Ladies Night

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Table of Contents

A novel
by

What People Are Saying About
Ladies Night

 

 

“If this story were any hotter, the book would catch fire.
Ladies Night
is a smart and sexy page-turner.”

—Vivica A. Fox

 

“I couldn't put the book down. It was an exciting and
sexy ride, and I enjoyed every minute of it!”

—Jackie Christie,
Basketball Wives LA

 

“There hasn't been a book this sexy with a purpose since
Michael Baisden's
Maintenance Man
and Carl Weber's
The Man in 3B
.”

—N.D. Brown, CEO Tri Destined Studios

 

 

I dedicate this book to the supporters and fans who have had my back for years. It is because of your support that I am able to do what I do. Thank you!!!

I want to thank the people who helped make this happen: Carl Weber, Joylynn M. Ross, and N.D. Brown. I thank God for the blessing of having a book publishing deal. I know how much of a blessing it is to have a company believe in you and how hard it is to get a deal, let alone write the book, so thank you!

Lastly, I want thank John Jablonski, the extremely strict critical-writing teacher I had in college. The way you taught us how to research, outline, and build a research paper just clicked. You telling me to consider changing my curriculum to critical-writing really gave me confidence in my writing, because you were arguably the toughest S.O.B. to get a good grade from at the school. You're probably going to grade and make notes on this acknowledgments page, lol. Either way, thank you!

The gate slammed loudly behind Amp Anthony, but he didn't flinch, in spite of the fact that the sound took him back to the first time he'd heard it. Years had passed since then, but he remembered it like it was just yesterday. That sound had been a prelude to the harsh reality that he would no longer be a free man for quite some time. Now, that same sound announced his return to the free world.

As Amp walked past, the portly little corrections officer sneered at him. “See you around.”

Without looking back, Amp announced with conviction, “No, you won't.” He threw his worn out duffle bag over his shoulder and walked through the outer gate, pausing for a second to consider taking one last look at the prison that had been his home for the last four and a half years.

With the afternoon sun illuminating the sign that read
CALIFORNIA STATE PENITENTIARY
, Amp decided not to turn around. He wouldn't look back—not at the prison, and damn sure not at that life. Although almost every inmate who had ever been lucky enough to make it this far outside of those painted cement walls had probably vowed the same, Amp was determined to follow through. He'd made up his mind that whatever he had to do to stay on the straight and narrow, it was as good as done. His past was behind him.

The last five years had been hell for the now twenty-nine-year-old felon, but black don't crack. So, even though the time served had been rough on him mentally, it hadn't taken a toll on his appearance. In fact, he was stronger. Aside from reading as a mental escape, Amp had spent his time lifting weights and playing ball, which resulted in him adding twenty pounds of pure, cut muscle. Standing six feet three inches tall, weighing 205 pounds with a size 13 boot, he was definitely all man.

Amp was ruggedly handsome, even if a little rough around the edges. He had a visible and ungroomed beard, and it had nothing to do with the fad that seemed to be sweeping the NBA. For the most part he had tried to keep a nice edge up, but he still wore his ever-present signature black skull cap. He had caramel skin, big brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and the kind of eyelashes that piss women off.

In his faded, state-issued blue jeans and matching jean jacket, Amp had a mean swagger about himself, a quiet confidence. It wasn't something he tried to do, and that made him stand out even more. There was a look of focus in his eyes, but if you looked closely, you would also see guilt, shame, and regret lurking there. It was obvious that he had been through a lot in his life.

Outside the prison gates, Amp spotted a black man, who appeared to be a few years older than him, leaning on an old white Ford. Amp wondered who life had been the toughest for: the man or his beat-up looking car. It was apparent he was waiting on someone, considering there were a million and one other places he could have been besides standing outside a prison facility with the sun baking his dark brown skin. Since Amp was being released from jail to a halfway house, he had an idea of who this gentleman might be.

“You Amp Anthony?” the man asked.

Amp looked him up and down, trying to read what type of cat he'd be dealing with. “Yeah.” His response was short.

The man walked over to Amp with an extended hand. “I'm Paul Harold.”

Amp raised his hand to block the sun and squinted his eyes to get a better look at the modestly dressed man, who was wearing a pair of khakis and a plaid button-up with some black laced dress shoes. Upon closer inspection, the man looked to be about forty years old. Even though he had a few years on Amp, his thick arms bulging through his sleeves looked as though they were no stranger to pumping a little iron. He wasn't as muscular or defined as Amp, but clearly he could hold his own.

