Darius Jones
Authors: Mary B. Morrison
Unconditionally Single
Maneater
(with Noire)
Who's Loving You
Sweeter than Honey
When Somebody Loves You Back
Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
Somebody's Gotta Be on Top
He's Just a Friend
Never Again Once More
Soulmates Dissipate
Who's Making Love
Justice Just Us Just Me
Coauthored with Carl Weber
She Ain't the One
Mary B. Morrison writing as HoneyB
Sexcapades
Single Husbands
Married on Mondays
Presented by Mary B. Morrison
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders
(an anthology of fiction written by thirty-three sixth graders)
Kensington Publishing Corp.To Michael Baisden Thanks for all you've done for me and for the positive impact you have made and continue to make throughout America.
Wishing you many continued blessings.
First and foremost, I thank the Creator for abundantly blessing me with many gifts. The publication of
Darius Jones
marks my tenth anniversary as a published author. I appreciate all of my fans for your unwavering support of my work over the years, especially those of you who bought my self-published version of
Soulmates Dissipate
in 2000. If you are new to reading my novels, I welcome you into the hearts, minds, and souls of my characters.
This tenth anniversary isn't about me; it's about each of you. I have so many people to thank for accompanying me through my first decade. My son, Jesse Bernard Byrd Jr., I love you. You're the best. I'm proud to be your mom. I enjoy our one-on-one time together when I am super silly or extremely serious. You embrace every facet of me including my animated character voices. Most important, I'm proud of you. You are living proof that we can have a plan for ourselves but God's plan supercedes ours. I had no idea that you're a better writer than I am. I'm ecstatic that you're on track to becoming one of the best writers for film and television instead of pursuing a career in basketball. I love you.
My mother, Elester Noel, and my father, Joseph Henry Morrison, will eternally reside in my heart. Although my biological parents did not rear me, I thank God my family is a village. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for my great aunt, Ella Beatrice Turner, and her husband, Willie Frinkle, welcoming me into their home.
I've mentioned before and I must say it again, I don't know what I'd do without my siblings. My brothers and sisters mean the world to me. Wayne, thanks for coming to my Tasty Tuesdays and Tell It All Thursdays relationship venues in Oakland. Having you there meant so much. Andrea, my sister who diligently prays for every one of us, thanks for keeping me in your prayers. Derrick, aka Thundar, although our father wasn't the role model to teach you how to become a father, I admire your love and dedication to your wife and children. Regina, you are truly the strongest of us all and I'd wager to say the smartest too, chick. I'm in awe of how you've kept your family centered while simultaneously accomplishing your educational and professional goals. Margie, my sister with the spirit of an angel, you are absolutely beautiful. Debra, you are phenomenal. In spite of the plethora of obstacles you've encountered, you've overcome each one. You, my dear sister, are the essence of love.
When I self-published my first novel,
Soulmates Dissipate
, ten years ago, there were a considerable number of African-American bookstores in the United States. Whether or not your doors are open today, I am eternally grateful for your support. I must thank Michele Lewis, Emma Rodgers, Simba & Yao, Blanche Richardson, Karen Richardson, Vera Warren-Williams, Lori Carter, Bernard Henderson, Dominique, Doyna, and Donna Craddock, Carl Weber, and so many others for believing in me and giving me opportunities to succeed.
I'm blessed to have friends that I consider family. You have been there from day one of my literary journey and I thank you Felicia Polk, Vyllorya A. Evans, Carmen Polk, Micheala Burnett, Bennie Allen, Vanessa Ibanitoru, Brenda Clark, Malissa Walton, Howard and Ruth Kees, and Barbara Cooper.
To the friends I've met along my journey, I love all of my Facebook friends and fans, my Twitter peeps, MySpace crew, and my McDonogh 35 Senior High alumni. Then there's Richard C. Montgomery, always and forever you're absolutely special to me. To one of the world's greatest actors, Mel Jackson, I thank you for selflessly sharing your knowledge. To Sean Vaughn Scott, looking forward to the possibilities. Kelvin Powell, thanks for keeping it 100. I can't forget Jamaal Dennis, Kevin Stone, Sylvester Grisby, Belinda Walker, Onie and Diamon Simpson, Kent Lincoln, and Dr. Warren Strudwick.
