Bro-mance 101 Read online

  Bro-mance 101

  Chanta Jefferson Rand

  Copyright © 2012 Chanta Jefferson Rand

  Golden Isis Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction and all characters exist solely in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover photo by http://www.KerryRandPhotography.com

  Bro-mance 101

  Zhané Williams has just been dumped by her boyfriend of six months. When she learns that he broke up with her on the advice of Devlin Hart, a popular radio show host who counsels men through his program, Bro-mance 101, she’s fit to be tied. She drives to the radio station determined to confront Devlin and give him a tongue-lashing he won’t forget.

  Devlin Hart uses his radio show as a platform to help men overcome the disasters of relationships. He considers himself an expert in all matters related to the heart–his was crushed a few years ago. As a result, he considers most women to be deceitful and manipulative. When he’s confronted in an elevator by Zhané, her attitude only adds fuel to his argument.

  A freak thunderstorm knocks out the electricity, leaving the two of them trapped together in the elevator for hours. With nowhere for their pent-up passions to escape, their encounter promises to be explosive–in more ways than one.

  ONE

  “Welcome to Bro-mance 101, the radio talk show that gives dating advice from a male point of view. Tonight’s question is should you get your ring back? Caller, you’re on the air with Devlin Hart. Tell me bro, did you get your ring back?”

  “Hell yeah!” a deep voice filtered across the line.

  Devlin chuckled. He knew this was going to be a hot topic from the minute he saw it on the show’s blog page. Women were always talking about keeping the engagement ring when a relationship ended. Judging from the responses on the blog, it appeared that Devin’s listeners were primed and ready to sound off on the subject.

  “Caller, can I get your name and your story?”

  “Uh, just call me…Ishmael.”

  Devlin smiled at the caller’s reference to Moby Dick. To ensure privacy, callers were encouraged to give whatever name was comfortable for them. For many guys, baring their souls was tough enough. Add the element of anonymity, and you could get a brotha to practically admit to anything. “Okay, Ishmael. Tell us, what happened with the ring?”

  “Man, you won’t believe this. A week before our wedding, I caught my fiancée cheating with another man.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I know you didn’t forgive that trespass.”

  “Right. I ain’t goin’ out like a chump. After I broke the dude’s nose, I broke off the engagement. I told my fiancée I didn’t ever want to see her again. Of course, she was trippin’ hard. The woman had the nerve to try to keep her ring and mine! Said I embarrassed her. So, she felt like she should get something for her pain and suffering.”

  “Wait. She said you embarrassed her? Sounds like you got the raw deal, bro.”

  “That’s what I’m saying!”

  “I hope you got your ring back after you kicked that guy’s ass.”

  “It took a couple of weeks, but I told her if she didn’t give those rings back, I was gonna put all her business on Twitter and Facebook.”

  “Oh, that’s cold.”

  “No, what’s cold is that the guy she was cheating with filed assault and battery charges against me. I gotta go to court next month.”

  “Where’s the justice, man?”

  “I’ll tell ya this, I’ma think long and hard before I get serious with any chick again.”

  “I don’t blame you. If it’s any consolation, I’m sure a lot of guys would have done the same thing in your place.”

  Ishmael grew so quiet, Devlin thought he might have hung up. “I gave this woman two years of my life. Two years is a long time.”

  Devlin’s heart had been ripped to shreds by a woman he’d cared deeply for. Many nights he’d sat up nursing a bottle of liquor, trying to find the answers to God’s mysteries. “I’ve been where you are,” Devlin admitted. “Sometimes, when we are going through a storm, we don’t know why it happened until days, months, or even years later. I look at this as a blessing for you.”

  Ishmael snorted. “How’s that?”

  “You could have ended up married to this woman. Instead, you got to see her true colors. You should consider yourself lucky.”

  “I guess I never thought about it like that.”

  “You sound like a good man, Ishmael. The best way to move on from this is to focus on the positive. Don’t wallow in the negativity of the past.”

  “That’s gonna take some time.”

  “Stay strong, bro. I know it took a lot for you to call in tonight. Thanks for sharing your experience with me.”

  “I should be thanking you, man. I’ve been a fan of your show for years. You confront the issues guys really need to hear about. It’s good to know there are men out there going through the same thing as me.”

  “I appreciate that. Good luck in court, Ishmael.”

  Devlin hung up and for the next hour, he took calls on the topic of the night. It was the same story with each caller. A woman had done them wrong. A girlfriend had cheated. An ex refused to give the ring back. Only one caller admitted he would not request the ring back. The man didn’t want any reminders of the fiasco.

  Devlin’s feelings on the subject were as mixed as a pot of his late grandmother’s scrumptious Jambalaya. As the victim of a cheating woman, he knew how painful the betrayal could be. In fact, the sole purpose of him doing this show was to help men grow and learn from their experiences. Women had tons of magazines, talk shows, novels, and Internet sites devoted to telling them how to overcome breakups, how to catch the man of their dreams, how to build their self-esteem, etcetera, etcetera. Men had few avenues available to vent, other than hanging out with other men and asking for advice–which could be downright dangerous. Both his radio show and his blog column offered men viable solutions. Most guys were good at heart, but clueless when it came to manipulative women.

