No Turning Back

by Brenda Hampton, OASIS, Buck 50 Productions

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; African American Mystery & Detective

Synopsis

A crippled economy changes Lola Jones’ silver-spoon status to copper and threatens to rip her sheltered family from the upper echelons of society, dropping them into the rotten bowels of East St. Louis. Only one thing can save Lola’s children from the claws of poverty, and that comes in the form of a million-dollar life insurance policy. It is, however, just a useless piece of paper unless she’s dead. With that in mind, Lola vows to make the ultimate sacrifice for her children’s well-being.

There are two problems—she doesn’t have the guts to kill herself, and her insurance doesn’t pay out on suicides. With only days left before her family learns the true meaning of homelessness, Lola turns to Blasé, a desensitized hit man with a “no turning back” policy, to execute her murder. To foot Blasé’s upfront bill, Lola seeks prostitution. It’s not long before the hole she’s dug gets deeper.

Living on the erotic edge leads her to an unforgettable sexual encounter with Mannish Major, a lonely married man with skeletons swinging in his closet. Their tryst explodes into a full-blown love affair that renews Lola’s will to live. But not even a budding romance will cancel the expiration date Blasé has set on Lola’s soul. Now Lola and Mannish must make a final and desperate attempt to stop the hit man, or else they will die trying.

Release date: May 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Five weeks earlier ...

The economy was brutal. Millions of people were losing their homes, and even I was on the brink of foreclosure. Bills were behind; the kids had to cut all extracurricular activities; and my bank account, which used to have nearly half a million dollars in it, was now down to a measly $7,000. Money was running low, and as I sat in my office holding the mortgage company’s invoice in my hand, showing that I was $28,000 behind on payments, I dropped my head. A slow tear rolled down my face, dripping onto the delinquent mortgage statement. I reached for the phone to call for assistance.

As I waited for a representative to answer, I crossed my legs, looking at the Jessica Simpson heels on my feet that cost me a fortune. No longer could I afford to buy shoes that cost $600 or $700. Payless Shoes buy-one-get-one deals were more fitting to my budget. Thinking about what a rut I was in, I swiveled around in my brown leather chair, biting my nails. Finally, someone answered.

“Your account number please,” she said.

“Uh, 0087640431.”

“Your name?”

“Lola Jones.”

“Thank you, Ms. Jones. Now, your address and phone number.”

I gave the representative my address and phone number. She thanked me again then asked if she could put me on hold to review my account. I had spoken to my mortgage company at least once a week, trying to figure out a way to save my home. My modification request had been denied, because they claimed I didn’t qualify for it. When I asked why, no one could give me an explanation. Not even the mangers, who I requested to speak with numerous times, because many of the representatives seemed so unwilling to help.

I asked myself, how in the hell did a thirty-seven-year-old successful businesswoman get into such a messed-up situation? For starters, after my divorce was final almost three years ago, our combined income was cut in half. My husband and I agreed that a divorce was the best thing for us, and I had gotten to a point where I didn’t love him anymore. He stepped out on our marriage several times, and I realized enough was enough. I couldn’t let him completely break me down; after all, I had a nine-year-old daughter, and twelve-and sixteen-year-old sons to raise. They were counting on me, and I was no good if I allowed my husband to keep bringing his issues with other women into our home.

The day I signed my divorce papers was the best feeling ever. I never looked back, nor did I regret my decision. The only setback was money. I was able to handle my own for a while. As an independent, high-producing health/life insurance broker, I was set. I was self-employed and no one could tell me anything. Residual income had been flowing in by the thousands. With the numerous policies I’d written, as well as the companies that I had underneath my belt, my family didn’t want for much.

Then, almost two years ago, things started to take a turn for the worse. The walls felt as if they were caving in on me. Many companies couldn’t afford to keep health insurance for their employees and, one by one, my accounts trickled down the drain. I was devastated. I had been an agent for over sixteen years, and never had I been faced with losing so much money at once.

I had considered downsizing, but it wasn’t easy to give up our five-bedroom house that sat by a man-made lake on 2.5 acres of land in Wentzville, Missouri. The kids would be crushed if we had to move. They were comfortable with our house, as well as with the school district that I could barely afford to keep them in. I had surely gotten myself in a bind, but much of this was out of my control. I thought I’d put away enough money for savings and my retirement, but shame on me for not preparing for hard times. I had to use most of the money I had to save myself from drowning. The only other security I had was a $1 million term-life insurance policy. Because it wasn’t whole life insurance, I couldn’t borrow against it. The only way to collect it was I had to be dead. So being alive didn’t help.

