Chaser
Page 1
PRAISE FOR MOMMY’S ANGEL
“Miasha keeps things moving at a fast clip, but the basic empathy and understanding that pervade are the story’s real appeal. [She] never loses sight of the basic humanity of all the lost souls that surround Angel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In the midst of all the same voices in literature, Miasha brings authenticity to the pages of this novel. She’s the crème de la crème—enjoy!”
—Vickie Stringer, Essence bestselling author of Let That Be the Reason
“Mommy’s Angel highlights some of the harsh realities that many of our society’s poor and forgotten children face in life…. Earthy, realistic, and full of unpredictable twists and turns, Miasha has written a novel that is sure to please.”
—Rawsistaz.com
“Mommy’s Angel is a fast-paced, well-written, realistic view of what addiction does to our communities. It sheds a bright light on how the addict’s hurt, pain, and trouble are recycled onto the people closest to them.”
—Danielle Santiago, author of Grindin’ and Essence #1 bestseller Little Ghetto Girl
“A poignant tale of innocence lost in Brooklyn.”
—K’wan, author of Gangsta, Street Dreams, Eve, and Hood Rat
PRAISE FOR DIARY OF A MISTRESS
“Miasha cleverly builds up the suspense and throws in several unexpected twists. Her latest release is filled with intrigue and will keep you turning the pages. Diary of a Mistress will make you think twice about who you trust.”
—Sheila M. Goss, e-Spire Entertainment News editor and author of My Invisible Husband
“Miasha has done it again. Diary of a Mistress is a sizzling novel full of unexpected twists and guaranteed to leave readers in shock, and gasping for air, as they excitedly turn each page.”
—Karen E. Quinones Miller, author of Satin Doll, I’m Telling, and Satin Nights
“Diary of a Mistress is an intense, captivating, and twisted love triangle. Miasha allows the usually silent mistress to raise her voice through the pages of her diary.”
—Daaimah S. Poole, author of Ex-Girl to the Next Girl, What’s Real, and Got a Man
“Only Miasha can make it hard to choose between wanting to be the mistress or the wife.”
—Brenda L. Thomas, author of Threesome, Fourplay, and The Velvet Rope
PRAISE FOR SECRET SOCIETY
“Scandalous and engrossing, this debut from Miasha…shows her to be a writer to watch.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sizzling and steamy novel…the storyline will hold readers’ attention and entertain them in the process.”
—Booking Matters
“Miasha enters the arena of urban literature full-throttle and ready to swing…surely to become one the most talked-about novels of 2006.”
—Mahogany Book Club, Albany, NY
“Miasha cooks up a delicious drama with all the ingredients of a bestseller—seduction, vindication, and lots of scandal.”
—Brenda L. Thomas, author of Threesome, Fourplay, and The Velvet Rope
“Miasha tells it like it is. Her writing style is gritty and gripping and will keep you reading and wanting more.”
—Karen E. Quinones Miller, author of Ida B
“Miasha writes with the fatal stroke of a butcher knife. This book is raw material. Squeamish readers beware. You want proof? Just read the first page.”
—Omar Tyree, New York Times bestseller, and NAACP Image Award–winning author of the Flyy Girl trilogy
“With Secret Society, readers should be prepared to expect the unexpected. Each page is a roller-coaster ride of emotion, drama, and intrigue. Miasha packs her debut novel with so many scandalous scenarios that the reader can’t help but anxiously turn the page in anticipation. An excellent debut that still has me shaking my head in amazement, long after I read the last page!”
—Tracy Brown, bestselling author of Dime Piece, Black, and Criminal Minded
“Miasha writes with fire in this tale of two girls with a shocking secret and a story told with raw, heartfelt drama that is sure to carve this first-time novelist a place in the urban lit world.”
—Crystal Lacey Winslow, bestselling author of Life, Love & Loneliness
ALSO BY MIASHA
Never Enough
Sistah for Sale
Mommy’s Angel
Diary of a Mistress
Secret Society
TOUCHSTONE
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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.
Copyright © 2009 by Meosha Coleman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Miasha, 1981–
Chaser: a novel / by Miasha.—1st Touchstone trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone book.”
1. African Americans—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.I18C47 2009
813'.6—dc22 2009 011380
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9751-3
ISBN-10: 1-4165-9751-4
Visit us on the Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
To the newest addition to my family, Ace Nasir.
