His Last Name

by Daaimah S. Poole

  He can go out with his friends, flirt, smoke, drink, and be himself. I don’t mind Jabril doing whatever he wants, because I know that his dick and paycheck come home to me. And because I don’t trip on him, we don’t have any cheating issues. He’s never stayed the night out on me and he calls me when he’s going to be late.

  And Deuce. I tried to call him to make peace and thank him for all he did for me, but he has changed all of his numbers. I even went to apologize in person and he had me escorted out of the building. It’s for the best anyway. Jabril wouldn’t have gone for me being friends with an ex.

  Last night Jabril and I were filming the second season of Eye Candy Queens: The Come-up. Now that he is divorced, he doesn’t have a problem being on the show. I think he might even like all the attention.

  Now that we are officially together, I could sit back and rest, but I’m not. I have a mother and daughter to provide for and I like having my own money. I’m still out here hustling like I’m broke and my man doesn’t make seven figures. He was traded again to the Celtics and is doing well on that team. It’s a much better fit for him. I have the reality show, hosting nightclub dates, my “Twelve Months of Shani Amore” calendar, Ms. Amore dress line, and I’m the new face of Charms Moscato.

  The moral of the story is that men don’t change. They like what they like. No matter how bad you want to change a man, he won’t change unless he wants to.

  What I do know is that good girls don’t always win, but bad girls always get what they want. I wanted Jabril and I got him.

  CHAPTER 81

  Zakiya

  The only man I ever loved was Jabril Smith, but he didn’t love me as much as he loved himself. He doesn’t love his daughter, either. He can’t. If he did, he would have never chosen Shanice. He said he wanted his family, but his actions proved otherwise.

  He’s back having his picture taken with bottles of alcohol and women half dressed in the club.

  I love him. I want my daughter to have her father, but to actually sit back and tolerate being cheated on to my face—I couldn’t do it. So I filed for divorce and he didn’t contest. I wasn’t worried about his money, I knew Jabril would make sure that Jabrilah and I were well taken care of and he did.

  Some people, including my own sister, said I was crazy for letting Jabril go. She said I’m handing him over to the side chick. She said I should have stayed and fought for my husband, but you can’t fight for someone who doesn’t want to be with you. When I moved out, he immediately moved her in, instead of coming to Philly to get me.

  Yes, I miss my husband and being Mrs. Jabril Smith and the perks that came along with it. But I prayed and prayed and in the end, I’d rather wake up happy and single than married and miserable.

  I’ll take peace of mind over a name and a title any day.

  CHAPTER 82

  Adrienne

  “Adrienne, Adrienne! Mrs. Joseph, over here.” Several entertainment stations were competing for my attention. I walked over to a friendly reporter from Access Hollywood and smiled.

  She pointed the mic in my face and said, “What do you think about your husband’s performance in Last Chance? He’s playing a dying detective, his first serious role. What were your thoughts on him switching from comedy to such a dramatic role?”

  “I think it is incredible and his passion is amazing. He loves acting and every character he gets to become. What can I say, I’m just proud of him.”

  “The movie is getting Oscar buzz. Can you see him with an Oscar?”

  “We will see.” I smiled and walked away coyly.

  I stopped for a few other reporters and then met back up with Warren and we posed together at the end of the carpet. We sparkled together and looked like red carpet royalty. He was wearing a dark blue custom Dolce and Gabbana suit and I had on a white and navy Yves Saint Laurent gown.

  I was becoming used to all the flashing lights and the red carpets. Life in Hollywood was busy, but I enjoyed it. Malaysia is going to one of the best private schools in the country. Falcon Hall Boys has been greenlit and we are in pre-production and I am going to be the executive producer. My life is going extremely well and can only get better.

  * * *

  After the movie and after party were over, I remembered that none of it was real and my husband was indeed an actor and I was forced to deal with reality again.

  “I’ll see you in the house later,” Warren stated, opening the SUV door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I thought I told you. Edwin’s in town tonight. I’ll be in by the morning.”

  As much as I loved being Mrs. Joseph, it hadn’t exactly sunk in that I would always be sharing my man. I am attracted to Warren, but we’re more like roommates than lovers. We lie in bed together, we talk, we go out on dates; but no sex, not as long as he is still having sex with men. I can have another relationship on the side, if I choose to. I just can’t hold his hand in public or let the world know that I’m in love with someone who is not my husband.

