Nude Awakening
Wahida Clark Presents
Nude Awakening
A Novel by
Victor L. Martin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC
60 Evergreen Place
Suite 904
East Orange, New Jersey 07018
973-678-9982
Copyright 2011 © by Victor L. Martin
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN 13-digit 978-0975964620
ISBN 10-digit 0-9759646-2-3
Library of Congress Catalog Number 2011905654
1. Urban, Porn, South Beach, Miami, Florida, African-American, Street Lit – Fiction
Cover design and layout by Oddball Design
Book interior design by Nuance Art.*.
[email protected]
Contributing Editors: Linda Wilson, Maxine Thompson and Rosalind Hamilton
Printed in United States
Green & Company Printing, LLC
Acknowledgments
Here I still stand coming with title #8. I am still pushing to become a better author with each new book and topping The Game of Deception was not easy.
Much thanks goes to my publisher/friend, Wahida Clark. You and your staff at WCP are the best. This is my second book under WCP and I’m hoping there will be a third. Get the contract ready. Hadiyah, thank you for all you do behind that desk.
To my editor Maxine Thompson, thank you for your review on how I could make my story better. I listened and I respect your views and criticism.
Also to my first review editor that told Wahida my first draft was not fit for publication, you were 100% right. Thank you for bringing out my best.
To my fans behind bars, A. Cee, Sinz, Pretty Soon, Yang, Jr., Da Dirt Road Bully, Sha, B.B. from the “K”, Face, Ant, Dirt Bagg, Wesley Thomas, Dean Newnan, Ron J, Natt Turner (Red Gorrilla), Curtis Tyson, A-Drop, T-Dot, Dutch, D.B., Keith Fraizer, Mack, Shell, Weezy, Black, Red Prince, Choppa, Bird, Pimp C, Twan, Viper, Stick, and you know I can’t forget ya, Robert Williams aka Blac-O.
Yeah, I know I left someone out, but don’t take it personal. I’ll catch you in book #9.
Oh yeah, to a few new supporters, Felicia Williams, Hadiya McDuffie, China Ball, Temeeka McKenvie, Kierra Scott, Charlene Lopez, Chelsea, Savvy Sistahs Bookclub, Jennifer Willis and again, thank you.
To my fam, cuzos Kenneth Latraz McMillan, Shonda Dobbins, LaWanda Neal, Lisa McMillan, Jeff Fields, I love and miss you all. Sorry I forgot y’all in my past books . . . Oh, and my Aunt Doris.
Kimberly McCallister, thank you for just being yourself. Now spread the word on my books like you promised. LaShawn Terry, a true friend. You will love this book. Francesca Walker of my hometown Selma, NC. Happy Birthday … December 23rd (the release date for this book is on your B-Day!) Levires Richardson, Temica C. Sutton, Leo Sullivan, Tamika Razz, Toya and author Sabrina R. Daniels. Your book of poems “Forever Love, Eternally Yours” left me without words. You are special. Day by day. Quovadis N. Shaw, you’ve been my friend and motivator since book one. Thank you. Renita M. Walker, keep your head up.
Mom, I love you deeply. My big sis, you’re the best! Bruh-in-law Duke, 2018 and it’s on, fam! My niece and nephew, you know who you are. Your uncle loves you.
Okay, time to bring this to an end. You got this book for my story, not to read my shoutouts.
To you, the reader, thank you for buying my book and for all it’s worth, you are appreciated!
Author Victor L. Martin 11/16/11
Keep your eyes dry & Your heart easy
You can reach the author directly @
Mr. Victor L. Martin #0549353
P.O. Box 506
Maury, NC 28554
Not guilty! Not guilty! Not guilty!
Eighteen-year-old Trevon Harrison could still hear those unjust words ringing in his anger-clouded mind. Six days ago, he had sat in the courtroom and watched the man accused of raping his thirteen-year-old sister await his verdict. Trevon sat with his mother as the ruthless attorney cross-examined his sister Angie to the point of tears. Because of his mother’s presence, Trevon held his peace. The entire trial was bullshit. He doubted not a word of what happened when Angie stormed into his bedroom with tears in her eyes.
