BRATHWAITE PUBLISHING
www.brathwaitepublishing.com
Books by Arlene Brathwaite are published by
Brathwaite Publishing
P.O. Box 38205
Albany, New York 12203
Copyright © 2008 by Arlene Brathwaite
Library of Congress Number:
ISBN—10: 0-9797462-2-1
ISBN—13: 978-0-9797462-2-2
Kindle ISBN: 978-0-9797462-4-6
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
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
About the Author
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I would like to thank God for making this possible. To all of the readers who purchased my books, and continue to show me love and support. I would also like to thank A & B Distributors in Brooklyn New York, Urban Knowledge Bookstores in Baltimore Maryland, Afrikan World Book Baltimore Maryland, Source of Knowledge Book Store Newark New Jersey, S & M Communications Albany New York, Seaburn Publishing Group/Black Book Plus Astoria New York, Rhonda Bogan of MochaReaders/James PR group for PR services, Kimberly Martin for book layout, Marion Designs for the hot book covers, Curtis Witters of Little Villa Publishing for all you do for me, know that I will never forget.
I would like to give a special thanks to my niece Timeka Dent for her continued support in letting North Carolina know what’s really good. Dr. Funi Kasali MD for representing us as a people, I am so proud of your work. David Douglas, Denise Robinson, Tamicka Ramey, Sherodd Craft, Marshay Brathwaite, Akeama Foulks, Zanetta Motley, Arnita Norris, William Harris-White, Patricia Harvey, Belinda Willingham, Curtis & Morticia Witters, Lenny Thomas, Adrienne White, Egypt Hill and Nicole Wise for spreading the word. There’s no better advertisement than the word of mouth. Keep spreading the word y’all. My daughter Tamicka Ramey for proof reading. My husband Chris Brathwaite for copy editing and critiquing my work. Chris you are definitely my worst critic. To my family and friends who continue to be my backbone, and shoulders to cry on. Success is never achieved without people spewing hate from the sidelines. I will never understand why people are like that, but I drew the strength to deal with it from my husband’s words of advice. “Don’t worry about people when they talk about you. Only worry about them when they stop.” Much thanks goes out to the sagacious advice of contemporary trail blazers Eric S. Gray, Anthony Whyte and to the dedicated readers of Urban Fiction who have come to expect nothing from me but the very best.
Chapter 1
In Rye, New York, Saint drove his BMW Z4 Coupe onto the property of a waterfront English Colonial home, framed by a collage of perennial gardens, sculpted shrubs, and shadowing Cypresses. The five hundred feet of waterfront provided a breathtaking view of the Long Island Sound. It wasn’t everyday that he got a chance to rub elbows with the rich and powerful. “There’s no way you’re going to convince me that black people live in this house,” he said to his partner, Glenn.
“Black people don’t live in this house,” Glenn said, checking his face in the rearview mirror. “Rich, black people live in this house. Don’t be embarrassing me like you ain’t got no sense.”
Saint looked over at the two-piece orange, yellow, and pink suit Glenn had on and shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about me embarrassing you. I think you got that covered.”
“You won’t be wearing that smirk on your face when you see Puffy wearing this outfit in his next video.” Glenn was a clothing designer who had an eye for fashion. After spending five years dressing mannequins in a Greenwich Village boutique, his big break came when the creative designer for Lane Bryant walked through the door and fell in love with one of his creations. She offered him a job with full benefits and two employees. A job he couldn’t refuse. Within a matter of months, every wealthy plus-sized woman in the New York City area had his number on speed dial. Tonight was the unveiling of his Beauty-full clothing line.
“Is that Monique?” Saint asked, as a heavyset woman stepped out the back of a black stretch limo.
Glenn lowered his window as Saint pulled up along side it. “Hey, girl, glad you could make it.”
“Boy, please,” Monique said, “I wouldn’t miss your debut. It’s all about you, tonight.” Glenn got out and started chitchatting.
“Yo, Glenn, where am I supposed to park?” Without missing a beat, the valet opened the car door. Saint stepped out and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a five dollar bill, and held it out to the valet.
“That won’t be necessary, Sir.”
Saint caught Glenn glaring at him. He shrugged his shoulders and slid the bill back into his pocket.
“I’ll see you inside,” Monique said, as she turned to leave.
“Yes, I hope you enjoy the show,” Glenn said, as he backed up a few steps to talk to Saint. “This isn’t the Tunnel or the Underground so keep your money in your pocket.”
“I was just trying to help dude out. He parks cars for a living.”
“Dude makes more money in one month than you do in a whole year.”
“Well, shit. See if you can hook me up with one of these valet gigs for the next show.”
