really surprised me. All of that pussy had been thrown at him, but Jacour wouldn’t have settled down with anyone but Milena. Too bad she didn’t get that memo.

Those were the very thoughts running through my mind as Phil was sucking the lining out of my pussy—my juicy, delectable pussy. My pussy was like sunshine on a rainy day. Like fireworks in the middle of a snowstorm. Like flowers in the middle of the desert. Like . . . never mind. I’m sure you get the picture. My pussy was off the fucking chain.

Hmm, your pussy is off the chain, Phil said, reading my mind and coming up for air. I can’t get enough of these cookies.

You’re not done eating the cookies until you drink your milk along with it. I loved talking dirty. Until I bust in your mouth, you’re still on the clock.

Hell yeah! I’ll put in the work!

Phil went back to servicing me and I glanced at the clock. It was a little past noon. Glenn got off at three, the same time that Phil started his shift. I was playing a dangerous game, but it felt so . . . damn . . . good. Did I mention that Phil was one of Glenn’s best friends? Oops, guess not. Glenn, Phil, and Jacour were like the Three Black Musketeers. They could literally fit right into their footprints, even though the novel was written in French nearly 160 years ago and the setting was way back in the seventeenth century.

Phil was definitely Athos. Even though he was the same age as Glenn and Jacour, he acted a lot older than them . . . and looked it. He hit the whiskey hard, a side effect of living in a small town without shit else to do. Phil was handsome but very secretive and drowned his sorrows in liquor, exactly like Athos. I was glad that he used liquor to cope with his shit. I did not have to listen to his problems; just fuck him.

Glenn was damn near Porthos’s twin. He was a bit extroverted, extremely honest, and slightly gullible. He could also eat a sister out of house and home, like Porthos. But instead of being a bit chunky, he worked out religiously to get rid of the excessive calories he inhaled. He never actually ate; he would inhale that shit . . . real talk.

That meant Jacour was Aramis Jr. In the novel, Aramis was portrayed as ambitious and unsatisfied. He was arrogant and loved intrigue and women. If that wasn’t Jacour, my name wasn’t Lydia Sterling.

I had this way of allowing my mind to wander to the strangest places while I was fucking. Somehow, imagining the Three Musketeers, along with their sidekick, d’Artagnan, fucking me in a barn back in the seventeenth century made me climax all over Phil’s face. Athos had me bent down on my knees, slobbering all over his dick as he lay in the hay, while Porthos was hitting it doggie-style and slapping my ass like a true swashbuckler. Aramis was standing over us, jerking off and shooting a load on my back, and d’Artagnan was stroking an elephantine dick, moaning and waiting on his turn to ram his billy club up my ass.

Oh shit! I screamed out as I exploded. My thighs were shaking with the aftershocks as Phil lapped up all of my juices like a good little doggie.

Can I pound you with this big cock now? he asked when he was through.

A cock is a chicken, I said. Only dicks can enter my temple of immense sexual pleasure.

Cock. Dick. Zipper Ripper. My Ramburglar. Whatever you want to call it, I’m ’bout to blow your back out with it.

Damn, make it bounce, Daddy!

The nasty talk was really what turned me on the most about Phil. Glenn would not even send me a sexy text message, much less say that kind of stuff to me in person. Plus, even though Glenn could definitely put a pounding on my pussy, he always wanted to be on top. Fuck that! I loved to ride.

I pushed Phil over onto his back and climbed on my saddle. Hee haw! I exclaimed as I started riding him cowgirl fashion.

I didn’t give a damn what anyone said. I could cum the hardest when I was on top. A man hitting it from the back could give it a lot of depth, but unless his dick was shaped like a candy cane, he was not hitting the G-spot. Sometimes I could get close to the G-spot in the reverse cowgirl position, but I recognized what it felt like when that part of me was touched, and it wasn’t happening with a dick.

Now, when I was on top, it was all good. All the right ingredients were there. I was in complete control and, nine times out of ten, he could last longer on his back. Besides, I didn’t want dude sweating all over me; hell to the triple no. If anyone was going to drip sweat that day, it was going to be me. It was bad enough that I had to put up with that from Glenn.

A lot of women think that you’re supposed to pounce up and down on a dick. Not! That’s not riding. Men might be feeling it, but that breaks the continuity with the stimulation on my clit. Rocking my hips did the trick every time. I’d imagine myself riding an actual horse bareback, its massive body moving below mine, bouncing me gently as it trots, my clit rubbing up against it. The heartbeat of the horse between my legs was the same as the throbbing of a dick while I was riding one. Yes! There wasn’t anything like it.

Phil became that horse and took me for a smooth ride. Um, hell yeah!

