Also by Lutishia Lovely
Sex in the Sanctuary
Love Like Hallelujah
A Preacher’s Passion
Heaven Right Here
Reverend Feelgood
Heaven Forbid
All Up In My
Business
LUTISHIA LOVELY
All copyrighted material within is
Attributor Protected.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 by Lutishia Lovely
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018.Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6820-4
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6820-3
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: March 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
To the memory of my grandmother, Amanda Jane Harding,
whose country breakfast fare of fried eggs, salt pork bacon,
and fresh-baked homemade biscuits would assail my
senses before 6 a.m. and force me out of bed!
Contents
Also by Lutishia Lovely
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Discussion Questions
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I appreciate you!!! Yes, you, holding this book, reading these words—you are the wind beneath my wings and the sun that warms my life. It is with a lot of excitement and even more gratitude that I present the first work in my brand-new series. Trust me, I can’t wait until you get all up in my business and experience my new baby! And just as it takes a village to raise a child, I didn’t birth this literary work alone. There were people helping me out and cheering me on every step of the way.
Like Selena James, for instance: editor, midwife, friend. Better than any Lamaze coach, she held my hand through labor pains, told me to breathe, and helped me push. Love you tons, sistah! Natasha Kern … you’re a blessing. Not just my agent, but also a trusted navigator on my literary journey. A trifold cord is not easily broken, and I visualize this team together for a very long time and having lots and lots of young’uns! Kensington is a first-class publishing house, and the Dafina line lives up to its name: my unexpected gift. From the art department to sales, and from PR to management: a huge hug for helping keep me on the shelves and making sure I shine! My “baby” is cute because your hands have held her.
I independently published my first novel in 2004 and came out traditionally in 2007. The publishing industry can be daunting for a newbie and can be tricky to navigate. Those early years were tough, and lonely, which is why I love to life the circle of writers and supporters I now call friends. You all know who you are, but I’d like to holla at a few: Carl Weber, you are a creative mastermind who is gracious enough to share your expertise with those coming up behind you. You understand that there is room enough for all of us. Thank you for everything. Carol Mackey, you could have a big head (you know you’ve got it going on!), but instead you are one of the kindest, most humble, yet talented women in the game. You’ve supported writers for years … and now you’re one of us! May all of your giving now come back as gifts. I’m talking sales, girl. Cha-ching! Pamela Samuels-Young … finally, an author to hang with on the West Coast! Authors Monda Webb, Tamika Newhouse, Teresa Gonzalves, Marcus Miller: thanks for your support at my Heaven Forbid release party! Page 59 Book Club, you know how to represent! Everyone who came helped make this night special. Najuma, thanks for the suggestion and all of the help. Debra Owsley, you too! Stuart McClean … your gallery is fabulous! Bruce Marigny, it’s nice knowing a brothah with connections. Thanks for taking care of me. Curtis Bunn, the National Book Club Conference was as amazing as I’d heard. Ella Curry, see you at the next Chocolate Social. And yes, Trice Hickman, what happens in Atlanta …
Loved catching up in LA with the “street lit clique”: K’Wan, J. M. Benjamin, Nicola Mitchell, and newcomer Terry Wroten. Glad the New Yorkers survived the east vs. west contest! Pat “Cover Girl” Tucker, Cydney Rax, up-and-comings Michele Grant, Jessica A. Robinson, Jacqueline E. Luckett, and Kimberly Kaye at Foxy 105 FM … you ladies put the “s” in sistahhood. Much love …
Y’all know I love a book club and, as always, have to hug a few: Elite Mindseekers (next time, it’s a bonfire on the beach!), Romance Slam Jam (hey, Miss Emma and Dee!), Seven Virtues, Natural Sis
taz, Ladies of Legacy, Prominent Women of Color (big hug, Toni!), Royce and the Sweet Soul Sisters, Priscilla, Yasmin, and APOOO, Adrienne Dortsche and Black Women Who Read, Maria Akins and Urban Divas, Debbie Shaifire and Urban Fire, Charisse Cook and Women Enlightened by Books, Sharon E. Luckett and S.I.S.T.E.R.S., Toshika Jones and Babes on Books, and last but not least, LA’s own … Janice Aaron and Odyssey’s Book Club Network. You guys are some of the most loyal, voracious, and vivacious readers I know! Oh, and congratulations to LaShaunda Hoffman (SORMAG) and Tee C. Royal (Rawsistaz) for ten great years of author support. I’m sure I’ve missed somebody … that just means I have to write another book!
