Full Figured 7

Book 7: Full Figured

by Nikki Rashan, Ni'chelle Genovese

Genres: African American Urban; African American Romance

Synopsis

In Full Figured 7, Carl Weber brings together two literary divas to give readers what they've been asking for: empowering and entertaining stories about big, beautiful women.

Sugar on the Side

Sassy, sophisticated, and sensual are the three adjectives Sugar uses to define her personality, her style, and her shapely curves. Fiercely confident about her luxurious, full-figured body, Sugar sashays through Chicago's nightlife belting high notes as a well-known singing sensation. Idolized by many, only few know her secret: she and her long-time manager Ace share more than a common passion for Sugar's career-they're lovers.

At Ace's insistence, Sugar has always agreed to secrecy for the sake of her career, but now she's tired of hiding just to maintain her spotlight. Sugar is ready to reveal her true love for Ace. Too bad Ace would rather keep Sugar right in her place—as a sweet scoop of sugar on the side.

Queen Con

Alicia considers herself nothing less than a survivor after escaping years of physical and mental abuse at the hands of her high school love. Now she does whatever is necessary in order to maintain the picture-perfect image she thinks she needs to present as a female working for the Virginia Beach Police Department.

Tia is Alicia's polar opposite. She's an enticing con woman who's broken every law, deliberately searching for cracks and loopholes in the system. Tia's main goal is to live the lavish lifestyle she adores without having to work an honest nine-to-five to achieve it.

When their worlds collide, it's everything but ordinary. Alicia finds herself drawn into a world she swore to defend against. They say opposites attract, but Alicia starts to wonder if her fascination with Tia is because they are actually birds of the same feather.

Release date: November 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

My momma named me Sugar. I was born in a southside Chicago hospital at the end of August. It was 1981. Momma said it was her plan to name her first-born child the zodiac sign under which he or she was born, meaning, had I been born in February, I would have been walking around with folks calling me Aquarius or Pisces. Or Gemini or Cancer had I graced the world in June. But Momma, pregnant during a burning-hot summer, ate one scoop of vanilla ice cream twice a day to cool her sweating body in Chicago’s mid-year heat. She decided to bypass her original plan and name me after the sugar cone she nibbled on every day with her ice cream. She told me she nibbled just as much on my sweet, fat baby cheeks for many months after I was born.

My momma’s name was Noxzema. Yep, she was named after the famous cleansing cream, so it was no wonder she would have had no problem with a daughter named Virgo or a son named Sagittarius. As a child when my neighborhood friends would inquire, “What’s yo’ momma’s name?” I would make something up. Some days she was Mary, some days she was Pam. She was any name except Noxzema. I lied to avoid the snickering and in-my-face laughter I would encounter had I told the truth. It would have been the same kind of laughter I had endured when kids learned my name was Sugar. I was always teased and called different versions of sweet treats like Tootsie Roll, Slo Poke, or Swedish Fish.

I don’t think Momma realized the effects the name Sugar would have on me. It was as if she had had some sort of premonition for the sweet tooth I would develop as a youngster. Or maybe the name was a curse, who knew. Either way, I was sucking on Blow Pop after Blow Pop as a toddler, and devouring Hostess CupCakes and Twinkies in grammar school. I was never fat. I was pudgy at two and three, with a chubby, round face and protruding tummy. People told Momma I was adorable at that age. In fourth and fifth grades, I was chunky. Then people told Momma I had a pretty face but, “You better watch that baby’s eatin’,” they warned. My thighs rubbed together, my shirt rose over my belly, and I couldn’t run as fast as the other kids could during recess. If my foot happened to make contact with the ball during a game of kickball, which didn’t happen often, I would be hit “out” only halfway to first base. For that reason, I was usually picked last to be on a team during gym class and was the recipient of nonstop teasing from classmates about my poor athletic skills.

Life changed in 1994 when I discovered singing and sex at thirteen. At that time my once-round, shapeless body had transformed, deflating around my waist and inflating around my hips. My breasts grew full, my behind lifted and swelled, and my thighs remained thick, but suddenly curved the way Momma’s did in the pictures I saw of her before she had me.

