The Clique, page 1
The Clique
Brandie
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
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
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Lord Jesus thank you for guiding me, allowing me to follow you on this journey called life. You have tested my strength, my heart, my will and my ability to remain sane. But I was and am ok with that because I know you are only making me a stronger solider for your battle.
H.R.M., mommie loves you so much. But God loved you even more. Sweet boy there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t look at your pictures or tell you I love you. Mommie will see you again.
AAAAHHHHH! This year has been pure hell. But I pulled through.
Thanks to Vera Layfield, you are such an inspiration, such a classy lady, loving and forgiving, so beautiful on the inside and out. God made you damn near perfect! I wish everyone could have a mother like you. I love you with all that I am!
William Rayford, my solid rock, my confidant, my extra back and ear, and the greatest daddie in the world. I love you so much. You have a wisdom that’s untouchable. I appreciate every time I talk and see you. It’s almost like looking in a mirror. I got you always! Love you.
Brandon Rayford, my best friend, and baby brother, even after the end. You are a positive force in my life. A true blessing. You will succeed in whatever you put your mind to. I always got your front, back, and side to side. I got you covered. KNOCK ’EM OUT!
D.J.—we have been through a hell of a time this year, losing our first child. But with us believing in God, he will pull us through this rough patch. Thank you for being the steel that held me together. Thank you for loving me unconditionally. I love you.
Bridgette Turner, we’ve grown up like sisters and been through every storm imaginable, but now it’s time to let the sunshine in and complete this course called life. I love you, Kirra, Tyler, and Keith.
Jareka Butler, Girl you have grown up! I used to change your dirty diapers, now you’re such a bright and beautiful young lady. And never let anyone steal your joy. You deserve the best and all that is good.
Baby Girl—Jerelene Lewis, Rona Lewis and Lisa Daniels, you women have had such a strong influence on who I am today. I love you. Grandma, Carrie Layfield-I love you.
Brenda Nash, thanks for being a great aunt and second mom.
Marcus from Nubian bookstore in Southlake Mall, thanks for being a vessel to my career.
To my clique of CLASSY LADIES—knowing your worth and expecting everyone else to know it too: Tracy Lias, Emily Davis Fowler, Lashonda Brock, Kanika Mosley, Latanya Frazier, Twanda Williams, Edith Weston, Treneka Hall, Tiffany Ellis, Jamila Cleveland,
To My Family: The Layfields, Rayfords, Mims, Butlers, Burks, Turners; love y’all and thanks for always being there.
To all the people that believe in me, and are always a phone call away: My CSI clique, Evelyn Heath, Danette Jones, Barbara Jones, Ms. Pat, T-Bailey, Tasha Norwood, Jennifer, Adrian, and Ms. Margaret, and Ken Horsley and Cheche. And Xavier-thank you for reading my book and giving me pointers, New York representing.
Carla and Silas Harstfield—thank y’all for always believing and caring for me.
Darius Lockwood, you are the truth, Darrel Jones, Mrs. Dora, Ms. Diane, Ms. Lesilie, Ms. Mary, Mr. Jones and Ms. Grace. To the NICU at Southern Regional and Scottish Rite crew, you all have no idea how much knowledge and comfort was given in two weeks. Thanks for all you did for my son.
Tim Roberts you’re next!
URBAN family, thanks for putting me on the map. My next step with y’all is to cover the Globe.
T.I.P, T.I., Clifford Harris, I’m looking for you. I wanna do a book with you!
To all my LOYAL readers, thank you, thank you, thank you, it’s all for you. My unstable mind has caught up to my hand, and we are ready to commit murder on writers block and kick out back to back street books!
Catch me:
brandietediebear@aol.com.
Lord is Love.
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday morning June, 2005
Ring, ring, ring! “He-ll-o,” a sleepy voice answered. “Bitch, put my muthafuckin’ baby daddy on the phone!” the loud, angry woman demanded.
Mo swallowed hard, squinting her eyes together, trying to wake up out of the sound sleep she was in. She rose up, leaning on one elbow, glaring at the blue neon clock sitting on her nightstand. The time was 3:28 A.M.
“Funky bitch, you hear me? Put my baby daddy—”
Mo sighed loudly, taking the screaming voice in the phone away from her ear. Here we go again, she thought. I’m so tired of this shit! She cut her eyes to the right and watched Spencer—her and several other women’s baby daddy—who was snoring like a pig.
“Bastard!” She mumbled to herself, as she reluctantly eased out of the bed and into the bathroom, where she could roast this ho for interrupting her good sleep. She looked back at Spencer once more to make sure he was still sound asleep, closed the bathroom door, and took in a deep breath before letting loose. “Ho, you callin’ my muthafuckin’ house, my phone, worrying about my man, my baby daddy. Ho, ain’t you sleepy, up all day and night worrying about a man that obviously occupying my bed?”
“You can kiss my ass! ’Cause if Spencer was yo’ man I wouldn’t be carrying his baby.”
