FICTION:A man worth waiting for....episode 13

A Story written by Omolola…

“Never.” She stared up at the stars, trying to make sense out of that quirk. Trying to understand why her mother hadn’t ever called her father. And why she’d gone to such lengths to make sure Tomilola never did, either. “Maybe she felt like too much of a loser after a relationship failed and she just wanted to put it behind her, pretend it never happened. Or maybe, after being tossed from one foster family to the next as a kid, she thought further contact was futile. Whatever the reason, I never saw any of them again. In fact, we usually moved to a different town after a breakup. Although that could just as well have had to do with her trying to make sure my father never found us.”

“You’ve been thinking about the name change thing?”

She nodded. “When you put all the pieces together, it certainly looks like she was making sure he didn’t find us. Maybe she was afraid he’d take me away. Maybe. . . I don’t know.” Her brain was too numb to think anymore. “You have to realize that with her gone, you may never understand her motivations for everything she did.”
Sadness washed through her, “I know.”

“It sounds like you moved around a lot. Did you like it? Seeing new places?” Having forced her to face some of the hard truths of her past, he changed the subject, steering her on to easier ground. And she was glad for it. “I hated it. Mom wasn’t the only one who dreamed about having a house. A home. Before she got sick, even after sometimes, Mom and I used to talk about having our own house.”

She smiled thinking of those times. “We’d plan it all out, you know? First, we’d decide what kind it was. A one-story ranch or a two-story contemporary or just a little grandma house on a quiet corner. Then we’d decorate it. Plan what kind of curtains we’d have in the kitchen. And where we’d put the garden. We always planned a garden.”
“Garden?”
She nodded, laughing.
“You wanted roses.”
“Yes. Red roses, mind you. They had to be red.” She smiled, remembering. “It was fun, planning. Dreaming.” “But you never had a house of your own?”
“Are you kidding? There were times when we couldn’t even afford a cheap hotel. There was one time, though, when Mom was dating this guy with money. Not money like this.” She waved her hand, indicating the Big W. “But enough money he could help pay the rent and have a little left over for a few fun things. A night out at the galleria, an afternoon at the beach. Anyway, Mom and I bought some material and hand stitched some kitchen curtains for the tiny apartment we were renting at the time. That was cool.”

“Sounds…cool.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “You don’t think it sounds cool. You think it sounds pitiful.”

“Not pitiful. But…hard.”

She shrugged. “It was sometimes. But I had my mom. I always knew she loved me.”

“Your father loved you, too.” He locked his gaze on hers. “And he was looking for you, Tomi. He – was – looking.”

A million emotions pounded through her. Pain, frustration, loss. “Yes, it looks like he was. And I’m softeniing toward him. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilty about it.”

“That’s understandable, if not exactly fair. You’ve thought negatively about your father for twenty-two years; that isn’t going to change overnight. Particularly since your father’s version of what happened that night isn’t any prettier than your mother’s.”

“No, it’s not,” Her voice was as weary as she felt. “But…I would suggest you think very hard abut cutting your dad out of your life just because your mom did. You need to find a way to let them both into your heart.” He stood, pulled a small envelope from his back pocket and handed it to her. “Your dad left this for you. I don’t know what’s in there. But maybe it will help.” He stood and headed for the end of the balcony.
She stared at the envelope, then at his retreating back. The need to call him back danced on her tongue. She didn’t want to be alone. It seemed as if she’d faced every scary moment of her life alone. She didn’t want to face this one that way, too.

Unfortunately, she was afraid to think where her current vulnerability coupled with the S#xual tension between them might lead if her father’s missive upset her and Demola decided to hold her again. Demola might have the wherewithal to keep things in check, to keep things at a comforting level, but she was pretty sure she didn’t. So she clamped her mouth shut and watched him walk away.

Just before he headed down the stairs, he stopped and turned to her. “You said you’ve always wanted a home. This could be your home, Tomi. It’s a beautiful place. A good place.”

Old longing rushed in, but only for a moment. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Demola. My mother’s memory aside, this place is too rich for my taste. I could never own anything this lavish. There are too many people out there doing without.”

He shrugged. “So downsize. Or make the place work for you. Your dad plowed the money the estate made back into the place so he’d have something grand to bring you and your mom back to if he found you. But you don’t have to do the same. Stop growing the place and use the money for your charity. Or whatever else you’d like to use it for.”

The idea slid through her, sneaking underneath her confusion and pain to tease her, tempt her. She liked the idea of having a steady income to use for her charity. But….could she make enough peace with the past to make this her home?

“Just something to think about,” he pointed out.

She shot him a wry smile. “Like I need more of that.”

He returned the smile. “I”ll see you tomorrow.”

Without another word, he disappeared down the stairs. She looked at the envelope clutched in her hand.

A card.
From her father.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, she broke the seal and pulled the card out with shaking fingers. Opening it, she angled her body so the small amount of light coming from her bedroom fell on the card, highlighting the boldly scrawled words. Holding her breath, she read.

[i]Tomilola,

I’ve composed a dozen notes. All of them from my heart, but most of them were long-winded and did more to appease my conscience than anything else. Now I’ve decided to say only the things that matter.
I’ve missed you. . .more than I can ever tell.
I love you. . .more than you will ever know.
I’ll be watching from above, or perhaps below, doing what I couldn’t in life. . .taking care of you.
Love,
Dad.

