En Fuego

By Bobbi G

Guilt. Insatiable self-torment. Night terrors. Cold sweats.  The unforgiving memories haunt him in the darkness of closed eyelids. He wakes to the abundance of the world at his fingertips; then goes to bed, and relives it all over again.

Multi-millionaire, world renowned chef and business mogul, Oscar Del Fuego has been running from the demons he left in Havana, hoping to hide in the shadows of time. After enduring a near-fatal accident,  all to  learn it was no accident at all, Oscar is left deliberating whether his skeletons have come out to play. He knows this  much, someone wants him dead, and maybe he deserves it.  There’s more than a few good reasons to kill the chef, and it’s not just his money. Between a wife he can’t keep tabs on and  friends with questionable loyalty, everyone seems to have a motive. 

Flickers of secrets, lies and deceit give warning to the fire ahead, waiting to scorch Oscar’s charmed, pillowy existence.  Behind the veil of thousands of adoring fans and a cast who watched his rise to stardom, Oscar must clear the smoke to find his enemy before the mystique and awe of his paper castle burns down, and he’s dead  among the ashes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Well Written Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524231897

Bobbi G

Houston native and lover of words, Bobbi G is an author of African American fiction, highlighting the complex and diverse facets of African-American life in suspenseful and page-turning narratives, and fast-paced, authentic dialogue. Bobbi G. relishes in the success of her people and her community, and is on a mission to join the collective to empower and advance a nation of sleeping giants. En Fuego is her debut novel.

Book preview

EN FUEGO

a novel by Bobbi G.

EN FUEGO

WELL WRITTEN PUBLISHING

Published by Well Written Publishing

Well Written (USA), 5757 Richmond Ave Ste 300, Houston, Texas 77057

First published in 2016 by Well Written Publishing

Copyright © Bobbi G./Sheryl Sargent, 2016

All rights reserved

Use of copyrighted works granted permissible and in compliance of the fair use standards under United States copyright law for the purpose of adding authenticity to this work which is fictitious in nature with mention of the following copyrighted works:

Children’s Story, lyrics and music by Slick Rick © 1989 Def Jam Recordings. All rights reserved.

Wet the Bed, lyrics and music by Chris Brown, Derrick Bigg D Baker, Steven Kubie, Kevin McCall, Sevyn Streeter, Andre Merritt, Joseph Bereal, Christopher Bridges © 2011 Jive Records. All rights reserved

Bobbi G.

En Fuego: a novel / Bobbi G

p. cm.

1. African American suspense/thriller – Fiction 2. Latin American – Fiction 3. Murder Mystery - Fiction 4. Marriage Adultery – Fiction. I. Title

Designed by Bobbi G.

Publisher’s Note

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

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered or stored in an introduced to any information storage retrieval in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the written permission of the publisher, Well Written Publishing.

Dedicated to the original Bobbi G.

Love you still...

Editor’s Note

Be forgiving readers. Inspiration struck throughout the entire creative process, literally, the day before publication. If you encounter any grammatical or inconsistency errors, please refrain from leaving an unfavorable review. Instead, email Bobbi G at [e-mail] and we will make the necessary revisions for the next, perfected edition. You’ll absolutely be acknowledged. Thanks in advance Kings and Queens.

Sincerely,

Bobbi G &

The Editing Squad

Acknowledgements

First of all, let me just say, I cannot believe this is finally real. This project has transcended an idea in my head to become something tangible. This is a piece being read by someone other than close friends and family – Well, maybe not this part. I’m not sure if close friends and family are reading this particular section. Let’s test this out. If I owe you money, I’ll reimburse you over dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Inbox me. Haha 

Ok, let’s get this going. So numero uno on the agenda, really and truly, I thank God for bringing me to this phase of my life. I am now a published author, a looooong time dream of mine. I thank Him for bestowing the gift or oration and narration. Not only do I have thousands of words, forming millions of stories in my head, God has granted me the innate and coveted ability to relay it on paper. I thank God for sharpening my mind and granting me wisdom to give my words power. Most of all, I thank Him for walking with me, showing mercy and unconditional love, taking my hand and pulling me out of the shadows. I am who I am, and all that I have is because of Him.

Next on my list, I would like to thank my husband, Anthony, who has been with me through almost the entire evolution of this book. You have encouraged me even through the fights and our O MY GOD, WHY? moments. I appreciate you for being a constant in life’s variability, and I love you just because you’re you. You’ve been an inspiration for many chapters. Your voice is immortalized in my characters. I have been blessed to be paired with you, and I hope we make it to the end of forever.