To all of the Lovely ladies and gent readers, friends, family, and especially Spirit … hugs and smooches.
Prologue
Oh my God! “Is that … No, it can’t be!” Chardonnay Johnson slammed on the brakes, frantically looking up and down the street, and then over to the business complex that housed the Livingston Corporation. She cautiously rolled down her window, her breathing heavy as she continued to look around. Except for the faint noise that came from the boulevard she’d just exited, all was quiet. She didn’t see any movement, no other cars except the few in the company parking lot of the headquarters for the restaurant where she worked—the parking lot where she had no business being this time of night.
“Zoe told me to mind my own business,” Chardonnay whispered, her eyes once again fixed on the large something or other lying on the ground next to an open car door. “But, no, you just had to be nosy.” Mere seconds had passed since Chardonnay turned toward the parking lot entrance and her headlights had picked up a massive lump on the ground. But these seconds felt like an eternity as she sat frozen, wondering what to do, while at the same time trying to convince herself that she wasn’t seeing what she was looking at. The parking lot was large, and it was dark, so she almost convinced herself that she’d watched too many crime movies and was simply imagining things, that all she needed to do was turn around and go home. She’d go to bed, wake up, and arrive at her workplace, Taste of Soul, and find out she’d been tripping all along. “Girl, you need to get out of here.” Chardonnay pulled to the side, preparing to make a U-turn in the street and get the hell out of Dodge. Her eyes darted between the road, the building, and the lump. It’s probably just some garbage bags, she thought. She turned her car around but turned to take one last peek at the eerie-looking scene. In that moment, two things happened: It dawned on her who the car with its door open belonged to, and the “garbage bags” moved.
“Oh, no!” All thoughts for her safety aside, Chardonnay whipped back around and raced across the near-empty parking lot, pushing her fifteen-year-old Nissan Maxima to its limits. Her heart leaped to her throat as she drew closer, her headlights confirming suspicions that what had appeared as a massive lump of trash on the pavement was indeed a body. Her heart beat an erratic rhythm as shaky hands threw the car in park while simultaneously reaching for the cell phone. Chardonnay panicked. She locked her doors, then unlocked them. Should I go to him? No, I should stay inside my car. Look at all that blood on the ground! Chardonnay didn’t think she knew Jesus but found herself calling his name as she dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Yes, Operator, somebody’s been shot!”
“Someone has been shot?”
“Yes! I mean, I think so. He’s on the ground. He isn’t moving. He was, but he isn’t now.”
“Where has he been shot, ma’am?”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, calm down. Where are you?”
“The Livingston Corporation parking lot.” Chardonnay gave the address. “You need to get here, quick!”
“An ambulance is on the way, ma’am. Did you see who shot the victim?”
“No, I just drove into the parking lot and saw him here on the ground. And there’s a pool of blood underneath him.” Chardonnay thought she saw a shadow run around the far side of the building. Seconds later, she heard screeching tires. Chardonnay’s eyes went wide. All twenty-seven years of her life seemed to flash before her in an instant. She threw down the phone, put her car in drive, and raced away from the scene. She could still hear the operator coming through on speaker-phone.
“Ma’am, what is your name? Ma’am, are you there? Please, calm down.”
“Calm down, hell!” Chardonnay yelled. “I just heard squealing tires. It might be the killer! Look, I gotta go! I got kids.”
1
Seven months earlier …
“You’ve come up, my brothah! This place is off the charts!” Toussaint Livingston moved around the new “man cave” in his brother’s house.
“I was hoping to have it done last weekend and invite y’all over for Memorial Day.”
“That’s all right. The NBA championship game is coming up. I know where I’ll be watching.”
What had formerly been a seldom-used, garden-level family room now resembled a gentlemanly sports club: Dark-stained walls offset by white marble floors surrounded a pool table, a poker table, oversized chairs, and well-placed ottomans, and a wall-length, fully stocked bar anchored the room. Framed, autographed photos of some of Malcolm Livingston’s favorite athletes lined the walls, along with a few famous jerseys, footballs, basketballs, and a Hank Aaron-autographed baseball bat. Anyone seeing the man who now stood before a signed Michael Jordan basketball, which was encased in Plexiglas and sitting on a pedestal, may have mistaken him for a professional athlete. A tautly muscled six foot two and two hundred pounds, Toussaint looked ready to catch a pass and then run for fifty yards, or hit a baseball out of the park. “Man, he said, continuing to scope the room. “You make me want to fix up my place.”
