Starving for Love, page 1
Starving for Love
T.C. Littles
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue - Bird
Chapter One - Shayla Stewart
Chapter Two - Thomas Harris, aka Tom-Tom
Chapter Three - Shayla
Chapter Four - Bird
Chapter Five - Tom-Tom
Chapter Six - Murk
Chapter Seven - Artavia
Chapter Eight - Artavia
Chapter Nine - Shayla
Chapter Ten - Bird
Chapter Eleven - Shayla
Chapter Twelve - Murk
Chapter Thirteen - Yoshi
Chapter Fourteen - Artavia
Chapter Fifteen - Tom-Tom
Chapter Sixteen - Bird
Chapter Seventeen - Artavia
Chapter Eighteen - Shayla
Chapter Nineteen - Shayla
Chapter Twenty - Artavia
Chapter Twenty-one - Tom
Chapter Twenty-two - Marilyn
Chapter Twenty-three - Tom
Chapter Twenty-four - Shayla
Chapter Twenty-five - Shayla
Epilogue - Shayla
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, N.Y.-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Starving for Love Copyright © 2023 T.C. Littles
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
ISBN 13: 978-1-64556-436-2
ISBN 10: 1-64556-436-3
ISBN: 978-1-6455-6431-7
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Submit Orders to:
Customer Service
400 Hahn Road
Westminster, MD 21157-4627
Phone: 1-800-733-3000
Fax: 1-800-659-2436
Prologue
Bird
“Ain’t shit sweet, ho! You think I’m playing about snapping your fuckin’ neck?” I was leaning into the passenger-side window of my former best friend’s car as I popped off on her in the worst way. I was in my feelings like a muthafucka. I’d been pulling this ole nothing-ass bitch out of the mud our whole lives, so for her to have stabbed me in the back the first chance she got was infuriating.
Shayla sighed that type of heavy sigh bitches push out when they’re highly annoyed with a situation. “Come on now, Bird. You know we weren’t ever that cool. Not as cool as you played it anyway. You’ve always got off on belittling me and Yoshi, if we’re keeping it all the way honest. You’re just salty ’cause the tables have turned and a bitch ain’t begging for your hand-me-downs.” She casually shrugged me off with a funny-looking smirk on her face. Her fresh-off-the-struggle ass did not even know how to carry herself like the bad bitch she was trying to portray.
“Bitch bye! You can stop boosting like you’re self-made. I put you together piece by piece. You would not even know how to be Dora the Explorer of the hood if it weren’t for me teaching you how to hold your head up.” I did not care if Shayla had gotten power washed and no longer seemed like the dusty piece of nothing she’d been all her life, or that she was pushing a brand-new truck, which I knew Murk had copped for her. She was still the dope fiend’s daughter who used to beg to be in my shadows. She could front all she wanted, but I knew her backstory, and I wasn’t going to let her forget it.
“Welp! All righty, then.” Shayla gulped. “Now that you’ve finished reminding a bitch where she’s come from, let me go. Would you like me to tell Jay you said what up when I meet up with him at Andiamo’s? We were just about to meet him there.” She ran her manicured fingers through her long-bone, straight weave, then turned slightly toward the passenger-side window and placed that very same hand on her pudgy stomach.
You’ve gotta be muthafuckin’ playing with my emotions, God, I said to myself. I was praying my mink eyelashes were clouding my vision. It had been a year since I’d laid eyes on Shayla, but it was obvious shorty wasn’t a virgin anymore. Her slimeball ass was very much pregnant, and she was throwing it in my face in order to get a reaction from me. What she did not know was that I was refusing to take any more bullshit or bad news. I’d been going through hell since me, her, and Yoshi fell out. But it was clear them hoes had moved on with their life and didn’t give a fuck about me or reconciling. As cocky as I was kicking it to Shayla, my feelings were all types of fucked up, so all I knew how to do was act out.
“Naw, you ain’t gotta tell that ho-ass nigga you seen me. He’ll know,” I assured her. Then I flicked my trusty blade from underneath my tongue and leaped through the window like a lizard.
I stayed on slimeball shit. Hood princesses did not wear crowns.
Three years ago . . .
“Can you bring me a warm rag when you come back out, Shay?”
I rolled my eyes out of irritation when I heard my best friend’s voice, and then I slammed the bathroom door behind me.
We were in the basement of his mother’s house, which was set up like a studio apartment and was just for him. He had bragged so much about having privacy and about how we would not get interrupted that I had been itching to get over here. But after two minutes of him popping my cherry, I had wished that his mother would pop in and catch him in the act so he could get off me. As fine as Khaleef was, his sex game was terrible. I had been hyped up to lose my virginity, but I could’ve done better with my imagination. I now understood what my homegirl meant when she said guys with big packages who did not know how to use them were basically a waste.
As far as I was concerned, Khaleef was a scam. All that package, but with a weak-ass stroke game. He had been pumping, humping, and howling like he was ripping my guts out. I had been mad as hell when I started feeling droplets of his stank-ass sweat hitting my face. I was over sex if that was how it was going to be. I’d already decided that this time did not count as losing my virginity and that I was granting myself a do-over. The only reason I hadn’t bounced already was that I needed the money he had promised me out of his check, and his direct deposit was set to hit at midnight. I was strategically planning on getting hungry for some snacks right after the clock struck twelve, and then I would walk him to the ATM at the gas station before having him walk me home.
