The Hot Spot

  THE HOT SPOT

  Kaleb lifted Zaria’s body up against his, before turning to press her back against the front door of her home. As he brought his hands down to cup her full buttocks, he brought his face in close to hers.

  Zaria tightened her hold around his neck, feeling secure in his embrace as her eyes flitted over his face as if memorizing every detail. She tilted her chin up to trace the full outline of his mouth with the tip of her tongue, enjoying the way her body trembled. She laughed huskily as he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers. “Things are going so fast,” she whispered against his lips.

  Kaleb leaned back to look down at her, liking how the porch light reflected like twinkling stars in her eyes. “We don’t have to do this,” he told her. Still he wanted her to want this moment.

  He eased his hands up under her shirt to press against the warm skin of her waist and stepped back to let her down onto her feet.

  She shook her head. “It feels like we have to,” she admitted, speaking her feelings. Her body felt alive and vibrant. His touch was like pure energy. His body like the most solid of foundations.

  She kissed him again, deepening their connection as she pressed her tongue into his mouth to lightly stroke his own.

  “I want you,” he moaned against her ear.

  Zaria felt completely light-headed and hot and flustered as she took her key from her pocket and unlocked the front door. Stepping away from him, she went inside the house and began to unbutton her shirt. “Come and get me,” she said.

  Also by Niobia Bryant

  Heated

  Hot Like Fire

  Make You Mine

  Give Me Fever

  Live and Learn

  Show and Tell

  Message From a Mistress

  Mistress No More

  Heat Wave (with Donna Hill and Zuri Day)

  Published by Dafina Books

  THE HOT SPOT

  NIOBIA BRYANT

  Kensington Publishing Corp. http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE HOT SPOT

  Also by Niobia Bryant

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  EPILOGUE

  Dear Readers,

  About the Author

  One Hot Summer

  Copyright Page

  I am a true romantic. I completely believe in happily-ever-after and destined souls.

  I write romance because I believe in romance.

  And so this one is dedicated to my heart.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During the writing of this book, my family suffered a major loss in the unexpected death of my cousin Troy Anthony Blake, whom we all lovingly called “Sire.” Words cannot express how deeply I felt his loss, not just because he was blood, but also because he was truly a good person with a good heart and wonderful spirit. He had a smile that was as bright as the sun and had the power to make you smile right along with him. His laughter came from deep within his belly, and it was loud and infectious.

  The world needs more men—more people—like our Sire. I know he is an angel in heaven now, but I pray that the Lord blesses us with more kind souls like him here on Earth.

  Please rest in peace, Sire.

  PROLOGUE

  “Hey. This is Ned, Zaria, Meena, and Neema. We’re not in. You know what to do. Kisses.”

  Beep.

  “Zaria, this is Hope. And this is Chanci, girl. Girl, you and Ned give that thang a break and call us back. Or we’ll try your cell. If we don’t reach you, we’ll see y’all later today. Bye!!!”

  Beep.

  “Hey, Mama. It’s Meena and Neema. We called your cell but it’s going straight to voice mail. Call us. We really need a care package. This campus food suuuuuuuucks.”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Using one clear-coated acrylic nail, Zaria Ali hit the button to delete all of the messages. Her childhood best friends, Chanci and Hope, were coming into South Carolina for their annual trip home and had indeed reached her on her cell earlier that day. Her twin daughters finally caught her on her cell to lovingly plead for all the homebaked goodies they wanted shipped overnight.

  Zaria sighed heavily. The call she was expecting wasn’t on the machine and that hurt. It really hurt.

  Not even the thought of her best friends coming for her birthday weekend could make her smile. Chanci was flying in from North Carolina and Hope from Maryland. They had been childhood friends growing up in Summer ville, South Carolina. Their lives had taken them in separate directions once they got married and got caught up in their careers. It was Zaria who reached out to them to reconnect after so many years, and the time had faded into nothing as they just fell right in sync with one another. That bond they had formed as children had withstood the years and the hundreds of miles between them.

  And she looked forward to their sisterhood, their vibrancy, and the fun they would bring into her life and her world. Lord knows I need to be cheered up.

  Zaria’s eyes shifted around her home. They rested on a hundred different things that would forever hold a memory for her. But it didn’t feel like a home anymore. She had thought it was a place meant for happily-ever-after. She was wrong. Painfully so.

  No, not tonight. No memories. No regrets.

  Her girls would be there, and maybe she’d tell them how Zaria—housewife extraordinaire who made it her business to put her husband before herself—had been made a fool of.

  Zaria felt sadness weigh down on her shoulders a bit, but she shook it off. She shook him off. Matter of fact, she was shaking all men off for good. The risk of feeling this kind of hurt again wasn’t worth it.

