Price of Fame Page 5

  “What . . . um . . . what she do?” Jordan asked, looking away, his eyes wide.

  He couldn’t look at her. Between the smell of putrid body fluids and the feeling in his inner ear from the music’s bass, Jordan was starting to feel lightheaded, and his body began to sway a bit.

  “It ain’t what she do, young blood. It’s what she ain’t do,” C-Lo replied. “See, when I was a boy, my daddy told me a woman is like a dog . . . once a bitch gets useless to you and don’t serve no purpose, she gots to go. Ain’t no use in feeding a worthless bitch. A worthless bitch, dog or human, gotta be put down,” C-Lo continued, taking his toothpick out of his mouth to laugh.

  Jordan swallowed hard because he knew what C-Lo was telling him he had to do. A cold sweat broke out all over Jordan’s body. He could deal with gaming girls into

  C-Lo’s stable, but murder wasn’t part of the plan. Jordan’s stomach churned, and he felt like he was going to either throw up or shit his pants.

  “You ain’t bitchin’ up on me, is you, young blood?” C-Lo asked, walking close to Jordan and squeezing his shoulder like an athletic coach getting his player ready for a big game.

  “Um, nah, I’m good,” Jordan lied, squeezing his ass cheeks together to keep from crapping in his pants.

  “I didn’t think so . . . not as much as you owe me,” C-Lo said, bending down, grabbing the girl’s hair and turning her face up toward Jordan.

  Jordan sucked in his bottom lip and scrunched his face at the sight. There was dark blood covering her entire face and her eyes were swollen shut. She let out a low moan. C-Lo threw her head down, letting it hit the hardwood floor.

  “Here ya go, young blood,” C-Lo said, passing Jordan a 9 mm glock. “You do know how to put a bitch outta her misery, don’t you?” C-Lo asked, shoving Jordan in his back. Jordan’s chest heaved and his hands shook. His feet were rooted to the floor; he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. “Let’s go, young blood. This ain’t that fuckin’ hard!” C-Lo barked.

  Stepping in front of Jordan, C-Lo bent down, lifted the girl’s head up off the floor and grabbed Jordan’s arm, pulling him down slightly. “Put that gat to her fuckin’ dome and pull the goddamn trigger,” C-Lo growled in Jordan’s ear. The music, the smell, the girl’s battered face, it was all too much. Jordan had stopped breathing, he was sure of it. Everything around him seemed distorted, he couldn’t see straight. He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience and an unknown force was moving him. He raised his hand and pulled the trigger. The shot reverberated up his arm, and he dropped the weapon like he’d just been bitten by a poisonous snake.

  The girl’s head was obliterated. There was blood and grey and white fleshy matter covering Jordan’s sneakers and the bottom of his jeans. His vision started to blur, darken, and then went completely black.

  That night, when Jordan had pulled himself together, he practically crawled into his house. When he clicked on the light in his bedroom his mother was standing up against his closet. She held his stash in her hands.

  “And just what the fuck is this?” she asked, holding the stack of money like it was a baseball.

  “Gimme my shit!” Jordan lunged at her.

  “Or else what, black spook? You gonna hit me?” Trina asked.

  Jordan was stopped dead in his tracks. His stomach churned with fire. The last time he had gotten bold enough to get up in his mother’s face, his two brothers had beaten him so severely he didn’t think he would’ve survived the kind of pain he was in.

  “Yo . . . I give you a cut of everything I fuckin’ make!” Jordan screeched.

  “Is this what you’re reduced to? You out there pimping!” she barked, her face filling with blood.

  “Fuck you! You are never satisfied,” he growled.

  “Do you know what I had to do to put you through school, you black monster? I had to sell my ass . . . I had to suck dick . . . yeah, I had to lay on my back and live on my knees!” Trina screamed, walking over to her son and getting right in his face.

  “I don’t give a fuck about you! That’s where you belong . . . just like the rest of these hoes!” Jordan belted out, fighting back tears.