Nikki!!! Thank you for teaching me and strengthening my mind.  For always picking up the phone, listening to my dreams, fortifying my ambition and correcting my errors. Some of my best ideas grew wings with you, and I have you to thank for keeping me grounded, sane and my eye on the prize. I am a better woman because of you.  Thank you for feeding my intellect, conditioning my spirit and still being down enough to hook up a sew-in and let a n***** know what time it is. Ha! You’re the best things in life, finely wrapped up into one person.

Thanks to my daddy. No matter how turbulent my life feels, you always remind me I have a solid foundation to plant my two feet. You’ve freed me of so much worry, provided me sanctuary when I fell from grace and equipped me with the resources to get back up again.

Sheryl Senior. Not only did you replicate yourself by giving me your name, you gave me this gift, this spirit and set me off on the journey which lead me here. I know my gift is an inheritance bestowed onto me through you, and I am infinitely and ironically grateful for the unique foundation laid before me.  

Maisha Pulliam. Yaaaaz! Thank you for jumping right into this project to not only lend your support, but be in action. You did so much for me, you don’t even realize. Most of all, you motivated and reminded me to believe in myself at a time I doubted myself the most. Thank you for aaaall the texts and aaaalll the calls and aaaalll the posts. It was never too much. Always right on time.

Special thanks to the model-type-gorgeous Na’Kea Artis-Bonner for inspiring me, advising me and most of all hooking me up with editing for free 99. Lol. I want to be you when I grow up.

Special thanks to Mr. Marcus Byrd for coming through in the clutch with last minute revisions because, as the case with any writer, I am never satisfied on any given day with my work, so of course I changed something last minute, after UMPTEENTH rounds of revisions. GOSH, that sentence was long! Thank you Marcus. You are the most arbitrary person to be placed in my life, and now it seems not knowing you was never a thing. (Look at me, getting away with double negatives because I can. Ha!)

Special thanks to Jeff Pines, the gorgeous old man on the cover. It’s undeniable. You’re just dope at shit.

Thank you Diana Dimas for your input. You changed this book for the better and I mean that. Like for real, for real.

Thanks to everyone who had a hand in this book. To those of you who provoked thought, who demonstrated uncontainable originality or just said something I’ve never heard before in a way it’s never been said. Thank you muses.

Thanks to all my supporters, readers and whomever made this purchase. I cannot express my infinite gratitude. I’m excited. I’m nervous as hell. Haha And overall thrilled for you to be reading this. So much time went into this project that it is a part of me. So, in the words of Ms. Badu and quoted by every artist everywhere: Keep in mind that I’m an artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit.

Preface

This is almost funny. The story you hold in your hands has gone through so many facelifts – Not even. More like full body, Frankenstein changes.

I started this novel when I was 18, sitting in journalism class. I’m no longer 18. Like at all. The original title was Dallas Dreams, and it told a story of a man who owns a hotel chain, discovers his wife is having an affair and tries to navigate through life with this information. My lead man was originally named Dallas Montgomery and somewhere along the way was reborn as Oscar Del Fuego of Cuba, restaurateur and celebrity chef. 

It was one book, then one long story broken down into five parts, then back down to one book as a part of a series.

I remember working diligently on this story then feeling daunted abruptly, having to ask myself what’s the damn point? I had all these characters interrelating and for what? To have sex? Maybe. This book was also originally erotic fiction, but as I began to answer the question of why, I found myself caring more about the characters and their journeys and less about their sex lives. Don’t get it twisted. I still care about their sex lives, but in different capacities. It took on new life as a pseudo-murder mystery and took off from there.

I fell in love with Oscar aka Damián aka Dee even though he may frustrate the hell out of you. I hope you find yourself in him. I think often times it’s easy to identify someone else’s foolishness, but struggle to self-diagnose our symptoms of destruction. We all have that friend whom you want to shake the stupidity and naivety out of. Oscar is that friend. I hope he evokes enough emotion that he may resonate with readers, and solicit empathy in his vulnerable state – A place the strongest of mind and will or have had to exist.

His friend Jackson is our internal monologue. He is our inside thoughts we have too much tact and decorum to share aloud. You’ll hate how much you love him. The two dichotomous personalities together serve as the perfectly flawed man.

