The Show goes on

The Show goes on

Status: Finished

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Romance

Summary

BOOK 8: Malaya is Hip Hop’s future First lady, set to take the world by storm. It hasn’t been an easy road to get where she is. She’s survived some things, been through some and done some. But now, she’s at the top of her game and there's only one problem. Her love for very married, rich and powerful Aiden, music executive and member of the Wolf Pack. He wants her. She wants him, after he’s visited the divorce court. In the meantime, what do they do with their burning passion?

Summary

BOOK 8: Malaya is Hip Hop’s future First lady, set to take the world by storm. It hasn’t been an easy road to get where she is. She’s survived some things, been through some and done some. But now, she’s at the top of her game and there's only one problem. Her love for very married, rich and powerful Aiden, music executive and member of the Wolf Pack. He wants her. She wants him, after he’s visited the divorce court. In the meantime, what do they do with their burning passion?

Chapter1 (v.1) - Chapter 1

Author Chapter Note

I got hacked recently and someone tried to run off into the sunset with my work. It threw me for a loop. I was devastated. But then, I realized something. The attempted theft was a compliment. If my work on the Side Chicks rule Series is worth stealing, it's worth publishing! So, I'm gonna do that.<br /> <br /> As a single black woman with a disabled son, every cent is required to stay off social welfare! I work hard! I enjoy it. But now, its time to put my business hat on before somebody else comes out of the woodwork and runs with what's mine!!<br /> <br /> I'd like to thank everyone who gives me props and builds me up on this site!!! I hope you keep supporting me in the future. Because I love entertaining you more than anything.<br /> <br /> Madeleine Mitton

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: August 24, 2018

Reads: 732

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: August 24, 2018

A A A

A A A

Now available on Smashwords! https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/909474

 

The Show goes On

 

Prologue

 

Five years previously.

 

Chris McClure’s bodyguard opened the door and ushered her into his house. The way Chris lived was how Malaya wanted to live when she made it big.

 

Whenever he wanted to see her, he sent a car, with a bodyguard. The first time was to watch him perform. Afterward, she joined him and his entourage for a night on the town. They went to an exclusive nightclub where they were treated like royalty. Then he took her to his place and they had sex until the next morning. It was the best fuck she’d ever had, considering.

 

The second time he sent the car, she came to his place where she met all these people in the music industry. She was excited. She told Livvie that she plugged her music as much as she could. No one had bitten yet. She had to be patient.

 

This was the third time he’d sent a car for her. She trusted Chris, that’s why she was here. She told him not so long ago that she never went to men’s houses for fear of something happening to her. A lot already had.

 

“I’ve learned you know,” she said to him when they were cuddling the second time she was with him. “To the world, I’m just a piece of meat. I have no family, no money and talent is a dime for ten dozen. I have to be smart about my business and protect myself. The last time I failed to do that, I almost got permanent damage.”

 

“What happened?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

 

“He sodomized me, by force, without any lube, and without my consent. It was my first time. It hurt like a mother. I thought I was going to die. He would’ve done it again if I hadn’t finally managed to push him away from me and run.”

 

She cried in his arms. This was the first time she was telling anyone besides Livvie. Being raped was a sign of weakness on the part of the victim in her world. It led to more rape. Girls like her, who’d been raped a few times, kept it quiet, to prevent any more harm.

 

When the last man raped her, she changed her whole life. She was no longer going to trust people nor meet them where they were at. She always asked for neutral ground and if sex had to happen, she insisted on a motel. That way, there would be people listening if she screamed. She also carried a knife in her boot for defensive purposes.

 

The boots worked for her. The flat heeled, black leather boots that went to her calves had become her signature. They helped with her image of a beautiful, strong, black, rebellious woman.

 

She blamed her beauty. It was the reason her foster parents had taken to molesting her or downright forcing her on her knees, with them humping away behind her.

 

Malaya was beautiful. She knew it from childhood. She was medium complected with a hue that gave her the smoothest and most luxurious complexion. Her skin looked extra soft and supple from miles away. On her oval-shaped face were deep black eyes and silky, long black hair, the kind black folk called “good hair.” A small patrician nose, that made people ask if she’d had surgery, thick lips that smiled readily no matter how unbearable life got, defined cheekbones, a gracefully long neck and an inborn grace that transcended the hard life she’d led.

 

Nice round breasts, good donkey booty, a small waistline and long elegant legs made her the perfect female, according to the world. Her five foot seven height added to her domination of the female species. She was noticed first.

 

When she was younger, she was taller than most kids her age. People convinced themselves that since she was tall, a sexpot as one foster mother said, she could take fingers, cocks and gadgets up her vagina.

 

It was when one foster parent smeared Vaseline on her anus and slammed into her that she decided she was done allowing people liberties with her body.

 

She gave up on the system and took her life into her own hands. She stumbled onto the streets of L.A. all the way from Des Moines. There was a lot people would do for a beautiful girl with a backpack and a guitar, that she’d incidentally taken from the man who used the Vaseline on her. It was payment for the pain. The guitar was state of the art, brand new and extremely expensive.  