“Ms. Jones,” the representative said, getting back to me. “There are so many notes on this account that it may take me another minute or two to review them. Do you mind waiting?”

“I really don’t have a choice, especially if I called to see how I can resolve this. Take as long as you need.”

This happened every single time I called, so I put the woman on speakerphone and started to work on a proposal for Mason Technologies. I needed this account to get ahead, because my ex-husband, Xavier, was unable to help me with anything. He was going through some setbacks too. He lost his job last year. The alimony payments and child support checks had stopped. Unemployment was the route he’d taken, and since we didn’t talk much, I wasn’t sure if he had been looking for a job. Normally, he talked to the kids when he called, and with him being so broke, the kids moving in with him wasn’t even an option.

So, simply put, I was screwed. Fucked was more like it. I had been working my ass off to make up for some of those losses, but my many hours away from home were hurting my children. I hadn’t had a chance to meet my daughter’s teacher yet, and my twelve-year-old son had just started middle school. He’d been complaining about being bullied. I told him to knock the hell out of the bully and, eventually, the bully would leave him alone.

As for my sixteen-year-old, he had too much going on. He kept getting in trouble at school, and just last week he got caught cheating on a test. He was suspended for seven days, and now he was at home doing nothing. I knew his bad behavior had everything to do with me not being able to give him the attention he needed, but none of my kids realized that my number one priority was keeping a roof over their heads. If that meant I had to work twelve hours a day, I just had to do it.

The representative took her time getting back to the phone. The shit was frustrating. I lowered my head in my hands and massaged my achy forehead. Strands of long hair covered my eye, so I swooped the strands behind my ear. I turned the tiny pearl earring in my earlobe and started to fidget.

Unable to concentrate on my business proposal, I stood and paced the plush, carpeted floor. I looked out at the Four Seasons Hotel and Casino in downtown St. Louis. My office was on the second floor of the Hampshire Building. It was a beautiful edifice made of black marble and glass. I was an hour away from home, but I preferred to live in the suburbs.

“Ms. Jones,” the representative said.

I rushed over to my desk to take the call off speakerphone.

“Sorry for your wait.”

I eased in my chair and took a deep breath. “No problem.”

“While I have you on the phone, I have to let you know that this is an attempt to collect a debt and this phone call may be recorded. Your account is past due and shows a balance of $31,635. Are you able to pay that today?”

Now, who in the hell had almost $32,000 to hand over like that? What a dumb question, but it had to be answered. “No, I’m not able to pay that today. I received a letter showing that there was almost twenty-eight thousand due, not thirty-one and some change. I just got the letter today, so how did you manage to come up with those numbers?”

I sighed while listening to her tell me how much interest was accumulating each day, including late charges. I tore into my manicured nails with my teeth, shaking my head with disgust.

“You’ve been behind for quite some time. We have made every effort to help you get caught up. You may need to contact your local HUD office for assistance, because this account has already been turned over to our foreclosure department.”

I swallowed the baseball-sized lump in my throat, clearing it. “I know it has, but I was wondering how much I need to come up with in order to stop the foreclosure process? The last time I checked, it was half of the twenty-eight thousand. If the amount has gone up, I’m sure it’s more.”

“In order to stop the foreclosure from moving forward, we’ll need to have the payment made in full. I’m almost positive, but may I put you on hold to find out the correct amount?”

I rolled my hazel-green eyes. “Sure.”

While on hold, I realized there was no way possible for me to come up with that kind of money. Even if it were half of the $28,000, I still didn’t have it. Taking $7,000 from my bank account would leave me with nothing and I was still short.

I got up and paced the floor some more. Then I looked down to straighten the tiny wrinkles in my navy blue skirt, which was cut right above my knees. The skirt matched my jacket, and as I started to get hot, I removed it, putting it on the back of my chair. I wiggled my thick pearl bracelet on my wrist and plucked at my soft-blue silk blouse so it wouldn’t stick to my sweaty skin. I couldn’t stop fidgeting; my worries had taken over. I was getting extremely impatient. When the other line beeped, I looked to see who it was on the caller ID. The call showed that it was coming from my younger son’s school, so I hurried to click over.

“Lola Jones. How may I help you?” I said.

