Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey
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Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey
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New York Times bestseller Eric Jerome Dickey revisits the scene of his holiday romp Naughty or Nice, featuring the McBroom sisters, whose romantic adventures make for a white (hot) Christmas. Readers first met the McBroom sisters in Eric Jerome Dickey’s New York Times bestseller Naughty or Nice. In the highly anticipated sequel, Naughtier than Nice, we find out what happens on the other side of the fairy tale. The lives of Frankie, Tommie, and Olivia (Livvy) haven’t turned out quite as planned. Frankie has a pair of stalkers. The life that Tommie had dreamed of having with Blue has become anything but perfect, and Olivia, despite her efforts, hasn’t been able to get over the psychological barrier caused by her husband’s affair in Naughty or Nice. Frankie’s life has taken on an element of danger, and she calls upon Driver, an ex-con who first appears in Dickey’s Drive Me Crazy, to bail her out of a potentially life-threatening situation, but that is a secret she has kept from her sisters.Tommie and Blue are now engaged, but due to something her more-mature love has done, the wedding is indefinitely on hold. As Blue and Tommie remain the perfect couple in public, Tommie has found herself physically attracted to a younger man. But that is a secret she has kept from her sisters.Livvy is trying to recapture the adventure she had during her revenge affair. She is seldom intimate with her husband, Tony, but when she has relations with him, it is by her rules and under certain conditions—it has to be a ménage à trois. But that is a secret she has kept from her sisters.Though the sisters are as close as any sisters could be, none wants the other two to know the dark secrets she is hiding. And during this season, all of the McBroom sisters are Naughtier than Nice.
Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey - Amazon Sales Rank: #87407 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-27
- Released on: 2015-10-27
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x 1.18" w x 5.75" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 368 pages
Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey Review Praise for Naughtier than Nice"If you’re looking for something extra steamy to keep you warm, reach for this enticing romance novel.”—Metro"Another white-hot Christmas. . . . Romantic dramas and sexy secrets make for sultry seasonal reading."—BookPage"Dickey has deft control of each voice, and the Los Angeles backdrop is so well drawn that it becomes a character in its own right."—Publishers Weekly“[A] steamy tale of lustful women troubled in love. . . . Dickey's fans will rejoice.”—Kirkus Reviews"A thrilling ending and loads of hot sexual gymnastics will draw Dickey’s many fans."—Library Journal"An absorbing read."—BooklistPraise for Eric Jerome Dickey and His Novels “Dickey’s fans flock to his readings. . . . He’s perfected an addictive fictional formula.”—The New York Times "Dickey has the knack for creating characters who elicit both rage and sympathy."—Entertainment Weekly "A very funny and engrossing novel. . . . Plenty of the laugh-out-loud humor that has made Dickey’s work a staple on bestseller lists."—Booklist on Naughty or Nice “Dickey is a master at writing about women and what they want and how they want it. There are three kinds of physical love in these pages: hot, red hot, and nuclear.”—Publishers Weekly on Naughty or Nice "Must-read romance. . . . A cerebral, sometimes sensual, sometimes suspenseful, and quite a memorable ride."—USAToday.com's Happy Ever After on One Night
About the Author Eric Jerome Dickey is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty previous novels, as well as a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. Originally from Memphis, Dickey now lives on the road and rests in whatever hotel will have him.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***Copyright © 2015 Eric Jerome Dickey
Frankie
Hoodwinked. Bamboozled. Betrayed. My rage was bottomless.
My younger sister Tommie told me that I suffered from dysphoria—a state of feeling unwell—due to overthinking, insomnia, and depression. My middle sister, Livvy, said I was just pissed the fuck off.
I agreed with Livvy. I was pissed off to a level of pissivity previously unknown to womankind.
I scowled at what had been my engagement ring—a two-carat Petra Gems platinum engagement ring—and cursed Franklin Carruthers. It was a ring that looked like the truest of true loves. We’d flown to New Providence Island, leased a suite at Sandals Royal Bahamian Spa, and had a driver take us to John Bull on Bay Street. While the luxury of Gucci, Cartier, Rolex, Bvlgari, and Citizen’s lines surrounded us, we picked out amazing rings, then set a date and planned a beach wedding in Turks and Caicos. I’d had the ring appraised. Twenty grand. If only love could be appraised to see if it’s true or just a chunk of cubic zirconium. After we’d come home from the Bahamas, we had all gone out to a sunset dinner in Marina Del Rey, and Franklin eased down on his knees in front of my sisters, Monica, Tony, and Blue. Franklin had asked me to marry him, gave a speech praising me and made it official, slid a ring on my finger knowing bigamy was illegal.