Which brings me to why I wrote this book. I read so many novels where the main character (female) is permitted to endure her battles even at the expense of the man in her life, and come the end of the novel, her man forgives her indiscretions often times without ramification. This frustrated me because I felt it gave female readers, one, a false sense of hope and two, reason to lack accountability. Sometimes our decisions are just trifling and sometimes, ladies, we hurt the ones we love. That’s not to say that our feelings are invalid. However, how we express pain, whether due to our baggage or current condition, can be erratic, misdirected and often times, downright mean. I wrote this story because I wanted to explore the emotional complexities and evolution of a man. Especially when it comes to our black men, society coerces them into a well-defined box, dictating how they are allowed to handle their emotions while still identifying themselves as men. Our brothers walk their journey in silence, until they blow a fuse, becoming angry, hostile, cold and sometimes violent. It’s one of the constricting variables which lead our men to incarceration, substance abuse, adultery and away from our home. I wanted to provide a fictional platform if you will.  Then I wanted to provide Dee with the freedom to be as angry as he wanted. I wanted to pose questions like, what if he doesn’t want to forgive? What if the wrong is too wrong? How angry is he allowed to be and still be a noble man? How hurt will society allow a noble man to be?

It takes so much God to manifest a strong black man, worthy of submission. I want to present a story from the perspective of a strong black man, tried by life, struggling to remain a good man in the face of adversity. I hope the take away from this novel lends the cognizance of how emotional and vulnerable our men are, and when placed into an emotional state, they lose control of their logic – There most precious asset, next to God. We must feed and nurture their spirit because his fall from grace takes the world down in his gravity. 

Peace. 

If you want to be successful, you must respect one rule: Never lie to yourself.

Paulo Coelho

Chapter 1

I jolt, an unearthing chill tingles down my back as sweat beads coalesce into thin streams of anxiety. It wakes me from a dream I’ve been having since I was ten. Every time it goes a little further. I see more story and it terrifies me out of my sleep. My demons may own the night of my subconscious, but I’ve jailed them, forbidden them to manifest itself into the tangibility of reality.

It’s a story in which I’m too familiar. I lived it. Twenty-five years later, on the anniversary of a day which changed me forever, images of another warm, ocean kissed night in Havana when I watched a man die, torment me.

Like it’s in real time, I watch his eyes make the dismal transition from white to bright red. They widen, until they stiffen. Until his soul disappears, leaving the earth the gift of a decaying corpse.

Why was he there? Why did I have to be there? To see him? To react as I did? Why my home?

I can still see the shadow of his gun intercepting the light peeking into the room from the outdoor street post.

He raised it in the air. Without delay, faster than I can count to one, hate reflecting off the steal, he aimed his cannon.

BANG.

One bullet grazed his ear. I watched his flesh pop off his head like a bottle top bursting from the pressure of carbonated bubbles.

BANG.

Another hot, lead assassin through his knee brings him to the floor, his blood making childlike splatter art on the dusty walls. 

Mierda. Shit.

Who did that? If he turns around he’s going to think it was me. It’s only me in the room, but it couldn’t have been me. It wasn’t. I didn’t do anything. Leave me alone.

¡NO ME LASTIMES! ¡POR FAVOR!

BANG!

Then my eyes open. My memories working like a time machine, powered down by my consciousness. I’ve returned to the now after a long, hard journey to the darkest era in my short history. My body is damp and clammy. I’m cold, yet I’m sweating uncontrollably. I check under my ass to make sure I hadn’t pissed myself again. That hadn’t happened in years, at least ten, but the anxiety I’m feeling is deja-vous.

No piss.

I hate the man in my dreams because I he exists beyond them. Not in a physical sense. He’s dead, but I feel him haunting me. There’s someone after me. He’s sent for me. I know it. It’s all a matter of time before everything catches up to me.

I can’t think of that now. I brush memories of him and paralyzing fear under the rug then stuff it in my closet, deep in the back with the rest of the skeletons like I always do. I’ve developed a comfortable pattern.

I sit up, resting my head against the headboard, waiting for my breathing to steady and heart rate to normalize, coaching myself, quietly repeating It’s ok Dee, when I see my phone illuminate. Just like that, it’s over and I’m outside of my own head, where I’m safe. The dark mist drifting away from me like smoke dissipating into the atmosphere.

The caller ID reads Jacko, better known as Jackson Broderick Jr. It’s 4:25 in the morning so he could only be calling to say: Happy birthday nigga. You’re old as shit.

Newborn shit.

A fifteen-year-old tradition dictates him to make this phone call. I’ll reciprocate when his birthday comes around. On yesteryear, he would have executed a well devised prank, but laziness and the lack of idle time has taken away our callowness and replaced it with mundane maturity.

When Jackson calls, he’s drunk of course.

What’s hap-pen-naaaaan?

Sleep nigga. What is wrong with you?

Showing your old ass some love. You probably only have five more days to live. I’m cherishing these moments. 

We’re the same age.

I’m not your age. I’m a whole year younger and I’m going to live forever.

Whatever. I appreciate the phone call. I’ll hit you later. I don’t want to wake Simone.

