Satin Nights Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Karen E. Quinones Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Warner Books and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Warner, Inc. or an affiliated company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group, which is not affiliated with Time Warner, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: August 2006

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-6792-4

  Contents

  dedication

  acknowledgments

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  about the author

  Maferefun Olodumare

  Maferefun Egun

  Maferefun Oshun

  Maferefun bobo Orisha

  I lovingly dedicate this book to both my spiritual and physical family.

  acknowledgments

  Satin Nights was the toughest book I’ve had to write, not because the material or content was difficult, but because I was diagnosed with a brain tumor in the middle of the writing—which, of course, meant I had to have brain surgery. Needless to say, I turned this book in late.

  I want to give a very sincere and appreciative shout-out to my editor, Beth de Guzman of Warner Books, who often called me during my illness and recuperation period—never to ask me when I was going to get the book in to her, but to make sure that I was okay and to let me know that she was there for me in whatever way I needed her. Beth, I’m so glad we’re working together, and I hope we have an everlasting relationship.

  My agent, Liza Dawson of Liza Dawson Associates, proved that she isn’t only a super agent, but a super angel. What other agent would not only travel two hours to visit me in the hospital, but also make another trip to babysit me while I was recuperating. Liza, I truly love you!

  Of course, I want to thank Dr. Kenneth Judy and the wonderful staff at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, because if they hadn’t done their thing, there would be no book because there would have been no more me.

  I would like to give special thanks to Dr. Andrew Quint, the only medical practitioner who seemed to care that my medical problems were not only affecting me physically, but also mentally and emotionally, and preventing me from doing what I care about most—writing. His understanding and compassion were essential to my recovery.

  My brother Joseph T. Quinones and my new sister-in-law Ayoka Wiles were there with me every step of the way, lying and telling me I looked beautiful when I knew I looked like hell, and catering to my every whim. May the Orisas bless the two of you always.

  I have to give thanks to Baba Facundo and his wife, Valerie, who marked the spiritual ebos and cleanings I needed to ensure a full recovery.

  I also need to thank all of the members of the Eveningstar Writers Group, who showed their support in a million different ways. And especially to Bahiya Cabral-Johnson and Sherlane Freeman, who sat with me for hours and helped outline this book when I was still too unfocused to do it myself.

  And, of course, I want to thank all of my readers who found out about my little medical trauma and sent their love and well wishes.

  But my biggest and loudest shout-out has to go to my daughter, Camille. My poor baby was in the middle of preparing for her senior prom and high-school graduation, and filling out college applications, when I was diagnosed, and she put everything on hold to make sure I was okay. She never once complained, and never let me see her cry. She was, is, and will always be my biggest source of inspiration. I love you, Love Girl, and I’m proud to be your mother. Thanks for being my daughter.

  prologue

  1991

  So you going to miss me?”

  Sixteen-year-old Regina Harris turned her head to stare out the window so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. She nodded her head. “Yeah,” she said in as cool a voice as she could muster. “But I still don’t see why you have to go.”

  Little Joe sat up in the bed and gave an expansive stretch accompanied by a loud yawn. He scratched his bare chest and threw his legs over the side of the bed, scrunching his toes on the plush white carpet in the hotel suite.

  “Girl, you done wore me the fuck out. I’m too old be trying to keep up with a young-ass girl like you,” he said as he stood up and put on his black silk pajama pants. “You know I gotta go. I got no choice. You hungry? We can go over to Tavern on the Green before I take you home if you want.”

  Regina reached over and grabbed his arm before he could move away. “Yes, you do have a choice. You’re not in custody, and I don’t see why you have to turn yourself in to go to prison just because they say you do.”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Little Joe said as he sat down on the bed beside her. “Look at you, getting all worked up. I ain’t never seen you this sentimental and shit. Someone would think it’s you being sent the slammer ’stead of me. You need to—”

  “No, Little Joe.” Regina jumped up and knelt in front of him. “Please. I don’t want you to go. Please. Let’s just get on a plane and go somewhere. Me, you, and Ray-Ray. We can change our names and live in California, or South America, or anywhere they can’t find us.”

  “Aw, isn’t that sweet? You wanna run off together, huh?” Little Joe chuckled as he caressed her face.

  “Little Joe, please. You’re laughing, and I don’t see anything funny.” Regina didn’t bother to hide her sobs as she buried her head in Little Joe’s bare chest. “I don’t want you to go. And you don’t need to go. Please don’t leave me. I won’t know what to do without you.”

  “You’ll do what you’ve always done, Regina. You’ll survive,” Little Joe said gently as he rocked her back and forth and stroked her back.

  “No, I won’t,” Regina moaned. “Please, Little Joe. Let’s just get on a plane. Let’s just go.”

  “I can’t, baby. First off, they’ve already confiscated my passport.”

  “Can’t you get a fake one?”

