Excerpt from Between Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

A few miles and a million thoughts later, Nicole leads me over to Harrison and we run past Westlake Middle School, beyond the 580 freeway, keep heading toward a rolling hill that reaches up to the sky.

"Where you taking me?"

"C'mon."

Like a used car salesman she wants to show me every feature of the city. Doesn't talk about The Village, or Sobrante Park, parts that are the Bed-Stuy of the Bay, forgets all about the Twomps or the Rollin' 20's over in East Oakland. Places that mirror how we grew up, her in Memphis and me in L.A.

Nicole sequesters me from that part of the city, keeps me away from the coal and leads me to the diamonds, takes me a few miles uphill into the area called Piedmont Hills. Tells me a half-million will buy a two-bedroom home; two million might get five thousand square feet.

Eighteen minutes later, we reach Highland, which is almost at the top of the hill, then head toward the row of mansions leading to Piedmont High School. She's sweating, face glowing with pain, back of her oversized sweatshirt damp, but not too damp because her T-shirt steals most of the moisture.

No nice way to put it, right now I'm hurting like hell and making fuck faces.

She slows a bit, says, "Think ... about moving ... up this way. Get some ... investment property."

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. "Sell crazy ... somewhere else. A blacksmith in one village ... becomes a blacksmith's apprentice in another."

"Smart ass ... what does that ... mean?"

"What kind of fool do I look like? Can't be your number two. Not going out like that."

"Dammit." Her breathing evens out. "There you go again. It's about love, not competition."

"Everything in this world is about competition."

"Not if we let it be about love," she says with enough force to show her inner struggle and frustration, then she softens her attitude, "Not if we let it be about love."

In a tone that doesn't hide my jealousy and frustration, doesn't mask my anger, I ask, "Hypothetically, if I moved here, where the hell would you stay?"

"You'll think about it?"

"Then what? Who gets you at sundown? Do I have to flip a coin every night, pull straws, what? Or do we go to court and get an order so I can get you every other weekend and every other holiday?"

She's offended. I want to offend her.

She takes off running, speeds up when I get too close, challenging me like I challenge her. We both move like we want to make up for lost time. But lost time is never recovered.

I run faster, zip by homes, everything from Classical Greek to Armenian Revival to French Restoration. Run faster and match her pace. Jealousy pours out of my system by the gallon.

Three more. I see three more houses with unique rainbow-hued flags, one with a multicolored cat as we run downhill and trek from Highland to Harvard back to the shops in Lake Merrit.

We find our way back over to Grand Street, run the outskirts of the lake back up 20th, then challenge each other's pace down Broadway, through the crowds, passing by women with white gauze gowns and scarves swirled around their faces, by sons whose ancestors were slaves, daughters of immigrants.

Nicole is in full stride by the time we come up on 6th, her tailwind stirring all the debris on the uneven, oil-stained boulevard, her bracelets jingling as she pumps her slim arms and races for the Tube.

Can't let her win. Ego chases ego.

She makes it out of the 980 overpass a good five seconds before me, flies across the entrance to the Tube, crosses 7th before traffic can take off. I break out of the darkness underneath the block-wide overpass and approach that good old Tube.

Death is waiting for me.

Reprinted from Between Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey by permission of Dutton, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2001 by Eric Jerome Dickey. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.