The Chronicles of Stella Rice: January Read online

  THE STELLA RICE CHRONICLES: JANUARY

  The Dom

  by

  Adrienne Kama

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE STELLA RICE CHRONICLES: JANUARY

  Copyright (c) 2005 by Adrienne Kama

  Cover art and design (c) 2005 by Marianne LaCroix

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

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  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1/10/05

  6:14 a.m.

  Men suck!

  Its 2005, I’m gonna be thirty-one in a few months, and my biological clock is bugging the hell out of me.

  Where are all the good men? I don’t believe for a minute that they’re all either married or gay. I think that’s an urban myth propagated by married men as a way of taunting unmarried women. It’s the verbal equivalent of sticking their tongues out and wagging them at us. It’s their way of saying, “Bet you wish you’d paid more attention to me in high school.”

  Well, I don’t—wish I’d paid more attention to them in high school, that is. These men operate under the erroneous premise that as a single woman gets older and sees her chances at happily-ever-after fade, the qualities she looks for in a man dwindle in correlation with the passing years. That’s not true. The sad truth is that with every passing year, my standards don’t lessen, they get higher. I figure I’ve waited this long for a man so why the hell should I settle now? At the rate I’m going, by the time I’m forty, not even the President of the United States will be good enough for me.

  When I was twenty-one I could have easily fallen in love with an artist, i.e., a man without a job. You know the types. Guys who are sexy as sin, wax poetic on subjects ranging from fashion to politics, yet they fritter away their days in some dingy one room apartment in the city struggling for their craft—usually music or art. I would never even contemplate dating a man like that these days.

  Today, any man I would consider dating has to have a job, making at least the same amount of money as me or more, a nice car, a 401K plan, a few well-chosen stocks, health insurance, a nice home, and good teeth. Oh, and no children. Children are non-negotiable. Children mean there’s an ex spouse in his past. I for one have no desire to share my man with his ex. This shouldn’t be so hard! I’m not asking for too much, am I?

  Case in point–Paul the Prick.

  Paul the Prick, as he’s come to be known in my circle of friends, is the latest addition to my ever-increasing list of ex-boyfriends. Paul the Prick is, quite simply, a prick!

  We dated for approximately two months. Those were two of the longest months I’ve ever had the misfortune of wasting. You tell me who’s wrong.

  I met the Prick at the bank when I was making a deposit. At the time he was the new branch manager. Dressed in a well-fitting black suit and looking good enough to eat, I didn’t bat a lash when he asked me for my number or when he showed up for our date wearing Versace and driving a white on white Beamer.

  I enjoyed seeing Phantom of the Opera at the Hippodrome and our dinner in Little Italy.

  What I didn’t enjoy were those last moments of our date when he stretched over the passenger seat, mouth open, tongue extended, and proceeded to douse my face in saliva. I can only suppose what I was experiencing was a kiss. This was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in my life. It felt like someone rubbing a wet toad all over my face. A smelly, wet toad. Even the memory of it makes me cringe.

  I probably should have ended things right there and then, but I didn’t. I made the same mistake women throughout the centuries have been making. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he needed someone to teach him how to kiss properly, I reasoned to myself.

  All illusions were quickly dismissed, however, when he showed no interest in improving his methods. Quite the contrary, all I got from him was the question, “Stella, when are we gonna have sex? Stella, when are we gonna have sex?”

  How’s about the tenth of never!

  Well, I finally had enough. I broke up with him last night.

  No more tongue dousing for me. In fact, I decided no more men for me. They all seemed to have something wrong with them. Either they’re too short, spineless, clueless when it comes to sex, don’t have a job. I could go on. The list is endless.

  So, it’s January tenth and I’m determined to start this year right. Number one on my list of life changing decisions: I’m on a vacation from men. Well, not all men, just no more losers!

  I want a real man in my bed. What woman wants to sleep with a man who whines about how horny he is yet couldn’t arouse a wanton desire in a hooker?

  Not this woman. If you’re horny, show me. Don’t beg me for sex, persuade me.

  ~*~

  About me

  My name is Stella Rice. I’m a single, black, female living in Baltimore, Maryland. I own a condo in Mount Vernon, Baltimore’s art district, and I own my own business. The latter affords me the convenience of working out of my home. My company’s name is A.I.R which stands for: Accurate Individualized Resources. A.I.R. provides business support services for corporations and small businesses, as well as offering resume services. A.I.R. covers everything from typing up proposals to organizing multi-media presentations. AIR, helping you with your business and career goals.

  Damn! There’s the phone.

  It can’t be my mother calling this early…but who else would call me at this hour? Maybe I shouldn’t answer it. Maybe I should ignore it and pretend I’m still sleeping.

  Argh! Stop being a wimp Stella. Grown women; sexy, professional women who attract sexy, professional men who know how to kiss don’t cower away from their phone, even if it is their mother on the other end. They answer it.

  Gotta go.

  ~*~

  6:37 a.m.