Amp looked at the man's extended hand for a moment. Still trying to read this guy, he hesitated, uncertain whether he wanted to come off as a hard ass or as a likeable guy. He had learned quickly in the joint that he couldn't treat everybody the same. Although Amp had been raised by parents who taught him to treat others with respect, life had shown him that there was a price to pay for being too nice. Cats would sometimes get it twisted and take Amp's kindness for weakness, and that only led to drama.

One time in particular, not long after he had entered the joint, an inmate asked Amp if he could have a portion of his meal. Amp hadn't planned on eating anyway; prison food took some getting used to, and Amp hadn't accomplished that task just yet. So, Amp didn't think twice about handing it over to the guy. This happened a couple of times, causing the guy to catch a case of entitlement. When Amp declined one day to give him any portion of his meal, dude tried to test Amp by taking it and pushing him down. Unfortunately for the inmate, Amp smashed his teeth in with the tray and beat the hell out of him. Amp was placed in solitary confinement. The upside was that afterward, guys left Amp alone.

This Paul character didn't look like he was about the drama, which was why Amp chose the likable-guy route and shook his hand.

“I run the halfway house you'll be calling home for the next ninety days,” Paul said.

Amp nodded, signaling his understanding. Another thing he'd acquired in the pen was discretion. Once guys figured out he was handy with a pair of clippers, they came to Amp for haircuts. He discovered he could learn twice as much from listening as he could from talking, which is probably why God gave man two ears and only one mouth. He'd also learned to speak only when he had something to say. Life was too short to be wasted on useless words when actions were louder anyway.

Paul continued. “Toss your bag in the back.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the white Ford. “I'll explain the rules of the house on the way there.” Pulling his keys out of his pocket, Paul popped the trunk then got into the driver's seat.

Amp put his bag in the trunk of the state-issued vehicle, slammed it shut, and then got into the car.

“Damn, you think you closed the trunk hard enough?” Paul asked sarcastically.

“Just making sure it's closed. That's my whole life back there in that bag . . . or what's left of it.”

Paul simply looked ahead and started the car. He pulled off of the gravel-covered lot, leaving dust behind.

“I'm strict but fair,” Paul started as Amp quietly observed the scenery passing by. Everything appeared to be more vibrant than he remembered.

Amp cracked the window. Now that he was free, he didn't like the idea of the glass separating him from the outside. The wind carried the aroma of independence to Amp's nose, and he inhaled deeply. No words could do justice to describe the sweet smell of his long-awaited liberty.

“Ninety days from now, if you make it through that time without incident, you will be a free man,” Paul said.

Although Amp's focus remained on the trees, the road, the wind, things that free men took for granted on a daily basis, he listened intently to Paul's words. The last thing he wanted to do was screw up, landing his ass back in prison with only memories of all he was taking in right now.

“While you're at the house, no company, no drugs, no drinking, no fighting, no partying, no stealing, no missing curfew, no fuck-ups of any kind,” Paul rattled off.

”That's an awful lot of no's,” Amp said, turning to look at Paul.

Paul shot him a stern look. “I can swing a U-turn, take your black ass back to the joint, and you can spend your last ninety days in that cage if my rules sound like too much for you.”

Amp's mind flashed to the still-fresh images of being caged up, being told what he could and couldn't do and when he could and couldn't do it twenty-four hours a day. “Nah. Continue.”

With his eyes back on the road, Paul continued running down his list of expectations. “Don't think you're going to just be sitting around the house catching up on reality TV,” Paul said firmly. “You are required to either get a job or enroll in classes within a short but reasonable time after your arrival. You can do both if you want to. It may help the time go faster.”

Amp let a chuckle make its way through his teeth. “You think somebody's gonna be in a rush to hire someone with my record?”

Paul didn't answer. He just shook his head and twisted up the right corner of his mouth.

“What?” Amp asked.

“Already making excuses.” He exhaled. “I can see exactly how this is going to go.”

”Man, I ain't making no excuses. I'm making sense and you know it,” Amp said, looking back out the window, trying to keep calm—and if nothing else, the sound, look, feel, smell, even the taste of nature, was indeed calming.

