SAMPLE CHAPTER
Prologue

FREAK LIKE ME



“Twirk it!” a deep voice bellowed from the rear of the room. Lisette, a.k.a Golden, had just turned her back to do her notorious salt-shaker booty move on the spot-lit stage on Wednesday evening.
There was a cow-whistle as another male cheered excitedly from somewhere in the smoke filled dimness of the crowd. “That’s right Golden! Do that shit. Make it clap baby!”
A remix of the Pussycat Dolls, don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me blared from dual floor speakers, and maroon paisley-print walls velvet to the touch vibrated, courtesy of a visiting DJ who was going heavy on the base.  Walls weren’t the only thing in motion as Golden allowed her butt-cheeks to rise and fall on command to the catchy hook of the song with lyrics that played out slightly differently in her head. She told herself; I’m body. Every man in here is wishing that they had a freak like me to come home to. Golden pulled the tie loose on her buttersoft black leather g-string. She felt the timing in her act was right, so it joined her matching bra top which lay purposeless on the floor. Bending over, she turned around and shook her cinnamon-colored lower half vigorously, not stopping until she heard the crowd going ballistic in approval. It was clear that they wanted more as they chanted her name again and again.
“Golden-Golden-Golden.”
There was something in their liveliness that fueled her like charcoal to a match on a summer barbeque afternoon, and it happened each time that “Golden” hit the stage. Like a crack-fix to a drug addict, she overindulged on an ego high that she didn’t want to ever come down from.  Her ego. Her self-assuredness. Her confidence. Anyway you labeled it; it had helped to catapult her into a top money maker as the premier dancer at Club Bare. Her thoughts flashed back to when she’d first applied for the job. Domie, the club owner had asked her to describe her best physical attribute---she’d challenged him to find something on her that he didn’t like; of course it was everything. Golden smiled satisfyingly, unable to resist thieving a glimpse of herself in the mirrored partition to the right of where she was performing. Her skin positively Emmy-Award glistened. An oval face framed hazel eyes and an expression of say-so, a small waist and thick thighs worked in unison like that of a well oiled machine, 36-D cup breasts jello-jiggled, and her shapely stacked behind literally brought home the rear. That’s why a tickled Domie had hired her right on the spot that day. She was a force to be reckoned with; capable of earning a stage name all her own, capable of commanding an audience like no one else, and capable of bringing in the most cash.
Golden flipped her signature golden tresses with a knowing grin, and bone straight hairs landed seductively over her neck and back just the way they should have. Quality bulk hair could sway like that, and she’d purchased Malaysian’s best; a wig specially fitted for her head with natural skin parts that could be styled like it was hers. With another toss of her locks, she slowly slithered to the floor to do a full split. Each time she performed the stunt the same thought resurfaced. Sixth grade gymnastics was way underrated. It proved to be most useful in the profession she’d chosen. Golden expertly swung her limber body back around, giving the crowd a piercing gaze as she straddled the floor successfully. Success, she thought. Her heart thumped; at the notion more crazily.  The song was at its end, and the platformed stage was cash-filled. This was the type of showstopper ending that made customers want to come back to Club Bare to see her time and time again. Golden snatched up her underwear, gracefully waved and then smiled at her fans. She exited the stage, but not before glancing up at the club’s wall clock with a sigh of relief. It was eight-thirty p.m. If she put the pedal to the metal of her Range Rover HSE, she’d still be able to make it to eight forty-five p.m. church choir rehearsal.  

Copyright by Hunter Hayes - All Rights Reserved

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Prologue & Chapter 1
Chapter 1
SWING LOW SWEET CHARIOT…