Franklin Carruthers. We used to call ourselves Frankie and Frankie. I’d seen a chance Christmastime meeting with a man who had been christened with the male version of my name as a sign. I thought I’d found my knight in shining armor, but he was just another liar wrapped in aluminum foil.
We’d announced to our friends and on social media that we were going to be Mrs. Franklin and Frankie Carruthers. I changed my status from SINGLE to ENGAGED to let other men know they’d missed out on the last single McBroom and to let other women know I’d been bumped up to first class. I had imagined our entire life together, up until the end. The wedding was to be my rebirth. I’d expected both of my sisters to be with me in a thousand photos. Had imagined Tommie, Livvy, and me with big smiles and tears of joy as the McBroom girls stood near the shore and its turquoise water. Life was a false perfect.
We’d become one of those sickening, attention-seeking, braggadocious couples on social media, broadcasting our love for each other at sunrise, having public conversations from the time we left each other to the moment we were back in the same space, tweeting witticisms, and pretty much uploading a new amorous photo every day. We were both entrepreneurs, a power couple living life to the utmost.
We’d taken time from our respective businesses, wanted to be alone, and traveled the world. Our sabbatical from Cali lasted two months. We handled all of our affairs by phone, proxy, e-mail, and fax.
He was going to be my husband, so there were no holds barred.
So many memories were captured in more than ten thousand digital photos.
In Italy, Franklin pulled me to a concealed outdoor location, and as people walked by unaware, that country boy gave cunnilingus like I was better than Momma’s baked chicken. My 'Bama man was a wicked double-dipper—would feast on me, rock me real good, then, while it was hot, ease down for seconds. After the loving, we rushed by Renaissance and Baroque architecture, laughed as we passed by the world’s finest collections of sculptures, carvings, frescoes, and paintings to rejoin the walking tour for the Vatican Museums, the Sistine Chapel, Raphael’s Rooms, and St. Peter’s Basilica. Having an orgasm, then looking up and seeing incredible frescoes by Michelangelo was like being in God’s living room. Photo after photo, my love hangover had me giggling, glowing, before the beautiful Pietà sculpture. We tried to behave but acted like out-of-control teenagers with YOLO tattooed in invisible ink across our foreheads. The magnificent engagement ring on my hand told me this was the start of perfection.
It hurts to remember how big a fool I was. Two months of traveling, and there was no foreshadowing of what was yet to come. The ones we make love to today will screw us tomorrow.
Before we had taken our vacation, we had gone to see a renowned specialist in Beverly Hills. It blew my mind. We were trying to make a baby while we were in Paris, Italy, and Africa. Not an accidental baby. An intentional baby. I wanted to be pregnant before my middle sister, Livvy, and definitely before our younger sister, Tommie. I was the oldest McBroom sister on this branch and that was my right, to have the first McBroom grandchild. After we had taken our sabbatical and returned home, after we had been greeted by all of our friends and family, we were in my house, in my master bedroom.
The Titanic had been unsinkable, the Hindenburg indestructible, the Luftwaffe unbeatable.
My relationship with Franklin was supposed to be as unbreakable as the Chicago Bulls during the 1995–1996 season. I’ll never forget that night when my romantic illusions came to an end.
Frankie
The eve of Christmas Eve. My tree was decorated, presents for all underneath.
We were in the houghmagandy bedroom. We had a room at my home devoted to our passion, a well-appointed room I kept locked. Queen-size bed. Armless chair. Bench. Music. Candles. Mints. Water. Wine. Blue Gatorade. Massage oil. Lubes. An assortment of grown-folk toys. Scarves and blindfolds. Chocolates. Wipes. There was a wall of mirrors. I had a journal with my fantasies written down. Kama Sutra books. A mini fridge to store cool drinks and fresh fruit. I owned a Sybian. GoPro HERO3 Black Edition to capture memories, or just to play memories while we lounged in bed on a rainy day. We had an amazing sex life and a room dedicated to making love, exploring, having fun, and now to making a baby. If we kept this house, this room would become the baby’s room, after it was deep-cleaned. If they used a blue light on that room it would have glowed and looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Santa Claus hat on my head and Argentine wine on my breath, I was on a Liberator pillow, my bottom angled upward at thirty degrees, but at one point it was more like seventy, with me on my shoulders, an angle that caused gravity to pull Franklin’s weight down, pulled him deeper inside my love.
