Tomorrow's Sun

By Sharia Kharif

Sometimes, the memories are too much to bear and the nightmares seem to take over, but Nawe will do anything to leave her demons behind. All she wants is to be free from her past, to love and be loved unconditionally.

After witnessing his brother’s death, Rashid breaks away from the life of brutality that promises to destroy everything. He tries to stay clean, if not for himself then for the woman he loves...but the past has a way of sneaking up on you.Nawe’s nightmares become reality, and Rashid can’t resist one last hustle...a hustle that isn’t going according to plan.

Now that lives are in danger, the two must decide how to continue. Will they let the past dictate how they love? Or, will love be their guide?

Adult content 18+

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9780359386185

Book preview

Tomorrow’s Sun

a novel

SHARIA KHARIF

Legalities

Copyright © 2019 by Sharia Kharif

ISBN:  978-0-359-38618-5

First Print: © 2007

Library of Congress Control Number:  2007908547

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is truly coincidental.

Cover Design by Sharia Kharif

www.indigoreign.com

Self-Published via Lulu.com

ALSO BY SHARIA KHARIF

Tears in the Wind (2004)

The Univer-Soul Language Vol. I (2005)

Coon Tails (2006)

When Justice Come A-Callin’ formerly Coon Tails (2007)

Tears in the Wind revised edition (2007)

Audio:

Live from Kijiji: The Open Mic Sessions (2003)

Poetic Vol. II (2005)

For You

For love and those fortunate enough to have known it.

Na le kowa.

I draw people near me and wonder

what they see if the life they encounter

was deemed worthy

or tossed away again like peelings

my insides are missing

my insides are missing

I walked out this morning and left them at home

forgot my soul when I picked up my keys

left my heart but brought the memories

forgot the love and convinced myself

it was unnecessary…baggage in a world

where love is painful at best

absent at worst replaced by apathy

renamed something it can never be

destiny

wonder what they see

if they find me lacking

or just another mystery to be

cracked open and left to rot on the front steps

bitter fruit rejected

---Nawe

Chapter 1

Why do I keep doing this?

If I die tonight, I’ll be the laughing-stock of the morgue.

Nawe glanced down at the head cradled between her thighs and wondered how she’d fallen into this trap…again.  Her free hand traced the slope of his jaw, while the other smoothed aloe at the base of one last ebony strand then let the loc slip from her fingertips.  Nearly delirious from fatigue, Nawe rested her head against the wall and tried to talk herself out of doing anything silly.  Like that would happen.  If I kiss him again, he’ll probably freak out again and I’ll probably cry and my eyes will be as red as these walls and he’ll pull me close and give me another there-there pat and I’ll die of embarrassment and wouldn’t that be fitting?  Crazy fearless me crying over a kiss and dying ‘cause the boy touched me.  She sighed and pressed her cheek against the plaster, relishing the chill like the long-awaited caress.

Not two months after she’d returned, Nawe had found herself sweating in paint-splattered coveralls helping Andre faux-finish the room.  Smoothing and waxing plaster in shades of rust and burgundy.  Somehow seduced by his deep voice and the way he seemed to peer into her soul when he said please.  Goatee framing thick lips curving against sparkling white teeth pink tongue peeking between the rows.  Nostrils slightly flared, lids heavy.  Or maybe it was the way he’d murmured the word against her throat.  Either way, they were both elbow deep in Venetian plaster by noon. 

The moment that word fell from his lips, Nawe knew she would agree to whatever had been asked.  Okay, so she hadn’t really been paying attention.  Did she really have to?  No one ever bothered to say please.  Just demanded what they wanted and expected her to deliver.  Had always been that way, at least for as long as she could remember…which wasn’t saying much…considering.  Nawe hadn’t remembered much in a long time.  Days blurred until one was no longer distinguishable from the next.  Hours passed with no recollection of how the time was spent.  Just minutes and seconds of memories she had to fight for.  One more thing to fight for.

You finished?

Andre tilted his head in the light and 151 pencil-thin locs tumbled over his shoulder.  She’d counted.  His eyes caught the glow of mulberry candles and chocolate irises deepened into mahogany.  Nawe kept her eyes closed.  She’d seen it all before.  Had prepared herself for his words and didn’t need to see him to know what was coming.  Besides, if she kept her eyes closed it would make the rejection more bearable. 

You can stay here if you want.

