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  Insatiable

  Published by

  Strebor Books International LLC

  P.O. Box 1370

  Bowie, MD 20718

  http://www.streborbooks.com

  Insatiable © 2004 by Allison Hobbs. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

  LCCN 2003116578

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-5016-X

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5016-7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  1-800-223-2336

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Dedication

  This is dedicated to my forever friend, Karen Dempsey Hammond. Thank you so much for your patience, love, and concern throughout the writing of this novel.

  Acknowledgments

  Shari Reason, my daughter in spirit. I know you sacrificed a lot to make it to my numerous book signings last year. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Aletha Dempsey, you are truly an angel. Thanks for the support during those dark days last November. On a brighter note, thanks for all the good food you served at your pool parties last summer. Big congratulations on the opening of Bubba and Skye’s Soul To Go restaurant.

  A very special thanks to LisaMarie Heyward and all the members of the Philly African American Book Club. You ladies are a class act; thanks for your support.

  Shakira Abdullah, I’m privileged to call you a friend. Thanks for keeping it real.

  I’d like to take this opportunity to thank some of the people who were supportive of my first novel in their own special way: My little cuz, Salima Jones, Vincent and Renee Waters, Verdell and Sylvia Hicks, Stacey Long, Frances Lacey, Verna Bailey, Jane Atland, Camillah Carey, Elizabeth Green, Jessica Johnson, Vanessa Brown, Tammy Kirkland, Lisa Butler, Barbara Harris, Rhonda Jones, Rita Randolph, Pauline Johnson, Ann Durante, and Nelson Maldonado.

  Finally, I’m grateful to my new extended family, The Strebor Family: Charmaine Parker, the best publicist/editor in the world. Thank you Destiny Wood for all your help during the numerous Strebor events and special thanks for rescuing me as I wandered around the parking garage looking for my rental car. It’s been an honor to work with the Strebor authors: Darrien Lee (Good looking out in New Orleans), Tina Brooks McKinney (I’ve gotta get you a set of pom-poms, girl), D.V. Bernard, Keith Lee Johnson, Shelley Halima, Harold Turley, Nane Quartay, Laurinda Brown, JDaniels, Jonathan Luckett, V. Anthony Rivers, Rique Johnson, and William Fredrick Cooper.

  And last but certainly not least, Zane.

  Chapter One

  Terelle Chambers tried to carry her daughter Markeeta the two blocks to the bus stop but after trudging along for only half a block, she had to stop.

  “You have to walk for a little while, Keeta. Mommy can’t carry you and this big ol’ turkey, too.”

  Squirming and trying to cling to her mother, two-year-old Markeeta whimpered as she felt herself being lowered to the pavement.

  Markeeta’s eyes bulged with disbelief and then clouded with tears. Her mouth, wide-open, was silent for a few seconds. Then there was a tremendous wail. Markeeta stubbornly withheld the tiny hand that her mother reached for. “Come on, give me your hand, Keeta,” Terelle demanded. Markeeta shrieked again. “Shh. Be quiet. I’ll pick you up in a minute.”

  The turkey was a Thanksgiving gift from her employer—a fifteen-pound freebie that she should have left at work and picked up tomorrow while Markeeta was at the day care center. But tomorrow was her day off, and she did not feel like being anywhere near that back-breaking job.

  Besides, she had plans for tomorrow. The people from the prison were coming by in the morning to interview her; they wanted to see if her apartment was suitable for Marquise to reside in for the six months he’d be on house arrest.

  She and Markeeta had been living with her grandmother, but when she found out Marquise would soon be released from prison, Terelle started working doubles at the nursing home where she was a nursing assistant. It took close to three months of overtime to put together the money for the apartment.