Work this dick, baby. Phil grabbed my ass and started pounding on my cheeks like an African drum. Take all this dick.

My cut came on the radio: My Body’s Hungry by Teena Marie. My body was hungry as hell, too.

I wonder if I’m a sex addict, I said to Phil, who couldn’t have cared less if I was as long as he was getting pussy on the regular. You think I am?

Wha . . . what? he replied breathlessly.

Do you think I’m a sex addict? I asked as I started gyrating my hips like a professional belly dancer . . . or stripper.

"I think you’re fucking fine, and I know your pussy’s the best in town."

How you know all that? I slapped him playfully on the face. You done fucked every woman in town?

No. He paused to catch his breath, then grinned. Only half of them.

That motherfucker was lying. I had him so pussy whipped that he couldn’t even see straight.

Yeah? Well, I bet they didn’t get it in with you like this.

That’s when I fucked that fool into submission. He curled up in the fetal position by the time I finished with his Ramburglar, or whatever shit he was poppin’.

• • •

It’s after one, I informed Phil a little while later. You need to bounce.

I’ve got two hours left. Let me hit the shower first.

You know I don’t play that.

How come you don’t ever let me take a shower after we fuck? You let me do it before.

That’s because no funky-ass bodies—or balls—hit my sheets. You’re not coming up in here after working an eight-hour factory shift, smelling like a muskrat, and touching me. You can take an after-fucking shower at your own crib.

You’re a trip, Lydia.

"So are you, Phil. We’re both doing the wrong thing when it comes to Glenn. Don’t front like it’s only me."

That’s not what I meant. It’s not about Glenn. It’s about how cold and callous you can be at times.

I propped myself up on my elbow and stared into his eyes. Look, you’re my jump-off and I’m yours. It’s as simple as that.

Jump-offs don’t last as long as we have and—

I pulled the pillow from under his head. You’re getting too damn comfortable. Get going; I still have to change the bedding and air this place out before Glenn gets home.

Oops, I forgot to mention that Glenn and I were actually shacking. Yeah, I was lowdown, but Phil had a roommate and there was no way we were getting it in at his place. Briscoe was the biggest gossiper in town; fuck what you heard about women putting business out in the streets. He was the TMZ of Kannapolis.

Phil reluctantly got up and started putting on his clothes. You want me to come through in the morning?

Nope. I got something to do in the morning.

I don’t have to stay long.

Five minutes would be too long. I paused and wiggled my nose. My bedroom smelled like stone-cold fucking. I was going to have to open up all the windows and spray an entire can of Indian Money up in that bitch before Glenn got home.

Whatever, Lydia. Like I said, you’re a trip.

Have you seen Jacour since he got back?

Yeah, we all hung out last night after I got off work. Glenn didn’t tell you?

No, but that’s cool. I was wondering where he was.

Humph, you’ve got a lot of nerve, clocking Glenn’s moves.

Is he cheating on me, Phil?

Phil looked at me and laughed. You don’t really expect me to respond, do you?

Hell yes, I do.

Phil shrugged. Hell if I know. Maybe, maybe not.

Well, if I ever find out who the bitch is, I’m cutting her.

Phil smirked. I’m out of here. He turned to leave. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be home by midnight, as usual.

Wait, one more question, I said, sitting up in the bed and letting the comforter fall off my bare chest.

What? Phil crossed his arms with much attitude.

It’s not about Glenn. What do you think about when we’re fucking?

He shrugged. I think about us fucking.

You don’t fantasize about other women, or worry about busting a nut too quick, or keeping it up?

No, no, and no. I think about how good your pussy feels. I’ve got to go.

Oh, now you’re in a rush?

Damn right. I can’t shower here and I have to be at work on time. Plus, you need to do what’s good to get this place straight before my boy gets home.

Phil left, and a moment later I heard his car leaving the driveway. The good part about where Glenn and I lived was that it was down a dirt road and no one could spot people coming or going. Otherwise, Phil and I would have been busted ages ago.

Glenn got home about four and I had dinner ready for him by five. Lasagna, garlic bread, and salad: his favorite meal. We put in some overtime that night in bed. He must’ve felt guilty about being out late the night before and not telling me where he’d been. I waited for him to bring it up. Like I said earlier, Glenn was like Porthos; honest.

After I’d sucked him off real slow and lovely, he filled me in on everything that was going on with Jacour, who hadn’t been home in years. Glenn had spoken to him on the phone about once a week, but now that Jacour was back, I was hoping they wouldn’t be running the streets every night, hitting the bar scene in Charlotte. That was all I fucking needed; my man hanging out with a famous athlete around a bunch of money-hungry hoes. Shit, most of the chicks would fall over a man if he bought them a few drinks. Jacour in a Charlotte nightclub would damn near cause a stampede. My baby wasn’t going to be riding shotgun with Jacour when that shit went down. If he brought home even one photo of Jacour and him standing in front of a spray-painted backdrop with a bunch of sluts hanging all over them, I was pulling out my box cutter. There was one surefire way to make sure that wouldn’t happen.