She closed her eyes against the words. Words she would have sold her soul as a child to hear. Words that would have made so many dark, scary nights so much more bearable. Words that pierced her heart like a thousand knives, because they’d come so, so late.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

And this time she let them fall.

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for.... episode 12

A Story written by Omolola…

Tomilola sat outside her bedroom on the balcony that ran the length of the back of the house. She rocked gently in one of the rockers that were strewn around the balcony and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves as she leaned back, propped her feet up on the railing and watched the sun dip beneath the hill’s top. The already waning twilight faded to night. Staring at the twinkling stars, she let the day’s emotions take hold of her.

Fresh tears pooled in her eyes. Tears she’d been fighting all day. Tears of frustration and sadness and anger. After Demola’s little bombshell on the trail, she’d come back to the estate and spent the day sifting through the bills in her father’s office. It had made for a tumultuous afternoon.

Footsteps echoed in the dark.

She quickly swiped at the tears and glanced toward the edge of the house where the sound of crunching gravel reverberated through the night. Who was wandering back here? The sound of crunching gravel turned into that of someone climbing the stairs at the end of the balcony. Demola’s head appeared as he made his way up the steps, the moonlight glinting off the sharp angles and planes of his face.

She looked heavenward, praying for strength. “Demola, I’m not sure I’m up for another one of your surprises. Seems like every time you appear on the horizon, my world gets a little shakier.” He stepped onto the balcony and held up his hands, a bottle in one, two shot glasses in the other. “No surprises Just thought a good stiff drink would go down good about now.”
“A little anesthetic for the havoc you created earlier?” He winced, striding over to her and setting the bottle and glasses on the rail. “Something like that.” She drew a deep breath, feeling guilty for dumping her bad mood on him. “Sorry. I’m shooting the messenger, I know. But, unfortunately, the two people I want to be taking over the coals right now aren’t here. And -”

“I am,” He extracted a lime and small knife from his shirt pocket and set them on the railing. She nodded.
He removed a saltshaker from his front jeans pocket and put it next to the line. “That’s okay. I can take it.”
Yes, he seemed to have as much inner strength as outer strength. He absorbed all the anger she threw his way with the calm acceptance of a man who had a bone-deep understanding of the world around him and where he belonged in it. And because she had never known where she belonged in this world, it was a quality that made him just that much more appealing.

Too damned appealing. Squelching those thoughts, she concentrated on the bottle in his hand. Red Label. Of course. She curled her free hand into a soft fist and poured herself a glass.

She waited while he got his own drink ready, then held her glass up in toast. “To a quiet, uneventful day tomorrow.”

“Hear! Hear!” He clinked his shot glass to hers. They both licked the salt from their hands, drowned their shots and bit into their limes. The liquor rocketed down her throat, hit her stomach and raced into her bloodstream. She rocked back, closing her eyes, letting the warmth slide through her. Letting the alcohol relax the muscles along the back of her neck, the tight knot in her stomach and chest.

Something clinked against the lip of her glass. She opened her eyes to find Demola pouring her another shot. “Easy, I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Just sip at this one.” He set the bottle down, she held her hand out. He proceeded to pour himself another shot and downed it without the salt and lime embellishments. She raised a brow. Had this day been as unpleasant for him as it had for her? Maybe. While she’d been certain from the moment she’d met him that he was determined to do whatever was required to fulfil his obligation to her father, including playing dirty, she didn’t think he liked making her unhappy.

She touched the end of her tongue and took a tiny sip of the drink as he filled his shot glass again. He obviously planned to stay awhile. “You going to pull up a rocker or just tower over me while we drink?” He pulled one of the other rockers alongside hers, grabbed his drink, sat and propped his feet next to hers on the railing. “Pretty out here tonight.”

She stared at the full moon hanging over the distant hills. “I will give dear Dad that. He picked a beautiful place to build his little empire.” Demola winced but he didn’t say anything. He just sat, quietly rocking, occasionally sipping at his drink, his shirt gently brushing her arm as his chair moved slowly back and forth, his heat seeping into her shoulder like a warm, tantalizing breeze.

Her traitorous gaze slid to his boots, ran up his long, denim-clad legs and settled at the masculine bulge at the top of those legs. Oh, man. She dragged her eyes off him and took another fortifying swallow of red label.

Demola took a sip of his own drink, then turned his gaze on her. “You want to talk about the estate? Or your dad? You must have a million questions.” He was back to pushing again. She slanted him a look “What if I say no?”
“Then we’ll just sit here, watch the moon climb up the sky.”
She laughed. “And how long do you think you’ll be able to do that before you break down and bring the subject up again?”
He smiled, rocking gently in his chair “Maybe a minute or two.”
“If I’m lucky.” Her thoughts slid back to the troubling questions that had plagued her all afternoon. “My mom was raised in group and foster homes, did you know that?”
He looked over at her, the moon’s silvery light highlighting and shadowing his face. “I didn’t know.”
“Her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she was eight.” She closed her eyes, thinking how tiny, how vulnerable a little girl of eight was. “Her father and mother didn’t have any family that could take her in. So my mother became a ward of the state.”
“And she was never adopted?”
“Nope. She used to dream of it. Said once she recovered from her parents’ deaths, she’d lay awake nights and fantasize about a couple coming along and falling in love with her, adopting her and bringing her home. More than anything else in the world, she wanted a home and someone to love her.”
“But it didn’t happen?”
“No. And it left a hole in her, I think. Made her desperate for someone’s love. Which is what I don’t understand. If my father loved her, why’d she play around on him?”

