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  Unrequited

  Surrender Series - Book Two

  Tia Sirrah

  a BWWM interracial contemporary romance

  Intended for the 18+ reader

  Copyright © 2020 by Tia Sirrah

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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

  To my mama. Rest in peace.

  Acknowledgments

  Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." My entire world shifted beneath my two feet when I sat down and endeavored to write this book. I had to strip myself raw and finish a story that I'd promised to myself and my readers for months now. And without my mother's encouragement, I would have given up two chapters in.

  And then there are those friends, the ones that ride with you through the hard times and the good times. The ones who—with a bottle of wine, a shoulder to lean on when your world is dark, with a nice dose of tea to keep you distracted and entertained—become your cheerleaders when you need them most. d'Artagnae Ariel, that's you, sis. You were my muse for Fatima, and oh, did I have a blast shaping and bonding with this character!

  To my beta reader, Shelita Williams, how do you do it all? You are a superwoman. You challenged me to become a better writer. I appreciate all the text messages at 1 am with all your questions, critiques, and compliments. Because of you, I can be proud of this book.

  And to my husband, who is down with me like two flats on a dump truck. Thank you for sacrificing our cuddle time, so that I could buckle down and finish this book. I love you, my Eddie Kane.

  Playlist

  Caught Out There – Kellis

  My Worst Enemy - Lit

  Any Time, Any Place – Janet Jackson

  Cause I Love You – Lenny Williams

  Vivrant Thing – Q Tip

  Stop Falling – Pink

  Sugar, We're Goin Down - Fall Out Boy

  She Hates Me – Puddle of Mudd

  Two Wrongs – Wyclef Jean and Claudette Ortiz

  Giving Up – Donny Hathaway

  If It Makes You Happy – Sheryl Crow

  Never Gonna Let You Go – Faith Evans

  All Is Fair In Love – Stevie Wonder

  Fool Of Me – Meshell Ndegeocello

  Wobble – V.I.C.

  Let's Stay Together – Al Green

  Mad Love - JoJo

  You Don't Know – Jill Scott

  I've Been Loving You Too Long – Otis Redding

  Say Yes – Klymaxx

  Your Guardian Angel – The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About The Author

  Prologue

  FATIMA

  "MAMA, DO YOU LOVE daddy?"

  Mama gave me one of her sad smiles as she wiped both our tears. Mine first. And then hers. "Your daddy is a good man. One of the best there is."

  I lifted my small hand to her face and wiped her fresh tears, which made my tears start again. "Do you love that other man? The one who makes you cry?"

  I waited for her words to come, barely breathing as I looked into her big brown eyes. "Sometimes loving a man can do more harm than good, Babygirl."

  That was me, everyone's baby girl. I was only Fatima Marie McKay when I got in trouble. I was born an only child to Quincy and Faye McKay. On my daddy's side, I was the first grandchild and the only biological one, and on my mama's side, I was the only one. This resulted in me being beyond spoiled and very much loved.

  Mama pulled me up off the floor and onto her lap. I placed my small hand in her delicate one and squeezed. She squeezed back. Her hand was warm. Soft. Smooth. And the color of Hershey's kisses. Two shades darker than mine.

  She stared at our hands before looking me in the eyes. "Protect your heart, Babygirl. Guard it with your life. Because once you give it away, you'll never be able to take it back."

  ∞∞∞

  WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN years old, I gave my heart away to a skinny boy with long legs, a disarming smile, and eyes the color of a forest on an autumn day.

  Quentin Ashton James V was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen in real life or on t.v. It was day one of seven weeks of summer camp. And when our eyes met from across the cafeteria, I thanked my lucky stars that my skin was dark enough to hide my blush. He wasn't as lucky. With flushed cheeks, his eyes locked in on me, like I was the only person in the room.

  He sat between two identical twin boys who had the prettiest green eyes I'd ever seen. Their eyes were so bright; it looked like green sea glass. Were all boys in Oregon this cute? It was my first time at Timber Summer Camp, and I stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was I the only black person in the entire camp, but I was one of the tallest kids there. Not to mention, before the sun had set on my first day, two girls had already touched my dreadlocks without asking.

  When daddy invited me to tag along with him to Oregon on one of his frequent out of town business trips, I was over the moon excited. I didn't know that he had plans to drop me off at a fancy camp where uber-rich people sent their kids for seven long weeks in the summer. Daddy was rich and enjoyed all the nice things that money could buy. I guess that meant I was rich too, by default, but I hated rich kids. Most of them were stuck up and mean. Spending my summer before high school with them was not my idea of a super fun summer. I'd much rather have spent it with my daddy's baby sister, Aunt Helena, and her husband, Uncle Norris. They lived about forty-five minutes from us in The Woodlands, Texas, with my cousin Novalee. Novalee was Uncle Norris's daughter from a previous relationship back in California. She was quiet and sweet, with a gazillion freckles on her face, and pretty long hair that I loved to comb.