Does Jacour still have the hots for Milena? I asked Glenn as we were falling asleep in each other’s arms.

"Jacour still loves Milena, but I told him that’s a wrap."

I sat up and stared at him. Why’d you tell him that?

Oh, she still feeling him?

I sighed and lay back down. "She hasn’t said that exactly, but once they see each other, you never know what might happen."

I’m gonna call him first thing in the morning and tell him to ask her to his party. You think she’ll go?

I shrugged. He has a good shot.

Cool, Glenn said and then turned over. I hated when he did that, but he preferred to sleep on his right side and I had this attachment to the left side of the bed.

I stared at the ceiling. Milena couldn’t stand Jacour, but I needed her to come to her senses.

Milena

I ALWAYS realized that letting myself go would eventually catch up with me. Looking like a cave witch, with my hair strewn all over the place, wearing baggy overalls practically every day, and gaining more than thirty pounds over my ideal body weight were all mechanisms to prevent men from paying me any attention. If men never noticed me, they could never hurt me. It sounds ridiculous, but it actually made sense to me at the time—eight years ago—when my heart was broken for the first, and last, time.

The long-suffering winds of August in Kannapolis, North Carolina, would make anyone want to scream. We’d been enduring a heat wave of ninety degrees minimum for the past week. It didn’t help matters any that I spent half of my day outside, keeping up the health of animals and trying to save those that were sick. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian. In the third grade, I found a dead bird on my way home from school. It was raining that day, and the poor little thing was lying in the middle of a dirt road, sopping wet and as dead as a doornail. I put it in my tin lunch pail and brought it home.

My mother thought it was cute when I said, It’s one of God’s creatures!

My father looked like he wanted to scream.

I put it in a black plastic box and placed it out by our fence, determined to bring it back to life. After a few days, when I raced outside one morning to check on my patient, both the bird and the box had disappeared. My father told me that my love and affection had worked and that the bird had been reincarnated. He tried to convince me that it had spread its wings and left to find its family. Being eight years old, I might’ve believed it except for one thing; the box was also gone.

Daddy, what happened to the box? I remember asking.

He sat there at the kitchen table, stirring his coffee and looking dumbfounded for a few seconds. Uh . . . the bird took it with him. So he can sleep in it.

I let the spoon topple into my bowl of oatmeal and stared at him. But how could he carry the box?

He tried to come up with something right quick but decided it was useless. I saw that the bird was gone when I came in from the factory last night. I threw the box away, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

My mother was standing by the stove and cleared her throat before wiping her hands on the bottom of her apron. Milena, you need to get cleaned up. The school bus will be here in a couple of minutes.

I slowly got up from the table and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I came back out to the kitchen, my parents were whispering in hushed tones. By that time, I realized that Daddy had thrown the bird away . . . inside the box. I was eight; not retarded.

That was the beginning of my fascination with animals. A fascination that flourished into a career. Milena Clark, D.V.M. Most veterinarians deal with pet medicine and work predominantly on dogs, cats, birds, and other household pets. I was knowledgeable in treating all of those, but I specialized in production medicine. I worked on dairy cattle, beef cattle, sheep, swine, and poultry. I also was qualified to do equine medicine and worked on all types of horses.

It was simply my bad luck that I was outside, chasing Mr. Slater’s prize-winning pig, Bessie, through the mud when Jacour pulled up in a brand-new Phantom Rolls-Royce. My best friend, Lydia, was sitting beside him in the front. I wanted to wring her neck.

Mr. Slater shielded his eyes with his right hand as they pulled down my gravel driveway. Isn’t that Jacour Bryant?

I suppose so, I said with disdain.

As Jacour put his luxury vehicle in park and cut the engine, I finally tackled Bessie and got a chain around her so I could tie her to a post to examine her. I was a hot mess, with mud all over my overalls, and my hair was frizzy and wild from the heat.

Lydia jumped out of the car with a shit grin on her face. Hey, sis! Look who I found in town!

Mr. Slater started chuckling. Didn’t you and that fella used to be an item?

There was no way I was going to respond to that. Mr. Slater, why don’t you come back in the morning to get Bessie? I’m sure you need to get back to your farm.

Well, I guess that’ll be all right. He spit out some chewing tobacco, and it made my stomach turn. For the life of me, I couldn’t comprehend how a woman could kiss a man who chewed tobacco and spit it out. Be here around seven.

Okay.