He shrugged philosophically. “The Big W was a new estate then; your father was just starting to build it. If she was needy for attention, maybe he didn’t have enough time for her. Maybe she felt neglected,”

She thought of all the men who’d come and gone in her mother’s life. “Maybe, God knows, when Mom was with a man she wanted all his attention. Needed all his attention. She even hated it when they went to work. I think its why most of the guys left. They knew whatever they gave would never be enough.”
“So you’re at least entertaining the thought your mother might have contributed to what happened all those years ago.”
“I’m entertaining the idea. But I still have reservations.”

He watched her, his gaze concerned and sympathetic. “What’s bothering you the most?”
“If my mom never intended to ask for my dad’s help, why did she pretend to call? Why tell me she was going to call?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just to make your dad look bad. It wouldn’t be the first time one spouse vilified another.”
“Maybe.” But that answer didn’t ease the turmoil roiling inside her.
“Is it that she pretended to call that bothers you, or that she so obviously didn’t want help from your dad?”
“The latter, I think. It just seems so…self-destructive.” She thought back, the faces of several men flashing through her head. Men that had been involved with her mother, sometimes for months. She sighed, dropping her head back against the rocker. “But now that I think about it, self-destructive is a pretty good way to describe Mom’s relationships. Most of the men she brought home were users. Takers. And once there was no more to take, they left.”

“Did she ever see any of them again? After they left? Try to rekindle the relationship?”

Now there was a provoking bunch of questions. “No, she didn’t. As much as my mother wanted to be loved. As much as she wanted a man to come into her life and stay, if things didn’t work out, it was over. Completely over. Once they left our house or we left theirs, she never saw them again. Not to settle up on old bills or for a cup of coffee or for anything.”

“She never saw them again?” Surprise sounded in his voice.

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for.... episode 11

A Story Written by Omolola…

Demola rode quietly beside Tomilola. They were in the open now. The morning was quickly warming up as the sun rose steadily above the horizon.

“I thought you’d like it here. It’s one of my favourite spots. Was one of your dad’s, too.”

She grimaced. “Can we not talk about him today?”

His gut clenched. The pleasant ride was over. “Unfortunately, we need to talk about him. Him and your mom.”

Her gaze snapped back to him, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “You jerk. You didn’t bring me out here for fresh air. You brought me out here to ambush me.”

“I brought you out here because I thought you might enjoy some fresh air while we talked.” She snorted at his excuse.

He sighed. “Fine. I ambushed you. But, this is a mountain we have to get over. And it’s been my experience that when you’re facing something unpleasant, sooner is better than later.”

“Not today it isn’t.”

“Running away won’t make the problem disappear.”

She shot him a black scowl. “No. But it might make you disappear.” She turned to leave.

“An ambush is used when you want to take something from someone or hurt them. I don’t want to do either. But we have some hard things to talk about, and I need you to stay around while we do. So yes, I stacked the deck in my favor. Shoot me.”

“I told you yesterday I didn’t want you trying to justify my father to me. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I’m not going to justify anyone to you. I’m simply going to relate the story your father told me about what happened twenty-two years ago. What you want to do with that information is up to you.”

“I already know what happened. On a dark, rainy night, my father kicked my mother and me out of his house and told her he never wanted to see us again.”

“Correction, your father kicked your mother out, he never intended she should take you with her. And. . .”

“And you think that’s okay? A man kicking his wife out of their house in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on her back?” Outrage sounded in her voice. Outrage she had every right to feel.

“No, I don’t. It was a bad decision. One made in a drunken rage. One your father regretted every day of his life from that night forward.”

“Oh, please. If the man regretted his actions, he had plenty of opportunity to make up for them. Do you have any idea how many times my mother called him, asking for help?”

This was the lie at the center of Tomilola’s anger for her father. The misconception he had to break. The misconception that was going to send her world spinning. He braced himself for the fight and shook his head. “She never called, Tomilola. That’s what I was trying to tell you in the truck yesterday when you cut me off. After your mother took you that night and left, your father never heard from her again.”

“That’s a lie. She called. Time and time again, asking for money. Asking for help. And Wale Adeyemi always told her to get lost.”

“Were you ever in the room when she called? Did you over hear the calls? Or did she just tell you about them?”

“Of course I heard them.” Righteous indignation sounded in her voice.

But he suspected she’d answered more out of anger and reflex than truth. “Are you sure? Think hard.”

She sent him another fuming stare, but he could see the doubt sweeping into her thoughts.

He let her ponder a bit, praying her mother hadn’t put on some charade where she’d talked into a phone with God knew whom or what on the other end, making her daughter think she was talking to her dad. It would be a harder lie to combat. Not that he couldn’t combat it. But he’d like to use as small a hammer as possible.

He sat quietly, the sound of grass and the soft creak of leather wafting on the warming breeze. A hawk’s lonely cry drifted down from the clear blue sky. He glanced up, spotting the majestic bird gliding playfully on the thermals overhead.