To my author friends who started on this venture around the same time, I salute Gloria Mallette, Mary Monroe, Carl Weber, Karen E. Quinones Miller, Travis Hunter, Tracy Price-Thompson, Marcus Major, Timothy McCann, Zane, Marissa Monteilh aka Pynk, and Victor McGlothin.
Then there's the group of authors who started before me whom I respect dearly, including Michael Baisden, Terry McMillan, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Eric Jerome Dickey, Francis Ray, Donna Hill, Tina McElroy Ansa, Margaret Johnson-Hodge, April Sinclair, Camika Spencer, and the late great E. Lynn Harris.
My publishing career has flourished in the hands of the scintillating pioneers of publishing at Kensington Publishing Corporation. Thanks to my editor and friend, Selena James, Walter Zacharius, Steven Zacharius, Adam Zacharius, Laurie Parkin, Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, Lesleigh Underwood, Mercedes Fernandez, John Scognamiglio, Daly Hernandez, and everyone else for taking excellent care of my career and me. I appreciate all the book tours, the Broadway plays, the Kensington family dinners, the birthday and Christmas gifts too.
To my family at Grand Central Publishing, you have been great to me with publishing the HoneyB novels. I thank Karen R. Thomas, La-Toya Smith, Linda A. Duggins, and Jamie Raab for supporting my career.
Well, what's an author without a brilliant agent? I'm fortunate to have two of the best agents in the literary business. I'm grateful to have Andrew Stuart and Claudia Menza for steering my career.
Wishing each of you peace and prosperity. Feel free to hit me up with a piece of your world at www.MaryMorrison.com.
Thank you for accompanying me on this journey through the Soulmates Dissipate Series and the Honey Diaries Series. Believe it or not,
Darius Jones
is the final book in both series. Don't panic. As promised, I'm still going to write the prequel to
Soulmates Dissipate,
entitled
Our Little Story
. In
Darius Jones
, I've brought together the main characters from both series.
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Below, I have numbered both series in reading order:
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Soulmates Dissipate Series
- Soulmates Dissipate
- Never Again Once More
- He's Just a Friend
- Somebody's Gotta Be on Top
- Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
- When Somebody Loves You Back
- She Ain't the One
- Darius Jones
Honey Diaries Series
- Sweeter than Honey
- Who's Loving You
- Unconditionally Single
- Darius Jones
Darius
“A
w, shit! Baby! Watch out!” I stared in my side-view mirror.
A white pickup truck rammed the back of our SUV, forcing us into the crosswalk on Sunset Boulevard. My wife slammed on the brakes. The pregnant woman in front of our SUV snatched her toddler into her arms, then jumped onto the sidewalk.
My four-year-old son screamed, “Daddy!”
Before I could look over my shoulder to check on him, the truck rammed us a second time, forcing us into the intersection beyond the red light. I stretched my arm across my wife's breasts, pushed her backward. Her forehead came one inch from hitting the steering wheel. If her seat belt hadn't locked and I hadn't caught her, my wife might be dead.
My son frantically kicked the back of my seat, yelling, “Daddy!”
“What the hell is going on!” The green light for oncoming traffic vanished. The yellow light beamed. I gasped, held my breath. An SUV sped downhill on Horn Avenue toward my wife's side of the car. It was coming too fast to stop. I saw the woman in the white truck behind us laughing, her head tilted down. Her truck bumped us again, putting us farther into the intersection.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I jammed my hand against the horn.
Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
Fancy clenched the wheel, braced her back against the seat. I shouted, “Step on the gas!” as I reached for the steering wheel. I needed my wife to speed up. I lifted my leg, tried to place my size sixteen brown gator shoe over the gearshift to plunge the accelerator. My foot kicked our car into neutral. I put my foot on the floor in front of me just beforeâ
Crash!
The SUV slammed into the driver's side door. My wife's window shattered into tiny pieces. Glass showered her body. My wife's piercing scream penetrated like a thousand darts stabbing me in my head. Her forehead hit the steering wheel. Blood splattered on the windshield and on me at the same time. My wife's air bag deployed, flattening her body against her seat. The force of the last collision spun our SUV onto Holloway Drive.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled.
I swore everything happened in less than sixty seconds. I wiped my face, praying the blood in my eyes and the nightmare I'd just witnessed was a bad dream. Reality told me this was no fucking accident.
