Neighborly Intentions 1

Neighborly Intentions

By

Falon Gold

Copyright © 2018 LaToya Wilson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1987599969

ISBN-13: 978-19875999691

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Airmen Curtis Johnson, my twin, lost to stomach cancer, but he can always be found in my heart. This one is for you, little twin. Rest In Heaven.

 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is for everyone who had to do without me for a little while, while I brought this military series to air for Curtis Johnson.

CHAPTER ONE

~Meet Kameesah Jester~

The ladder-back, padded kitchen chair wobbled beneath my bare tiptoes. A bead of sweat rolled down my neck between my breasts. Dread, of falling, bowled up my spine as I struggled with a pair of pliers and scissors in hand to reach then grip the edges of the light bulb base broken off in a crystal globe housing of my living room's ceiling fan. The idea was to turn the iron piece in two separate places simultaneously so it would come out. That was the plan anyway, which wasn't working out too well. The iron piece wasn't budging at all.

This was one of those times I hated living alone in my starter home and being height-challenged. The latter was detested way more than the former; living alone was just fine by me. The last thing I wanted to hear again after getting off work was, 'What's for dinner, baby?' by a grown man with idle hands. Or, 'I know you're cheating on me, Kameesah. No real estate agent works this much damn overtime.'

That showed what he knew; properties didn't sell themselves or usually got snapped up with the first, sometimes fiftieth, showing. Not for me anyway, and you wouldn't believe how many months those accusations and demands were suffered through. Or, maybe you would believe, it was five, along with many other character flaws of my first and last live-in boyfriend until he got the ole heave-ho out the door.

I'd had three months of utter peace since then to think about some things concerning Jarod Harrison and me. It was feasible that his hands just didn't work after he clocked out at his construction job, his stomach real patient with being empty, and he was just stupid. I did know that once he got off at three, the rest of his time was free to do whatever, like cook. Yeah, well, he wasn't into that, or cleaning. Just being catered to and eating someone else's cooking—preferably mine. Ninety nine percent of the time, he got a polite, "You'll starve tonight. I'm tired." Or, "You know that laundry is done on Sunday. Don't want to wash your own clothes today, you'll be wearing them dirty tomorrow. I'm tired."

"What did I ever see in that guy?" I mused to myself.

Then again, it wasn't what was in him, it was what was on him who had smoozed his way into my house because I let him. The one time he had put up a real big fuss about me not doing my 'womanly duties' or coming home at a decent hour was right before I overheard him talking sweetly to some girl on the phone. I'd came home at a rare four in the afternoon, hard to do before six most days.

It wasn't my intention to sneak up on him who'd parked his truck a little too far over in my space of the two-car driveway. Parking on the street and coming home from a different direction gave me stealth I wasn't trying to employ, but it shed light on something apparently, I needed to know: Jarod was the cheater.

Add that to him being taught by his father to be chauvinistic toward women thus not care my work hours were determined by potential buyers who had to fit a property showcase in their hectic schedules, and we had one too many damn problems to move any further in our relationship. It was bad enough I had to be adaptable with my time, working harder and longer than my co-workers.