Tomilola followed his gaze, spotting the bird immediately. She smiled, a smile that momentarily erased the shadows from her eyes. The hawk suddenly dove toward the ground, his beak leading the way, his wings tucked tight against his body. Just before reaching the grass, he flared his wings and reached forward with his feet. A split second later he was winging toward the sky again, a mouse dangling helplessly from deadly claws.

Tomilola lowered her gaze to his, the shadows flitting back into her eyes. “It’s never quite as idyllic as we want to believe, is it?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She exhaled a long sigh. “I don’t actually remember if I heard any of my mother’s calls or not. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t. My mother died seven years ago, and we’d given up on my father coming to our aid a couple years before that. It was a long time ago. But what could possibly have been the point of her lying to me? She needed help. Desperately. We needed help. Why wouldn’t she have called?”

“I don’t know. But from what your dad told me your mom had issues. Ones your dad said kept her from thinking rationally sometimes.”

Pain and anger slashed across her face. “She might have had ‘issues.’ And she might not have always thought ‘rationally,’ but she wasn’t delusional, for pity’s sake. She was together enough that she never turned back on her little girl. Unlike the man you’re trying to paint as a bloody saint.”

“I’m not trying to paint anyone as a saint Least of all your father. God knows, he’d turn over in his grave if he thought I was. I’m just trying to tell his side of the story.”

“Then tell it. But don’t expect me to believe every word out of your mouth.”

“All I’m asking is that you listen with an open mind.”

“Fine, my mind is open.”

If the underlying anger in her words was any indication, her mind wasn’t open. But since it was likely all he’d get, he’d best get to it. “Did your mother ever tell you why he threw her off the estate?”

Her lips twisted in disgust. “Said he found someone new. Someone younger, prettier. Someone without a toddler to take care of.” Pain sounded in her words as she voiced her belief that her father didn’t want her. He locked his gaze on hers. “Your father never considered you anything but the most wonderful of gifts, Tomilola. Never.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “How would you know? You weren’t. . .”

“No. I wasn’t there. But I know because I saw the pain and longing in your dad’s eyes every time he spoke of you. Heard the pride in his voice when he’d tell one of the memories he had of you. Memories that were old and few, but more precious to him than anything in this world.”

More moisture filled her eyes, but she didn’t let the tears fall. She might want to believe her father had missed her. But the anger underneath those tears told him she didn’t. Not yet. And it would take a lot more talking on Demola’s part before she’d even consider opening her mind. “It wasn’t your father who found someone new, Tomilola. It was your mother.”

“Oh, come on, you can come up with something more original than just flipping the story around, can’t you?”

“Yeah, I probably could if I was making it up. But I’m not making it up. I’m going to tell you exactly what your father told me. No embellishments to make your father sound more innocent. No assumptions about what I think anyone was thinking that night. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to believe and what you don’t.”

“Fine. So my mother found someone new Who was that?” Pure sarcasm sounded in her voice.

“I don’t know his name. He was one of your father’s workers.”

“That’s convenient for the story.”

He ignored the comment and pushed on. “It was a Saturday night and your father had let half the workers go early so they could enjoy themselves while he worked late with the other half. When he finally got home, he found you in your crib, Mariam, the housekeeper, watching you, and your mother gone. When he asked Mariam where your mother was, she said she’d headed to town with the first half of the workers. He wasn’t worried at first, too worried, anyway. It wasn’t the first time your mother had gotten impatient with him for being late and headed into town early to drink and dance with some of the workers.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Did that mean she recognized the behavior? And didn’t approve? Wale had said Nike was a big party girl. That she craved attention. Especially male attention. There was no reason that would have changed after she left Wale. In fact, it very possibly could  have gotten worse.

But speculating about what Tomilola was thinking wouldn’t get him anywhere. “When he got to the bar, your mom wasn’t there. Just a bunch of guys doing their best to avoid your dad. When he finally pinned one down, the man reluctantly told him your mom had left with one of the new workers. Supposedly just to check out a bar farther down the street, one that played disco instead of rock music.

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for..... episode 11

A Story Written by Omolola…

Demola rode quietly beside Tomilola. They were in the open now. The morning was quickly warming up as the sun rose steadily above the horizon.

“I thought you’d like it here. It’s one of my favourite spots. Was one of your dad’s, too.”

She grimaced. “Can we not talk about him today?”

His gut clenched. The pleasant ride was over. “Unfortunately, we need to talk about him. Him and your mom.”

Her gaze snapped back to him, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “You jerk. You didn’t bring me out here for fresh air. You brought me out here to ambush me.”

“I brought you out here because I thought you might enjoy some fresh air while we talked.” She snorted at his excuse.

He sighed. “Fine. I ambushed you. But, this is a mountain we have to get over. And it’s been my experience that when you’re facing something unpleasant, sooner is better than later.”

“Not today it isn’t.”

“Running away won’t make the problem disappear.”

She shot him a black scowl. “No. But it might make you disappear.” She turned to leave.

“An ambush is used when you want to take something from someone or hurt them. I don’t want to do either. But we have some hard things to talk about, and I need you to stay around while we do. So yes, I stacked the deck in my favor. Shoot me.”

“I told you yesterday I didn’t want you trying to justify my father to me. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I’m not going to justify anyone to you. I’m simply going to relate the story your father told me about what happened twenty-two years ago. What you want to do with that information is up to you.”

