Curtis L. Alcutt was born and bred in Oakland California. He’s walked many career paths before deciding to give writing a try. “I’ve been a roofer, garbage man, courier, truck driver, computer network administrator and even co-owner of an auto body shop. Back in the early nineties, I had a record deal as the Rapper, “Big C.” For many different reasons the deal fell through, but I never let it discourage my pursuit of self expression.”
Visit his website www.curtisalcutt.com and find him on Facebook.
ARE YOU CURIOUS TO SEE HOW TRENDA CHANGES HER LIFE?
STAY TUNED FOR
FATAL INTENTIONS SINS of a SIREN II
COMING IN 2012 FROM STREBOR BOOKS
Fatal Intentions: Sins of a Siren II chronicles the re-emergence of the sinful, sexy, seductive and deadly Trenda Fuqua. Due to numerous death threats to her and her family, she turns down StarShine Entertainment’s generous offer to buy her story and get her out of prison.
Two years later, after immersing herself in the Bible, she earns an early release due to prison overcrowding and good behavior. Two weeks before her release, her mother dies. She moves in with her heartbroken father and finds herself gravitating more and more to the church.
Meanwhile, Darius’s distraught widow, manipulated by a few of her late husband’s corrupt cop buddies, plans vengeance against Trenda, who she holds responsible for the death of her husband.
Trenda soon is forced to go on a mission to discover the culprits who have caused disturbance within her own family.
TURN THE PAGE TO ENJOY A SNEEK PEAK!
One
Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
—ROMANS 12:17-21
“I want that green-eyed bitch dead!” Beverly Kain, the widow, yelled as she picked up the heavy crystal candy dish off of her coffee table. She then threw it into the flat-screen TV mounted on her living room wall. The image of the woman she blamed for the death of her husband blinked out after the explosion of glass and sparks erupted from the destroyed TV.
On this, the second anniversary of her husband’s death, the ache in her heart ran to her head as she collapsed on her sofa. Tears of sorrow and anger ran down her face and neck, onto the collar of her pink robe. Every day since the grisly discovery of her late husband’s body, she’d watched the videotaped newscast that featured a short conversation with Trenda Fuqua.
Trenda Fuqua.
The same woman alleged to have had an affair with the late Baltimore police officer Darius Kain. Nightmares of his acid-eaten, mutilated body launched her into chronic insomnia. “She ruined our lives!”
The belief that Trenda corrupted and set up her husband was undeniable in her mind. The fact that Trenda was due for an early release from prison further pissed her off. As tears smeared her mascara, she recalled the smug look on Trenda’s face as she was stuffed into the patrol car after her interview.
Once her crying fit stopped, she reached into the pocket of her robe. A maniacal smile formed on her face after pulling a piece of paper out of the pocket of her robe. She then picked up the phone, blocked her number and dialed the number written on the back of her late husband’s funeral program. She thought she had blocked her number but in her stressful state of mind, she put in the wrong code.
The number she called was for Mitch, a friend of Darius’s that could “take care” of situations. He’d given her his number at Darius’s funeral. He promised he’d look after her. His gruff voice answered. “Wassup?”
As she had done many times before, she hung up without answering. Upstairs, the muffled cries of her two-year-old son, Darius “DJ” Kain, Jr., got her attention. She hurried up the stairs, walked over to the Birchwood baby-bed, picked up the blue pacifier next to the baby’s head and put it into his mouth. Looks so much like Darius…because of that red-headed tramp he didn’t even get to see you. She stroked the child’s curly, dark hair. The fact that she found out she was pregnant a month after Darius’s death filled her with bitterness. “I miss your daddy so much…”
“That’s a lot of money,” Trenda said as she examined the contract on the table. A verse she often read while incarcerated came to mind. It alluded to a majority of her past troubles:
For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.
—Timothy 6:10
She rubbed the green rosary beads in her hands and looked across the table at the tall, blonde woman. “But I can’t take it. Sorry.”
Alexis Cannon, top reporter for StarShine Entertainment, folded her arms on the table and focused her ice blue eyes on Trenda. The smell of new paint still lingered in the air of the recently painted conference room. The three-year-old, Cockeysville Correctional Center—or “The Cock” as some inmates dubbed it—was the most modern prison in Maryland. “Ms. Fuqua, this is one hell of an opportunity for you.” She tapped the contract. “You can leave this hell-hole a very wealthy woman.”
