Hooker to housewife # 3

by Deja King

  CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE: Queen of New York

  TWO: Promiscuous Girl

  THREE: Love Don’t Live Here

  FOUR: Poison

  FIVE: Changing the Game

  SIX: Sweetest Revenge

  SEVEN: Scheming

  EIGHT: The Pleasure Principle

  NINE: Mesmerized

  TEN: The Truth Hurts

  ELEVEN: Forbidden Fruit

  TWELVE: Tears on My Pillow

  THIRTEEN: Beautifully Broken

  FOURTEEN: Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

  FIFTEEN: Magic Stick

  SIXTEEN: Down the Aisle

  SEVENTEEN: Sweet Dreams

  Hooker to

  Housewife

  Also by Joy King

  Dirty Little Secrets

  Hooker to

  Housewife

  Joy King

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  HOOKER TO HOUSEWIFE. Copyright © 2007 by Joy King. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  King, Joy, 1978–

  Hooker to housewife / Joy King.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-35408-4

  ISBN-10: 0-312-35408-8

  1. African Americans—Fiction. 2. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.1582H66 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2006051191

  First Edition: April 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated

  to all my industry chicks who

  are putting in that overtime trying

  to go from Hooker to Housewife.

  I see you. I wish you the best of luck!

  A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

  Wow, I’m back again for part two. Where do I start? Of course, thank you to my family, I love you. I especially want to thank my mother, who is my biggest supporter. You’re always willing and ready to read my stories and to give me your honest opinion—I do so appreciate that.

  To my true friends, you know who you are, because I don’t have that many (smile). I truly adore you.

  Monique Patterson, I’m trying to hit one out of the ballpark this time. Only because of your expertise is it even possible for me to say that. My gift is highlighted because of your talent—thank you.

  Much love to Marc Gerald and everybody at St. Martin’s Press; Emily Drum—girl, I miss you!

  To all the book clubs, vendors, and retailers, I greatly appreciate your giving a rookie in the game a chance to shine.

  Finally, but most important, my readers—you’re the best! When I received tons of email from people who read Dirty Little Secrets it touched me in a way that’s almost unexplainable. You embraced Tyler Blake as if you knew her personally, and that means I did something right when I wrote that character. For all of you who didn’t get it—oh well. But seriously, hugs and kisses to everyone who supports my work, because if the readers don’t embrace me, then I might as well put the pen down. For my previous booklovers and my new booklovers, thank you for joining me on yet another journey. So sit back and prepare yourself for what I hope will be the ultimate ride!

  Hooker to

  Housewife

  P R O L O G U E

  Sex Is the Key to . . . Money,

  Power, and Respect

  2000, Southside Chicago

  “Chantal, time to get up,” Mrs. Morgan said in her usual chipper voice. Chantal could never decide what annoyed her more, the sugary sweetness in her mother’s voice or having to wake up early to attend school. She felt lucky knowing today was officially her last day in high school. After graduation Chantal had big plans and none of them included having to hear her mother tell her it was time to get up.

  “Dear, you’re going to be late, now you really should get up.” Mrs. Morgan lightly tapped Chantal’s shoulder under the blankets.

  “Ma, I heard you,” Chantal said shrugging her arm. “Now can you please leave my room? I don’t need you standing over me when I get out of bed.”

  “Okay, but your breakfast will get cold if you don’t hurry up.”

  “Please, don’t wait for me. I ain’t eating that fattening shit anyway. I have to watch my weight because I’m going to be a star, and my hips don’t need to spread no further.” Chantal mumbled under the covers.

  “What did you say, dear? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “I said I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Oh good, then I’ll start fixing your plate.”

  After another five minutes Chantal finally pulled herself from under the covers and stepped out of bed. When her feet touched the floor the first thing she noticed was that she was in desperate need of a pedicure.

  “Damn, I don’t feel like polishing my toes. I’ll have to go to the nail salon.” Chantal smacked her lips and walked over to the dresser drawer and took out her wallet. She only had thirty dollars and that was barely enough to get her hair done for the graduation ceremony. “Ain’t this some shit?” Chantal tossed her wallet on top of the dresser and grabbed what she needed before heading to the bathroom.

  After a few minutes in the bathroom Chantal exited, dressed and ready to finish her last miserable day of high school. When she entered the kitchen she noticed her mother reading her daily chapter from the Bible. Chantal knew for a fact her mother had read the Bible front to back at least six times and never understood why she would start again from the beginning when she had finished. Her father, of course, was reading the classifieds in the local paper, looking for yet another job. He already had two but insisted on having a third part-time job.

