Moan

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  by

  Kenya Wright

  Moan

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Moan Copyright © 2015 by Kenya Wright

  Cover Design By: J.N. Sheats

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  PROLOGUE

  Roman

  She was only supposed to be the key.

  She was only supposed to save the others.

  But then, our tongues twisted into a symphony of moans that rose within the castle.

  I continued grasping for her heart by kissing those lips. I was like a delirious person that was so thirsty—crawling around in a Sahara Desert for too many sun-burned days, hoping for something more and only seeing an oasis of female promise, but swallowing nothing real.

  So we kissed, I cried out in delirious passion and moan-by-moan the whole plan broke away.

  And now, all those kids might die.

  And now, she may, too.

  CHAPTER 1

  Emi

  Two days earlier

  “Emily, I need you to interview someone?” My editor asked, before I’d even had a chance to sit down at the table.

  “Who?” I yanked off my jacket, grabbed a menu, and gestured at one of the waitresses to come over.

  My editor, Talcott must have been sucking up to me good. He knew my favorite restaurant was Poe Folks. And here we sat there on this chilly NY morning, out of the blue. Good friends. We’d gone to college and then graduate school together. We were an odd pair, him white, short, and a little chubby. Me, brown, tall, and slim. Our friends called us Yin and Yang. Both journalism majors, we graduated from our programs, separated into different fields, and reunited at Trend-- one of the top magazines in the country.

  A black girl arrived at our table, as brown as me. She displayed a smile that lit up the entire restaurant. Tons of quotes decorated her shirt and pants. They were all written in cursive and created by many famous authors.

  “Welcome, Ms. Rice. How can I help you?” The waitress set down a glass of water.

  “I would love my usual,” I said.

  “Coming right up.” She nodded and rushed away.

  Poe Folks had a literary theme. Black and white photos of talented writers from F. Scott Fitzgerald to Harper Lee decorated the walls. They even displayed lovely paintings of talented poets like Maya Angelou and W.B. Yeats.

  But the main author that the restaurant featured was Edgar Allan Poe. Each table had been painted like a book cover from one of his stories. A huge, black raven decorated one table. Another table glowed crimson red and had a clock in the center for the Masque of the Red Death. Today, Talcott and I sat at one covered in a huge eye with a pupil shaped as a heart. I knew that had to be the Tell-Tale Heart.

  And who do we have over there?

  On the stage a tall and dark-skinned man stood in front of a microphone. Brown dreadlocks dangled around a sexy face and hung past muscular shoulders.

  Not bad.

  If the meeting with my editor went the way I hoped, I would be taking the tall guy home. I always had a knack for getting a guy into my bed, not that most women found it difficult.

  What I didn’t do was love. I had been burned enough and realized all of that relationship stuff kept me off track. Last year, I vowed to keep it simple with guys until I climbed up the career ladder. I always kept my excursions to one night. Slowly, I was rising to the top within broadcast and print journalism. People knew my name. I had to stay focused. Perhaps only for a few more years, but I had to keep my eyes on the prize and not sleep, not falter, not let my destiny pass me by.

  But a woman had her needs, and I made sure to take care of them weekly.

  Yeah. I think he’ll be the one for tonight.

  I drank in the guy, again. He must have been a poet. Poe Folks held an open mic policy for all spoken word artists. At any given time of day, one could walk into the café, grab the best breakfast food in the world, and hear some talented writer paint prophetic words into the air.

  Talcott snapped his fingers in front of me. “Come on, Emily. This is business not pleasure.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Although why do I feel like you’re pampering me?”

  “This isn’t pampering. This is more like massaging the stomach to get you into a logical mood.”

  “And why is that?” I focused on Talcott.

  “I want you to take a break from politics and race for a minute. I need you to do a different type of story.”

  “What?” I twisted my face in confusion. “That’s where I’ve made my name.”

  “I need you to interview somebody that you probably would avoid.”

  “Who?”

  “Him.” My editor Talcott handed me the picture. “This is Roman Meade.”

  Damn.

  I had to stifle the urge to lick my lips.

  Roman had the kind of face that stroked the wicked parts of the body—ripe lips, tanned skin, midnight hair, and a smooth grin. Strong and defined, his cheekbones made me want to nibble them.

  His jaw was a work of art in a deep, catastrophic way, because although it was beautiful, I wanted to do so many naughty things to it. Things that one didn’t do with a human jaw. I wanted to rub my sex all over its angular length until I came. I wanted to use my nipples to trace circles all over it. I wanted to fuck him hard. I wanted to bite. I wanted to gnaw. I wanted to grip his bed sheets and moan as he moved on top of me. Oh my God. His back, I wanted to claw.

  I shook my head. “I can’t work with him. You know my policy.”

