Role Play
Page 1
Books by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker
Flip Side of the Game
Game Over
Whatever It Takes
The Ex Factor
Role Play
The Millionaire Wives Club Series
Millionaire Wives Club
Money Never Sleeps
Rich Girl Problems
Books written as Risqué
The Sweetest Taboo
Red Light Special
Smooth Operator
Y.A. Books written as Ni-Ni Simone
Shortie Like Mine
A Girl Like Me
If I Was Your Girl
Teenage Love Affair
No Boyz Allowed
Down by Law
Dear Yvette
ROLE PLAY
TU-SHONDA L. WHITAKER
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
It was chosen for me . . . - 2001
Chapter 1 - Brooklyn
Chapter 2 - Elle
Chapter 3 - Brooklyn
Chapter 4 - Elle
Chapter 5 - Brooklyn
Chapter 6 - Elle
Chapter 7 - Brooklyn
Chapter 8 - Elle
Chapter 9 - Monty
Chapter 10 - Brooklyn
Chapter 11 - Elle
So I became . . . - 2017
Chapter 12 - Monty
Chapter 13 - Elle
Chapter 14 - Monty
Chapter 15 - Elle
Chapter 16 - Monty
Chapter 17 - Brooklyn
Chapter 18 - Elle
A shell of a man . . . - 2020
Chapter 19 - Brooklyn
Chapter 20 - Brooklyn
Chapter 21 - Elle
Chapter 22 - Brooklyn
Chapter 23 - Elle
Chapter 24 - Lorenz
Chapter 25 - Monty
Chapter 26 - Brooklyn
Chapter 27 - Monty
Chapter 28 - Brooklyn
Chapter 29 - Monty
Chapter 30 - Brooklyn
Chapter 31 - Monty
Chapter 32 - Lorenz
Chapter 33 - Brooklyn
Chapter 34 - Elle
Chapter 35 - Lorenz
Chapter 36 - Elle
Chapter 37 - Lorenz
Chapter 38 - Brooklyn
Chapter 39 - Elle
Chapter 40 - Elle
Chapter 41 - Monty
Chapter 42 - Elle
Chapter 43 - Brooklyn
Chapter 44 - Monty
Chapter 45 - Monty and Elle
Chapter 46 - Brooklyn
Chapter 47 - Elle
Chapter 48 - Elle
Chapter 49 - Monty and Brooklyn
Chapter 50 - Lorenz
Chapter 51 - Brooklyn
Chapter 52 - Monty
Chapter 53 - Lorenz
Chapter 54 - Monty
Chapter 55 - Brooklyn
Chapter 56 - Sheila
Chapter 57 - Monty
Chapter 58 - Elle
Chapter 59 - Monty and Elle
Chapter 60 - Monty
Chapter 61 - Elle
Chapter 62 - Brooklyn
Chapter 63 - Monty
Chapter 64 - Lorenz
Chapter 65 - Monty
Chapter 66 - Monty and Elle
Chapter 67 - Elle
Chapter 68 - Monty and Brooklyn
Chapter 69 - Elle
Chapter 70 - Brooklyn
Chapter 71 - Monty
Chapter 72 - Brooklyn
The Chosen One
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.
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 events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker
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.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8378-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8380-1 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 0-7582-8380-6 (ebook)
First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2020
To the Ancestors for entrusting me with this gift.
To the One who sits on the right for blessing it.
Acknowledgments
All honor, thanks, and praise shall forever be given to God who is love, the Universe, the Greatest Spirit, and the Word. To Jesus for His blessings and intercession. To the ancestors, for without their power, prayers, and love stories there would be no me. To my Ori, oh how sweet and powerful it is to be the daughter of Oya and Obatala.
To my husband, Kevin, for his love, support, and for sitting with me early mornings and late nights encouraging me as I wrote this story (and all the others). To my biggest cheerleaders, my parents, Barbara and Melvin, for being my rock and for teaching me that with faith, hard work, and perseverance, I could have it all. To my best creations, my children, Taylor, Sydney, and Zion, Mommy loves you beyond measure. To our fur baby Haven, oh what a joy you are!
A special thanks to my ‘big brother’ Dywane Byrch, for accepting nothing less than the best, for always pushing me to do more, go harder, for teaching me that if it doesn’t add value then it doesn’t belong in my presence. To my favorite ‘little cousin’ and best artist in the whole world, Malik Whitaker, I will never forget the day when I called you and screamed, “Wait a minute, I wasn’t ready though!” Thank you for always being true, always being a support, and never wavering. Danielle Santiago for being my little sister and friend, thank you for the laughter, the stories, and for all the times you listened to me read Flipside and Game Over at five in the morning and we would laugh until we cried! To Amaleka McCall, what a gem you are. I can’t thank you enough for reading page after page, for never tiring, and for being the true definition of a friend. I thank the ancestors for putting us together. K’wan, my dear friend, the gifted one, as you make your way to the top, know that I am forever rooting for you. Nikki Turner, for your kindness, sistership, and magic! All the best! My godfather, Daviyd Hawkins Jr, your wisdom and guidance are unmatched. Thank you for being just as you are. Adrianne Byrd, thank you for your support and encouragement, and for never holding the body that I lost against me (inside joke)! Ha!