  It hadn’t been easy. In fact, it had been downright grueling. She and Markeeta had to get up every morning at five. After dropping her daughter off at the day care center (which, thankfully was in walking distance from her grandmother’s house) she took the bus and the subway to the nursing home and worked the first shift until three. During her lunch break on the second shift, she’d rush back to the day care center, pick up Markeeta and rush her to her grandmother’s. Terelle would have to listen to Gran bitch and moan for at least five minutes before racing back to work. The second shift ended at eleven. Dog-tired, she’d make it home around midnight and start preparing for the next day.

  Knocked low too many times to count, Terelle’s life had never been easy.

  But things were going to be different now. Marquise was coming home!

  Terelle straightened up the shoulder that was dipped and aching from the weight of the turkey. Rejuvenated by thoughts of Marquise, she swooped up Markeeta with her other arm—an arm already laden with her own shoulderbag and her daughter’s diaper bag. Kissing her daughter’s tear-soaked cheek, Terelle determinedly race-walked to the bus stop.

  At home, sitting in her highchair, Markeeta munched happily on animal crackers. Terelle shed her nursing uniform and slipped into an old pair of sweat pants and tee shirt. Brand-new Baby Phat jeans and a sweater hung in the closet—gifts from her best friend, Saleema. The expensive designer clothing would not be worn until Marquise came home. She was petite and blessed with an hourglass figure most black men revered. With her tiny waistline, round hips, thick shapely legs, and Hottentot-protruding buttocks, Terelle looked spectacular in the jeans. Marquise was going to love looking at her booty in those jeans.

  She’d been merely simulating living during Marquise’s absence—just going through the motions. She took care of Markeeta, handled her household, and helped her grandmother and her mother, but life wouldn’t really begin until Marquise came home.

  Marquise was a changed man. Their lives would change, he had promised. He said he wanted to get married; he was ready to be a family man. His daughter, he said, was going to have two parents loving and caring for her, and Terelle was going to have a man that she could depend on. From now on, he said, he was going to do his part and Terelle would never again have to hold it down alone. He wanted her to go back to school. No more working doubles, no more lugging Markeeta around on public transportation. They were going to get a car. Nothing fancy. A little hooptie to start off with.

  Jail house promises. That’s what Saleema had to say about Marquise’s pledges of honor. But Terelle knew better; she knew her man’s heart. Marquise was tired of the streets; he was ready to settle down. Terelle didn’t care what Saleema or anyone else thought about Marquise.

  Terelle let out a sigh. She was so tired. Tired of being lonely, tired of struggling to take care of Markeeta alone, tired of juggling bills. And she was sick and tired of dealing with her mother’s issues—her unending problems. Her mother, Cassandra Chambers, had been on and off drugs for most of Terelle’s life. At present, Cassandra was clean. She’d been clean for three months, the longest time ever.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello,” Terell
e sang the word, anticipating the computerized voice instructing her to press “1” to accept a collect call from Marquise.

  “Hey, Terelle,” her mother said drearily.

  Terelle wanted to slam down the phone. She wanted to talk to Marquise; she wasn’t in the mood to listen to her mother’s depressing conversation. “Hey, Mom,” she said in a fake cheerful voice that implied that her mother’s call was welcome.

  “How’s Keeta?”

  Terelle smiled over at her daughter who was making a mess with the animal cookies. “She’s doing good, Mom. I’m trying to hype her up about her daddy coming home.” Terelle’s smile widened.

  “How you expect Keeta to be excited about somebody she don’t hardly even know.”

  “She knows her father!” Terelle snapped. “I’ve been taking her to see him for two years. And she talks to him on the phone practically every day.”

  “So what! Talking baby talk to a voice on the phone ain’t the same as being raised by her father. Marquise been in jail since before Keeta was born. It’s gonna take a while before she really thinks of him as her daddy.”

  Terelle could feel her face burning with anger. “There you go. Why you always badmouthin’ Marquise? It ain’t like you got room to talk.”

  Inflamed, Terelle began pacing around the kitchen, holding the phone with one hand and rubbing her temple with the other. “You’re in rehab now and I’m happy for you. But I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how you neglected me. After all you put me through—three different foster homes—you should be glad I still call you Mom.”

