Greed Read online
Praise for ENVY
“[Envy] captures the drama of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills while also bringing this well-developed work of urban fiction to a satisfyingly redemptive conclusion.”
—Kristina Giovanni, Booklist
Praise for LUST
“Murray has penned hot, steamy scenes in which her protagonist’s imagination runs wild, followed by the consequences of her realizing her dangerous dreams. A jarring twist at the end has the reader wondering who the good guys really are.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Murray mixes quite a bit of passion, a touch of treachery, and some good old-fashioned revenge.”
—Library Journal
“Keeps you at the edge of your seat until the last page.”
—Urban Reviews Online
“A topsy-turvy tale of passion on steroids.”
—Essence
Praise for STAND YOUR GROUND
“Murray has written a tension-packed novel around the hot-buzz national topic of an unarmed black youth shot by a white male, an act then subjected to the Stand Your Ground rule as a legal defense tactic . . . Murray’s writing admirably shows the often overlooked human emotions following racial violence . . . The pulled-from-the-headlines story line will captivate readers.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Murray, winner of several African American Literary Awards for fiction, powerfully captures the nuances and tragedies engendered by stand-your-ground laws. A must-read.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Using a vivid, realistic premise, she takes a 360-degree view to bring all sides to the forefront for us to enjoy, learn from, judge, and celebrate. Stand Your Ground has great literary relevance for our time.”
—USA Today
Praise for FOREVER AN EX
“Murray spices up her story line with plenty of juicy scandals . . . Readers seeking an inspirational tale with broad themes of trust, betrayal, and forgiveness will do well by choosing Murray’s latest effort.”
—Library Journal
Praise for FORTUNE & FAME
“The scandalous characters unite again in Fortune & Fame, Murray and Billingsley’s third and best collaboration. This time brazen Jasmine and Rachel, who has zero shame, have been cast on First Ladies, a reality TV show that builds one’s brand and threatens to break another’s marriage. Sorry, buttered popcorn is not included.”
—Essence
“Priceless trash talk marks this story about betrayal, greed, and stepping on anyone in your way. A great choice for folks who spend Sunday mornings in the front pew.”
—Library Journal
Praise for NEVER SAY NEVER
“Readers, be on the lookout for Victoria Christopher Murray’s Never Say Never. You’ll definitely need to have a buddy-reader in place for the lengthy discussion that is bound to occur.”
—USA Today
Praise for THE EX FILES
“The engrossing transitions the women go through make compelling reading . . . Murray’s vivid portrait of how faith can move mountains and heal relationships should inspire.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Reminds you of things that women will do if their hearts are broken . . . Once you pick this book up, you will not put it down.”
—Urban Reviews Online
Praise for DESTINY’S DIVAS
“With Destiny’s Divas, author Victoria Christopher Murray triumphs again. The depth and storytelling mastery in her latest novel demonstrate why she is the grande dame of urban Christian fiction.”
—FreshFiction.com
Praise for SINNERS & SAINTS
“Murray and Billingsley keep things lively and fun.”
—Juicy magazine
“Double the fun, with a message of faith, Sinners & Saints will delight readers with two of their favorite characters from two of their favorite authors. It’s a match made in heaven!”
—Grace Magazine
Praise for THE DEAL, THE DANCE, AND THE DEVIL
“Murray’s story has the kind of momentum that prompts you to elbow disbelief aside and flip the pages in horrified enjoyment.”
—The Washington Post
Praise for SINS OF THE MOTHER
“Sins of the Mother shows that when the going gets tough, it’s best to make an effort and rely on God’s strength. It gives the message that there is hope no matter what, and that people must have faith.”
—FictionAddict.com
“Final word: Christian fiction with a powerful kick.”
—Afro.com
Praise for LADY JASMINE
“She’s back! Jasmine has wreaked havoc in three VCM novels, including last year’s Too Little, Too Late. In Lady Jasmine, the schemer everyone loves to loathe breaks several commandments by the third chapter.”
—Essence
“Jasmine is the kind of character who doesn’t sit comfortably on a page. She’s the kind who jumps inside a reader’s head, runs around, and stirs up trouble—the kind who stays with the reader long after the last page is turned.”
—The Huntsville Times (Alabama)
Praise for TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE
“[In this book] there are so many hidden messages about love, life, faith, and forgiveness. Murray’s vividness of faith is inspirational.”
—The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, Mississippi)
“An excellent entry in the Jasmine Larson Bush Christian Lit saga; perhaps the best so far . . . Fans will appreciate this fine tale . . . a well-written intense drama.”
—Midwest Book Review
Praise for A SIN AND A SHAME
“Riveting, emotionally charged, and spiritually deep . . . What is admirable is the author’s ability to hold the reader in suspense until the very last paragraph of the novel! A Sin and a Shame is a must read . . . Truly a story to be enjoyed and pondered upon!”
