Blind Ambition

by Lutishia Lovely

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Gripping, explosive, and timely, Lutishia Lovely's latest novel tells the tale of one woman's shocking discovery--and how it turns her and her celebrity sister's different worlds upside down...
Since childhood, Chantel has idolized her older sister, Jett, a superstar performer. But she's seldom seen her Hollywood-based sibling. More on the shy side, Chantel is perfectly happy with her own modest singing career and quiet Missouri hometown life. But when their mother dies and Chantel's world is upended, she hopes that moving to Los Angeles will give her a fresh start--and a chance to know Jett better. But the truth is, she doesn't know Jett at all.
When Jett rebuffs her efforts to bond, Chantel learns a devastating secret she never could have imagined. Reeling and angry, Chantel soon comes up with the perfect vengeful weapon: a bestselling tell-all book that will reveal Jett's stormy past--and wreak havoc on the stardom she prizes more than anything or anyone. But Jett guards her private life for a reason, and will stop at nothing to stop the past from being exposed. Now, between hard hidden truths and bitter new revelations, Chantel must decide how much payback is too much--and if the reward is worth the life-altering price.

Release date: May 25, 2021

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 288

Sample

Two short years ago, Chantel Scott’s life was normal. At least by Midwestern, middle-of-the-road, ordinary folk standards. Married, good job, family. Her name was Chantel Wallace back then. She and her husband Art went to work. Paid their bills. Attended church on Sundays. A little partying on the side. Then Hurricane Karen blew in and threw her life into chaos. Not the tropical cyclone with thunder, lightning, and seventy-mile-an-hour winds. No, this storm had blond hair, brown eyes, a little money, and no morals. Their son Artani was almost three before Chantel realized Art was cheating. It was another six months before she discovered what Art and Karen had in common—another girlfriend named cocaine. Only after filing for divorce did Chantel learn that while he and Karen romped at a casino hotel near their home in Kansas City, he started gambling. Drained their joint savings account and maxed out their credit cards. The divorce was almost final when Uncle Sam came knocking with a bill for over twenty thousand dollars in unpaid taxes and fees. Turns out Karen won a jackpot and told Chantel’s brilliant husband to claim the winnings and get half the prize. Chantel never saw a penny of that money. The IRS never saw a cent either and came to collect. A year and a half later, on top of the credit card payments she faithfully made to maintain a good credit rating, her check was being garnished. Artani was the only good that came out of her marriage. Seeing his big brown eyes or feeling his scrawny arms around her neck almost made her forget that the boy’s daddy had put her through hell.

Shortly after her divorce finalized, Chantel decided she needed to shake up her life. She moved back to her hometown, a place with a population of less than ten thousand people. Instead of living her life to please others, as she’d done for Art, she decided to do what made her happy. That meant downsizing from the three-bed, two-bath home she’d enjoyed with Art to a two-bedroom, two-bath rented condo, and taking a pay cut to work at the local newspaper, the Marquette Monitor. Being an hourly-paid copy editor wasn’t quite the same as becoming an author like her favorites Bernice McFadden and Zuri Day, but it proved all those journalism and creative writing classes weren’t completely in vain.

Two months ago, while working against a looming deadline, she noticed an article about a new club opening in the city and an ad looking for a singer to headline at said club. Few knew that Chantel had serious chops. Along with her dream of being a best-selling author, singing was her secret passion. Knowing she didn’t have a chance in Hades of being selected was one of the main reasons Chantel decided to audition. That and the egging on of good friends Rita and Terrence. They told her she was as good as if not a better singer than Jett, the famous sister she hardly knew and the other reason Chantel mostly kept her singing to herself. No one was more floored than her when she was called back for a second audition with the house band two weeks later and selected to headline the live music venue on Friday and Saturday nights. She thought it was an inside job, that maybe her friend Terrence had influenced the decision, since he’d been hired to manage the club. He assured her that the club’s owner, King Richardson, had made the final decision because, in the owner’s words, “that chick can blow!”

