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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: The Real Thing
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I start to grind on him, unbuttoning my red, white, and green flannel shirt. I look behind me to see what he's typed so far, and I laugh because I only see a question:
“May I interview your
corpo provocante
now?”
Acknowledgments
I'd like to thank the following folks for their help in the creation of this novel:
 
 
*Stephanie and Giuseppe Spalino for checking and correcting all the Italian words and phrases in this novel. Italian is a tricky, regional language. Any mistakes in this text are my own, not theirs;
 
*Mike Riddle for knowing how to spell a certain actress's name, listening to me rant about the current state of boxing, and helping me to live “in the balcony”;
 
*Greg Redd (a real-life master chef) for his recipes, puns, and friendship;
 
*All the residents (you know who you are) and staff at Camp on Craig for their encouragement;
 
*My agent, Evan Marshall, and editor, John Scognamiglio, for their support, care, and insight;
 
*My wife and sons for giving me many moments to cheer for them over the years.
She's had celebrity, isn't hurting for money, and is living peacefully single in Charlotte, North Carolina. Still, Sonya Richardson can't resist starring on a hit reality dating show to give America a taste of what a real black woman is like. And this former pro athlete is breaking all of “Hunk or Punk's” rules, refusing to bling-up like a diva, and tackling whatever high-octane drama her suitors have in store. But one contestant is throwing Sonya off her game. He's surprisingly kind, way too easy to spill her secrets to—and giving her the kind of hope she hasn't felt in a long, long time . . .
 
Widowed former pastor John Bond knows he's the show's “designated white guy,” expected to fail every challenge and be gone in a month. He also knows he has to take risks to change his lonely life and find love again. The odds may be against him, but Sonya's honesty and resourcefulness are inspiring him to do whatever it takes to stay in the running, win her heart . . . and prove their dreams can be a reality.
 
 
Please turn the page for an exciting
sneak peek of J. J. Murray's
A GOOD MAN
coming next month from Kensington Publishing!
 
 
 
