Hot Girlz: Hot Boyz Sequel

Hot Girlz

Welcome to the Wilson
Family

HOT RAVES FOR
HOT BOYZ

“What makes this work is it shows you a side
of life that you may not know: what wealthy and famous African-Americans may go
through, and their similarities and differences from the common man. A classic
Los Angeles novel, HOT BOYZ is erotic, funny, and a contemporary page-turner --
Marissa's most ambitious work yet.”

-Cydney Rax, Book-Remarks.com

“The author does a fantastic job drawing you
into the character's lives while keeping you guessing on their next move. Get
ready to be entertained because you won't believe what happens in the end.”

-Loose Leaves Book Review

“HOT BOYZ is chock-full of absorbing characters and
riveting, nontraditional plotlines. A true ensemble cast, no one character's
tale overshadows the rest. Instead, each contributes to the sum of an extremely
unique romance.”

-Romantic Times

“The characters are so real and every person
can relate to something in this storyline. Not many authors have the ability to
entertain and give a message all at the same time. HOT BOYZ does just that!”

-Erika Ware

“HOT BOYZ is an intriguing contemporary tale that
showcases the downside of success in which if the person is not careful he (or
she) could lose sight of what matters in life.”

-Harriett Klausner, The Best Reviews

“HOT BOYZ rings with passion and realism
which draws readers into the character's lives and shares the healing that
comes only through honesty and love. This is a powerful novel of the commitment
to and the sanctity of family.”

-RAWSISTAZ Reviewers

THE
HOT BOYZ
SEQUEL

MARISSA MONTEILH

This book is
dedicated to my gorgeous, smart, loving daughter Nicole—a daddy’s girl who is
the epitome of the perfect wife and mother. I want to be just like you when I
grow up.

I love you infinity!

1

Mercedes

“. . . the seven year itch . . .”

He was younger.

Pop!

There he goes, popping into my head
again
, Mercedes
Wilson said to herself.

He was
probably the same age that the female Titleist representative was when
Mercedes’s husband of almost two decades, the father of her two children, the
one and only famous pro-golfer Mason Wilson, decided to cheat on her seven
years ago while on tour in San Diego at Torrey Pines.

Mercedes
figured it out while watching a professional golf tournament on television with
their daughter, Star. Mercedes noticed the bright red hair of the white woman
who followed Mason like a love-struck puppy. Seeing the woman made the hairs on
the back of Mercedes’s neck stand straight up. The hairs on the woman’s head
and the strands of hair in Mason’s red Benz were exact. Mason won the U.S. Open
Golf Championship that day, but he nearly lost his wife. He claimed to have had
casual sex with the woman whenever he lost a tournament. Win or lose, Mercedes
made it clear that his behavior was unacceptable, and that sex with someone
other than one’s spouse is never casual.

After
intensive family counseling and much prayer, Mercedes forgave him. She warned
him that if he ever violated their marriage vows again, she would take the kids
and leave him in a heartbeat. Nevertheless, she had to accept the fact that
after all the years of their union, her famous husband, Mason Wilson, was an
adulterer.

And now, it
was Mercedes who played hide-and-seek with the notion of infidelity herself.

Things would
have been fine if that young member of the Los Angeles City Council would have
simply stayed the heck out of her head.

She tried
convincing herself that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas . . . and what
happened in Vegas was that she had an encounter with an elected official named
Ryan.

She wanted
to still believe she could practice what she preached seven years ago about
being faithful. Mason may not have had another affair since then, but this
time, the seven year itch was biting the hell out of his wife, and it bit hard.

Pop!

“Good
morning, Cedes.” Mason greeted his wife using the nickname he had given her
when they first met in college back at U.S.C.

The sound of
Mason’s voice propelled Mercedes from the past into the present on this summer
morning in July. The sun hadn’t quite shared its offspring with the world.
There was not a cloud in the azure sky. The usual summer breeze from the
Pacific had not yet breathed its usual breath.

From the
backyard, the barking from their new blue-pit, one-year-old, blue-eyed Nadia,
served as their regular good morning hello. Their chocolate lab, Kailua, who
was a true family member, passed away at the age of eight from lymphoma. Though
devastated, the family decided it was best to get another dog right away, and
it seemed that the new dog, Nadia, bonded to Mattie more than anyone else.
Mattie, the beloved matriarch of the family, mother to Mason, Claude, and
Torino Wilson, was bedridden for years and living in Mason and Mercedes’s home,
suffering from vascular dementia.

Sporting a
cognac-colored shoulder length bob and wispy bangs, Mercedes spoke while
heading to her oval desk in the downstairs office of their five-bedroom home.
She was dressed in an off-the-shoulder purple dress with gold high heels.

“Hey there.
You’re up mighty early, aren’t you?” Her oversized chandelier earrings shook as
she spoke. She set her purse on the desk.

“I am.”
Mason, now forty six years-old, had retired from golf to spend more time with
his family. He had been home for the past two years, and was now working on his
second book. The first book,
Shadow on the Green
, was his auto-biography
about his experiences with racism and what he called the true color of money.
The title made the New York Times bestsellers list. And now he was half-way
through the last title of his two-book contract about how to relate the
execution of golf to the execution of life, called
Grip It and Rip It
.

