Stripped Bare E-Book

Jamila Jasper

• Herausgeber: Publisher s23991
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

African-American business woman Samara "Sugar" Wilson isn't looking for love.The sexy, muscular and mysterious Storm Jarvis isn't looking either.The results of an explosive night of passion force them to deal with each other far longer than they're willing.They can't ignore the tension between them even if they try... After getting naughty all over New York, Storm is forced to accept that he wants to claim Sugar as his and his alone.Will their fear of commitment get in the way of them realizing they're fated to be bonded for life? This interracial pregnancy romance is so deliciously hot it will melt your device. Reader discretion advised for this sexy, smutty story about an African-American woman and the white man she falls in love with.

Leseprobe

Copyright

Copyright © 2017 Jamila Jasper Romance

All rights reserved.

www.jamilajasperromance.com

Dedication

To all my friends carrying dark secrets and difficult pasts. This is a reminder that you too deserve undying love. -- J.

PROLOGUE

Samara

Samara had been waiting out in the cold for Sticky for over thirty minutes. He’d promised her that he’d pick her up and of course, he was late. Samara wasn’t even sure he was going to show. Samara needed him to take her to the club so she could have a chance to get changed before work without being late. If she was late again, they’d give someone else her slot. She wouldn’t get out of the club ‘till five in the morning and then there would be even more problems.

Her mama needed the money badly and Samara was desperate.

Samara’s Baby Phat jacket barely protected her from the chill. The jacket was a few years old and tattered. The colors on the jacket had all but faded and Samara knew she’d need a new one soon. More money she had to come up with. She could ask an aunty, but all her aunties were sick of her mama and her drama. They weren’t too interested in making Samara their permanent charity case.

Samara was embarrassed about her clothes. She hated feeling like a pariah or a “broke bitch” as some of the mean girls called her. All the kids at school who made fun of her for what she was wearing would never guess how much money she could make in a given night. They would all make fun of her for her cheap jacket, her off-brand shoes, her off-brand back pack and of course, her grades. None of them knew the real Samara.

If your grades were too good, you were a nerd or “trying to be white”. If your grades were too bad, everyone made fun of you for being “dumb”. Samara wasn’t sure if she was dumb or not. But she did know she’d get far more time to study if she wasn’t working until 3 in the morning on school nights. Sticky kept trying to get her to quit school and work full time but Samara wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Plus, Samara had an idea of what kind of work Sticky had for her that would involve working “full time”. She might make the money she needed to keep a roof over her head and to feed her mama, but then what prospects would her life have for her? Samara knew that she’d already gone pretty far off the wagon. If her grades slipped any more, she’d be forced to drop out, whether she liked it or not.

Sticky keeping her out there in the cold like this wasn’t exactly increasing her faith in his ability to make her the kind of cash he’d promised. Sticky told her that some of his other girls that he’d made work full time had made $10,000 a day. If she had that kind of money, she could do this for a month and then leave the city with her mama, maybe get her some help.

Finally, Samara saw his familiar black Escalade pull up. Samara looked left and right before getting into the car. She didn’t want anyone from her school to see what she was doing. If rumors started about her being a hoe or something, Samara didn’t think she’d be able to remain in school a minute longer. If anyone found anything close to proof of these rumors, then Samara would be out on her ass faster than she could beg for mercy.

Samara at least wanted to finish high school. That was her one goal. She knew without high school, she’d be in a rough place — well, an even rougher place, that would be almost impossible to climb out of.

“You kept me waiting,” Sugar said with a pout as she sat in the leather passenger seat.

“Shut the hell up,” Sticky replied.

Samara pouted and looked out the window as they drove. She could tell that he was in a bad mood and she didn’t want to push him too far.

“Listen, don’t get all pouty on me. You ain’t late, are you?”

​“No. I ain’t late,” Samara mumbled.

“Good. Now stop complaining. How was school?”

“Fine.”

“You fuckin’ any of these young niggas?”