He’d named the club Diplomat, probably because King had thrown his hat into the political ring and was running for mayor of Kansas City, Missouri. The main room held two hundred tops, a far cry from the arenas her sister performed in at the peak of her fame. But that didn’t stop Chantel from feeling like she’d won the lotto. Or from putting 150 percent into every practice and every show. Each night showcased a different genre. Hip-hop. Blues. Gospel. Spoken word. Chantel loved the classic jazz and adult R&B theme designed to satisfy the grown and sexy crowd on Friday and Saturday nights. Still, the bundle of nerves in her stomach during the club’s opening weekend made her almost throw up. The crowd was her saving grace. About half of them were friends of hers or people she worked with. A few had grown up with her sister, Jett, and in her opinion came down to see if talent ran in the family. Her mother Anna was in the audience, of course, along with Anna’s neighbor and best friend, Blanche. They’d come ready to party and had cheered her on. She felt like a star. By the second weekend she’d conquered the jitters, all ready to settle into the pleasurable part-time job that paid a Benjamin every night plus tips, enough for her to have a smidgeon of discretionary income to spoil Artani a bit and not have to pinch a penny so hard that it erased Lincoln’s face.

Tonight, though, the nerves were back, a roiling in her stomach that had been there throughout her entire first set. In fact, the unsettling feeling had been with her all day, a subtle unease just below the surface, like the calm before a thunderstorm. The last time she felt this nauseous, Artani arrived nine months later. But unless she was going to make like Mary and experience an immaculate conception, being pregnant was most definitely not the issue tonight.

“Are you okay?”

Chantel looked over to find Terrence casting a concerned eye in her direction. It had been that way off and on all night. She knew why. The nerves. He’d noticed. They’d known each other practically all their lives, from when his family moved from St. Louis to their block in Marquette when Chantel was eight and he was thirteen. She’d been immediately smitten by his dark good looks and athletic prowess. He’d treated her like a kid sister. Continual teasing and one getting on the other’s nerves grew into a solid friendship, as close as two of the opposite sex could be without being intimate, even though lately Terrence had grown generous with the compliments and flirted around. Rita swore Chantel had to have let that “fine thang” hit it at least once. Unfortunately, nobody had hit, bit, licked, or stroked anything since Art left. Since he’d taken away what little trust in men she’d had in the first place, it might be a while before anything that wasn’t battery operated hit that thang again.

“My stomach’s upset,” she admitted, pressing a hand against her stomach in an effort to quell the butterflies. “I thought I was over being nervous.”

“You’ve had your fortifier?”

Chantel held up the now half-empty glass of wine she allowed herself before the show and during the break.

“Well, tip it up, girl! You’ve got the second half of a show to do.” Terrence peeked out of the small curtain that separated them from the paying crowd. “In case you need motivation, the boss just arrived.”

Chantel’s stomach flip-flopped. “Great.”

“With a few of his shot-caller business associates.”

“Lucky me!”

“Exactly.”

“I was kidding, Terrence.”

“I know.”

In Marquette, Missouri, the club’s owner King was a favored son. He’d grown up in Kansas City but had roots to the area since it was where his well-heeled grandparents had been born and raised, and where he’d spent many summers until his early teens. By giving the adults in Marquette a social outlet, the handsome and popular attorney had made his already beaming star shine brighter. In every encounter, he’d treated Chantel with kindness and respect, but his prestige-and-power persona was intimidating. Simply put, he made her nervous. Given the knots her stomach was already in, his timing to visit the club he owned sucked. She wished for more time to settle herself, but the band kicked into her second-half intro.

Terrence walked over and gave Chantel a brief hug. “Go be amazing.”