Lisette Derek-Jeter-slid her backside across the wooden bench of First Christian Faith in a hurry to blend in with the rest of the choir rehearsal attendees. She claimed a spot right next to her best gal-pal Cynthia, who was quietly engrossed with a magic marker, horizontally highlighting sunburst neon across bible scriptures. A swift scan of the room confirmed that Church Choir Director-President Cassandra Banks hadn’t graced the building yet. Church members were still chattering around casually, converged in corners and nooks of the chapel. It was a monumental occasion. Bodies didn’t just stand around at a Cassandra Banks choir rehearsal meeting, not with Sister Banks always being first in attendance. She could be a stones throw away from the structure or atop a snowy ice-capped mountain clear on the other side of the cosmos and still make it to service in time to tend to church business. Lisette bit down on her lower lip to suppress a  chuckle, immediately feeling a pang of guilt for making fun of a woman who made her sole purpose for living all about serving God. Her eyes gravitated towards the vision clad in Barney-dinosaur purple adjacent to her at the thought. Even her best friend Cynthia had jumped on the sanctified bandwagon. Like an idle car to a green traffic light, Lisette instantaneously got to contemplating her own hallowed status. It was true that she was a member of the church, but attending wasn’t quite the equivalent of being saintly. Her friend on the other hand pretty much qualified. Cynthia had done the Holy Ghost dance a few times in church, the dance that seemed to be a right of passage, proving that she and the big guy upstairs were in a solidi-fied union. Lisette wasn’t particularly okay with not having been chosen to do the trot yet, but she knew that the decision wasn’t hers alone to make. Perhaps in the dance of life, God still considered her to be a wall flower.
Cynthia’s gaze met hers as she smirked and spoke. “You forgot to take your wig off Blondie.”
Lisette’s pupils widened as she peered down to give herself the once-over. Swingy knee-length navy Nicole Miller skirt. Check.  White cotton Banana Republic blouse. Check. Matching navy Pedro Garcia round-toe pumps. Check. She coolly felt along the base of her head. Her hair was smooth, neatly gathered into a pony-tail by an ornate gem clip. In a length just past her shoulders, it was all hers, in a hue so jet-black it could pass for blue. Another look at her friend was tell-tale. The corners of Cynthia’s mouth curved into a grin.
“Ha. Made you look.”
Lisette playfully jabbed Cynthia on the arm relieved. With the way she sprinted to get to the church on time, she very well could have left her wig on.  She had to give it up to her gal-pal for pulling one over on her, especially because of the way she took the utmost of precaution in keeping her job under wraps. The fact was that if Cynthia hadn’t been her closest friend in the whole wide world, she wouldn’t have been privy to knowing either. “Okay, so you almost got me. Everybody can’t be all together like you all the time you know,” Lisette responded, nodding at being pranked by her very holy-roller friend who stayed up to church code. She supposed Cynthia’s hair color, Clairol 42 Cinnamon deep auburn stood out somewhat adventurously as an eye magnet, but generally her do’s were limited. Bi-weekly hairdresser visits rotated between three styles; the French roll, the roller set, or the pristine bun, and the French roll was prevailing that week. Unfortunately, her attire was equally as predictable. Skirts always grazed her ankles, and she’d rather get herself shot dead in the chest with a sawed-off shot gun than be caught alive in public sleeveless. Lisette continued to beam a ray of concentration onto Cynthia’s formless physique, almost positive there were some curves underneath her oversized garb somewhere. Potato-sacks as clothes might have been tolerable if there was at least decent footwear to accompany it but no---her friend had a love for sporting thick heeled shoes, the kinds that grand-mamas and Auntie so and so’s liked to wear.  After her head rose back to eye level Lisette discovered a shocking twist; her apparel was being scrutinized too.
Cynthia’s ample grin accompanied an eye of endorsement. “Not you wearing a skirt on a non-worship night. I must say, it’s marvelous to see you getting sharp for God girl.”
Getting kudos on her style choices was always nice, so Lisette instinctively smiled. She skimmed her hands over the silkiness of her skirt, certain that she had absolutely, purposefully, stepped it up way beyond the designer jeans and cutesy tops she customarily wore. Like the swing of a hammock on a crisp fall day, her thoughts began to sway. Why had she ever felt the need to wear jeans to practice in the first place? Fancy felt so much more appropriate. Right then Lisette decided to make more of an effort to dress up for the Holy-man upstairs. It would be done more consistently and not just because she’d decided to do the working at Club Bare and house-of-worship thing on the same day---which wasn’t an everyday occurrence. It was a first, and most likely the last time such a thing would happen, but Domie had made her one irresistible offer. Double of what she usually made to be on the Early-Bird Bill Stripping Extravaganza. Fifteen hundred dollars, and for only one night of dancing, she hadn’t turned it down. In addition, her work week had been reduced from four to three days, and there was another upside---ten percent of it was going into a tithes and offering enve-lope on Sunday morning.
Cynthia popped a stick of chewing gum into her mouth from her basic black patch handbag. “So how’d work go?”
Three years solid into the occupation still left Lisette thrown off as to how to answer questions relating to the subject of her work. Oftentimes, her friend seemed unsure of what to ask. Most times she’d try being humorous, but typically her worry and concern showed through. Lisette answered her candidly, as she always did. “You know me, I did my thing.”
Cynthia chuckled uneasily as what she’d just asked her sank in. She’d gone from joking to serious about Lisette’s profession in less than five minutes and neither approach felt right. Frankly, no method did. That was the problem in accepting what her friend did in her very unconventional job. The positive was that at least it was a job. She knew it was because Lisette filed a 1040 EZ for it each year. And while stripping wasn’t what she would call the most wholesome of occupations, she wasn’t about to pass judgment. Only God could do that, and she wasn’t no God, only a strong believer in him. Her belief was enormous. Belief had her feeling that change was going to come, and with Lisette’s ever-growing faith, it wouldn’t be long before her friend fully turned her life over to leave the erotic dancing behind for good. Cynthia tried to make on the spot amends on her inappropriate question of how work went. She emphatically held her bible up as a symbol of her word as she spoke.  “Hmph. I’m gonna pray on this. I need to cease and desist asking you that question.” Just as swiftly flicking her other wrist out, she continued, stating what was obvious to her. “You’re lucky I love you girl, and that I don’t judge you on how you make your living.”