—RomanceInColor.com
“A Sin and a Shame is Victoria Christopher Murray at her best . . . A page-turner that I couldn’t put down as I was too eager to see what scandalous thing Jasmine would do next. And to watch Jasmine’s spiritual growth was a testament to Victoria’s talents. An engrossing tale of how God’s grace covers us all. I absolutely loved this book!”
—ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Essence bestselling author of I Know I’ve Been Changed
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1
Just got paid . . . it’s Friday night.”
I tapped the button on my steering wheel, silencing the booming bass. Even though for years this had been my jam every Friday night when I was at Spelman, I was not feelin’ the musicality of Johnny Kemp right now. Maybe part of the problem was that my life was out of sync—today was Thursday, not Friday. I was so discombobulated that I couldn’t even line my music (or my life) up right. As I rolled into my assigned parking space, I didn’t miss that irony.
I turned off the ignition, leaned back in the seat, and sighed through my exhaustion, remembering those college days a decade ago. These days were supposed to be so much better. In college I didn’t have any money, but on Friday nights, I sang this song and hunted for parties as if I did. Ten years out, a full-time job, yet I hadn’t made any kind of real strides in my life. My J.O.B. was truly keeping me just over broke.
&
nbsp; Leaning across my seat, I reached for my tote and the envelope that lay on top. Another sigh eased out of me as I slipped out the check and paused before I looked at it, as if that hesitation would change the numbers that followed the dollar sign. But when I glanced down, the numbers were the same as they’d been when my boss had given me my commission check earlier. This was money I earned every quarter over my base salary: $1,557.19—my best commission check yet. And in the office, this was considered more than decent. Still, it was way short of what I’d hoped, so much less than what I’d worked for, and about a thousand dollars less than what I needed.
Groaning, I slipped the check back into the envelope, then grabbed my tote and slid out of the car, trying to figure out how I was going to make this check stretch so that it could do what I needed this money to do.
If I hadn’t had plans for this check, I would’ve been ready to celebrate. The first time my commission check broke a thousand? Yeah, there would’ve been a party over here. I may have even gone on a little shopping spree, which for me meant buying more than one item at Marshalls in one visit.
But fifteen hundred dollars was just not enough.
The weight of that felt like shackles on my ankles as I dragged myself to my first-floor garden apartment. The only thing I was grateful for as I struggled up the path that was flanked by more dirt than grass was that I didn’t have to climb any stairs.
Pushing my key into the lock, I didn’t even have a chance to turn it before the door swung open, startling me. Before I could take a breath, I was swept from my feet.
“Oh” was all I could get out before my mouth was covered—with Stephon’s lips.
And when his tongue pressed against mine and we danced that waltz we’d come to know over the past three years, every single care that had tried to take me down and knock me out this week faded away. Dropping my tote and the check and everything else onto the floor, I wrapped my arms around my boyfriend’s neck as he cradled me like a baby, then carried me, stumbling over a couple of paint cans and almost knocking down his easel before we stepped into our bedroom.
By the time he laid me on our queen-size bed, I was ready. That was how it always was with Stephon. He could take me from zero to full throttle with a glance and a kiss. That was who he was. Forget about whether a woman was black, white, brown—if red pumped through her veins, she was hot for Stephon. Because he had the best of everything: he had the smoldering eyes of Idris, the sexy smirk of Kofi, the swagger of Morris, and just enough gangsta in him like M’Baku (which is the name I would forever call Winston Duke). And then, can I talk about his body? Michael B would come in second to my man. So all I wanted to do was undress him, straddle him, and love him until I forgot that we were on Earth. But when I reached for his T-shirt, he pushed my hand away, then pinned my arms above my head.
He straddled me and kissed me again, just so gently. When he eased up for a moment, my breath had already been taken away.
He said, “Tonight, it’s all about you. This”—he paused and glanced around the bedroom—“is for you.”
I followed his glance and, for the first time, noticed the candles, even though the softening light of dusk filtered through our bedroom window.
By the time my eyes were back on him, he had already slipped my sweater from my shoulders and unbuttoned my blouse. I blinked twice and he was down to my bra. Just a dozen more blinks and I was naked, on my stomach, and the soft sounds of Arabesque 1 by Debussy (I only knew that because of Stephon) played from the dock on the nightstand by his side of the bed. My man did his best work listening to the instrumental tales told through classical music. I closed my eyes and inhaled the fragrance of the lavender almond oil (from the nightstand on my side of the bed) that scented the air.
The moment Stephon’s fingertips touched my shoulders, I moaned. And if there was any residual stress inside of me, it melted beneath the hands of my man. When he kneaded his knuckles into my back, I groaned through the pleasure of the pain, breathing in rhythm with him. I had no thoughts; my senses all centered on his touch, his scent, as he pressed and plied my skin and my mind to his will. I floated outside of my body, gliding like I was high—my drug: Stephon Smith.
There was no way I would have been able to say how long Stephon massaged me into submission. I slipped into that euphoric state where my body tugged me toward unconsciousness, but I was still aware.