  I came to Hollywood with the intention to sell a script, make some money to take care of my child, and maybe rebuild my life. I was able to do all of the above. Most women couldn’t do what I’m doing, but I’m not most women. In life you have to make decisions and I know being Mrs. Adrienne Sheppard-Joseph is the best choice I could’ve ever made. I have my daughter, stability; I’m completely out of debt and have a wonderful life. And the bonus is designers call me to wear their clothes, I have a closet full of shoes, new cars, and access to whatever I want.

  It’s not ideal, but it is worth it. I would not give up his last name, because it has opened so many doors I wouldn’t have been able to touch on my own. Is this forever? I don’t know, but I think I can at least give it five million dollars’ worth of my time.

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  PROLOGUE

  A short man stood over Rashad pointing a semi-automatic pistol. It weighed only one point six pounds but to Rashad it looked like it weighed a ton. He stared at the barrel of the gun and quickly lifted his hands. “What did I do? What do you want?”

  “You. I want you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just call me Death.”

  “What?”

  The man was only around five foot two. Rashad thought he could take him. But the man jumped on a chair that was next to a Rashad and pressed the steel tip of the barrel against his head.

  “You are Rashad Quintelle Eason. And one of the women in your life asked me to send a message to you.”

  “What woman? What are you talking about?”

  “Be quiet. Listen.”

  The man had a crazed look in his eyes, piercing black eyes that blinked rapidly.

  “She said to ask, ‘Why did you let Satan use you like you did?’ ”

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She said you should know everything that she’s talking about.”

  “But who is she?”

  “Shut the fuck up. Right now. Do as I say and it won’t hurt as bad, or take as long.”

  The man, although short, was strong and powerful. He first duct-taped Rashad’s hands.

  Rashad struggled to loosen the tape but couldn’t.

  “Please.”

  The man ignored him.

  He reached in the back of Rashad’s blue jeans and took his wallet.

  Then he wound a wide dark piece of cloth around Rashad’s eyes. It felt so tight he could no longer see. Rashad’s shirt was soaked with perspiration. Was this some type of joke? Was someone trying to scare him just to make a point?

  Rashad inhaled the breath of the little man. It smelled like sour milk. Then his mouth was being pried open with little hard fingers. A thick sock was stuffed inside Rashad’s mouth. He instantly felt like he could no longer breathe. He felt as if he was choking and began to gag. The fibers from
the cloth sucked all the liquid from his mouth and the dryness made him want to throw up.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening. Who was this guy? What else did he plan to do? Rashad felt nervous and wished his arms weren’t trembling so much. His brain felt cloudy. He didn’t understand. He felt sorry but it was too late.

  The black steel pistol was shoved deeper against Rashad’s temple.

  Right then he heard the voice of his son, Myles, in his head. He heard his laughter. He saw his smile. He missed Myles. He wished he could see his daughters: Hayley, Emmy, and Jazz. He imagined what would happened if he could never hold his children again. He knew that his cell phone was only inches away. He remembered that it fell out of his pocket when he got startled by the man who suddenly burst into the warehouse.

  Rashad wished he could get to his phone. Make a phone call. Tell the people he loved good-bye.

  But he had a feeling he’d never talk to them again. They’d never know how sorry he was. He thought of his mother, Beeva Reese. She’d be brokenhearted. And so would his girl, Nicole. A weird animal sound escaped from his mouth as he began to sob.

  “Please, sir, I’ll do anything.”

  The man only laughed.

  Rashad wanted to scream, but he was growing weaker and weaker.

  He wished he could pray.

  But it was too late.

  Seconds later a loud blast sounded in the hollowness of the room. The pain in Rashad’s head was excruciating. He felt he was going blind, it hurt so terribly. Instantly, a fountain of blood flowed from his head and formed a dark red pool on the floor beneath him. He fell over in a heap.

  As Rashad lay on the floor he wondered about his killer’s words. What woman was he referring to? Who caused this?

  Was it Kiara, Alexis, Nicole, Remy?

  Within minutes Rashad Quintelle Eason’s life flashed before him. Everything grew eerily dark and eternally quiet.

  He finally took his last breath.

  And he nursed one last thought. What caused this?