Product Description

They're sisters of the soul, two girlfriends hitting the clubs in search of that oh-so-rare commodity: straight, single guys. Tempest sports a modest suit, while Janessa runs wild in a skintight minidress -- but they both want the same thing: the heat, the passion, the spark to ignite the sensual fires inside. It takes time and patience to find such a special lover. But somewhere among the freaks and fruitcakes, they know there's a match for each of them.

The last thing Geren wants is a relationship -- most women can't see past his money and his good looks. His best friend Dvontè is a player, with sex -- and definitely not commitment -- on his mind. But when Dvontè talks Geren into going clubbing, fate leads them to Tempest and Janessa. Attractions flare, connections are made, lives are changed -- and secrets come to light. Together, they are the heat seekers, four daring hearts willing to play with fire -- and take the risk of getting burned....

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #11997 in Books
• Published on: 2003-05-01
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 320 pages

From Publishers Weekly
Two couples weather rough times in this latest by Zane (Addicted; The Sex Chronicles) set in swinging D.C. Tempest and Janessa are best friends, out to find "the one" Janessa at local singles' clubs, Tempest anywhere but. Dvont and Geren are their male counterparts. When the pairs meet one fateful evening, Cupid strikes with wildly differing results, pairing yuppie Geren with responsible social worker Tempest and womanizing Dvont with reckless but good-hearted Janessa. Tempest and Geren embark on an emotionally mature relationship, full of the usual testing of boundaries, while Janessa and Dvont begin a passionate and primarily sexual fling that results in the typical half-truths and finally an unwanted pregnancy. Tempest and Geren have to balance their loyalties to their old friends with their budding love for one another, all the while wrestling with personal secrets that could further jeopardize the union. Adding to an already complicated scenario, a young woman being counseled by Tempest is complaining of physical abuse at home. Zane's characters, while well drawn, fluctuate between being sympathetic and painfully superficial, as when they mock the unattractive ("desperate, ugly hoes") and, bizarrely, the short ("watch out for pygmies in there"). For the most part, however, the novel is warm and engaging, stressing the importance of personal responsibility and attesting to the power of hope while delivering the clever banter and sizzling sex scenes that Zane's (many) readers have come to expect.
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

About the Author
Zane is the Blackboard bestselling author of The Sisters of APF, The Sex Chronicles, Addicted, and Shame on It All. She lives in Washington, D.C.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One: the seekers

tempest

My hand hovered over the lighted dial pad of my cordless phone, debating about calling another sorry mofo. The first one wasn't home, and it was just as well. Giorgio was this brotha I met while I was in line at Starbucks waiting on a mocha cappuccino. He was attractive, nice and the perfect gentleman. We kicked it a few times together. Everything was kewl until I found out the nucca had six toes on his left foot. Yes, I said six damn toes. He had this miniature one hanging off the side. I discovered it one night when he treated me to a foot massage, and I decided to return the favor. Normally I would never venture to caress a man's feet, but I was being daring that night, and the shit will never, ever, ever, ever happen again. It freaked me out, that sixth toe, and it reminded me of that Stephen King flick, The Dark Half. I came to the conclusion that Giorgio had been genetically conceived as a twin but somehow swallowed his other half. For days after the gruesome discovery, I had nightmares about marrying him, waking up one morning, and seeing him standing there with a hatchet in his hand and grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. No, that nucca had to go. I know it sounds shallow, but I would rather be safe than sorry.

I flipped through my version of the little black book, a tattered and worn four-by-six-inch plastic pink phone book with a black poodle on the cover. The only letters left from the word address were the a, the r, and the e. As I eyed the pages, a feeling of disgust overwhelmed me. So many names, so many sorry-ass mofos. And to think, I had allowed these nuccas inside my world, catered to their every desire and even performed on the parasites all the fellatio techniques I learned from that Monica chick's book, The Complete Guide to Tongue and Jaw Maneuvering.

Let me break it down for you.