Trevon hated how the defense attorney weakened Angie’s testimony. Since Angie’s teacher had given her a failing grade, the attorney claimed her testimony was false. A simple act of revenge. There was no physical evidence to back up Angie. Trevon’s testimony, a retelling of his sister’s version of events was helpless.
It was so fresh in his young mind when the judge gave the verdict. The sick, child-molesting teacher had sunk back in his chair with a smile of relief on his pale face. Angie and his mother slipped out of the courtroom in tears. Trevon remained seated as a taste of detest filled him fully. There was no justice here. None. The only justice that made any sense was the type Trevon was willing to give. As the days turned over, he watched Angie turn into a quiet soul. His mother felt it was best to move them away.
Four days after the trial, Trevon heard the teacher on a local radio station speaking on the horror and pain of being falsely accused. Trevon listened to every lying word as his mother and sister packed up for the move to North Carolina. The radio host had asked the teacher how he felt toward Angie.
“I forgive her. She’s just a troubled child. But in the end. One day she’ll have to answer to a higher calling for telling that lie on me.”
Trevon called Angie into his room with fresh tears filling his eyes. He did not question if she had told him the truth. To do so would have crushed whatever glimmer of life she still kept inside. He told her he knew the man had raped her and that she was not the young, scheming, lying, revengeful girl the attorney labeled her.
“The judge said he ain’t guilty.” Angie sobbed on his shoulder.
Trevon, at eighteen, had too much to shoulder. He would never be at peace without justice. No justice . . . no peace.
“Promise me you’ll finish school when you get to North Carolina.” Angie nodded, too deep in her sorrow to understand that Trevon was not planning on making the trip.
“I love you, lil sis.”
Trevon stood hidden in the bushes under the sweltering sun. In his hand he held a slightly rusted snub–nosed .38 that was prone to misfire. Mr. Falston, Angie’s English Lit teacher was standing in his manicured front yard peacefully watering the lawn. His back was toward Trevon. A green Acura Legend was parked in the driveway with a small poodle sitting under the front bumper cooling off. The front door of the house Mr. Falston shared with his wife was open. Music from a radio flowed out of the house. Trevon thought about the sick things Mr. Falston had done to his sister. No justice . . . no peace. Closing his eyes, Trevon mumbled a short prayer. He wanted the best for his mom and sister. Though he felt he was doing the right thing, he had yet to learn the danger of acting on anger. Opening his eyes, he saw Mr. Falston moving down a row of yellow and blue flowers with the water hose. The day was perfect. One of peace and quiet.
The poodle raised its head when Trevon emerged from the bushes. Its tail began to wag. Mr. Falston paused to wipe a coat of sweat off his forehead. He was almost done with his yard work. He was doing his best to put the trial behind him. At forty-four years old, he had to be more careful with his pickings of young girls. Angie was not the first underaged girl he had molested at school, nor would she be his last. He would learn from his mistakes with Angie. In his thinking, he felt he had not taken his time with her. When his poodle yelped, he turned around.
“What’s the fuss, Missy?” Mr. Falston dropped the water hose when he spotted Trevon standing two feet away with Missy jumping and yelping around his legs wanting to play.
“You-you shouldn’t be here.” Mr. Falston took a step backward, quickly looking around for help. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave . . .” His words ran into a gate when Trevon raised the .38.
Trevon held his aim true and dead center of Mr. Falston’s chest. The poodle circled his feet. “Why did you do those things to Angie?”
Mr. Falston took another step backward, crushing the flowers. “You’re . . . you’re—her brother. Look. Just put the gun down. I know you’re upset, so—”
“You don’t know how I fucking feel!” Trevon’s voice was loud and sharp. The poodle froze, tilted its head, then scampered off back toward the car.
“Son . . . please listen—”
“Ain’t your damn son! The only father I knew . . .” Trevon blinked and raised his free hand to steady the pistol. “You said my sister would have to answer to a higher calling, right!”