That comment hit Mo in the gut. The screaming woman on the other end of the phone was right, and she probably was pregnant with his umpteenth child. She wanted to cry and yell, “Who is this? And why did he run to your bed?” But the ho was calling Mo’s phone to prove something, so a challenge she was going to give her.
“I’m so tired of y’all lame-ass, wannabe-me hoes, claiming he got y’all pregnant or moved y’all into a condo, bought you a new car.”
“Fuck you, ol’ dumb, ghetto-ass bitch. Just put Spencer on this gotdamn phone!” The truth had struck a nerve with the irate woman.
Mo was on a roll, and she wasn’t about to stop now. She was going to teach these bitches about fucking wit her. “Who is this? Cheryl? Kim? Lisa? Which stank pussy of the month is this?” She laughed, tickled to death that she was irritating the hell out of a woman who had intended to shake her up with the phone call .
“Yo’ worst nightmare, bitch!”
“Obviously, I’m the one pressing on yo’ mind. You calling me, knowing damn well Spencer got his own damn phone.”
Mo had pulled the woman’s card. The other end of the line went silent. It was clear that this woman had another agenda besides speaking with Spencer.
Feeling like she had one up on this hoochie, she sat down on the toilet, tired from the day before and from all the extra additives Spencer brought to their so-called “seasoned” relationship.
“Well, since you don’t believe shit stank, go look in the trunk of his silver Chevy. I left you a present.” The deviant voice laughed, and the phone went dead.
Mo looked at her unfamiliar reflection in the chrome, circular mirror. She rubbed her fingers over her entire face and didn’t recognize herself. Her once wide, bright eyes now had dark circles that made her look tired and worn out, older than her twenty-five years, all of this, compliments of trying to keep up with a whorish man.
I know this trick just trying to put fear in my heart and shake me up, but curiosity is getting the best of me. Against her better judgment she slipped on her light green, terry cloth robe, grabbed the keys to the Chevy, and remained barefoot to avoid turning on the lights and waking Spencer up. It was amazing that this man could sleep through dogs barking, telephones ringing, and a loud TV,
She lightly jogged down the stairs and out the front door, hesitating slightly to make sure no one else was outside with her, before stepping on the front porch. She popped the trunk with the remote. She threw a pair of sneakers, a tool kit, and a basketball to the side to find nothing. She knew Spencer’s sneaky ass wouldn’t leave anything behind. Naw, not slick-ass Spencer. The only evidence he leaves behind is other bitches’ babies.
Ring, ring, ring!
She jumped, forgetting the phone was in the pocket of her robe. “Ain’t shit in this trunk,” Mo said, aggravated that she’d allowed some groupie to disturb her sleep and emotions.
“Oh, but it is, baby girl, it is. Look in the tool kit.”
Mo snatched the kit and popped it open. She shook her head in disbelief. The sonogram read Hye baby girl and had a due date upcoming in two days.
CHAPTER 2
Mo shouldn’t have been angry. This wasn’t the first time Spencer had left behind a little surprise after he’d laid up with a sideline ho. First, there was Pig, the neighborhood piece of ass. He said he was drunk and she took advantage of him. She took him all right, right to the delivery room and the courthouse.
Not even a week after Kaja was born, Sue’s gold-digging ass knocked on the door with a pink bundle in her hand, claiming Spencer was her daughter Kendall’s daddy. And all of this took place three years before Mo and Spencer had their first and only child, Kemoni.
Unfortunately, what was supposed to be the happiest day of Mo’s life became one of the saddest. Down the hall from her hospital room, another young girl named Stacy had just given birth to Spencer’s child, a stillborn.
Mo bit down hard on her bottom lip, letting the salty taste of blood settle into her mouth. She kept repeating the last name labeled in the corner of the sonogram. “Hye ... Hye ...”
“Yep. Mrs. Layla Hye to you, bitch.”
Mo forgot she still had the phone tight in her hand, but the voice was no longer coming from the phone, it was coming from behind her. I can’t believe I let this ho creep up on me! Here I am digging in this damn trunk, not paying attention to my surroundings.
With fear in her heart, not knowing if it was a gang of girls or a weapon waiting on her, Mo spun around on her bare feet and there was Layla.
Layla Hye was Mo’s biggest rival, going back to the seventh grade. And now here they were still battling at age twenty-five.
Standing five foot nine, all thick thighs and hips, Layla was badd. Her creamy, dark brown skin was flawless, and she looked like a gorgeous modern-day Amazon. The long eyelashes, perfect white teeth, and short, sleek, jet-black bob kept suitors at her door. But she didn’t want just any suitor. Naw, she wanted Spencer Mack. And now, pregnant with his child, she had the assurance that he would be in her life forever.
With a nasty frown on her face, Mo said, “Damn, ho, Spencer really got yo’ ass sprung, riding up in front of my house at four in the morning.” She began moving toward the street, where Layla was sitting in her car only a few feet from the entrance of the driveway. Mo felt a rush of heat run from her head to her toes. The anger running through her veins was enough to turn her into The Incredible Hulk.
