True Confessions

by Electa Rome Parks

Genres: General Fiction; African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

Twenty-eight year old Kennedy Logan is gorgeous, educated, talented, and in love. Unfortunately, Drake Collins has other ideas about the true state of their relationship. Kennedy hopes to turn him around; Drake just wants to turn her out sexually. Kennedy is also searching for her biological mother, who gave her up at birth. She wants answers and she has tons of questions. The enormous weight of these predicaments leads to a failed suicide attempt. Her overprotective and overbearing mother, Dorothy Logan, moves in with Kennedy and makes it her mission to get her daughter's life back in order. The first step is getting rid of Drake Collins once and for all, but that’s easier said than done. Drake has no intentions of going anywhere. Kennedy’s ever loyal and fun-loving best friend, Taylor, and her absentee father join forces to help support Kennedy in her time of need. At her psychiatrist's advice, Kennedy uses writing as her therapy. She starts to keep a daily journal detailing the erotic circumstances and family drama that led up to her despair. Through very personal, funny, and graphic entries, readers will share her confessions. Brace yourselves for a very steamy journey!

Release date: December 4, 2012

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 272

Sample

Hey, family! What do you know good? We have been on this journey, together, for so many years now, I hold a special place in my heart for you. I have shared bits and pieces of my life with you and you guys have e-mailed me with bits and pieces of yours. Calling you “readers” is simply not enough. So, family it is. We have bonded over the years. LOL.

This is book #7. Wow! Can you believe it? I remember back to the days when all I had was an active imagination and a dream. And to this day, I still have an active imagination and a dream. LOL.

What’s going on with me? Life is good. I made the decision to live my life like it’s golden because it really is. We only come this way once and I intend to do all I can to make the most of it. I’m not where I want to be, but I’m having hella fun getting there. And, mainly, I’m claiming it across the universe. So, it’s a done deal.

If you are reading these acknowledgments then you have a copy of True Confessions in your hand. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support! Your support and encouragement throughout the years have been priceless. I can’t stress enough how important you, my readers, my family, are. Someone asked me in an interview what the best part of being an author was. I didn’t hesitate or stutter. Hands down, besides giving birth to my characters, meeting you guys is still awesome.

I obtain the same gratification I did the very first time I was in a bookstore and spotted a reader purchasing a copy of The Lies That Bind, my baby. My girlfriend and I literally started screaming, pointed at the book in her hand like two lunatics, and bum-rushed the reader. She didn’t know what was going on until the store manager explained that I was the author, a highly enthusiastic new author. I still get a laugh out of that!

I know you guys are saying, “This isn’t one of your blogs, so get to the point.” Okay, okay, I will (smile). I cannot state enough how appreciative I am that you’ve brought my crazy, imperfect characters into your homes and embraced them as your own. Thank you! Thank you for giving my imagination, my characters, and my dream a place to thrive.

Special thanks to my family and friends: Thank you for putting up with my hermit-like state when I’m working on a manuscript and for simply allowing me to take time away from you to follow my passion. I love you guys much more than you will ever know and I wish the very best in life for each of you. Nelson, Brandon, Briana, Tresseler, Laymon, DaJuan, Jordan, Khai, my cousins and friends. You are my anchors. ’Cause you know Pisces always have our heads off in la-la land.

Many thanks to the many book clubs across the country who have welcomed me into your homes, phone lines, and conferences like welcoming a long-lost friend back into the fold. My characters become living and breathing creatures through your eyes. We talk about them as if they were. You guys are the best! Continue to be literary ambassadors and continue to spread the word about my books. I appreciate it! Word of mouth is everything in this industry.

To my teams of literary greats, what would I do without you? Special thanks to: Ella Curry (you’re the best), AALBC.com, MosaicBooks.com, APOOO, RAWSISTAZ, Disilgold.com, Black Expressions Book Club, Lip Service Ink, Cryus Webb, and the numerous blog radio stations that have hosted me. If I’ve missed anyone, you know what’s in my heart, and know it wasn’t intentional.

To my author friends, especially Cheryl Robinson and Cydney Rax, I am so honored to be your friend. We can literally talk for hours regarding this crazy world we’ve found ourselves caught up in. Isn’t it fabulous? To all the authors who extended “acts of kindness” toward me this past year, I am so appreciative because you didn’t have to (you know who you are). To all the authors I’ve met over the years, and there have been many, know that it is a privilege to possess the power of the pen. Words are powerful. You have the ability to create, destroy, and literally change lives. Don’t underestimate your gift. I’m happy to be part of this elite membership.

Last, but definitely not least, to my publishing family: Portia (agent), Natalie, Brenda, and Diane, I haven’t had the opportunity to meet you guys face-to-face yet but it has been a sincere pleasure working with you via our e-mail communications. I know…I ask a lot of questions and I’m impatient and I’m very detailed, oh, and picky, but we are all family and it’s all good.

Family, please keep in touch. Drop me a line at [email protected]. You know I love to hear from you. And yeah, I’m still sensitive about my stuff. Also, check me out at:

www.facebook.com/electaromeparks,

www.myspace.com/author_chick,

www.electaromeparkseblogspot.com,

and www.electaromeparks.com.

