Sins of a Siren (41 page)

Reaching into the inside pocket of his $5,000 suit, he removed a checkbook, signed his name, and left the amount blank. “Money is a key that can open any door.” He slid the check across his expensive desk to Alexis. “I already found out about the financial distress her parents are in. I made a $100,000 donation to her father's church to get her attention.” He smirked as he removed
a Cohiba cigar out of the Gondolier humidor on his desk and clipped the end off of it. “Start the bidding by telling her to fill out any seven-figure amount she wants. It's time for the world to hear her story.”

Curtis L. Alcutt's initial effort,
Dyme Hit List,
focuses on Rio, a single African-American man who grapples with finding his soul-mate after a lifetime of being a womanizer. His neighbor, Carmen, has all the qualities Rio wants….but can he commit to her?

Bullets & Ballads,
his follow-up novel is an erotic, psychological, drama set in the music industry. The main character, a musical genius named Apollo, is twisted into a steamy love triangle featuring Nyrobi, a gorgeous, wealthy and sexually liberated older woman and a loving, sexy and talented songstress named Tricia.

He also has an erotic short story entitled, “Not Tonight,” published in Zane's
New York Times
bestselling erotic anthology,
Caramel Flava.
Curtis also co-authored the self-help book,
Your Road Map to a Book,
published by his literary foundation, WriteWay2Freedom. His heated short story, “Drastic Measures,” is featured in the erotic anthology,
After Dark Delights.

Curtis L. Alcutt's literary style is “no-holds barred” erotica combined with everyday experiences the reader is guaranteed to relate to. “I believe my story ideas come from being a shy, quiet child, always observant instead of talking,” says Alcutt. “Growing up, I passed by the windows of bookstores and remember never seeing any novels with black people on the covers. I wondered what it would be like to see African-Americans instead. My love
of writing song lyrics further fueled my desire to become a writer. My novel concepts were stored away for quite some time. After reading a few African-American novels I decided now is the time to write.”

Curtis L. Alcutt was born and bred in Oakland California. He's walked many career paths before deciding to give writing a try. “I've been a roofer, garbage man, courier, truck driver, computer network administrator and even co-owner of an auto body shop. Back in the early nineties, I had a record deal as the Rapper, “Big C.” For many different reasons the deal fell through, but I never let it discourage my pursuit of self expression.”

Visit his website
www.curtisalcutt.com
and find him on Facebook.

A
RE YOU CURIOUS TO SEE HOW
T
RENDA CHANGES HER LIFE
?

S
TAY TUNED FOR

FATAL INTENTIONS SINS of a SIREN II

C
OMING IN 2012 FROM
S
TREBOR
B
OOKS

F
atal Intentions: Sins of a Siren II
chronicles the re-emergence of the sinful, sexy, seductive and deadly Trenda Fuqua. Due to numerous death threats to her and her family, she turns down StarShine Entertainment's generous offer to buy her story and get her out of prison.

Two years later, after immersing herself in the Bible, she earns an early release due to prison overcrowding and good behavior. Two weeks before her release, her mother dies. She moves in with her heartbroken father and finds herself gravitating more and more to the church.

Meanwhile, Darius's distraught widow, manipulated by a few of her late husband's corrupt cop buddies, plans vengeance against Trenda, who she holds responsible for the death of her husband.

Trenda soon is forced to go on a mission to discover the culprits who have caused disturbance within her own family.

T
URN THE PAGE TO ENJOY A SNEEK PEAK
!

Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

—R
OMANS
12:17-21

“I
want that green-eyed bitch dead!” Beverly Kain, the widow, yelled as she picked up the heavy crystal candy dish off of her coffee table. She then threw it into the flat-screen TV mounted on her living room wall. The image of the woman she blamed for the death of her husband blinked out after the explosion of glass and sparks erupted from the destroyed TV.

On this, the second anniversary of her husband's death, the ache in her heart ran to her head as she collapsed on her sofa. Tears of sorrow and anger ran down her face and neck, onto the collar of her pink robe. Every day since the grisly discovery of her late husband's body, she'd watched the videotaped newscast that featured a short conversation with Trenda Fuqua.

Trenda Fuqua.

The same woman alleged to have had an affair with the late
Baltimore police officer Darius Kain. Nightmares of his acid-eaten, mutilated body launched her into chronic insomnia. “She ruined our lives!”

The belief that Trenda corrupted and set up her husband was undeniable in her mind. The fact that Trenda was due for an early release from prison further pissed her off. As tears smeared her mascara, she recalled the smug look on Trenda's face as she was stuffed into the patrol car after her interview.

Once her crying fit stopped, she reached into the pocket of her robe. A maniacal smile formed on her face after pulling a piece of paper out of the pocket of her robe. She then picked up the phone, blocked her number and dialed the number written on the back of her late husband's funeral program. She thought she had blocked her number but in her stressful state of mind, she put in the wrong code.