I was already praying Thomas was out doing dumb shit with his homeboys and was not clocking that I wasn’t home. The last thing I needed was for him to find out I had slept with Khaleef, who had been my best friend for years. I did not want my brother thinking I was out here tricking on a regular—especially when we needed to get our water back on at home. My cycle was set to come within a few days, and I wasn’t trying to get caught with a messy coochie and no soap and water. It was already bad enough the kids at my school stayed talking about me because I did not have the finer things in life that they had access to. My parents did not have a job, I wasn’t a hustler, and I did not really know how to get it out of the mud. All I really knew how to do was dwell in that shit. That was why me being over here with Khaleef had me feeling out of my element. I did not do stuff like this. And since the sex was so whack, I was sure our friendship was about to take a major hit.
After turning on the water, I soaped up a washcloth and got my hygiene together. The soap instantly stung on my freshly attacked cooch. I tried as hard as I could not to look in the mirror, ’cause I would’ve broken down and cried. I could not believe I’d cashed in my V card. After getting my hygiene together, I wet a washrag with warm water for Khaleef, as he had requested, but by the time I got back to the bed, he was fast asleep and snoring. He even had the nerve to be drooling. After moving his bigheaded ass over a bit, I slid in the bed beside him.
“Ain’t this some shit. I should be the one knocked out, with my thumb in my mouth,” I mumbled and tossed the washrag onto the nightstand by his side of the bed.
Part of me wanted to slide my clothes on and bounce, but I kept thinking about that direct deposit. Anyway, to pass the time until Cartier woke up, I grabbed my phone and headphones from my purse, then plugged up so I could write. Writing poetry, books—anything creative—was the only light I had in my life. It was like my soul thrived off creating, and it had been that way since I found my voice through writing as a kid.
Hey, boo. Are you good? Yoshi’s text message popped up on my cell phone’s screen. Although I was on a creep mission and wanted to keep every single second of this shit private, I needed Yoshi’s advice. She had enough crazy drama spiraling around in her world that I knew she wouldn’t look at me funny, judge the move I was making, or kick the shit back in my face at a later date.
I texted back. Yeah, as good as I’m gonna be. I’ll hit you up as soon as I get home.
Ten minutes later, my hands were aching from how many words I’d typed. I was in the zone as I wrote a short story about a girl (me) and what I’d just done. It was easy for me to push my feelings out since the situation was real and not made up. I did have a vivid imagination, so it was easy for me to tell tales, but this one had a lot of truth to it. Khaleef’s feelings would’ve been hurt if he read my short story, so I kept watching him to make sure he did not wake up and start peeking over my shoulder. With us being cool for so long, he knew I loved writing, and he had always supported my craft. That was the main thing I’d miss if we stopped being friends.
I had tales for days, stories for every second that I’d lived, and a creative way to mix all that shit together, a skill that no one else could master like me. Every artist had to have an ego to stay thriving in the game, and I was no different. One day, I was hoping to write a book. It was a dream of mine to get published.
Just then Khaleef woke up. “Damn, baby. My bad on dozing off. They worked me like a slave at the grocery store today.” He turned toward me and started rubbing my back, and right on time, I hurried up and went to a different story on my phone. From the way he was rubbing my back, I could tell he was about to try to come on me for round two. “Put your phone up and cuddle with me for a minute.”
“You see me in the zone, Kha. Let me finish what I’m doing.” I pushed his hand back, because I did not want his vibes. I wasn’t trying to be rude or to ruin my game plan, but my skin was crawling at his touch.
“Fuck them nursery you be on and come fuck yo’ nigga.” He surprised me when he tripped, and when he suddenly pulled his dick from underneath the covers.
“Aw, hell naw! What tip are you on? Nursery rhymes? Wow! That is disrespectful as hell,” I yelled as I jumped out of the bed. “I see you’ve been fronting all this time for some ass. Acting like you liked my work.” I felt stupid.
“Naw, I wasn’t fronting . . . but I am chasing a nut.”
“You just oughta pay me to fuck your ‘cum quick, one-nut wonder’ ass.” I flipped up my middle finger and then started putting on my clothes with the quickness.
I knew me, and I knew I’d start flipping over shit and tearing up his mom’s crib, and then we’d be boxing. And I wasn’t scared of no boy. My brother had taught me how to wrestle when I was straight out of diapers, and most definitely how to defend myself once our family fell apart. Khaleef knew that he’d just gotten a piece of pussy from a tomboy, and that I’d wear his ass into the floor with these hands. Him calling my stories some muthafuckin’ nursery rhymes was beyond disrespectful and had me livid, ready to spit on his hating ass. There wasn’t no coming back from this beef. Which was why I slid some cash out of his pants pocket while I was getting my clothes off the floor. I had to do what I had to do, and I wasn’t leaving out of here empty handed.