“Listen, when we get inside, you’re going to be around some affluent people, so try not to stare. They don’t like when people stare at them, especially at a function that’s supposed to be private,” Glenn said, making quotation marks with his fingers.
“I look like a groupie to you? I got better things to do in there than stare in people’s mouths.” “Like what?”
“Like staring at them curvaceous, big-boned women in their lingerie and swimwear.”
“You’re such a man.”
“I better have a good seat this time. Last time, I was sitting so far in the back, all I could see was the back of everybody’s head.”
Glenn and Saint were greeted at the front door by a long-legged, model named Gina who would be their hostess for the evening. She led them through the estate and into the backyard. While Glenn was busy shaking hands and politicking, Saint walked toward the white pavilion that took up a good chunk of the yard. He quickly sized up the crowd and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was surrounded by money. He didn’t know much about diamonds, but he knew that the marble-sized diamond weighing the finger down of the lovely lady standing in front of him had to be worth at least twenty thousand. He stole a glance at the man by her side, whispering something to her, and immediately envied him. She was the type of sweets he would gladly rot his teeth on. Her spicy-brown complexion set off the silk floral-print dress she was wearing.
“Allow me to take you to your table,” Gina said, leading Saint by the hand. Her hand was cotton soft. Saint stared at her flowing hair lightly brushing against her back as she navigated through the crowd
of the rich and powerful. The closer they got to the front, the more surprised Saint became. He was speechless when she stopped at the table only a few feet away from the stage. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I need a drink,” he blurted out.
“I’ll be right back.” Saint watched her as she sauntered off, wondering what she meant by anything.
Ten minutes later, Gina returned with a bottle of chilled Armand De Brignac, commonly dubbed as “Ace of Spades.” Saint filled his champagne glass to the top and chugged it down. He felt the condemning stares from all around him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught the tail end of a smile as the woman with the ridiculously big diamond ring averted her gaze. Although she wasn’t staring at him any longer, the traces of a grin on her face let him know she found his uncouth act humorous. He picked up the bottle of champagne and stared at the spade embossment and then remembered seeing it in Jay-Z’s “Show Me What You Got” video. He filled his glass to the top again and downed it in three swallows. Fuck’em, he thought. I’m not here to impress anyone. He looked up and noticed his long-legged hostess standing slightly to the side with a polite grin on her face.
“You’re not going to just stand there all night are you?” He asked, refilling his champagne glass. She moved to sit down beside him, but he held his hand up. “Whoa, I didn’t mean for you to sit down.” The last thing he needed was a woman sitting in his face while he tried focusing on the models parading up and down the runway half naked.
“I’m sorry,” she said, evidently embarrassed. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything else.”
He gave her the thumbs up and with a smile, he dismissed her.
“Enjoying yourself already I see,” Glenn said, eyeing the bottle of champagne as he walked up to the table and sat down.
“I was thirsty.”
“So you downed almost half a bottle of champagne.”
“I was really thirsty.”
“So, how’s the view?”
“This is what I’m talking about. This is how you’re supposed to treat your boy. Front row seats, private table…”
“Glenn—” a woman’s voice came from behind Saint.
Glenn stood up to greet her. “Olivia, how are you?” Saint almost choked on his drink when the woman walked around him and came into view.
“I was doing just fine. If you know what I mean.” Glenn saw a man walking toward them and put two and two together. “Hey, let me introduce you to a good friend of mine. Olivia, this is Clayton Andrews.” Saint hated when Glenn introduced him using his whole name. “And Clayton, this is Olivia Martin.”
“What’s good?” Saint said.
“What’s good?” Olivia arched her eyebrow and then looked at Glenn.
“I mean… How do you do ma’am?” Before she had a chance to respond, Saint felt someone brush past him. Olivia sat down at the table and drank from his glass.
“Like I was saying, Olivia…” the man started.
“Byron this is my husband, Clayton.” Olivia was lucky Byron didn’t make eye contact with Saint, because Saint was just as surprised as he was to hear those words come out of her mouth.
“Oh… I’m sorry…” He looked at Saint and stuck his hand out. “Byron Turner.”
Saint shook his hand. “Clayton Andrews.”
“Nice to meet you Mr. Andrews, I didn’t mean any harm by—” Saint held up his hand. “Do me a favor, Byron. Get lost. The show’s about to start.”
Both Glenn and Olivia were stunned at Saint’s bluntness. Without another word, Byron turned his glowing red face around, tucked his tail in between his legs and walked off.
“If you don’t mind,” Saint said to Olivia, “I was drinking that.”
She wiped the traces of her lipstick off the glass and slid it back to him. “I’m so sorry. That was rude of me.”
Glenn’s head whipped around when he heard his name. “I got to go. You two have fun. And Olivia, make sure that’s his last glass of champagne. He’s driving.”
