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ALSO BY ALLISON HOBBS
Lipstick Hustla
Stealing Candy
The Sorceress
Pure Paradise
Disciplined
One Taste
Big Juicy Lips
The Climax
A Bona Fide Gold Digger
The Enchantress
Double Dippin’
Dangerously in Love
Insatiable
Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com
© 2003 by Allison Hobbs
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any formor by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN 978-1-59309-330-3
eISBN 978-1-45165-947-4
LCCN 2003105028
First Strebor Books trade paperback edition October 2003
Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com
Cover photo: © Don Cudney/Index Stock
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Manufactured in the United States of America
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IN LOVING MEMORY
of My Mother, Lois S. Hobbs
and My Brother, Michael A. Hobbs
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to the following family members and friends whose love, support and encouragement along the way made the writing and publication of this book a truly joyous experience:
To my father, Sterling J. Hobbs, you set the example and taught me to dream big dreams. Amir Fatir—Little Brother, thanks for paving the way; I’m honored to walk in your literary footsteps. Rhonda Hobbs—Thanks for the publicity, praise and sisterly pride and for copying those early chapters for the teachers in the Chester-Upland School District.
Ronald James, Jr.—There is much appreciation for your love and faith in me. I thank you for sharing my most cherished dreams. Harry Kindle—Thanks for proudly spreading the word and passing out fliers in the hot, hot sun. Jack Glover—You were there when the idea was conceived. You provided the peace and gave me the space that I needed to write. I thank you.
Stephanie S. Fitchette—Thanks for your comments and advice from the very beginning and for literally dropping everything to edit the first edition of this book. Karen Dempsey Hammond—You are my sister in spirit. Thank you being such a bright light in my life. Phyllis A. Nelson—Our time together was powerful but brief. I thank you for touching my life with your beauty, your spirit, and your song. Yvette Davis—Love transcends time and space. Cynthia Waters-Tines—Thanks for the love and support during the most confusing and difficult time of my life. Your kindness has never been forgotten. Karen Fitchette-Gordon—You’ll never know how privileged I felt to be taken under your “sophisticated” wing! Patricia Lowery—Thank you for helping me lug those heavy boxes and many thanks for your superior decorating and organizational skills.
Many thanks to: Tiffany Colvin of Sisters In Spirit Book Club for my first on-line review, Lorraine Ballard Morrell of Power 99 FM for my first radio interview, and Michelle Chilton for putting me on the front page of The Philadelphia Tribune.
I’d like to thank the following Philadelphia area African American Bookstore owners for their support: Emlyn Q. DeGannes of Mejah Books, Betty Jean of Liguorius Books, Lecia Warner of Basic Black Books, Juanita Koukoui of It’s A Mystery To Me.
Zane—Thanks for everything!
And last but not least, much gratitude to: Kyndal, Korky, Kameron, Keenan, CJ, & Kha’ri. I Love, Love, Love my Hobbs/Johnson crew!
PROLOGUE
Victoria awakened from a fitful sleep clutching her chest and panting for breath. Overwhelmed by a feeling of impending doom, she was certain she was going to die. Easing her legs off the bed, she managed to stand.
Across the room a blur of white blinds and lavender print curtains beckoned her. She made feeble steps toward the window, convinced she’d be okay if she could just get some fresh air. But the feeling intensified. Her heart raced unreasonably, and then began to beat irregularly—slowing down, skipping beats. Oddly, she felt nothing that could be identified as pain, just sheer terror and a suspicion that death loomed.
The window was too far away; she’d never make it. With that realization Victoria retreated and collapsed onto the bed. As she reached for the phone to call for help, she suddenly changed her mind, and withdrew her hand. If she could endure the discomfort for a few moments more, perhaps the symptoms would go away, disappear like before.
Finally, the sensations began to subside. Victoria’s emotions flickered from relief to embarrassment. She wasn’t going to die after all; it was just an anxiety attack. The fourth in a week.
Victoria was a singer. An unknown singer. Her agent, Justice Martin, had insisted that she invest in her career by recording an expensive, high-quality demo. Long hours at the recording studio had affected Victoria’s performance at her day job, a low paying clerical position that, nevertheless, had kept the bills paid. She suffered the first anxiety attack when she was terminated. There was nothing to worry about; she’d never miss the loss of income, Justice assured her. A record deal with a healthy advance was close at hand.
Then Victoria received the distressful news that the A&R director of her future label had been fired. The anxiety attacks became more frequent and more intense. Victoria was devastated, while Justice, upbeat and optimistic, appeared untroubled.