  Chanci and Hope would easily take her mind off . . . things. And even if—no, when—they gushed about the men and the love in their lives, Zaria would refuse to think of the coulda, woulda, or shoulda with him.

  No matter how much I miss him.

  She’d been his wife since she was eighteen. She grew up in her marriage. She sacrificed so much. Her youth. Her happiness.

  As she wiped the tears from her eyes, she wished that she had never gotten married at all. Never believed in love and the happily-ever-after. Never lost herself in the desire to be “the perfect wife.”

  “From now on, I’m going to enjoy life and never let a man knock at the door of my heart,” she promised herself, her voice sounding strange to her own ears in the quiet of the house.

  She’d spent the last two weeks singing the lonely-bed-and-brokenhearted blues. Barely been able to get out of bed. Crying until her head hurt and her eyes were sore. Calling his phone and pleading with him to change his mind. Making a complete fool of herself as she fought not to lose her mind. She hadn’t told a soul what she was suffering through. Not her friends. Not her kids. No one.

  Bzzzzz.

  Pushing through the hurt and disappointment, Zaria smiled at the sound of the doorbell as she made her way to the front door. She heard their laughter even through the solid wood. Just knowing they were there to hold her if she faltered, to hug her if she cried, and to tickle her until she laughed made things feel better.

  Zaria flung the door open wide, causing a slight draft to shimmy across her legs, bare under the dress she wore. She sadly smiled as Chanci and Hope danced past her into the living room, snapping their fin
gers and singing an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday”—the Stevie version.

  Shutting the door, Zaria crossed her arms over her chest and listened to their cheerful serenade—a bad one, but a serenade nonetheless.

  Chanci closed her beautiful green eyes as she flung her head back and hit a high note that would put a cat’s wail to shame.

  Hope froze midsentence and looked at Zaria, giving her the mother stare that was all too knowing. “Hold on, Aretha,” she said dryly to Chanci, reaching out to lightly grasp her arm to stop her. “What’s wrong, Zaria?”

  Damn, she’s good.

  The rest of the song thankfully died from Chanci’s lips as she opened her eyes and focused them on Zaria as well. Her face brightened and then became concerned. “Is something wrong?”

  That’s one thing about good friends. They knew each other—really knew each other—and there wasn’t much that could be kept from them. Nothing much at all that could be hidden.

  Not happiness. Not joy. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

  And why should it?

  Zaria thought of him. All of him. And all of the emotions he brought into her world. The happiness. The joy. The sadness. The heartbreak.

  One lone tear raced down her cheek and she swiped it away. Seconds later, their arms were around her, and all at once she felt weak with relief and strong from their friendship. In their little huddle, she admitted it. “Ned left me.”

  Chanci’s and Hope’s heads lifted. Zaria raised hers as well, and the two women shared a look before forcing their eyes back on her.

  Zaria felt a piercing pain radiate across her chest.

  “Awwwww,” her friends said sympathetically.

  Chanci and Hope shared another long look before leading Zaria to the kitchen and pressing her into one of the chairs surrounding the dining table in the breakfast nook.

  “This calls for alcohol,” Chanci said, her face determined, as if she were preparing for war.

  Hope nodded in agreement. “Definitely.”

  As her friends moved about the kitchen, getting ready for one of their patented gabfests—which always included good food and drink—Zaria knew she would have to tell them about the tragic end to her marriage. She would set aside her embarrassment and bring them into the world of pain caused by the man she had loved and cherished for over twenty years of her life.

  And for another woman. A younger woman.

  Zaria released a breath shaky with her pain, her shock, and her disappointment. Still she felt some relief because she knew her girls would help her deal with it all.

  Thank God for them.

  CHAPTER 1

  Two years later

  The sound of the music in the club was a mix of a hard-core bass line overlapping a sultry reggae beat. The type of beat to bring out the need for a hard—or soft—body pressed up against someone else. The type of bass to make a heated body tic with each thump. The music made you forget your worries. A lousy day at work. An argument with a lover. The bill collector at the door or the phone ringing off the hook.

  Any of it—all of it—was drummed out by the music.

  And no one took more advantage of that than Zaria Ali.

  She mouthed along with the song—one of her favorites—as she moved her hips like she didn’t have a backbone. And even though her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back just a bit, she knew the eyes of men—and a few women—were watching her. Many were trying to build up the nerve to dance with her. A few had tried too bold an approach—a hand on her waist or below it—and were politely brushed aside.

  As the live reggae band ended the song, Zaria grooved her way off the small dance floor in her leather booties, making her way to the bathroom as nature called like crazy. Thankfully it was clean and there wasn’t a line as long as one of Beyoncé’s performance weaves, which was surprising for a Thursday night. In her club adventures, she had seen things that made her afraid to even touch the doorknob and that even made her “perch” over a commode.