Until next time, I pray your life is filled with peace, joy, and hope. Remember there is only one thing greater than yourself…

Stay blessed,

 

Electa

 

SIGNING OFF, ATLANTA, APRIL 29, 2010:2:37 P.M.

My reality is surreal and happens in super-slow motion. A nervous giggle escapes my chapped, dry, and parched lips. I lick them to restore moisture. Then, there is utter, deadly silence. If I listen closely, I can hear my heartbeat beating away at an accelerated pace. My senses are heightened and I marvel over the brilliant, bold colors of my bedroom as I inhale my favorite fragrances, from their spot on my antique dresser, colliding into one another with their potent allure. Even my sense of touch is different somehow. Everything is magnified to the nth degree. It’s like I’m looking down at myself from a huge movie screen with surround sound as I ready myself for the big finale—the final shot and then fade to black.

I’ve never been good at saying good-bye, even on short weekend trips. I keep the handwritten note short and sweet and pray to God that Mother will understand, and, hopefully, one day forgive me.

I don’t mean to hurt her or cause her any fresh pain. I sincerely don’t. I hope she understands that this isn’t her fault, that I love her with all my heart and being. No matter what, that fact will never change. I’m so thankful and forever grateful that she chose me to be her daughter out of all the orphaned babies in the world. She chose me. I told myself over and over again that that made me special. I needed to feel special instead of unwanted and discarded.

I’ll miss Mother the most, but the hurt I feel inside is too unbearable and indescribable. It is too painful for me to continue, day in and day out, with just a hollow emptiness that erodes and corrupts any happiness that briefly surfaces. The dawn of each new day only brings me more heartache and renewed memories. Some memories are like leeches. They latch on for dear life and slowly, ever so slowly, suck and drain all the blood, all the living out of you. You are left with just a shell of the old you and that’s no way to survive. Not for me, anyway.

When they find me, I want it to look like I’m sleeping, peacefully. Just like Sleeping Beauty who only needed a handsome prince to kiss her and awaken her from the darkness that engulfed her. However, for me, there won’t be a handsome, charming prince to wake me, save me, and ride off into eternity. All my so-called princes were monsters in disguise with their hidden agendas that attempted to crush and stamp out my self-esteem. Yes, just blessed sleep awaits me.

I chose pills. I couldn’t subject Mother to a messy, bloody scene that comes with slitting one’s wrists or shooting one’s self. I refuse to take my final breath with that heavy on my heart. I don’t think my heart could handle anything else weighing against it. As it is, I feel like I have 300 pounds weighing me down, crushing the life out of me.

As I settle myself comfortably on my queen-sized bed, slowly pull the red satin comforter up to my chin, and stare at the full bottle of prescription pills carefully nestled in my right hand, I can’t imagine not waking up in the morning.

What will it be like to not see the rising sun? To not hear my alarm clock going off announcing it’s time to get ready for another day of work? Not hitting snooze to give myself another fifteen minutes? Not rushing to finish my morning rituals before I dash out the door and into rush-hour traffic? What will that feel like?

More important to me now, though, is will it hurt? I hope not. I have never been able to tolerate too much pain: physical, mental, or emotional. Yet, that’s what Drake has caused me for the last year of my life. Pain. Intolerable suffering.

I only wanted to love him and for him to love me in return. Simple enough. Was that asking too much? My part of the equation was accomplished, effortless. Drake claimed he loved me, but he really didn’t. Probably never could. Didn’t know how to love or receive it. After what happened last week, I know he didn’t. Yet, I gave him everything: my heart, my body, my soul. Now, I have nothing left to give myself. I’m empty inside.

As tears slowly flood my weary eyes and blur my vision, I look around my cozy bedroom for the last time. Ever. It used to be one of my favorite rooms in my small two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. There was nothing better than lighting several fragrant candles, drinking a little white wine, and cozying up with a good romance novel. Yes, that was heaven. Simple things excite me. Always have. Watching a sunrise or sunset, waking up to birds chirping in the treetops, walking hand in hand through the park with the one I love: all these things brought me great joy.

Mother will have to understand. I left her a note, propped up on the nightstand, in full view, that explains how much I love her and Daddy. What will she think when she can’t reach me tonight? I would love to hear her soothing, loving voice one last time. Yet, I know I wouldn’t be able to go through with my plan if I did. I’d give away my intentions over the phone or Mother would pick up on my foul mood and that would be that. I’d wake up another day with this aching, dull pain inside, tearing me apart, bit by bit. Pain that dulls and diminishes every ounce of my strength, all the way down to my pores.

Drake Collins. His name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Just the thought of him brings bile to the back of my throat. I will forever regret the day I met that man. If I could turn back the hands of time, do it all over again, I would have called in sick that day or run for the hills. I was just fine with my life the way it was. Sure, it wasn’t exciting or glamorous, but it was enough for me. Drake came with the charm, movie-star looks, glitz, and high drama, and reeled me right in like a bass caught at sea. I gladly jumped into his net.