“Bob, we're in serious trouble.”
“What's wrong now, Larry? We have the mansion rigged and most of the Crew moved in, don't we?”
“We're short one Nubian princess and one white guy.”
“What? I thought we had our princess under contract! I thought it was a done deal! Where is she?”
“She bailed on us and took a gig with
Survivor
instead. More exposure, she said. They start filming on Wetang Island off Indonesia next week. Wetang! What a name!”
“They chose Indonesia? Are they insane? After all the earthquakes, terrorist attacks, tsunamis, and volcano eruptions?”
“It does add to the element of danger.”
“But
we
begin filming next week, Larry! Did you call the other semifinalists?”
“I did. One's doing
Big Brother
as their token woman of color. One got a nice part in Tyler Perry's next Madea movie, and our last hope decided to play Lady Macbeth in a community theater production of
Macbeth
in Racine, Wisconsin.”
“She chose community theater in Racine, Wisconsin, over reality TV? What was she thinking?”
“Lady Macbeth
is
a plum role, even if it's in Racine, Wisconsin, in January.”
“You offered all of them more money, right?”
“Of course. I almost doubled it. Still no takers.”
“They're insane! They get to stay in a multi-million-dollar mansion for free, eat for free, wear clothes they couldn't possibly afford in real life, go on all-expenses-paid dates to interesting places and restaurants they couldn't even get reservations for, and get fifty grand on top of all that, not to mention all the exposure they can use to make even more money later.”
“It is indeed strange. I guess some women just don't know what's good for them.”
“What about the surfer, what was his name, Rip?”
“Rip is out surfing in Australia. I called him, and he said, ‘The waves are wicked rad sweeet Down Under this time of year, bro.'That was a direct quote. I assume he's riding barrels and cutting sick off South Stradbroke Island as we speak.”
“I hope a shark tears his legs off. He wouldn't have lasted past the second episode anyway.”
“And we would have needed subtitles for him. He spoke surfer.”
“Geez, Larry, what are we gonna do? Are we still getting hits from the Web site?”
“A few strays here and there, but no white guys. We'll spam the Internet until we find another one.”
“And now we're reduced to spamming for contestants. Why'd we call the show
Hunk or Punk
? No one wants to be a punk.”
“It rhymes, and our advertisers love the name.”
“I liked
Beefcake or Cupcake
better. Even
Hero or Goat
would have been better.”
“The focus group chose
Hunk or Punk
.”
“I hate focus groups. They're inherently stupid, and they eat too many doughnuts.”
“But our T-shirt sales are picking up.”
“Our what?”
“We've been selling reversible
Hunk or Punk
T-shirts. When you want to be a hunk, you wear the hunk side out. When you want to be a punk, you wear the—”
“I get the concept, Larry,” Bob interrupted. “But what good are T-shirts if there's no show? What are we going to do?”
“I'll handle it, Bob. You just make sure the mansion is ready and the Crew is prepped and primed to be hunky and punky.”
“But where are we going to get a Nubian princess on such short notice? And where will we find a white guy who's willing to be humiliated on national TV?”
“Bob, this is America. There's
always
some woman who thinks she's a princess. Look at Bristol Palin. And there's
always
a white guy who likes to be humiliated. Look at Al Gore.”
“Oh, yeah . . .”
Chapter 1
I
t started with a phone call from Sonya Richardson's publicist.
“Sonya, how's it going?”
I haven't heard from Michelle Hamm in
five
years,
Sonya thought. “Fine, Michelle. How have you been? A better question is
where
have you been?”
“I expected only to leave you a message.”
Sonya sighed. Michelle was infamous for not answering her questions.
“I am so surprised that you answered, Sonya,” Michelle said. “It's ten o'clock on a Friday night. Why aren't you out with your bad self?”
Because I don't have a “bad self” anymore, not that I ever had a bad self.
“I lead a quiet life now. You know that.”
Just me in my suburban Charlotte, North Carolina, home on my suburban couch in my suburban great room, watching my new flat-screen TV bought at a suburban electronics store. Wow. This is the first phone call in days that hasn't asked me for a donation. Hmm. Michelle's on the line. I may be donating my time somewhere soon.
“Let me guess,” Sonya said. “There's some WNBA function I just
have
to attend.”
“Nope,” Michelle said. “WB is doing a new show called
Hunk or Punk
.”
She's calling me to discuss what's going to be on TV.
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“You're single.”
She has to remind me. Ten hard years in the WNBA, playing for two Olympic teams, traveling around the world several times, taking mission trips to Haiti and New Orleans in the off-season. I had no time for a man. I barely had time for myself.
“What's your point, Michelle?”
I have my own TV shows to watch.
“They're looking for a strong, attractive, literate, intelligent black woman just like you.”
“No, they aren't. Not on shows like that.”