  I had mixed business and pleasure enough times with interviews to learn some hard lessons. If I found the guy remotely attractive, I avoided him. The only exception was if he was taken, whether by marriage or engagement. Then, he would be off limits anyway. Other than that, I didn’t trust myself around a hot guy. Once I met with him, would begin poking him for information, learning about the intricate parts that made him special enough to interview. Then, I would forget about my policy. I would immerse myself in him, start flirting, and boom—we’re in bed by that evening.

  I lost a lot of interviews from bad mistakes. And for a few years, gained a reputation. Tons of political men requested me as an interviewer, hoping to get into my bed.

  So I stopped it all and remained focused on my work. Dad always said that as a black woman, I had to work three times harder than others. My skin stereotyped the goodness inside of me. My vagina weakened me in men’s eyes.

  “You got to speed toward success, baby. Don’t skip. Don’t trod. Don’t stroll. You got to run fast for what you want.” Dad wrote me a check to cover my freshmen year’s tuition. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Mom had more focused advice.

  “The good men will come, when you’re whole. Work on yourself. Stay in shape. Keep your mind fed with books. Climb the ladder to success. Don’t waste your time on those dating sites. The good men will c
ome.”

  I had been keeping my sex life to one night stands with guys that had nothing to do with my field.

  “Here you go, Ms. Rice.” The waitress set a large platter of Poe Folk’s signature donuts. The Wuthering Bite. It had a brioche base and was shaped like a square. Maple-bourbon glazed the donut’s top. Thick pieces of bacon were crumbled on top.

  I gave the picture back to Talcott. “I’m not interviewing him.”

  “Just hear me out.” Talcott grabbed a Wuthering Bite. “I get your policy of no attractive guys, but I’m hoping you’ll make an exception this time.”

  “Why would I mess with my sobriety?”

  He shook his head. “You’re such a drama queen. I never thought you were a sex addict.”

  “I was damn near close to being one.”

  “Emily, this would be fun for you.” Talcott stuffed half of a donut into his chubby mouth. “Only the world’s elite were invited to Roman’s masquerade ball and it’s for charity.”

  To get my mind off of Roman’s face, I looked up at Talcott as he reached for another donut. “What’s the charity?”

  “Something about funding for research on women’s roles in American History. Roman believes there’s a lot of forgotten women out there that helped build this country.”

  “Hmmm. Women’s roles in American History? I thought this was being held in London, not America?”

  “It is and it doesn’t matter. The tickets are ten thousand dollars each and all of the money is going to the research. But none of that’s important.” Maple syrup gathered around the corners of Talcott’s mouth. “Besides you, there’s no other media permitted to attend the ball. This is a serious exclusive into a secret world that no one has been able to see.”

  I scratched the side of my head, making my curls bounce around and appear even more like a mess. The magazine had been keeping me busy, so busy, and I hadn’t had much time to take care of myself. Although my brown skin hid the circles under the eyes and the signs of diet based on coffee and donuts, anytime I stared in the mirror, I spotted a messy afro zombie gazing back. I’d lost so much weight, yet still maintained curves in the right places. My eyebrows grew like two big bushes on my face. My wild curls remained tangled and drooping over my shoulders.

  Talcott continued, “This is too important. You’ll be the only journalist there.”

  “There won’t be any cameras or reporters? But it’s a charity event.”

  “Apparently, the privacy is due to the ball’s erotic nature.”

  That got my attention. “Erotic nature?”

  “Roman’s notorious for mingling sex into his parties’ entertainment.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “How?”

  “I have no idea. These are rumors of course. This is why it’s important that you go. Some of the top people in the world will be at this masquerade ball.”

  I shrugged. “But they’ll be in masks?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I won’t even know who’s who?”

  “Not the point.” Talcott dapped at his mouth with a napkin. “You’ll be with Roman the whole time anyway. He wants to escort you around, during the interview. And he’s handling everything. He’s paying for a car to take you to JFK in the morning. By the afternoon, you’ll be in London early enough to relax, dress, and head to the event. Oh yeah and by the way we need your measurements.”

  “Measurements?”

  “Roman has already had a gown and mask designed for you. It will be delivered tonight, and—”

  “Okay.” I held up my hand. “I have to respectfully say no. This is short notice and—”

  “You’re an investigative journalist. Every story tends to be short notice for you.”

  “But this is different. I don’t know.”

  Talcott mumbled between bites, “Why don’t you know?”

  If only my best friend was a woman and not a man, he would’ve understood my no immediately. Not many females could sit in the presence of someone like Roman. Even his pictures exuded sex and triggered hormones to rush and surge through my blood. The fact that I didn’t have much control with men like this, didn’t sit well with me.

  I couldn’t pass by a man like this and not sample a little. A glutton for pleasure, I was the type of person that ate the dessert before the entrée. And if Roman was around me for too long, I would definitely try to eat him.