Samara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hated when Sticky asked her questions like this. He was always probing, trying to see if she had a boyfriend or anything. Like she had the time. Samara barely had time to get a good night’s sleep. What would she be doing with a boyfriend anyways? She was sixteen years old and she wouldn’t want any boy from school to know that this was what she spent her time doing.

“No.”

Sticky grinned, “I can’t wait to get my hands on you… You all prissy now but I’ll turn you out.”

​“Stop.”

“Don’t be a little bitch Samara. You built for fuckin’. Don’t waste what you got on fuckin’ these young niggas for free. You can always get paid for that slit between your legs.”

Samara felt nauseous. She couldn’t wait for Sticky to stop this talk and just get her to the club. A part of her wanted to just duck out of the car and run for her life. But then what would happen? Who would pay their rent? Who would feed her? Samara’s fear of being homeless superseded her fear of Sticky’s dirty talk.

“I ain’t fuckin’ nobody.”

Sticky laughed.

“We’ll see. You already a hoe whether you like it or not.”

She looked over at Sticky with disdain all over her face. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Samara was starting to get scared that Sticky was actually getting turned on by her looks of disgust and disdain. He was fifteen years older than her — thirty-one — and Samara felt lucky that he hadn’t put his hands on her yet. He’d always threatened it, but somehow, she’d always managed to get his mercy. She didn’t know how long that would last.

His car pulled up at the back entrance of the club.

“Remember, that pussy is mine. If I find out you selling pussy and cheating out of what’s mine… I’ll kill you.”

Samara didn’t reply and she opened the car door. Sticky’s hand jut out faster than she could react. He gripped her arm so tightly that Samara thought her arm would break. Her heart raced and she looked in Sticky’s eyes. Today, he wouldn’t be merciful if she caught an attitude.

“Kill the attitude Samara or I’ll fuck you right here and there won’t be a damned thing you can do about it.”

“Just let me go. I’ll be good.”

Sticky smiled, “Just so long as we’re clear. You’re my girl. You're mine.”

Samara nodded nervously and Sticky relaxed his death grip on her arm. Samara pulled her arm away from him. She didn’t know what had come over him but his possessiveness was on another level. Samara feared Sticky’s control of her would be her end. Some of her friends at the club had warned Samara about Sticky.

But what could she do? Short of running away from him, she was stuck with Sticky. Stuck at least until she could find a better way to make all the money she needed without quitting school.

“I’ll be in the club tonight making sure you behave.”​

She nodded and hopped out of the car back into the cold. Samara entered the back entrance of the club where the other girls were waiting.

“Angel tits!” Samara heard as she entered the club.

“Hey,” She smiled weakly.

A large breasted nineteen year old girl wrapped her in a big hug. That was Sugar Brown. Samara wasn’t convinced that was her real name, but Sugar Brown was the closest thing she had to a real mother. Sugar had a heavy, heavy Queens accent and a serious gutter mouth. Samara knew that Sugar was exactly who she didn’t want to become.

Sugar had taught her how to dance and she’d taught her how to avoid angering Sticky so much that he stuck his thing in her. Sugar taught Samara everything that she needed to know in this world. But Sugar was just like the other girls Samara danced with. She was stuck. She was stuck in a world that condemned her for being in a bad situation. She was stuck in a world where men had used and abused her for so long, she thought the only thing she could do was accept it.

“How you doing?”

“Made Sticky mad. I think he bruised up my whole arm.”

“Lemme see.”

Samara removed her tattered jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of her oversized black sweater. Sure enough, there was a dark purple bruises forming on her medium brown skin.

“Shit! He did that to you? What did you do?”

Samara shrugged, “Gave him attitude.”

“He better watch himself.”

“Or what?” Samara retorted, “He owns me. At this rate, I’ll always be his.”

“Don’t say that,” Sugar said, clicking her teeth.

​“Listen girl, you’ll get out of this. I know you will.”

“And what about you? Are you going to get out?” Samara snapped.

She knew she was taking out her rage on Sugar unnecessarily. Sugar had been in this business since she was fourteen years old. The legality of such things wasn’t really an issue in the era where fake IDs were almost easier to obtain than real ones, especially if you knew where to look.