Layla noticed the evil look on Mo’s face. She thought she was too cute to fight, so she stayed locked tight in the ’05 Mustang that Spencer purchased for her, with the window halfway down.
Layla was the classic dope man’s bitch—obedient, spent all her money on designer clothes, kept up a lot of shit, and stayed in everybody else’s business because she had no business about herself.
“Isn’t she pretty? Looks just like her daddy.” Layla was talking mad shit, her foot resting lightly on the gas pedal.
“Oh, you think having a baby by a hustler who already got countless baby mamas makes you special?” Mo searched the ground for an object to throw at Layla’s smug face. “When you were childless, you was a hot commodity, but now you just a number, another one of Spencer’s baby mamas.”
“You just a baby mama, but I’m gon’ be his wife.” Honkkkkkkkkk! Layla blasted the loud horn. “Go get ’im so he can tell you that we gon’ be together.”
Mo laughed as she picked up a medium-sized rock. “Don’t embarrass yourself. He’ll do that for you in due time. Have you looking stupid, telling everybody that he leaving me and you and him gonna get married in Vegas and honeymoon in the Keys. Oh, and let me not forget the house in Lost Valley.”
Layla’s smile dropped. That’s exactly what he’d told her, and what she’d been telling all her friends and family.
“Well, maybe this time I hit the jackpot, since yo’ funky pussy can’t get pregnant no more.” Layla’s smile returned. She knew that would knock Mo out faster than a punch could. “This good pussy can pop out as many as his heart desires. The boy you can never give him.”
Mo was crushed. How could Spencer tell this trifling whore her deepest secret? She fumbled with the phone in her hand, making it recall Layla’s number. When Layla looked down to retrieve the phone call, Mo chunked the first rock and hit her on the side of her head.
As the rock hit Layla’s head, her foot came off the gas and clutch, and the car began to jerk.
Mo couldn’t hold back any longer. The comment about her becoming sterile after Spencer gave her an STD was too much information for this trick. She threw the other rock, cracking the top of the window and sending shards of glass into Layla’s eyes and mouth.
Layla screamed out, hitting the loud horn as she choked on small pieces of glass.
Mo rushed the car, pulling on the door handle and, at the same time, kicking the door, denting it with her bare heel. Mo reached into the broken window and grabbed hair, skin, anything she could get her hands on. When she finally got a hold of a handful of Layla’s hair, she held on for dear life. The more Layla twisted and struggled to stay away, the harder Mo tried to pull her through the broken window.
“I bet ... yo’ ass ... will think next ... time ... you step to ... me!”
Layla was gagging as she tried to start the car, but she had a choice to make—fight Mo off and have a half a head of hair, or pull off and lose it all.
The glass began to cut into Moe’s wrist and forearm as she tried to pull Layla’s swollen, pregnant body through the window.
“Let me go. I’m pregnant,” Layla yelled out.
“Mommy! Mommyyyyyyyy!”
Mo instantly released Layla’s hair and slowly backed away from the car.
Layla quickly started the Mustang and sped off, spitting glass, blood, and threats.
CHAPTER 3
The purple skyline presented itself to Royal as she slid her chocolate, silky, restless body from beneath her lover’s arms. This had been the seventh night straight that her nightmare had woken her up at four-thirty in the morning, leaving her exhausted, black-eyed, and stressed out.
She walked her naked body into the kitchen and filled her ol’ faithful, multi-colored mug with tea and vodka. As she sat at the table and gazed into the purple haze, she thought about the nightmare that was tearing her life apart.
Being the daughter of a dead, AIDS-infected mother and a deceased father, not to mention an evil stepmother, was a nightmare she’d dealt with, eyes wide open. Her best friend Mo would always tell her, “If you can go through everything that you’ve been through and still walk like yo’ shit don’t stank, then you are my idol in every sense of the word.”
Royal held her best friend’s words in a chokehold.
They’d met one hot, crazy summer when they were eight, in Newbie, Georgia. Royal, while on a time-out, sat behind a whitewashed wire fence on a huge peach porch, pouting and picking all the buds off her mother’s white roses for revenge. Just then, a big silver car with a silver circle and V inside on the hood appeared, and a white lady and a little girl looking to be around the same age as Royal pulled up.
Royal thought, Mrs. Busey must be taking in another foster kid.
For about ten minutes, Royal made eye contact with the little light-skinned, almost white-looking, girl with dry, kinky hair across the street at Mrs. Busey’s house. And she instantly wanted to go and play, but this stupid new time-out rule had her on lock.
Royal wasn’t a bad child, just curious and rambunctious. But lately her mother had put her in time-out so much, it seemed her butt was beginning to flatten like a pancake from becoming best friends with the front porch. Her mother had become sick a few months earlier, and with every month some new symptom was claiming her body, and Royal’s playtime.