  In a knee-jerk reaction, Trina slapped Jordan so hard his head whipped from left to right. Instinctively, he was drawn back to his childhood. He had vowed he would never be abused by her again. Jordan grabbed her by her neck and applied pressure as his face contorted with hate.

  “You are the reason I can’t even keep a job. I can’t even take stand for anyone to tell me what to do. You made me the black monster I am, you ungrateful bitch,” Jordan whispered harshly as he watched his mother’s eyes start to roll.

  Just before she passed out he released her. Trina crumpled to the floor, and her son grabbed what was important to him and stepped over her.

  Chapter Five

  Keeping Secrets

  Dominique surveyed herself in the mirror one last time. The swelling wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, but the bruising was visible, even on her dark, coffee-brown skin. Using the foundation brush, she applied one more coat of makeup. She appeared to have aged over night. Dominique remembered a time when she didn’t need makeup at all; her natural beauty was enough. She winced as she turned to check out the rest of her body in the mirror. She’d wrapped her own ribs with an Ace bandage. She couldn’t go to the hospital because they’d have too many questions. She couldn’t risk exposing her famous televangelist husband. That’s the price of fame, she reasoned. Big stars probably never went to the hospital either; instead, they hired “personal physicians” to ensure their privacy.

  Dominique and Alton’s relationship had happened like a whirlwind. Dominique had been putting the pieces to her life back together when she met him in church–he had been a visitor at first, then became an apprentice. Dominique was at a very weak stage in her life and had vowed she would never let another man in her world. But Alton Camden was different. He seemed to be revered everywhere he went and it did not take long for him to build a following. When he had asked her out she accepted. It did not take long before he had asked her to marry him. Dominique had felt so unworthy at first. She had not been honest with him. She also had never experienced life the way Alton was providing, therefore, she put her past to the back of her mind and told herself she was worthy of being loved. They were married in a small-intimate ceremony. Dominique had watched Alton build his church from scratch, and now he was a television pastor almost as big as T.D. Jakes. The only difference was Pastor Alton Camden had a dark secret.

  “You look beautiful, as usual,” Alton said from behind her. Dominique jumped at the sound of his voice, spilling the brown liquid foundation into the white porcelain sink.

  “Oh my goodness, Alton,” she exclaimed, turning on the faucet to rinse away the mess before it stained.

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I will help you,” Alton consoled as he approached her. Dominique exhaled. Alton was in a good mood. Right now, he was the man she’d married–a kind, gentle man. Dominique always counted her blessings that she was the preacher’s wife. He could’ve chosen from one of the over 2,000 women who attended the church, but he’d picked her. She should feel grateful, she reminded herself. But in the back of her mind, she always wondered how he would react if he knew who she really was and where she’d come from.

  Alton and Dominique rode to the church in silence. He insisted on driving, instead of using his driver. The smooth, quiet ride of his Audi that she normally found relaxing couldn’t quell the uncomfortable feeling that seemed to come over her while in the car. Dominique kept thinking about Casey, and even Jordan. Since she’d seen Casey in the hospital, she’d come up with a million excuses to visit her friend again. There were so many things she needed to say to Casey.

  “Casey, help me!” Dominique screamed as Jordan wound his hands deeper into her hair. Casey simply stood there with a bland smile on her face.

  “She can’t help you. You wanted to be a porn star, right?” Jordan grow
led, forcefully pulling Dominique’s skeletal frame.

  “Jordan, please! I will pay you back!” Dominique pleaded.

  “You will. Right now!” he huffed, his face in a deep scowl. Casey stood by, a vacant look in her eyes.

  “Suck it!” Jordan commanded.

  “Jordan, no, please!” Dominique begged, her face a cakey mess of blood, tears and makeup. Jordan cocked his gun and placed it at Dominique’s temple. She looked up at Casey, her eyes full of questions. Why wasn’t Casey helping her? What had she done to deserve this?

  “You ready to praise the Lord?” Alton asked, reaching for Dominique’s hand.