The passage of time . . . and then Stephon lay next to me. Even then, so many moments passed before I was able to flex enough muscles to roll over. When I faced him, his brown eyes, his full lips were right in front of me.
I said, “How did you know . . .”
“That was what you needed?” he asked, completing my thought. And before I could nod, he finished with, “Because on days that end in y, I’m in tune to your every need.”
If I weren’t already lighthearted, his words would have made me so. And since it was one of those days that ended in y, there was something that I wanted to do. “Hand me the oil,” I said. “Your turn.”
When he shook his head, I frowned, or at least I tried to. I was still so relaxed, the muscles in my face hadn’t reawakened.
Stephon leaned so close to me that when he spoke, his lips grazed mine. “I don’t want a massage,” he whispered. “I just want you.”
He had just kneaded me into a noodle, and still, I weakened from his words. “I love you,” I told him.
“Beyond infinity,” he said, before he sealed our love with a kiss that went on and on and on.
2
I wasn’t sure if it was the sun that pressed between my eyelids or the heat that warmed my cheek—maybe it was the sensation of both that awakened me.
Morning. Already.
I stretched, then I remembered. Last night. I sighed. I smiled. Stephon and I hadn’t spent a moment making love. Even though I’d craved him, Stephon had loved me in the way I needed most yesterday—he’d just held me.
He’d held me as we first listened to his favorite classical playlist. Then he’d held me when we’d turned on a Netflix movie. The only time he’d released me from his embrace was when he’d left our bed and apartment to get our dinner: hamburgers, fries, and one chocolate shake that we shared from Big Daddy’s Burgers (Stephon’s favorite eatery). It had been complete love, complete rest.
My eyes were still closed as I reached for my boyfriend, wondering if now, I could do to him what I’d wanted to do last night.
But all I felt was the coolness of the sheets on his side of the bed. I was disappointed, but not surprised. He was already at work.
Pushing myself up, I stood, then lifted the T-shirt Stephon had worn yesterday from the chaise. Slipping it over my head, I opened our bedroom door and the sound of music met me—I paused, taking in the melody of the piano and violin. Mozart’s Sonata No. 17.
The fact that I could name these tunes always made me smile. That was just one way Stephon had lifted me up. While I had a profound love for the ole-school jams my dad had raised me on, Stephon had expanded my ear, if not my tastes. I may have been the one with the college degree, but in so many ways, he was far more educated than me.
At the end of the hallway, I paused, and like every morning, I leaned against the wall that opened to the living room, soaking in the sight before me. The living room’s light was bright; the blinds were raised and the windows were open, welcoming the warmth and sounds of the birth of the morning. No matter the sun’s angle, it always seemed to shine like a spotlight on the highlight of my life. Stephon looked like he was the subject of a portrait himself.
This was one of my favorite things to do—look at my man in his office. Stephon was perched in front of his easel, the centerpiece of our living room. The tan sofa (covered with heavy plastic) and the coffee table faded as if they were created for the background, minor accessories to the main attraction. It was hard to notice anything when Stephon was anywhere.
I loved watching him in the morning, with his bare back to me, his muscl
es flexing as he glided his paintbrush across the canvas. For the last weeks, he’d been working on this masterpiece—a rendition of the National Museum of African American History and Culture that he’d been commissioned to create for a private school here in Atlanta.
Only half-done, his painting looked like the actual museum already. He’d been so excited when he’d been asked to paint this—if Stephon hadn’t been a painter, he would have found a way to be an architect. So this was the merging of his two loves, and in the image that was unfolding, he’d captured the African and American elements of the design—the three-tiered crowns used in Yoruba art and the intricate ironwork that were distinct American aspects of the architecture.
He was working with a ribbon tip, moving the brush with the precision of a surgeon, the grace of a maestro. Like always, I watched with wonder. His focus that could not be broken, his discipline that was unparalleled—this was where Stephon and I differed so much.
Often I asked myself, Who was the soul inside of Stephon’s skin? Where did he find his passion? Was it his education versus mine? I’d sat inside rooms off the hallowed halls of the preeminent college for African American women. Stephon had spent almost six months in a juvenile detention center for continual truancy when he was in middle school, and his high school diploma came not at a graduation ceremony, but as a GED certificate delivered in the mail.
Or did his commitment to his craft come from being raised by a single mother, which was the opposite of my upbringing—raised by my father alone?
Really, I couldn’t blame my education or my parentage for the way I was wandering through my life. I’d chosen a career in sales over what I really wanted to do because I wanted to make money to live a certain kind of life, one that was worthy of a Spelman graduate.
When Stephon tapped the edge of his paintbrush on the corner of his easel, his biceps popped like he was a construction worker who lifted bricks rather than an artist’s brush. And those bulging muscles served as my invitation.
Moving behind him, I wrapped my arms around his chest and pressed my lips against that soft spot right beneath his ear. “Good morning.”