I Say a Little Prayer Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IN MEMORY OF…

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY E. LYNN HARRIS

  ACCLAIM FOR E. LYNN HARRIS

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedicated with many thanks

  to

  STEPHEN E. RUBIN

  A Prince of a Publisher

  and

  Human Being Extraordinaire

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This author thanks God for the gift of creativity and for two careers that I am passionate about. I’m thankful once again for the life lesson that “tough times don’t always last but tough people do.”

  I’m thankful for my mother, Etta W. Harris, and my aunt, Gee (Jessie L. Phillips), for a love that sustains me during difficult times. I’m grateful to my sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, and godchildren (Gabby, Lamark) for the love and pride they show me every day.

  It has been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to talk to you, my cherished readers. I’ve missed you so much, but trust me: I needed the time away. I want to thank each and every one of you who wrote me just to make sure I was okay. I can’t tell you how much your deep concern meant to me.

  I’m especially grateful to have a publisher and editor who understand the creative process and offered unconditional support and friendship even when they didn’t have a new book to sell. So I give a billion thanks to the aforementioned Stephen Rubin and the amazing Janet Hill. I must also thank Michael Palgon, Bill Thomas, Alison Rich, Meredith McGinnis, Clarence Haynes, Rebecca Holland, John Fontana, Emma Bolton, Jackie Everly, Judy Jacoby, Jen Marshall, LuAnn Walter, and Anne Messitte for their much-needed support and talent.

  I send out a special bouquet of gratitude to Pauline James and Gerry Triano for the extra effort they always give.

  I must thank my good friend Gordon Chambers for allowing me to use lyrics from his fantastic debut CD Introducing Gordon Chambers. His music gave the perfect voice to my character Chauncey and was the one of my favorite CDs to listen to as I wrote this novel.

  Thanks so much to Chris Fortunato and his staff.

  I’m blessed to have friends who’ve been there for me over two decades. They know who they are and don’t need mention here. But I’m so proud of them and the special bond we have that is just as strong as family. They are: Vanessa Gilmore, Lencola Sullivan, Robin Walters, Troy Donato, Cindy and Steve Barnes, Pam Frazier, Ken Hatten, Chris Martin, David and Tracy Huntley, Anthony Bell, Reggie Van Lee, Sanya and Derrick Gragg, Brenda and Tony Van Putten, Dyanna Williams, Yolanda Starks, Sybil Wilkes, and Blanche Richardson.

  I would like to thank African American Radio, The Early Show on CBS, and publications like Ebony, Essence, The Advocate, and Black Issues Book Review for their faithful support and for ensuring that my voice is heard.

  For a moment I felt I’d lost my writing mojo, but two special young ladies helped me to break out of my funk and served as unofficial line editors and idea bouncers. Victoria Christopher Murray and Celia Anderson are both wonderful writers in their own right, and I will never be able to thank them for all their support and encouragement. I must make a special mention of thanks to my friend and former editor Charles Flowers for always being only a keystroke away.

  I have the best agents in the business. John Hawkins and Moses Cardona are not only at the top of their game but wonderful humans whom I’m proud to call friends. I also have a great attorney and accountant in Amy Gold-son and Bob Braunschweig.

  There are several special people whom I drive crazy with last-minute decisions and my frenzied life. Some might call them assistants, but to me they’re miracle workers, so I must offer my gratitude to Anthony Bell, Laura Gilmore, Sanya Whittaker Gragg, Kem Watkins, C. J. McClain, and Angel Beasley.

  During my unofficial writing sabbatical, I discovered a new passion: teaching. For the last three years, I’ve had the privilege and honor of returning home to teach at my alma mater, the University of Arkansas–Fayetteville. U of A made me feel so welcome; it’s a place that will always mean the world to me. I thank Dean Don Bobbitt of the Fulbright College of Arts and Sciences, and Chancellor John White and Bob Brinkmeyer for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime. I have also been blessed with wonderful graduate assistants in Elizabeth Bryer, Maya Sloan, and Celia Anderson. Remember these names, because all of these ladies are talented writers whom the world will soon discover.

  I would also like to thank all my students (each and every one of them) for opening their hearts and minds to me. I will never be able to voice what you all mean to me.

  While at U of A, I’ve been able to also work with the Razorback Spirit Squads. These extraordinary young men and women have been a gift to me that is beyond measure. So I offer a heartfelt thanks to every Razorback cheerleader, pom-pom squad, mascot, and coach from 2003 to 2006.

  I was able to enjoy this bounty of blessings thanks to a remarkable lady whose love and friendship have made a tremendous impact on my life. Jean Nail, spirit coordinator at U of A, gave me a precious gift that allowed me to erase a few not-so-great memories and replace them with new ones that are beautiful and amazing. Thank you, Jean, for being so special and loving the Razorbacks as much as I do.

