by Sophia Henry
DEVIL IN DISGUISE
A Saints and Sinners Novella
Sophia Henry
Krasivo Creative
Devil In Disguise
Copyright © 2020 by Sophia Henry
All rights reserved
Published by Krasivo Creative
ISBN: 978-1-949786-11-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover design: Krasivo Creative
Cover photograph: Andrew Poplavsky
Editing: Angel Nix
Contents
1. Cookie
2. Harris
3. Harris
4. Cookie
5. Harris
6. Cookie
7. Cookie
8. Cookie
9. Cookie
10. Cookie
11. Cookie
12. Harris
13. Cookie
14. Harris
15. Cookie
16. Cookie
17. Harris
18. Cookie
19. Cookie
20. Cookie
21. Cookie
Epilogue
OPEN YOUR HEART
OPEN YOUR HEART Excerpt
Don’t Miss Out!
Reviews Rock!
Also By Sophia Henry
About the Author
You look like an angel
Walk like an angel
Talk like an angel
But I got wise
You're the devil in disguise
~ Elvis Presley
#BeKindLoveHard
CONNECT with Sophia:
SophiaHenry.com
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BOOKBUB
1
Cookie
Summer 1987
Charlotte, NC
I never really liked our apartment. By ‘apartment’, I mean the one room that my mother and I share in a run-down building with almost sixty identical apartments.
Neither Mama nor I cook so the lack of a working stove for the last five or so years doesn’t matter much. The bathroom is barely larger than a telephone booth, but it works for us. ’Works’ is a bit of an ironic word, since the shower hasn’t functioned properly and we can only take baths. Most people might be annoyed by the constant drip of the faucet, but not me. That’s been my personal lullaby since I was a kid. Maintenance has never been able to fix it—which says everything you need to know about our maintenance people. But, at this point, I might have sleeping problems if they did.
The squeaky ceiling fan is a constant reminder of how much I want to be rid of such an undesirable existence. In twenty years, when I’m telling my kids about the sounds of my childhood, I swear the sound of that fan and faucet are the two things I’ll remember. If only I could remember the voice of my father the same way—but life doesn’t always work out the way we plan it.
But you have to have had a father to remember his voice.
“Suck it up and move on,” Mama would snap whenever I got into one of my melancholy moods.
I’ve never been much of a complainer. Not even when the greasy odor from the fried chicken restaurant next door wafts in through the windows and almost makes me choke. I take it all in stride.
Inside, I might be seething darkly under my breath, wishing we lived next to that cinnamon bun factory off Tryon instead, but I never let it show.
Somehow, Mama could always pick up on my foul moods. Maybe because ’foul’ is her default demeanor.
“This one tonight is a good one, Katrina,” Mama says in her thick Southern accent as she swipes lipstick onto my lips. She always praises my full lips—a carbon copy of her mother’s. “Your Grandmama was a beauty.” She likes to boast whenever she dresses me up for a job. “And you are five times more beautiful that she ever was.”
Being a bit of a drama queen, my mother likes to pull all the stops when reminiscing on the past, looking lost in her memories and what not.
Any other daughter would be sympathetic. I should have some sympathy for her. But I’d have to chip away through too many years of pain to uncover any.
“You should have seen me back in the day,” she says now as she moves away to inspect my lips.
“I know, Mama. I hear people talking about you all the time,” I say, hoping it comes across as a compliment, though she must hear the sarcastic tone.
The bright red lipstick smells like melted plastic and tastes like wax. It’s a slightly lighter shade than the cherry-colored dress that clings to every curve, so tight, it looks like it’s been painted on.
“Don’t fuck this one up, ya hear?” she continues, spraying me with perfume.
Mama’s never been mushy like most mothers I see in school. Oh no, Mama has balls of steel and is very cutthroat when it comes to getting things done, including setting me up with cigar smelling, rich old men.
Speaking of smells, the lavender perfume is overbearing, but there’s no point saying anything. So, all I can do is steel my already frayed nerves and let her finish up.
She squints at me, scrutinizing my face as tough she wishes she could change it, then resumes her task of painting my lips. I guess she wants to make sure that every inch gets covered with the disgusting—possibly radioactive—lipstick.
“No one is going to kiss me with this nasty shit on my lips, Mama.” I retort, looking at myself in the mirror as she continues to fuss over me. “Can’t you smell it?”
It’s a ’new’ dress from the thrift store, but the same old drugstore lipstick.
Mama steps back, scowling as she stares at me like she didn’t hear a thing I said.
