The cold concrete of the street separated the sisters.
Kendall remembered the last time she’d seen her sister—in her bed, next to her husband. Naked. But today, Sabrina wore clothes befitting the nickname that her father had given her. While Kendall was his “baby girl,” Sabrina was Edwin’s “golden girl.” And today, she looked the part. Her naturally bronze-colored hair, cut in layers, framed her face and almost matched her complexion. Her winter white swing jacket hung to her knees, partially covering her white jeans, and cream-colored stiletto-heeled boots peeked from beneath the hem. Sabrina looked like gold.
It was Sabrina who moved first—and her steps pushed Kendall toward her car.
“Kendall, wait!”
“Get away from me, Sabrina,” Kendall growled. She jumped inside her Jeep, slammed the door, and turned over the ignition.
“Please,” Kendall heard her sister cry. “I want to talk to you.”
Kendall revved the engine.
They’re engaged.
She took one glance at her sister in the side mirror.
It was the law of the streets—you paid for betrayal with your life.
She shifted gears, then shot out of the garage like a bullet.
Sabrina screeched, stumbled, and fell backward. Landed on the lawn with a thump and a scream.
Instinct, guilt made Kendall stop. For seconds, nothing. Then slowly, Sabrina moved. Rolled over and pushed herself up. The golden girl was soaked with wet blades of grass.
This time when the sisters stared at each other, it was the tears in their eyes that matched.
The Jeep’s tires screamed as Kendall punched the accelerator to the floor, and with her eyes still on Sabrina, she backed away. With her remote, she closed her garage door and then sped from the sight. In her rearview mirror, she kept her eyes on her sister. Stayed with her eyes trained on Sabrina even as she got farther and farther away. Stayed with her eyes on the mirror until her sister was no longer there.
A pile of messages sat on Kendall’s desk, but she hadn’t returned one call, hadn’t responded to one e-mail. Hadn’t taken care of any of the projects that were stacked high in her To Do box.
All she could do was rest. Lay her head on her desk and hope that sleep would rescue her from the recurring sight of her sister, screeching, falling.
You paid for betrayal with your life.
The knock on her door didn’t make her raise her head—only the sound of his voice did.
“Kendall, I want to talk to you.”
Sabrina had sent him, she was sure of that. At least he wasn’t the police.
“Do you have a few minutes to step out?” Anthony asked. “Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee.”
She frowned. Wondered why he wasn’t ranting and raving and promising to have her arrested for trying to kill his betrothed. “Why would I want to have coffee with you?”
“Because we need to talk.”
“Why not talk here?” She shrugged. “We don’t have to go out for you to see that the knife you stabbed me with is deep in my back.”
He sat, unmoved, not surprised by her words.
She said, “Sabrina couldn’t get to me, so you thought you’d give it a try?”
“Sabrina really wanted to talk to you, Kendall,” he said with more concern in his voice for her sister than she wanted to hear. “She’s been so upset….”
“Why?” Kendall pushed away from the desk, paced behind it. “She’s getting everything she’s wanted. She’s going to marry the man she went after.”
“You know it wasn’t like that.”
“The only thing I know is three hundred and sixty-five days ago I was married to you. And now I’m not. Because of my sister.”
Anthony sighed. “Do you think we did any of this to hurt you?”
“No, actually, I don’t think either of you has a heart big enough to care if I’m hurting.”
“That’s not true. It’s because of you that we waited until the divorce was final.”
She laughed. “Waited? Anthony, the ink hasn’t even dried on those papers.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know how sorry we are.”
“I have a hard time believing that.”
“Believe it, that’s why Sabrina wanted to talk to you.”
Still no mention of my attempt at murder. “Tell her to save her breath.” And her life. “Tell her to stay away from me.”
“She wants to make peace with you. So do I.”
“Sell that to someone who’s buying.”
“So you’re going to spend the rest of your life hating me? Hating your sister?”
Her glare gave him her answer, and she returned to her chair.
“That’s a lot of anger to live with, Kendall. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” She opened a folder from the pile on her desk. “I’m not your wife anymore.” She glanced down at the papers and jotted senseless notes on the blank page. When minutes passed and Anthony hadn’t moved, she threw down her pen. “Why are you here? Is it for some kind of atonement? Am I supposed to cross my heart and pass on my blessings to you and my sister?” She folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not going to happen.”
“All I want…is for you to forgive me.”
“For what, not loving me?”
“We can’t help who we love, Kendall. I just want…I just wish I could lessen this pain for you.”
She held up her hand. “Look, I’m tired. I’m tired of this and you and Sabrina. And even my father. So, unless you want to talk about business, there’s no reason for you to be here.” She paused. “And there’s no reason for you to come back.” She stared at her ex, dared him to say more.
When Anthony finally stood, she added, “And please, no more goodwill missions. Not from my ex-husband. Nor from my ex-sister.”
“I pray that’s just your anger talking.”
“Pray what you want. But I’m tired of being part of this sick trio. I’m done discussing it, thinking about it, even knowing about it. You and Sabrina, do what you have to do. And I’ll take care of me.”