  “Look at this.” Talcott handed me more photos as if that would convince me to do Roman’s interview. “He’s been photographed quite a lot by magazines and newspapers, but no one’s ever gotten an interview.”

  Hmmm. Why hasn’t Roman done an interview? Are you hiding something? What’s your story?

  Against my gut, I studied some of the images. Roman had posed naked in a Vogue shoot showcasing the most influential millionaires of the year. In wet swim trunks, that clung to his thighs, he lounged on the beach as this rock-hard specimen laying against black sand. His body was a masterpiece. Cords of muscle shaped his large frame—from those bold thighs to yummy calves, his firm chest and broad back.

  “Is he at least married or engaged?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Gay?” I asked.

  “No, but I did hear that he’s a womanizer. There’s no proof, but there are tons of rumors.”

  Womanizer?

  I bet women and men, regardless of sexual preference, stopped what they were doing when he walked by. I bet their breaths caught in their throats and they licked their lips as if sugar coated their mouths. I bet he could wet a women’s panties, with just a smile.

  I bet he was trouble, which was why I put his photos back in the file and handed it back to my editor. “No. I’m not going to be able to do this.”

  “Why not?” Talcott finished a second donut and pointed to mine. “You want that?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m not doing it because this isn’t even my field. I cover wars and politicians. You’re talking about a sex party with a hot guy.”

  “This story would be too good for you to mess up. You’ll behave.”

  “If I’m super woman, then he would be my kryptonite.”

  “He’s a man. He’ll probably be too arrogant to keep your interest for more than an hour. Plus, I’m not even sure, if there will be sex there.” Talcott took the donut from my plate. “I don’t want to force you. We go way back. But I can’t use any other person. He asked for you and refused to do the exclusive interview with us, unless you did it.”

  “Me?”

  “You. He’s asked to have you interview.”

  That annoyed me. Had he heard of my reputation and wanted to try me out? What other reason could it be? How would he have even heard of me? I doubt we ran in the same circles.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “He’s a fan.”

  “Of my work?”

  “What else would it be?” Bits of bacon fell from his lips. “You’ve built a good name in these past years and you’re going to jail got attention from a lot of people.”

  Last year, I’d broken into a suspected Senator’s home and stole a tape recording several cops beating on two black kids. Two innocent ones that happened to have the wrong color of skin at the wrong time of night in the wrong rich neighborhood. They’d been arrested for no valid reason and taken to an interrogation room, where they died.

  They’d come from my neighborhood and grew up in the same projects I did in the Bronx. Their sisters could’ve been mine. We looked enough alike. The whole thing had hit home so bad, that I’d gotten obsessed, gained some good informants from officers on the force, and sniffed out a trail to Senator Bragg’s home where he kept the tape.

  Before they caught me, I hid the tape. They took me to the same station where the boys died, but I had too much of a name to beat up and kill. I remained in jail for thirty days. The whole time I sent secret messages to Talcott where he released the tape and read words I’d given him in a letter. For the rest of my time, I had even written a book, jour
naling the days of despair and mistreatment of women behind bars. By the time they released me, I’d gained a huge publishing contract, a new job at Trend magazine, and several awards for the book and police scandal article.

  So he’s a fan of me being crazy for causes? Interesting. Why do you care?

  “Emi, we want this interview.” Talcott handed me back the file. “Roman Meade has an amazing rags to riches story that will work with the magazine’s summer release. He’d been a millionaire five years ago and lost all of his finances through some bad deals in Dubai. After that he became homeless.”

  “Homeless?”

  “Yes. He couch-surfed for a long time, and then he came up with another idea. He decided to host exclusive parties for the rich.”

  “Sex parties?”

  “Yes. At least, that’s the rumor.” Talcott licked his fingers and then finished cleaning himself with the napkin. “Now, he’s back to being a millionaire and no one can touch him. They call him the Sex Tycoon of Europe.”

  Hot, smart, and rich. It’s going to be hard to be professional. Give this to a guy or something.

  Talcott burped. “Excuse me.” He rubbed his stomach and smiled at me. “So how can I convince you?”

  “You can’t.”

  “What if I told you that I wanted this interview so bad that I’d give you a promotion and higher salary?”

  Stunned, I muttered, “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “What if I told you that I’d give you some paid vacation time, while securing your top position with Trend?”

  “Thirty extra days of vacation time?”

  Talcott shrugged. “As long as you do this interview, you can have as much time as you need. You get Roman’s words in black and white, and this deal is safe.”

  Fuck. Can I do it? Of course I can. I’ve been to jail. I can talk to this guy. Sure, I may need to take breaks between questions to masturbate, but at least I’ll get it done.

  Talcott’s phone rang. It was Elvis’s Fools Rush In. It must’ve just been a text message because he read the screen and then looked at me. “That’s Roman’s secretary. She’s still waiting for the measurements.”

  Goodness. Must everyone move so fast on this?