“I forgot to tell you about the incredibly short life span of A&R directors,” he said with a chuckle. “They hop from label-to-label. No big deal. I’ve got something better in the works. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”
But he didn’t get back to her in a few days, or a few weeks. In fact, he no longer answered or returned her calls.
Victoria continued to speed-dial his number by rote.
One day, to her surprise, instead of getting Justice’s answering machine, Victoria listened incredulously to the British-sounding voice of a woman: “Good day. Justice Martin & Associates. May I help you?”
Astonished, Victoria stammered, “This is Victoria. May I speak to Justice?”
“Victoria?” The British voice asked, perplexed. “May I have your last name, please? And may I ask what this call is in reference to?”
“I don’t need a last name, and no, you may not ask what this call is in reference to,” Victoria exclaimed, fuming. The next sound Victoria heard was the disconnecting click. She stared at the phone in disbelief. In record time she rushed her son to the babysitter down the street, and hailed a cab.
With blazing eyes, Victoria burst into Justice Martin’s smartly furnished City Line Avenue office. Framed photographs of Justice posed with noted entertainers and prominent public figures were on display everywhere. The numerous photographs that once impressed Victoria now annoyed her. They were crammed together on walls, tabletops, and atop Justice’s sleek chrome and glass desk.
“Where’s Justice?” Victoria demanded.
The startled receptionist sputtered, “Mr. Martin’s not here; he’s upstairs in his flat. Shall I ring him?” Victoria rolled her eyes and headed for the elevator in the lobby. Tapping her foot impatiently, she rode to the 26th floor.
Tall, dark, and roguishly handsome Justice Martin stood barefoot outside his apartment, posed against the doorframe. He wore a black silk lounging jacket, left open undoubtedly to flaunt his tight abs and hairy chest, the drawstring of his black silk pajama bottoms were pulled tight. With long locked hair, pulled back and twisted into a roll, he was indeed, a striking figure, but Victoria sucked her teeth at the sight of him.
Apparently not wanting his well-heeled neighbors to be aroused by a scene, Justice ushered Victoria inside.
At first his tone was soft, placating. “Vic, calm down. Things are going to work out, but you have to be patient. Now, I have to be frank with you. Word travels fast in this business, and some of the companies that had expressed an interest have changed their minds. They don’t want to get involved with an artist that the competition doesn’t want.”
Victoria could feel the room spinning; she wanted to vomit.
“To be honest,” he said looking at his feet, “your material sounds a little dated…maybe we need to go back and cut something with, uh, a little hip hop flavor.”
“Hip hop?” she screamed. “Another demo? Who’s going to pay for another demo? I don’t have a job, remember? Which means I don’t have any more money.” Victoria’s voice went up several pitches.
As if in deep thought, Justice laced and unlaced long sinewy fingers and then tapped together fingertips that had been manicured and polished high-gloss clear.
“So how do you plan on paying off the six gees you owe the studio?”
Victoria looked at Justice like he was crazy. “What are you talking about? I paid…”
“Justice Martin & Associates is not a charitable organization,” he announced, interrupting her. “You signed my contract; I get twenty percent of your earnings, plus my investment.”
“I didn’t earn anything, Justice,” Victoria blurted, un-comprehending. “And you didn’t invest anything. I did! I spent ten thousand dollars on this project. How can you make a statement like that?” Victoria shook her head in disbelief, her eyes brimming with tears of anger and humiliation.
“Baby, time is money and I don’t work for free. I thought that was understood. I couldn’t predict that dude would lose his job and blow the deal. But I don’t take risks. I have a track record. People respect me in this business. That’s how I was able to get you studio time on speculation.”
Victoria’s mouth dropped open. “Speculation! Justice, I paid for studio time.”
“No, baby,” he sneered. “You paid for Justice’s time; I took mine off the top.”
“How could you do this to me? I used every penny of the money my grandmother left me because you promised I’d get it back tenfold.”
Justice yawned dramatically, and then said, “Come on, baby, I only charged you seven Gees. I had to give the producer his cut. I think my time and expertise are worth a lot more than that.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then he added with a sneer, “I should have charged you twice that amount for having to listen to you sing those sad-ass songs.”
The cruelty of his words doubled her over as if she’d been physically hit. Reflexively, her hands flew up, ready to attack, but his empty eyes halted her. Justice was not the type to restrain a hysterical woman. Victoria sensed he’d feel justified and take great delight in hitting back—leaving hard evidence such as a bloodied lip or a blackened eye.
