The Other Woman

by Eric Jerome Dickey Narrated by Machelle Williams

Overview

Eric Jerome Dickey strides boldly over the minefield that is modern marriage. The central couple's biggest challenge is timing: He works days; she works nights. Instead of growing together, they're rapidly drifting apart, coexisting on stolen phone calls from work, punctuated by occasional bedroom encounters that leave them both feeling even emptier and more alone. When she finds out about his affair-and starts her own-the delicate fabric of their marriage is torn irrevocably asunder. Or is it?



In Dickey's expert hands, what begins as a seemingly unforgivable betrayal segues into the sexy and searing story of a man and a woman at a pivotal turning point in their relationship. Only time will tell whether they'll let it all go . . . or if they can hold on to the love that drew them together in the first place.



Contains mature themes.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Plans for revenge spin out of control in this sharp-edged, sizzling novel by bestselling Dickey (Liar's Game; Between Lovers). The unnamed narrator has it all-a loving husband, a beautiful home and a lucrative career as a television producer in Los Angeles. Although she works long hours, she knows that she and her husband, Charles, a middle-school teacher, depend on her earnings to live the good life. Upon receiving strange messages at work from a mysterious man named David Lawrence, she assumes that he is a media-hungry stalker. But when David finally reaches her, he tells her that her husband has been having an affair with his wife, Jessica. The reporter in her takes over, and she immediately confronts Charles, who admits that he had an affair with Jessica, but says it is over. Confused, angry and in complete shock, she demands that Charles give her the intimate details of the affair; he refuses. "And I'm supposed to accept that?... My marriage is supposed to be my place of solace, not a place of fucking grief, and my husband is supposed to my friend, not my fucking enemy. Choose which one you wanna be." Unwilling to go on without answers to her many questions, she soon finds herself commiserating with David Lawrence. As the pieces of the puzzle come together, her world falls apart and she finds herself desperate for revenge. But will revenge heal her tattered soul or destroy her completely? Dickey offers plenty of straight-on sex and violence, but also probes questions of contemporary morals and the psychology of betrayal, writing compellingly and believably from his heroine's point of view. This will be another crowd pleaser. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Tracey Leigh's reading is on target in this gritty novel about the devastating consequences of marital infidelity. The unnamed narrator is a hard-working, Hollywood news producer who spends stressful nights at the station, helping to put together the usually depressing local news. She believes her husband, Charles, a middle-school teacher, spends his nights home alone grading papers until she gets a call from a distraught David Lawrence who claims his wife has run off with Charles. When our protagonist confronts Charles, he admits to the affair but says it is over and is reluctant to share the details the news producer in her craves. Her thirst for the truth sends her back to David, who has captured their cheating spouses' electronic correspondences thanks to a special software program. What she learns from those instant messages and email devastates her. Those expecting Dickey's trademark steamy erotica may be somewhat surprised here, as many of the graphic scenes are best described by the unnamed narrator, who says, "Sex without love is violence." Recommended for all adult fiction collections.-Beth Farrell, Portage Cty. Dist. Lib., OH Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Love is hell. Wifey. The wife. She doesn’t even have a name in the passionate e-mails Charles, a teacher, exchanges with his lover Jessica, a PE instructor. But she’s a real, live, fire-breathing woman, quivering with righteous anger when she finds out about the affair. Jessica’s husband, David Lawrence, calls her at work (she’s a segment producer for a local TV news show) to tell her that he just gave Charles a black eye in the school parking lot but decided not to shoot him. Oh--so that’s the real explanation for the shiner Charles said he got from breaking up a schoolyard fight. Looks like her husband is a cheating dog. She didn’t see it coming, didn’t know it had been going on for eight long months. How could he? Why would he? She always had a hot meal ready at the end of the day, and she never turned him down in bed. Like her mother always said, a woman has to be a woman to her man or some other woman would be. Things spin out of control real fast, and it’s not long before she’s having revenge-sex on the down-low with David, a moody artist who admires her dreadlocks and delicate freckles. He prints out the e-mails and she confronts Charles, who can’t deny it now--and heads off to take out his frustrations on a punching bag in the garage. Is it because she earns more money than he does? Well, yes and no. Best friend Yvette, a free spirit sexually and otherwise, puts in her two cents: men have needs and ain’t nothin’ goin’ to change that. (Yvette is not above satisfying her own needs at group sex parties, described, for interested readers, in salacious if somewhat irrelevant detail.) The action heats up to a thunderously melodramatic end pretty quick, and lessons are taught--andlearned. Good and gritty storytelling from the best-selling Dickey (Thieves’ Paradise, 2002, etc.).