The second set intro hit its stride. Chantel bobbed her head to the beat while finishing the glass of wine and trying to convince herself that the night wasn’t unusual. She berated herself for acting foolish, entertaining feelings of dread for no good reason. Anybody who knew Chantel knew that her life now looked better than it had in quite a while. Relocating back to Marquette had felt like a fresh start, and now her mother was talking about moving back, too. Anna was born in Texas, grew up in KC, and had moved to Marquette shortly after Chantel was born. She moved back to the city after Chantel graduated high school, but was about to retire and wanted to be near her one and only grandchild. Artani was good, adjusting to a new daycare center and pre-school, and the shuffling back and forth, two-household kind of life. Chantel had lost ten pounds. The divorce from hell from baby daddy became final just last month. She had every reason to celebrate, every reason to go out there and kill it for the crowd.

“Come on, girl,” she whispered to herself. It was time to pull her act together and take it to the stage. Chantel placed the wineglass on the small table beside her, then stood and straightened the form-fitting silver number on the toned, curvy figure she managed to offer the audience courtesy of the intermittent fasting craze and a pair of Spanx that should have been labeled sausage casing. Closing her eyes, she rolled her head around to further loosen up while tapping out the beat with her hand against her leg.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her bass player Walter drawled over the smooth, steady beat of the drum and bass guitar, “coming back to the stage with a voice of pure perfectly pitched rhythmic poetry, Marquette’s own full-grown diva of jazz . . . Chantel Scott!”

Chantel walked out with her back straight and head high, smiling to the crowd and even managing a small wave and head nod to club owner King and his wife Tamela. She reached the stand, removed the microphone, and slid her voice in between the rhythm guitar and keyboard and over the saxophone and drums.

She settled onto a stool placed front and center, closed her eyes, and sang the song she’d penned with a heartfelt fervor, like someone swimming in their own happiness. By the time the song ended, she almost believed the words herself. Emphasis on almost. Still, her mood lifted. The uneasiness shifted. “Let Love Flow” was a crowd favorite. Their enthusiastic reaction and the couples two-stepping on the dance floor pushed back the nerves again.

“Let Love Flow” slid into an up-tempo Anita Baker cover and jazzed-up versions of recent R&B faves. Chantel paid homage to the greats: Ella and Sarah. Billie and Diana. Forty minutes later, as the closing number’s funky instrumental intro played behind her, Chantel had conquered the beast of nerves she’d fought with for most of the day. She grooved with the guys—hips swaying, fingers popping, a winning smile on her face—and hit the final note with all of the gusto it deserved. The crowd was appreciative. She acknowledged their applause with a slight bow, her hands brought together in a humble pose.

“Thank you, Marquette, my homegrown fam. Me and the guys really appreciate your support. Stay safe out there. See you next week. Until then, God bless and good night!”

Chantel disappeared behind the velvety red curtain that separated the backstage and office areas from the main floor. Terrence walked over with a bottle of water. She took it from him, unscrewed the top, and took a large drink.

“Thanks.”

Kayla, one of the waitresses, walked up to Chantel, hand raised for a high five. “You did your thing tonight, girl!”

“Thanks, sis.”

“What you did with that Phyllis Hyman number was beautiful. I thought Papa was going to come onstage and help you sing!”

Rita, the head waitress, walked by and heard that comment. “Papa needs to be put on a two-drink maximum. One day that man is going to embarrass us all.”

Terrence shook his head. “Ah, leave the man alone, Rita. He ain’t hurting nobody.”

“Not yet,” Chantel replied, easing her protesting size nines out of five-inch heels. She’d known Papa since childhood, before losing his wife and child in a botched home invasion and robbery drove him to drink. “Somebody had better make sure he’s not driving home.”

Terrence waved off the comment as the club phone rang and he walked down the hallway to answer it.

“He’s got Uber on speed dial, and if he doesn’t, we sure as hell do.”

Kayla rolled her eyes. “Uber on speed dial? He needs AA on redial!”

Rita watched Papa stumble toward the door. “Let me make sure this man gets home safely. Ain’t nobody trying to get sued!”