Distraught, Victoria returned home. Her mind swirled with desperate thoughts. There had to be a way to repair the damage. She still had her precious demo, she’d go out, pound the pavements of New York and get her own damn deal.
But Victoria needed more than the single CD that was in her possession. Until the balance on the account was paid, the master tape belonged to the recording studio. She had no money, no product, nothing.
Visualizing Justice lying in a pool of blood became her favorite pastime; but when the bills began mounting, anxiety attacks distracted her from contemplating murder.
An eviction notice brought Victoria back to life, propelled her to take control. She would not allow her innocent son to end up in a shelter, or even worse, foster care. She had to pull herself together. There was no time to waste on job hunting, and waiting for a paycheck. She needed cash and she needed it now!
CHAPTER 1
Victoria Carlton gripped the telephone receiver, lifted it, and then quickly replaced it. She wasn’t ready. How could she trust her voice to convey polish and sophistication when she was quivering with fear? She willed herself to relax, and tried again. She pushed the numbers, and this time, stayed on the line.
“I’m responding to your ad in today’s paper,” she announced, with a surprisingly steady voice.
“Done this kind of work before?” a gruff male voice asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
“Where?”
She hesitated, then replied, “In California…uh, L.A.”
“How old are ya?”
There was a longer hesitation, then another lie. “Twenty-five.”
There was no response on the other end. She sensed that she’d given the wrong answer. She should have cut her age down even more—perhaps to eighteen or nineteen. Victoria knew she looked good—damn good for thirty-three, but her mouth would not form itself to say anything younger than twenty-five.
“Measurements?” the man finally asked.
“What?”
“What are your measurements?”
“Oh! 34-26-36,” Victoria answered, squirming.
“Height?”
“Five-six.” She thought that sounded better than her actual five-four.
“Are you black or white?”
Taken aback by the question, she answered with an edge, “I’m African American.”
“Okay,” he said unenthusiastically. “You can come in today for an interview.”
“Today! What time?” she blurted in sudden fear.
“As soon as possible. We get a lot of calls. First come, first served. By the way,” he added, “what name do you use?”
Victoria’s mind went blank for a moment. She paced back and forth in her bedroom, wildly surveying her surroundings as if the answer lay hidden somewhere in the room. Then, zooming in on the bureau, she spotted a bottle of cologne: Pleasures by Estee Lauder.
“Um…Pleasure,” Victoria said, with a question mark in her voice.
“Okay, Pleasure,” the man said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
Victoria skidded around her apartment, trying to get herself together for the interview. She scanned the closet and chose a simple black knit dress
that clung nicely. Now which shoes should she wear? Did she have any clean pantyhose—without runs? Random thoughts crowded her mind. Would she be asked detailed information about her previous employer? The time constraint prevented Victoria from getting her lies together, but when it occurred to her that she might be asked to give her date of birth, she stopped in her tracks and attempted to do the calculations.
The 34 arrived much too quickly. Before Victoria had time to get her story straight, she was paying the fare and sliding into a seat. As the trolley made its rickety way down Baltimore Avenue, she gazed out the window. It passed the familiar sites along the route: the deli on the corner of 49th Street with the usual array of misfits loitering outside, the video store, and the Amoco gas station.
Oddly, there were no passengers standing at the designated waiting areas along the route, and so the trolley rumbled along without stopping—shortening the time that Victoria would reach her destination.
What would she say? What would be expected of her? How does one apply for such a job? Victoria needed more time to think, to rid herself of the queasy feeling.
The biting January cold, Victoria noticed, didn’t deter the joggers who circled Clark Park. Or the pet owners who dutifully endured the weather while their dogs romped at play. She felt her heart sink when the trolley turned into the depot that led to an underground tunnel. It wouldn’t be long now. Thirty-seventh Street flashed by. Would she have to give some sort of demonstration? She wondered, worried.
Someone boarded the trolley at 33rd Street. Victoria didn’t bother to look up but was grateful that the trolley stood still for a while. The driver patiently waited for the passenger to pay the fare. The out-of-town students from Penn were notorious for holding up trolleys while they groped through their pockets, looking perplexed, as if needing to deposit the exact change was a thoroughly new concept. Their Ivy League status apparently should have exempted them from this senseless inconvenience.
Victoria looked up when the trolley finally lurched forward, causing the bespectacled student who was stooped by a backpack, to fall into his seat.
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