“I—please put the gun down.”
Trevon’s head snapped to the left. A police siren. Across the street he saw a curtain falling back in place. Trevon kept the .38 pointed at Mr. Falston. His hands began to shake. A quick vision of the smile Mr. Falston wore at the verdict hearing flashed in Trevon’s mind. The police siren grew louder.
“Put the gun away,” Mr. Falston pleaded. “Just calm down, okay?”
“I came here for a reason!” Trevon took a deep breath.
“Please . . . Don’t shoot me!” Mr. Falston threw up his hands then rushed Trevon. Trevon stood his ground. No justice . . . no peace. He closed his eyes, pulling back hard on the trigger. Not once, but twice.
Three and a half months later, Trevon found himself back inside the courtroom. Behind him in the packed limited seats sat two women who were his solid source to continue living. Angie and his mother sat in silence as the judge read the verdict.
“Trevon Harrison,” Judge Holmes said as he removed his glasses. “It pains me that you felt justice could be carried out by your hands. This system was built to be fair. If your actions were allowed to go unpunished . . . this country would be in utter chaos.”
Trevon held his head down, punishing himself by straining his wrist against the handcuffs. Focusing on the pain was better than facing the reality.
When the judge saw that his words were not reaching Trevon, he cleared his throat and asked, “Is there anything you’d like to say before you are sentenced.”
The female bailiff helped Trevon to his feet. He glared briefly at the judge with contempt. Silence. When he turned to face his mother and Angie, he did so with his head held up high. He was unable to wipe the tears off his face.
In the third row, Angie and his mother stood.
“I—I’m sorry, Momma.” He sniffed. “But I can’t have . . . no peace knowing that . . . man . . . what he did to Angie . . . I know Angie told the truth. We both know it.”
The bailiff felt pity for Trevon and wiped the falling tears from her eyes. Glancing around the courtroom, she saw a few others reaching up to dry their eyes.
“You said enough, son,” his mother said as Angie leaned on her shoulder, sobbing.
“I love you, Momma. You too, lil sis. And remember my promise.”
At that moment, Angie broke from her mother’s embrace and made a beeline toward Trevon shouting, “DON’T TAKE MY BROTHER AWAY FROM MEEE!”
The understanding bailiff allowed Angie to crush her brother in her arms. The judge grumbled, “I demand order in this court!” The bailiff ignored the judge and motioned Trevon’s mother to come and help calm Angie down.
Once order was restored, the judge moved on with the sentencing. “In this judgment, the defendant, Trevon Harrison, having pled guilty to first degree murder, the court orders that he be imprisoned in the Florida Department of Corrections for—”
“Nooooo!” Angie screamed. “That man raped me! Why won’t y’all believe meee!”
“ORDER IN THIS COURT!” Judge Holmes roared and rose to his feet.
Trevon managed to rise to his feet. He did so on his own.
“Bailiff!” Judge Holmes pointed at Angie. “Remove her from my courtroom!”
“I believe you, lil sis!” Trevon shouted. “Always did—and always will!”
Before the day was over, Trevon was sentenced. He begged his family to leave, knowing the system was unfair and would come down hard on him. Trevon kept his head up as Judge Holmes sentenced him to twenty–one years with the possibility of parole.
ONE
August 26, 2011
Friday 10:23 a.m. - Miami, Florida
Thirty-three-year-old Trevon Harrison sat in the back of the non-air conditioned cab. Even with the windows down, it felt like 1,000 degrees and did little to stop the sweat beading up on his baldhead. An irritating drop of sweat and cheap deodorant trickled down his armpit. Even in his discomfort he had a reason to be happy. “We almost dere,” the Haitian cab driver said with a hand-rolled cigarette between his cracked lips. “’Nother hot day, huh?”
Trevon nodded. If there was one virtue Trevon had, it was patience.
“Hey!” The cab driver peered at Trevon in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t I pick you up—few days ago? Yeah. Took you to the dog track for job,” he said.