“I already know what happened. On a dark, rainy night, my father kicked my mother and me out of his house and told her he never wanted to see us again.”

“Correction, your father kicked your mother out, he never intended she should take you with her. And. . .”

“And you think that’s okay? A man kicking his wife out of their house in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on her back?” Outrage sounded in her voice. Outrage she had every right to feel.

“No, I don’t. It was a bad decision. One made in a drunken rage. One your father regretted every day of his life from that night forward.”

“Oh, please. If the man regretted his actions, he had plenty of opportunity to make up for them. Do you have any idea how many times my mother called him, asking for help?”

This was the lie at the center of Tomilola’s anger for her father. The misconception he had to break. The misconception that was going to send her world spinning. He braced himself for the fight and shook his head. “She never called, Tomilola. That’s what I was trying to tell you in the truck yesterday when you cut me off. After your mother took you that night and left, your father never heard from her again.”

“That’s a lie. She called. Time and time again, asking for money. Asking for help. And Wale Adeyemi always told her to get lost.”

“Were you ever in the room when she called? Did you over hear the calls? Or did she just tell you about them?”

“Of course I heard them.” Righteous indignation sounded in her voice.

But he suspected she’d answered more out of anger and reflex than truth. “Are you sure? Think hard.”

She sent him another fuming stare, but he could see the doubt sweeping into her thoughts.

He let her ponder a bit, praying her mother hadn’t put on some charade where she’d talked into a phone with God knew whom or what on the other end, making her daughter think she was talking to her dad. It would be a harder lie to combat. Not that he couldn’t combat it. But he’d like to use as small a hammer as possible.

He sat quietly, the sound of grass and the soft creak of leather wafting on the warming breeze. A hawk’s lonely cry drifted down from the clear blue sky. He glanced up, spotting the majestic bird gliding playfully on the thermals overhead.

Tomilola followed his gaze, spotting the bird immediately. She smiled, a smile that momentarily erased the shadows from her eyes. The hawk suddenly dove toward the ground, his beak leading the way, his wings tucked tight against his body. Just before reaching the grass, he flared his wings and reached forward with his feet. A split second later he was winging toward the sky again, a mouse dangling helplessly from deadly claws.

Tomilola lowered her gaze to his, the shadows flitting back into her eyes. “It’s never quite as idyllic as we want to believe, is it?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She exhaled a long sigh. “I don’t actually remember if I heard any of my mother’s calls or not. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t. My mother died seven years ago, and we’d given up on my father coming to our aid a couple years before that. It was a long time ago. But what could possibly have been the point of her lying to me? She needed help. Desperately. We needed help. Why wouldn’t she have called?”

“I don’t know. But from what your dad told me your mom had issues. Ones your dad said kept her from thinking rationally sometimes.”

Pain and anger slashed across her face. “She might have had ‘issues.’ And she might not have always thought ‘rationally,’ but she wasn’t delusional, for pity’s sake. She was together enough that she never turned back on her little girl. Unlike the man you’re trying to paint as a bloody saint.”

“I’m not trying to paint anyone as a saint Least of all your father. God knows, he’d turn over in his grave if he thought I was. I’m just trying to tell his side of the story.”

“Then tell it. But don’t expect me to believe every word out of your mouth.”

“All I’m asking is that you listen with an open mind.”

“Fine, my mind is open.”

If the underlying anger in her words was any indication, her mind wasn’t open. But since it was likely all he’d get, he’d best get to it. “Did your mother ever tell you why he threw her off the estate?”

Her lips twisted in disgust. “Said he found someone new. Someone younger, prettier. Someone without a toddler to take care of.” Pain sounded in her words as she voiced her belief that her father didn’t want her. He locked his gaze on hers. “Your father never considered you anything but the most wonderful of gifts, Tomilola. Never.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “How would you know? You weren’t. . .”

“No. I wasn’t there. But I know because I saw the pain and longing in your dad’s eyes every time he spoke of you. Heard the pride in his voice when he’d tell one of the memories he had of you. Memories that were old and few, but more precious to him than anything in this world.”

More moisture filled her eyes, but she didn’t let the tears fall. She might want to believe her father had missed her. But the anger underneath those tears told him she didn’t. Not yet. And it would take a lot more talking on Demola’s part before she’d even consider opening her mind. “It wasn’t your father who found someone new, Tomilola. It was your mother.”

“Oh, come on, you can come up with something more original than just flipping the story around, can’t you?”

“Yeah, I probably could if I was making it up. But I’m not making it up. I’m going to tell you exactly what your father told me. No embellishments to make your father sound more innocent. No assumptions about what I think anyone was thinking that night. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to believe and what you don’t.”

“Fine. So my mother found someone new Who was that?” Pure sarcasm sounded in her voice.

“I don’t know his name. He was one of your father’s workers.”

“That’s convenient for the story.”

He ignored the comment and pushed on. “It was a Saturday night and your father had let half the workers go early so they could enjoy themselves while he worked late with the other half. When he finally got home, he found you in your crib, Mariam, the housekeeper, watching you, and your mother gone. When he asked Mariam where your mother was, she said she’d headed to town with the first half of the workers. He wasn’t worried at first, too worried, anyway. It wasn’t the first time your mother had gotten impatient with him for being late and headed into town early to drink and dance with some of the workers.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Did that mean she recognized the behavior? And didn’t approve? Wale had said Nike was a big party girl. That she craved attention. Especially male attention. There was no reason that would have changed after she left Wale. In fact, it very possibly could  have gotten worse.