  Finally, I must thank the men in my life. These men have given me unconditional love and bring a smile to my face at the mere thought of them. To one, who due to his place in the world shall remain nameless: I could not enjoy life without the love and support he gives when I need it the most. My son, Brandon Hammons, for teaching me that being a parent is the most difficult (but rewarding) job in the world. I give special thanks to the Hammons family of Plummerville, Arkansas, for allowing me to be such a huge part of Brandon’s life.

  And finally I thank my two Seans, Lil’ Sean (Sean Harrison Gilmore) and Big Sean (Sean Lewis James), for being two of the most special people God has seen fit to put in my life. The Seans shower me with a love I treasure.

  For me it all begins and ends with God. So I offer to all who read these words His blessings and love.

  E. Lynn Harris

  Atlanta, Georgia

  February 1, 2006

  In Memory of

  JOHN H. JOHNSON

  1/19/1918–8/8/2005

  Thank you for being such a marvelous example

  and inspiring another (colored) boy from Arkansas

  to dream big. />
  PROLOGUE

  There are times when I think that I, Chauncey Dion Greer, am passing through this life on my way to the life God really planned for me. Then, at other times, I think that God must have a wicked sense of humor. Who knew? How else could you explain me sitting here in the green room at CNN on Election Eve, sweating like a fat man in a sauna wearing a warm-up suit, and staring at a tray of sliced melons? I don’t know if I’m about to do something noble or if I’m about to get P-I-M-P-E-D.

  It’s not like my life has been without its good moments. Whenever I’m stressed out, I think back to the days when I went fishing with my daddy, and I begin to smile inside. We’d stop at Reverend Nick’s Bait and Tackle with our fishing gear, purchase our supplies, and then pack it all together with the peanut butter and homemade strawberry jam sandwiches that my mother would make for our lunch. All the way to Blue Lake, we’d brag about the fish we were going to catch. I also remember when I won my first songwriting contest when I was sixteen. And, of course, I’ll never forget when I met him.

  Still, something happens to your soul when the expiration date on your love life comes and goes before you turn twenty-five. Was I getting ready to share that love life with the world because I thought it mattered, or because I wanted to finally get revenge? Was I trying to do the right thing, or just wanting to settle the score with the person I had once loved the most but I now despised?

  I stood up, glanced at the mirror on the wall, and straightened my tie. I stared at my reflection, checking to see if the makeup artist hadn’t applied too much powder to my mink-colored skin and if it would really prevent me from shining once the studio lights hit my face.

  Just as I picked up a small paper plate and headed for some melon, a high, annoying voice whispered into my ear.

  “Mr. Greer, we have a small problem.”

  I turned and faced the tall, thin, pale woman with freckles dominating her oval face. Her strawberry-blond hair was pulled back in a cheerleader’s ponytail.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “I’m Lauren Masterson, the executive producer of Larry King Live. Thank you for coming,” she said as she extended her ringless hand.

  “What happened to Mr. Gains?” I asked.

  “He’s coming down in a few, but I need to explain something.” She motioned toward the red leather couch, and we sat down. Lowering her voice so the other guests in the green room couldn’t hear her, she continued. “I think you spoke with one of our associate producers, Dana Wynn, and she agreed to interview you with your face in shadow and your voice disguised,” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes, both she and Mr. Gains promised me that we’d do it that way. That’s the only reason I agreed to do the interview.”

  “Yes, Mr. Greer, and I know this is a very private matter for you, but I just don’t think the interview will have the punch we need if you’re not willing to reveal your identity. These are very serious charges that you are alleging against a man who could be elected U.S. senator within the next twenty-four hours and tip the scales as to who controls the Senate. The repercussions could be far-reaching.”

  “I understand that, but I only agreed to do the interview one way,” I said firmly.

  She shook her head, unwavering. “I’m sorry about what you were promised, but we simply can’t do it that way.” She paused. “Mr. Greer, this is live television, and I need to know if you’re going to go on and tell your story just as you are.”

  For what seemed like an exceedingly long moment, we sat face-to-face in total silence. I pondered my choices. Either decision would change my life as I knew it.

  What should I do?

  What would I do?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Oh, hell naw were the only three words that came to mind, and I found myself saying them out loud.

  “Oh, hell naw,” I said.

  “Hold up,” Jayshawn whispered as he held his finger to his lips.

  “Oh, hell naw,” I repeated.

  He got up from the bed with his cell phone glued to his ear and walked into my bathroom. I could hear him saying, “I’m sorry, babygirl, I don’t like it when you get upset like this. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”

  I sat up in my king-size sleigh bed and wondered how I got myself into situations like this. I had just enjoyed a quiet evening with great Chinese takeout from my favorite restaurant, P. F. Chang’s, a bottle of Merlot, a blunt, and ended the evening with head-banging sex. I’d fallen asleep wrapped up with a handsome redbone PTB (pretty tall brother) and was having sweet dreams until they were interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.