To my family and friends, both near and far, thank you for your love and support! To my coworkers, know that I appreciate you.
To my agent, Sara Camilli, thank you for all that you do.
To the Kensington family, those seen and unseen, thank you.
To the readers, bookstores, social media family, libraries, blogs, and magazines, thank you for your encouragement and support!
To anyone who has ever counted it not robbery to spread the word and tell someone to pick up a book, know that you are special, and the world needs more people like you.
Be sure to email me at tushonda111@aol.com, follow me on Instagram at TuShondaL and Sweetnsaged, and friend me on Facebook at Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker.
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Asé
Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker
I did not choose to be a monster . . .
Prologue
As a rainy Friday night eased into a gloomy Saturday morning, a figure stood in the shadows.
Watching.
Waiting.
Calculating Monty’s every move . . .
He fumbled as he pushed the chair from beneath him and stood up. He took two steps forward, then staggered back onto the edge of the chair. A horrid leer drained the color from his face as he stared into the darkness and heard footsteps.
“Who-who-who’s there?” he slurred.
Silence.
It was the scotch.
It had always been the scotch. When he was a child, scotch had torn his family apart. Had forced his mother to flee his father’s berating and beatings in the middle of the night, when he was eleven, leaving nothing behind but a lavender scarf she’d dropped in the driveway.
Scotch had turned his father’s beatings on him, until the day he’d picked up a baseball bat and slugged his father into unconsciousness.
It was scotch that had lured him to pour his aches into the neck of a glass bottle; and gave him the courage to cuss his late father’s haunting voice that always found its way into the darkness . . .
“What the hell you doin’, boy!” His father’s voice dropped into his ear.
“Leave me tha-tha-the fuck alone!” he slurred, standing up and turning to face the moonlight that glinted off the frosted windowpane. He wiped his hand across the window’s mist and saw a face reflected, its head shrouded by a black hood, eyes shielded by dark shades.
He whipped around, stumbling to the side.
No one.
“What the hell you doin’, boy!”
“What did I just say, huh, motherfucker? I said leave me the fuck alone! I ain’t shit, just like you said I would always be. Nothing! I worked hard for everything I got—then I pissed on it. And why did I do that? ’Cause I’m your goddamn son!”
He snatched the bottle of scotch from the floor and turned it up to his mouth. Nothing. He fell down to the edge of the chair. His shoulders slumped, his head hung low, the empty bottle dangled in his grip. He looked over to the floor, where she lay, dead.
“What the hell you doin’, boy!”
He looked straight ahead.
The all-black figure stood before him . . .
He squinted.
What little he could see of the room spun in a kaleidoscope twirl.
His heart became a warm hammer thumping in his throat.
His tongue was a heavy lump of flesh in his mouth.
His skin crawled.
The hairs on his neck stood up.
“What the hell you doin’, boy!”
He went back for an empty swig; the bottle was knocked from his lips, hitting the wall and crashing into shards of glass across the room. A hard breath escaped. His drunken gaze traced a stream of red light, easing from the floor to the center of his forehead.
He stumbled as a flash of his father’s ghostly face came into view and a whispering bullet rocketed from the barrel of a silenced 9mm Glock and ripped through his skull.
It was chosen for me . . .
2001
Chapter 1
Brooklyn
Twelve-year-old Brooklyn flung her mama’s bedroom door open with her six younger sisters crowded behind her. “Who dis?”
Bev gasped. She fumbled with the tattered black belt tied around her upper thigh, carelessly dropping a clogged and bloody needle onto the sheets.
The belt fell to the floor as she hopped out of bed, yanked an old hospital gown from the nightstand, and slid it on. “What the hell I tell y’all about bustin’ into my goddamn room without knockin’?”
“Nothin’.” Brooklyn shoved her hands up on her budding round hips. “Now, who dis?”
“I know I told y’all black asses.” Bev gave her girls a nervous smile, exposed the caked corners of her mouth, and desperately tussled with the knot easing up her back. She failed. She plopped back down onto the edge of the bed. Her eyes melted shut; her mouth hung open; and a growing string of spit dangled. The sweetness of dope filled her and pushed her forward. Just as it seemed she was destined to spill onto the floor, she popped up, eyes wide open.
“Don’t be bargin’ in here when my door is closed!” She wiped the dangling spit and shook it from her hand.