Getting this done has been a long journey,
and I’m blessed to have had you to be a part of it
Love you, baby boy,
Mommy
Contents
Leah
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Nasir
Leah
Leah
Leah
KENNY, STOP, PLEEEEASE! KENNNNYYY!” I cried for my life. It wasn’t even about the baby anymore because I was sure it was dead. There was no way it could have withstood the blows Kenny delivered directly to my stomach. Not to mention his dragging me around on the concrete floors. My poor baby was gone. I was feeling weaker with each punch. I was losing consciousness, and I realized Kenny was trying to kill me.
“Please, Kenny, don’t kill me,” I said with what little energy I had. “Please.”
Kenny turned me over on my back and straddled my neck and upper chest. He looked in my eyes as I gagged for air. He was blurry to me. In fact, everything was blurry. I turned to my right and the door to one of the guest bedrooms was opened. The furniture in it looked like it was floating. All of the colors from the sage-colored paint on the walls to the olive-green silk drapes on the windows and the multicolored Oriental rugs on the hardwood floors blended together, forming one big rainbow cloud. When I looke
d up at the recessed lights that lined the ceiling in our hallway, I felt nauseous. I wanted to close my eyes to avoid the dizzy feeling I had, but I was afraid if I did I would die. So I fought with all my might to keep my eyelids from drooping. And just as I was beginning to give up on trying to stay alive, I felt Kenny’s weight lift off me and heard him walking away from me and down the stairs. I felt a sense of relief, as I believed he was finished with me.
I had a moment to think about everything I had done to end up in the position I was in, and I wondered if it was worth it. Was it really worth my life? I wished I could turn back the hands of time, but I couldn’t, and before I wasted any more time pitying myself, I needed to focus on what I could do to get help.
Relief was short-lived. As I lay there on the cold hardwood floor, clinging to consciousness, I could faintly hear Kenny’s footsteps once again on the steps.
I opened my eyes as much as my strength would allow and saw Kenny pouring what I figured was gasoline on every step as he walked backward down our spiral staircase. I wanted to protest, to try to plead for my life, but I had no energy at all to do or say anything. I felt completely paralyzed, helpless, as good as dead.
“This’ll teach you to wear a wire on me, bitch!” Kenny yelled.
Then I heard the sound of the gasoline can being dropped at the bottom of the steps and, seconds later, a loud poof. A panic came over me. My mind was telling me to get up and run, but my body wouldn’t move. I thought about my mom and how she’d tried to tell me time and time again to leave Kenny alone. Had I listened to her, I would not have been preparing to meet my death. I thought about Nasir and wondered what he would say and how he would feel once he found out that I was gone. I wished I could have had one last moment with him. Even if it was just to say good-bye. My life nearing its end, I began to muffle the Twenty-third Psalm.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
I closed my eyes. I thought about the date: May 30, 2008. So my tombstone would read Leah Cecily Nicole Baker, July 17, 1983, to May 30, 2008. Then I had second thoughts. I’m not ready to die and especially not like this. I want to fight. I want to fight badly. But I can’t. Please, God, spare my life. Please, God, intervene. Please don’t let today be my last.
Leah
Five Months Earlier
I was in bed asleep when Kenny came home with another one of his schemes. Over the last year that we’d been living together, this had gotten to be a pattern. But usually he was a lot nicer and sweeter than he was tonight. He used to cuddle up with me and tell me what he was planning and what role he needed me to play. He always had a hustle up his sleeve, too, and it seemed his hustles got grander with time. He went from using stolen gas cards and fillin’ niggas’ tanks up for half price to sellin’ phony master’s degrees to rich white kids who’d rather spend their tuition on crystal meth and prescription drugs. And who do you think sold them the crystal meth and pills? Kenny, of course. He was a one-stop shop. But I couldn’t knock him. His desire to make money afforded me a pretty good lifestyle. And if I didn’t love him for anything else, I loved Kenny for taking care of me.
“Get up, Leah. Get dressed real quick,” he demanded as he turned on the bedroom light and pulled the covers off me.
I lifted the eye mask off my eyes and asked, “Why, what’s the problem?”
“I got something I need you to do. Hurry up, ’cause everybody outside waiting.”
I sat up in our California king bed and scooted over to my side. I reached to pick up my cell phone off the charging station that sat on the European-style nightstand. I looked at the screen. “It’s one o’clock in the morning,” I whined.
“I know what time it is. Hurry up and throw some clothes on,” he said with energy, as if it were one in the afternoon.