“A job I didn’t get.” Trevon leaned up a bit to see the cab driver’s ID tag. Through the scratched plexiglass, he saw the cab driver’s name. Manuel.
“Why not? What is hard to do dere?”
Trevon shrugged his massive shoulders. “Don’t know. Once they heard ‘I’m fresh out of prison’ I was shown the door.”
“Life no fair sometimes,” Manuel said, snuffing the cigarette in the ashtray.
“That it ain’t,” Trevon replied, looking out the window.You look for new job again?”
“Yeah. This will be my sixth interview since I’ve been out.”
“How long you do?”
Trevon glanced down at his hands. “Fifteen years. Just got out nine days ago.”
“You wise to look for job. These streets—” Manuel gestured. “Not the same no more. Young kids wild. Gangs, drugs, nothin’ fair no more.”
“I feel you on that.”
“What type of job you look for?”
“Any job that will keep me gainfully employed. I’ll shovel cow shit to avoid going back to prison.”
“You on parole?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish you luck with your effort today. If it not turn out good—” Manuel slid a slot open on the plexiglass and handed Trevon a business card. “I might can get you down at station washing cabs. I put in a good word for you. You seem like nice guy.”
“Thanks.” Trevon slid the card in his pocket. “Oh, my name is Trevon Harrison.”
“Nice to meet ya.” Manuel slowed the cab then switched lanes to pass a delivery van.
Trevon’s sweat was a mixture of nervousness and anxiety. Adding the relentless Miami heat to the pressure of trying to find a job was slowly taking a toll on Trevon. He was trying hard to do right. Each time he was turned down for a job, it only pushed him to try harder. Angie and his mother were still up in North Carolina, so his support system in Miami was not in his corner. Trevon had left the streets at a young age when he needed support the most. Today, he was a grown man. Most important to him, he was a free grown man. His reason to be happy.
“Ah, here we are my friend,” Manuel said, slowing the cab in front of a glass front modern building on Biscayne Boulevard. “Timing good?”
“Perfect,” Trevon said then stepped out of the cab. He reached in his pocket for cab fare.
Leaning across the seat, Manuel shook his head, smiling. “This one on me. Keep your money.”
Trevon thanked Manuel then waved at him as he drove off. Trevon stood on the sidewalk as people walked by him. It took only a few seconds to see that he was the only one without a cell phone. Looking up, he had to shield his eyes from the sun. Seven pencil straight palm trees stood in front of the building Trevon was about to enter. Turning around, he waited for an opening in the crowd, then moved closer to the glass mirrored door. He paused a moment to study his reflection. His clothes were casual. Black dress shoes, black cotton pants, and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. His prison built muscular frame was hard to hide. Straightening the collar, he inhaled the sea-scented air, then pulled his pants up an inch. Please, let me get this job, he thought.
Reaching the doors, he paused to look at the chrome plated nameplate. Amatory Erotic Films.
Stepping inside the air-conditioned building, he walked up to the security desk. Two stocky white men, both armed, eyed him like a suspect. The smaller of the two guards greeted Trevon with a stern, unsmiling approach.
“Welcome to Amatory Erotic Films. How may I help you?”
“I um, have an eleven o’clock interview with Ms. Babin,” Trevon said.
The second guard checked the computer after Trevon told them his name.
“Trevon Harrison, I see it,” the second guard replied.
Trevon was asked to show his ID. Once it was fully scrutinized, it was given back along with a visitor’s pass that was clipped to his shirt.
“Just head for the elevator and push the button for the third floor, Mr. Harrison.” The short guard pointed to the left.
Trevon nodded, then made his way across the soft black carpeted floor. There was no indication that connected the office to an adult film company.
After pressing the button for the elevator, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. A porn star! he thought. Under no circumstances was he going back to hustling. Trevon reflected briefly on his past as the elevator began to move. When he gave up his freedom back in ’96, he had a side hustle of selling weed and slanging a few small pieces of crack. All done for the strength of his family. His street-earned money placed food on the table and kept the water and power on when his mother was facing hard times making ends meet. Looking at his feet, he hoped he could meet the standards if the chance was given to do a new type of slanging—dick slanging!