The seven-figure deal to tell her story was awful hard for Trenda to resist. But she knew in order to make a real change in her life, sacrifices had to be made. Two years ago, after the bodies of the two crooked cops that had extorted and abused her for years turned up, she had been in high demand. Along with the fact that the officers were in the middle of one of Baltimore’s most high-profile corruption cases, their gruesome murders grabbed national headlines.
Tempting as it was, Trenda knew going on TV would garner her a lot of unwanted attention. After spending the last twenty-four months behind bars—and in her Bible—she had come to enjoy her anonymity. Also, she didn’t want to make too many waves. Word around the The Cock was that they were going to release a few low-risk inmates due to overcrowding.
After finding out from the D.A. that she was almost on the list, Trenda went out of her way to stay out of trouble. It worked. The D.A. told her she was going to be paroled early because of her good behavior combined with the overcrowding.
Besides self-change, self-preservation was an issue also. Even though the Island Boys had withdrawn their contract for her life, she had a new set of enemies to deal with.
A few days ago, she found an unsigned envelope containing a letter, a copy of her mother’s funeral program and pictures of her elderly father, brothers and their families in her mail delivery. The letter warned her to keep her mouth shut about Darius and Tyrone’s “street business,” if she and her family valued their good health.
Although the guard denied knowing where the envelope came from, Trenda knew she was lying. Need to get out of here though… Daddy needs my help, especially since Momma died. Images of her frail father played in her mind. She shook her red, shoulder-length French braids and stood up. “I gotta go. I’ll get with you later.”
Alexis puffed out her cheeks, exhaled, put the contract back in her alligator briefcase and closed it up. “I will be talking to you again.”
Trenda watched the well-dressed woman exit the room. “I’m sure you will.” The prison guard motioned for her to follow. She adjusted her baggy orange jumpsuit. Two more weeks, she thought as she was led back to her cell. Two more weeks and I’m outta here. Hallelujah.
Two
Twelve days later, at one in the morning, Trenda was rudely awakened by a Cockeysville Correctional Center Correctional Officer. “Wake up, Red! Time to get your ass outta here,” Velma, the bulky, six-foot-tall female officer, said. She banged on the bars of her cell door with her billy club. She then tossed a letter from the court and two empty pillowcases into her cell. “Get up and
get packed now!”
What the fuck? Trenda thought as she blinked her eyes. The bright light of the C.O.’s flashlight blinded and angered her. “Can’t you turn off that goddamned light?”
The guard, Monique, “Big Mo’” for short, grinned. “I thought you church folks didn’t cuss?”
Trenda swung her legs out of her bunk. They were well-toned and fit after her daily two hours of running in place. Her wash-board abs flashed as she pulled down her T-shirt. Having been in solitary confinement for over two years, she spent a majority of her time doing push-ups, running in place and a host of other isometric exercises. She grimaced at the big dyke. “I ain’t never claimed to be perfect…I just read the good book every now and then.” She pulled her orange jumpsuit on in a hurry. She hated the way the guard’s eyes fixed on her cotton-panty-covered pussy. “Why you wakin’ me up anyway? This a random search or somethin’?”
The husky guard signaled to have the cell door open. “No, sexy. Time for you to get out. Go home.”
Trenda froze midway through zipping up her jumpsuit. “Wha? I ain’t supposed to leave for a couple more days…you sure you know what you doin’?”
Big Mo’ tapped her billy club against her thick thigh. “It’s ya lucky day. The warden does not want to get caught up in a big media circus because of you.”
Perplexed, Trenda shook her head. “Wait, wait, wait. What the heck you talkin’ about? What media circus?”
“Well, when word got out that you were on the early release plan, folks started talking about your case again. Everybody still wants to know what you know about those murders. When word got back to the warden that the tabloids were gonna be camping out to catch a picture or interview with you, he decided to ‘be nice’ and let you go a lil’ early. So guess what? Your ass is leaving right now.” She pointed at the cell floor. “Your parole information is in that letter. Make sure you carry your ass over and meet with him when you get out.”
Trenda, in a daze, picked up the letter and pillowcases and started packing up her stuff. She kissed her rosary beads, said a silent prayer and packed them into one of the pillowcases. Dazed or not, her time spent in the streets taught her to get out first, ask questions later. She briefly recalled the parade of reporters and other celebrity stalkers when she was first flown into BWI from Oakland. “Shi—, I mean shoot, them folks already out there?”