  Startled out of her thoughts, Dominique smiled. “Yes, Alton. I am ready,” she said, turning her head to gaze out the window. Tears stung her eyes. The one thing Dominique looked forward to was that it was the third Sunday in the month, so Alton would be out until late evening preaching and recording at other churches. He never allowed her to attend these speaking engagements. “Go home and prepare for my arrival,” he’d instruct her. And she always did as she was told. This third Sunday, however, would be different.

  “So, what’s up?” Brice asked his little sister, looking at her across the table of the crowded restaurant. Since Brice had left home and landed the promotion, he didn’t have as much time to spend with Ciara as he used to. But he usually made it a point to have some alone time with his baby sister at least once a month. Brice looked forward to spending time with his sister, even if it involved escorting her to downtown Brooklyn stores for the latest sneakers or the newest gadgets that were hot with the teenagers. Brice didn’t mind if Ciara broke his pockets as long as he knew she was safe and happy. Now that he was investigating the cold case murder of a young girl found dead in a Dumpster, he felt even more protective of his sister.

  “Nothing is up. Why you always asking me that question as soon as we alone?” Ciara replied in typical teenager fashion, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest.

  “Ay, ay . . . what’s that attitude all about?” Brice asked, looking at his baby sister in a new light. Maybe she is angry with me because I haven t had time for her lately.

  “I know Mommy told you,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. His mother had indeed told him. Ciara had not come home until two A.M.. the other night. When confronted about her whereabouts, she shoved her mother and ran to her room. This was not typical behavior for Ciara. Although Brice wanted to shake the truth out of his sister, he tried to remain calm in his questioning.

  “Well, I’m waiting for you to tell me your version,” Brice replied, keeping his voice even.

  “You’re my brother . . . not my father. I don’t have to tell you nothing,” Ciara spat, pushing her chair back and standing up. Her sudden movement surprised Brice.

  “Where do you think you’re going? Sit down,” Brice instructed in a harsh whisper, trying not to attract the attention of numerous customers eating at Dallas BBQs downtown.

  “I don’t want to have these meetings anymore. I’m not one of your suspects to be questioned all the time,” Ciara replied acidly as she headed for the exit. Brice dug twenty dollars out of his pants pocket and threw the money on the table before he headed for the main entrance. He ran out into the street and spotted Ciara’s bright coat weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk.

  “Ciara! Ciara! Wait!” he called as he picked up his pace. She seemed to ignore his calls and pick up her speed. Brice’s chest heaved and his mind raced with questions. This rude behavior was uncharacteristic of his sister. She usually told him everything. Brice even knew when she had her period before their mother. Ciara usually confided in him about her crushes and even her little spats at school. If something was bothering her, Brice assumed she would have told him about it.

  Brice caught up with her, grabbing her arm. “What are you doing?” he growled, holding on to her with an iron grip.

  “Get off of me!” she screamed, wriggling to get free and managing to get some nasty glares from some of the patrons bustling up and down Fulton Street.

  “Ciara, what is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” Brice gritted his teeth, wringing her arm to bring her closer to him.

  “Ouch! Get off!” she screamed again. This time people started to stop and stare.

  “Yo, man. The girl said get off her. You need to find one your own age,” said a tall guy with a doorag and baggy jeans.

  “This is my fuckin’ sister. Mind your fuckin’ business,” Brice spat, still holding on to Ciara’s arm.

  “Who da fuck you talkin’ to?” the skinny stranger asked threateningly. Suddenly, as if they grew out of the brick buildings, six other dudes surrounded Brice.

  “I’m a fuckin’ cop, so back the fuck up!” Brice warned, letting go of his sister for a second to pull out his shield. When he let go of her arm, Ciara broke free and began to run in earnest down the street. Distracted by the group of thugs, he couldn’t run after her.

  “Yo, man, we were just tryin’a help the girl. Ya’mean,” the main guy explained with his hands raised in surrender, unwilling to challenge the shield.

  Brice spun around to display his badge, hoping to disperse the crowd that had gathered to watch. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see his sister’s pink jacket disappearing around the corner. He would be giving his sister a serious talking-to when he caught up with her.

  Jordan glanced at the caller ID and picked up his ringing cell phone.