“They
are.
Wouldn't you like to have twelve hunky men fighting over you?”
“No.”
“The actual word is ‘woo.' These men are going to ‘woo' you on national TV.”
Woo? Noo.
“And you thought of me?”
“I could only think of you, Sonya.”
“Gee, thanks. Um,
you're
still single, aren't you, Michelle?”
“Yes, but I am not—”
“And you're strong, attractive, literate, and intelligent, right?”
“Of course, but I don't look anything like you. I'm thick in some spots and much thicker in others. Some spots I haven't
seen
in years, not even with a mirror. You're cute. You probably still have some baby fat. Unless you've let yourself go.”
“No, I'm still in shape.”
I just don't have anyone to admire my shape except me.
“What makes you think I would go on TV to find a date?”
“Are you married, shacking up, or dating anyone now?”
“No.”
Loneliness is next to godliness. Most of the time.
“Are you even trying?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you
have
to go on TV to get a date.”
Sonya shook some cobwebs from her head. “That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. It ain't happenin' with what you're doing now, right? Why not roll the dice and see what happens and get
paid
to do it at the same time.”
Because I don't
need
it to happen!
“Look, I'm not hurting for money, and I don't need a man, okay? I'm happily single.”
And my couch needs me to keep it warm. My remote control whimpers when I'm not around. My TV sighs whenever I don't turn it on.
“C'mon, Sonya. No one is
really
single and happy. If it weren't for my cat and an occasional hookup, I'd be miserable. Why don't you live a little? Go on the show. Let your hair down. Have some fun for a change.”
I've never had much hair to let down.
“No.”
“Well, look at it another way. Do we really want another diva with an attitude representing us on TV? This is our chance to show America a
real
black woman for a change.”
Now
that
is tempting. I am sick of what's on TV for the most part. Reality shows are often faker than regular shows. It's why I watch Animal Planet and
Man v. Food
just about every day. Those are real shows. I mean, who doesn't want to know what parasites are living inside the human body? And who doesn't eat? And sometimes the shows seem to overlap. I'll be watching something about tapeworms on Animal Planet, and then I'll wonder if the host for
Man v. Food
has a tapeworm that helps him eat so much. How many shows can do that overlap?
“Earth to Sonya.”
“I was just thinking about . . .”
I can't tell her I was thinking about tapeworms.
“I was just wondering why you think I'm a real black woman.”
“You're a success story without the extensions, the attitude, and the diamond-studded fingernails. You grew up in Jersey as an orphan in the 'hood, got raised by your saintly grandmama, you were the first in your family to graduate college, your college team won the national championship twice, you were an all-American in college three times, your team made the NCAA tournament all four years you were there—”
“I know my bio, Michelle,” Sonya interrupted. “What's your point?”
“You're not only beautiful—you're actually interesting, unlike a lot of the beautiful people on TV. If I were the average American couch potato, I'd want to get to know you better.”
“
I
am a couch potato.”
And loving every lazy minute of it.
“Couch potatoes are not interested in the lives of other couch potatoes.”
If there were a market for it, it would already be on TV.
“Sonya, you are the ultimate role model for black women. TV needs you.”
TV needs me about as much as I need TV. Wait a minute. I need TV, mainly to help me sleep. Does that mean TV needs
me
to help other people sleep?
“Michelle, please listen,” Sonya said. “I am not a role model. I played ball. I earned my living playing with a ball. That doesn't make me—”
“You're a role model,” Michelle interrupted. “Little girls looked up to you.”
Right. I'm too short for them to look up to me.
“And I'm forty. Those shows are for much younger women. I don't have a chance of being a Nubian princess.”
Who thinks up that noise anyway? Nubian princess? Why not Nubian
queen
? TV is always downgrading black women.
“Forty is the new twenty.”
“Not to a twenty-year-old,” Sonya said.
Or to a forty-year-old with a reluctant knee, elbows that pop for no reason, and toes that rarely warm up.
“You could be glamorous, you know.”
“My glamorous days are over.”
Not that I had any in the first place. When they put makeup on me for those WNBA calendars, I felt like a clown.
“Don't they have an age limit for shows like that?”
“You just made the cutoff.”
How nice.
“Thank you for thinking of me, really, but no thanks.”
“Um, I already sent in a few of your old headshots and your bio.”
Sonya shot off the couch. “What?”
“And the producers are
very
interested in what they've seen. They want to meet with you soon. As in, as soon as you can get to LA. That kind of soon.”
The witch!
“You already signed me up?”
“It's what I do, right? And I didn't exactly sign you up. I just sent a few pictures and your bio. No harm in that.”