My friend Shonda had a Halloween house party that year. A group of about ten of us eighth graders was in her basement after all of us, too old for trick-or-treating, sat around eating the candy we had just collected going door-to-door in homemade costumes anyway. It had grown dark outside; the half-hidden sun no longer sent light through the basement well windows. Shonda liked it that way; she wanted it to feel like we were in a dimly lit nightclub like the ones we saw in the movies and on television. Some of the latest R&B slow jams played from the radio. Some of us hummed along to the songs, and a few coupled up and started slow dancing, shamelessly grinding hip to hip in front of everybody. A fresh song by Boyz II Men came on and Dante, a fourteen-year-old high school freshman I had known since we were young kids, asked me to dance.

Dante wasn’t fly. He was hardly even cute with his oblong, stretched head that matched his straight and lean body. His arms easily wrapped around my waist, bringing me close; his body settled into the tenderness of the flesh of my hips and thighs.

“You lookin’ good lately, Sugar,” he whispered. His breath smelled of a chocolate and peanut candy bar.

“Thank you.” I giggled. His hand moved up and down my spine.

“‘I’ll make love to you,’” he sang along with Nate, Wayna, Shawn, and Michael. “‘If you want me to.’”

“I like this song,” I told him suggestively. I had never been touched by a boy and even though I didn’t love the way his body felt pressed into mine, Shonda had told me how good some of the boys made her feel when they laid on top of her. I questioned if I would ever be touched again if I didn’t offer to Dante what I knew Shonda gave to boys.

“You wanna go to the closet?”

I looked toward the corner storage room to which Dante referred. I had never been inside the space, but imagined it to be a filthy, dusty area filled with old, unwanted items that hadn’t yet been delivered to the Goodwill. Still, I eagerly told him yes.

Inside the cramped space, we nestled against a stack of used, down-filled winter coats. I knew what was about to happen and only a few minutes later I learned the moment was not how Shonda had described it. I hadn’t experienced sparkles like she said she did. I had only felt pain and even if there hadn’t been any discomfort, I hadn’t liked the way Dante moved inside my body. I would forever remember my first sexual experience as unfulfilled and confusing. I was left with a cramped neck, stiffness in my hips, and no desire to allow another man inside of me. I had my clothes back on and was out of Shonda’s house before Dante had a chance to ask me for another forgettable encounter.

Back at home in my room, I turned on my stereo and pumped up the volume to Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth,” a jam everyone had bumped in their cars and portable CD players that summer. Not only did we love the song for her innocent, whisper-like voice, but because Chicago’s own R. Kelly had his hand in bringing her music to the world. I sang with her, louder and more powerful than her soft-spoken melody. Leaned against my wall with my eyes shut tight, I belted the words from somewhere so deep within I almost hadn’t recognized the sound that came from my mouth. The energy was like a steady push upward, under my diaphragm and ribs, a rush that forced its way from the depths inside of me as if it had been waiting years to exit and reveal its power. The surge was intense, the stirring I felt ecstatic. I sang song after song until I became exhausted from the exertion of both physical and emotional energy. As soon as I collapsed on my bed, Momma opened my door, her eyes red and shiny with tears. She held me in her arms.

“It’s all right, baby girl, it’s all right.”

I didn’t have to tell her I just had sex for the first time, she knew. My momma’s instincts had always been keen. When I was younger and had snuck cookies or potato chips to bed at night, I’d be just about to munch on my first bite when she’d enter the room, snatch the snack out of my hand, and walk out of the room without a word. Then there was the time when I had tried to hide a bad test grade from her. See, my momma made me show her my homework every day and each Tuesday I would have a new math quiz to give her. I failed one test in the sixth grade and, ashamed, I folded the red-marked paper into a small square and hid it in the corner pocket of my backpack. When Momma asked about Tuesday’s quiz, I told her Ms. Johnson hadn’t been at school that day and the substitute didn’t know we took quizzes on Tuesday. My eyes must have shifted or watered slightly, or Momma just knew better. Calmly, she asked for my backpack. Shuffling my feet against the worn brown carpeting throughout our house, I walked to my bedroom and retrieved the backpack. She went right to the zipped pocket and got my quiz. I stopped trying to fool Momma after that.