Sugar always talked about getting out but always found some reason to stay. If the talk Samara had heard was true, she’d also started doing “other things” on the side to make a little extra cash. Some girls got in so deep that they could never give up the money for the sake of an everyday job, no matter how badly they claimed that they wanted to.

When Samara looked at Sugar, she was convinced that she was looking at her future. It was grim. But at this point, she had to do everything in her power to take care of her mama and put a roof over her head. Forget about the future, Samara had bills to pay now.

“Just get dressed girl,” Sugar replied, sort of sadly.

Samara felt bad that she’d snapped at her. She couldn’t help those outbursts of anger sometimes. While some lauded how “mature” Samara was for her age, that maturity had come at the cost of a normal childhood. This wasn’t where she belonged, Samara could feel it. No matter how hard Sugar, or any of the other girls tried to make her feel like this was her home, Samara knew she couldn’t live this life forever.

She undressed and changed into a tiny thong. She stuck golden stars over her chocolate brown nipples and then slipped into the heels she kept in her locker. The heels brought Samara up to almost six feet tall. It had taken her a long time to get used to dancing in them.

“Let me do your makeup girl,” Sugar offered.

Samara sat down on the makeup stool, letting Sugar plaster eyeshadow and fake lashes over her. Then, Sugar took a long chocolate brown wig and helped fasten it to Samara’s head. She hardly looked like herself. In a few short moments, Samara had transformed from a teenage girl into something sexy and sensual. She became something that men would pay money to touch and to possess.

“Perfect,” Sugar whispered as she admired her handiwork on Samara’s face.

Samara was ready to go out on stage in front of men who probably thought she was eighteen. Or maybe they just didn’t care how old she was. Samara wasn’t sure. She just knew that she was in for a long night of swatting away hands that tried to roam between her thighs and take more than they paid for. Lap dance, lap dance, lap dance, and then head home with enough cash to get her mama a doctor’s visit. Her mama had stopped paying for insurance a while ago which made the cost of healthcare astronomical.

When Samara walked onto the stage in her heels she heard the whoops from the crowd. Time to get out of her head and detach herself from this unreality. Samara closed her eyes for a moment and when she reopened them she became “Angel Tits”, the sexy eighteen year old stripper with a 26-inch waist and massive breasts. She became an object for consumption, an item that men could use at their own whim.

In the audience, Sticky watched her. Samara couldn’t see him, but he was always there, always watching her move. She could feel his presence in any room she entered. Samara was a fresh prize to him. She was a young girl who had been relatively easy to turn.

She was smart enough to want money but dumb and naïve enough that Sticky just had to bend the truth a few times to get her to this point. He was proud of having broken her and he fully intended to keep her stuck in this position until she’d stopped being useful to him. As far as Sticky was concerned, Samara had even further to go.

At sixteen years old, Sticky imagined that he could still get a lot of work out of Samara if he wanted to. He’d already turned her on to stripping but there were more profitable things she could do for cash. When Samara made profits, he made profits too. Sticky had all the leverage against her that he needed now. When he’d first met Samara, she’d lied about her last name and why she was doing this but Sticky had his ways of finding out the truth.

Now that Sticky knew everything Samara had been clever enough to hide, he felt like he owned her. No matter where she ran, he’d always be able to find her. A sixteen year old girl didn’t have that far to go in the city.

Sticky had discovered that Samara had a mother in her mid-thirties who hit the bottle every night. She was a legend in Samara’s part of town for appearing passed out on her driveway, for losing jobs and for sending her young child out to buy packets of smokes. That explained why the girl was so desperate for cash. Her mother was her dependent rather than her caretaker. She wouldn’t want anything to happen to her mother.

Sticky had stored that little fact away and feigned ignorance. He’d use it when he needed it most…

Sticky didn’t suspect that Samara would act out of place soon, but in case she did, he wanted to be ready to respond in kind. Sticky considered himself a principled man: he believed his wards should be honest, they should be loyal, just like he was to them. He’d saved Samara from homelessness. If you weren’t willing to dance to make the money you needed, were you even worth a shit?