  “Yeah, maybe, but I ain’t inclined. I’m going to beat this bum rap. My lawyer’s already working on an appeal, and he thinks he can get me sprung in like a year. Shit, I can do a year standing on my head. Ain’t like I ain’t never did no time before. And if I run now, I’m gonna be running the rest of my life, and I ain’t down for that shit. I got all my business handled already, so I can be outta the life and legit by the time I get sprung. Just live off the investments I’ve already made. Let me just do this, and I’ll be out before you even realize I’ve been in, okay?”

  “No.” Regina sobbed hysterically. “It’s not okay. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know you don’t, baby, but I’ll be okay, and you will, too,” Little Joe said as he continued to rock her back and forth. “And you’ll be the first person I’ll find when I get out. I promise.” He wiped some of the tears from her cheek and kissed he
r lips tenderly. “Now, stop all this crying before you make my dick hard again.”

  chapter one

  2005

  So you’re saying you don’t feel guilty?”

  “Nope. Not in the least.”

  “Okay, Puddin’, let me get this straight.” Regina put her elbows on the table in the snazzy Manhattan restaurant and cradled her face in her hands. “You mean to tell me that you hit a complete stranger with your car, in front of his three grandchildren, and you don’t even feel the slightest bit guilty?”

  “Why should I?” Puddin’ picked up a shrimp and lavishly dipped it in cocktail sauce. She took a large bite, then threw the tail back on the saucer. She licked her long tapered fingernails before continuing. “The car skidded on black ice. Even the police put that shit in their report. It wasn’t my fault, so why the fuck should I feel guilty? They better hurry with our meals, I’m about through with these little-ass shrimps.”

  “Oh my God!” Regina banged her fists on the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. “Forget about the shrimp! You should feel guilty because you killed a man!”

  Puddin’ shrugged and said with a half-smile, “No, I didn’t. The car slid on ice, then slid into him. I ain’t had nothing to do with it, except I was there. It was an act of God. Blame it on Him.” She dipped another shrimp in the cocktail sauce, and this time popped the whole thing in her mouth.

  “But it was a sixty-five-year-old man. And his grandchildren were right there!” Regina said. She knew Puddin’ was callous—hell, everybody knew that—but this was just a bit too much.

  “Oh please! Will you just stop?” Puddin’ sucked her teeth and waved her hand in the air. “For all you know, the man was a pervert and molesting those kids.”

  “What? How can you say that?” Regina sputtered. “You knew him? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “No, I ain’t know him.” Puddin’ shrugged. “But I’m just saying, you’re making like it was worse ’cause he’s a granddaddy, but what if he was fucking them kids? You wouldn’t be trying to make me feel bad then.”

  “Puddin’, come on, girl!” Regina cocked her head to the side and studied her friend of twenty years. “You don’t have anything to base that on. You don’t know that he was a pervert.”

  “And you don’t know that he wasn’t. So let’s drop it.” Puddin’ looked around for the waiter and snapped her fingers to get his attention. When he ignored her, she shouted, “Hey! I know you saw me!”

  “You know you just . . .” Regina’s face tightened as she glared at Puddin’. “You just . . .” She suddenly sighed, unclenched her fists, and leaned back in her chair. “You’re right. Fine. Let’s just drop it.” She pulled her shoulder-length hair up into a ponytail, then released it, letting it fall around her oval-shaped face. I should be home at my computer writing that article for Essence, she thought, glancing out the window, or calling up sources for the New York Times story that’s due next week, or putting the finishing touches on Camille’s birthday party next week. She smiled at the thought of her daughter, who was about to turn four. Her smile turned to a grimace as she looked at Puddin’, who swilled the last of her drink. But no, instead I’m here wasting my time talking to Puddin’, who doesn’t have a care in the world and doesn’t even know the meaning of the word “responsibility.”

  Puddin’s mouth curled as she looked up at the waiter, who had finally sauntered over to the table. “Oh, you finally decided to bring your ass over here, huh?”

  “Did you need something else, ma’am?” he asked in a heavy Jamaican accent.

  “Yeah,” Puddin’ snapped. “I need you to be hovering over this table like you hovering over those white folks’ table.” She lifted her butt up slightly and pulled a credit card out of the back pocket of her skintight jeans. “See this? The bitch is a Platinum American Express, got that? Like the Reverend Jesse Jackson said, I am some-fucking-body, okay?” She threw it on the table. “Now, maybe you think you should be bowing and kowtowing elsewhere, but as long as I got my little platinum bitch here”—she tapped on the credit card—“you better act like you know. Now, take your ass to the kitchen and find out why our food is taking so long.”

  The waiter gave her a nonchalant nod and started walking away.

  “Hold up.” Puddin’ snapped her fingers, and the waiter obediently turned back around, his eyes saying he wanted to kill her. “Bring me another apple martini. You want another one, Gina?”

  Regina shook her head.

  “Bring her another one just in case,” Puddin’ said to the waiter, who was tapping his foot impatiently. “And do me a favor? Put some fucking glide into your stride. This is supposed to be a high-class place. I don’t appreciate having to wait forever for my shit.”