“By all means, Katrina. You can run to the store and grab us a good smelling lipstick with all the money you have in your bank account,” she finally says with a flat look on her face.
All I can do in that moment is press my lips together, already cringing as I remember the reason why I have to do this in the first place.
“What makes this one so special, Mama?” I ask, trying to keep from rolling my eyes. “How is he different than the rest?”
Mama crosses her arms and shakes her head like she’s exasperated with a little child. Ever since she got sick, the revolving door of men she brought home came to a screeching halt and I had to pick up the slack.
Other girls get amazing birthday cakes and special treats on their sixteenth birthday—maybe even an over-the-top Sweet Sixteen party.
But not me. Nope. Instead of parties and treats, Mama decided pimping me out to rich old men was the best way to kick start my sixteenth year on the planet.
Then again, we had to sustain ourselves. And using men for money is all she’s ever known.
Ever since I can remember, my dream has been to go to college, get a degree, and get a good enough job to take myself out of the slums of Charlotte, North Carolina. Several years later and the dream remains unwavering, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it will ever happen.
/> “It’s highly unlikely that either of you will amount to anything,” I remember Mrs. Hodge saying during Biology class a few years ago.
It’s funny how, despite years of mostly straight A’s and breezing through my schoolwork, one comment can stick out in my head above any of the other accomplishments.
The comment hadn’t been directed at just me. No, she included Andre, my African American best friend, too. Though it hurt, it was downright offensive to hear her say that about Dre, because school didn’t come as easy for him. He worked hard for every B. But that was life at our high school. Instead of the awesome dude from the Lean on Me movie, we got shitty teachers who didn’t care. They were people who could never get a job teaching anywhere else, just filling an open job position because no talented instructors wanted to be at our school.
At least most of the people in school don’t know that I turn into a ’mistress of the night’ and not the quiet girl that loves sitting at the edge of the classroom, taking it all in, but ready to bolt at any second.
How will you ever amount to anything when you’re nothing?
The thought crosses my mind as I stare at Mama’s retreating figure. For a moment, I thought she was the one saying those words, but after paying closer attention it turns out she had been coughing for the past couple of seconds.
At this point, all the enthusiasm I had managed to put together washed down my spine like an ice-cold waterfall.
“Are you okay, Mama?” I ask, running toward her, my heart pounding in my chest as she begins to hack. “Don’t die on me now,” I mutter under my breath.
Mama is still doubled over when I reach her, but she shoos me away gently and straightens up slowly. “I’m fine, Katrina,” she says, her cough subsiding.
I try to smile but my lips fail to move. Mama is the only family I’ve got.
“Stop fussing over me and get going already,” she says sharply, like she didn’t just sound like her lungs would fall out. “You’re gonna miss the bus.”
“Alright, alright. I’m going,” I retort, moving to sit on the couch so I can put my scuffed heels on. In minutes, I have the door shut behind me.
I always thought mothers are supposed to make sure that their children have a better life than they had. But that hasn’t been my experience. Maybe she really does want the best for me, and prostituting me out to rich men is her misguided way of setting me up for the future.
“Someday, I will have a successful job, make a lot of money, and get out of this shithole,” I whisper to myself as I adjust my dress.
Self-consciousness takes over as I shuffle down the hallway toward the stairwell. Imagine what it’s like waiting for a bus in a skin-tight dress in a neighborhood like ours. It’s like having a bullseye on my back.
People tend to stare at me whenever Mama dresses me outrageously for certain kind of clients, but I never let them see the swirling emotions. Once I step out for work, I become someone else; cold, calculating, and set on completing the task at hand.
Sometimes, I pray silently that this second persona doesn’t become permanent. At the same time, it’s been extremely effective in getting me through tough times and pushing me to my goals.
“Hey Kat!” Dre calls as I step outside. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’d recognize my best friend’s voice anywhere.
“What’s up, Dre?” I reply, shivering lightly though it’s probably still eighty-something degrees out.
“I’m good. Your mama put you on duty tonight?” he asks.
“Rent’s coming up,” I reply like he’s asking about the weather.
Dre knows everything about my life, not just because we grew up together, but because he’s the only friend I have, and he’s always been there for me, especially during some of the darkest moments. His mom is joyful and loving—the mother I never had. Despite having four of her own kids to feed on her meager salary from Kmart, she kept me fed during times my own mother hadn’t.
Despite seeing me at every phase of life, and knowing what Mama makes me do, sometimes I think he wants more than just friendship. Maybe he thinks he can save me.
Too bad he can’t afford me.
