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Jennifer A Lightburn

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Seasons Change
by Jennifer A Lightburn   

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Publisher:  JAL Publishing through Create Space ISBN-10:  0615383734 Type: 


Copyright:  Jan 2011 ISBN-13:  9780615383736

Could Annette actually lose custody of her son because of rumors that she's a lesbian?

Jennifer Lightburn

Annette Styles is a victim of domestic abuse but finds herself the one being arrested and forced to leave her own home.  She moves in with her best friend who is a lesbian, and when her ex-partner finds out, he spreads lies that Annette is a lesbian.  But when false allegations become true, she's threatened with the possibility of losing her son.  That's when the girls step in...


Monica didn’t say a word when she picked Annette up from the precinct, knowing her friend would speak soon enough. Besides, her mind raced between Steve accosting her at the bar and the expression on Gabriella’s face when she spoke of putting some criminals behind bars. To say that Monica loathed the precinct was an understatement. She’d vowed to stay clear of the jailhouse.
Monica drove in silence towards her condo, and at a particularly long stoplight, she turned to look at her friend but only saw the back of Annette’s head and noticed the curly flip she usually wore was flat from the earlier rain.
A sparse mist sprinkled against the windshield forcing the blades to rub harshly against the glass. The rubbing sound was worse than nails against a chalkboard. The sound annoyed the hell out of Monica, but didn’t seem to faze Annette who hadn’t strayed slightly away from whatever was capturing her attention.
Monica cracked her window and lit a cigarette, and by the time she took her last hit, they were pulling up to Monica’s building. It was at that moment that the sky opened and rain poured onto the pavement. As she watched her neighbors run like roaches shocked by bright light, Monica pushed the button to the in-ground garage and entered.
Upstairs, she punched her security code into the key pad and opened the door. Waiting patiently in the foyer was Monica’s five-year-old Siamese cat, Roscoe P. Coltrane.
“Come to momma,” Monica said then picked up her kitty and rubbed her cheek against Roscoe’s furry face. The feline purred lovingly and Monica purred back then said to Annette, “a shower should make you feel better.”
With the stench of urine on Annette’s clothes from the police car and holding cell, she replied, “Can you put my dress in the washer?” with words and body language completely deflated.
Monica would have rather burned it in her fireplace but amicably did what she was asked. She placed some sweats and a t-shirt in the bathroom, started the shower and then grabbed a pillow and blanket for the couch, since she was not expecting a visitor and had a mountain of clothes waiting to be folded in the spare room. She made a cocktail and sat on the couch with her feet on the coffee table and her kitty in her lap to speculate the details surrounding Annette’s arrest.
She had not a moment to contemplate about what happened to her friend when she was interrupted by the shrill ring tone of Annette’s cell phone.
“What!” Annette bellowed.
Monica sat up in position to eavesdrop on her friend’s conversation, but it was unnecessary, as Annette’s usual quiet demeanor fell short of a full fledged conniption.
“I can take care of him!”
“I’ve been taking care of him!”
“I’m his mother!”
And then there was silence, so much silence that the refrigerator and furnace roared.
A few minutes later, Annette walked into the dimly lit living room dressed in the sweats that Monica provided. She sat on the other end of the couch.
Even in the dark, Monica could see the bruises on Annette’s brown skin, and she knew where they came from. Being the friend that she was, she thought about getting her forty-five and scaring the living shit out of Annette’s baby’s daddy, Montel Jaminson, but he’d probably show his ass and prompt her to end his miserable life. And he just wasn’t worth going to jail over.
Monica draped the throw over Annette’s shoulders, poured her a drink, put the bottle in front of Annette, and then sat back down.
They sat in silence until Monica was overcome by the sounds of nocturnal life. No longer able to wait for her friend to speak, Monica cleared her throat and said, “At one point in my life I had to pray to God to prevent me from sending a bitch to his grave. Forget about busting out windows or tossing genitals in the woods. I wanted to spit on his tombstone after I put him six feet under. God forgive me. Yes, girl, men can take you there; women are just as bad, and I recognize the look on your face, so please don’t insult my intelligence. I’ve been there and got the t-shirt. Tell me what happened.” She took a sip of her cocktail, sat back, lit a cigarette and waited for a response.
Annette sat up looking dazed, slightly stoned.
Flashbacks were racing so quickly in her mind that she didn’t know where to begin. It all happened so fast. One minute she was fussing at Montel and the next thing she knew she was kissing the kitchen floor.
“He hit me,” Annette replied.
That was obvious.

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