So how’s the ole bitch and chain- ball and chain?

Jackson, I would hate to lose my brother over a woman, but I will. Stop referring to my wife as a bitch. When you disrespect her, you disrespect-

I’m disrespecting you. Be easy. I was just messing with you.

Well stop.

Ok. My bad. Man, you sensitive. He belches into the phone; I can almost smell it. Then he continues to run his mouth. So uh...She give you some?

Ay dios mio, Jackson. Are you kidding me right now?

"I’m only asking because I know the bit-terness you’ve felt about your wife keeping your balls on ice."

Why are you worried about my balls, bro?

Chill out. Since you evading the question, guess that’s a no. What’s the point of fucking with a young bitch if she ain’t coming off no pussy?

First of all, I’m not fucking with Simone. I’m married to her. Second of all, don’t worry about me, Jack. My marital bed is in commission.

Yea right. All this phone call is keeping you from is sleep. Dreaming about the pussy you not getting.

Is this, this year’s prank. Harassing me about my drought.

He laughs. I just don’t understand it.

It’s not for you to understand. She just hasn’t been in the mood.

Naw man. Pussies are like cabs. If one is out of service, just jump into one that’s available. Shoot, all the money you got. Tall, yellow, with the light eyes. No homo. He laughs to himself. You can talk that Spanish to ‘em. Como te amo. Me gusta mami. Puta, puta. He giggles at his broken foreign tongue.

That’s not me.

Well who is you? You still like pussy don’t you?

Kill yourself.

You met the girl in Atlanta, but you may have been there for some of the shimmy, shimmy.

I laugh. I can’t help it.

I’m loyal.

To what? Check me out. I’m not knocking you for being a one-woman-man. I mean I am, that’s gay as fuck, but whatever. To each his own dumb ass idea.

I sigh.

But she don’t cook. She don’t work. She not your baby mother. She don’t even have her own plug. Ain’t the bitch from the hood? Can she put a nigga down with a good connect? Can I meet her at her trunk for some Rottweiler puppies?

There you go with that bitch shit. Jackson-

I call bitches, bitches! Let me live.

I roll my eyes. Jackson, I’ll hit you later. We got business to take care of in the morning.

Dawg, be cool. Fully awake now, I hear the slur in his speech. Nigga you know IloveyouMan. I called to tell you HapBurday and evurythangman. You mad nigga?

I just want to go back to bed.

I love you man. We brothers.

Yes...brothers...Goodnight. I’ll see you when the sun comes up and has sautéed for a few hours. Don’t call back in an hour when the sun comes up.

Man, let’s go get some bitches. Like fresh out of high school bitches, with low self-esteem and hate they daddy. We can take them to McDonald’s. Young thangs love McDonald’s.

You need help.

I got this thing over here right now. I’m not sure if I’ve been in it, yet. She’s still here, so I must not have.

I’m hanging up the phone.

Why you gotta be like that man? I’m trying to help you out. Get you out that drought...Hold up nigga, that rhymed.

Jackson...

Deeeee. If you don’t get you some, it’s gon fall off. It’s a scientific fact. Get a trophy...

What?

A trophy...when you don’t use your body, you get a trophy.

Atrophy, Jackson. Atrophy.

That too.

Jackson, get some rest. Sleep off your night. I will talk to you later.

Wait. Listen to me real quick.

Jackson, I’m going to murder you.

No for real. I know I’m a little drunk right now, but I got so much love for my boy. Like, I don’t have kids or any brof-ers. I don’t have a wife-bitch-thing.

My face falls in my hand.

So you my people. I’m going to look out for you. You like my little brother.

Jackson, I’m older.

It’s not about white and wrong!

I remove the phone from my ear because I’m over his alcoholic tangent and focus my attention to my wife. I love her. A man couldn’t ask for a better wife. No she isn’t a cook or at all domestic, but I didn’t marry her so she could wait on me. I married her because she makes me happy. She’s smart. She’s strong. She’s determined. She’s a ten and I love it. I could rub a thousand lamps to summon a thousand genies and I wouldn’t find a better woman. Luther Vandross, Smokey Robinson, Boys II Men, Michael McDonald and Shakespeare couldn’t come together to write a verse that describes a stronger love than what I have. No one seems to understand. No one believed it either. I hear something every single day about my wife or my marriage. It’s like my people are in denial about what we have, but I guess I don’t need their understanding or their validation. It’s just unfortunate.

I watch Simone’s eyes flutter. She’s dreaming. I watch a smile appear on her face as she watches the motion picture behind her eyelids. Then she rolls over, her bright chocolate moon now facing me. I smile at her incognizance of her exposed skin.