“We waitin’.” Brooklyn tapped her bare foot.
Bev cleared her throat. “This Stony.”
Brooklyn’s brown eyes took in Stony’s pale yellow skin and his curly red hair. He lay in Bev’s bed, bare-chested, with his back against the gray-paneled wall and a white sheet draped over the thick of his waist. He held a half-empty 40-ounce bottle of Olde English in one hand and a burning roach in the other.
Bev pointed at each of her daughters. “Stony, these is my girls,” she said proudly. “This is my oldest girl, Brooklyn; she ah . . . twelve. That’s Meechie, she’s ten.”
“I’m eleven,” Meechie corrected her.
Bev rolled her eyes and continued, “Those my twins, Rayna and Dayna, they seven, Sharia is five, and Nala is a year.”
Stony smiled, and his gray eyes filled with pleasure.
Brooklyn stepped forward, blocking Stony’s view of her sisters. “Where you meet him at, Mama?”
“You don’t question me!” Bev spat.
Brooklyn continued, “You met him at the bar?”
“What I just say?”
“At a truck stop?”
“Li’l girl!”
“On the street? You leaned into his car? He a trick . . . or a pimp?”
“He the DJ at the Red Lounge. Now get outta here before I beat yo’ ass!”
Brooklyn shook her head. “You couldn’t see he wasn’t shit, Mama?” She paused and waited for an answer.
Bev’s honey-colored cheeks flushed.
Stony cleared his throat.
Brooklyn took in the sweat on Stony’s brow. “Ain’t shit is drippin’ all over him.”
Bev hissed, “Before I stomp you, you need to take your li’l sisters and go back in y’alls’ room. Stony’s only here for the night. He’ll be gone in the mornin’.” One by one, Bev shoved them out of her room, slamming and locking the bedroom door behind them.
Chapter 2
Elle
“Hey, Daddy!” Seventeen-year-old Elle pushed her raspy voice to sound high-pitched and chipper. She hoped when her father peered over the top of his Bible, he would see her as his chocolate piece of sunshine and not the sneaky little bitch her mother had called her.
Elijah leafed through a few pages of the Good Book before he lifted his gold specs to the center of his wrinkled forehead. He set his eyes on his daughter before shifting them to the right of her.
“Daddy, this is Sheila Jordan, my new best friend.” Elle gave him a moment to take in Sheila’s rich mocha skin and friendship title. “We’re in school together.”
“It’s the summer,” he said evenly.
“Before that . . . When school was in session, we had the same English class . . . I mean homeroom—”
“Which is it?”
“Both,” Sheila interjected. “But for now, we’re just chillin’ until school starts again. Nice to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand.
Elijah arched his bushy brows and left Sheila’s hand hanging. He looked her over, starting with her thick black cornrows, braided straight to the back, swinging past her shoulder blades. His gape dropped to her white tank top and on to her red basketball shorts, which hung off her waist, then fell to her square hips, stopping at her black high-top Jordans.
Sheila lowered her hand and tucked it back at her side.
An awkward silence filled the air and hung there until Elle said, “Okay, Daddy, we’ll be in my room listening to music.”
Elijah’s rocking chair creaked. “Umm-hmm.” He lowered his glasses from his forehead and retu
rned to his Bible.
Chapter 3
Brooklyn
Stony’s stench of damp socks and ammonia crowded the living room’s doorway. “You look just like yo’ mama . . .” This was the second time he’d said that. Yesterday, in passing, and now . . .
Both times Brooklyn ignored him.
He continued, “’Cept you prettier.”
Brooklyn pursed her full lips and huffed. She’d sat in the center of the worn red sofa, her legs crossed and the television’s remote clutched in her hand. Her cinnamon-colored eyes were fixed on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air playing on the television screen.
“You smell sweeter,” he said.
She turned up the TV.
“Like strawberries. Or better, like cherries.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Probably softer too. Much softer.”
She shifted in her seat.
“And your body’s tighter.”
She shot him a quick glance. Then looked back to the TV.
Stony chuckled. “You just a mean ol’ li’l thing, huh?” he said, then stood before her, blocking her view.
She sucked her teeth.
He snorted.
“Move!” she snapped.
He didn’t.
“Stupid ass,” Brooklyn mumbled as she stood up and turned toward the doorway.
He stepped into her path.
“What is you doin’?” Her voice trembled. She did her best to swallow the fear, but the crack in her words gave way to the rising panic.
Stony smiled, then leaned into her ear. “Relax, baby girl. It’s okay. I know you really like me.” His hot breath felt like blistering needles pricking into her skin.
“Like you? I can’t stand yo’ stank-thievin’-crackhead ass! You ain’t even worth a dump of shit! Now get outta my face!” She shoved him.