Her friend gave her a cynical grin.
Cynthia dumbfoundedly grinned back. “What…? Gum?”
Lisette accepted the gum as a peace offering, tucked it inside a side slit on her pocketbook, and took out her Givenchy mirror com-pact. While checking her face makeup she whispered jokingly. “Cynthia-girl, spare me. I’ve been trying to use my profession as an excuse to ditch your behind for years. It’s no coincidence. We’re just stuck with each other as best friends.” Whipping out her mas-cara, she barreled the wand through her already-lengthened lashes and matter-of-factly added, “Not that I would even contemplate leaving my job. Not with the type of money I’m making, and not with bills to pay and a teenaged daughter to raise.”
Knowing what a big role finances and living comfortably played with her friend kept Cynthia from debating the topic. Alter-natively, she turned her attention over to the empty space next to Lisette. “Speaking of which, where’s my god-daughter Janelle at?” She asked because the child was practically chained at the hip to her mother at practices. Initially, she’d thought the child was in the rest-room, but too much time had passed so she couldn’t have been in there. Cynthia’s forehead wrinkled curiously. “She’s okay right? She’s just not with you?”
“Not this time,” Lisette answered, show-boating a mummified smile. She didn’t want to let on about what her thoughts really were. Cynthia would only think that she was being overprotective again. Overprotective as in, as they sat, she was fighting the urge not to call and check on her just turned fifteen year-old baby-girl for a second time.  The first time had been only ten short minutes ago on the ride over to First Christian Faith. Lisette continued, only to soothe her own qualms about not having her child along.  “I wanted to bring Janelle, I just didn’t have enough time to pick her up after I left the club. She’s doing homework now, but I gave her permission to go on the computer to chat with her little school friends after.” Her lips pursed confidently as she added, “I’ve got the controls set to keep her safe from those online predators though. You know, the ones you see getting busted on 20/20, those sick-o’s.”
Cynthia’s eyebrows see-sawed. She gave Lisette the triple head nod.
Lisette was able to translate her friend’s body language which read like a Sunday Times newspaper. Of course she thought she was being overprotective. Cynthia didn’t have kids. She didn’t know how apprehensive a parent could get. Anything could happen to a child left alone at home. Leaving Janelle latch-key four nights out of the week brought on guilt enough, but working was a necessity. It was how the money came in and without it, Lisette didn’t know where she and Janelle would be.
A definitive gust of frigid night air abruptly shot past them, blowing in Sister Banks, propelling her NASCAR zoom down the aisle like the former Price-As-Right game-show host Bob Barker had just called her name. She was jabbering about being behind schedule, ordering everyone into double-time like a basketball coach, but she could have easily been on the starting lineup herself being over six feet tall. Sister Banks was a mahogany heavy set older woman with high cheekbones and salt and pepper hair of which she normally wore in precise Susan-Taylorish cornbraids done up in an elegantly reserved bun. The elegance and reserve ended there. Best known for thinking out loud, too often it was at the expense of others. It was a personality trait of hers that refused to take the back seat---even in a house-full of worshippers.
“Is everyone here?”  Sister Banks didn’t need a megaphone to be heard. Her voice carried effortlessly the length of two football fields.
“Yes,” all one dozen and a half members answered in unison obediently.
All ten women and all eight men were present. Lisette knew this because their choir leader did a head count reminiscent of a kindergarten roll call.
Sister Banks removed tomato colored spectacles treasure-buried in her scalp. She steadied them on the bridge of her nose and skimmed the room, making no apologies for her own tardiness in the process. “Okay people, let’s get started then. I’m not trying to be in here all evening. I’ve got a killer migraine and a pot of collard greens to put on when I get home. Unfortunately, my work doesn’t end here.”
Cynthia neatly scissored her legs and beamed Lisette a no-she-didn’t stare.
Using her hand to shield her mouth while her lips progressively moved, Lisette responded to her. “Oh yes she did. You heard her. She’s claiming to be the only one with a life outside of these sacred church walls.”
Rather than continuing to scrutinize their choir leader, Cynthia diligently shut her bible, and listened attentively to what Sister Banks had to say.
After silently praying for choir-director tolerance, Lisette found herself listening in too.
“As most of you know, our next rehearsal will be our very last before the big Sunday Praise and worship banquet. You’ll all be required to wear your choir robes,” Sister Banks told everyone. Her eyes instantaneously fell upon a single brother who’d made an un-forgettable impression at the last required dress rehearsal.  His toddler son had unexpectedly vomited a puke green stain on the front shoulder area of his robe right before he’d arrived at church. She made it crystal clear that there would be no exceptions this go-around. “I expect that each robe will be dry cleaned and ready to wear. Here at First Christian, we want to exemplify professionalism in serving the Lord. It’s not much to ask, certainly not when God does so much for us.”
“Amen,” the brother shouted out in agreement, as though he’d learned his lesson.
“Amen, thank you Jesus!” another sister yelled.
Lisette said thank you Jesus too, only it was inaudibly. She wasn’t the loud, talking-in-tongues praising type. Her reasoning was that Jesus wasn’t like no over-hyped cell phone company with bad service. He was getting a wireless connection with her thoughts just fine. He had to be because life was great---actually more than great, making it simple to run off an Oprah-esque grateful list in her head.
1. She was able to buy all the food and fashionable clothes that she and Janelle could ever want.
2. They lived in a beautifully furnished brownstone apartment in Harlem.
3. The block was well kept, budding with renovated homes, even landscaped with violet–colored morning glory flowers thanks to a very active neighborhood block association.
4. And lastly, there was an active voluntary security patrol, which made Lisette feel secure about parking her leased super-charged navy 2009 Range Rover truck on the street. So yes, there was lots to be thankful for; she felt very much blessed.