“Then prove yourself right,” Paul said as he stopped at a light. “You gotta still go out there and at least try, not just to prove me wrong, but to show the state that you are at least making an effort. While you're out there, make copies of all the applications you turn in. That way we can show your parole officer that you have actually been trying to secure employment. You do that and they'll stay off your back.”

“What about you?” Amp asked. “Will that keep you off my back too?”

“Hey, I'm just doing my job.” Paul shrugged.

“Hmmm, what else?” Paul said as he thought about any rules and expectations he might have failed to mention. He snapped his finger. “Oh, yeah. Respect the other people in the house and do not touch their stuff. Also, you will be subject to random drug tests and you will have weekly chores.”

Amp inhaled wearily. It was a lot to take in, but he knew he had to do it. Besides, if he could handle four and a half years in the joint, then ninety days in a halfway house should be a piece of cake.

Now that Paul was done listing rules, Amp asked, “You mind?” His hand was already on the radio dial.

Paul nodded and Amp turned it on. It was set to a station that was playing pop contemporary music. Amp scrunched up his face.

Noticing the look on Amp's face, Paul said, “Don't judge me.”

Amp cracked a smile and Paul grinned—the first sign that the tension might be lifting. Perhaps the ice had been broken, or was at least beginning to melt a little.

Even so, Amp was still a little confused about Paul. Earlier Paul had come across more laid back. Now, in the car, as he rattled off all the rules, he was coming across as a slight hard ass. Amp supposed it could have been a routine for Paul, as far as dealing with the housemates and running down the game to them, like how a stewardess has to give passengers the safety rules over and over again no matter how many times they've flown before. It just becomes sort of mechanical. Either way, Amp felt like the music was comforting, and he hurried to find a song they could both enjoy.

He turned the dial until he got to a station that was playing R & B music. “Toni Braxton still making music?” he asked.

“No. I mean, yeah, but that's her baby sister Tamar, I think,” Paul replied.

Amp bobbed his head to the song playing. Looking down, he noticed a manila file folder stuffed between the seat and the console. He pulled it back and saw that his name was on the tab. “You read my file?” he asked, a hint of nervousness behind his tone.

“Yep,” Paul replied as tension filled the car. “I had to get your background before I approved you to come to this house. But just so you know, there's no judgment here. We all got our shit—different shit, but we all got it nonetheless.”

Amp looked out the window again and said nothing as Paul continued to drive. Lord knows Amp had beat himself up enough over the years; especially when it came to the loss of his parents, Martha and Allen Anthony. They weren't physically dead, but it sure felt like it.

Amp thought back to the relationship he had with his parents before he went to prison. He was always closer to his mother than his father. She was less demanding than he was, and she accepted Amp for who he was, flaws and all. His father always wanted Amp to be more.

Dad was a health fanatic and a well-known community pediatrician. Amp doing anything short of following in his father's footsteps was a disappointment to him. He cared more about how the family appeared to be doing than how they actually were. Still, the family had Sunday dinner together at least once a month, and his dad attended most of Amp's home games to show his support to his son—publicly, at least. Things went south when Amp decided he wanted to make his own choices about a career and announced he didn't want to be a doctor. Amp wanted to major in business and own his own barber shop one day.

It hurt when his father made him move out and cut him off financially, but Amp began carving out his own way. Amp and his dad had even started to grow closer right before Amp went to prison. When his conviction hit the local newspapers, his father couldn't get far enough away from Amp. He eventually even stopped letting his wife visit Amp or write to him in prison. Dr. Anthony felt he had to protect the family name, and that meant disowning his wayward son. This cut Amp deeply, and the wounds still hadn't healed. He doubted that they ever would.

In prison, Amp had to watch other inmates enjoy time with their loved ones while the only people he had in the world, his own flesh and blood, wouldn't even write him a letter. His heart got heavy every time he thought about how he missed them, but out of habit, he usually camouflaged it with anger, or he kept himself busy so he wouldn't have to think about it. Now, a commotion jolted Amp out of his thoughts.

“Damn it!” Paul shouted as he slammed on the brakes, tires screeching. “Get the hell out of the street!” he yelled at some kids illegally crossing the road on their bikes. “Damn kids.” He shook his head and pulled off.

The sound of the screeching tires took Amp back to another dark place in his past. As he waited for his racing heartbeat to slow down, he could only agree with Paul's earlier statement:
“We all got our shit . . .”
Amp had been knee deep in his.