Darius Jones Read Online Free PDF Page A

married. Let me catch him with my dick on any parts of another chick, I’d fuck him up worse than Ashlee had done Jay.
    But Ashlee had better not think about coming between Darius and me or she’d turn up face down floating in the Potomac River. The president would find Osama bin Laden before anyone would find her depressed miserable ass.
    Exhaling, I gulped the remainder of my drink, balanced the olive on the tip of my tongue, then swallowed it whole. “Bartender, another, please.” The sight of Fancy angered the hell out of me. If I could pick up this black granite countertop and drop it on her head, I would. I didn’t have an affinity for kids but Darius was too close to both of them for me to try anything violent.
    I had a life-size six-eleven body-length pillow made in the image of Darius. Every home love potion I’d created to make Darius fall in love with me had failed. My last chance was to visit the two-headed lady. I’d found her web site online, e-mailed her my information. For five thousand dollars she’d agreed to cast a surefire love spell on my Darius. He was worth every penny. Next week I had an appointment to take Darius’s loc to the two-headed lady down in New Orleans. I’d picked up the dreadlock that fell from his head when he was sitting on the sidelines at one of his games.
    The two-headed lady told me, “Don’t contact me again. Just come. I will know when you are here. When you arrive, come to the French Quarter.”
    I prayed she wasn’t scamming me. She was my one last chance to cast a spell. If her spell didn’t work, I’d do the unimaginable. I’d kill Fancy.
    I was Darius Jones’s number-one fan. He just didn’t know it…yet.

CHAPTER 7
Fancy
    S he was eerie. The woman seated at the end of the bar. The sound of acrylic nails slowly scratching along a chalkboard pierced my eardrums when she stared at me.
    I didn’t want to stare back at her. I was temporarily paralyzed. I’d seen those morbid deep-set eyes before but couldn’t recall where. Her pupils seem dilated. Her eyes were darker than her black hair and brows. She was five-feet six or seven without her high heels. Her curly shoulder-length mane was shiny. She was so pale she could pass for black, white, or Latina. Her thick lips were plastered with a vibrant watermelon shine. Could’ve been permanent lipstick layered with a gloss. Her lips were too perfect to tell. She was a B cup, with a flat stomach and narrow straight hips. She was a comfortable size six, maybe a eight.
    I noticed two distinct things about her. Her raspy voice, and the fact that her pointed nose had a flat bridge. The sunglasses that she removed from the top of her head, then sat on the counter wouldn’t fit her face unless she’d worn an adjustable strap or had a nose implant.
    â€œBaby, please, can you stop texting for a minute?” I needed my husband’s attention.
    â€œTwo more minutes and I’m done,” Darius said, rapidly pressing keys with his thumbs.
    One thing I learned the short time I’d lived in the City of Angels (before relocating to Atlanta with my husband) was most women in Los Angeles were anything but angels. I’d mastered the LA body scan. Took me three seconds to check out a person. First, I’d flash the person’s face, then I’d notice their shoes. Finally, I’d quickly scroll my eyes back up to their face.
    In those three seconds I could vividly recall a person’s eye color, nose, lips, forehead, cheeks, shoes and style, ankles, body size, hips, hands, nails, waist, breasts, and clothes. My karate skills sharpened my memory of people and places.
    Knowing karate had saved my life when my mom’s ex-man tried to kill me. When I was a little girl, I’d lied on Thaddeus. Told the police he’d raped me. Unlike Ashlee’s lying on Jay, I’d done it to save my mother’s life. My mother was