Her Savior

  Her Savior

  by

  Vera Roberts

  Copyright

  For JESBM

  Smashwords Edition

  © 2017 Vera Roberts, All Rights Reserved

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

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

  Other Titles by Vera Roberts

  The Breakaway Series:

  Breakaway

  Game Misconduct

  Face-Off

  Power Play

  Scoring Chance

  The D’Amato Brothers Series:

  The Nanny

  To Love and Obey (BDSM)

  Where I Wanna Be

  All I’ve Ever Wanted

  Love

  Nothing Even Matters

  One More chance

  The Feeling Some Type of Way Series:

  Feeling Some Type of Way

  Bad and Bougie

  The D’Amato Brothers/S&M Crossover (BDSM):

  Anticipation

  Yes, Master

  I Need You

  The Jackson and Liane Series:

  Daddy’s Angel

  Fire We Make

  When Love Calls

  The Scott & Mariana Serial (BDSM):

  S&M

  S&M II

  Discipline

  S&M III, Vol. I

  S&M III, Vol. II

  S&M IV, Part 1

  The Ex-Factor

  Stronger Than Pride

  The State of Affairs Series:

  State of affairs

  Superpower

  Standalone Novels:

  Feeling Some Type of Way

  I Knew You Were Trouble

  Wait for Love

  Soul Infinity Crew (under Maya Brooklyn)

  Short stories:

  Blow by Blow: Diary of a Call Girl #1

  Blow by Blow: Diary of a Call Girl #2

  Dear Diary

  Gettin' It

  H.E.R.

  Hot Like Fire (Sweet and Clean Romance)

  The Train Ride (Free on Smashwords.com)

  The Erotic Intoxication, Vol. I: Bad Girls

  The Painter

  Til Tomorrow

  What About Us?

  Facebook Page:

  www.facebook.com/ms.vera.roberts

  Blog:

  www.veraroberts.com

  eroticamistress.tumblr.com

  Blurb

  I need to get out of the hood.

  Like pronto.

  Like expeditiously.

  Interning at a law firm where there are nothing but white folks and very few black faces may not be my ticket to go. I don’t want to get trapped somewhere between a Pumpkin Spice Latte convention and the Sunken Place.

  Yet, when I do cross paths with him, well, it’s game over.

  Every girl has that line they will not cross. Savior Ellison was that line.

  “I’m hard person to love. But when I do love, I love really hard.” – Tupac Shakur.

  Book I – Not About That Life

  One

  “Nigga, it is way too early for this bullshit.”

  It’s 7:45 on a Tuesday morning and Jalen knows I’m not even coherent. Fuck, coherent. Coherent means you actually had some coffee, and you know your bearings.

  I’m dead to the world. My head wrap is half-off (like the shit really stays on during the night, any damn way), and my breath smells like broken dreams and faded hope. And this nigga really is blowing up my phone like he on that bullshit.

  Boy, what you want?, I text him.

  I want you, Keisha.

  No, you want pussy.

  That too.

  Nigga, you know what time it is right now?

  It’s always time for pussy.

  Nigga…

  No girl grows up and hopes she gets involved with the biggest fuckboy known to man. No girl plays the Pick Me game and wonders if she’s gonna be chosen on the game of ‘Which No Good Nigga Is Gonna Waste Your Time?’

  Yet, here I am. I’m the lucky…ahem, “lucky” bitch who is entertaining Jalen Roberts, King of the Fuckboys at what is now 7:50.

  I knew he wasn’t shit when I first met him. Any nigga with dreads and a mouth full of ice lets me know he ain’t shit and he’ll never be shit. But my sprung ass was attracted to him. He had the body of Michael B. Jordan, the swag like Diddy, and the face like Future.

  My dumb ass was in trouble the moment we locked eyes.

  We met at a nightclub and yeah, you already know how the story goes: danced for a bit, chilled for a bit, exchanged numbers. Went on a date, then two, then three. And I’m not ashamed to say I made Jalen wait until got into my panties.

  I am ashamed to admit how much of a dick-crazed sex-fiend I became once he did.

  A nigga that can lick it and dick it is why women end up on an episode of Snapped. The good girl dating the bad boy troupe. Ladies, that shit never works. Never, ever, EVER.

  I told myself that despite Jalen being a dope boy, we could be good together. I can inspire him to become something better. He could give up the dope game and we can be the Bey and Jay of Inglewood.

  And I’m still telling myself that wack shit though I know it won’t happen. Jalen is determined to be a drug lord and well, here I am. The dope boy’s main chick. Or a chick. Fuck, am I side piece? I’m not entirely sure what the hell is going on.

  What you up to today?

  I’m up to school and that’s it, I text back. I know this nigga wants to come over and get some pussy. Why else would be texting my black ass so damn early in the morning?

  I got something that’ll wake you up.

  I open the next text he sends and of course, it’s the obligatory grey sweatpants pic. Oh, I hate this nigga now.

  Jalen can barely spell. Hell, I’m not entirely sure that nigga can read and is channeling his inner Floyd Mayweather. But one thing that nigga is good at is fucking. Lord, he can fuck. He can blow my back out, clear my skin, raise my credit score, and do it all in the same dickdown.