Damn.  His words still caught her off guard.  If I want?  What I want, boy, is to pin your sexy behind to this carpet and find out if your skin is as sweet as it looks.  What would that hurt?  The thoughts fought their way to tongue but, as always, were suppressed.  Mouth closed.  Eyes closed.  Just say no.  She snuggled deeper into the pillows she’d helped pick out and forced her eyes to remain sealed.  She didn’t have to look at the man to know he was looking at her hungrily.  She could feel his eyes burning through her clothes.  Lingering on her face and gradually making their way to her bare feet. 

Andre wanted her…but only because of Chester.  Short, stocky, uptight Chester who seemed to emerge without warning from her poetry.  Chester who spoke her thoughts and dreams, making promises she knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t keep even if the time was right and he didn’t have a girlfriend.  Chester Wakefield, a wanna-be aphrocentric yuppie who thought he was down by moving to the hood and wearing imitation kente.  Said he worked for the people but talked loud and reprimanded everyone he thought wasn’t perfect, so no one wanted to work with him.  And he honestly believed they’d get married.  Nawe chuckled but kept her lids sealed.

Yeah baby, I’m finished.  She yawned and rubbed first one eye then the other.  Damn I’m tired…been running all day, first with the kids, then the family, now you.  You’d better not kick me out.  As if she’d stay.  She rarely stayed…not that she didn’t want to.  Still…  She opened her eyes and stretched long sinewy arms wide enough to accept the embrace and goodnight peck she’d learned to expect, only to be caught by Andre’s gaze.  Arms up.  Sides bared.  What?  His plump lips slid up at the corners revealing nine perfect pearls and Nawe thought surely this was the time to die.  So what if the other corpses laughed at her expense?  She could deal with that.  What she couldn’t take was another night imagining those lips on various parts of her anatomy. 

Oh God, she moaned and Andre lunged forward, running long tapered fingers up and down her trim torso.  Andre… Chuckling, she fell from the red suede couch knocking silk and kente pillows and the natural hair gel she’d mixed especially for him to the floor.  Desperate to get away, Nawe crawled to what was supposed to be safety.  Blow drier.  The thought came too late. The shiny instrument clattered to the floor as her left knee caught its cord.  Habit made her turn to make sure all was okay and, jerk that he was, Andre seized the opportunity. 

One tiny foot had remained within reach and he quickly conquered it.  Nawe’s face pressed deep in the plush beige carpet, one hand locked around the cherry coffee table that had on too many occasions served as dining room and setting for many a fantasy.  Stop it boy!  I’m too tired for…  Unable to complete her complaint, loud hiccupping laughs erupted from her throat.  Andre wriggled his fingertips against the giggling girl’s instep.  She was so small.  Her entire foot lay concealed in his palm.  Her tiny fists wrapped around the table legs as if she were bracing herself.  For what?  For me, a fleeting thought as his eyes slid over her caramel frame too long to be supported by such miniscule feet.

Scream.

What?!  Nawe went still but her tongue shattered the silence Andre’s request had provoked,  I aint ‘bout to surrender!  You forgot you’re ticklish too, huh?  Oh…I’m gon’ getchu when I get up.  Just wait…  Another feathery touch cut off the threat and another round of laughter ripped from her throat, deep and unladylike.  Andre chuckled and continued his assault. When the attack progressed to the tender spot behind her knees, Nawe’s struggles increased until she had flipped onto her back.  Long, red-brown locs fanned around her head.  Most snaked around her neck while others stretched to caress the hand-woven raffia mat that lay beneath the coffee table.  Vibrant golds and reds intertwined, welcoming the stray locs into their midst. 

She was beautiful.  High cheekbones and stubborn chin.  Lashes too long to belong to a real person.  Everything about Nawe defied logic, including how she insisted on pushing his name between her teeth like she was savoring the word.  She was growling it now.  Murmuring the name like some sort of prayer while forcing herself not to scream.  Stubborn.  Unlike anyone else he’d ever met.  He returned his attentions to the toes still cradled in his palm, a low growl his reward.  Very stubborn.  At only twenty-five years old, she’d long since mastered the art of disappearing.  Blending into her surroundings without changing a thing about herself.  Somehow, by being different from everyone else, becoming invisible.  Right, he smirked.  Invisible.