He rested on me, at a kinder angle, after his grand finale, winded.
I moaned, sucked his bottom lip, and asked, “Did you find Davy Jones’s locker?”
“I was not that deep.”
“For the love of sweet black baby Jesus, you were deeper than Obama’s speech on racism.”
I put butterfly kisses on his lips as I ran my hand through his magnificent dreadlocks.
He moved in and out slowly, kissed me, asked, “Can you feel them?”
“I feel them. Never felt anything like that in my life. You’re addictive.”
He had gone to Suriname and had boegroes surgically inserted under the foreskin of his penis. Round balls rose from his flesh like beads. I felt the rigidity of the beads even when he was flaccid.
My cellular rang. It was my sister Tommie’s ringtone. I stretched for the phone, couldn’t reach it, but he grabbed it, handed it to me, never losing that connection. He kissed my neck and pushed his boegroes deeper. I felt the trend in Suriname. I felt what made his wood feel like it was made of steel.
I took a deep breath, tried to sound normal, answered, “What’s the problem, Tommie McBroom?”
“Good night, Auntie Frankie.”
“Mo, what are you doing up this late?”
“When will I get to see the dress I’m going to wear at your wedding in the Caribbean?”
I laughed. “Is that why you called me?”
“The dress is so beautiful.”
“Is that dress on your mind?”
“I just had a dream about it. Only it was black. I don’t want to wear a black dress.”
“Your dress is white. And it will be the prettiest dress at Auntie’s wedding.”
“Why are you breathing funny? Are you on the treadmill?”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Momma doesn’t know I’m on her iPhone. Our secret, okay? If I use mine, she’ll look at the caller-ID, know I was on my phone past my bedtime, and put me on punishment.”
“Why are you still awake?”
“The noise woke me up.”
“Where is Tommie?”
“She’s in the bedroom with Daddy. She’s making sounds like her tummy hurts.”
“Is the bedroom door closed?”
“Yes.”
“Just stay in your room.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?”
“Auntie, there is no such thing as Santa Claus.”
“If you don’t believe in Santa, you’re too old to get presents.”
“Can we do the name song you taught me?”
I laughed. “Mo Mo bo bo, banana fanna fo fo, me mi mo mo, Mo!”
“Frankie Frankie bo bankie, banana fanna fo fankie, me mi mo mankie, Frankie!”
I said, “Now call Auntie Livvy and do the ‘Mahna Mahna’ song.”
I ended the call and pulled the Santa Claus hat away from my head.
We laughed, talked about how we hoped we’d made a precocious baby like her.
Franklin went to the bathroom to take that post-sex piss and to clean himself. I heard the water come on in the bathtub and I smelled lavender. That meant we’d take a quick shower, clean the sticky stuff from our bodies, sit in the tub a little while, cuddle like that with music playing in the background. We might make love again. Until I was pregnant sex would be fun, but it would also have a purpose.
My cellular rang while a John Handy tune from his album Hard Work blanketed us.
Franklin called out, “Is Mo calling again? Does that kid drink coffee all day?”
“Livvy is probably calling me now to curse me out because I had Mo call and wake her up.”
Franklin laughed. “Y’all talk all day and call each other all night like you ain’t seen each other in weeks. Y’all cuss each other out and ten minutes later y’all are laughing like it never happened.”
The ringtone wasn’t my sister’s ringtone. Then I thought it might have been an old lover from my long-discarded A, B, or C list, and I wanted to answer and tell them Merry Christmas, tell them that those wild days were over and their services would no longer be needed. As the phone chimed, I picked it up and looked at the number on the display. It looked like an international phone number.
I sucked lime Jell-O from my fingers, then answered in my business voice, hoping nothing had happened with any of my properties. A hysterical bitch was on the other end. I had never heard so much anger. As I sat exposed on ruffled sheets, I found out my fiancé was already married. Based on the screams, he had married when he was living in Alabama, several years before he had met me.
I will never forget the look on his face when he left the bathroom laughing, naked, modified cock swinging, and walked toward the queen-size bed, his sweet dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail.
He didn’t see the pained expression on my face.
He tossed me a wet towel.
I let it bounce from the bed to the carpeted floor.
I held my Santa Claus hat in my fist, exhaled, tilted my head like the old-school RCA Victor dog, and then asked, “Are you married to a bitch in the military?”
He froze.
My nostrils flared and my left hand became a fist.
He looked at me.
Silence penetrated the room.
Franklin was unable to inhale.
He looked at the phone in my hand.