As he stood in the crowd watching Samara, an old friend of his approached.

“Sticky, what’s up man,” The man said, dapping Sticky up.

“Nothin’ much. Need a light?”

Sticky lit up Marvin’s thick cigar and the man puffed a few times before continuing his conversation.

“I’m lookin’ for a new girl, Sticky,” Marvin started, “The ones you brought to me last week… They were great… But they were getting on the old side.”

Marvin was one of those creeps who was deeply entrenched in the dark underbelly of Queens. Marvin owned an apartment complex in the borough — which he’d bought with dirty money — and he sold drugs to some of his tenants just so he could have them under his total control. Most of them were younger women and Marvin did unspeakable things to them.

Sticky knew a guy like Marvin was a total scumbag. He was worse than the worst of them. But Marvin had friends in important places and more importantly, he could bring Sticky fresh clients that he could pimp his girls out to.

He often bragged about having twenty kids — which was a bigger life achievement to him than owning a whole building. Sticky didn’t get it. Why not have your fun without the baggage of kids and baby mamas?

“Well…” Sticky replied, eyeing Samara on stage, “I think I have someone who you’ll really enjoy. But she ain’t broken yet.”

Marvin grinned, “Maybe I’ll be the one to break her.”​

“Not yet… I’ve got to arrange with her. Work on her a bit. She’s stubborn…”

Sticky continued to watch the underage girl as she awkwardly shook her butt and twirled her hips on stage. He licked his lips as he watched her. He’d been waiting for a while before letting Samara have it. He knew she would resist him at first but eventually, she’d open her legs for him and become the woman he wanted. She had nothing — she couldn’t be that hard to break. Her mother didn’t give a damn about her and her daddy was in jail.

As far as Sticky was concerned, Samara was easy pickings. After her night of work, Sugar gave Samara a little something to help her along. Samara didn’t know what was in these pills but she knew they gave her enough juice to keep her going all night. She got into the car with Sticky. Tonight, he was looking at her all funny. When Sticky looked at her like that, Samara always got scared. Really scared. She knew that it wouldn’t be long before he tried something. When he did, Samara knew she’d have to run away.

“How much money did you make?”

Samara mumbled something under her breath.

“What?!” Sticky huffed, “Bitch, speak up.”

She wanted to lie to him, but she knew that if she got caught she’d be in far more trouble than she could handle.

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Give me four.”

“What?!” Samara protested.

“Give me the fuckin’ money before I give you what’s coming to you.”

Samara noticed that Sticky had started taking a bigger and bigger cut from her money. She was getting worried that this arrangement would no longer be profitable to her and she’d be no better than Sticky’s slave. Samara was quick on her feet, but not quick enough to get out of this particular bind.

Still, now wasn’t the time to protest. Sticky was in a bad mood and he wouldn’t let her get away with anything. The bruises that were forming on her arm from earlier that night proved it.

Samara reached into her bag and pulled out eight hundred dollars in twenties, fives and ones. She counted out four hundred dollars as Sticky drove and then when she was finished, she counted it again. He always wanted his money counted twice. Sticky was the most paranoid person that Samara had ever known. For all he spoke about “trust”, he sure didn’t trust her not to cheat him out of his cut.

“Stick it in here,” He muttered, gesturing to a compartment of the car.

“Wanna make more money Samara?”

“Yes…” Samara replied.

She could make more money if Sticky stopped peeling so damned much off the top. But she doubted that he would really hear that side of the story.

“Girls who make lots of money work hard.”​

“I do work hard.”

Sticky laughed.

“So now shaking your ass on stage is hard?”

He laughed again, this time even louder. Samara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She knew that Sticky wasn’t driving her home but she was too worried to ask him where he was taking her. When she stopped recognizing the neighborhood around her, she got worried.

“Fine then, what do you suggest? I could get a job at Popeye’s and quit all this bullshit.”

“Don’t mess around Samara.”

The dark skinned teenager pouted. She had a feeling that Sticky had something else up his sleeve but she didn’t want to even entertain the notion. Not even a little bit.