But speculating about what Tomilola was thinking wouldn’t get him anywhere. “When he got to the bar, your mom wasn’t there. Just a bunch of guys doing their best to avoid your dad. When he finally pinned one down, the man reluctantly told him your mom had left with one of the new workers. Supposedly just to check out a bar farther down the street, one that played disco instead of rock music.

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for..... episode 10

A Story Written by Omolola…

The next morning, Tomilola flipped off the water in the fancy, glass-brick enclosed shower. After the last day and a half of extreme sports, mad travel and emotional turmoil, she was drained. She’d hoped a hot shower would revive her. But she still felt physically exhausted and emotionally bruised.

She stepped out of the tile-and-glass cubicle, the house’s air-conditioning bringing goose bumps to her skin. She grabbed the towel hanging on the brass rack and started to towel herself dry, shaking her head at the ridiculously thick folds of terry cloth. The obvious wealth surrounding her made her angry and uncomfortable. She wanted out of this house. The need to run from its opulence had pushed at her all night long. But she didn’t know where to go.

A walk had seemed like a good idea around mid-night. But when she’d stepped out on the porch and discovered there were still a few men strolling between the corrals, she’d retreated back into the house. She hadn’t been up to facing more men like Demola. Men who were loyal to her father. Nor did she want to see them this morning. She pulled on her panties and hooked her bra. She needed a day to regroup. A day to let the emotions swirling inside her settle before her head exploded and she did something she’d really regret. Like burn down this house and the rest of the estate with it. She headed out of the bathroom into the adjoining bedroom.

The sound of male voices drifted through her closed door. She stopped in her tracks, looking over toward the wooden portal. Was someone in the house? No. Surely not.\
But the voices certainly sounded like they were coming from downstairs. She quickly strode to the bed and pulled on the jeans and shirt she’d laid out. The tinkle of broken glass filtered through the door.

Oh, man. Someone was in the house.

Forgoing shoes, she padded out of the room to the narrow balcony that ran in front of the upstairs rooms and peered over the railing. Two guys were working diligently to clean up the mirror she’d shattered last night. One crouched low, holding a dust pan, while the other swept the broken glass in it. She didn’t know the guy pushing the broom, but she recognized the broad back f the one holding the dustpan. “I thought I told you I clean up my own messes.”

Both men looked up.

Demola straightened and turned to her, dustpan in hand. “And I would have let you, but then Charles showed up and he’s never been able to let a mess sit.”

She shifted her gaze to the man standing behind Demola. He had neither Demola’s height nor mass, but there was a bearing to him, a quiet confidence, that required neither to make his presence known. His six-foot frame was broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and lean. The face that went with it, finely chiseled and, except for a scar arcing through one brow, classically handsome. She imagined he’d turned more than one woman’s head,

But she wasn’t interested in his good looks. “And what were you doing in the house, Mr. Charles? Did my father have an open-house policy? Anyone could wander in at will?” Despite her intention to keep her voice even, a bit of challenge sneaked in.

The man’s expression turned sheepish. “My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to disturb you. Your dad did have an open-door policy for the men who had regular business with him or needed access to the estate’s offices. I take care of the company’s books.” He waved a hand to the wall beneath the balcony. “I didn’t stop to think you might want to change that policy.” His accent wasn’t as deep as Demola’s; but he was obviously not a native. But he’d been here awhile. And she was no doubt stepping on his toes. She was the interloper here. The one who didn’t belong. She plowed her fingers through her hair. “I won’t be here long enough to change anything, Mr. Charles. Feel free to go about your business. But, please, leave the mirror where it is. I’ll put on some shoes and clean it up.”

“Forget the mirror for now,” Demola said. “You can clean it up later. I thought you might like an early morning ride. A little fresh air to clear your head.”

“I have no objections to that. Give me a minute to get dressed.” Tomilola said, leaving the two men and returning almost immediately.

Charles put out his hand just as she was about to stride past. “I just wanted to say welcome to the estate, Miss Adeyemi. And offer my condolences for the loss of your father.”

She tromped on the urge to tell the man she didn’t need any condolences, but she wasn’t up for that fight this morning. She shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Charles, I appreciate the sentiment. But it’s Daniels. Tomilola Daniels.” She followed Demola out the door, pulling it close behind her.

As she strode over to where Demola was standing, she glanced inside the house. Charles was standing where they’d left him, his gazed fixed on the broom leaning against the wall by the shattered mirror. She shook her head. “He’s not going to leave that mirror for me to clean up, is he?”

Demola shrugged. “Probably not. Charles has this thing about order. But a little clean up won’t kill him, so quit worrying about the mirror and pay attention.

As they got farther from the buildings, she began to relax and enjoy the view around her. And the scenery directly in front of her . . .

She smiled, studying Demola. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, accenting their broadness and defining the hard muscles of his arms and back. Was there anything more sexier than Demola?
Not on this planet. And with each step they took away from the estate, she became more aware of that insidious little fact. More aware of the man in front of her. His quiet strength and the Sexual tension that crackled around him like heat lightening gathering for a storm. She shook her head. No doubt about it, the devil had his tempt-the-sex-starved-woman down to a fine, fine art.

