by Tiana Laveen
The Deviant
Deviant – noun plural deviants * Definition of deviant: someone or something that deviates from a norm especially: a person who differs markedly (as in social adjustment or behavior) from what is considered normal or acceptable.
Blurb
King Chrysalis juggles various jobs to survive in New York City, but one job comes easy: his artistic talent. In fact, he’s a renown artistic savant with extraordinary talents. However, sometimes his deep-rooted mistrust of people lands him in trouble.
Suri Scott lives far too much in her own head, but embraces her uniqueness like a badge of honor. An NYC emergency dispatch 911 operator moonlighting as a home-stager, she loves her single, carefree life.
Neither of them expected to meet the mate of their dreams one fateful night. Things start definitely on the wrong foot, but soon, the connection becomes undeniable.
Suri becomes the muse King simply can’t shake. Stepping out of his comfort zone, he starts painting a whole new canvas of life and chance. But will Suri trust her own judgment and let go to make a relationship work? Will King overcome his anger and past hurt to finally accept the love he deserves?
A picture is worth a thousand words.
Read “The Deviant,” to find out!
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2020 by Tiana Laveen
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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 publisher. PIRACY IS AGAINST THE LAW.
WE AUTHORS WORK HARD TO BRING YOU THESE BOOKS.
We love what we do, but it costs time and money for us to produce the quality content that you expect. We have families, just like you. We are not volunteers. We deserve compensation for our work.
THEREFORE, PLEASE DON’T ILLEGALLY SHARE AND STEAL PROHIBITED COPIES OF OUR WORK.
PIRACY IS THEFT.
IF YOU DO IT, YOU’RE A CROOK.
STRAIGHT. NO CHASER.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my fellow writers, artists, and performers trying to navigate this thing we call life and still live their truth.
Be YOU. Do YOU. Love YOU.
Why? Because no one can do that better than YOU.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
About this Book
Copyright
Dedication
Warning
Love Letter to my Readers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Music Directory
About the Author
WARNING
Please do not skip this section.
The warning is here for your protection
and to provide a heads up.
This book is intended for mature readers ONLY. As the author, I never wish for my readers to be blindsided. If any of the below-mentioned topics offend you or may be a trigger, please proceed with caution:
1. Ample profanity
2. Graphic sexual encounters
3. Drug usage/Alcoholism
4. Violence
5. Racial slurs/Racial slang
6. Discussions of child abuse
One more thing: For those unfamiliar with my work, I purposefully write ‘goddamn’ as ‘gotdamn.’ It’s an intentional spelling error. Just personal preference.
Let’s continue…
Love Letter to my Readers
Hello. My name is Tiana Laveen and I have an obsession with sparkly nail designs, gothic-style jewelry and clear accessories, black cats, big dogs, true crime documentaries and miniature urban displays of plastic people strategically placed in tiny artificial towns. I enjoy quality perfumes in beautiful bottles, quaint bookstores where teacakes and flavored waters are served, essential oils, blank journals with stunning covers, canvas bags with witty sayings, and vintage pornographic magazines, preferably from the 1970s. You could easily find me surfing the web for serial killer trivia while sipping a lemonade or purchasing an overpriced, bergamot scented candle with papyrus wood undertones. I am an odd bird with a few traditional values, spiritually inclined wild opinions, and new age ideologies. Best of all? I am my worst critic and love myself dearly, for all that I’ve mentioned to you and more. I am incredibly flawed yet in love with my own truth and cling tight to the beauty of ‘What could be.’ These characteristics and likes of mine are just a few reasons why I write how I write, and refuse to be anything other than myself.
Writing is something I simply must do. It’s wrapped around my bones like skin, swimming in my blood like plasma and sleeping inside my brain like cells, awakening when that muse wishes to have his way and dance. (Yes, mine is male.)
I have written sixty books, the majority which are full length novels.
I have thought about writing when I wasn’t writing, jotting down ideas in the middle of the night or texting myself reminders for stories I am in the midst of writing or wish to write. It’s a continuous cycle. Writing has been my friend, and at times, my foe. It’s an obsession, my second nature, a big part of who I am as a person.
Since I am a classic over-thinker, I rarely get writer’s block. My mind is constantly racing with ideas and that has been a blessing, but I have my share of challenges, too. One in particular is that no matter what line of work we are in, we all must recharge. My motto for years was, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” I still believe that to an extent, but kicking that addiction is hard.