I say a silent prayer of forgiveness as I place one, then two colorful pills on my tongue and swallow dry. I didn’t think of getting a glass of water. I can’t think. The lump in my throat quickly diminishes. There’s no turning back now. Just like there was no turning back when Drake turned me out. The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight… I’ve lived a happy life. I have tons of good memories. I’ve treated others the way I wanted to be treated.

I hope this happens quickly. I steadfastly place three, four pills on my tongue and swallow again. Hot tears start to spill forth and stream down my cheeks as I realize the final result of my actions. Seven, six, five… It’s for the best. I need to stop the pain. Will he even miss me? Or will he just move on to his next victim? Will all this be in vain?

I guess I’ll never have that family now. The one I used to daydream and write about in my journal. The family with the almost perfect mommy and daddy and two kids: a boy and girl. The boy would be the oldest, and he’d look out for and protect his younger sister. They’d have cute, adorable names and they’d know they were wanted and loved and cherished by their parents. They’d never feel unwanted.

Four, three… I swallow a handful of pills this time. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve digested. As spittle escapes from my mouth, I gag. I wipe the overflow away with the back of my hand and keep right on shoving pills in my mouth until the orange-brown medicine bottle is empty. I look inside, in awe, shake the bottle, and can’t believe the pills are gone so quickly. Just like the illusion of love. If you blink, you’ll miss it.

I wonder if Drake even realizes how much I loved him. Now, I wait for blessed relief and peace to take away my hurt and pain. I’m so tired. I am tired of loving the wrong men. Tired of giving my all, coming up empty, and getting absolutely nothing back in return. Good sex isn’t the end all to everything. Drake taught me that lesson.

Two, one…It won’t be long now. I faintly smile and lie back against my down pillow. I welcome peace. In my mind, I start silently repeating Psalm 23. I shall walk through the valley of death; I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. I’m so sleepy. I can barely keep my eyes open. I can feel myself giving in to the fog that slowly invades my mind. Maybe if I close my eyes for a few moments. Yeah, just rest them for a few minutes without seeing Drake’s face behind my heavy eyelids.

Suddenly, I feel lightheaded, like I’m floating on a big, fluffy white cloud, bouncing up and down, giddy, with not a care in the world. This is a different sensation that I literally reach out my right hand to embrace and never let go of. Not a care in the world. Nothing matters but blessed, uneventful sleep. I close my tired, weary eyes as the countdown ends. Fade to black.

“Kennedy, baby, you ate like a sick bird. Look at this. You left the majority of your food on your plate. This is not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. You need to eat more, dear, in order to get your strength back,” Mother stated, lifting and retrieving the small bamboo food tray from my lap. She had even included a small vase of fresh, colorful flowers to brighten my day. Everyone who knew me knew I adored fresh-cut flowers of all shades and varieties. I would splurge on flowers the way some women treated themselves to a new outfit or shoes.

“I’m not really hungry, Mother,” I declared, changing position and turning away with my back to her. I didn’t want her to see the frustration that was clearly etched across my pinched, crunched-up face.

I understood she meant well, but I only ate as much as I did to please her. I didn’t have an appetite, and I certainly didn’t feel like talking. In fact, I didn’t feel like doing anything but sleeping. I wanted to curl up in a tiny, tight ball, pull my covers over my head, and simply sleep my meaningless life away. Sleep was my comfort and salvation.

“Since when did you start leaving my famous scrambled eggs, grits, and country ham on your plate?”

I didn’t bother to answer. I only pretended to be sleepy as I faked a wide-mouthed yawn. I didn’t even bother to cover my mouth with my hand.

“Usually, by now, you are on your second helping,” Mother volunteered, picking up a few discarded clothes from the floor and placing them in the hamper.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m kinda tired. I think I’m going to nap for a while.”

Even though I didn’t see her face, I knew Mother was staring at me with that worried expression on her butter-pecan face. It was the expression she tried so hard to disguise when I was looking directly at her.

“Baby, that is not acceptable. You just woke up. You’ve only been awake a little over an hour. We have a beautiful day ahead of us and you can’t spend it sleeping all day.” To prove her point, Mother strolled over to my bedroom window and boldly opened my mini blinds so that the early morning sunlight greeted me with a blinding, direct glare.

I groaned and shielded my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Here, sit up,” she commanded, attempting to fluff up my down pillows, and gently propping them behind my back. She reached for the journal that sat on my nightstand.

“Why don’t you write in your journal for a while?” she asked, holding it out to me like she was offering a piece of candy to a small child.

“Mother, I really don’t—”

“That nice doctor said that writing down your thoughts would help you, be therapeutic. Help you come to grips with this, uh, this situation. Here. Take this and let me go and find you a pen. Or do you prefer a pencil?”

“A pen is fine, Mother.”

Reluctantly, I sat up completely and resigned myself to writing in my new journal. Actually, I had kept journals in the past, especially during my college days when life was so new and exciting. I wr. . .