“Michelle, you haven't really been my publicist for the last five years,” Sonya said. She turned on her TV and tuned it to The Food Channel, muting the sound. “And Michelle, those headshots have to be at least ten years old.”
“They're actually fifteen years old.”
Geez, I was still a kid!
“But that's not how I look now. You're misrepresenting me.”
She's
still
misrepresenting me. She tried to paint me as some “bad girl from Jersey” back in the day to increase my salary, as if being “fierce” would put more people in the seats. No one bought that mess. Nike wouldn't have signed me to represent their shoes if I were a “bad girl” from anywhere.
“I'll bet you haven't aged a day.”
I have aged
many
days, and a few more during this conversation
. “Michelle, I have several body parts heading south, I have wrinkles, my evil knee cracks—”
“And all of that can be fixed or hidden,” Michelle interrupted. “They are
really
interested in you, Sonya. They are willing to pay you a lot of money to take the role.”
The what?
“The role? I'm playing myself, right? How is that a role?”
“You know what I mean. You'll be playing the role of the woman in waiting, the role of the damsel in the castle waiting for her knight in shining armor, the role of—”
“The desperate middle-aged woman afraid of dying alone,” Sonya interrupted.
Ouch. That hurt to say. It must be somewhat true if it hurts me like that.
“It's funny you should mention desperate, Sonya. The producers actually sounded desperate when I talked to them.”
“So let them remain desperate. I'm not desperate.”
“You're a beautiful woman alone on a Friday night.”
“And I'll be a beautiful woman alone on a Saturday night, too.”
And on Sundays and Wednesdays, I'll be a beautiful woman getting my prayer and praise on in church.
“I like my life, Michelle. I like quiet. I didn't know how necessary quiet was to me until I had some quiet. Silence is indeed golden. You know I didn't like all that noise and hype. I never liked doing post-game interviews or have any microphones jammed into my face or cameras following my every twitch. And now you want me to go on TV for what, months? That's not me at all. You
know
this.”
“Well, um, I already told them that you were interested in doing this show.”
Sonya snapped off the TV. She had already seen the host of
Man v. Food
eat the five-pound burrito. “You told them I was interested before you even tried to get
me
interested?”
“Well, if they weren't interested in you being interested, I wouldn't have called you to check on whether you were interested or not.”
Her logic still escapes me.
“So what if they're really interested.
I'm
not interested.”
“But, Sonya, the money is ridiculous, more than your first year's salary for the Comets.”
“I told you. I'm not hurting for money.”
Because I'm not hurting for common sense and I actually learned something from my business administration classes at the University of Houston. I lived like a nun for ten years in the league before splurging on this house and the Maxima outside. The interest from the money I earned and invested wisely during my playing days keeps me living comfortably.
“I told them you'd consider twice that,” Michelle said.
“What?”
“And they said fine. They said fine, Sonya. See what I said about desperate?”
And this makes me feel . . . less homely for some reason
.
They're willing to pay old me double.
“They doubled the money?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Whoa. They are seriously desperate. Who can afford to throw that kind of money around these days?
“At least think about it,” Michelle said.
“Oh, I'll think about it.”
For about a minute. This is not gonna happen.
“It could be fun, Sonya.”
“It could be stupid, Michelle.”
“Not with intelligent you as the star.”
“I don't want to be a star.”
I was the point guard, the player who made everyone
else
look good.
“I'm middle-aged now. I'm past my need for attention.”
Okay, who am I kidding? I would love to have the attention of a good man, but not the smothering kind of attention. The remote belongs to me. This couch belongs to me. My space belongs to me. But to have twelve men pawing at me? At the same time? I'd have a football team
and
the coach after me.
“Do this for us, Sonya. Do this for all us thirty- and forty-something sisters who don't have hot men or any men in their lives for that matter. Be our shining example in these dark times. Be our Nubian princess.”
“Michelle, you're tripping.”
“It's part of my job description.”
Sonya laughed. “I am
not
saying I'll do this, but if I did, how long would this show last exactly?”
“You're thinking about doing it?”
“I said
if
I did.”
“The show will last for approximately six months to a year.”
Geez
.
Movies don't take that long to film.
“I don't know. Those guys will be so young.”
“You don't look your age at all, Sonya. And that could be the big secret they reveal at the end. That's how these shows work, you know. Our Nubian princess has been hiding something from you hunky punks. She's actually old enough to be your mama!”

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