Any other eighteen-year-old girl in our neighborhood would be ecstatic at the idea of having Dre interested in them. In fact, some of them have threatened to kick my ass just because they want the attention he gives me. I’m not completely immune to his good looks and charm—with his curly black hair, gorgeous smile, and lanky, baseball-player’s build. He actually resembles the guy who plays Willis in Different Strokes.
But I’m the Arnold to Dre’s Willis—meaning, I’m shorter, plumper, and—we’re like siblings. I don’t have any romantic feelings for him. And he doesn’t have the guy who plays Willis’ bank account.
If he can’t get me ahead, I have no time for him because I’m not the average eighteen-year-old girl in the neighborhood. No other girls in my senior class have to snuggle up with old, ass men—do whatever they ask—and still come home and maintain an almost-perfect grade point average.
A boyfriend is the least of my concerns when I have the weight of keeping a roof over my head on my shoulders.
Getting into North Carolina University is number one on my list of ambitions, and I need a lot of money to achieve that by Fall.
“You need me to wait with you at the bus stop?” he asks with concern. Our gazes meet briefly before I glance away. I appreciate his concern—I always have.
I shake my head. “I’m cool.”
His friendship is a relief. He doesn’t judge me even though everyone else who knows about my family’s situation treats us like outcasts. It’s funny, because I know a lot of people in this building are doing illegal things like selling drugs or committing robbery, but I’m not treating them like they’re dog shit on the bottom of a shoe.
The opinions of sheep don’t matter. We all do what we have to do to get by.
“See you in class then?”
“Definitely,” I say, bumping his shoulder with my mine. Before I leave, I pause. “Are you good?” I ask.
Dre has a thing for always bottling up his emotions because he feels like that’s how a ’real’ man should behave, but sometimes I can get the issue out of him. I haven’t been a great friend recently.
“As good as any of us in living this shithole ever are, Kat,” he replies with a soft laugh.
“Word,” I agree, before patting his shoulder and heading to the bus stop.
Don’t fuck this one up, Katrina, Mama’s voice rings in my ear as I wait on the bus to South Blvd.
As if anything I do could fuck up our life any more than it already is.
2
Harris
“Hey, kid! You coming out with us tonight,” Colt Jarrett asks, clapping me on the shoulder as I’m loading tools into the bed of my pick-up truck.
I should’ve seen his visit coming, since I could hear the gravel crunching under his heavy footsteps. He’s easily the loudest person on the job site, and it’s Friday afternoon. Every Friday at quittin’ time, he asks most of the crew if they’re going out with ‘the boys’ after work. We’ve been working on the newest building for Commons Property Development, my granddaddy’s company—now run by my father—in downtown Charlotte for the last few weeks.
“No can do, Old Man,” I reply, keeping a straight face because he’s only twenty-six.
“Oh, come on! You’re the youngest guy on the site. You shouldn’t be the lamest,” he says, as if insulting me will convince me, but I don’t plan on giving in.
“I’m not even old enough to drink. Going out and watching you dickweeds get shit-faced isn’t my idea of a rockin’ Friday night.”
My age isn’t really the reason. Slide someone a twenty or two, and I can get anything I want anywhere I want.
An eighteen-year-old used to be able to buy beer in North Carolina, but over the last few years, they’ve changed the drinking age a few times. It was nineteen until last year when they raised it to twenty-one. It’s li
ke they knew I was approaching legal age and kept dangling the carrot and taking it away.
The truth is, I already have plans tonight. My brother Beau, just got back from a two-week vacation in Greece, and I agreed to have a drink with him to welcome him back.
Hanging with the guys on the crew has the possibility of being fun, except I don’t have anything in common with them. Half of them are married with kids or old, single men, and the other half are immigrants from Mexico who don’t speak English. They’re hard workers even if I can’t understand a thing they say.
“Nobody at The Park Elevator gives a shit how old you are.”
I sigh as I pull up the collar of my T-shirt and wipe my sweaty forehead. Going for drinks is the least of things on my priority list, and I’m not in the mood to succumb to any form of pressure, even if he claims that it strengthens bonds between co-workers. If Colt continues to hound me, I might blow a gasket.
“I’m starving and exhausted. When I get home, the last thing on my mind will be going out,” I reply, hoping I sound as tired as I feel. “The only thing I care about is a hot meal and an even hotter shower.”
“You work too hard, Harris,” he says, sounding disappointed.
“That’s not something I expected to hear from you, man.”
His comment surprises me as he’s one of the hardest working guys on the job. Which is probably why he loves to go out and tie one on every weekend. Let go of the stress.