“Come on, take a bath,” she instructed, and led me to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet while I rested in the warm water. She had even sprinkled in her special bath salts, the ones she used after long shifts on her feet at the hotel where she was a member of the housekeeping crew.

“I can’t imagine tonight was a good night, not the way you came in singing like a cheatin’ preacher’s wife.”

She asked for details, which I shared with her.

“Wash real good around there.” She pointed to my young womanly parts. “We don’t need none of that boy’s little men trying to swim around your sea. I hope it’s not too late.” She put her hands together, closed her eyes, and looked like she said a silent prayer to God. “After this, watch yourself, Sugar. You’re not a little girl anymore; you’re a woman now. Men can tell once you’ve given it up to somebody, makes them think it’s easier for them to get to you now, you hear? No daughter of mine is about to be prancin’ up and down these streets with a fat belly. I’m not trying to bottle-feed any grandbabies at thirty-two. So if you want birth control, we’ll get birth control. But that don’t protect from everything.”

I lowered myself farther under the water and blew bubbles while Momma watched. Finally, I told her, “I don’t need birth control, I don’t want to do it again. I didn’t like it.”

She chuckled. “Child, that’s every woman’s story ’til the next boy or man comes along and whispers something good in her ear. You have learn that not everybody is worthy of that special part of you. Even when he’s telling you he’s going to love you forever and can’t nobody love you like he can, you make him prove it first.”

I heard her words and tucked them deep inside to that same place where the fire had been sparked just a short time before. My feelings about boys and men were just as strong as the spirit behind my newfound passion. I equally despised one and loved the other.

“I want to sing,” I told Momma.

“I heard you, Sugar. I haven’t heard a voice like yours since the great Chaka Khan. It’s strong. Brought me to tears. If you want to sing, I’ll help you sing.”

And just like that, Momma did. I sang at every neighborhood backyard barbecue. I sang for the women in the beauty shop where she got her hair done. Momma scoured newspapers and asked friends about any and every talent show in the Chicago area. Even though I wanted to sing music of younger stars like TLC, SWV, and Brandy, Momma told me my voice was too robust for their simple lyrics and style. She taught me the songs of some of her favorite artists like Stephanie Mills, Aretha Franklin, and Roberta Flack. She was convinced I could also sing the greats of Stevie Wonder, Donny Hathaway, and Luther Vandross.

Over the next six years, I focused on nothing other than singing and schoolwork. On weekends, I sang at weddings, birthday, and anniversary parties, and even opened for a few local performers before their concerts. Dante and every boy who approached me after performances were granted nothing more than a “thanks, but no thanks” to their offers to take me out. Music and singing had become the greatest love of my life next to Momma. Then I met Dani.

Dani waited for me at the side of the small stage where I had just performed “I’ll Always Love You” by Taylor Dayne at her cousin’s wedding. She held her hand to me and guided me down three steps to the floor. “Beautiful song by a beautiful lady,” she complimented me.

At nineteen, I had matured to a tall five feet nine inches, a curvy mini diva in the making. I had never been and still wasn’t a slim girl. Around that time people told me I reminded them of a hot, new full-figured singer named Jill Scott who had just hit the scene. My face remained full, though I had mastered the art of makeup and skillfully highlighted or contoured my cheekbones, forehead, and chin to minimize their fullness, and I dramatically emphasized my almond eyes and soft lips with color. My breasts, desirable at size FF, were perched high and were on constant display in low-cut tops. My waist curved with the assistance of lightweight girdles and accentuated my rounded waist and healthy thighs. I wasn’t fat; I was sexy. Everyone told me so and no one could tell me otherwise. Momma had no issue with me using my sensuality to attract an audience; it kept the gigs coming. She was proud that I had such focus and determination and hadn’t let Dante or any other salivating man deter me from my goal of becoming a famous singer.

“Thank you,” I told Dani.