“Y’all are both wrong,” Chantel said with a chuckle. “And so is the way this girdle is cutting into my midsection.” She turned toward the closet-sized office that doubled as her dressing room. “I’m on my way to freedom.”

“It’s called belly bliss!” Rita said. Everyone burst out laughing.

Terrence burst back through the curtain. His countenance had done a one-eighty from the devil-may-care attitude he’d shown only moments ago.

“Chantel. Hold up.” The severity of his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Chantel asked, though the look in his eyes and the knots that immediately formed in her stomach told her she didn’t want to know.

“Let’s go in your dressing room.” Terrence took her arm and gently guided them both into a room barely big enough for one. As soon as the door was closed he took a breath and said, “That was Trinity Medical.”

The Kansas City hospital where Anna was about to retire from after working there almost fifteen years? What did they want? Chantel frowned. “And?”

“Your mom was in an accident.”

Chantel’s hand flew to her stomach, now roiling double-time. The other hand gripped Terrence’s arm like a vise. “What? When? Is she okay?”

“She’s in surgery. They want you to get there as soon as you can.”

Exactly eighteen hours, thirty-four minutes, and seven seconds after Terence uttered those words, Chantel’s mom, Anna Michelle Scott, took her last breath and exited stage left. She never awoke from the coma doctors induced before surgery, but Chantel was there when she died. Later, Chantel would realize that a little part of her died that day, too, even as another virus assailed her. This one was called grief, a high form of sadness for which Chantel saw no cure.

Just as Beyonce, Mariah, Alicia, and others were one-name wonders known around the globe, Jeanetta S. Scott Williams Dickerson Jones Scott (for the second time following her third divorce) was known to America and much of the world by Jett, the nickname coined by her Hollywood handlers when she was sixteen. Just Jett. No last name needed. Like Janet, Brandy, or Whitney, her fave. She’d never been crazy about Jeanetta but thought Jett sounded sexy. It was a fitting moniker for other reasons. One, back in the day, the older women had labeled her “fast.” That meant she knew and was doing more than her young age should have allowed. “Five going on twenty-five,” her mother used to say. The words were prophetic, as by the age of fifteen, for better or worse, Jett had experienced more than some women twice her age.

The events in Jett’s life moved even faster than she did. After being heard belting out a Whitney tune outside a fast food joint, she was approached by a man who said he had connections, and introduced to a producer shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Turned into a singing sensation before hitting seventeen. Idolized as a leading TV star by the time she was eighteen. Named a triple threat and Grammy winner just shy of twenty-one. She’d experienced a pregnancy, three marriages, and three divorces by the time she was thirty-five. Today at forty-nine, thanks to reality television and a popular talent show, her career was making a much-needed comeback. Its second wind had given her a second chance. That she planned to make the most of it was the only reason that before most Angelenos had had their first cup of java she half lay, half sat, half sprawled, pushing it up and crunching it out—tired, sweaty, sore, but determined—on her patio’s cool concrete floor.

“Come on, now. Let’s make these last ten count.” Randall, her superbly chiseled full-time trainer, part-time lover, hovered above her, cheering her on. “Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred! Great job! That’s what I’m talking about!”

Jett allowed the weights she held to fall beside her. “Whatever.” She lay back with an arm slung over her eyes to block out the early morning sun.

“No, not time for that now.” Randall softly slapped her thigh. “We need to stretch out those muscles we just worked.”

Jett felt Randall’s talented hands grasp her arms. She allowed herself to be pulled up and into his embrace and knew just how to distract him from further physical punishment that he had the nerve to define as a cooldown.

“I can think of a few other muscles that need stretching,” she murmured against his ear.

“All in good time, my lovely,” he easily countered, traces of his Caribbean heritage creating a melody that caused her yoni to clench. He knelt beside her, lowered his voice. “On your knees.”

“Ooh, yeah.” She turned over, raised to her knees, and wiggled her butt.