Lisette could hear Cynthia repetitively thanking the Lord next to her. She also wasn’t an ear-splitting praiser, but unlike herself, she could be heard. It was a modest tone of thank-you-Jesus, but it could compete with any other parishioner on any day.
Sister Banks’ speaking voice rose along with her foot as she stepped up onto the pulpit landing and resumed speaking. “We can’t forget what God has done for us. Not even when things don’t seem to be going our way. So many of us are quick to give the praise when we have what we want, but never when we’re lacking. We don’t see that we might be a part of the problem dragging ourselves down, and that we, might be standing in our own way. Talk to me somebody!” Sister Banks’ body suddenly spasmed like a thunder-bolt had hit her. With her arms raised up and her palms facing outwards she continued. “I praise him when I wake up in the morning! When I can wiggle my toes I tell him thank-you-Jesus because I know that I have all ten!”
“Glory!” a sister with a sassy glazed asymmetrical hair bob shouted in rejoice.
Sister Banks’ summoned the choir members up to their places and removed a hymn book from her bag. “Okay choir, everyone up on your feet. Let’s project. Tanya, you’ll lead us off. We’ll begin with, I Won’t Complain,” she told everyone.
Lisette stood up on her feet and thought. She couldn’t have agreed more with the choice of song. Sister Banks’ was grumbling about body ailments but had managed to steer clear of her unusually long-winded sermons which led Lisette to think again about Sister Banks’ other role outside of being the always critical Church Presi-dent and Choir Director. Wannabe Pastor. And for that very reason, she wasn’t gonna complain.

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