She closed her eyes, struggling to block out the images of Demola streaming through her head. Images of those lean hips rocking against her. But it wasn’t easy, and as they got farther and farther from the estate, closer and closer to the moment when they would slip around the base of the hill and find themselves alone, the thought got harder and harder to control. Maybe coming on this ride hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.

She peeked over her shoulder, gazing back at the estate. The men working in and around the corrals were still visible. She looked over to her father’s house, its giant glass windows glinting richly in the early morning rays, shouting money and power and brutal betrayal. Nothing but tortuous reminders for her there.
She gritted her teeth. It was going to be a long, long six months.

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for.... episode 8

A Story Written by Omolola…

Demola let her go, his arms suddenly cold and empty. She’d felt so right there. So damned right. He could have held her all night. Just held her.

A ruthless laugh echoed through his head. Yeah, right. He could have kept her in his arms all night, no problem. But holding would have turned into something much more active before long. And that was a trait he couldn’t go down. Not with Tomilola Daniels.

She already had enough complications in her life; she didn’t need more. And sleeping with him was loaded with complications. So he let her go and promised himself he’d keep his comforting on a verbal level from now on. Safer for both of them. He watched her stride toward the sofa where he’d dumped her bag. She swiped at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. Hysterical, crying female isn’t usually my style.” Her voice was soft, embarrassed.

He didn’t want her to be embarrassed. Didn’t want her to think she had to hide her emotions from him. “Don’t be silly, you’ve had a trying twenty-four hours.” She hung her hands on her hips, staring at the mess her outburst had created. “God, you must think am a meniac.”

“I think you’re tired and sad and angry.”

She expelled a long, shaky breath. “Yeah, I am. And with that in mind – ” She picked up her bag. “I think I’ll head upstairs.. Those are the bedrooms up there, right?” She pointed to the doors lining the back balcony wall.

“Yep, take your pick.”

She waved a hand toward the front door. “Come on I’ll walk you out.”

“Go on to bed, I’ll stay and clean up the glass.”

She shook her head. “I clean up my own messes, Demola. “I’ll get it tomorrow morning. Now go on, I’m tired.” She shooed him toward the door.

He strode across the marble floors, his boots echoing in the room He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of leaving her alone all night. Not as upset as she was. But short of camping out on the living room sofa, something he was sure she’d be just tickled pink about, he didn’t have much choice.

At the door’s threshold he hesitated, looking back to her. “If you need anything, my number is one on the speed dial. Don’t be afraid to call, any time of the night. I’m a light sleeper and I’m right across the road.”
She nodded, a faint smile turning her lips. “Got it. Good night.”

He closed the door behind him and strode toward the house he’d lived in for the last several years. The small log house that had been Wale’s original home stead. Halfway there, he stopped and turned back to the big house. He imagined Tomilola in the bedroom, unpacking her bag, getting ready for bed.
She’d looked tired, beat, when she’d closed the door on him. Like she was holding on to her poise by the barest of threads. And he suspected she was. With good cause. She believed her father had not only abandoned her and her mother, but hung them out to dry during their most desperate hours.

It was a belief he was going to have to straighten out. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Or fun. Showing Tomilola that the parent who’d raised her, the parent she’d obviously loved so dearly had been the one keeping them in poverty, the one who’d lied to her all these years, was going to take everything she believed to be true and shred it to pieces.

His gut clenched. He was good at shredding people’s lives. But putting them back together? A cold sweat broke out on his palms. God knew, he hadn’t been able to put his sister’s life back together. He’d only taken a bad situation and made it worse. Far, far worse.

He clenched his fists and stared up at the stars appearing in the sky. “If there’s a heaven up there, Mr. Adeyemi, and you’re in it, you had better be paying attention.” His voice echoed fiercely as dusk faded to night. “I don’t save damsels in distress, dammit. If you want me to tear this girl’s life up, I expect you to be around to help put it back together.”

To Be Continued…

FICTION: A man worth waiting for...... episode 7

A Story Written by Omolola…

She felt the taxi move again, winding this way and that. And then it slowed, stopped. “This is it.”

She opened her eyes and looked out the windshield. In the day’s waning light, a huge house met her gaze. A three-story building with high-pitched roofs, long balconies and lots of glass. Her stomach flipped again and an icy hand gripped her heart. The bastard. While she and her mother had been living in rat- and cockroach-infested rooms, the kind you paid for by the month, her father had been living in a luxury house. Damn his soul.

Demola’s piercing brown eyes met hers. “Ready?”

She was never going to be ready. But she managed a mute nod. With an encouraging smile, he got out of the truck, strode around to her side and opened the door. Her brain said get out. But her limbs wouldn’t move. He took hold of her elbow, his big hand strong and warm as his fingers closed around her arm. “Come on, it’s just a house.”

It wasn’t just a house. It was a living proof of her father’s betrayal. Living proof that he’d cared more for this cursed piece of land than he had for her mother. Or for her. The thought of spending one second inside its walls. . .

But there were too many kids out there to wimp out now. She forced thoughts of her father from her mind, concentrated on the heat soaking into her from Demola’s touch, and swung her legs out of the taxi. Once she was steady on her feet, he let go of her arm, grabbed her bag from the boot and led the way up the walk.