She thought she was ugly.  Nawe’s foot jerked in Andre’s palm and he leaned closer to her body.  Okay.  Not ugly.  He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone stupid enough to call her ugly.  She wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone stupid enough to call her ugly.  How many times had he heard, "I’ve seen enough trolls in my day to know I aint one of ‘em.  I might not be the cutest thing ever created, but this heifer is ridiculous"?  Then she’d roll those big brown eyes and point one short, unpainted nail toward the offender and they’d both laugh at the ugly girl…or boy.  No.  She didn’t think she was ugly.  Just didn’t realize how beautiful she was. 

Could be a model if she wanted.  Not that she wanted.  Not that he could see her traipsing down a runway in one of those fluffy costumes designers sold for the price of a good used car.  A good used car, not one of these rust buckets littering corner parking lots and side streets.  Something inspected and certified like a Honda or Toyota.  Not that she’d let anyone dress her up.  Not that she’d be caught dead in heels…or makeup…and definitely not nail polish.  The idea of Nawe Salaam, artist, poet, and eternal tomboy with a French manicure was enough to make Andre forget what he was doing.  Nawe’s hands always looked as if they’d been attacked by kitchen shears, and probably had.  Her nails were dirty crooked things that seemed to collect paint and grease, mud and who-knows-what-else from down at the Center. 

Still, he liked them just as they were.  Small wrinkled brown sculptures that were always quick to soothe away his hurts.  They reminded him of Great Granny Ruth, his father’s grandmother, who had massaged Glovers into Andre’s scalp every night until he was thirteen and considered responsible enough to handle the stench on his own.  Not the sexiest thought but true.  They were healing hands.  Had it not been for the many folds and scars, Nawe’s would have seemed too childlike, too…too…something.  He again contemplated the French manicure, trying to envision long square nails on those fingers.  No.  They were perfect as they were. 

Nawe jerked her foot in Andre’s grasp and his thoughts jerked just as quickly from the image he’d conjured of his girl’s manicured hands swinging a shiny chrome blow drier at some defenseless screeching hairdresser.  Poor thing didn’t know not to touch her locs.  Andre ran his finger along Nawe’s instep.

Scream.  No way was she going to scream, but he wanted to keep her close.  He wanted to wrap her in his arms and forbid her to go home, but she’d look at him like he was crazy and roll those big brown eyes.  He could see her now; hand on hip, neck swiveling, eyes narrowed, Forbid me?  I know you aint say you for…bid me?!  He’d never see her again.  But the idea of releasing Nawe’s foot and allowing her to leave his home wasn’t one he wished to entertain.  So he instead leaned closer, then gave in and gently placed her right foot beside the other, resting his weight on his palms.

I thought about you today, the words no more than a growl.

Did you?  Nawe inhaled the scents around her and tried to forget where she was, where he was, tried to pretend Andre wasn’t too close.  That his nearness wasn’t making her sweat.  Aloe.  Mulberry.  Macadamia nut oil.  And something else that had been driving her crazy all night.  Eyes closed.  Mouth closed.  Just say no.

Yeah… He leaned closer until well-muscled chest met softer one. 

And?

Stay.  Andre brought his lips to her neck and whispered again, Stay.

Chapter 2

You did what?! 

Nawe barely glanced at Sam over her mug.  It had been a gift from Andre the November before last.  The mug, not Sam.  Sam was nobody’s bargain, but the best gift she had.  The mug, however, was bright yellow and infested with green and purple fingerprints.  The handle had been sculpted to resemble a child’s fist, and scripted inside the rim was the happy birthday message she hadn’t received from any of her other friends.  Not that she’d ever really had friends.  Had learned the hard way that it was best to stand alone…be alone.  Friends have a way of betraying you.  Running when you need them most. 

The people she had trusted before had been happy to come around as long as she was doing the giving, but let her ask for something and the complaints would fall like rain.  Before she could utter the request, someone would be muttering about how much he or she had already invested into the friendship.  Like it was a business venture, when the majority of the fools had never written a check that didn’t bounce and couldn’t even spell investment. 

I came home, Sam.

Well, I know that, fool!  I live here too.  What I don’t know is why.

I came home, Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes toward the sky; blinking to readjust the purple contacts he wore to match his purple satin pajamas.  His bald head had been properly buffed then tied with a satin scarf, also purple.  He looked like Barney at a masquerade ball.  And again, I know.  Now what happened before that?  Sam crossed his legs at the knee and balanced a delicately painted tray across his ample lap, its mauve and lavender buds coordinating with the satin, as he knew they would.  Only Sam would consider kitchenware an accessory.  He lifted another cranberry citrus scone to his lips, careful to direct any wayward crumbs onto the tray.  It must’ve been good to have you up early baking these.  Spill it.  All of it.