  As I sigh and lick my lips at this glorious grey sweatpants display, I can clearly see the outline of that delicious big dick of his. My mouth waters and my punani starts to feel a tingle. Girl, you know you want that dick, I hear my punani screaming at me.

  And she’s right. I do want that dick. In my mouth. Behind me. On top of me. But not my booty. No dick in my booty.

  Today is an important day and I can’t be dickmatized. I need to go out and score a legitimate internship. When I graduate from community college, this will be my chance to go onto a four-year university. Colleges want to see that students are well-rounded and not into the typical bullshit.

  Me telling them I put off an internship of a lifetime because my nigga had to get some pumpum isn’t going to cut it.

  Later, I text him back. Now, I went from being semi-coherent to wide motherfucking awake because all I want to suck is that nigga’s big-ass dick. But no. A sista has goals and a lot of them. Dick hasn’t gotten in my way and it never will.

  Later, I repeat again. After school, I also add. Hopefully, he’ll get the point.

  And hopefully, I won’t think about that dick all damn day.

  ~*~

  After I showered and got ready, I look like a million bucks. My closely-shaved head is shiny with the best Blue Magic hair grease. Of course, I can’t scare the white folks with a bald head so I’m wearing the best yaki wig that has s
hipped out of India. I’m wearing a nice, bouncy wig channeling my inner-Rihanna.

  My pink shirt and navy slacks have my hourglass body looking like whoa. My face is blessed with everything NARS and Fenty, and my full lips are covered with a brownish red that will make niggas drop to their knees and salute a bitch. I got this.

  My interview is with a legal firm. I want to become a lawyer, be legitimate, and have my own money. Be a boss bitch and do boss bitch things – have my own place, my own car, and maybe, just maybe not mess with any more fuckboys.

  Here’s hoping.

  I get into my Honda Civic and immediately go to the interview. I skipped breakfast and only opted to have a little coffee instead. My nerves are haywire but I know this is finally gonna take me out of Inglewood. It’s a place that sounds rich, but trust, it fucking ain’t.

  At one point, it was probably a nice area and I believe it was. Every black family owned a home, kids were able to walk down the street freely, and neighbors knew each other. It was nothing but love, peace, and hair grease.

  Then the crack epidemic happened. And well, we all know how that story went.

  Nice homes turned into squatting places for crackheads. Good mothers became strung out on that shit and gave birth to crack-addicted babies. Fathers abandoned jobs that weren’t paying worth a goddamn so they can slang that rock to put food on the table.

  I know this because I’m a product of that environment.

  My mother isn’t a crackhead, but my daddy is one of the biggest drug lords Inglewood had ever seen. He was slanging before I was born and only became bigger over time. But he made it a point to not sell crack. He couldn’t destroy his own people.

  So, he just dealt weed at first. And then when oxy became popular, my father had no reason to ever sell weed ever again. Eventually, the drugs he sold became the prescription kind. My daddy knew black folks don’t like to take prescriptions unless they absolutely had to.

  But them white folks, though…they’ll eat up that shit like they’re a fucking McFlurry or some shit.

  I’m not going to sit up here and say my daddy is some kind of fucking role model because I know he ain’t. I’m also not going to sit up here and deny my attraction to the fuckboy kind because they somehow remind me of my daddy. I don’t need someone in a fancy white coat with a couple of letters behind their name to explain that to me.

  I do need someone to tell me, however, my life don’t gotta be like that.

  Two

  It’s time to put on my white voice.

  My white voice says I’m friendly, non-aggressive, and cheerful like a Britney Spears concert. It tells everyone that despite my beautiful melanin, and car fitted with the hottest rims and limo-dark windows, I’m non-threatening.

  I’ll be sure to smile a lot, be as bubbly AF, and when it’s all over, I go home so I can be the blackest version of me I possibly can.

  It’s hard being a sista nowadays.

  I have to black enough to be acceptable but not too black because you don’t want Becky With the Good Hair to be intimidated by you. So, I always gotta switch it up whenever I around them.

  Today is my day to switch it up.

  I arrive at the legal firm in downtown Los Angeles and pay way too much money to park in a garage I won’t be there for very long. I double-check my appearance one last time and hope I make a good impression on these white folks because I really do need to get out of the fucking hood.

  I go up the elevator and walk out onto an open area shared by numerous high-rises. The sun shines down on the buildings, almost appearing like it’s streaming down like rain. The air even seems different here.

  There are about a dime a dozen coffee shops, eateries, and little hipster joints that I’m sure the yoga pants crowd will absolutely love. In fact, if I try hard enough, I can already imagine in the near future, some white girl with a guitar is doing coffeehouse and will cover “Formation” because it somehow speaks to her.

  I’m already in a different world. I see these executives in suits that probably cost more than my car, and these women in shoes that are probably the same amount. I’ve already counted too many Benzs, Beemers, and a few Bentleys.

  I feel out of place like a motherfucker.