When I don’t rest, I can feel it. When I don’t write, I hate it. Yet, self-care is key. Laziness is contemptable. I am literally disgusted by habitual slothfulness, but balance is vital. Quality over quantity. Taking two good quality days off versus two weeks of angst, restless nights, and worry is far better, correct? I have endlessly tried to find my perfect writing rhythm and resting bitch face—I mean, resting state—until I finally realized I’m allowed to change it as I see fit. As long as I’m meeting my goals, working with great people and doing my part, the rest will fall into place. Work ethic, self-care, and taking personal inventory of things that need to be changed about oneself for happiness and growth is sometimes a curious thing. It’s a spiritual and emotional chore with rewarding results. But it’s hard as hell. We all struggle, right?
In fact, our hero, King, is someone who struggles with this himself. For one, he’s not verbally expressive; he communicates through his art. Yo
u won’t find him crying in a fetal position in his bed, speaking to a therapist, or pouring out his deepest feelings to a close friend. He uses his paintbrush as his tongue, to express his pain deep within, his concerns and nagging regret.
He’s an old soul. He has a certain energy, a special aura about him that draws people to him no matter where he goes. And he hates it. He is simply naturally magnetic, but his disdain of the way some human beings behave, including a few close to him, has left him rightfully and righteously jaded, as well as unwilling to believe that people can be any better than our lowest common denominator. He respects life, but sees it in a bubble. He preserves the beauty of a dream, what he believes to not be real, wishing it were, while our heroine, Suri, bursts the bubble and preserves the screaming, bleeding bits of life with her voice, calmness, and professionalism. She embraces her inner child while keeping her wits about her.
Suri is a 911 operator in NYC and has a completely different perspective on the matter of humans, life and our conduct. King and Suri are drawn together by soul ties, unadulterated passion and lust, mental stimulation and pure physical attraction, but their differences are what hooks their interest and builds the mutual intrigue until they are both in a frenzy trying to climb to the very peak of this connection. This is the modern day love story of a man who creates art with a skilled eye and hand, but is blind to the masterpiece of humankind. It takes a special woman with a unique perspective, humility, and life to enter his world, and show him all the colors of the earth he never knew existed.
Grab a snack, your favorite beverage, sit back and relax, and join me as we watch King and Suri do the damn thing.
Are you ready?
Good.
It’s time to get deviant…
CHAPTER ONE
The Art of War
“Do you think about me when you’re fuckin’ that other nigga?” Shane snarled, full lips twisted, exposing a hundred rays of broken sun, moon, and stars as he crushed his cellphone to his ear. Diamonds glistened across his grill like specs of glitter on snow, bright in an obscene way.
His hyena laughter broke out in spastic bursts, then bubbled over the elevator music at Pat’s Art Supplies Warehouse in Harlem. Dark flesh with black ink featuring African symbols and dollar signs lined the man’s exposed arms, the veins prominent and ripe. It was then King wondered why his friend didn’t have on a jacket. It was far too cold to be without one on the unseasonably cool day in New York.
“Fuck you mean, get the money from my mama?” Shane’s dark brown eyes narrowed in his long, chiseled face. “I didn’t loan my mama the money. I gave it to you. Keep talkin’ greasy and see what happens.”
King shook his head and laughed lightly at the fool as he clutched a new set of paintbrushes in one hand and petted various paint canisters he couldn’t afford with the other. Shane stayed behind him, still raving on the phone, while King headed to the clearance aisle in the store to check out the oil paints. Let’s see what sales they have… I need umber, another black, and definitely another indigo blue. He trained his eyes on the assorted tubes and bottles, some of them bent, others marked down previously with old discount stickers. His stained fingers rummaged through the display, trying to find what he needed for a steal.
Shane bounced from foot to foot as if he were about to begin a new dance. His rough voice carried crude expletives from his mouth left and right, drawing unnecessary attention to them. “I don’t care about none of that shit, Kiara. You should’ve did what I told you to do and none of this would’ve happened in the first place. What?! This bitch hung up on me, man.”
“Whoever is talkin’ on their phone, shut tha fuck up already!” someone yelled.
“Man, whoever said that, come make me shut up. Fuck you, pay me,” Shane hollered, smacking his lips as if he were eating something slimy, and in desperate need to get it down. King rested his eyes on his friend and felt the slow crawl of his temper rising. Sometimes, Shane got on his nerves so bad, he feared they may come to blows. It felt like hanging out with a child. Shane was becoming more and more unhinged as the years passed. Might have been the pain relievers the guy had been using lately, dealing with dead-end jobs, one bad relationship after another, or unresolved trauma. It was hard to believe that back in the day he’d been the quiet one of the crew, the voice of reason.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, his brow arched.
“Shane, cool it.” King grunted as he bent down to fumble through a bin of broken pastels. “I’m in my happy place and you’re messing it up. You told me that you wanted to hang out today, and all you’ve done is scream at Kiara. I could’ve heard shit like that by just stepping outside on the sidewalk. I didn’t need you around to accomplish that.”