The ride up to the third floor was taken alone. When the doors slid open, they revealed a new setting. Everything was white and chrome. Taking a step out, he froze. To his left was a receptionist desk. Behind it sat a cute, young looking black female.
“Welcome to Amatory Erotic Films, Mr. Harrison,” the receptionist said with a toothy smile. “Someone will be with you momentarily. You can have a seat to your right.” She nodded.
Trevon headed for the cozy waiting lounge. A white horseshoe-shaped leather sofa was the centerpiece. At both ends of the sofa were a few hard core adult magazines on the end tables. The 52-inch flat screen plasma TV was flushed into the wall, currently showing the news. Trevon sat down as the receptionist went back to work. His expectations had not been met. He had assumed the building would be filled with half-naked women prancing around and doing all types of freaky shit. Trevon had come across Amatory Erotic Films by reading an ad in an adult magazine that someone had snuck inside the prison. He only had two years left on his bid when he saw the ad. The fact that Amatory was based in Miami, Florida and not in California had drawn his attention. He leaned over to pick up a magazine when a soft voice called him by his full name. Her accent was definitely Hispanic.
“Trevon Harrison,” the woman rolled the letter ‘r’ as she pronounced his name.
Trevon stood, staring with his mouth agape. The woman was stunningly beautiful. Never during his fifteen-year bid did he think he would be in the presence of a woman of her caliber. He dropped the magazine back on the table as the woman paused to talk to an older female in a cream pantsuit that had gotten off the elevator with her. He cleared his throat as she neared him. Raven black, lustrous curls tumbled past her olive-toned bare shoulders. The clingy colored camisole exposed the cleavage of her succulent breasts with its plunging neckline. Her denim jeans were tight against her juicy appealing thighs, ass and hips. Even in her platform wedge-heeled shoes, she still had to look up to meet his eyes with his 6’4” stance.
“Hi,” she said, extending her jeweled wrist and manicured hand. “I’m Jurnee Cruz, Janelle Babin’s personal assistant.” She shook his large hand, eyeing him openly. She blushed at the size of his arms. They were swollen! His size reminded her of her ex-boyfriend who was a linebacker in the NFL.
Trevon fought hard to keep his eyes from falling into her sea of cleavage. Her top did nothing to hide the size and roundness of her breasts. She had worn the too small camisole without a bra to see how he would react.
“Let’s head up to my office,” she said, releasing his hand. “Are you nervous?”
“A little bit,” he replied, being honest.
They walked beside each other toward the elevator.
“That’s to be expected,” she said, looking at the size of his arms again. “We’ll go up to my office and wait until Ms. Babin is ready to see you.”
Trevon nodded.
Reaching the elevator, they waited for two black men in business suits to exit. They both greeted Jurnee with a curt nod.
“Up we go,” she said, cheerfully ushering Trevon into the elevator. Neither said a word on the short ride up to the sixth floor. When the doors slid open, she stepped out first. Trevon followed and easily allowed his eyes to fall on her round plump ass.
“Care for anything to drink or eat?” she asked over her shoulder.
“I’m good,” he said, following her down the hall.
Walking past an office, a skinny white dude stuck his head out and asked Jurnee if she would reply to his e-mail.
“I’ll get to it later,” she said without looking back or stopping. Nearing the end of the hallway, she stopped at the second to last door on the left. Trevon stood aside as she unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he felt a bit awkward being alone with her once she closed the door. Her office was roomy, with cool warm hues of green painted walls, modern-styled furniture, plush carpet and pictures and awards displayed in a built in wall case. In all four corners sat large tropical potted plants. The huge picture window behind her desk was covered with drapes. He sat down on the green leather bonded couch as she slid behind her desk and into the soft-looking chair.