  On day two, one of the twins—Colton, I think—shoved Quentin towards me, daring him to talk to me. He did, and I all but ripped my heart out of my chest and handed it to him. Not only was he taller than me, but he had a slight southern accent, which I soon found out was due to his Texan roots. Sugarland, Texas, to be exact. From my hometown! This was fate. I knew it. He knew it, too. I assumed.

  By week four, we were sneaking out of our cabins at night and taking long walks through the forest, dodging camp counselors with their flashlights. One n
ight, with our backs against a Douglas Fir tree, we sat under the big moon and bright stars. He told me about his parents. I told him about mine. We shared our secrets, fears, and family sins, and found out that our skeletons were linked together in the same closet. Instead of that revelation breaking us, it only solidified our bond. Our families' secret sins didn't define us. They had nothing to do with us.

  On our last night at camp, under that old Douglas Fir tree, it was Quentin's idea to take a blood oath. I was scared, but I trusted him. Quentin outstretched his palm and slid a knife slowly down the center of his hand. Blood oozed out in its wake. I swallowed and held out my hand. Then he pressed the knife to my outstretched palm. I squeezed my eyes shut at the first sting of pain.

  "It's okay. Look at me," he urged. And I did. I opened my eyes and focused on his face as he trailed the knife down my flesh.

  It hurt. Like a thousand bee stings. I stared at Quentin. Quentin stared at the wound on his hand, eyeing it serenely. It was like he didn't feel the pain. No—that's not it. It was like he felt the pain, but he was fascinated by it.

  Pressing our crimson hands together, we kissed—a long, sweet kiss. The softness of his lips and the feel of his tongue sliding against mine helped dull the stinging pain. It was my first kiss. And I learned a lesson that night. Pain was subjective. And sometimes, when experiencing it with a cute boy that you really liked, the pain was necessary to get to the good part.

  With pressed palms, we promised that despite the bad blood between our families, we now had a new bond. One sealed with our blood. One that would never be tainted by our families' scandal. We would remain friends. We would be there for each other. We wouldn't keep secrets. No matter what.

  That night under that old tree, Quentin became the owner of my heart, and he didn't even know it. Heck, he didn't even ask for it.

  I was young and foolish and believed that my heart would be just fine in his hands. We were naïve enough to believe that nothing could come between us.

  Years later, when I desperately tried to take my heart back, my mother's warning rang in my ears. You'll never be able to take it back.

  I once thought that Quentin and I could bask in each other's heat and not get burned. I was wrong. So, so wrong.

  Chapter 1

  The Wedding

  FATIMA

  I SAT IN FRONT of my vanity mirror with my face bare and my soul vulnerable. A bead of water dripped from the terry cloth towel that secured my waist-length dreadlocks in place on top of my head. I stared absently at the droplet of water as it made its way down the corner of my eye, down my cheek, and dipped into the groove of my dimple before I swiped it away. I could still feel the heat on my skin from the scalding hot shower, yet I still felt cold inside.

  The sunlight peeked through my blinds, causing streaks of light to illuminate in the otherwise darkened bedroom. I had a wedding to get ready for. Quentin was the groom. I was not the bride. I was not a guest. I was attending the wedding in the service capacity as my cousin's hairstylist. My cousin, Novalee Dumont, was the maid of honor, and Amy, Quentin's soon to be wife, was her best friend. Novalee needed me, as she trusted no one else to style her hair for the biggest wedding of the decade—as the news outlets called it. So, for one day, I was going to put my big girl panties on, bandage my bleeding heart, and nurse my wounded ego. I would show up for my cousin, who had no idea that this wedding had me hanging on by a very thin thread.

  I turned the small light bulbs on, which bordered my vanity mirror, brightening up the space. I wasn't in the mood. I didn't feel like glamming myself up for their special day. But this was necessary. My makeup was my shield. It was my mask. It had been for nine years now. I would hide behind a pretty face and a fake smile, even though I was dying inside.

  I started with my eyes. Quentin could always see right through them, right down to the soul of me. After applying moisturizer, primer, concealer, eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara, I heard the creak of my bathroom door. In my peripheral vision, Hunter strolled towards my rumpled bed with a towel slung low around his narrow waist. The hard muscles in his chest and arms flexed as he used another towel to dry his inky black hair.

  Memories of Hunter's shredded body on top of me, underneath me, and behind me, flashed through my mind. My skin began to heat, and guilt surged through me. I watched him through my mirror as he dropped his towel and pulled his boxer briefs over his muscular ass, tucking his half-mast cock inside. My head tilted ever so slightly, and my eyes narrowed in on his sculpted abs that my tongue became very well acquainted throughout the night.

  The silence between us became loud with awkward tension before I finally turned to face him. Our eyes locked—his azure blue to my honey brown. "I think your shirt is in the hallway," I managed to say past the lump in my throat. I got up and walked out of my room before Hunter had the chance to respond, but I sensed him behind me as I stepped over scattered articles of clothing from the night before—mainly mine.