The number she called was for Mitch, a friend of Darius's that could “take care” of situations. He'd given her his number at Darius's funeral. He promised he'd look after her. His gruff voice answered. “Wassup?”

As she had done many times before, she hung up without answering. Upstairs, the muffled cries of her two-year-old son, Darius “DJ” Kain, Jr., got her attention. She hurried up the stairs, walked over to the Birchwood baby-bed, picked up the blue pacifier next to the baby's head and put it into his mouth.
Looks so much like Darius…because of that red-headed tramp he didn't even get to see you.
She stroked the child's curly, dark hair. The fact that she found out she was pregnant a month after Darius's death filled her with bitterness. “I miss your daddy so much…”

“That's a lot of money,” Trenda said as she examined the contract on the table. A verse she often read while incarcerated came to mind. It alluded to a majority of her past troubles:

For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.

—Timothy 6:10

She rubbed the green rosary beads in her hands and looked across the table at the tall, blonde woman. “But I can't take it. Sorry.”

Alexis Cannon, top reporter for StarShine Entertainment, folded her arms on the table and focused her ice blue eyes on Trenda. The smell of new paint still lingered in the air of the recently painted conference room. The three-year-old, Cockeysville Correctional Center—or “The Cock” as some inmates dubbed it—was the most modern prison in Maryland. “Ms. Fuqua, this is one hell of an opportunity for you.” She tapped the contract. “You can leave this hell-hole a very wealthy woman.”

The seven-figure deal to tell her story was awful hard for Trenda to resist. But she knew in order to make a real change in her life, sacrifices had to be made. Two years ago, after the bodies of the two crooked cops that had extorted and abused her for years turned up, she had been in high demand. Along with the fact that the officers were in the middle of one of Baltimore's most high-profile corruption cases, their gruesome murders grabbed national headlines.

Tempting as it was, Trenda knew going on TV would garner her a lot of unwanted attention. After spending the last twenty-four months behind bars—and in her Bible—she had come to enjoy her anonymity. Also, she didn't want to make too many waves.
Word around the The Cock was that they were going to release a few low-risk inmates due to overcrowding.

After finding out from the D.A. that she was almost on the list, Trenda went out of her way to stay out of trouble. It worked. The D.A. told her she was going to be paroled early because of her good behavior combined with the overcrowding.

Besides self-change, self-preservation was an issue also. Even though the Island Boys had withdrawn their contract for her life, she had a new set of enemies to deal with.

A few days ago, she found an unsigned envelope containing a letter, a copy of her mother's funeral program and pictures of her elderly father, brothers and their families in her mail delivery. The letter warned her to keep her mouth shut about Darius and Tyrone's “street business,” if she and her family valued their good health.

Although the guard denied knowing where the envelope came from, Trenda knew she was lying.
Need to get out of here though… Daddy needs my help, especially since Momma died
. Images of her frail father played in her mind. She shook her red, shoulder-length French braids and stood up. “I gotta go. I'll get with you later.”

Alexis puffed out her cheeks, exhaled, put the contract back in her alligator briefcase and closed it up. “I
will
be talking to you again.”

Trenda watched the well-dressed woman exit the room. “I'm sure you will.” The prison guard motioned for her to follow. She adjusted her baggy orange jumpsuit.
Two more weeks,
she thought as she was led back to her cell.
Two more weeks and I'm outta here. Hallelujah.

T
welve days later, at one in the morning, Trenda was rudely awakened by a Cockeysville Correctional Center Correctional Officer. “Wake up, Red! Time to get your ass outta here,” Velma, the bulky, six-foot-tall female officer, said. She banged on the bars of her cell door with her billy club. She then tossed a letter from the court and two empty pillowcases into her cell. “Get up and get packed
now
!”

What the fuck?
Trenda thought as she blinked her eyes. The bright light of the C.O.'s flashlight blinded and angered her. “Can't you turn off that goddamned light?”

The guard, Monique, “Big Mo'” for short, grinned. “I thought you church folks didn't cuss?”

Trenda swung her legs out of her bunk. They were well-toned and fit after her daily two hours of running in place. Her wash-board abs flashed as she pulled down her T-shirt. Having been in solitary confinement for over two years, she spent a majority of her time doing push-ups, running in place and a host of other isometric exercises. She grimaced at the big dyke. “I ain't never claimed to be perfect…I just read the good book every now and then.” She pulled her orange jumpsuit on in a hurry. She hated the way the guard's eyes fixed on her cotton-panty-covered pussy. “Why you wakin' me up anyway? This a random search or somethin'?”

The husky guard signaled to have the cell door open. “No, sexy. Time for you to get out. Go home.”

Trenda froze midway through zipping up her jumpsuit. “Wha? I ain't supposed to leave for a couple more days…you sure you know what you doin'?”

Big Mo' tapped her billy club against her thick thigh. “It's ya lucky day. The warden does not want to get caught up in a big media circus because of you.”