Time stopped moving, folded its arms, leaned against the wall, and waited to see how this was going to turn out for us.
“Yes or fucking no. Answer me. Are you married, and is the heifer overseas in the military?”
His shoulders tensed; he opened and closed his hands, murmured soft curses, exposed.
That was when I heard them. A lot of people were behind his wife, urging her, cursing me as well, a platoon of fools.
Franklin tried to explain what couldn’t be explained to an audience of military wolves.
I slapped him as hard as I could.
He staggered across the room, held his face in disbelief, then snapped at me for striking him.
His wife snapped, threatened to kick my ass for hitting her husband. I told the heifer if she were here I would kick his ass and her ass, then went off on her for having the audacity to get my phone number and call me.
I cursed both of them out, cursed them hard and strong.
I took my cellular, went into the bathroom, locked the door, ended the call with his wife, then didn’t answer as Franklin knocked over and over. I stood in the shower, under tepid water, so I couldn’t hear a damn thing he said, muffled his lies, shouted for him to get out of my house. He refused to leave.
I called my sister. Livvy and Tommie hurried over with Tony and Blue—Livvy’s husband and Tommie’s fiancé. I didn’t come out of the bathroom until then, and my sisters were there as I ranted. Franklin was in the living room standing by the Christmas tree, the light blinking over lie after lie. Mrs. Carruthers called my cellular over and over and over on the eve of Christmas Eve. In front of everyone, I answered.
We all listened to her vile rant with my phone on speaker.
Tommie said, “Franklin, you have a wife and made plans to marry my sister?”
Livvy said, “Woman on the phone, you really need to have some respect for my sister.”
Franklin’s wife called me all kinds of names, cunt being the nicest word to leave her mouth.
Again I hung up on the madwoman and told Franklin to get to stepping and step the hell out of my life. While he was surrounded by my family, while Blue and Tony were in his face and kept him away from me as my sisters hid my gun and grabbed my arms and kept me away from him, while Livvy held one of my arms and Tommie gripped the other, Franklin trembled and tried to plead his case to the jury of his peers.
He said he had been trying to get a divorce for years. No one cared because he had presented himself as being free and single. He had been married and sleeping in my bed like we had already taken vows. He had put an engagement ring on my finger when a wedding ring was already on another woman’s hand.
I snapped, “You’re a monster, Franklin.”
They had all been like brothers, but he couldn’t buy empathy from Blue or Tony. My brother-in-law and my future brother-in-law had my back like my blood was their blood, were outraged, like my shame was their shame. Tony picked up belongings that littered the house. I followed Franklin and threw framed photos and F-bombs. I threw his Christmas presents at him. I wanted to throw grenades at him.
My sisters stayed with me, one on each side of me, their turn to be my bookends while waves of agony were drowned first with wine, then with Jack and Coke, my favorite liver killer. The next morning, before the sun came up, I went to my garage and looked at my two rides. I used an Audi for work, but I also rocked a 1968 Pontiac Firebird coupe on most weekends. This had put me in the Firebird mood. To try to clear my head I turned my phone off and rode my muscle car from the southern terminus of Pacific Coast Highway at I-5 in Dana Point to somewhere up near Ventura. Alone with my thoughts, I was on the road for many hours before I turned around. I gassed up my ride, took to the highway, opened it up, sped down the 101. I found my way back to Los Angeles. Exhausted, numb, I went to Inglewood Park Cemetery and lay down on our parents’ graves. They were buried side by side, holding hands in the afterlife, as I had thought it would be with Franklin and me.
I lay between them and whispered, “Mom. Dad. I screwed up. Why can’t I do this right? Why can’t I have what y’all had?”
Livvy and Frankie knew where I would be, knew where we all went when we were at the bottom of the bottom and could only look up and see darkness. I looked up and they were standing over me.
Tommie said, “Think we can borrow a shovel and dig this funky-breath heifer a grave?”
“There is an open grave about a half mile in. We can stack her like they do at that corrupt cemetery that was in the news for putting one dead body on top of another. What say you?”
“We can bury her there. She looks so damn pathetic.”
Breakfast at Tiffany’s shades over my eyes, dreadlocks tied to either side like I was Pippi Longstocking wearing an L.A. Lakers sweat suit, I raised my middle fingers at both of those McBitches.
Livvy’s light brown hair was in an Elsa-from-Frozen braid. Tommie’s hair was all Afro’d up today. Livvy held plastic bags of grilled chicken from El Pollo Loco. Tommie held a tray of soft drinks.