  “Why you tryin’ to upset me, Terelle? I thought we said we was gonna leave the past where it belongs and move forward. Ain’t that what you promised when I made it through the detox program?”

  “Which time, Mom? You been in so many programs I stopped countin’ a long time ago.”

  “Forget it, Terelle. I thought we could have a decent conversation for a change, but all you want to do is bring up the past and make me feel worse than I already feel. I’m doing the best I can, you know. Living in this depressing place with all these funky women…All these rules and regulations they make you put up with is ridiculous. You gotta be in at a certain time. Can’t go nowhere alone. Gotta ask somebody if you can use the phone. Shit, I might as well be in jail. I’m getting sick of this dumb shit.” Cassandra paused, as if waiting for Terelle to utter a sound of understanding. Terelle’s silence encouraged Cassandra to produce more evidence of her mistreatment at the rehabilitation group home. “Do you realize three other women sleep in my bedroom? Uh-huh, that’s right. We only have two beds and they got us in there four deep! Now, that’s some bullshit and you know it. Ain’t no such thing as privacy around here. I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this crap.”

  “What are you saying, Mom?” Terelle’s mouth was pursed.

  “I’m saying…I’m thinking about making some changes. That’s what I’m saying!”

  Terelle’s shoulders slumped. “You made it through three whole months. You gotta be strong. One step at a time! That’s the name of the program ’cause that’s what you gotta do.” Terelle paused. “Right, Mom?”

  “Wrong! I ain’t taking no more steps.”

  “What? You just gonna give up? Go back on drugs?”

  “Hell no. But now that you got your own place, I don’t see why I can’t come stay with you? I could do the outpatient thing. They got plenty of outpatient programs right there in Southwest Philly. There’s a place near 56th & Greenway. Shit, I could walk there from your place…”

  Terelle’s head was pounding. “Mom, you’re not ready for Outpatient. You need to stay where you are for the amount of time they say you need to be there.” She used a placating tone that seemed to give her mother more determination.

  “No way! These crazy people talkin’ ’bout it takes a year to get on your feet. I’m not staying here for no damn year. I can get a job—help you pay rent…”

  “No! You’re staying in the program until you can stand on your own feet. You’ve been doing drugs since that shit first hit the streets—since I was seven years old. How you think three months gonna straighten out your life? It’s gonna take a minute before you’re ready to live drug-free on the outside. Them rules and things are for your own good.”

  Cassandra emitted a loud, “Humph!”

  “Seriously, Mom. You can’t expect to just start working and following real rules when you’ve been living by your own rules for all these years.”

  “Terelle, I ain’t callin’ you for no lecture. Can I stay there or not?”

  “No! I’m trying to get things together for me and Keeta.”

  “And Marquise,” Cassandra added, spitting out the name.

  “Yeah, and Marquise. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything’s wrong with that. You wanna make a way for that nothin’ nigga but you don’t wanna do shit for me—your own flesh and blood.”

  Her mother was wearing her down. “I’m not trying to put anybody before you, Mom.” Terelle sighed and switched the phone to her other ear. She looked up at the kitchen clock. It was time for Marquise to call. “There’s a place in my heart that belongs to you, there’s a place for Keeta, and there’s a place for Marquise.”

  Cassandra was hopeful until Marquise’s name was included.

  “Time!” shouted a woman in the house where Cassandra lived. The voice was deliberately commanding, loud, and ugly. But, desperately wanting to get off the phone with her mother, Terelle was grateful that the unpleasant woman possessed the authority to terminate the telephone conversation.

  “See what I mean?” Cassandra’s voice rose. “That was the house manager. She loves telling me what to do. Look, I gotta get off the phone. I’ll call you tomorrow. Kiss Keeta for me.”