“Hold up—” Before Saint could get his words out, Glenn melted into the crowd. Saint looked back to Olivia. Each time he looked at her, she seemed to become more beautiful. “So, Mrs. Andrews, when exactly did we get married? I must’ve been drunk out of my mind, because I don’t remember any of it.”
“Thank you for rolling with the story.”
“You’re real husband must go through hell every time y’all go out.”
“Actually, I’m not married.” She followed his eyes to the ring on her finger. “You’d figure this big ass rock would repel every man on the planet.”
“It seems like it’s having the opposite effect. Why would you want to keep men off you if you’re not married? I mean… you are beautiful, and you could have any man you want.”
“I don’t want a man, that’s the whole point of me wearing this big ass ring.”
“Oh… I see. Men aren’t your thing.”
“What? Oh hell no! I love men. I’m just not looking to get into a relationship right now. Speaking of relationships, you and Glenn…”
“Glenn’s my man.” Saint spoke before he realized what she was really asking him. “Whoa, whoa, he’s not my man as in my man. Glenn has his feminine ways, but he’s not… and I’m definitely not gay. Why would you ask me something like that anyway? Do I look gay?”
“I was just making conversation.”
“Well, change the subject.”
“Okay, so what do you do for a living?”
“Next subject.”
“Wow, that’s a first. I ask that question to the average man around here, and I can’t shut him up.”
Saint took a swallow from his glass. “I’m not the average man, I guess.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Let’s just say I work with numbers.”
“So, you’re an accountant or something?”
“Or something.”
Olivia nodded as her eyes dropped to the Omega Speedmaster on his wrist. She then looked up at the light beard and moustache contouring his face.
“So, what do you do?” Saint asked, bracing himself for her answer. He didn’t want to seem too impressed. Olivia reached into her purse and retrieved her business card. Saint took it from her. “Butta Cutz?” He read the back of the card, itemizing the services that her salon offered to men. He looked up at her. “You’re a barber?”
“Yes.”
“A barber, barber? Like you cut men’s hair with clippers and what not?”
“Yes.” Olivia could see him trying to conceal his smile. “You act like you’ve never heard of a female barber.”
“To be honest with you, I haven’t.”
“Well, you’re talking to one.”
Saint looked down at the card. “And you do manicures and pedicures?”
“And hot towel shaves and facials.”
“And dudes… I mean men actually come to your shop?”
“You need to come to my shop,” she said, checking out his hair cut.
“What? I just got my shit laced.”
“You just got zeeked. You didn’t pay for that did you?”
“What’s wrong with my taper?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“That’s what it’s supposed to be? There’s no blend, you can see the line going all around your head. Your points aren’t sharp, and your hairline—”
“What about my hairline?”
“It’s naturally crooked, so there’s one of two ways of dealing with it. The right way, which is, make an imaginary line or… like that.” She said pointing at his head. “Raising your points to square them off with the top of your hairline which exposes more of your forehead.”
“You trying to say I got a big forehead?”
Olivia shrugged her shoulders. “I’m saying that your barber is whack.”
Damn, Saint said to himself. She’s sexy as hell, speaks her mind, cuts hair, and owns her own barbershop. He tried handing back her business car
d, but she shook her head.
“Keep it.”
He eyed her and couldn’t help but smile. “So, what brings you here?”
“One of my girls does some part-time modeling. So, I came to support her.”
“She’s a barber, too?”
“Don’t let her hear you call her that. She’ll go ballistic. She’s an Urban Hair Specialist.”
“And what’s the difference?” Before she had a chance to answer, the lights dimmed and a dark skinned gentleman in his early fifties walked onto the stage and stood at the podium.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Trevor Seeger, and I welcome you to my humble home for what promises to be the next hottest women’s clothing line.” Everyone applauded. “Please, welcome a good friend of mine, Glenn Lemora.” Everyone stood and applauded. Saint felt happy for Glenn. He was finally living his dream. Glenn introduced the first model. Saint arched an eyebrow as the brick house of a woman walked out in a three-piece, black lace outfit. She had to be at least six feet, two hundred and twenty pounds, but she was cute and curvy as hell.
“That’s my friend, Grace,” Olivia said, as they sat back down. Saint tried imagining Grace with a pair of clippers in her hand cutting hair. She walked to the end of the stage, strutting her stuff. She saw Olivia and winked at her. She gave Saint a curious glance and strutted back behind the stage as the next model walked out. Over the next thirty minutes, plus-sized models of every color, shape, and size showcased Glenn’s creations. Half way through the show, Grace made her way to Saint and Olivia’s table. She had on a powder blue pant and blouse ensemble.
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