  I handed Hunter his shirt and quickly averted my eyes toward the window. A cabbie idled outside in front of my home. A jogger passed by with his dog. Two kids rode their bikes in the middle of the culdesac. And my judgy and very nosy neighbor, Francene, pruned the roses in her front yard while discreetly peering at the cabbie in front of my house. Whatever.

  "About last night," he started. I turned to face a fully clothed Hunter. His eyes bore into me, causing me to tighten the straps of my silk robe, which shielded my nude body.

  I cut in, "We both had a lot to drink, but I wasn't drunk. And I'm really sorry, Hunter. Last night should have never happened. You're his friend, and I'm…" I was nothing to him. Not anymore.

  "You're the love of his life," he added forlornly. "The one that got away. Or should I say, the one he let go?"

  I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. "That was a long time ago. I can assure you that I am not the love of his life. Amy is. And in a few hours, he's making it official."

  "Fucking idiot."

  I chuckled lightly. "That fucking idiot is one of your best friends. Which is why what we did is so fucked up."

  Hunter shrugged a shoulder. "I kissed you first. But don't ask me to apologize for that. I've always wondered what you would taste like." A sly and ridiculously sexy smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. Last night wasn't our first kiss. And tasting my mouth wasn't the tasting that Hunter was referring to.

  We'd shared a cab the night before. I was heading home from the restaurant's bar, with plans to cry myself to sleep. I ran into Hunter there. He was grabbing a quick bite to eat before heading to Quentin's bachelor party, where there would be strippers and booze galore.

  In the back of our shared cab, I completely humiliated myself by crying drunk tears over Quentin's upcoming nuptials. It all started with Hunter wiping my tears away with the pads of his thumbs. It progressed with him kissing me hard on the mouth. Though his kiss was completely unexpected, I willingly parted my lips for him. I wish I could blame it on the alcohol, but I can't. I was keenly aware of what I was doing as we made out during the entire ride to my home.

  While kissing Hunter in the back of the cab, an errant and terrible thought crossed my mind. Maybe he could be the one to make me forget Quentin's touch. It wouldn’t be a one night stand with some random guy. I had a couple of those back in college, but never when I was overly emotional. And never in my home.

  Hunter was gorgeous. But this wasn't about Hunter. Not really. This was about me trying to rid Quentin out of my system. Once and for all. Over the years, I'd been grossly unsuccessful. You would think that by now, all traces of Quentin would be gone from my heart and my memory. He once told me that he would ruin me for every other guy after him, and he was right. He did ruin me. The fucker.

  "Make me forget him," I pleaded between kisses. "For just one night. Please. And I'll make you forget about her." Her was Hunter's newly ex-wife and high school sweetheart, Jemma. Their divorce was ugly and cost Hunter millions.

  I didn't
have to ask twice. For one night, Hunter and I used each other as a salve over our wounded hearts. It was hot—fuck hot. It was also sad. It was something I could never come back from. Not that Quentin marrying Amy wasn't the invisible nail in our coffin, because it was. But Quentin would hate me for this if he ever found out. I hated me for this.

  I opened my front door and waved at Francene, who shielded the sun with her eyes, to get a good look at my guest and me. "You don't owe him shit," Hunter said, taking my hand. "But if you feel like you need to tell him what happened here, I'm okay with that." He stepped closer, causing me to look up at him. Hunter was tall, probably about 6'3. I was barefoot and stood at 5'10. "If you want to keep this between us, I'm okay with that too." Hunter cradled my jaw with his hands and offered a sympathetic smile.

  "I'm not going to tell him. We don’t even talk. I haven't spoken to him in years. But you and Jemma, are you guys really over?"

  He gave a sad smile. "We're done. The ink is dry, and so are half of my millions," he joked humorlessly.

  "I'm sorry. I know you guys were on and off during high school, but when you guys were on, you seemed so good together."

  "So did you and Quentin. But that's life, right?"

  "Right."

  "I guess I'll see you around, Fatima." Hunter kissed my forehead.

  "I'm sure you will. I'm sticking around this time. Finally, putting down some roots. New York was cold and lonely."

  "Does he know you're back?"'

  "I don't think so."

  Hunter and I hugged before he left, and it was different this time. Our bodies now reacted towards one another more intimately.

  I headed back to my bedroom and removed all traces of our wild sex-filled night together. Two hours later, my room was put back in order, and I was ready to go. I finished my makeup and dressed in a simple black wrap dress that cinched at the waist and accentuated my curves. I adorned my ears with large gold hoop earrings, and my bold makeup was flawless. I gathered a bright African print scarf at the nape of my neck and secured it around the crown of my head. Twisting the fabric, I secured it into a knot at the front of my crown, and let my dreads hang loose down my back. All in all, my look screamed Unbothered Goddess, which was a total lie. But hey, fake it til you make it, right?