  “Daddy, you still looking for another job?” Chantal said as she sat down at the table. She observed the plate her mother had prepared for her. Pancakes with tons of butter dripping down the sides, greasy maple-smoked bacon, and eggs with cheese, but there was much more cheese than eggs. Chantal turned her face away from the food and picked up her orange juice and sipped on that. At only eighteen, Chantal had already envisioned what her life would be like in the near future, and it didn’t consist of eating the plate of fat her mother placed in front of her. Although she grew up on what many would consider the wrong side of the tracks, Chantal still felt superior to everyone around her, including her docile parents. Chantal would often reflect on the biblical phrase her mother would quote about highly regarded leaders who did positive deeds to uplift the community: “Many are called, but few are chosen.” Chantal derived her own meaning from the phrase; that many women wanted to be born beautiful, live a life of wealth and privilege, and marry the man of their dreams, but only a select few would seize all three. With Chantal’s gleaming honey blonde hair, her sun-kissed bronze skin, flawless features, and a body no man could resist, there was no doubt in her mind that she was one of the few who were chosen. Chantal felt that no one, including her parents, understood her determination for reaching greatness. Instead of people viewing her attitude as confident, they called her stuck-up and arrogant. Chantal’s parents would constantly tell her to be more humble, but she ignored them. Chantal had already made up her mind. No one would stop her from living her dreams.

  “Well
, a man gotta work and it’s hard out here.”

  “I don’t understand why you just don’t get one good job that would pay all the bills instead of getting nickel-and-dimed at those other little jobs you got.”

  “Because nothing in this life is guaranteed. I like knowing that if one job lay me off then I have another to fall back on.”

  Chantal took in a deep breath and rolled her eyes. “With all these little jobs you got, I’m sure you can spare twenty dollars.”

  “What you need twenty dollars for?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I need to get a pedicure.”

  “What in the world—is that the procedure for your feet?”

  Chantal ogled her dad for a moment, not sure if he was serious with his question. “Yes.”

  “Well I’ll be—you actually have to pay for that? I thought you were supposed to clean your own feet.”

  “Daddy, if you don’t want to do it yourself then, yeah, you have to pay somebody to do it. It’s a job. Ain’t nothing for free.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you with that one. Your mother needs some money for groceries.” Her mother nodded “yes” while her head was still buried in the Bible. Although she was supposed to be reading, her ears were obviously still listening.

  “We don’t need no more food up in this house. I can’t believe ya’ll gon’ have me walking around with jacked up toes because you want some more pork on the table.”

  “Now ain’t nothing wrong with some good pork, Chantal.”

  “Oh please. I’ll see ya later.”

  “Dear, you haven’t touched your breakfast,” her mother looked up and said.

  “I’m running late and I don’t want to miss the bus. Give it to Daddy—I’m sure he’s still hungry, since he needs to give you money to buy more food.” Chantal’s parents looked at each other and she stared at them for a moment. She didn’t understand how they could’ve produced her. Physically, she understood, because although both were in their fifties Chantal could still tell that at one time they had been a striking couple. Chantal’s mother put her in mind of Diahann Carroll and her father was what many of her classmates labeled her: a mutt. He was a combination of African-American, Irish, Venezuelan, and Italian. None of that mattered to Chantal because when she looked in the mirror all she saw was a gorgeous, exotic-looking black girl.

  Yes, their physical genes ran through Chantal’s blood, but that’s where the similarities ended. Her mother was a devout Christian who never raised her voice and her father was just plain clueless. Chantal wondered if the fact that her parents had had her later in life played a role in why they were so different from her. Chantal’s mother had been told she couldn’t have any children so when they conceived Chantal they called her their miracle child. When Chantal was born they spoiled her rotten. Not in a materialistic way because the Morgans didn’t have the money to do so, which added to their guilt. But they spoiled Chantal by letting her say and do whatever she wanted. So although Mrs. Morgan was an avid Bible reader she must have missed the passage that said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

  “Chantal, don’t be that way. Here, take this twenty and go get your feet all pretty.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Chantal kissed her father on the forehead, but not before making sure the twenty was placed securely in her back pocket. Chantal’s father just smiled in his customary fashion while Mrs. Morgan discreetly shook her head. Mrs. Morgan knew she and her husband had created a monster with Chantal but she felt it was much too late to do anything about it.

  The Morgans had put Chantal on a pedestal since the day she was born. Mrs. Morgan couldn’t believe that God had blessed one child with so much beauty. Wherever she took Chantal they were constantly stopped and told what a gorgeous little girl she was. By the time Chantal was ten years old she, too, knew just how beautiful she was and made it known.

  When Chantal started elementary school, Mrs. Morgan took a part-time job cleaning houses to bring additional income into the home. One day, due to a school half day, Mrs. Morgan had to bring Chantal along for one of her cleaning assignments. She had to clean a mansion for an affluent white family in North Chicago. Chantal’s eyes widened when they pulled up the long driveway leading to the opulent estate. “Ma, I ain’t never seen no house like this before. It look like one of those castles I seen in my book.”

  “Well, it’s big like a castle, too. Now you know I’m not supposed to have you with me so don’t touch nothing, Chantal.”

  “I won’t. I promise. You gonna clean this big old place all by yourself?”