I allow my hands to hover above her, tracing the finely designed contours of her frame. I want to bite into it like an apple. The further south I go, the more I feel her heat. I’m reminded of how much I miss her. Every day I see her, I miss her. Being with her feels like where I’m supposed to be. Being with her feels like home. I’ve been away for so long. I want to come inside my home.

My fingers slip. I accidentally press a button which makes the phone beep in my ear, interjecting my thoughts, returning my consciousness to a different, undesired, asshole.

When I reengage into the conversation I hear Jackson say, And that’s why we’ve got to stop eating pork.

"You’re right man. I’m going to meditate on that and get with you in some hours.

Ok. I love you. Give me a kiss.

CLICK. I hang up the phone and return it to the nightstand before I can see how much time elapsed and how much life I wasted on that whack phone call. It’s damn near five on a Saturday morning. I’m sure he spent all last night getting full. I’m surprised he had the energy to pick up the phone. I plug the charger back into my phone and recline.

I turn to my wife and fall back into the trance she had me in before. She’s beautiful. Her long black hair lies across the pillow as if each strand had been placed there. She sleeps quietly. She doesn’t snore or move around a lot. Sometimes, I catch myself watching her sleep and I’m in awe that I have her in my life.

Simone likes wearing my shirts to bed. She says the smell of me comforts her. Tonight, she chose a black button-down I wore earlier today, unfastened, nude underneath and hairless from the lips down. She’s real sexy, she’s all mine and I wouldn’t change that for all the money and all the women in the world.

I scoot down the bed and wrap my arms around my wife, positioning my lap to rest under her butt, my wood poking her to say, Good morning. My heart skips a beat as she rolls over and her alluring dark brown eyes connect with mine. She wishes me a happy birthday and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I just had the best dream, She grins.

She opens the shirt, revealing the smooth, flawless complexion that covers her body, erect nipples saying good morning back to me.

I feel my extremity swelling.

I place my hand on her flat stomach, caressing her tight skin and she curls her lips into a smug smile. She rubs her fingertips across my chest and tip-toes them down my abs, discovering my erection. She squeezes it, a little too hard, but I’m not complaining. I watch her as she bites her lip, as if she craves me and moves her fingers down south as if she’s inviting me. I love it when she initiates sex. I watch her with captivation, as she pleases herself, thrusting her fingers in and out of her body, grabbing a tight hold of my thigh. She bites her lips harder and I can hear juices flowing from her sweet papaya. I want to bite her fruit, delight my palette with her sweet syrup. I watch as she rains on her fingers. I want to taste her. I want to replace her fingers with my solidity. She grabs her breast, flicking her tongue against her swollen nipples. Those nipples turn me on. They’re big and a deep brown. Darkest nipples I’ve seen on someone her complexion. Watching her get herself off turns me on. As she comes closer to climaxing, my heart beats faster. Her moans become thicker, more intense as does my anticipation. More and more into it, it seems as if she’s going crazy. I sit there waiting for her head to spin off of her shoulders. I focus on every body movement. Every turn of the head, every little twitch of her thigh, and the vibration of her clit. I watch and it’s awesome. I wonder what thoughts are racing through her head, stimulating her like she is. What must I be doing to her in her mind?  What ways am I contorting her body? How am I making her sweat? Whatever it is, I know I can put her fantasy of me to shame. Simone’s breaths become heavier, shorter. She looks for something to grab a hold to, my arms, a pillow. I’m more aroused than ever. She puts the pillow over her face, then she comes. When she comes, she really comes, like water erupting from a hydrant. The faces she makes are incredible. That alone is enough to get my dick up again, ready for round two, ready to penetrate her flesh just so I can witness that face.

Her pussy is wet. Her nectar drips from her lips, trickling down to the palms of her smooth manicured hands. She spreads her legs, those lips smile at me. She puts her fingers to my face, allowing me to smell her, relish her pheromones, suck honey from her fingertips. She teases me. Knowing the carnal powers she has over me. I hate to play the games, but her callousness makes me want her more. 

Was it good for you? I grin, playing along.

Damn good, My wife answers, returning the smug, seductive smile she flashed me earlier.

So is it my turn now?

Sure. I’ll be in the shower.

It’s like a song on an R. Kelly CD skipped. I was warmed up and ready. Her pleasure song worked like twelve play then suddenly the laser scans the scratch, the record stammers, all the lights come on, she wants to go home, her mom walks in from church, she’s on her period and all the other scenarios which cock block a man happens. I try to intercept feelings of annoyance, with denial.

Excuse me?

"I want to wash up. You know how I