“So,” Jurnee asked, leaning back. “How has your morning been thus far?” She wanted him to be relaxed before meeting the boss.
“Okay,” Trevon replied, keeping his eyes on her exotic-looking face. “Just hoping I’ll get a chance to um—”
“Have sex with beautiful women on film and get paid for it?” Jurnee stated bluntly.
“Since you put it like that, yeah.” Trevon broke into a sheepish grin.
“No need to beat around the bush with me.” Jurnee adjusted the camisole over her breasts. “You don’t look like you’re thirty-three, but I guess the myth is true about prison keeping you looking young.”
He shrugged. “It’s true in my case, but it ain’t true for everyone.”
“I’ll agree,” she said. “But to be honest, I had my doubts about you because of your age.”
“Why?”
“Well, in this business, looks are a major asset to success. I’m aware that sex will sell in just about any form. Different people have their lust or fetish for which type of sex they wish to view. I know some men that will only buy hard core DVDs with women featured at two-hundred pounds or better. Women of all shapes and colors can get by. But with men, it can be very selective. Also, in most films that we produce, the male is the supporting actor. Males are our biggest consumers, so it’s only right that we cater to them.”
“How do you know so much about porn?” he asked.
Jurnee smiled, crossing her shapely legs behind the desk. “I take it that you weren’t allowed adult magazines inside prison?”
“I had my fair share. Actually, I had one that had a promo ad for Amatory in it.”
She casually brushed a strand of hair out of her face, then reached down to open a drawer on the desk. “My porn name was Honey Drop. And I’m heartbroken that you never heard about me,” she teased.
Trevon leaned up to pick up the magazine. Settling back in the couch, his eyes widened. The cover featured Jurnee wearing nothing but a pair of black platform heels and a black leather choker. She was looking back over her shoulder with a finger stuck promiscuously in her mouth. Her naked ass glimmered with oil, looking good enough to eat.
“Y-you-you used to do porn?” he stuttered.
Jurnee nodded up and down. “For nine years.” She stood up. “Read the article. I have to use the restroom right quick.”
He watched her leave then quickly moved his attention on the magazine. Turning to page twenty-seven, he read up on Jurnee, aka Honey Drop, and what she had accomplished in her nine years of porn. A big surprising fact came when he read that she was forty-one years old. His attention was yanked from the written article after he viewed several hard core pictures from her films. Two small pictures had her with two men. She took one doggy style while filling her mouth with the second. His dick got hard as he viewed each picture of her getting fucked in a number of positions. Adjusting his throbbing erection, he then closed the magazine to calm himself. He had not been with a woman in fifteen years! Trevon was single at the time of his sentencing, so there was no female waiting for him with legs wide open when he was released from prison. He was leaning back with his eyes closed when Jurnee returned.
“Was it that boring?” she asked, easing back behind her desk.
“No.” He sat up.
“I was just thinking about something.”
“I bet you were.” She noticed the magazine on his lap. No doubt, hiding his erection that she was hoping to see. So far his outer appearance had gotten him through the door. Her concern was if Trevon had the tools to be a male adult actor. What good was a handsome face and a pussy moistening body with a little dick? Unemployed when it came to Amatory’s standards. Jurnee held this thought process in the office as well as in her personal life.
“Why did you show me this?” he asked after she sat down.
“Reason one, I have no shame of my past. Porn to me is liberating. I enjoy having sex, and with me, I’m able to do it without my emotions playing a big part. Reason two, of course, the money and fame was good, but I didn’t let them control me.”
“So what do you do now?”
“You forgot already.” She laughed. “I’m Ms. Babin’s assistant—remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” He looked down at the magazine and held it up. “So you’re really done with porn?”
“One hundred percent, if you’re asking if I get in front of the camera.”
“How does your man feel about you being a former adult film actress?”
Jurnee laughed, she knew this question was coming. “I didn’t mention anything about being in a relationship in that interview you just read, and as the saying goes . . .” She held up her left hand showing no ring. “I’ve had my share of relationships. I prefer being single.”