She was tall with an athletic build, short hair, and a remarkable smile. I recognized her as a talented former high school basketball star with promise at a Big Ten university. She had, however, gotten into trouble after getting caught smoking weed the summer before she was to leave for her freshman year. From what I heard, the university was willing to let the first slip slide, but after a second under-the-influence encounter with her recruiter, Dani’s scholarship slid right from under her basketball-playing feet.

“Dani,” she told me.

“Yes, I know,” I responded.

“I told my cousin you were best singer Chicago has.”

Silently I agreed. “You’ve heard me sing before?”

“Who hasn’t? You’ve seen me play before?”

“Who hasn’t?”

We both laughed. A second later Momma was at my side with my purse.

“Time to go, Sugar.” She eyeballed Dani from her tapered haircut, shirt, and tie, down to her flat shoes. Dani was the opposite of everything I represented with me in my glamorous weave, spectacular makeup, fitted dress, and high heels.

“Hello,” Dani said to Momma and extended her hand.

Momma took it graciously, never one to shun a fan, though the handshake was short, abruptly cut off when it seemed Dani was prepared to kiss the back of Momma’s hand. She turned to me. “I’ll be in the car. See you in one minute,” she emphasized.

“I see where you get your fire,” Dani acknowledged after Momma walked away.

“She means no harm; she’s just looking out for me.”

“You ever let anyone else look out for you?”

I had already learned to seduce through music and singing. It was easy to manipulate a fan into believing he was my chosen one with a wink or blown kiss while I sang a love song in his direction. It was all innocent to me and shame on them for taking it seriously when the song was over. With Dani there was no music and still the song inside me stirred. I took a step closer and flirted with a woman for the first time.

“You look out for me, I’ll look out for you,” I cooed in her ear.

“Bet that,” she said.

“Cool.” I adjusted my purse from my hand to the bend of my arm. “Good to know you’re watching my back.” I winked at her and walked away. I felt her eyes against my backside during my stroll out of the hall to the exit door. I felt an excitement in my chest and between my legs that I hadn’t experienced before. Momma sensed it.

“We’ve worked hard at building up your name for you to tear it down dealing with folks like that.”

“Folks like what, Momma?”

“You know who I’m talking about, child. Them girls.”

“What if I like ‘them girls’?” I challenged, unsure if I did or didn’t, only knowing I had ignored all sexual yearnings and cravings while developing my career and suddenly I wanted to release my desires.

“You got to understand how this world works. People will praise you one day and scorn you the next. I didn’t say nothing was wrong with women on women, but that’s private. That’s grown-people, shut-the-door kinda business, you feel me? You’ve been a good girl all these years. I ain’t mad at you for finding interest somewhere. I was wondering when it was going to happen. But if that’s where it’s at, be smart and keep it quiet. Matter of fact, let me handle it.”

The next day Dani picked me up in her Buick LeSabre.

“No smoking and no drinking, Miss Thing,” Momma instructed Dani, aware of Dani’s drug history.

“I gave it up, ma’am. Learned my lesson. No worries, I’ll take care of your daughter just fine.”

“You better, she’s precious.” Momma watched us drive away from the living room window with her arms folded across her chest.

“Your moms is something else,” Dani told me as we headed down Seventy-ninth Street. “According to her we can’t go anywhere except back to my apartment. Is that cool with you?”

It may have been immoral for Momma to send me off to sleep with a woman. She would know that by the time I returned home that night I would have experienced my “second first”; my second time having sex, my first time with a woman. But that was Momma’s way of looking out for me. If I was going to do it, I would do with her knowledge and with her blessing and control.

That afternoon Dani introduced me to my body. She showed me every place I hadn’t known appreciated a kiss, a caress, a lick, and a squeeze. Dani was aggressive in her lovemaking, though patient with me, and seemed to delight in knowing I was a virgin to the experience she granted me.

Between bites to my thighs and sucks to my middle she told me, “I know why your moms named you Sugar.” She licked deliciously. “You taste just like it.”