Their new
home was smaller than the previous, yet equally as immaculate. Back in 2003,
the girlfriend of Mason’s brother, Claude, was murdered on the front porch of
Mason and Mercedes’s home on Thanksgiving Day in front of the entire family.

To Mason,
moving was a no-brainer. They had thought about moving outside of Los Angeles,
but after being in Ladera for more than a quarter century, they decided to stay
in the 90056 zip code, moving from their custom home on Bedford Avenue to a
newer home on Ladera Crest Drive, also in upper Ladera.

It was
Claude, owner of Wilson Realty, who found the dramatic, architectural style
four-thousand square foot home. It had vaulted ceilings, two stone fireplaces,
and distressed oak hardwood floors. The first floor library had a wet-bar, and
his-and-her desks positioned smack dab in the middle of the room, with bright
red leather couches against opposite walls.

Mason sat on
the sofa reading the
Wall Street Journal
, sipping from a coffee mug. He
wore his black Nike fitted cap and matching sweat suit. He had already been out
for his morning walk. Though Sean John was Mason’s clothing sponsor during his
career, Nike was now Rashaad Wilson’s sponsor. Mason had handed over his golf
club-baton to his very popular and successful young son.

Mercedes
asked, “You’re usually right back in the bed by the time I leave. Weren’t you
up late, writing?”

“I was, but
I got on up while you were in the shower. I have a meeting this morning. Needed
to get in some cardio, get my adrenaline going.” He placed his coffee mug on
the end table and looked at his gold watch. “I’ve gotta be downtown by eleven.”

“Really?
Why?”

“You know
Elijah? Elijah Cummings, former head of the Urban League?”

“From
Maryland. Of course I do. We saw him and his wife last year on the cruise we
took to Barbados.”

“He called
me last week. Said he read
Shadow on the Green
. He mentioned there’s a
vacated seat coming up on the Los Angeles City Council. I guess the current
president of the council, Eric Garcetti, discussed the vacancy with Elijah.”

“Okay.” She
waited for more.

“So, Eric
wants to meet with me to discuss the possibilities.”

“As a city
council member?”

“Yes.”

Pop!
“Wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“It’s just
that I didn’t know, I mean, we didn’t discuss it, and here you are on your way
to a meeting about a career in politics.”

“I didn’t
confirm until yesterday. You got home late and by the time you ate and we
chatted for a second, you knocked out before I could get out of this office. I
should’ve talked to you. I’m sorry.”

“Mason, it’s
all good. We’ve both been busy. But think about it. As far as you making a move
like this, I mean, you basically have no background in politics.”

“Cedes, you
know I was studying government at S.C.”

“Yeah, but
that wasn’t your major. Honey, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you. Just the
fact that you’re even considering it is very cool.” Mercedes opened her
briefcase and rummaged through the files.

“Listen, you
know I’ve spent most of my life hitting a golf ball. From the time I was young
golf had me hooked. It was unpredictable and that was my thrill. Now, my life
is as predictable as it gets. I sit here, day in and day out, writing most of
the time, checking up on Rashaad and his pro-career, checking in with Star and
her new job with the symphony in Atlanta, and watching you continue to grow
your modeling business. I try the best I can to spend time with Mom. Turns out
I worked right through the kids being home when they were younger. And now that
I’m home, they’re gone, living their own lives. I just really need something
new. I need something challenging. And besides, I think public life would agree
with me. Tell me you’ll support me on this.” His last sentence sounded like a
question.

“Oh, you
know I will. I just want to keep it real as far as the background that’s
needed, that’s all I’m saying.” She closed her briefcase.

“All that’s
needed is that the candidates live in the district, which is District Eight for
this spot, that’s us, and that they are qualified voters. From what I read, the
pay is just under two-hundred-thousand, plus a car and other incentives, which
is not even my motivation. I’d still need to make money in other ways. I’d just
do it to see where it leads. To see if I can make a difference with my radical
self.” He took another sip from his coffee mug.

Mercedes
nodded and was all ears.

He
continued, “What I’m doing today is having a meeting at City Hall with the
president of the city council and a couple of people on his staff. It’s just a
meeting. Bernard Parks is vacating his seat in May so it depends on how many
applications they get from people who want to apply for it. It would be
temporary until the regular election in 2013, and at that point I’d need to
campaign. We’re talking about spending some money to campaign and I’d need to
go door-to-door if need be.” He focused on her hips. His eyes were suddenly
flirty. “Maybe you could be my campaign manager.”

A chuckle
escaped her lips. “Yeah, I think I could, and I would. And you know I’m happy
for you. I’m proud of you. And I support you. I’m sure Eric Garcetti knows who
you are, not to mention the Mayor, and actually, with the number of people who
are fans of yours, name recognition alone would get you elected. And of course
I have complete faith in you if this is what you want. Anything I can do to
help, I’m here.”

“Everything’s
good. I’m just happy to be getting up and out of this house. Writing all day
can drive you mad. These four walls are working my nerves.”

“I’m sure.
You know, maybe you can hire a ghost writer. I’m surprised the publisher didn’t
offer one.”

“No, thanks.
I’m good. I’m too independent for that. Just need something different to add to
the mix right now.”

“Okay. I did
notice that you don’t even get out to the fairway with the guys anymore. That’s
not like you.”

“Sometimes I
do.”