“What’s stopping you?” Thirty-four-year-old Malcolm Livingston, Toussaint’s older brother by eighteen months, proudly walked over to the bar that had been made to resemble the one in his favorite gentlemen’s club. Aside from stocking almost every liquor known to man, the bar housed four beer taps and the necessities for serious drink-making: shakers, strainers, muddlers, slicing boards, and glasses of every shape and size. A full-sized refrigerator, with the front made out of the same wood as that on the walls, blended seamlessly into the well-appointed space. Malcolm couldn’t wait until the next Super Bowl. “Huh? What’s stopping you?” he asked again, pouring him and his brother mugs of ice-cold beer.
“You have a wife to handle the details. I don’t have one of those or the time to do it myself.” He accepted the beer from his brother and took a swig. “Ah. This is on point!”
“First of all,” Malcolm said after he, too, had taken a long swallow, “you don’t have a wife because you don’t want one, and secondly, everything you’re looking at was my idea—well, mine and the designer’s. All Victoria did was let the woman in.”
Toussaint’s ears perked up. Woman?
“Yeah, I thought that would get your attention. Unlike the past two months when I’ve tried to tell you about the renovation and you were too busy to listen.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning a female.”
“That’s because I was trying to tell you about the design, not the designer, brother. Uh-huh, you wished you’d listened now, don’t you? And she’s fine too ….”
“What’s her name?”
“Don’t matter,” Malcolm answered, purposely messing with his skirt-chasing sibling. “This one isn’t your type, Toussaint. You like ‘em tall and light, all polished and refined. Like Shyla. Alexis is a dark, bohemian-style chick.”
“C’mon now, Malcolm. You know I like dark meat. Alexis? That’s her name?”
Malcolm sighed and walked over to a rectangular coffee table. He reached down and pulled out a folder. “I know you won’t stop until you’ve satisfied your curiosity, so here you go. This is her marketing material. And I’ll tell you now—she’s good, but she don’t come cheap!”
“In designing or dating?”
“Ha! Definitely the designing b
ut probably both.”
Toussaint took the folder and sat on the dark leather love seat. DESIGNS BY ST. CLAIR was emblazoned across the front of the pocketed folder. He sipped his beer as he opened it and was immediately drawn to the photo of a woman on the folder’s bottom left side. Toussaint’s eyes widened as he hurriedly set down his beer. “I know her!” he exclaimed.
There she was, looking just the way Toussaint remembered—like a bar of dark chocolate. And, he imagined, probably tasting as sweet.
“What do you mean, you know her?” Malcolm asked. Toussaint chuckled and sat back, his eyes still glued to her picture. “She got into a fight over me,” he began ….
“Wait, wait!” Long locs flew behind the compact, curvy woman as she ran up to the parking meter attendant. “I’ve got a quarter.” She hurriedly dug into her purse and pulled out a wallet.
The attendant, who’d just flipped open his pad, began punching in numbers.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to stand there and write up a ticket. I told you, I have the quarter.”
“Look, when I got here, the meter was expired.”
“We got here at the same time! Why are you going to charge a ridiculous fine when I’m standing here telling you that I’ve got it?”
“You should have thought about that before you came back late to your car.”
“This isn’t my car, but that’s not the point!”
“What? This isn’t your car? Then why are you yelling at me? You can’t pay for someone else’s meter time.”
“Are you kidding me? How do you know who’s paying for what?”
“I know that you aren’t paying for this. This vehicle is being ticketed.”
Alexis St. Clair knew she was being totally irrational, but she was livid. Recently, she’d received a citation for being parked in a nine-to-five no-parking zone. She’d been to a business meeting breakfast and had reached her car at 9:01. After finding out the amount of the fine—over one hundred dollars with court costs—Alexis had become incensed and decided to fight the charge. She showed up in court, but her very logical argument of why one minute should not equal one hundred dollars—with a timed and dated camera shot provided as evidence—was soundly shot down. She learned from a couple other citizens who were also fighting their tickets that a new company had taken over monitoring the streets of Atlanta. The number of tickets issued had gone through the roof. She’d been angry ever since, which is why when she saw yet another hapless Atlanta citizen about to get jacked (because in her mind it was straight-out robbery), she took matters into her own hands.
All Up In My Business Page 1