I asked, “What does a sister have to do to have a moment to think by herself?”
I sat up. Soft breeze on a sunny day, the temperature at sixty-seven degrees on Christmas Eve. My sisters, both dressed in sweats, took out paper plates. Then I heard someone calling for her auntie. Mo ran across the graves. I ran toward her, picked her up, and gave her a piggyback ride to the grave site.
I said, “We’re a day early. We don’t come until Christmas morning.”
Tommie said, “We’re still coming back tomorrow.”
Livvy said, “I know that’s right. Mom and Dad get us two days in a row this time.”
We all sat and ate lunch, me, my sisters, my little niece-to-be, with the ghosts of our parents at our side. We didn’t talk for a while, not even Mo, not until we started gathering the last of our refuse.
Tommie said, “I can make the phone calls, Frankie.”
“Wait until after the first of the year. Let’s not mess up Christmas for everyone else because mine got screwed.”
Livvy said, “I can help you make the calls, Tommie.”
I said, “No e-mails, no tweets, no Facebook. Nothing that can be saved or passed around.”
They nodded in agreement.
I shook my head. “It’s my mess. Let me pull up my big-girl panties and be responsible.”
Mo said, “Auntie, you don’t wear panties. You wear a thong if you wear anything at all.”
We all laughed and wiped tears from our eyes.
Everyone who had been invited to the Caribbean McBroom-Carruthers wedding had to be uninvited. Explanations, apologies had to be made to those who had scheduled vacations, a reason had to be given, and I didn’t try to cover up for his lies or my mistake. I’d been deceived. It was my turn to play the fool. I took the blame, said it was my fault for not doing my due diligence, for not having him fully investigated. I’d entered into a relationship in trust and had exited on the back of a lie.
* * *
After the first of the year, Monica came to keep me company and help me take down my Christmas tree. We made brownies and chilled as we watched television. She was worried about me.
“Auntie, why aren’t you and Uncle Frankie getting married so I can wear my new dress?”
I looked at her and her simple words about Franklin made me ache.
The horrible things that adults did had to be explained to children.
“I wanted to dress in white like a princess and be the flower girl at your wedding by the sea.”
As she sat between my legs and I French-braided her fine hair I said, “I know, Mo. I know.”
Mo had asked me that while we were watching Even Stevens, Phil of the Future, and Kim Possible. We watched those the way my sisters and me were hooked on ShondaLand on Thursdays. Monica was kicking it with me to give Tommie and Blue a break and some time alone. Maybe it would be the night they smacked it up, flipped it, and finally put a baby in the oven. One like Monica. I’d thought Tommie would be pregnant at least two years ago. Actually I had guessed she was pregnant when they got engaged but was wrong.
Monica said, “Let Mommy wear your wedding dress and we can all still go the islands and they can get married and you can be the bridesmaid and I can wear my white dress and be a flower girl.”
“I was married before, Monica. So I can’t be the bridesmaid ever again, thank God.”
“I won’t tell. You and Mommy can just change places and I can still wear my dress.”
“If only life were that easy, little girl.”
“Maybe Uncle Frankie will come back and say he’s real sorry.”
She cried. The kid cried hard. It felt like I had broken a grand promise to her.
Same as I had told everyone I wouldn’t get married, now she had to tell all of her friends her truth.
She would not get to be a flower girl. Baby sister, Tommie, wouldn’t get to be a bridesmaid for the last time. In my heart I had wanted to have a kid just like Monica. She was the perfect child.
I needed her company that night. I needed her innocence. Mine was long gone.
He wouldn’t leave my mind. I missed Franklin. I missed the life we had been building.
Everywhere we went we had worked out like we were exercise junkies. He had pushed me to the next level. We had planned on running either a half or a full marathon in all fifty states. When the sweating was done we showered together, or bathed together, then massaged each other with oils. We had made love at night on balconies in foreign countries, slept in our birthday suits, limbs intertwined.
I hated him. I missed him. Love had come in a rush, but upon failure, it never left easily.
After I took Mo home, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t breathe. Same thoughts on repeat. The relationship had been a farce. I would not become Mrs. Carruthers. I would not become a mother.
To be sure, I went to West Los Angeles Medical to see my ob-gyn, Dr. Debra DuBois.
If I were pregnant by another woman’s husband, my life would get real ugly.