  He heard a light tapping on the glass pane separating his sound studio from the offices in the main hallway. Ramon Aiello, his close friend and the station manager stood on the other side signaling him through the glass. As soon as Devlin went to commercial break, Ramon poked his head through the studio door. “Dev, it’s getting bad out there. You might want to pack up for the night.”

  Houston was famous for its unpredictable thunderstorms. Even in the heavily insulated studio, Devlin could both see and hear the heavy rain bombarding the large glass windows that wrapped around the corner office studio where he hosted his radio show.

  Fires in Heaven.

  That’s what Devlin’s late grandmother called the eerie lightening like the kind dancing across the sky right now. His nana could smell a storm before it began, and when it finally arrived, she would hide in her bedroom, sitting in her rocker with a crotched blanket draped over her arthritic knees until it subsided. She passed away ten years ago, at the ripe old age of ninety, but he knew if she were alive now, she’d be doing the very same thing.

  Devlin removed his headphones and turned away from the brewing storm. “We’ve got a half an hour to go,” he told Ramon. “I want to try to stay on the air until the end.”

  Ramon glanced at his watch, his green eyes narrowing beneath his thick brows. “I don’t think you have thirty minutes,
bud. We’re under a flash flood warning now, and it’s supposed to hail. You’d better make a mad dash for the house.”

  Devlin lived less than fifteen minutes from the radio station in a quaint area of Houston called The Heights. He’d inherited his charming yellow and white cottage-style home from his nana. The house held not only nana’s antiques, but warm childhood memories as well. The only drawback was that there was no room in the small garage for his oversized pick-up truck, which was currently parked safely in the radio station’s parking garage. If it was still raining when he pulled into his driveway, Devlin would no doubt be soaked before he reached the swinging chair on his shade porch. “My listeners need me, Ramon. I can’t leave ‘em hanging.”

  “That’s why we have pre-recorded programming,” Ramon reasoned. “Put that sucker on auto-pilot and run thirty minutes of a repeat segment. Even better, catch a ride with me and we can chill at my place tonight. I’ve got a case of Shiner Bock on ice. We can get shit-faced.”

  Devlin laughed. Ramon had the quintessential bachelor pad, furnished primarily with alcohol and two big screen TVs. Devlin would love to cap off the evening with a beer or two–or three or four, but he felt he owed his listeners more than pre-recorded chit chat. Faithful fans didn’t want to hear a repeat performance. He was committed to providing quality. Ramon produced three other radio shows, but Bro-mance 101 was Devlin’s baby. He’d started it five years ago from an idea. Today, it had grown into a lucrative talk show. There was even mention of taking some of his popular blog responses and turning them into a movie. He had a duty to his listeners and he wasn’t about to let a freak storm dictate his schedule. “No thanks,” he told Ramon. “I’ll hang out here for a while.”

  Ramon shrugged his boney shoulders. “Suit yourself. I’m outta here.”

  “See ya Monday.”

  A flashing light signaling an incoming call on the audio console’s switchboard caught Devlin’s attention. He donned his headset and prepared to answer the call. His listeners were depending on him. Only when the show was done, would he allow himself to go home, relax, and enjoy a guilt-free weekend. He looked up just in time to see a jagged bolt of lightning streak across the sky and illuminate the dark horizon like a neon bonfire. He took a deep breath. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision to stay.

  TWO

  Swhoosh, swhoosh! Swhoosh, swhoosh! The rhythmic tempo of Zhané’s windshield wipers echoed inside her car as the rubber blades frantically swept sheets of water from her windshield. Navigating traffic from the exclusive neighborhoods of Sugarland, Texas to the southwest side of Houston was normally a cinch for her. But on a Friday night, when party-goers mixed with torrential rain, it could be a recipe for disaster. It might have been easier if she weren’t driving through a tear-stained haze. She had her boyfriend, Malik, to thank for that. Well, ex-boyfriend now. He’d lured her out in the rain to an upscale restaurant downtown on the premise of discussing something important. Stupid her; she imagined it was a proposal. She’d rushed home from work, dabbed on some Vera Wang perfume, pulled her tangle of curls into a fashionable upsweep, and changed into a slinky, black dress and matching pumps. She wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble if she’d known she was going to a break-up dinner.

  She’d be the first to acknowledge that lately things had been a bit rocky with Malik, but she never expected him to drop this bombshell. When the two met last December at a Delta Sorority Mixer, they’d hit it off immediately. They seemed to be perfectly suited with the same ambitions and values. Both of them were business professionals. Both of them graduated from the University of Houston in the same year. They both enjoyed the smooth sounds of Kirk Whalum’s saxophone. They even drove the same car–although hers was a newer model. Their relationship seemed idyllic.

  Then, she got a promotion at the firm where she worked. Initially, it was the blessing she’d sought most of her adult life. As one of the few female executives in the oil and gas industry, it was a significant accomplishment, and proof of her years of dedication. Not to mention she now had a six-figure salary. She could do all the things she’d been wanting to do, like put a down-payment on a new home, finally pay off her student loans, travel the Mediterranean, and support the charities that meant so much to her. However, her new-found success came with a cost. She had to continue her grueling pace to show everyone that she deserved that promotion and all the perks that came with it. While her male counterparts were networking on the golf course, she was elbow-deep in reports, RFPs, and online research. She couldn’t afford to get caught slipping.