“Ms. Jones, this is the principal, Mr. Bassinger, at Michael’s school. He’s been in a fight, and I wondered if you could come in so we can talk. He’s been suspended for ten days, and the other kid has been too.”

Whenever I would get a call from my children’s schools, my heart always dropped to my stomach. I held my breath, hoping and praying that nothing bad had happened to them. “Thank you for calling. I’ll be there within the hour.”

I clicked back over, but the representative from my mortgage company had already hung up. “Damn!” I shouted, having no time to call back and deal with my unfortunate situation. I grabbed my purse off my desk and quickly left to go see about Michael.

Highway 70 wasn’t jammed with cars. I was able to breeze my BMW through traffic and get to Michael’s school within the hour as promised. I rushed through the double glass doors, clicking my heels on the pavement and looking around for the main office.

“Wow!” one of the boys said while talking to another. “She looks like Carmelo Anthony’s wife, Lala Vazquez. She’s fine, and that’s how I want my girl to look when I get older.”

I’d heard that many times before, but paid it no mind. Maybe it was my big hazel-green eyes that made us look similar, my round face, and the fact that we were both biracial. My father was white and mother was black. I considered myself African American. My children were too, as Xavier was black as black could get.

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the boys. “Can you tell me where the office is?”

The boy pointed to it, far down the hallway. I thanked him and kept it moving.

I could see Michael dressed in his uniform, sitting in an orange chair with a frown on his face. His hand was pressed against his cheek. I pulled on the glass door, hoping he would smile when he saw me, but he didn’t. “Come here,” I said, holding out my arms for him to come to me.

He slowly stood up and I gave him a squeezing hug. One of his arms held my waist and his mood was somber.

“Are you okay? And what happened?” I said, looking to see if any scars were on his face. I straightened his naturally curled hair, because it was out of place.

“I’m fine. I told you this big kid kept bullying me. I took your advice. I defended myself and let him have it with my fists and a brick that I saw outside.”

I cocked my head back, feeling terrible about the advice I’d given him. I hoped he hadn’t seriously hurt anyone. “A brick? Why did you—”

Mr. Bassinger came out of his office and interrupted me. “This way, Ms. Jones. Please, come into my office.”

I told Michael to have a seat while I went into Mr. Bassinger’s office to speak with him. Simply put, he tried to blame Michael. I wasn’t having it because I knew he was being bullied.

“If you had known so, Ms. Jones, you should have contacted the school. We could have done something about it.”

“Well, now you know. And if this student continues to mess with my son, a brick won’t be the only thing going upside his head. I will accept Michael’s ten-day suspension, but you now have ample time to talk to this student and his parents. The ball is in your court and I hope you play your hand well.”

Mr. Bassinger didn’t like my threats, but he didn’t have to. I stood to leave.

“Michael will be able to retrieve his homework assignments online. He has the information on how to get to it, and whether you know it or not, I’m looking forward to him coming back and having a good year. He’s a good student.”

“At least we agree on something, because a good student he is. I’m looking forward to him returning too. We’ll see you in ten days.”

I left with Michael in tow. While in the car, he hadn’t said a word. He kept staring out of the window, appearing to have something on his mind.

“You said you’re okay, sweetheart, but I can’t tell,” I said. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He looked down at his lap and started to fidget with his hands. “I . . . I just hate middle school, that’s all. I liked my other school better, and the kids at my new school are all mean and rude. The kid who I had a fight with was an eighth grader who thought he could boss me around. I guess I showed him, huh?”

I stopped at the red stoplight then rubbed Michael’s hair. “Yes, you did, but I was wrong for telling you to take matters into your own hands. I should have made time to come up to your school to see what was going on. I’m not saying that I’m going to fight your battles for you, and even though I want you to always defend yourself, I do prefer that you talk to your teachers about any problems you’re having at school. You can always talk to me, too, but don’t ever feel as though you have to pick up something and hit somebody with it, okay?”

Michael nodded and the smile I hadn’t seen all day finally came through for me. “Mom, since I’m going to be at home with Jeremy for a few days, will you buy me some more video games to keep me busy? Jeremy is always locked up in the basement in his room, and I’m sure he doesn’t want me to bother him.”

“No, I’m not buying you any more games. They’re too expensive. Besides, I don’t have any money. All of the homework you’ll miss will keep you busy as ever.”

