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    Every New Year
    Every New Year
    Every New Year
    Ebook76 pages55 minutes

    Every New Year

    By Brenda L. Thomas

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    About this ebook

    Bestselling author Brenda L. Thomas spins a sexy and scandalous tale about a newly engaged woman whose life takes an unexpected turn after a New Year’s Eve shooting.

    New Year’s Eve is the one night of the year when the line between old and new blurs, when fantasy can become reality, and every woman is given the opportunity to reinvent herself. But in Every New Year, New Year’s Eve turns tragic when a shoot-out lands a respected doctor in the hospital with a bad case of amnesia—and in the care of a man too sexy to resist.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPocket Star
    Release dateDec 4, 2017
    ISBN9781501177538
    Every New Year
    Author

    Brenda L. Thomas

    Brenda L. Thomas is the national bestselling author of Threesome, Fourplay, The Velvet Rope, Every Woman's Got a Secret, Woman On Top, Secret Service, and the deeply moving memoir of her 15-year struggle with domestic violence and drug addiction, Laying Down My Burdens. She has contributed short stories to the anthologies Four Degrees of Heat and Kiss the Year Goodbye. Brenda, a native of Philadelphia, is currently serving as Executive Producer of the movie adaptation of Laying Down My Burdens.

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      Book preview

      Every New Year - Brenda L. Thomas

      PROLOGUE

      Post-Christmas Rush

      December 28

      I can’t believe my argument with Terrell last night. His only reason for accusing me of being ungrateful—an ungrateful bitch is what I’m sure he really wanted to call me—was that I hadn’t swooned over his Christmas Eve marriage proposal. I’d accepted the dazzling diamond ring but hadn’t worn it since Christmas day. I reasoned that in my profession jewelry wasn’t a good thing to flash, especially rings. I’m sure I’ll marry him eventually but right now I don’t have time to plan a wedding. Wasn’t it enough that I’d agreed to take time off from work to celebrate New Year’s with him by going on a ten-day cruise?

      Right now, though, I was wasting time sitting here under a hair dryer, fanning through an outdated copy of Suede magazine. Try as I might, I was unable to make sense out of the Dominican chatter of my hairstylist. Repeatedly, I glanced out the window onto the street to keep an eye on my car. Fifty-third and Woodland Avenue was not the safest neighborhood in Philadelphia. No, it was worse than that. It was more like a war zone from all the stories I’d heard on the news. I could see why people living here were so depressed. Half the neighborhood was burned out, and outside a grimy Chinese takeout on the opposite corner always stood a crowd of thugs hustling drugs. Nevertheless, I braved this crime-infested neighborhood on the wrong side of City Line Avenue every two weeks because it was the only place where I could go to get my hair bone straight.

      Not that I was trying to portray some type of white woman image but the Dominican perm kept me from having to fuss with my hair during my hectic days. And in my profession, everything had to have its place. My hair and clothes were neat, and I did my nails myself because it was important for them to be trimmed and manicured. My hands were my number one instrument on the job.

      My patience was short when it came to getting my hair wrapped, or maybe I was just anxious to get the hell out of there. I was praying that the snow that had been falling that morning would stop soon. I bundled up and exited the salon. I know that as soon as I opened the door of my Saab, at least three crackheads would be begging to clean off my windshield for a measly two dollars. I had the money ready to avoid an incident.

      An hour later I was on I-95. My office hadn’t opened yet so I called the answering service to check for messages. Relaxed, since there were no emergencies, I turned up my radio to listen to my best friend, Cat, a psychologist, hosting her weekly talk show on relationships. I had to wonder if people, especially women, ever tired of hearing themselves complain about commitment phobia men. But Cat made it sound entertaining, handling her callers and their many problems with a dry humor that kept me in stitches.

      Exiting I-95 at Cottman Avenue, I cruised down State Road, through the gates of the Crumholt Fuhrman Correctional Facility (CFCF), and up to the guard post. I flashed my identification and the guard nodded good morning. I parked in a visitor parking space and gathered up my bag as I prepared myself for a morning that I knew would make me laugh, at least later in my recollection of it.

      After passing through the metal detector and having my bag searched, I sipped on a cup of the extra-strong java the correctional officers had brewed and moved on to the infirmary, where I waited for inmate number 764327 to arrive.

      In light of the fact that the infirmary was situated inside a prison, it was better maintained than some of the public health clinics I’d seen.

      Ahmed, which I’m sure wasn’t the name his parents had given him, was on the far end of handsome mostly because of the battle scars on his face. But his grooming was impeccable. His prison-issued khakis had razor-sharp creases, his jet black hair was smoothed back in neat waves and he always smelled like the scented almond oil that was sold at the hair salon.

      Doctor Cyn. Hey, what’s up? he asked, his hands jammed in his pockets.

      The important question is, how are you feeling?

      I’m cool. This my last checkup, right?

      Yes, your regular doctor will be returning next week so you’ll be rid of me, I stated as I took a seat on my examining stool.

      Hey, look, I’d rather have you grabbing my balls on any day than that old bastard.

      Ignoring his comment, I suggested, Why don’t you change into a gown and let me know when you’re ready.

      Moments later Ahmed appeared from behind the curtain dressed in a green gown, sitting himself down on the exam table, his exposed skin glistening from more oils, I assumed.

      I opened a jar of lubricant.

      Okay, stand up so I can take a look, I said, as I bent him slightly forward, then eased my gloved and lubricated forefinger into his rectum. Feels smooth as a board. No lumps, Ahmed. Now, if you could turn around, I’d like to show you how to do a self-exam.

      Yeah, whatever you say, doc, he answered, while pulling up his gown from the front.

      Ahmed’s penis was

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