Sorry mofo number one: Trent, a twenty-six-year-old systems analyst. Fondest memory: practicing tantric sex with him and basking in the afterglow of the numerous earth-shattering yoni (clit) massages he bestowed upon me. Most traumatic memory: walking in on him bestowing the lingam (dick) massage on his roommate Bill. I will never forget that day for as long as I live, mostly because I hurled up my partially digested lunch, kung pao chicken, all over the two of them and my favorite suit, a black wool number I snagged a great bargain on from a one-day sale at Macy's in Pentagon City Mall. I loved that suit. Damn them two homie-sexuals for ruining my shit.

There I was infatuated, with what I thought was a prime candidate for the Pussy Eater's Hall of Fame, when all along I was giving my sweet loving to a booty bandit, a rump wrangler, a sword swallower. No wonder he knew how to eat a pussy so damn good. Any man who can deep-throat nine to ten inches ought to be able to suck the lining and ovaries out of a pussy.

I shook my head in disbelief at the very thought of him, muttered an expletive, and then scratched his name out with a red Magic Marker. Goodness knows I would spread my thighs open for a three-legged baboon with one eye in the center of its forehead before I ration Trent another millimeter of puntang.

Sorry mofo number two: Hezekiel, a thirty-two-year-old produce manager at the friendly neighborhood supermarket. I know what you're thinking. What woman in her right mind would date a brotha named Hezekiel? Sheeeeeeeiiiitttt, every sistah I know wanted to break a piece off to his fione ass. As for you brothas, you shouldn't even fake the funk. If a sistah looked like Halle Berry but her name was Kizzy Kunte, you would be screaming out, "Work it, Kizzy! Work it!" in the bedroom.

Anyway, enough of defending myself. Back to the matter at hand. Fondest memory: the way he used to like to get freaky and suck on my fingers, toes, and everything in between. I don't know if it was due to his grassroots upbringing in the foothills of Kentucky or not, but the brotha was born with a platinum tongue. He told me once that he had a nipple fetish because it reminded him of milking his papa's prizewinning cow, Bessie. To hear him tell it, Bessie won the blue medal at every Kentucky State Fair for ten years in a row. Whatever it was, the brotha had mad skillz. Not skills, but skillz. He used to make me scream out his name in forty-two different languages. Most traumatic memory: letting him have $800 to get his BMW fixed. I gave him the money out of the goodness of my heart. It wasn't even a loan, mind you. It was a straight-up gift. Okay, I will confess. I was whipped. Tongue-whipped. At least until I found out the BMW was not even his but this beanpole anorexic bitch's. I saw the two of them cruising down at Haines Point in it while I was jogging. The bastard had the nerve to almost run me over after his nerves got riled up from spotting me. I cussed his ass out, but all he did was haul ass and leave me in a cloud of exhaust. Even though the money was a gift, I contemplated taking his skank ass in front of Judge Judy and perjuring my ass off by claiming it was a loan so I could recoup my money. Trick ass!

Needless to say, the chances of me ever letting him suck on anything else, even my asshole, are slim to none, and Slim's scandalous ass is out of town kicking it with some hoochie at 135th and Fifth Avenue in Harlem. I put my Magic Marker to work again, and my phone book began to look like a toddler's drawing pad.

Sorry mofo number three: Scott, a twenty-nine-year-old graduate student. Fondest memory: having him recite his original poetry to me on our romantic five-day vacation at Hedonism II in Jamaica, making love in the sand under the island moon, erotic dancing to reggae music, and seeing if he could fuck me in every position known to modern man without breaking my back or putting himself in traction. Most traumatic memory: receiving my American Express bill and finding out the trifling-ass son of a Gila monster had charged the whole damn escapade on my card and neglected to mention it to me. That vacation cost me a grip, and if I ever see his venomous, hideous black behind again, I will unload my entire three-ounce can of pepper spray in his beady little eyes and finish him off with my stun gun. Twelve thousand volts to the head of his dick will set his ass straight but good. I scratched his name out so hard, I ripped the page.