  “No. They have regular on-staff maids, but a couple of them are sick and they need me to do some light cleaning. We need the money so I couldn’t turn the job down.” By the time Mrs. Morgan finished her sentence Chantal had already made it to the door and rang the bell.

  “Can I help you, little girl?” the butler asked when he opened the door.

  “Excuse me, I’m here with my mother.” Chantal brushed passed the man as if the house belonged to her.

  “I’m sorry, sir, my daughter can get a bit excited. I’m Patricia,” she said, extending her hand. The butler simply ignored her gesture and continued to stare directly into her eyes. Feeling embarrassed, Mrs. Morgan put her hand down. “I’m here to clean the house.” The butler then turned and eyed Chantal. “Oh, I explained to the cleaning company that my daughter was out of school today and I would need to bring her with me on this assignment. They said it would be okay. I promise she won’t be any trouble.” The butler gave her an annoyed smirk and moved to the side, finally acknowledging that she was welcome to come in.

  “You’ll be cleaning the bedrooms upstairs. I’ll escort you to the master suite.” Mrs. Morgan and Chantal followed behind the snotty man. When they reached the master bedroom Chantal thought it looked more like a mini-mansion. The bedroom was twice as big as the entire house they lived in.

  “One day I’ll have a bedroom that looks exactly like this,” Chantal stated proudly. Both her mother and the butler glanced at her simultaneously, but Chantal was oblivious to their glares.

  “I’ll be leaving you to your work. Let me know when you’re done.”

  When the butler left, Mrs. Morgan stared at Chantal. “Chantal, you can’t say things like that in front of the butler.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m here to do a job and that’s not appropriate.”

  “You always tell me to be honest and I was telling the truth. One day I will have a bedroom like this and a house, too. That man should know it. Who knows, maybe he’ll be working for me in the future.”

  “Oh, Chantal, such big dreams you have.”

  “They’re not dreams. Look at these people,” Chantal said as she pointed to several family photographs that decorated the room. “I’m more beautiful than all of them. If they can live like kings and queens, then so can I.”

  “It takes more than looks, honey. These people work very hard.”

  “Work hard doing what, Mama? They can’t be working harder than you and we ain’t living like this.”

  “Still, trust me this family worked very hard to get what they have.”

  “I bet you the only work the lady of this house is doing is on her back.”

  “Chantal, don’t you say such things. Where did you learn that from?” Mrs. Morgan was stunned that her ten-year-old daughter was talking so grown.

  “Mama, on my summer breaks you watch soap operas just like I do. All those white broads married to rich men don’t do nothing but keep their hair, nails, and clothes tight. They go to bed looking like that and they step out the bed looking just as good. Obviously that’s all men want, a woman who keeps herself looking pretty and ready to pleasure him in bed anytime he like.”

  “Chantal, that is television, it isn’t real life. Plus, you have been blessed with God-given beauty and should never use it as a weapon. That’s just evil.”

  “So you say. I call it us
ing what you have to get what you want. I’m sure the Lord would understand. If he didn’t want me to have it, he wouldn’t have given it to me.”

  “Dear Lord, please heal my child,” Mrs. Morgan said closing her eyes in a brief prayer. “You just make sure you’re ready for church Sunday morning.” Chantal rolled her eyes, already dreading their upcoming Sunday ritual. Mrs. Morgan could’ve had the pastor preach the entire sermon with his hand placed on Chantal’s head and it still wouldn’t have changed her heart.

  That distant Monday morning, in the bedroom of a multimillionaire, Chantal had made it clear to her mother that living a life as a rich man’s wife was her ultimate dream.

  “Patricia, can you hear me?” Mr. Morgan asked for the third time. She had been so caught up in reminiscing about the past that she didn’t hear her husband talking to her. It was seven years ago when she realized how jaded her daughter was and nothing had changed. Mrs. Morgan felt completely responsible for Chantal’s thirst to live that life. She wondered if they had been more financially secure and provided her with more, maybe Chantal’s attitude about the importance of material things wouldn’t be so twisted.

  “I’m sorry, honey, this scripture got me in deep thought. What did you say?”

  “Here’s the money for the groceries.” He handed her four twenty-dollar bills. “I’m a little short of the hundred I promised, but you know Chantal did need the money.” Mrs. Morgan looked down at the money and realized this was the story of their lives. Always sacrificing what they needed in order to give Chantal what she wanted.

  As Chantal sat on the bus on her way to school she pulled out the new issue of Vibe magazine. The headline read, MEET THE KING OF NEW YORK. It had a full shot of one of the most handsome men Chantal had ever seen. When she looked inside to read the six-page article and photo layout her panties started to get moist at the thought of being married to a man with all that money, power, and respect. They showed snapshots of him with the mayor of New York and a couple of movie stars and supermodels. Chantal knew she was just as pretty, if not more so, than the women pictured with him. In Chantal’s mind they just happened to get to the limelight faster than she did, but that was a small obstacle for a young woman as determined as Chantal. In a few days she would be a free woman and no one would stop her from achieving all her dreams.