Heated. Niobia Bryant

      As Kahron Strong stood in the doorway of his bedroom and looked at the naked woman lying there like she was posing for Playboy, he wondered who he’d have to pay to get a housekeeper on whom he could rely.

      This woman laying before was Erika—the fifteenth housekeeper/cook he hired since he moved to Holtsville, SC. He tried everything from the old to the young, male, female, and a few that could swing either way. He always got the same result—they did something to get on his last nerve.

      Whether it was stealing, or being disrespectful, or watching more of his digital cable than actually working, or foolishly trying to seduce him—Erika was the fourth such to try that route—or just plain couldn’t cook or clean to save their lives, Kahron went through housekeepers quicker than tissue. He wondered if he was cursed.

      Because she was laying out the goods he gave her a quick perusal. He shook his head. When a man has a naked woman lying before him and he notices that the furry mound between her legs is starting to grow down her legs—well, something just wasn’t right.

      “Ma’am, please go on and get dressed,” he said, his voice raspy and filled with his Down South accent. He reached into his back pocket and pulled two twenty-dollar bills off the knot of money. “Your services are no longer needed.”

      “What?” she exclaimed, actually opening her legs wider.

      Kahron diverted his gaze and tried not to laugh at how ridiculous she was.

      “Are you crazy?” she asked.

      “No, ma’am.”

      “You ain’t all that, Kahron Strong.”

      “Yes, ma’am, I know.”

      He heard the rustle of the sheets and the squeal of the bed springs as she rose. He started to tell her to take the sheets with her, but refrained—he’d just throw them out. He felt sheets were almost as intimate as underwear and, well, it just wasn’t something he wanted to randomly share.

      Kahron looked at wall until she snatched the money from his hand and slammed out of the room.

      “Well, another one bites the dust,” he said, as the front door slammed soon after.

      After a long day at the livestock auction in Chesnee, Kahron had just wanted to eat lunch and help his crew out with repairing the fence on the northeast portion of his one hundred acre spread.

      A strip show hadn’t been on his “to do” list—especially from a woman whose crotch looked like she had Buckwheat’s head trapped between her legs.

      He made himself a cheese sandwich—there weren’t any cold cuts in sight—before heading back out of the house. His dog, a chocolate lab aptly name Hershey, immediately rose from where she was lazily lounging on her favorite spot on the porch. Kahron paused to give Hershey the rest of his sandwich and he stroked her coat as she lapped it up with ease.

      “Good girl,” he said, with one last pat to her side.

      Kahron could have driven one of the four battered work trucks or three four wheelers parked in front of his single-level house, but he decided to ride his stallion, Midnight, instead. With Hershey at his booted heels, he walked the distance over to the steel barn that housed his ten horses.

      “Hola Paco,” Kahron greeted the ten year old as he walked up. Paco was the son of Kahron’s stable manager, Carlos Santos.

      “Hola Mister Strong.”

      Kahron mussed his wild cap of black hair playfully, quite fond of the child. “Will you get Midnight for me?”

      Paco didn’t even bother to answer. He just dashed off to do as he was asked.

      As he waited, Kahron looked around at all the activity on his ranch. He loved it. All of the ranch hands within his sight were busy with a task, be it shoeing a horse or cleaning up the constant animal droppings. Since buying the ranch six years ago, Kahron had improved the water availability and distribution with better grazing management, increased the size of the herd by nearly three hundred heads, and increased the staff to thirty men—twelve of whom resided on the property in the bunkhouse. His goal was to expand further.

      The ranch currently dealt mainly with livestock, but Kahron was looking into possibly expanding into dairy, like his brother Kaleb, who farmed in Walterboro just twenty miles away. That would come in due time. Right now his focus was getting ready to drive his herd to the south pasture of his land in a few weeks.

      “Here he is, Mister Strong,” Paco said, carefully leading the horse to him. “I groomed him for you.”

      Kahron pulled five dollars from his pocket. “Best brushing job I ever seen, Paco.”

      The little boy’s mouth formed into an circle and he went running off. He stopped after a few feet. “Gracias, Mister Strong. Come on Hershey,” he shouted back before dashing off to the back of the stable, presumably to find his father.

      Hershey, who was particular about what action she chose to partake in, just stood there and watched the little boy run off before she trotted over to her pile of blankets in the corner of the tack room.

      “Lazy girl,” Kahron teased, as he walked into the tack room to retrieve his custom made black leather saddle.

      Hershey just settled deeper into her blankets.

      Kahron laughed as he walked back out to Midnight. He grunted slightly as he saddled his horse, stroking the deep ebony of its powerful neck, its mane long, flowing, and just as black. Moments later, comfortably mounted on the horse’s back, Kahron went trotting off to help the set of men repairing fence, his thoughts heavy on how ideal the King property would be ideal for expansion of his business.

      “Whassup, Bianca.”

      Bianca stiffened in her father’s arms at the sound of her stepmother’s voice. Giving her father’s wide expanse of body one last hug she step back to look around him at the second Mrs. Hank King… Trishon.

      Fifteen years later but still young at thirty-five, Trishon was an attractive woman. A bit fuller at the waist, hips, and breasts, but only three years Bianca’s senior. Still, she and Trishon had never been close friends growing up. They ran in different circles, but both knew of each other well.

      “Hello,” Bianca said, barely forcing civility into her tone.

      Bianca didn’t miss the diamond cluster ring sparkling from the woman’s fingers or the casual designer clothing—things Trishon never had until she met and married Hank King.

      Kanye West’s song “Golddigger” suddenly played in her head.

      Trishon’s eyes glittered, but she smiled nonetheless. “Hank is so excited about your visit,” she said, stepping forward to stand next to him and stroke his arm.

      Bianca knew that being a woman would mean giving this woman respect. As much as she hated it, this was Trishon’s home—she was the lady of the house—and that meant giving her at least that much respect.

      “I’m glad to be back, Trishon. Thank you for your hospitality,” Bianca said, forcing a smile to her full Angie Stone–like lips.

      Bianca looked up at her father, thinking it was good to see his wide handsome face again, and wishing she didn’t smell the faint scent of Crown Royal. “I’ll have to make you a pot of my homemade stew that you used to love, Daddy.”

      He smiled. “I would like that.”

      “I cook for him but he doesn’t eat very much,” Trishon said, her tone clearly defensive.

      Bianca felt irritation nip at her. “We’ll just see if both of us can’t nag him into eating,” she offered lightly.

      “Right now I’m headed to run an errand,” Hank said, pulling Bianca to his side for another quick hug. “I’ll be back later.”

      Bianca