  After leaving the stall, Zaria made her way to the row of sinks. She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she studied her image and washed her hands. “Not bad at all for forty-two,” she said to her reflection, twisting her head this way and that to study herself under the bright lights.

  Zaria raked her slender fingers through the twenty inches of her jet-black shiny hair that emphasized her light, creamy complexion and made people assume that she was of mixed heritage, but she wasn’t. Her blunt bangs perfectly set off her high cheekbones, pouting mouth, and slanted eyes. She was tall—nearly five ten—but every bit of her size 10 frame was curves, and the skinny jeans she wore emphasized that.

  “Humph, to hell with you, Ned,” Zaria said, and then instantly hated that thoughts of her ex and her failed marriage still lingered on the edges of everything she did and thought . . . even about herself.

  It’s just that she couldn’t forget all of the emotions she felt because of it. Surprised. Shocked. Lost. Confused. Hurt. Insecure. The list could go on and on.

  I should have my shit together by now, right?

  It had taken every last second of the last two years to reclaim the confidence a cheating and neglectful husband snatched from her. To see the beauty in the mirror. Most she was born with, but other aspects she’d happily purchased: her hair—it was amazing what five hundred dollars and a hellified weave technician could do for a sistah; her full, lush eyelashes—she swore by MAC; and her two-inch nails—no need to explain.

  When she was married to Ned, she had been but a pale version of the woman she saw now. His rules had dictated nothing less. No heavy make-up. No snug clothing. Her real hair in nothing snazzier than a bob. Nothing to draw the eyes of other men.

  “If that fool could see me now,” Zaria whispered as she twisted and turned a bit in the mirror to see herself from all angles. The twenty pounds she worked hard to drop revealed firm, plump, and high breasts; a relatively flat abdomen; and a perfectly round bottom—her best asset in combination with her curvy hips.

  It was the kind of body that defied her age and she knew it. In the tradition of Vivica Fox, Halle Berry, and Salma Hayek, she was fortysomething and fabulous. Forty was the new thirty. She had the kind of body that some twenty-year-old women wished they had and even more twenty-year-old men wished they had in their bed.

  Zaria used to think the dumbest thing she ever did was get married at eighteen years young and think it would last forever. But she topped that single foolish act when she cried like a baby when her high school sweetheart, her husband of twenty-two years and father to her twin daughters, left her two years ago for a twenty-year-old woman.

  Viagra addict, she thought sarcastically of her ex.

  When she married Ned Ali, he promised her the moon and stars. Too bad in the end he only delivered adultery and heartache. The last few years of their marriage had been pure hell.

  Long, lonely nights.

  Stilted conversations.

  Bitter arguments.

  Cold silence.

  Robotic sex.

  Zaria felt like she had wasted over twenty years of her life trying to be the perfect wife to a lessthan-perfect husband. She’d even laid the blame for her unhappiness solely at her own door. She was doing something wrong. She wasn’t sexy enough or supportive enough or anything enough.

  In hindsight, she saw the truth of her life. She’d missed out on so much trying to grow up way too fast, far too soon. No dating. No parties. No clubbing. None of the things most teenagers and twentysomethings experienced and learned from. Not even a college education.

  Zaria tried to ignore the pang of hurt in her chest. Lord knows I messed up, and I have plenty of regrets, but no more....

  During the last two years, she had made a concentrated effort to turn her life 180 degrees away from the past. It was entirely different from her happy homemaker days.

  Zaria had a new career as a bartender that she loved. Freedom that she cherished. Friends whom she adored. She
loved the control of her own life—which meant wearing what she wanted, seeing whom she wanted, and doing whatever she wanted when she damn well pleased.

  Still, none of it was what she planned the day she got married. Divorce hadn’t been a part of the picture at all.

  Releasing a heavy breath filled with regrets, she quickly touched up her makeup before heading back to the dance floor, shimmying her feet and hips to the lively sounds of the reggae band that seemed to call to her.

  An hour later, Zaria was still in the middle of the crowded dance floor beneath the hot red lights. She danced alone with nothing but the bass-filled music and the body heat pulsating against her frame. She didn’t miss the circle of men in T-shirts, button-ups, and jerseys that seemed to be transfixed by her movements. And that made her feel like she had the thing she lacked the most in her marriage. Control.

  After her divorce, Zaria promised herself she would always be in charge. Life would follow her plan. Everything on her terms. Absolutely everything.

  Zaria’s eyes opened as she awakened slowly. She released a heavy breath and then frowned at the taste of her own morning breath—made all the more horrible by the liquor residue clinging to her tongue. Way too much rum punch, she thought as she slowly sat up in the middle of the bed and held the side of her slightly pounding head.

  She winced and then blinked at the scraps of paper littering the top of her lavender silk coverlet. She reached out to drag them all closer, remembering she’d emptied her pockets of them as soon as she walked into her bedroom last night.