  I ignored the first call, and didn’t mind when Jayshawn jumped out of bed and took the call in the adjacent bathroom. But then it happened again, and again. Every time I tried to go back to sleep, that fucking cell phone, playing rap music like we were in a club, woke me up. I’d had enough of this shit. I was even willing to give up the promised wake-up sex session with Jayshawn. It served me right for dealing with another so-called DL brother like Jayshawn. That nigga just wasn’t in the closet, he was the closet—all three walls and the double-lock door, too. But what choice did I have, since I didn’t date sissies or men who defined themselves strictly by their sexuality.

  “I’m sorry, Chaunce,” Jayshawn said as he walked back into the bedroom, completely nude with a semi-erect penis swinging from side to side.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. It was going to take more than a fat dick to calm me down.

  “My girl, you know she be bugging,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Thinks I am up here cheating with another girl,” he said as he sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward me as if he was trying to gauge my anger.

  “I thought you told her you were working.”

  “I did, but you know bitches—they always think they know something. Trying to catch a nigga in some shit,” he said. “I think I need to catch the first flight out. I think there’s one at seven A.M.”

  I looked at the digital clock on my DVD player and the time flashed 4:12 A.M. I turned back to Jayshawn and was getting ready to tell him that he needed to catch a taxi because I was not about to get out of my bed at this hour and take his tired ass to the airport, when the damn cell phone rang again!

  “Don’t answer that,” I demanded, this time not trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

  “I got to, Chauncey,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs trying to get her to chill.”

  “Listen, Jayshawn, you need to leave. I don’t care where you go, but you need to get your ass up outta here. I’m going to church in a few hours, and I need some sleep.” I tossed the covers to the floor and got up to take a leak, shaking my head in disgust.

  While I was in the bathroom, I thought about all the conversations and e-mails that had led to this evening. Several years ago, I met Jayshawn as I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C. I was there on a business trip and Jayshawn was having a drink in the bar. We gave each other the look, and before you could say, “Brothers gonna work it out,” we had exchanged business cards. A couple of days later, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn with a nude picture attached. From that moment, it was on. We agreed to drive and meet each other halfway, which meant I had to drive from Atlanta to Raleigh, North Carolina.

  I liked Jayshawn Ward because he was handsome, smart, and like me he wasn’t a card-carrying member of the gay community. He was honest, telling me that he was the father of a six-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. Jayshawn told me he was no longer involved with his baby’s mama but had lady friends he dated occasionally. Neither one of us was looking for a relationship, or as I call it, a relation-shit; we both just wanted some regular hookup sex with another cool brother.

  Everything was fine for about two years. We would get together every two months, and the sex was off the chain. Jayshawn knew how to use every part of his six-foot-five-inch frame—he was a former college basketball player who
still knew how to dunk.

  Last year Jayshawn called me and told me he’d met a special young lady, and he wanted to pursue a relationship with her. He told me we had to end our sessions. I don’t know why, even though it was just sex, I was a little hurt. But then I thought about it and realized that my sex was so good, he’d be back. It might be a couple of months or even a year or two, but they always come back.

  I was right.

  Right after Memorial Day, after months of noncommunication, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn supposedly just checking on me. I started not to respond to his simple “Sup” message, but I did. His next e-mail said, “I been missin’ my nigga and I got a few new things I need to show you.”

  I started to make him wait, but since I hadn’t found a replacement for him, my plans to make him beg went out the window just like dirty dishwater. Now, only three weeks later, he and his loud-ass cell phone had to go.

  I stomped back into my bedroom and saw Jayshawn in baggy jeans, a black wife-beater T-shirt, and a white do-rag on his head, stuffing a pair of boxers into the small black bag he’d brought. He grabbed his blue shirt the color of jeans, put it on, and began to button it.

  “I’m real sorry ’bout this, fam, but I need to get on. I can’t believe this bitch is trippin’ like this. But she’s asking me all kinds of questions, like what kind of work I’m doing and what hotel I’m staying at. Why she can’t call me at the hotel and shit.”

  I didn’t respond because I didn’t want to curse his ass out, but this girl was smarter than the average sister who dealt with down-low bisexual brothers. And if he was so in love with her, why did he keep referring to her as a bitch? Didn’t she have a name? But I knew this was just Jayshawn’s way of hanging on to the street-boy credibility that he so cherished. Every time we’d finish banging, he always had that guilty I’m not gonna do this no more look.

  “Are you gonna run me to the airport?” he asked.