 

At fifteen, she spent nights haunting twenty-four-hour malls and eating other’s people’s trash. She met a few more teenagers like herself and bit by bit, they taught her the ropes of surviving in the land of dreams.

 

Her singing and the brand new guitar came in handy. She was so glad she had a gift and could play an instrument. She’d taught herself how to play the guitar, through YouTube. She spent endless hours, hidden in the bedroom, practicing.

 

She took her talents and her beauty to a street corner and the coins started rolling in. Beauty was everything in tinsel town and she had it. She got more money than most because she was beautiful.

 

Livvie, her only friend on the streets, got offered a basement apartment by an older john. He was a regular client who wanted to do some good in the world. Or maybe it was to ease his conscience or his cock. Livvie nor Malaya cared. She said she would only move in if her friend could come. They moved into the basement.

 

That was where they still were. There was no point in making lateral moves. They had to move on up and one day, it was going to happen. Malaya was working on it.

 

She fudged her age, with the help of those in the know and began singing in nightclubs. It was a perilous business. Sometimes she wasn’t paid, even though money had been promised, but she gained an audience. The nightclubs got bigger and less dingy.

 

The club where she met Chris was one for the upper crust. She’d been performing there for a long time. It started with them calling her once a quarter, and now it was twice a week.  She did cover songs, nothing major, but it put her in the company of decision makers. That was what she needed, for someone with clout to be impressed by her whole package and take her on.

Chris McClure was the best thing that ever happened to her in this town. She liked him a lot. He saw through the physical to who she was. She connected with him on a human level.

 

She trusted Chris so much that she told him her story. She’d been raped many times and each time was worse than the other. But that last time had shown her that if she wasn’t careful, she’d die under a thrusting man. Her body would be thrown over some bridge and she would be a statistic, like the rest.

 

She felt safe with Chris.

 

“Chris’ upstairs,” his bodyguard told her. “Go on up.”

 

Eighteen-year-old Malaya stared at the bodyguard and wondered if she would have a bodyguard too one day.  She shook her head to clear silly dreams. She was a long way away from Chris McClure status. She wasn’t even an inch in his league.

 

He was a megastar. She was just a girl with a guitar and big dreams. Her act was simple. She sat on a stool, played her guitar and covered other people’s music. She was rhythm and blues with a whole lot of pop. Self-taught in every way, she was proud of what she’d achieved so far.

 

“Thanks,” she took the stairs to the upper floor. There was another living area that led to Chris’ bedroom. She followed the voices, all male, to it. For her own security, she counted the number of homeboys that were with Chris. They came up to eight. She refused alcohol and sat in a corner near the door, in case anything went down.

 

The men had been drinking for some time. She could see the lines of cocaine on the table as well. The smoke from marijuana almost blinded her. But that wasn’t it. There was something in the air she couldn’t define. The way they looked at her and talked to her, it screamed danger to her.

 

She stood up to leave.
 

“Bae, where are you going?” Chris asked.

 

“You seem busy. And it's late. I should go.” She’d barely been there for twenty minutes.

 

“No, no,” he said sweetly. “Let’s go into the bedroom and hang.”

 

Not with his friends in the house. She shook her head.

 

“I’m good,” she said.

 

“Why are being so cold all of a sudden?” Chris asked, his tone changing. “Come on, let’s go to the bedroom, you and I.”

 

Yeah, she asked herself, why was she being so cold? He’d done nothing to deserve her suspicion. This situation with Chris, she wanted to keep it. She was really into him. She breathed out heavily.

 

“Okay.”

 

 

 

“You locked the door?” Malaya asked Chris as she straddled him in her boots, her long tube dress hiked to her ass. It was a stupid question to ask at this point. Chris was already inside her and there was a silence from the adjoining living room that gave her the impression that Chris’ posse had already gone somewhere else.

 

“Yeah.” Chris wriggled and his cock moved inside her. “We are good baby. Relax.”

 

She finally did. She dropped herself fully on him. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. He pried open her mouth and she gave willingly. Kissing Chris was like God’s voice in her ear. He tasted so good, smelled even better of a good clean male scent of affection, and felt heavenly.

 

She sucked his bottom lip and began to move, dragging herself towards him and then pushing back, creating the best friction she could for her clit and his cock. She spewed juices over his member and for a moment there, she felt glad she could still feel pleasure from sex.

 

It was rare for someone with her history to even feel, let alone find pleasure in the act. She sighed blissfully, increasing the friction between them. She liked being on top. It gave her power which brought security.

 

Her inner muscles squeezed him, which was quite a feat because Chris’ cock was built to damage a bitch if she wasn’t too careful. He was long and thick. Once erect, despite the drugs and alcohol, that thing rose stiff and true.

 

She could feel it, her pleasure riding her. She closed her eyes, moving more frantically. Chris put his hand on her neck and dragged her down for a kiss and she waited for her orgasm, which had already taken a hold on her to crest.