I… Nawe hesitated, as memories of the evening taunted her.

Soft lips circled her lobe, and Nawe hissed as heat flooded her core.  He was too close.  Kissing those places she had prayed he would, while anxious hands pulled at the buttons of her shirt.  Stay.  Long fingers slipped between lace and skin and she fought hard to deny him everything.

Andre… It was meant as a protest, but escaped on a sigh as those sweet lips lingered, teased her with his warmth and echoed his fingers’ dance.  Caramel fingertips played over the tender buds, circled and plucked until they puckered like ripe berries.  She whimpered, and rough tips caressed the mounds, traced their fullness, and soothed the ache in her heart.  Warm breath tickled her skin.  Quick tongue darted around the points, and she bit back a cry.

Stay. Oh God!  She wanted to.  Wanted to lose herself in this man’s scent and touch, let him drop light kisses on her breasts, and watch them swell from heat and proximity.  She bit back another cry, as his hands slipped over her sweat-dampened skin, and he returned to nibble at her neck, suckle the tender flesh until her mind grew cloudy and skin prickled with desire. He was too close.  Invading her thoughts with unspoken promises, offering everything she’d ever wished for.  Forcing her hand. Chocolate irises begged her permission.

Stay.  Nawe gazed into dark eyes, hooded with suppressed desire and whimpered again.  Andre leaned closer than she could have imagined possible, and she inhaled the sultry scent of his arousal.  Please Nawe?  Stay.

Andre’s eyes dropped to Nawe’s lips, and she subconsciously traced them with her tongue.  The plump flesh glistened in the light and he couldn’t resist, dipped his head and met her lips with his own.  And she was intoxicated…aloe, mulberry, macadamia nut oil, and something else that had been driving her crazy all night.  She melted into the kiss, drew in his breath, before pulling back to trace his bottom lip with her tongue.

  Andre… Nawe sighed, filled her lungs with the perfume, then closed her eyes against the possibilities.  Eyes closed.  Mouth closed.  Just say no.

I came home, Sam.

Dammit heifer! Talk!  In a flash, Sam had pushed aside his tray with half-eaten scone, and slid from his perch on the countertop…blue tile that did nothing for his outfit.  His size eleven and a half feet searched for and came to rest in feathered purple mules that showcased the purple glitter polish he’d applied while waiting for his roommate to come home.  He crossed his arms over what could be called nothing less than pecs, in a stance adopted from his career as a bouncer.  You know good and well what I want to know.  So quit stalling and tell me what happened; or so help me, I’ll walk up the street myself and ask him.  Sam narrowed his eyes into a look that some would call ferocious, but given the purple eye shadow he’d smeared into the creases, only made Nawe laugh.

What the hell happened to you?!  Nawe put her mug down, now empty of chai, and peered at her best friend.  She bit her lip to stop the wave of giggles his image inspired.  You look like Tinky-Winky.  And I know those aren’t fake eyelashes!  Boy…I’ma tell yo mama!  Nawe’s words did nothing to deter Sam from his quest for information.  Rather than discuss himself, as he was prone to do, Sam popped his massive fingers, rested his hands on unfortunately shapely hips, and swung his neck like Michael Jackson in Thriller. 

Tell her.  Tell whomever you’d like.  You can tell ‘em I had on a fluffy pink tutu last night if you want, but heifer, right now you gon’ tell me what happened!  Sam leaned his 275 pounds against the rainbow-tiled café table.  At six foot four inches tall, he towered over his friend.  At least while she was sitting and staring up at him like his tirade was less than impressive.  Come on Sunshine, he begged, tell me.  Pleeeeeeeease?  Any other day, Sam might not have won, but the man said please.  No one ever bothered to say please.

I came home, Sam.

Nawe!  Her name was a sharp wail, piercing the air like a dental tool.

"Alright already.  Don’t do that!  But for the record, you did have on a pink tutu last night.  You do look like Tinky-Winky…and are those not fake lashes?"  Nawe got up to refill her cup.  After the night she’d had, one strong cup of chai would not do.  She picked up the pastry Sam had forgotten during his interrogation and absently nibbled while waiting for the pot to sing.  Lemon exploded on her tongue.  The sweet tang of berries mingled with butter and almost made her miss the hints of cinnamon and vanilla.  Perfect.  Flaky layers melted in her mouth and she thought of Andre. 