  Argh! I don’t know why I ever agreed to join a gym. I must have been experiencing a moment of masochism. I hate exercising. I hate the gym. And I hate Katarina for talking me into joining one.

  Oh well. I’m off to be tortured.

  Be back soon…I hope.

  ~*~

  8:24 a.m.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not only a masochist, but so is Katarina. Apparently, Baltimore is full of masochists and every one of them was at the gym this morning. They stood in military formation, waiting their turn to have the crap beat out of them by Jake, Kickboxing instructor extraordinaire and owner of Stay Fit gym. What on earth possess normal, well-adjusted people to pay good money to be pummeled, assaulted, and verbally attacked? We all need our heads checked.

  I met up with Katarina in the ladies locker room. By the time I got there, a little after seven, she’d already swept her blonde hair into a pony-tail, pulled on matching designer leggings and tank top, and was delicately applying a thin layer of lip-gloss. The trick was to get the lip-gloss on in a way that made your lips look moist and kissable, while not making them look like yo
u had actually put lip-gloss on at all. It was an art, and Katarina was a master.

  “You’re late again,” she said, glaring at me in the mirror as she blotted her lips with a tissue.

  I shrugged. “I forgot.” Really I’d been hoping she had forgotten.

  “You forget three times last week, too. This gym costs fifty bucks a month. How can you forget something you’re spending fifty bucks a month on?”

  I pulled off my jeans and t-shirt and shoved my legs into black, spandex shorts—another purchase I could blame on Katarina. I’ve no idea what I was thinking when I brought them. It was what every thirty-something woman wanted, a room full of eligible men to see her in skin-tight spandex.

  “I’ll remember tomorrow.”

  I know you will ‘cause I’m picking you up tomorrow morning.”

  I pulled my matching, spandex tank top over my head, wrestled with it until I’d managed to pull it over my breasts, then straightened it out. I let out a yelp of surprise when I felt my hair being lifted off my back and tugged into an elastic band.

  “Jake isn’t gonna be pleased,” Katarina continued as she pulled my hair into a pony-tail. “You heard what he said yesterday when we were late.”

  At the mention of Jake a shudder of fear swept through me. I suddenly felt like I was ten and being sent to the principal’s office. I remembered well what Jake had said. ‘You better be on time tomorrow…’ Or what, I had wanted to ask, but before I could, Katarina gave me a jab to the ribs. “Maybe we should think about taking a different class this morning,” I said, hopefully. “There’s a step class down the hall, a cycling class that I hear is real popular, then there’s—”

  Katarina, who apparently had scared herself with the mention of Jake, hurried to the locker where I had stored my purse. She rummaged in it for a few seconds, then came up holding one of my bottles of lip-gloss in her hand. It was the brown shade I wore whenever I wanted to appear as if I wasn’t wearing make-up.

  She crouched in front of me, told me to pucker, and applied it to my lips.

  “I don’t want to take another class,” she said as she worked. Her hand was moving so fast I feared I’d come out looking more like Ronald McDonald than the sexy, kickboxing siren I hoped for. “We waited six months to get into this class,” she went on, “Adam Green even did a story on Jake for the Sun. This is the hottest kickboxing class in town. You know how many single men go to this class. We’ve already discussed this, Stella. This is an investment for the future. Our future. We can’t quit. We’ll just have to start getting here on time.”

  The idea of meeting a husband at kickboxing class seemed like a good idea on paper. It was one of those, kill two birds with one stone kind of plans. Get in a good work out while meeting Mister Right. When Katarina laid the scheme before me back in July—before I’d decided on my little vacation from men—I readily agreed.

  Unfortunately, neither of us had factored in Jake, the kickboxing nazi, who took his work way too seriously. How on earth could we focus on meeting men when Jake was hogging up every spare second with exercise? After the first class I knew our strategy was doomed. Katarina, on the other hand, simply re-worked the plan and plowed on.

  Knowing well when I’m beat, I sighed. “I’ll be on time tomorrow, I promise.”

  She got to her feet. “Hurry up. Get your sneakers on.”

  Katarina led me out of the locker room after I was appropriately garbed. I don’t mind admitting that I was hesitant about walking into Jake’s class eleven minutes late. No doubt he’d take such an infraction as a direct insult and make us submit to a whole host of unpleasant, humiliating, and physically impossible exercises. Briefly I wondered what he’d do if I simply refused. I quickly discarded the idea though, since at heart I’m a wimp and would be too petrified to challenge him.

  In the similar way that many short men suffer from the Napoleon Complex, Jake suffers from the Pretty Boy Complex. Our poor kickboxing nazi instructor had the misfortune of being born with a face Caravaggio would have longed to paint. He looked Native American, but he could have been Mediterranean, Portuguese, Hispanic, or even bi-racial, who knew. Nobody was brave enough to ask.