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Most helpful customer reviews
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful. Naughtier Than Nice: A Review By Nikki-Michelle Man, whew. I've waited so long for EJD to get back to this style of writing. Now don't get me wrong I love Gideon and the chick from A Wanted Woman, but I longed for the day EJD would get back to the Cheaters and Liar's Game style of writing. Once I read One Night earlier this year, I knew I was going to get Naughtier Than Nice. First off, let me say it did my heart some good to get an update on so many of my fave characters from EJD's earlier works. There was Dante (Thieves Paradise), Driver and Panther (Drive Me Crazy and Naughty or Nice), Dr. Shelby and CEO Tyrel Williams and Dr. Debra (Friends and Lovers). Ducati/Billie (Chasing Destiny), Vince and Dana (Liar's Game) and Regina Baptiste (Accidental Affair). There could have been more, but I can't remember. Either way, this book was everything to me.The book starts off with Frankie giving us a rundown of her life since we last saw her in that post office where she met Franklin. Things went from sugar to S.ugar H.oney I.ce T.ea fairly quickly. Franklin had some overseas secrets and they came out swinging. I kept thinking, 'damn, poor Frankie'...Just when she thought she had it all figured it out... Meanwhile, EJD made me google 'boegroes' and I'm not sure I will ever be the same...Neither will Frankie & Frankie for that matter.We move on to Tommie. Tommie isn't the shy, low self-esteem having younger sister we remembered from Naughty or Nice. She has gracefully come out of that shell. She's still with Blue, our LL Cool J/Common look-a-like. Tommie has the whole sha-bang. She has the man. She's playing mommy to Monica, Blue's young daughter. She has the house. She has everything she's ever wanted except the two things she's desperately trying to get Blue to give her, one of those things which he has all but ensured she will never have. This causes strife, a rift in the happy couple that threatens to crumble their proverbial happy home.Now on to Livvy, the middle sister. We haven't seen her since Carpe left her and Panther in that apartment he had rented for their secret rendezvous. Things have changed for her and Tony, her cheating, lying, paternity test needing arse of a husband since Naughty or Nice. They now play by a different set of rules, rules that Livvy have laid out. And if Tony, the cheating tiger, wants to keep his wife, he will do what she says when she demands it...even if it confuses yet pleases him.Naughtier than Nice gave me everything I needed. This was a reader's dream. Not only did EJD manage to give us an update on the McBroom sisters, he managed to show three Black women still trying to find their way through love without having them become the stereotypical Black woman can't live or function without a man trope. It was also good to see and catch up on other characters even if it was in passing. I also enjoyed meeting new characters like Bill (or it could have been Beale as I listened to the Audible version ) Streets and Daniel Madison. Blue's baby mama, Angela, is still just as irate and irresponsible as she was in book one. Also, it was good to meet Rosemary Paige.One last thing, I knew who the villain was in this book as soon as we were introduced to them. When I tell you that the villain is straight outta the nut house, that's word to NWA. All-in-all, I'm going to rate this book five pages (think five-stars) even though I felt something was missing near the end. I'm not sure what it was and since I can't put my finger on it, I won't let my personal feelings take away from the fact that this book was well written with an action packed beginning, a blood curling climax, and simmering ending. Nikki-Michelle recommends this book.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Good read but error in novel. (Spoiler) By rocky In this book which is part two, EJD had Panther meet Olivia again as a driver. In conversation Panther states she never knew Olivia's name BUT in the first book (which I went back to and found the exact wording) Olivia went back to their love nest and running into Panther. Panther asks about Carpe (pt 3 of the love triangle) and Livvy says his name is Michael (to Panther) and Panther REPLIES I KNOW AND YOUR NAME IS OLIVIA. Then Olivia says to us (narration) that made her feel even more uncomfortable that she knew her real name and in the end she asks Panther what is her real name... Cynthia Smalls...... So in all it was an error for them so say I never knew your real name when it was significant in the first book to say she did.Pleaseeee do not add things into your new books without double checking your first book every detail it just makes it feel like a fiction book again ... Exactly what it is and I can't escape my reality and get into the book how I want to. Especially when you acknowledge and thank people who have supposedly read and edited and helped you.Still loved the story line and enjoyed it. Thanks EJD , we can only grow , love you.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Steamy sisters By Gail Ofterdinger The McBroom trio of sisters are having major disruptions in their relationships. Distance is growing among the married and those with long-term liaisons. There are break-ups and affairs, lust, graphic sex, a threesome with an exotic partner and a mysterious security man. It's a quick afternoon read with plenty of emotion and steamy behavior. These women get what they want. My thanks to the author and the Penguin First to Read program for a compimentary copy.
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Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey
Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey
Naughtier than Nice, by Eric Jerome Dickey