  “Hello,” he answered, a big smile pasted on his face. “What’s the matter, baby girl?” Jordan asked, feigning concern for the ranting voice on the other end. “Hell, yeah, I can pick you up. I thought you’d never ask, ma,” Jordan responded. He had already started to pull his jeans on. He always had time for helping a future investment.

  Jordan got to Brooklyn in record time. He blew the horn of his BMW 750i and the girl came rushing out of the pizza shop on Jay Street.

  “Hey,” she said in a low whisper, ducking down in the soft leather seat of Jordan’s car.

  “What’s up, baby girl?” Jordan asked, grabbing for her hand in a display of affection like he loved her.

  “Nothing. I was just missing you, that’s all,” she replied,

  “I knew you wanted me to be your daddy,” Jordan said, trailing his index finger down her cheek.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I really like you because you are different and so mature,” she said lovingly.

  Damn. Jordan knew he had done his job. He had been stopped in his tracks when he saw her coming out of Boys and Girls High School. In fact, it was her unnaturally good looks that had caught his eye right away. Her smooth, caramelcolored skin; her long, almost jet-black, soft, shiny hair; and her slightly bowed legs and athletic walk had stopped Jordan short. When he saw her walking down the street, he busted a U-turn on busy-ass Fulton Street and drove back up to where she had crossed to catch the B46 bus on the corner of Malcolm X and Fulton. It hadn’t taken much for Jordan to get her to speak to him and give up her cell phone digits. He hadn’t intended to call right away with Casey’s Fuck Fest filming looming at the time. But when Casey pulled her bullshit suicide attempt, Jordan decided that he might as well start planning ahead . . . just in case.

  “Ma, listen. I’m glad you realize that I can change your life. I can go get any chick out here, but I hand selected you. A’ight, baby girl. So, now you got some big-girl decisions to make. Are you really ready to be with me? Just let me know soon, I don’t like to waste time,” Jordan spoke bluntly.

  The girl hung her head. “I really like you. I want to be with you. You are so sweet,” she said, wringing her fingers together.

  “Well, shit. I guess that settles it then. I can be ya daddy,” Jordan replied, smiling inside. “Let’s go get some food and then go to my house and chill,” Jordan said, reaching over and kissing her softly on the lips. He watched her close her eyes and relax at his touch. She’s all in. I ain’t gonna have to worry about this one getting away.


  Casey opened her eyes and saw her mother’s beautiful face. The pain in Casey’s head made it hard to keep her eyes open. She felt a soft hand on her cheek. “Mother,” Casey whispered, her voice barely audible. Casey saw snapshots of her childhood. The scattered good times . . . like when her mother had baked her a special pink cake and put a ballerina figurine on it for her tenth birthday. Her thin lips stretched into a smile.

  “Hey, girl,” Dominique whispered with a watery smile.

  Casey opened her eyes. This time it was no hallucination. A hot feeling came over her body–fear mixed with shame. “Diamond?” Casey croaked, her throat feeling like she’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

  “Yes, girl. What are you trying to do? Kill me along with you?” Dominique asked, smiling into her friend’s eyes. She had forgiven Casey. On her quest to find herself, Dominique had realized just how much power they had both relinquished to Jordan.

  “Diamond . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything,” Casey rasped, tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes. She had hoped for the day that she could tell Dominique just how sorry she really was.

  “Listen, you just try to get better. Don’t worry about anything. I forgive you . . . the past is the past,” Dominique replied with feeling. The past is the past, she repeated to herself silently.

  Chapter Six

  Escaping Reality

  Brooklyn, New York

  “I’m not going with you nowhere! I’m eighteen and I’m grown!” Dominique screamed as she stepped to Awilda. Dominique had decided after the last sex sale that she would no longer let Awilda make her sell her body. She was going to finally fight back.

  “What you say, li’l bitch? Get the fuck dressed! Either that or your ass will be in the goddamn streets!” Awilda yelled back, pointing her finger in Dominique’s face, trying to leverage the threat of homelessness against Dominique.