“Please, Kendall. Find a way to get rid of this bitterness. Or else I’m afraid you’ll spend the rest of your life with regrets.”
“I already have lots of them.”
The moment he left her alone, she rushed into the bathroom adjacent to her office. She leaned over the sink, rinsed her face with the hot water, burned away the image of Sabrina. What she’d told Anthony was true—she was done. Never again would she depend on anyone for love or life. From now on, it was all about her. No connections.
She dried her face, clicked off the light, and went into her office to take care of her business.
Chapter Sixteen
ASIA
Unconsciousness dragged Asia back deep into her past. To the days before Bobby Johnson. To the days before she was Asia.
Circa 1980: A shivering Dana Ingrum rushed into her mother’s home carrying her two-year-old daughter.
“I didn’t know you were coming over,” Hattie Mae said, taking Chiquita from her daughter’s arms.
“Yeah, yeah.” Dana spoke quickly. “I…uh…thought we’d have breakfast with you.”
With thin eyes, Hattie Mae eyed her daughter. “Okay. Let me put this child down and I’ll fix you something.”
“Mama, listen, can you watch Chiquita while you’re fixin’ breakfast? I wanna make a run for some cigarettes.”
Three hours later, when Hattie Mae went to her front door to search the streets for her daughter, she found a tiny tattered suitcase stuffed with clothes. No note, no explanation. But Hattie Mae knew that her often drug-dependent daughter wasn’t coming back. So she stepped up, like so many others in her neighborhood, and welcomed her granddaughter into her Compton home. There wasn’t much else she could do—it wasn’t like Hattie Mae could call Chiquita’s father, since Dana had never been quite sure who that was.
By the time Chiquita was five, she had no memory of he
r mother—Grandma Mae and Aunt Beverly were the women in her life.
Hattie Mae wasn’t strict, though she set rules to ensure that Chiquita wouldn’t become infected by the same streets that had claimed her mother. So, it was church on Sunday, Bible study on Tuesdays, midweek prayer on Wednesdays, and only gospel music in the house. And in between, Hattie Mae stayed on her knees, praying that she was pouring enough Jesus into the child.
Still, when Chiquita turned sixteen, she hooked up with Jamal, a twenty-one-year-old hustler who’d dropped out of school in the ninth grade, preferring to procure his education from the streets.
Hattie Mae objected to the relationship, but there was little she could do to keep Jamal away. Chiquita maintained a B+ average and still went to church, but all of her other time belonged to Jamal.
By the time Chiquita began her senior year in high school, she was sick of Jamal, although she professed her love for him over and over. She wasn’t ready to give up the benefits of being this drug dealer’s main girl.
Jamal gave her a weekly allowance, hundreds of dollars so she could, as he said, “Always look good for me, shorty.” Chiquita spent hours in shops, getting her hair done, her nails done, her feet done—and hitching rides to the Fox Hills and Del Amo malls to purchase the latest outfits….
In her sleep, Asia’s head whipped from side to side as she tried to awaken, tried to do what she’d done years before and escape. But her past held her hostage. Again, she was dragged back to another time. The buzzer rang loud in her ear, just as it had all those years before….
“That’s halftime,” Lawrence Tanter, the announcer for the LA Lakers, sang into the microphone. “The score is Boston forty-seven and your Los Angeles Lakers fifty-one.”
The crowd roared; Chiquita yawned.
Jamal stood, stretched, said, “Shorty, you wanna hang here or go outside?”
“I’ll wait here.”
He nodded, leaned over, and kissed her full on the lips, letting his tongue linger inside her mouth for long uncomfortable moments. He said, “Don’t go anywhere.” A grin accompanied his words, but it was a command. He expected her to do what he said, whenever he said it.
She kept her smile as he backed up. But once he pimp-dipped from her sight, she wiped away the taste of him with the back of her hand. She knew that kiss was just another way to control her—to let any man in the vicinity know that there would be a price to pay if he even looked at her.
She hated that. She may have been only seventeen, but she was her own woman. Born to be free. Jamal didn’t have enough money to change that.
Chiquita peered across the court to the other side of the Forum and sighed, a moan with longing. It was always that way when she glanced at the Laker wives.
That’s the life, she thought as she watched the women chat and laugh, and the Forum staff standing ready to do their bidding. Even from across the court their diamonds—showcased on every part of their bodies—glittered.
If I sat over there, the man who got me that ticket could control me in every way.
Mona, the gigagorgeous Latina wife of Pierre Ross, stood and did a little dance, and the other wives laughed. Chiquita had met Mona and Pierre, one of the star point guards for the Lakers. It was because of Pierre that she and Jamal had tickets. Somehow Jamal and Pierre had hooked up. It seemed an un-likely pairing, but with the way her boyfriend earned his money, it wasn’t hard to figure out their deal.
“Baby, you’re going to love this.” Jamal was back, his eyes beaming with excitement. “Pierre’s boys just gave me this.” He held up a folded invitation. “We’re hanging out at a special party—in honor of the rookies. It’s two weeks from this Saturday.”
This time, when Chiquita smiled at Jamal, it wasn’t fake. A Lakers party—for rookies. She leaned back into her boyfriend’s arms and began to imagine. New meat searching for new meat.