  Regina waited until the man shot Puddin’ a dirty look and hurried off before reaching for the credit card still lying on the table. But Puddin’ was too fast and snatched it up.

  “Mind your business,” she said as she slid it back into her pocket.

  “Puddin’, whose card is that?” Regina said in a loud whisper.

  “What I just say? Mind your damn business.” Puddin’ grinned, and took a bite of the last shrimp.

  “Yeah, all right. But I’m telling you right now, I’m leaving before you pay the bill, ’cause I don’t plan on getting caught up in your shit.” Regina gave a little chuckle. “That’s if you haven’t gotten our asses thrown outta here already, breaking on that guy like that.”

  Puddin’ let out a loud laugh. “Wouldn’t be like you ain’t get me thrown out a fancy restaurant before. I ain’t never forget the time you and Yvonne was—”

  “She and Yvonne was what?” a young red-haired woman wearing a mint-green Liz Claiborne business suit asked as she sat down in the chair next to Puddin’.

  “Oh, you finally decided to drag your ass in, Yvonne? Twenty minutes late.” Puddin’ rolled her eyes. “Heifer.”

  “I love you, too,” Yvonne said lightly as she placed her clutch bag on the table. “Hey, Gina. You look nice. I like that color on you.”

  Regina smiled and shook her head. Here she was wearing a black leotard top and black jeans, and Yvonne was saying she looked nice. That’s Yvonne, giving compliments to get some in return. Regina considered saying nothing, but then decided, What the hell.

  “Thanks, sweetie, but look at you! I love that suit,” Regina said graciously.

  “Oh, this old thing?” Yvonne waved her hand in the air. “I’ve had this for—”

  “Oh fuck, will you give us a break?” Puddin’ snorted. “Don’t try that shit, saying you had it forever. The fucking price tag is still on your sleeve. Fucking show-off.”

  Yvonne jerked her hands off the table and looked at her cuffs, then glared at Puddin’. “You ain’t shit, Puddin’. I don’t have any damn price tags. And lower your damn voice before they throw your ass out for disturbing the peace.”

  “Now, see,” Puddin’ said with a giggle, “that’s just what I was talking about when you sashayed your yellow ass in here. Remember the time you and Regina got us all thrown out of a restaurant because y’all were fighting in the bathroom?”

  “It was just a little argument,” Regina broke in.

  “And blown totally out of proportion. Anyway, that’s ancient history,” Yvonne said dismissively as she picked up a napkin from the table and placed it on her lap. “Although,” she said with a slow smile, “if we did fight, I woulda kicked Regina’s ass.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Regina said with a grin. “You’ve never had a fight in your life. I was the one who always had to fight for you when we were kids.”

  “Well, didn’t either one of us fight as much as hot-tempered Puddin’ over here,” Yvonne said with a laugh. “She fought every day when we were back in school.”

  “Yeah.” Regina nodded. “Sometimes twice a day.” In fact, right after they met, she and Puddin’ fought three fights in two days—one the day they met and two the day after—because Puddin’ pushed in fr
ont of her while she was waiting in line to jump double Dutch. Regina wound up with a black eye and bloodied nose, but she came back after Puddin’ the next day, and they fought twice more. It was only after Yvonne managed to broker a peace between them that they all became friends, but mostly because Puddin’ was tired of Regina coming after her.

  “Yeah, Puddin’ was a terror.”

  “Well, finally,” Puddin’ said to the waiter, who was placing her drink in front of her. “Took you long enough.”

  “The food will be right out, ma’am,” the waiter said, addressing Regina. “I trust the martini is to your taste?”

  “Now, see, why you ain’t ask me that?” Puddin’ snapped. “I’m the one paying, and I’m also the one who ain’t tipping your ass.”

  “Yvonne, we already ordered. Do you want something?” Regina asked, ignoring Puddin’, as the waiter also seemed to be doing.

  “No, I’m fine. I can use a cosmopolitan, though.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The waiter gave Yvonne a slight bow and headed off.

  “And bring me another one, too,” Puddin’ shouted to his back. “Now, y’all seen that shit, right?” she said with a chuckle. “I tell you I don’t get no fucking respect. I’m like the black Rodney Dangerfield or something.”

  Drama, drama, drama, Regina thought as she took a sip of her martini. But that was to be expected whenever they got together with Puddin’. The girl prided herself on “keeping it real,” and she did, although reality for Puddin’ often turned into a nightmare for everyone else. But still, Puddin’ had her good points. Great points, actually. If you were ever in trouble, Puddin’ would be the first one by your side, to either throw a punch on your behalf or drag you to a quick getaway.

  And Yvonne was a good friend, too, Regina thought as she glanced over at the woman. Her best friend, in fact. True, they had their ups and downs, but there were a lot more ups than downs. She was the one who Regina could talk to when she felt she couldn’t talk to anyone else. The only one she could cry to. Who welcomed her into her own family after Regina’s mother died when Regina was thirteen. Yvonne could be a real bitch sometimes, but she could also be a saint.