She followed him, focusing on his broad shoulders, the ripple of muscle under his shirt, anything but the bile climbing up her throat. At the house, Demola pushed the door open, stepped off to the side and waved her in. She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The muted light of dusk filled the house, casting twilight and shadows everywhere. Demola followed her in and flicked on the wall switch behind her.

Light flooded the room, bouncing off the shinny marble floors and illuminating the wide-open space. The room was huge, the ceilings here at the front of the chamber soaring the entire three stories. Combined with the giant windows lining the front wall, it almost seemed as if she were still outside. She shook her head. What an egomaniacal show of grandeur.She took in the leather sofas and rock-back chairs surrounded it, making a conversation area. Other well-appointed sitting areas were arranged here and there around the big room as well. At the back of the room, a wide staircase led to a balcony with several doors running along its back wall. Bedrooms, she presumed.

She looked to Demola, who’d moved into the room and set her bag on one of the sofas. “Did anyone besides my father live here?”

He shook his head.

Of course. She strode across the floor toward a conversation area in the far corner of the room, right in front of the big windows. Demola followed her. Not close enough to invade her space. But she could feel him behind her, letting her know she had his support. It was the only thing that kept her from howling with rage. She stared at the leather sofa, the coffee table with its log legs and the giant slab of crosscut wood making up its surface. It was designed to look like someone had gone out and made it in an afternoon, but the high-gloss shine and fancy wood grain told her it was an expensive piece. Damned expensive.

She raised her gaze to the wall behind the sofa. It was lined with tall mirrors, their shiny surfaces reflecting the room and the lights and her own sorry self. She stared at her reflection.

She shook her head. How many times had her father stood here staring at his kingdom and his own vile reflection while she and her mother scrambled for food? While her mother lay dying of a disease that a little money could have gone a long way to alleviate. The arrogant bastard.

She drew a deep breath trying to calm her nerves, trying to keep from screaming her rage at the hunk standing behind her. A glass piece sitting on an end table caught her eye and she wandered over, letting the piece distract her. It was a beautiful colour. Rich brown with golden streaks arching through it. It looked handblown, its free-flowing from reminiscent of a leaf floating from a tree. Very pretty. It reminded her of Dale Chihuly’s work. One of the world’s leading glass artists.

She picked the piece up, the smooth, heavy glass cool against her fingers. She and the other girls often ran auctions along with their fund-raising stunts as a way to boost the final money count. If this had been made by a local artist, maybe she’d talk him or her into donating a piece for the next event. She flipped the piece over, looking for a signature. The small black letters caught her eye immediately.

Chihuly.

Oh, God. She looked over at Demola, her anger boiling into fury. “Do you have any idea how much food or medicine I could have bought for this one piece of art?” She sure as hell could have paid a year’s rent with it. And then she could have used her meager salary for medicine. She possibly could have bought her mother another year of life. The fury exploded. She sent the Chihuly sailing at the mirrors. Glass crashed and rained down in brown and silver pieces. Demola swore and came in low, hit her at the waist, scooped her over his shoulder and quickly carried her from the flying shards of glass. She fought against his hold. “Put me down.” There was a lamp over there she wanted to send into the next mirrored panel.

“Fine.” He dumped her unceremoniously onto a sofa. “But I’m not going to let you tear the place up.”

She bounced up immediately and tried to push past him.

He blocked her path easily with that big body of his. Thirteen years of pain and frustration and helplessness roared through her. “Not your choice. Get out of my way, dammit.” She shoved against him, and when he wouldn’t move she started throwing punches. He easily blocked anything that came near his face and merely kept her contained as the others rained harmlessly on his chest and arms. Which just frustrated her more. She hit harder, quicker, pouring all her despair, all her anger into every punch. She felt tears pour down her cheeks, but she didn’t stop to wipe them away. She just kept hitting. And hitting. And hitting. Until there was no more rage. No more energy. Nothing but despair.

She collapsed against his chest, the tears taking control. What was happening to her? Five minutes in this house and she was turning into her most despised object on earth. A helpless, crying female. But she couldn’t stop the tears. Or the sobs that tore from her throat. She buried her face against his chest, trying to hide the waterworks, muffle the sounds. He closed his arms around her, his body closing around hers like a warm, protective cocoon. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all. She’d promised herself at her mother’s funeral she’d never be helpless again. But with her father’s betrayal assaulting her from every angle, she felt helpless now. Demola ran his hand over her back, soothing, comforting.

She absorbed his warmth and strength like the desert floor drinking in rain. It felt so good to have someone’s arms around her. Felt good to feel like she wasn’t absolutely alone in the world. She’d been alone for so, so long.

And he felt so damned good.

She snuggled closer, drinking in his heat, and bathing in his spicy aftershave. It would be so easy to let him chase away the pain. But it wouldn’t be smart. Not smart at all. Because if the electricity already building between them meant anything, she knew how they’d end up chasing the pain away. And she didn’t want to go that way. She was serious about her moratorium on men. She’d watched her mother try to find herself in men right up until the disease made it impossible. It had made a sad, lonely life for her mother. One Tomilola had promised herself she’d never repeat. And just because she felt like her life was shattering around her now, it was no time to backslide.

She’d get through the next six months on her own. And then she’d return to her quest to discover who she was and what she wanted in life. She pulled in one more long, deep breath of Demola’s warm, musky scent, let him stroke her back one more time and then pulled herself from his arms.

To Be Continued…