  My eyes quickly scan the area and I know I’m the only black face. If not the only one, I’m one of a few. But that’s how they want it, tho. They want enough black and brown faces to they can claim diversity in their advertisements but they don’t want too many of us so they don’t become VH1.

  I locate the building and check in with security. I even have to pass through a metal detector like I’m used to at the nightclubs. Word? I know niggas bring guns to the clubs, so that’s expected. But if white people are bringing guns to work, I might need to stay my black ass home.

  I enter the offices of Ellison, Maeder, Jones, Miller, and Young (like, really? All of y’all need your names on the business card, huh?) and check in with the receptionist. I sit straight, ankles are crossed, and my phone is off.

  I don’t pick up any magazines or brochures, I decline anything to drink, and I half-pretend I’m watching boring-ass CNN with a replay of Don Lemon’s headass talking about some political shit I don’t care about.

  Now I have to bid my time.

  My major is Political Science and eventually I would love to go into Congress and be that change in the world. My daddy balks at the idea I’ll be shucking and jiving with a bunch older white men whose ancestors probably raped ours and they’re still reaping the benefits from it.

  On the flip side, daddy always talks about how fine Michelle Obama was and if there’s going to be a black female president, I should be the first. It’s like he gets frustrated with me but he also sees where I’m coming from at the same time. Weird.

  “Ms. Jones?” An older white lady with blonde hair, a black suit with matching black heels greets me. She has a look about her that screams, ‘I run this place and I run everyone’s lives.’ I somehow fucks with that.

  “Yes,” I stand up and firmly shake her hand.

  “I’m Jessica Ellison. You’ll be interviewing with me today. Follow me.” She places her hand on a keypad and the door slides open. Damn, she got the juice.

  We walk down this long corridor and I definitely feel like I’m Puffy back in the 90’s videos where he’s hogging up all the airtime. People are walking around in business suits, drinking their overpriced coffee, and talking about last night’s football game. Some others are in a conference room watching someone go over a PowerPoint presentation.

  The firm looks, smells, and feels…wealthy.

  There’s a drastic difference between rich and wealthy. Rich is you can afford to become a McDonald’s franchisee. Wealthy is when you are the McDonald’s corporation doing business.

  Jessica leads me to her private office and I’m astounded by how it looks. She’s paid her dues and has the wealth to show for it. Corner office. Oak desk. A sprawling view of Los Angeles. Her numerous degrees on the walls.

  And her face is blessed with the unmistakable, ‘You will not fuck with me.’ It is written loud and clear.

  We talk about my resume and my accomplishments at community college. She likes how I volunteer to the at-risk youth during the weekends. I tell her about how I was inspired by Senator Kamala Harris to go into the legal field. We chit-chat about the weather and other nonsensical bullshit that rich people love to talk about but really, they just want to hear themselves speak.

  And then my interview is over.

  I firmly shake her hand and I’m on my way out. I feel like I nailed it but I don’t know if it’s an internship I want. Everyone keeps talking about how they can’t wait to get out of the hood but when the opportunity is presented, it’s not necessarily the best one at first, you know?

  Just like that saying goes – not all money is good money – not all opportunities should be taken.

  Whatever. I get back into my Honda, bristle at the fact I was only in my interview for no less
than V-8 break, and head over to my Daddy’s home before I go to the home I share with my best friend and roommate.

  And maybe I can call Jalen’s big dick ass to come over and break me off something.

  Three

  “How did it go, ‘Face?”

  I walk into my Daddy’s study in his sprawling Ladera Heights home. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, full-size front and back yards, with a Jacuzzi and pool. Once his slanging business was doing well enough, he quickly got the fuck up out of Inglewood and was sure to live with the Cliff Huxtables and them.

  It’s funny to see Daddy socializing with doctors, lawyers, and judges as his neighbors, knowing he’s probably the number one dealer to their clients unbeknownst to them. But that’s the role he plays – calculated drug lord one minute, friendly Daryn who makes the best ribs the next.

  My father is a handsome man, with a salt and pepper goatee, nice fade, and muscular build. Plus, he has an incredibly charming personality. One time he was so charming to the waitress at the local Red Lobster, she wrote down her number on the bill. (My daddy didn’t call, tho; saying something about he wants the chase, not have it being handed it to him.)

  He looks like Idris Elba and if it wasn’t for the fact he didn’t have a British accent, he could totally be his doppelganger.

  Born Prince Daryn Jones, Daddy made sure he lived up to his name. He always had the flyest gear even back in the day. He’d been hustling and slanging well before I was alive and built an empire.

  All the niggas on the street keep talking about playing the game and learning the rules of said game. Daddy was the one that invented it. And he always switched it up. If people went left, he started to go right. He always knew he was being watched and he also knows his neighbors, who always come to his cookouts, are watching every move he makes.

  I grew up having the nicest things. Whatever I wanted, my Daddy moved heaven and earth to make sure I had it. Daddy spoiled me rotten and everyone knew it. The only girl out of four children, I was forever Daddy’s princess.

  He gave me the nickname angel face when I was a baby and always called me that. Sometimes he would shorten it by calling me ‘face instead. But it was always love.