The white pickup zoomed by us. The Arizona license plate was a blur. All I saw wasâ¦777. Just as I extended my arms toward my wife, my air bag inflated like a parachute, jamming my body against my seat. “Ain't that a bitch?” My face was sandwiched sideways on the headrest. Blood oozed down my wife's hair, down her face, and onto her blue halter dress. I whispered, “God, help us.”
“Daddy!” My son's screeching repeatedly pierced my ears.
Daggers replaced the feeling of darts. I couldn't help my wife or my son. My body felt numb from the waist down. A man was supposed to protect his family. I couldn't move. I closed my eyes. “God, give me strength.”
I had to find the superhuman power I had when I was on the basketball court battling my opponents. That strength that exploded unexpectedly was still inside me. I knew it. Punching my way from underneath the air bag, I reached into the backseat and unbuckled my son. My legs were still numb. I pulled him into the front, stood him on my seat. I held him close trying to shield his face from Fancy.
He screamed. “Fancy's bleeding, Daddy,” he cried, burying his face into my shoulder. “I'm scared, Daddy.” His arms clamped around my neck.
Fuck!
I didn't turn his face fast enough.
I wondered if his mother, Ashlee, was to blame for this accident. I had no enemies. Who else would do such an evil thing? At one time, I was almost in love with Ashlee for real, until she fucked my brother. I would've gotten rid of her pronto if she'd fucked any other man but I couldn't let my brother steal my money and my girl. So I'd kept fucking Ashlee until she helped me set him up. After I got revenge on my brother, I axed Ashlee. Maybe this was her idea of payback.
My thoughts raced but my wife wasn't moving. My son's hug strangled me. I could hardly breathe. All I saw was blood on her beautiful face. Her blue dress was now red. My limbs trembled uncontrollably.
Dragging my son's feet across my lap, I sat him on top of me. I yelled, “Somebody call nine-one-one!”
DJ screamed, “Ahhhh, Daddy! My legs!”
“Oh, Jesus!” I lifted my son. His blood stained my tan slacks. What the fuck was I thinking? I didn't know my lap was covered with glass. I'd accidentally cut my son's legs. I stood him in front me, tried but couldn't open my door. I reached to the floor. Searching my side of the car, I found my phone, dialed 9-1-1.
I held the back of DJ's head. Careful not to let him touch my shirt, I faced him toward my shoulder. “Oh, God.” My stomach tightened. I heaved. Felt like I was about to puke. “Baby, I'ma get you out. Hang in there.” My wife didn't respond. Her eyes were more closed than open.
I yelled into my phone at the operator, “Help us! She's not responding!”
A group of men pried open my door. I got out, ripped off my button-up shirt, took off my slacks, shook my shoulder-length locs, then picked up my son. His grip around my neck choked me. I couldn't breathe. DJ screamed directly in my ear. I tucked my phone into my fitted black boxer briefs.
“I got you, my man. Daddy's got you.” I could no longer hold back the tears. This shit was fucked up. I'd gone from being the happiest man in the world to the most helpless man alive in a matter of minutes.
DJ cried, “I'm scared, Daddy. My legs hurt.” He screamed again.
“Ease up a little,” I told DJ. I checked his face. I removed his shirt, scanned his body. Slithers of glass were in his calves and the back of his thighs. I threw his shirt on the car seat, braced my arm underneath his butt to keep from touching the back of his legs.
I wasn't sure how but I made my way to the driver's side. Glass crunched beneath my hard soles. “That's my wife!” Pushing the men aside, I placed one hand on the dented handle and my foot on the smashed passenger door, then yanked as hard as I could. The door was stuck.
I snatched a crowbar from the man standing behind me. Son in one arm, iron in my other hand, I tried prying the door. Nothing worked. Spectators gathered. Cameras and cell phones pointed at me, below and above my waist, then at my wife. Fuck those inconsiderate bastards. What could I do except expect the photos to end up on Media TakeOut, TMZ, and everywhere else on television and online?
“Let us do this, Darius,” one of the guys insisted.
Ignoring him, I cried, “I don't know what I'll do without my wife. Baby, hold on. I'ma get you out.” I needed both hands. Unwrapping my son's arms from my neck, I said, “Son, stand right here. Don't move. Do not move.”
He screamed again, touched the back of his thigh.
“Don't touch yourself!”
His body stiffened, mouth tightened, his innocent eyes stretched wide with fear. Looking up at me, he cried, “But it hurts, Daddy.”
I didn't mean to yell at him. “Daddy's sorry, my man.”
Jesus, they both need me and I need you.