They’re new.  Don’t they remind you of Eartha Kitt?

More like Grace Jones, and what’s with the purple?

Aubergine.  Now talk.

Nawe made the tea methodically, trying not to relive the evening but considering the least embarrassing way to tell the story.  This was becoming a habit.  Drinking tea over 6a.m. pastries and retelling some strange event too ridiculously dramatic to be anything but true.  She poured steaming water into the colorful contraption, dropped in a single teaspoon of sugar and two heaping mounds of hazelnut creamer, then dunked the teabag into her mug, watching the clove-scented concoction bleed into the cup. 

She stood facing the deep indigo glass basin, shoulders straight, head high, heart broken and waited until cinnamon and cloves had completely invaded the milk.  Only then did she take a sip.  She knew it would be hot enough to burn her tongue and hoped the pain was enough to stall her truth.

Talk.

He asked me to stay.

That’s it?  He always asks you to stay.

And I always say no.  She returned to her seat, cup in hand.

Which makes you a fool.

Shut-up Sam.  Voice as sharp as her treasured kitchen shears, Nawe pointed one crooked unpainted nail, That’s your second time calling me a fool.  You aint got no more.

Awww heifer hush. What you gon’ do?  Point me to death?  Why didn’t you stay?

He kissed me.  Kissed me and asked me to spend the night.  Had his lips pressed against my neck, smelling so good I couldn’t think and it took every ounce of self-control not to wrap my legs around his waist and say ‘Chester who?’…and I mean it ‘bout calling me a fool.

Sam cut purple eyes in Nawe’s direction and snorted, Whateva heffa. I know this mess aint about Chester’s pseudo-intellectual wanna-be down behind; so don’t even try to lie.  He only halfway grew them things he calls locs ‘cause ya boy has ‘em.  That fool’s so jealous he can’t see straight, but to hear him talk you’re pricing china and bassinets.

What you mean, ‘to hear him talk’?  Nawe forgot her lie and put down the fingerprinted monstrosity she’d just picked up and rose from her seat.  I’ve told that fool I’m not marrying him but he’s still calling the house?

You know he is.  He’s in looooooove.  Sam stretched the word and fluttered his wings while Nawe forced herself not to gag.  He’s in love and you’re in love and you’re gonna be in love together with lovely little children and a lovely little white-picket-fence in the suburbs.  It’ll be lovely.  Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.  He stopped to pick up the mug Nawe had left behind, peered down into its contents and shrugged before taking a sip. You two will get married and you’ll forget all about Andre, which you need to do anyway.  You two make no sense.

Sam…Chester Wakefield is not even part of the equation.  He just thinks he is.

Of course not, dear.

He winked.  Nawe lifted a pastry and considered watching it explode against Sam’s head but thought better of it and instead placed the corner between her teeth.  Why waste good food?  She subconsciously ran her hands down her pant legs and crossed toned arms over chest in a stance that anyone but Sam might have found sexy.  Sam however, just saw his missing sweats.  The blue ones with the pockets that had seemed to disappear from his closet.  And wasn’t that his beater?  No.  Too small.  The thing was painted on.  Must have gone out and bought some when he’d hidden his. 

She really had no idea how beautiful she was, even if her taste in clothing left much to be desired.  Clothes could be changed.  Ugly was forever.  Sam held the oversized mug in one hand and with the other pointed a glittery lavender mesh-gloved finger in Nawe’s direction.  The finger moved quickly up then down.  Pointed first at her neat locs now bundled beneath a faded blue bandanna, scanned her baggy length, and rested on the unadorned toe peeking from a hole in neon rainbow-striped toe socks.

Side note…  Nawe turned her attention away from thoughts of Chester and Jennifer, the irritatingly common girlfriend he thought would make her jealous enough to commit. 

Hmmmmm?

Just one thing and I’ll let you go back to planning your wedding.

Nawe rolled her eyes and Sam swore she pouted.  And what would that be?

Did you by chance go see the man dressed like that?  Nawe reconsidered hurling the scone across the room.  "Child…‘cause if you did…and he still wanted you to stay…I suggest you pounce.  Have a few kids.  Marry the man.  Hell, I’ll do your makeup.  ‘Cause,