Michael’s hand went back on his cheek, and his sober mood returned. “We don’t ever have any money, do we? That’s all I ever hear you saying. Since I wasn’t able to go to football camp this year, it’s been so boring.”

I hated to hear my kids complain about all of the things we had to cut back on, and it really made me feel less than a mother. They just didn’t understand that we couldn’t afford to do many of the things we’d used to do; vacations, activities, parties, all of that was on the table to be cut. Even the massive cable bill was on the line, and I was sure they would gripe about that because they loved to watch cable TV.

“I’m doing my best, Michael, but we will have to cut back on even more things. If you’re bored, play in the backyard, go ride your bike, read a book or something. Do things that don’t cost me a lot of money, okay? I’ll get back on my feet and things will soon get back to normal. You’ll see.”

Sadly, I really couldn’t guarantee anyone that our lives would ever get back to normal. I knew we had to take some steps backward, but how many was the big question.

Michael and I entered the house through our four-car garage. Jeremy’s 2008 Honda Civic was already parked, so I knew he was home. As I walked through the spacious kitchen, covered with shiny hardwood flooring, I could hear rap lyrics blasting from the basement where his room was. I guess he figured since no one would be home at one o’clock in the afternoon, it was okay for him to have the music up so high. Michael shielded his ears with his hands; then he headed up the T-staircase to his room. I placed my purse and keys on the granite-topped kitchen island; then I went downstairs to tell Jeremy to lower the music.

The bass coming from his speakers had the whole basement shaking. My hanging champagne glasses behind the wet bar were trembling, and so was the chandelier that hung from the coffered ceiling. The fifty-two-inch TV that was built into the wall was on and blasting loudly too. Junk foods, particularly potato chips, were on the L-shaped leather sofa. I snatched the bag from the couch, noticing something peculiar on the table in front of it. It looked like grass, but when I sniffed it, I knew it was residue from marijuana. There wasn’t much of it, but Jeremy was about to catch hell. I stormed toward his bedroom, busting the door open, and getting the shock of my life. My eyes bugged and my mouth dropped open, as I saw his naked butt tightening and barely covered with a sheet. A long set of brown legs were wrapped around his waist and grunts escaped from both of their mouths.

“Jeremy!” I shouted.

His head snapped to the side, and the girl who was underneath him looked over his shoulder.

I spoke through gritted teeth, “Get your clothes on and get whoever that is underneath you out of my fucking house! Now!” I slammed the door with steam shooting from my ears. Just who in the hell did he think he was, bringing his chicks into my house and screwing them? I guessed he figured he wouldn’t get caught, being that it was after one in the afternoon. His tail was supposed to be on punishment, and in no way was this the kind of punishment I intended for him to have.

I stood outside of his door, giving him a few minutes to get his clothes on and to come out of his room. Nearly five minutes later, he came out with hanging cargo shorts on and without a shirt. He looked so much like his father, who was almost the color of midnight and in good shape.

I winced at him. “What in the hell are you doing?” I said.

He walked away from the door, obviously embarrassed by my tone and that he’d been busted. “What does it look like?” he said, plopping down on the couch and putting his foot against the table.

I pointed to his room. “Where is she? Why hasn’t she come out of your room yet?”

He was so nonchalant, which drove me crazy! Didn’t seem to give a damn about anything or anyone.

“She’s putting on her clothes and getting ready to leave.”

“You’re damn right she is. I told you not to have any company while I’m not here. Why are you disobeying me?” I said, swiping my finger across the table where the marijuana residue was. “What’s this? Are you doing drugs?”

Jeremy pursed his lips. “No, I’m not doing any drugs, and what you’re talking about is weed. Weed is almost legal, and it has been proven not to harm anyone.”

I could have tightened my fists and knocked him upside his head. But Jeremy was at the age where I had a difficult time controlling him. Whenever I called Xavier to come take care of his business as a father, he always made excuses. This was too much on me, and neither he nor my kids were cutting me any slack.

“For your information, weed is considered a drug,” I said. “It has many effects. Don’t always believe everything you hear from your friends, or what you read on the Internet.”

“Effects like what?” he said, challenging me like always.

I paused, unable to come up with anything. Hell, I didn’t know much about drugs; but I, too, had heard marijuana was no good for you. The effect . . . I didn’t have an answer. “I promise to get back to you on that, but in the meantime, leave that mess alone. I mean it, Jeremy, and if I ever catch you having sex in my h. . .