“Not yet, but they’ll be here soon. We are gonna sneak you out the delivery dock inside an unmarked van. From there we can drop you off anywhere within fifty miles of here, as long as it’s in the city limits You wanna go to your parents’ house?”
“Hell, I mean, heck no!” The thought never occurred to her where she was going to go when she was released. She’d toyed with the idea of going to see her father, but facing him after almost two decades of absence was difficult—especially for the reasons she stayed away.
Thirty minutes later, Trenda was handed an old friend of hers; her “Travelin’ Bag.” The empty, six-year-old, black-and-white Reebok bag was a welcome sight. She looked into the bifocals of the property clerk. “Where’s the rest of my stuff?”
The heavy-set, elderly black officer looked at her with a shade of contempt. “Calm your ass down…I’m gettin’ it now.”
Velma stood behind her and chuckled. “Ol’ Sarge don’t play that shit. You better calm down, shorty. You don’t wanna upset that man. He’s the only one that knows his filing system. You don’t want your shit to come up ‘lost.’”
Trenda took a step back from the drab, gray-and-white counter. The faint sound of blues music drifted out of the otherwise silent room. Minutes later, Sarge came back with a plastic bag full of the clothes she had in her bag at the time of her arrest. He placed the bag on the counter, pulled out the pile of clothes and put them on the counter. His hand rested on her sheer, pink thong. “You can wear some of this as ya change out; I guess it’s still clean. I’ll be right back with the rest of your stuff.”
Nasty muthafucka rubbin’ his hand all over my draws…sho ain’t gonna put those on! Trenda thought as she stuffed her clothes into her bag. A thousand memories returned to her as she packed her beat-up bag. The loss of her Butterfly knife she affectionately called “Baby” hit her like a stake to the heart. She and it had been through a lot. Most of it not-so-good. Sure hope I can find enough peace in the Bible to change all that.
With all of her items returned, along with a check for the balance of her commissary account, she changed into her pink velour sweat suit and waited for her ride into town. As she was escorted out of the prison, she looked up into the star-filled night. Any second she expected to hear a whistle or a guard yelling for her to stop. She paused and took a deep breath before taking the final step out of the prison and onto the blacktop where the tan, unmarked van waited for her. “Go on and get your ass outta here,” Velma said, twirling her baton. “Or you can stay; I just know I’ll see your sweet-ass back here in ‘The Cock’ soon enough.”
“Don’t count on it, bitch,” Trenda said as she flipped Velma the middle finger and strode to the van. “My ass ain’t ever comin’ back. Believe that.”
Velma chuckled behind her. “That’s what they all say…I’ll be waitin’ for your ass.”
Trenda ignored Velma’s mockery, looked past the white officer standing next to the open sliding side door and tossed her bag inside. She looked back at the dismal, dark prison. It reminded her of the entrance to Hell. A Bible verse jumped out at her:
The Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials, and to keep the unrighteous under punishment until the day of judgment.
—2 Peter 2:9
Amen, Peter. She hopped into the back of the van. The guard slammed the door closed and locked it.
They pulled out of the loading dock onto the road. The driver, a Puerto Rican guard, said, “Where you goin’?”
She thought about the letter in her bag, which contained information on how to contact her parole officer, the $400 check and $10 in cash she left the jail with. A strict budget was definitely in order. She would also have to make damned sure she made it to her first meeting with her parole officer the following Monday. With no real destination in mind, she said, “Take me to the Greyhound station. You can let me out there.”
The guard shook his head. “You do know your parole restricts you to a fifty-mile radius of Baltimore for the next eighteen months, don’t you?”
Damn, forgot about that… “Yeah, let me out there anyway…I’ll just chill there for a minute.”
“Good; and don’t forget to check in with your parole officer on Monday morning.”
Half past one in the morning, they pulled up to the curb at the O’Donnell Street Greyhound station. Even at that hour a smattering of people still roamed the streets. “All right, last stop on the prison express,” the jovial, middle-aged black guard said. “Get your shit and git.”
Trenda grabbed her bag as she waited for him to get out and open the sliding side door. When she hopped out, a mild breeze brushed against her. She hitched her bag up and looked at the guard. “Well, I’m out.”
The look he gave her as she turned to walk away was a little more caring than she expected. “I don’t ever wanna see your ass again; you hear me?”
Without looking back she said, “Take a real good look. This is the last time you are ever gonna see my backside.”
Sins of a Siren Page 29