He grabbed me by my arm and assisted me out the bed. I closed my eyes again, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone. He didn’t. Instead, he walked me into our master bathroom. I could tell because of the warmth I felt under my feet from the bathroom’s heated marble floors. He ran some water in the sink, splashing some on my face. Finally, I opened my eyes. Immediately upon doing so, I grabbed the remote out of its base off the wall and dimmed the recessed lights. My eyes weren’t ready for bright lights just yet.
“You’re wetting my hair!” I complained. “You know I don’t get perms no more!”
“My bad. I just need you to move like you got somewhere to be. Time is money.”
“What do you have me doin’, Kenny?” I asked, drying my face with one of the hand towels I kept rolled up in a basket on top of the marble counter.
“I’ll explain it to you in the car. Get dressed and meet me in the garage,” Kenny said before he left the bedroom.
I threw on a Juicy sweatsuit and some UGG boots. I unwrapped my hair and ran my fingers through it to allow the loose curls to fall into place. I didn’t have time to put on makeup, so lip gloss and eyeliner it was. I grabbed the gold Gucci handbag I had carried earlier in the day because it already had my wallet and keys inside. Otherwise, I would have taken one of my Louis bags, which would have coordinated better with what I was wearing.
I dragged my feet down our long hallway, smirking at the black-and-white pictures of just about every gangster known to man—out-laws both fictional and non—that lined the walls. Every time I passed the artwork, I found it amusing that characters like Vito Corleone and Scarface were Kenny’s role models. I walked past the front staircase and proceeded to the back one, which led straight to our kitchen. When I got downstairs, I stopped at our Viking stainless steel refrigerator and grabbed a Red Bull. I needed a boost of energy. There was no telling what Kenny was going to have me do. I walked into the three-car garage, and Kenny was in the passenger side of our 2007 Range Rover Sport. The engine was already running. I heard the doors unlock and took that as my cue to get in. I opened the driver’s-side door, which required extra tugging since it had been side swiped a few months before. We had had every intention on getting it fixed, but Kenny wound up spending the check from the insurance company. He claimed he was going to put the money back in an account, but he never did. He blew the money, which was something he did frequently. That was why every so often he would rely on a scam to build his stash up again. He was good at making money but not so good at keeping it, and therefore he spent more time chasing it than enjoying it.
Kenny and I had been together for a little over three years—longer than I ever expected. When I first met him, I figured he would be somebody I would just have fun with. You know, go to the movies, have dinner, just kick it with him from time to time. But it so happened that eight months into our relationship my older sister’s drinking became a nuisance. We would fight constantly over her stealing my money and personal belongings. I wanted to move out of my mom’s house so that I wouldn’t have to keep going through drama with my sister, but I didn’t have enough money to be on my own. Moving in with Kenny was my solution. And what started off as a friendship-with-benefits type of situation turned into a courtship.
“Why are we driving this? The door hardly opens, and it’s all crashed up on the side.”
“’Cause we’re gettin’ rid of it tonight,” he said. “Now, drive to Fifth and Spring Garden.”
I put the SUV in drive and pulled out of the garage. Once on the street, I noticed a car following us. As I turned left on Saint Asaphs and sped up, the other car did, too. I took the winding road around until it dead-ended at City Avenue. I got in the left-turn-only lan
e, and sure enough the car behind me did the same.
“Who’s that behind me?” I asked, looking in my rearview mirror.
Without budging to see who it was, Kenny responded, “It’s my cousin Dahwoo and his girl. Once we get to where we’re goin’, they’re goin’ to get in the backseat.”
“Okay, so what’s goin’ on? Why did you get me out of bed?”
“Listen, we goin’ drive to a low-key area where it’s not a lot of traffic. Once we get there, we goin’ get out the car and stand to the side while my man drive the car into a wall—”
“What?” I cut him off.
“Just listen. Then you goin’ get back in the driver’s seat, I’m goin’ get back in the passenger seat, and Dahwoo and his girl goin’ get in the back. You’re goin’ call the cops and tell them you were just in an accident.”
“Are you serious?” I asked him, unable to hold my peace any longer. “And what’s the point in doing this?”
“For one, I’m tired of payin’ a note and insurance on a car we don’t drive. For two, I’m goin’ get a cut off the check the insurance company goin’ write to fix it. And for three, me, you, Woo, and his girl goin’ rack up on case money.”