Looked like being Jamal’s girlfriend was going to pay off. This time with him had been decent enough, but it was time to move on….
Asia sat straight up in her bed.
Time to move on.
Those were the words Bobby had said to her. But moving on from him was not an option. She wasn’t giving up all that she had. She was never going back to Compton—not in this life, not even in her dreams.
Asia glanced at the clock. It was barely two in the morning. But she didn’t close her eyes. This was not the time to sleep. Tonight, all she would do was plan.
Chapter Seventeen
ASIA
“Asia, how am I supposed to get Bobby’s address?” Noon whined.
Asia paced in her bedroom. “Handle it.”
“This is crazy. I told you, don’t mess with Bobby’s wife.”
Asia’s anger soared—as it did each time Noon uttered that advice. Why was Noon so worried about Bobby’s wife?
“Noon, just get me Bobby’s address. Check Marcus’s Black-Berry or get me his home number and I’ll find the address myself.” Asia could hear Noon inhale, preparing to protest more. But before she could speak, Asia softened her voice. “Noon, if you needed me, I would do this—and a lot more—for you.”
In the silence that followed, Asia had her victory. It didn’t have to be spoken; both knew how much Asia had done for Noon. When Asia hung up, she had no doubt Noon would return with the information.
It was time to begin the next phase. This plan had to be bigger, better, faster than the one she’d had before. Back then, she resorted to the trick that stood the test of time—pregnancy.
It had been a careful plan, the way she slipped a birth control pill into her mouth in front of Bobby every chance she got. And then how she held the pill under her tongue. Once he became used to seeing “the pill,” it hadn’t been difficult to talk him out of his condom.
“Baby, it’s just you and me, right?” she whined. “All I want to do is feel you. I’m on the pill; there’s nothing to worry about.” She’d kissed him and cooed, “I promise, once you feel me, you’ll never go back.”
It had taken one request. And they’d never gone back. Until she got pregnant.
“I cannot believe you did this to me!” he’d ranted when she told him the news.
“Bobby, it’s not my fault. I’m on the pill.”
He’d held his head in his hands. “I should have never been bareback.”
He was distraught. She was disgusted.
What’s the big deal, she’d wanted to ask. We’re going to be together anyway.
“You need to get an abortion,” he demanded, shocking her.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“I…it’s against my beliefs.”
He frowned, then screamed, “What beliefs? You’re not religious. You don’t even go to church.”
“You don’t have to go to church to have a relationship with God.” She’d mimicked the words that her Aunt Beverly had often spoken. “I believe in God and I won’t have an abortion.”
He’d stomped out of the Culver City apartment she shared with Noon. At first, she’d just been mad. Then as days passed without a word from Bobby, anger switched to fear. But seventeen days later, Bobby returned with proof of his love.
It wasn’t the ring that she’d schemed for, but the Wilshire Boulevard condo wasn’t a bad consolation prize. It’s an investment, she’d told herself as Bobby dashed through the two-level, three-thousand-square-foot space, showing her every room. She’d shared his enthusiasm and convinced herself, this is for our future.
That four-bedroom real estate investment had appreciated, but somehow her value had dropped. It was time to make her stock rise again.
Bed tricks, pregnancy, none of that would suffice. This time, she had to get to the root of this evil.
This time she had to get rid of Bobby’s wife.
Asia was sure of it now; she was going to get her man. Noon had called with not only Bobby’s address but his telephone number and directions to his home.
She slipped into the silk pantsui
t she’d chosen the night before and in less than thirty minutes she was dressed to kill. Dressed to meet her man’s wife.
In the elevator, her thoughts turned from the wife to Bobby. She tried not to think about the rage that would erupt once he found out what she’d done. But he’d get over it—just as he had when he found out about their baby.
“I’m doing the right thing,” she said, as she slipped into her car. That mantra accompanied her through the streets of Los Angeles, into the rolling hills of Bel-Air. As she turned onto Salon Drive, she peered at the curb for the house numbers, and realized why this neighborhood housed multimillion-dollar homes. The house numbers were not painted on the street like the rest of the county.
“Thank you, Noon,” she whispered as she glanced at the directions, then slowed in front of the third driveway. She peered through the massive gathering of trees, but she could see nothing through the thick evergreen foliage.
Slowly, she edged onto the driveway and said another “Thank you” that Bobby’s palace was one of the few homes in Bel-Air that wasn’t perched behind a gate.
Still, it took minutes for Asia to steer her car from the city street until she faced the immense brick structure. She parked in front of the six-car garage.
When she stepped from the car, the massive home towered over her, foreboding, almost bowing, offering her a warning. But thoughts of Angel, thoughts of Compton gave her courage.
She centered the four-carat diamond pendant on her neck, and then did the same with the matching diamond that graced her left hand’s ring finger.
She pushed the bell and breathed in calm as chimes rang behind the ten-foot stained-glass door. A whirring sound above made her turn, and she took in the camera twisting high in the corner.
Her hope had been to have surprise on her side. But with the camera, that was gone. Although they’d never met, Asia was sure Bobby’s wife had seen pictures in magazines of her and Bobby cavorting around the city.
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