Wednesdays were my least booked nights, so Momma scheduled my visits with Dani for those midweek evenings. For about six months I learned the talent of making love from Dani. I surrendered to her strength, she to my passion. We couldn’t get enough of each other until one Wednesday morning Momma came to my bedroom to tell me I wouldn’t be seeing Dani again.

“Why not?” I questioned. Of course Dani hadn’t dumped me. Not me, not Sugar.

It seemed Dani had given up smoking weed, but had taken on the job of selling it instead. She had been arrested the night before and from what Momma learned, Dani would likely get jail time. Even if she didn’t, Momma said my days with Dani had to cease.

“You’re blowing up, Sugar. We can’t let Dani blow out your fire. This could have been a bad situation and I’m sad to realize I could have messed things up for you. We have to be smarter. I need some help. Somebody to be my eyes when I can’t see.”

“You’re always in control. I never thought I would ever hear you say something like that,” I told Momma.

“Me either. But I can only do so much.”

Momma still worked at the hotel and had become an assistant manager over the housekeeping staff. She booked my gigs on breaks and in between work hours, and when she couldn’t attend an event with me, she sent my Aunt Jeanie as my guide.

“Let me figure something out,” Momma said. “Until then, let’s stay focused on your singing, hear me?”

With that said, for over a year I set aside my desires once again. The summer of 2002 I turned twenty-one and Momma threw me a grand party at the Ritz-Carlton downtown. The ballroom was filled with every local celebrity of Chicago, a few national B-list recording artists, and anyone with a name attached to the music industry. The crowd was rich and arrogant, and I devoured and digested every compliment I received. My head swelled.

The highlight moment of the evening was on me as the lights went down and the spotlight landed on my table. Momma handed me a microphone just as the music to Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” started. I worked the crowd, walking from table to table belting out the lyrics better than Whitney Houston ever did. At least that’s what I told myself and based on the crowd’s response I believed it.

Toward the end of the night Momma was engaged in conversation with a well-dressed woman who exuded elegance in a soft masculine style. Like most of the people at the party, she oozed confidence, but from across the room I saw that she had what no one else in the room had been able to get: Momma’s undivided attention. They stood close, the woman speaking pleasing words to Momma. I knew this because of Momma’s soft expression, unlike the hardened look she gave snaky folks who tried to feed her bullshit. Several minutes later they began to walk toward me. For some reason my heartbeat quickened. The woman, dressed in a tailored white suit that fit every angle of her body perfectly, met my gaze fearlessly. She wasn’t a knee-knocking fan seeking an autograph and she wasn’t a celebrity herself. She was business. And she possessed something else, too. I saw it in her eyes.

“Sugar, this is Ace. Ace, Sugar,” Momma introduced us. “I’d like the three of us to talk. We have a meeting tomorrow at noon.”

Ace extended her hand to me and then held mine in both of hers. She didn’t let go.

“I look forward to tomorrow.” When she spoke, she smiled, her lips widening like a ballet dancer’s grand jeté jump: graceful, fascinating, and beautiful.

“I as well,” I responded.

Momma eyed me intently. Ace released my hand with a nod of her head, turned from us, and exited the ballroom, apparently satisfied that she accomplished what she had come for: she had a meeting with me.

“Back up off me, Franco,” I growled through a mastered fake smile as Franco and I posed on the red carpet at an awards dinner devoted to honoring leaders in the Chicago community. I was a 2013 recipient for the hours of service I contributed to a local nonprofit organization by providing free vocal lessons and coaching to girls and boys ranging from ages twelve to seventeen. The program was in its third year and we had a waiting list of kids wanting to be taught by me.

When Ace first brought the idea to my attention, I questioned why I would want to spend my time and energy on young kids with hopeless dreams of superstardom. I mean, if I, Sugar, who was once described as “the voice that’s been missing from music” hadn’t yet sold millions of records around the world, what made these young kids think they had a chance? Don’t get me wrong, my singing career had been one to envy and one that only a few achieved.

When Momma and I met with Ace the day after my twenty-first birthday, we had signed a manager-and-client contract by the end of the day. Ace took over the lead of my singing career, but consulted with Momma on most . . .