Randall swatted it before instructing her to ease her body forward to elongate her frame and stretch the core muscles she’d just strengthened with a hundred crunches while holding ten-pound weights. She shifted backward into a modified doggy-style, dropping her head and allowing the blood to refresh her brain. A few more moves, grunts, and sexy, calculated groans and the session ended. Jett got up and walked over to the patio table that held a bottle of water and her towel.

Randall’s eyes then swept her body in that slow, sexy, languid way his hands would do shortly. “Damn, I’m good. My baby’s body is tight!”

That Randall communicated better with his dick than his mouth was only one reason that after losing a few remaining, stubborn pounds their little tête-à-tête would be over. The other was that he was beginning to make the same mistake as most men she dated—get needy and possessive, catch feelings and stuff. Their session was over. She should have shown him the door. But she didn’t.

“Join me for a shower?”

Randall smiled, full of himself, totally unaware he would soon be “to the left.”

“Absolutely.”

Jett’s body reacted. She reached for his hand and led him through the patio doors, across the open-concept living/dining/ kitchen area, down a hall, and through the master suite’s double doors. Once there she shimmied out of her gym shorts, pulled off her sports bra, and watched as Randall shed his boxers and released the snake she adored.

“Come here, you . . .”

She pulled him into her arms, her lips searching for and finding Randall’s cushy landing spot. Their tongues dueled, danced, deliciously devoured as naked bodies, relieved of fabric, engaged in an intimate get-to-know. Jett crawled onto the bed bench, adopting a position much like the doggy down used to stretch her core. She was ready for action and then . . .

Her cell phone rang.

Jett barely noticed. That’s what voicemail was for. Randall had assumed the position behind her and introduced his tongue to particular body parts that were more than happy to make the acquaintance.

Her landline tinkled. Ignored again.

Seconds later, notes of a Ladymac jazz tune drifted through the sensual haze surrounding Jett and Randall. Whoever called had circled back to her cell phone.

“Maybe you’d better answer,” he finally suggested, his stiff soldier poised at the point of entry and ready to strike.

Jett’s head swung from side to side in anticipated ecstasy. She wrapped perfectly manicured fingers around the python he offered. “Ignore it.”

Randall tried to, Jett would later recall. His tip touched her core as she raised up to greet him. But instead of a welcome home from his sizable shaft, the ringing that had stopped only seconds ago started again. Someone was calling back to back.

“It’ll probably keep ringing.” Randall moved from his hovering position and fell back on the bed.

Jett cursed. “I’ll turn off the ringer.”

“Answer the call, baby. It could be important.”

Jett sighed as she reached for her cell phone. Only now did she remember Chantel’s repeated calls from the day before. Between the photo shoot for the reality talent gig, last night’s guest appearance at a club frequented by A-list celebs, and this morning with Randall, she’d forgotten all about them.

Must need money. That had been the case three months ago, the last time they’d talked. Then, Jett hadn’t been able to help her much. Since the news was out about her getting the judging gig, she assumed her sister was back for an increase.

Tapping the screen, she engaged the speaker button. “What?”

A hesitant pause. “Jett, it’s Chan.”

“I know who it is.” Randall slid out of bed and Jett swatted his ass, admiring its tautness as he walked into the en suite bath. “You’ve been blowing up my phone for almost twenty-four hours. Obviously, I’m busy. What do you want?”

“You didn’t listen to any of my messages, even the last ones marked urgent?”

“I’m listening now.” Jett knew Chantel couldn’t see the attitude on her face, but she hoped the message that this call was an inconvenient interruption came through loud and clear. “What. Do. You. Want?”

“Mama was in a car accident.”

Jett jerked upright to a sitting position, as a hand flew to her chest. “Oh my goodness! How is she?”

“Dead.”

Chantel had spoken in a whisper. Surely what Jett thought she heard wasn’t correct. “What did you say?”

“She didn’t survive the accid. . .