“Girls with a lot of money do things for men. Men give them money. How does that sound to you.”

“What kind of things?”​

“You’re a twisted little bitch, aren’t you? You know what they do. Hanging ‘round all them hoes all day… You know what the hell I’m talking about.”

“Well I’m not doing that,” Samara said.

Sticky laughed.

“Oh yeah?”​

“I told you. I’m not doing that and I’m never going to be doing that.”

“You say that now.”​

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samara snapped.

“You might not have a choice Samara. I have some buyers that would be very very interested in a girl like you.”

“I ain’t eighteen.”

“So?”

Samara looked outside again, hoping to garner some clue about where she was. Still, she knew asking Sticky could end her up with a strong backhand across the face. Samara was tired and far too woozy to stand up to Sticky’s backhand tonight.

“I just want you to lie there and take it. Is that too much ask? Is that too much work for you?”

“I SAID that I ain’t doing that!” Samara yelled.

Sticky pulled over to the side of the road and looked her in the eye with a mixture of malice and vile contempt.

“Listen,” He said, “You ain’t gotta choice Samara. See that house up there?”

He gestured up the street.

“In that house, there are ten men waiting to have a taste of you. They each paid me $200. Do the math. You could make an extra $1600 tonight. That’s how many months of rent? All you have to do is lie there…”

Samara’s eyes widened and she could feel her body starting to shake. She finally understood where Sticky had taken her and as she began to understand, her heart started racing and adrenaline pounded through her veins.

“All I have to do is lie there?”

Sticky nodded. Samara knew she’d have to play this carefully. She got out of the car with backpack in hand. Sticky followed.

“Which way is the house?”​

“Up that way,” Sticky said, pointing up the street.

Samara watched where his finger was pointing and then she turned around and ran in the opposite direction. Samara’s feet hit the pavement with all the force of the adrenaline that had been boiling in her veins. She had no clue where she was, or where she was going but she knew that she had to get out of there as fast as possible.

Sticky might have been fast, but he wasn’t as fast as she was and he certainly wasn’t in any shape to be chasing after a teenage girl who was running for her life. Samara kept running and running, turning down the quietest street corners until she came to a dead end off the main road. She waited for five minutes to see if Sticky would pull his car around and find her. Then ten minutes. Then fifteen minutes.

Samara waited for a full hour. She knew the sun would come up soon and if she wanted to make it to school, she’d have to figure out where she was and how to get back to her part of town. Samara got up from her crouched position on the ground. She was cold… freezing cold. She could hardly move her limbs.

She pulled her hat down further over her ears and started to walk towards the main road. She was still scared that Sticky would find her. She knew that she could never see him again. She knew that she’d be running for a while. If he ever found her after she ran away, Samara knew she’d be in deep deep trouble.

Once she hit the main road, Samara started walking, looking for signs of where she was. The city bus ran here, so she could tell that she was still in Queens. The sun had just barely punctured the horizon. She still could see no clue of where she was, even with more daylight. Samara had four hundred dollars but she was reluctant to spend all of it on bus fare. Her lips were parched. Samara’s body trembled in the cold. If only she was a bit warmer she could think…

Samara began to walk as fast as she could, weaving through the residential houses. As she approached a small, olive green duplex, Samara saw a middle aged woman making her way across her snowy driveway towards her mailbox. She looked kindly enough. Samara wondered if she could stop and ask for help…

“Excuse me! Good morning ma’am. Excuse me!”

In New York, you were lucky if you could get a stranger to say hello to you. Even in Queens, people just weren’t that warm or open. This time, Samara caught a lucky break. Samara knew she must have looked like hell. That must have been it. Either that, or this was just a tiny bit of good fortune that existed amidst a lifetime of pain and hurt.

“Good morning child. What’s going on. Are you with the church?”

The woman thought Samara was soliciting her for donations.

“No ma’am… I need some help… Please help me…” She managed to utter through her chattering teeth.

The woman looked weary but she didn’t run away. She put her hands on her hips and asked Samara another question.