  Jake had exotic good looks. His emerald eyes were so achingly beautiful as to be obscene. His hair was long, jet black, and lush with thick waves. On one rare occasion he paused to smile at me and I saw the perfection even held true with his teeth. Jake was pretty. And all pretty boys find out early in life that, unlike normal people, they only have five paths open to them.

  The Hollywood heartthrob path

  The gorgeous Rock Star path

  The sexy struggling artist path

  The path of least resistance, i.e., you accept the fact that no man or woman will ever take you seriously.

  The Pretty Boy Complex path, i.e., over compensation, i.e., you learn various ways to maim, torture and physically dominate anyone stupid enough to question your manhood.

  Jake was constantly berating the class, ordering us to work harder, standing over us with his hands on his hips and demanding we do ‘one more’ knowing good and well he planned to make us do at least another five or six more? What was worse, I was paying this sadistic Adonis my hard earned money to do this to me.

  Katarina and I strode through the gym, past the nautilus machines and treadmills, and continued toward the back corridor that led to the classrooms.

  The gym’s bright, fluorescent lighting was always a shock after the gentle glow in the locker rooms. I blinked a few times, pausing at the head of the corridor, but Katarina clasped my hand and tugged me forward.

  “Come on, Stella. We’re already late.”

  Why rush now, I thought. Our fate’s already been decided.

  I glanced with longing at the other classrooms as we past them. The desire to turn tail and escape into one was nearly overwhelming.

  We reached the end of the corridor and stood before Jake’s classroom. Even though his door was shut I could hear him barking orders at the class, sounding more like a general preparing his troops for battle instead of a kickboxing instructor.

  Dread and foreboding washed over me and I took a tentative step backwards.

  “Come on,” Katarina said, still holding tight to my hand. At the same time she clasped the doorknob with her free hand, twisted, and pushed the door open.

  Cool air whooshed out of the open doorway and chilled my face. Goose flesh popped out along my arms and I bit my lip. The only thing that kept me from running headlong back the way I’d come was knowing to do so would mean dragging Katarina along with me. It was bad enough we were arriving late; we didn’t need to compound our problems by engaging in a ridiculous tug of war at the door. Instead of retreating I stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind me.

  For some reason I’d expected our entrance to be greeted by a complete halt to the proceedings, everyone lifting up a hand and pointing at us, and Jake…hell, who knew what Jake would do. The only thing I could count on was the fact that whatever he did, it wouldn’t be unpleasant.

  Fortunately, no such halting or pointing occurred. To my surprise our arrival on the scene was barely noticed.

  Even though I was pleased, it was a bit of a blow to my ego.

  Katarina and I found a spot on the floor, settled down on mats, and began stretching.

  “Stretch properly,” Jake directed the room in general. “Stretching properly will lessen your chances of hurting yourself.”

  As newbies to the class, Katarina and I weren’t as adept at stretching as were the veterans. Still, I spread my legs wide, took a deep breath, and attempted to touch my head to the floor.

  I didn’t make it very far.

  Jake, who could do a perfect, Jean Claude Van Damme Chinese split, demonstrated the stretch I struggled to emulate. In the first row, directly in front of him, Julianne Saunders was the perfect mirror of him. Head placed delicately on the floor between her knees, hands clasping her ankles, and a body so tight you could bounce a quarter o
ff her butt.

  I let out a groan of disgust.

  “She’s such a show-off,” Sadie, another regular, said from beside me.

  I glanced at Sadie and saw her eyes were trained on Julianne. I nodded in agreement.

  “Teacher’s pet,” Katarina added.

  “Oh, I think she’d like to be more than that,” Jim said from the row in front of us.

  I had to bite my inner cheek to keep from laughing. I couldn’t disagree. Julianne was always at class on time, always took up a position in front of Jake, and was always staring adoringly at him. It got annoying after a while.

  “If I were you, Stella,” a male voice barked, “I’d be focusing more on stretching and less on telling jokes.”

  I froze, mid-stretch, and looked up.

  Jake loomed in the front of the room. His emerald eyes glimmered with malevolence. Hands on hips and legs spread wide apart, he raised an eyebrow, daring me to say something.

  Though my face was burning with embarrassment, I gave him my most winning smile and squeaked, “Sorry.”

  When he returned to the mat and I knew his focus was elsewhere, I glared at Katarina.

  She grinned.

  “I didn’t say a word,” I mouthed, terrified I’d attract his attention if I did more than breathe and stretch.

  She shrugged.

  I spent the next few minutes trying to make my body to do things nature hadn’t intended. Already my legs were beginning to ache and we were only warming up.

  When Jake sprang to his feet, I knew my real pain was about to begin.

  “On your feet,” he ordered.

  Rather than conducting the punishment himself, though, he nodded to one of his assistants who moved to the front of the room and took up Jake’s position. Jake, it seemed, had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Damn! Damn! Damn! I should have known our late arrival hadn’t gone completely unnoticed.

  I watched, horror, fear, and dread freezing me to the spot, as Jake walked toward me. Katarina took a step to her right, putting just enough distance between us to make it look like she didn’t know me.