  With her working so hard, and Malik launching a sports promotion business (in addition to his continual training for the New York marathon), the threads of their relationship had begun to steadily unravel. In her naivety, Zhané thought they could work it out. Malik apparently hadn’t felt the same.

  Now, she was driving from the restaurant, biting back the sour taste of heartbreak mingled with the salty remnants of Orange Roughy and spinach she’d eaten. She choked back a sob as she gripped the steering wheel. It was almost ten p.m. She should be in her bed reading a good book instead of traversing these slick roads. Imagine, her man breaking up with her in a crowded restaurant. He said he felt she was less likely to become violent in a public venue. Her? Violent? Nonsense! She hadn’t wanted to strangle Malik. She’d wanted to bury her head in the sand and not come up until she felt better.

  Zhané’s cell phone chimed, signaling an incoming text. Her best friend, Katina was trying to contact her. She glanced at the glowing green words on the screen of her cell phone.

  Did you say yes?

  Zhané flung the cell phone onto the floorboard of her car. She didn’t believe in texting while driving. Anyway, she had nothing to report to Katina but shame and embarrassment. She’d invested six months in this relationship with Malik. She thought they were going somewhere. Then all of a sudden, he told her that he was dumping her because they weren’t equally yoked.

  At first, she thought he was referring to the biblical verse. She wasn’t on intimate terms with her bible, but she did know there was something in those sacred pages about being unequally yoked with non-believers. She’d assured Malik she certainly believed in God, and she considered herself a Christian.

  Malik clarified by explaining it wasn’t religion, but finances he was concerned with. He’d heard on Bro-mance 101 that a couple should be equally yoked financially. Devlin Hart, the host of the popular radio show recommended that couples have the same financial mindset and spending habits. She could still hear Malik’s words resonating in her ears. ‘Devlin Hart says a man should only consider a long-term relationship with a woman who is free of debt or has an aggressive plan to tackle her bills. He says once a woman gets married, she’ll expect her husband to take on that debt. Then, we’ll both be in debt, Zhané. When you get your financial obligations cleared up maybe we can think about re-connecting.’

  Malik’s hang-up was her financial aid bills. She’d never asked him for one damn dime, so she was shocked that he would twist his mouth to utter those words. He also accused her of spending money too frivolously. That was in direct contrast to his “rainy day” nature of saving. And the most hurtful jab–he had a problem with her salary, which was now thirty thousand dollars higher than his. He felt he had to be the principle breadwinner. Once again, he quoted that damn radio show. ‘Devlin Hart says a woman who earns more money than her mate will probably have control issues in the relationship.’

  Zhané wondered what the hell Devlin Hart had to say about an ambitious woman who’d achieved success despite insurmountable odds. Did Devlin Hart know how it felt to have your mother die when you were barely twelve years old? Had he ever cried himself to sleep wondering how to juggle two jobs while carrying a full load of courses? She’d worked hard to get to this point in her life, only to have some misanthrope sabotage her relationship.

  She furiously wiped a renegade tear that slipped down her cheek. She should have seen this comi
ng. She and Malik had been spending less and less time together, and the rare occasions when they did see each, other felt rushed. If Malik paid as much attention to her as he did to that fool on the radio, they might still be together.

  A horn blared as a car nearly side-swiped her.

  “Asshole!” Zhané yelled as the driver whizzed by.

  Through a watery back window, Zhané could see the driver flip her the bird. A bumper sticker with the words KLUV Studios was plastered to the car’s back fender. That was the radio station for Bro-mance 101. Figures. He was probably one of those sanctimonious idiots who’d sworn off women, but still frequented the strip club so he could objectify females.

  Zhané grabbed a Kleenex from the glove box and blew her nose as she replayed the conversation she’d had with Malik less than an hour ago. How could she have been so blind? She’d spent half a year on a relationship only to have her man leave her because Devlin Hart inspired him to do so. Devlin Hart. Did that man even have a heart? Did he know what true love was? Did he have a woman? His show was responsible for breaking hearts and ruining relationships. The man was a meddler, plain and simple.

  The more she stewed, the more convinced she became that she should go to the KLUV radio station and give that fool a piece of her mind. Out of curiosity, she typed KLUV Studios into her GPS. She’d seen the billboards for Bro-mance 101 on Highway 59, not far from where she worked. The boards boasted no photo, but proudly displayed navy and gold lettering with the show’s tagline, Bro-mance 101: Don’t Get Got! That shit sounded like a Lil’ Rascals slogan.

  The GPS indicated the studio was closer than she thought. She took the next exit, and ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the six-story building where KLUV Studios was located. By the time she found a parking spot and sprinted to the front door, she was drenched by the pouring rain. She didn’t cringe when the heel of her stiletto almost became stuck in a grate near the double glass doors. It was worth battling the elements and any other potential hazards to meet the troublemaker who was responsible for her misery.