“Are you alone?”​

Samara nodded. Hearing the words alone caused her to burst into tears. Her hot tears cut through the frigid cold skin on her face.

“Yes… Please help me ma’am. I’m lost.”​

The woman ran to meet Samara in the street and looked her up and down. Samara knew she looked like hell. Her lips were probably blue from the cold.

“How long you been outside child?”​

“Couple hours.”

“How old are you?”

Samara almost lied, blurting out eighteen. Somehow, with this older woman, she felt like she could be honest.

“Sixteen.”

“My Lord child! What on earth are you doing outside alone at this hour. Come inside. Come inside right now.”​

The woman took Samara’s hand and started leading her inside. At the touch of the woman’s warm palm, Samara’s fingers started to melt. She’d tried to keep her hands warm in her jacket throughout the night but it just hadn’t worked very well. The woman led her into her front door and Samara breathed a sigh of relief once the warm air washed over her.

“What’s your mama’s number?”

Samara shrugged, “They cut off the phone last week. She wouldn’t pick up anyways.”​

“Alright,” The woman replied with a sigh, “We’ll sort you out anyways. I’m Angela Snow. What’s your name.”​

“Samara.”

“Where you from?”​

“Jamaica.”

“Well we’re in Astoria now. Okay?”

Samara nodded.

“Listen, why don’t you head upstairs and take a nice hot shower. I’ve got some clothes you can wear. My daughter’s off at college… And then we’ll figure out how to get you home.”​

“Thanks.”​

“Hungry?” The woman asked.

Samara nodded. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. At least she didn’t feel drugged up anymore. If the woman thought she was a user, there would be no way in hell she would have let her into her house. Angela Snow led Samara upstairs and showed her a fresh towel, a clean wash rag and some soap she could use to get cleaned up.

Alone in the bathroom, Samara looked into the mirror to assess the damage. Her lips were turning blue and her skin looked ashy and desiccated. She turned the knob for the water and waited for it to start running hot. When Samara stuck her hand under the water to check the temperature, prickled energy ran up and down her arm. She stepped under the water and allowed it to wash over her completely.

This felt good. So good. Samara wouldn’t have normally wet her hair, but she couldn’t help it. She just wanted every inch of her body to feel the warm loving touch of the shower. Samara must have been in the shower for more than half an hour. She opened the door of the bathroom and saw that Angela had put together a warm outfit on a hanger she’d left on the door handle.

Samara pulled the clothes into the bathroom and got dressed. As she made her way downstairs, she could smell eggs, bacon and toast being prepared in the kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d had anything to eat for breakfast other than cream of wheat and bland tea.

“Thank you,” She mumbled to Angela as she dug into the breakfast.

“Now you say you live in Jamaica? I’ll drive you over there and when you see somewhere that looks familiar, you tell me to stop the car, okay?”

Samara nodded and she continued to munch away at her food. Everything was delicious. Samara had never had that much food in her life and it had never been so carefully prepared for her. She couldn’t remember a time when her mama had ever made bacon for her. She ate her sit-com breakfast and then Angela cleared it all away.

Everything about Angela was what Sugar aspired to be. She had a beautiful house. She could eat a big full breakfast every morning and she emanated that peaceful vibe that Samara had never known. Her mama was full of jitters, especially when she needed a drink. And Sticky was even more volatile than her mama. Samara had never known a peaceful home, a home without chaos.

Samara sat quietly, fidgeting. She had no idea what time it was but she knew she was going to be late to school. Her mama wouldn’t care but Samara knew she’d have to forge some kind of believable excuse which would take more effort than she wanted.

“Ready to head home girl?” Angela asked.

Samara nodded.

​“Yes please ma’am.”

“Are you sure your mama ain’t gonna be worried about you?”

Samara shook her head.

“No ma’am.”

“Alright. Listen now Samara. I’m going to give you my number and if you ever need me again, don’t be afraid to give me a call, alright? No young girl should have to be out here alone.”​

Angela led Samara to her car and Samara watched the street signs as they left Astoria and kept driving and driving towards Jamaica.