Chapter One
Shayla Stewart
Me and my family had been on struggle mode for years.
After forking the last few chicken-flavored ramen noodles into my mouth, I tilted the bowl up and drank the leftover salty juice that was swimming around in the bottom. I was chowing down as I sat on the front steps because I was hungry as hell and had been all day. I’d even nibbled on the moldy-looking corn dogs they served at school. It was the end of the month, and shit was on “every man for themselves status” at my house.
My dad came out of the house. “Hey, Shayla, you got some more of them noodles in your backpack?” he asked me, begging as usual.
I took one look at the man I was supposed to love and look up to and wanted to throw my noodles back up. His face was sunken in, his lips were chapped and cracked, his dark brown skin was dry and ashy, and his hair was so long and unkept that it was matted to his scalp and looked like it stunk.
Ricardo “Spiderman” Stewart had once been looked up to and respected by everyone in our neighborhood because he had been crushing life and living big. He had had a job at the factory, had been making good money there, with a 401(k) and full-coverage insurance, had kept a new car in the garage, and had had the nicest house in the hood. Me and Tom-Tom had been the only ones out of our friends to have fresh kicks, new clothes, and all the newest toys. That had all been before Ricardo’s crack cocaine addiction surfaced and took over. My pops had gone from passing out spare change to begging for spare change. He chased his high whenever he wasn’t high, and he ain’t give a fuck if he had to lie and say he was trying to put food in me and Tom-Tom’s mouth.
“Naw, Pops. I do not. But I would not give you any if I did.” I rolled my eyes, stood up, and pushed past him to go change out of my school uniform. “And try taking a shower and changing your clothes. You smell like a porta-potty.” I gagged involuntarily.
“One day you and your brother are going to regret the way y’all treat me.” He puffed out his tiny chest, then scurried down the porch steps.
“I doubt it.” I watched in embarrassment and sadness as he rushed up the block in his worn-down dress shoes, more than likely on his way to the corner store to beg for some credit to get a beer. Then I opened the screen door, stepped inside, and headed up to my bedroom.
Food was never on his mind unless me or my brother brought it into the house. My dad got four hundred dollars a month in food stamps for both of us, but he sold two hundred of it every month so he could feed his addiction, which left only two hundred to feed me, him, and even twenty-two-year-old Thomas.
My brother used to have his own welfare case, but he had got flagged for getting over on the system. He had been getting food stamps, cash assistance, and even Medicaid, all after claiming that he was mentally challenged and that this was why he was not able to get a job. The scam had worked out sweet for a few months; then the state had sent Thomas for a mandatory psychological evaluation with one of their doctors. Not only was he deemed mentally stable before the assessment was over, but he was also labeled a con artist. Thomas was lucky, but I was blessed, because all they gave him was community service, five years of ineligibility, and a restitution bill as punishment. I’d probably be getting high alongside my father if Tom-Tom wasn’t around to hold me down.
Thomas had taken care of me since I was eight years old, which was when our mother abandoned us. He was thirteen at the time. We had been walking home from school when she rode past us in the passenger seat of a dark green Checker cab. We had just gotten out of school and had detoured to the penny-candy store for some fifty-cent bags of assorted Frooties. I remembered that day like it was yesterday.
“Hurry up and come on before Mama be talking shit,” he urged me. He was always cursing behind our parents’ backs.
“Leave me alone, Tom-Tom. I’m walking as fast as I can.” I was more concerned with unwrapping one of the green-apple candies I’d just gotten from the store than keeping up with him. “And here comes Mama to pick us up anyway.” I stuck out my tongue at him, then started walking to the curb, so I could get in the back seat of the cab she was in.
Thomas had his back turned as he was fussing at me, so he did not see the cab that was approaching us, with our mother in the front seat, waving. He did not see her until the cab zoomed right past us.
“Mommy! Mommy! Where are you going? I want to go!” I yelled after the cab, waving my hands in the air, sad because I loved going places with my mom. She always got me toys, snacks, and special surprises whenever I went along with her on grocery trips and errands, especially when she went to the mall. She even took me to get my nails and toes polished on Fridays, when Daddy got a paycheck. I turned and faced my brother. “Why did Mommy leave and not take me?”
“Are you sure that was even her?” he questioned, watching the cab move even farther up the street. “Man, that wasn’t her, dummy. We have a car, so she would not be in no damn cab. Plus, she would not have rode past us,” he told me.
“That was her, Tom-Tom! Do not call me no dummy,” I yelled. I hit him with my little fists and all my might, but, of course, he did not budge.
“Quit being a brat and come on.” Tom-Tom did not care about my tears, because I always cried and threw tantrums when I couldn’t go with her.
I stumbled the rest of the way home, eating my strawberry candy, then did all the chores my mom would’ve had me do had she been home. I cleaned my room, emptied all the garbage cans into one big bag so Thomas could take it to the dumpster, vacuumed the living room, and even set the table for a dinner that wasn’t cooking. I remember being restless as I waited for my mommy to walk through the door, be surprised that I was such a responsible big girl, and spoil me with some extra dessert.