Sorry mofo number four, and you are going to absolutely love this one: Kenny, a twenty-five-year-old bum extraordinaire who also happened to be my high school sweetheart and the one who busted my cherry bomb. Fondest memory: discovering the joy of sex together, sitting on the balcony of my aunt Geraldine's apartment after cramming some of her delicious soul food into our guts, and making plans for the future together. Most traumatic memory: finding out from my best friend Janessa that Aunt Geraldine and Kenny not only were knocking boots but had gotten hitched by the justice of the peace the day before he was supposed to take me to our senior prom. I figured Kenny must have been out of his fucking mind, so I asked him, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" You know what that stinking, malicious relative of Godzilla told me? He said the only reason he chose her over me was because she was on public assistance, and therefore food stamps would keep him from starving, and their rent would only be twenty dollars a month. The really sick part is that Kenny is three years younger than my cousin Marcus, Aunt Geraldine's son. I am tooooooo through with both of them, and I hope her old ass gets a leg cramp one night while they are fucking and ends up stuck in a pretzel shape from now until Armageddon. I ripped his old number out of my book and hers, stomped into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

I was still holding the cordless in my hand when I came back out into the living room. I tossed it on my black leather sectional and headed to the kitchen in search of the pint of double-chocolate-chip Häagen-Dazs ice cream I kept hidden in the back of my freezer especially for nights when the maggots invaded my thoughts. I don't know why I let them bother me. They were all out of my life, somewhere getting their freak on with another woman -- or man, in Trent's case. Yet here I was working myself into a hissy fit over the fetid shit they did to me.

I found my ice cream, grabbed a spoon and a Pepsi, and headed to my bedroom to drown myself in sorrow. I flipped on Jerry Springer, got undressed, and threw on one of my home-alone nightgowns, a tee I picked up in New Carrolton Mall with "I Just Can't Stand a Broke-Ass Man" imprinted on both the front and back. I saved the good supply of nighties for when there was a man in the house, a rare occurrence. I laughed at the women who were fighting over sorry-ass mofos on a talk show, but I am not sure whether I pitied them or related to them and was really laughing at myself. Whatever the case, I tore into my unhealthy snacks and settled in for yet another boring Friday night.

janessa

Friday night. Millennium night. There were only two shows I was absolutely crazy about, other than Jerry Springer of course, 'cause everyone loves Jerry, Millennium, and The X-Files. Something about that supernatural, alien, not-of-this-world shit gets to me. It was the season premiere, and I was as excited as a virgin teenage boy in a whorehouse about to get some. I waited all week to see the show, listening to plugs for it on WPGC 95.5 and catching a few of the previews on Fox. I even stopped by Giant Food on my way home to pick up some Pop Secret Movie Theater butter popcorn for the big night. Don't you know someone in my family had to ruin it for me!

Most of the time on Friday nights, my parents turned in early, since Momma was the type who still got up at 5:00 a.m., even though she had been retired for more than ten years. Pops preferred to pass the hell out after he got in from his maintenance job. My lard-ass brother Fred pissed me off thou...

Customer Reviews

Loved it!
I really loved the Heat Seekers; it left me wanting more. Zane said in her comments, that there's no plan of a part two, but I really feel there should be a part two. Oh well......

Not That Good
OK this was not the AVERAGE Zane book so don't even start it if you're looking for one of her CRAZY but Captivating tales of love, lust, and lies because this is not it!

This book has an ok a story line but it's just missing something, some spice & spunk, I'm not sure what but it is but the story read very bland and a little boring.

The main character has a SECRET and it finally comes out towards the end of the book and when it does its like OK you could have been let that cat out the bag!!

Lol I don't know where Zane went wrong but this story had GREAT potential but it did not reach it. I don't recommend it.

Powerful & Refreshing
Heat Seekers is not your ordinary Zane novel. This novel shows her diversity and great talent as a writer. It addresses many social issues that several young adults have had to face or will face. You'll enjoy this refreshing, powerful love story with its great underlying message "we may fall down but we will get up"!~LeBlanc author of "Characters of Lust"