Shane smacked his lips and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Shit got heated. Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled, looking shifty-eyed and sheepish.
“All I am saying is no one needs to hear your arguments with your ex, all right? I get sick of hearing about the shit, too, quite honestly. Matter of fact, and this has nothing to do with you arguing on the phone, just stop calling her. You two are toxic.” He noticed a pack of erasers he wanted on the shelf. “Oh, this is marked down half off. I can swing that.” Then he casually grabbed a set of ebony pencils that were next to the pastels, and held them like a treasure.
“First of all, mothafucka, I didn’t ask anyone to listen. I wasn’t on three-way with yo’ ass or anyone else up in this wack ass place and no, fuck that leave it alone and be all peaceful ’nd shit, King. She called me last night wanting me to stop through, smash them guts, knowing she’s got a whole boyfriend livin’ up in there and now, today, she acts like I’m bothering her.” Here we go… “She said she missed the D.” Shane stood with his hands clasped together over his crotch, chin up, grinning from ear to ear, looking like he was posing for some 1980s album cover. “She owes me money, anyway. I want my $450 back.” His ‘best rapper of all time’ pose ended as he morphed back into rage. “Come on, King. Shit. Let’s go.” He sucked his teeth then huffed. “You’ve been in here for like an hour.”
“It’s been…” King slowly got to his feet and glanced at his watch, “fourteen minutes. Chill.”
Shane got to smacking his teeth again, turning to and fro in a dramatic fashion. This was one of his best friends. They went back a long time. They’d met at the Harlem School of the Arts and forged a fast friendship. Shane had been quite popular, entertaining, and his dance skills garnered local attention. King had been there for visual arts, drawing and painting and design. He’d made friends quickly though, including many outsiders and people he’d never have thought he’d be cool with. Those had been some of the happiest times of his life.
He placed his items on the store counter and observed Shane messing around with his earbuds out the corner of his eye.
A stern-faced, middle-aged Asian woman with a chunk of her hair sticking up on the side like a broken tree branch rang him up, sneaking peeks at Shane as if she disapproved of him even breathing. He’d dealt with her a time or two before, but much preferred her husband, who was far more hospitable. With a thick, Asian accent, she said, “$33.50.”
“$33.50? No, it comes up to $28.00 even.” The woman’s brows bunched and she shook her head.
“$33.50,” she repeated, as if saying it again would somehow make her words true.
King counted to three in his mind, trying to calm himself, and stared at his tattooed and fisted hand on the counter. First Shane’s bullshit, now this. One by one, he removed the items out of the white plastic bag, and began to rattle off the prices by memory, including the discount. “And this right here is half off.” He pointed to the pack of erasers. It’s $28.00.” Just ring it up right and give me my shit.
The woman’s inky eyes narrowed to slits as her mouth bowed at the sides like droopy cow udders. She angrily snatched the supplies off the counter and rang them again, and threw them back inside the plastic bag. Then, she slammed the bag on th
e counter with a thud, offering no apologies, no ‘goodbye,’ ‘thank you,’ or ‘come again’ before turning away.
“What is wrong with you?” Shane yelled out at her. She just kept walking, pretending to be busy with the shelves of assorted drawing paper and poster boards behind her. “You’re the one wrong, and got the fuckin’ nerve to have an attitude. We outta call the Better Business Bureau, or Al Sharpton’s lollipop lookin’ ass. He looked better big, but I’ll take him any way I can get him, and boycott this son of a bitch!” The woman turned to him like a viper, said something in Chinese, the tone dripping with evil, then spun back around, satisfied with her retort. “Ching chang chunga munga should’ve hung ya to you too! You ever see the movie, ‘Menace to Society?’ Next you’ll be saying you feel sorry for my mother. We can play that game if you want.”
“Shane, cut it out. Come on, let’s go.”
But his friend would have none of that. He pointed at the woman and railed at her, his voice rising like smoke. She tossed him a nervous glance over her shoulder then began to walk timidly towards the worn red curtains in the back of the building.
“You musta heard your lunch meowing. Sweet and sour Siamese kitty over fried rice!” Shane called out. “Dumb bitch.”
“Shane, shut up. Let’s go.”
“I know you can still hear me. Funny how you pretend you can’t understand any English but know all about these prices. Always tryna be slick wit’ somebody’s money; probably called me a nigga in Chinese. It was better in here when Pete ran this place, before he sold it to yo’ egg drop soup dog meat eatin’ ass!” Someone burst out laughing in the store, but there was no telling who.
All King could do is shake his head as they exited the place and walked to the subway. Once they’d gotten about a block away from their destination on 101st Street, Shane opened his jacket and removed two large bottles of acrylic paint. He yanked the bag out of King’s hand and dumped them inside as if he were some trick or treater.