From the Publisher

Praise for Eric Jerome Dickey and His Novels

“[O]ne of the most successful Black authors of the last quarter-century.”—The New York Times

“Eric Jerome Dickey’s work is a master class in Black joy....[his] characters—bold, smart women oozing sexuality and vulnerability—navigate interpersonal conflicts using dialogue that crackles with authenticity.”—The Atlantic

“Dickey has the knack for creating characters who elicit both rage and sympathy.”—Entertainment Weekly

Product Details

BN ID:	2940173433817
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	07/09/2019
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Other Woman

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By Eric Jerome Dickey

Dutton Adult

ISBN: 0525947248

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Chapter One I shouldn't have been surprised when I met my husband's lover, but I was. This is the face of the woman in the mirror, the wholesome face of a woman who has been married for four years: I have brown skin and cinnamon freckles that come alive in the sun, delicate freckles that all of my former lovers loved to play connect the dots with, or pretend that my face was the sky and the freckles were the stars and find as many constellations as they could. I'm in my early thirties, but on a good day, with the right makeup and the right clothes, I can pass for early twenties. Men in their twenties are the ones who ignore the ring and flirt with me the most. I think it's the locks. Ever since I lost the perm, people say I look younger. This is the life of the woman in the mirror, the life of a woman balancing her marriage and career as a news producer: I drive an hour and fifteen minutes in traffic every day-and that's in one direction-to the 10 westbound so I can drive La Brea into the edges of Hollywood, trying to get to a job that stresses me out to the nth degree. Some days the Freeway God shines down on me and I only have to deal with traffic for an hour, but if it's a rainy day, it could take two and a half. If somebody has lost it and killed somebody on the freeway, make it closer to four. Pretty irritating, spending that much time in traffic, either alone or looking for somebody to call on the cell phone and talk with to help take the edge off the road rage. Before I bounce to work, I rush to cook dinner and leave it in the microwave or oven-ready for my husband. If not a full dinner, then at least sandwiches. Just like my mother always did for us, there is always food in the house. When I get home at night, after working on stories on all the freeway chases, and the murder coverage, and the child abuse segments, and earthquake reports, I leave the pessimism at the door; refuse to bring negative energy into my household. I stop being a news producer and focus on being a wife. That's the Pisces in me. The emotional and sexual part of me that believes in love and is ruled by spirit. Charles is from Slidell, Louisiana, a small country community east of New Orleans. He's a Libra, well balanced, has a high sex drive, is emotional at times, and hates drama. He has eight brothers and sisters back home, all by the same parents, all with the same black curly hair, the kind that looks wavy when it's brushed, but Charles and his mother are the only ones with hazel eyes. Very family oriented. Alligator meat, crawfish, and gumbo-that's what he was raised eating, and he can make some hellified beignets, and can throw down some thigh-fattening bread pudding with enough whiskey sauce to make you feel like you're DUI. And don't let him get his hands on some catfish. He'll fry the hell out of that bottom feeder. My husband has a solid build, broad shoulders, and a great smile. He has a few scars here and there from being in so many fights as a boy, and boxing as a teenager and young adult, the kind of marks that make him look more rugged than pretty. His soft hair makes me wanna run my fingers through it all night. And I love his Southern accent; it's mild, not too much twang. The kind that tells you he'll treat you like a lady, open doors, and defend your honor. When he smiles with one side of his face, I know he's thinking of the position he wants to get me in. Sex is communication. Sex is food. I believe in feeding my man. And I believe in being fed. Feed him or he'll eat somewhere else. That wisdom came from Momma. She told us that a woman has to be a woman to her man, or some other woman will be. Charles goes to bed by ten, nine if there's not a game on and he can manage to be done grading papers. He has to get up by six so he can drive thirty miles east on the 60 freeway to get to West Covina and teach social studies to middle-school rugrats. My post-show meeting runs over some nights because we have to go over what was good about the late night broadcast, what sucked, what could've been