 

That was when she heard the bedroom door open and the voices.

 

“Look at that tight, plumb ass. Dawg wasn’t lying. You brought us some corn fed booty, straight out of the farm fields of Iowa.

 

Malaya stopped moving. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Chris’ grip on her neck was strong. She opened her eyes and stared into his icy blue eyes.

 

“Chris?” she asked in a whisper.

 

“Bae, relax. It ain’t like you’ve never done this before,” he crooned, his eyes never leaving hers. “I got you. Look into my eyes. I want to see everything that you feel.”

 

A hand went for her dress. He ripped it from the neck down. He removed her bra clip and his hands dug between her and Chris to her breasts. The hands grabbed them hard and squeezed.

 

“She’s got them tight tits. No silicon here. Just tight, milk-fed tits!” he growled from behind her ear. She could feel his hot breath on her hair. She was paralyzed with fear and disbelief. Her eyes were caught in Chris’. His grip on the back of her neck was even tighter.

 

She felt the lube hit her anus and she knew what was about to happen to her.

 

“Don’t take too long homey,” another voice said. “I can’t wait for my turn. Shit. This is good, virgin territory. Leave us some.”

 

“Yeah dude. Put a lot of lube. We don’t want to tear that shit before we’re done, do we,” a new voice said.

 

The lube was lathered all over her ass cheeks, up to the small of her back.

 

Her eyes were trapped by Chris' when the man climbed on her and drove his massive penis into her anus. Pain shot through every cell in her body, leaving her unable to move, even as she was sandwiched between two men.

 

Chris gyrated his hips, the man thrust. Not a single sound escaped from Malaya. All she could think about was that she was with Chris and this was happening to her.

 

She was numb, gone from her body as the second, third, fourth and fifth male took his turn while Chris remained embedded in her pussy. His hand was still holding her neck down.

 

Something inside her calmly reminded her that she had a knife. All she had to do was to lean lower, sink her hand in her boot and pull it out. She could then stab the man on top of her from the side.

 

She would keep on stabbing until he stopped moving. And then she would kill Chris McClure.

 

Blood rushed free in the bedroom. There were screams of panic, shock and horror. Her hands were full of blood as she scrambled off the floor where Chris McClure had thrown her, after dislodging her off of him.

 

“You bitch!” Chris yelled.

 

She wielded her blood-soaked knife in front of her.

 

“Try me,” she said softly, “and we’ll die together.”

 

He lunged. She plunged. His blows came, strong, vicious, unrelenting. She didn’t care. Death was better than this. Her soul left the building.

 

When she came to, hours later, she was in a different room. It looked like a hospital room, but different. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the difference. She’d never been in a real hospital room. She’d only ever seen them on television, in the movies where everyone is okay in the end.

 

Her body hurt. Her face, her back, everything.

 

“Hi,” a soft, upper-class voice greeted her. “I’m Aiden Ritchie. You are at a doctor’s private clinic. Don’t try to talk. Your jaw, nose and facial bone structures are broken. You will need plastic surgery to fix them.  As you can see from your hanging arm and leg, they are broken took. They will take a couple of months or so to heal. There might be some permanent damage, but we are not sure. There is some damage to your anal and your vaginal areas, but it is temporary.”

 

He smiled down at her. She blinked. She’d never met a more beautiful man in her life. Who was he?

 

“I’m sure you have lots of questions,” he said. “I’m going to try to fill you in as much as I can. You were partying at Chris McClure’s house a couple of days ago. A fight broke out and you were injured. One man died. Your boyfriend is okay. He got stabbed in the arm while trying to protect you, but he’s doing good.”

 

She’d killed a man. She felt nothing.

 

She wanted to say she had no boyfriend, but she was street enough to understand a spin when she heard it. She assumed Chris had become her boyfriend.

 

He took the chair that was in the room and dragged it next to her. “I’m a fan of yours. I’d been meaning to get in touch, but I had to leave the country for Asia on an emergency. I own some K Pop groups you see. When I came back, my people told me you were here."

 

She didn’t believe him. The story was a lie. Like everything else.

 

“I want to sign you to my label. You are extremely gifted. With some training, you can take the world by storm. You are capable of rivaling Whitney Houston.” He stood up.

 

And so this was the deal for her silence. She got it. It wasn’t enough. Her expression must have said so.

 

“I almost forgot,” he said looking straight at her, hands in his jean pockets. There was no doubt that this man was a thinker. He was brooding deeply. “I took the liberty of depositing one point five million dollars into your account, for the six songs you played at your boyfriend’s party. I will bring the paperwork for it when you can sign.”

 

They were paying her two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for each of her rapists. It wasn’t enough. She wanted them dead, off the face of the earth. Especially Chris.

 

“Don’t worry about the medical bills for now or later. It’s all paid for.” He was still laying out the deal.

 

She had to hand it to him. He was suave.

 

“Welcome to my label Malaya. We are very good at what we do. We are going to make you the best pop star this world has ever seen.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2019 Madeleine Mitton. All rights reserved.

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