  Terelle checked the time again. Damn. She’d probably missed Marquise’s call. She wished she still had call-waiting, but someone from the sheriff’s department had called to inform her that she would have to take all the features off her phone in order for them to install a monitor on her phone line. This monitor would allow them to keep track of Marquise’s whereabouts while he was on house arrest.

  With eyes bouncing from the kitchen clock to the phone, she scooped canned spaghetti into a bowl for Markeeta’s dinner and set the microwave for forty seconds. Shit! Why’d she allow her mother to guilt-trip her into staying on the phone. Feeling discouraged, Terelle placed the bowl in front of her daughter and began mindlessly stirring the sauce and noodles with a fork bearing Elmo’s image at the tip. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice that Markeeta was leaning forward with her mouth open, hungrily awaiting the first mouthful. She gave her daughter the fork.

  The phone finally made a sound. Terelle snatched it off the base in the middle of the first ring.

  “What’s crackin’, babe,” Marquise said in his slow sexy way.

  “Marquise! How’d you get through without calling collect?”

  “Your line was busy so I had to call my man, Jalil. He hit you with his three-way.”

  “Thanks, Jalil,” Terelle offered.

  “He ain’t on the phone; he just hit you up and laid the phone down.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, why were you on the phone? You know what time I call.”

  “I’m sorry, Quise. My mom called. Depressed as usual about her situation. I was trying to keep her spirits up.”

  Marquise didn’t respond. Terelle was not surprised. There was bad blood between Marquise and her mother and she didn’t know why.

  “So, you hear anything yet?” Marquise asked.

  “Yeah. Some people are supposed to come over tomorrow to interview me and check out the apartment building.”

  “Check it out for what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess to make sure there’s no drug traffic going on in the building. Didn’t they talk to you about the procedure?”

  “I ain’t heard shit. I’m locked up, remember? They do all their
communicatin’ with you.”

  “I meant your lawyer. Didn’t he mention something about the process?”

  “That dickhead! He’s on the county payroll. He don’t tell me nothin.” Marquise was getting worked up.

  “I know. I know. Well, don’t get all hyped. I’m sure I’ll have some news for you tomorrow.”

  “Good news, I hope. ’Cause I’m about sick of bein’ jerked around by the system. The black man can’t get a break…”

  Terelle quickly interjected soothingly, “Don’t worry, baby. It’s gonna be over soon. We’re on our way to a brand new life.” How had the tables turned, she wondered? Instead of receiving the comfort she needed, she was playing the role of comforter to Marquise—calming and reassuring him.

  “Yo, Quise!” Jalil’s discarnate voice startled Terelle. “My mom gotta use the phone, dawg.”

  “Okay, man. I’ll be off in a minute. Terelle, let me hollah at my baby girl for a sec.”

  Terelle aligned the phone to Markeeta’s mouth and ear. “Say hi to Daddy, Keeta.”

  Before Markeeta could begin to formulate one word, Terelle heard the blaring dial tone. Jalil had disconnected them; he probably didn’t want his mom to find out he had accepted a collect call. Damn! She had really needed to talk to Marquise. She was lonely and needed to hear him tell her how much he loved and missed her. She was sick of living off phone calls. Expensive phone calls. Ten minutes of communicating with her man cost her fifteen dollars a day…a lot of chips for a woman with a salary of only nine dollars an hour. Terelle had calculated that after taxes, she had to work about two and a half hours for ten minutes of phone time with her man. But hearing his voice was worth every dime.

  Chapter Two

  The image on the computer monitor was too small. Kai Montgomery clicked a button and enlarged it. Much better. There she was—wearing her million-dollar smile. She scrolled down and smiled at the stethoscope that dangled between her bare breasts. Her beautiful luscious melons, according to Dr. Kenneth Harding, the owner of the stethoscope and the brilliant white lab coat Kai wore in the photograph. There was no denying that it was his jacket. His name, embroidered in bright red letters, attested to that fact.