better, and if something was hot, have it ready for the next day. That can have me at the station until almost midnight, maybe damn near one in the morning. By the time I make the drive home, Charles is dead to the world. I come in through the garage and drag myself upstairs to a dark bedroom and silence. Sometimes I just stay downstairs, massage my temples, undress, then tip up to the guest bedroom and just have some "me" time. Give myself a facial and take a long bath by candlelight. With his early schedule, Charles hates to have his sleep interrupted. But I'm wired and up until two, maybe three in the morning, trying not to make too much noise. Those are lonely hours, when the world is asleep and I'm wide awake, no one to talk to, feeling like Tom Hanks in that movie Cast Away. All they have on Showtime are erotic movies-some pretty bad fucking, but fucking all the same. When the moon is high and my hormones are on fire, voyeurism is nothing but damn torture. In those bewitching hours, I creep into the bedroom, touch Charles, try to get his penis to rise, and he pats my hand, asking me to let him sleep. Then it's me, loving a capella. Or me, myself, and my little rabbit; mènage á trois. Sometimes Charles drinks a little too much ginseng mixed with Noni juice and wakes up at the crack of dawn with the energy of a sixteen-year-old, rubbing against me with a raging boner, kissing that sensitive spot on my neck, his morning breath uneven and wanting. After three hours of sleep, I'm a rag doll. My nipples don't rise, but I don't push his hand away, never have, not since we stood before God and made promises. He rubs against me and my hand drifts down, takes his girth and hardness and guides it toward my hollow. He moves inside with gentleness, but the dryness stings. Seldom do I come like that, being half-awake and barely aware, because by the time my back starts to arch and moans begin crawling from my mouth, he's holding my ass with a firm grip, his strokes strong, deep, and steady, shuddering because he's trying to keep from letting his orgasm get the best of him, and letting out that pre-orgasmic groan that sounds like an apology for being premature. He jerks inside me, fills me with pain and pleasure, with hot liquid, heat that excites me into consciousness, and I hold him, move up against him and watch him. I love to watch him come. He has the most amazing, intense look. And it's tender at the same time. He slows down, but I keep grinding against him, contracting the muscles of my vagina around his softening penis, and try to orgasm as he catches his breath. He runs his hands over my locks, swallows, then whispers, "You okay?" I sing, "Good morning." I rub his back, feel his solidness and strength over me, run my fingers through his soft hair, kiss his face. Then I tell him how good that felt, how wonderful he is, how much I love the way his dick feels inside me, and ask him to chill out with me for a moment. "Freeway time, baby. Can't be late." I put on a schoolgirl pout. "Thirty seconds?" I feel him, unfocused and on edge, glancing at the red numbers on the digital clock. In less time than I've asked for, he pulls himself out of my vagina, breaks our Siamese-ness, leaves my emptiness tingling to be filled, legs ready to open wide for another ride. His feet hit the carpet and he's a silhouette moving away from me at a fast pace. I say, "Maybe we can finish tonight." No answer. I hate it when he hops right up and runs to the shower. But he can't be late for work, has to beat traffic so he can get across the freeway at least thirty minutes before the bell rings for first period, even earlier on Tuesday because of the teachers' staff meeting. Sometimes I sit up, fight the sandman, and watch Charles shower. He knows I'm watching, enjoying the way the water runs over his body, but he's rushing, doesn't look my way. I think he's ashamed when he comes that fast, or takes me like that, invading my dryness with his hardness, all without warning. I like to think that he finds me so irresistible that he can't help himself, that he has no control when it comes to wanting me. That makes me feel as if I am the master, that he is the slave to his desires for me, and only me. That's what I pretend. He throws on his jeans, a nice polo shirt, grabs a jacket if it's cool, then kisses my lips. He says, "The remote is right here." "Have a good day. Love you. Call me." He leaves me, some mornings his honey drying between my legs, the smell of our sex on my skin, the remote at my side. He always leaves the remote within arm's reach because he knows that I go to sleep with the news and I wake up in search of Katie Couric. (Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Other Woman by Eric Jerome Dickey
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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