Gonna Find Me an Angel

Alania E. Osborne-Currie

Description

?Gonna Find Me An Angel?, a sultry, witty, mysterious love anecdote, depicting a young woman?s struggle to find love and security. She searches for it everywhere?in men, family, friends, her career, sex, and even drugs. Eventually she finds it in a place that she never expected. This is a modern day story about love, sex, molestation, homosexuality, pain, family dysfunction, and spiritual freedom.
This is what readers have said about my book:

"Alania Currie is a wonderful writer. This story is one of romance, excitement, and mystique all wrapped in one. It is bound to keep the reader turning pages late at night. Gonna Find Me an Angel, offers suspense, energy, and passion that leaves you longing for more."

-Tracy Richardson, M.S.W.

Shreveport, Louisiana

Gonna Find Me an Angel-as contemporary as today's headlines, and as timeless as Romeo and Juliette. A story that is crisply told, raw, gripping, riveting from cover to cover a must read!"

-Judge Vernon Claville

Shreveport, Louisiana

"It reminds me of the movie, "Looking for Mr. Good Bar". This book was awesome! Gonna Find Me an Angel-a movie waiting for the take."

-Dwayne Preston, Entrepreneur

Shreveport, Louisiana

Sujets

• Fiction
• Erotica

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 23 avril 2005
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780595782901
• Langue: English

Extrait

GONNA FIND ME AN ANGEL
 
 
Alania E. Osborne-Currie
 
 
 
 
 

 
Gonna Find Me An Angel
 
Copyright © 2010 Alania E. Osborne-Currie.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 
 
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.iuniverse.com
844-349-9409
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-0-5953-3493-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-0-5957-8290-1 (e)
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 02/22/2023
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
 
 
For her unconditional love and support, I dedicate this book to my mom, Zerita Polk Depass. God bless my family, my friends and His people everywhere.

CHAPTER ONE

As I reread the ad in the Thursday morning Charlotte Observer , I knew it was my lucky day. Joanne’s red tight-fitting Ann Taylor suit would be just the perfect thing to wear…so, casually, I borrowed it since I didn’t think she’d mind. Besides… the heifer does it to me all the damn time.
At 10:30 I had an interview with the president of Jam Records. I wanted that job like hell, and could not be late for the interview- so I jumped my ass in the shower, shampooed my hair, shaved my legs and armpits, and headed for the mirror.
I will never forget that day… May 10 th , 1998… two days before my 31st birthday and exactly one year since Devan Phill Jackson left. I had just started getting used to the idea of that sorry bastard being gone. If nothing else, my apartment was a lot neater, and there were no dingy socks or skid marked drawers stuffed away under the bed or in the kitchen pantry. At that, I guess times were just a tad bit better.
At about 9:00 I took one last look in the mirror and said to myself, “Girlfriend, today is your lucky day. That job is gon’ be yours! Just gotta’ claim that bad boy in Jesus’ name and go on wit’ ya bad self!” I gave myself a wink and grinned as I touched up my “Drop Dead” red lipstick, patted my do twice, and then flicked off the bathroom light switch as I headed for the front door.
While driving to the East side of Charlotte, I saw a bunch of raggedy-ass houses with sistas’ perched on the porches combing their kids’ hair. ( Reminded me of Emma Mae and how she used to sit on her ass at home back in Florida and draw public assistance for all of those stair-steppin’ brats that she’d laid up and had one behind the other.) I checked out all the gigantic billboards advertising liquor and cigarettes (like Seagram’s Gin or Virginia Slims), and before I knew it- I had dug down in my purse, got out a cigarette and thought to myself, “Yeah, you’ve come a long way too, Baby…but you sho’ in the hell got a long way left to go. You almost there though…almost there, Big Girl.”
I pulled up in front of Jam Records at 10:10. Once I located a parking space and parked my car- I went inside and approached the receptionist. She was an attractive chocolate brown-skinned chick about 28 or 29 years old dressed in a short tight green skirt suit wearing weave to the middle of her back and hazel green contacts. With the first glance, it was apparent that she had a serious identity complex coupled with self esteem issues. And God, the eyes she gave me as I neared the counter! I must have looked mighty damn good judging from the way that “she-devil” stared at me from head to toe.
“Good morning. I’m here for an appointment with Mr. Kenta Lafrance,” I said.
“Sure. What is your name?” she asked.
“Desiree Harris,” I said, as I smiled humbly.
“Desiree Harris…Yes, Mr. Lafrance will be with you shortly. Have a seat.”
So I sat down in the waiting area and quickly got out my compact to get a final glance at myself before the interview. My hair was still in place, and there was no lipstick on my teeth. Everything was set and ready to go. A few minutes later “Ms. Counterfeit” walked back over to my seat.
“Ms. Harris, Mr. Lafrance will see you now. Follow me.”
Lord, I’d never seen a sista’ strut like that. That girl had a strut so hard; I just knew she would break her boney ass as she walked down the hallway to the man’s office. “Was this a prostitute or what?” I wondered to myself (tickled by “Ms. Wanna Be’s” “think I’m something” walk).
As I reached the door, I heard a deep soothing voice greet me.
“Come on in. Hi. I’m Kenta Lafrance”, he said, reaching for my hand and giving it a gentle shake.
Lord, he was drop dead gorgeous! I saw why “Ms. Thing” was switching those hips so hard…Damn! He was certainly a hunk with a capital “H”! The brother was about 6 feet tall with a nice muscular build. It was sexy the way his chest muscles tended to naturally flex a bit as he reached out for my hand. He was dressed like a millionaire in his light grey Armani suit and pink linen shirt that accentuated his beautiful pecan complexion. His face was unbelievably flawless and appeared to be as soft as a peach from where I stood. He was suave…a straight up pretty boy with big sexy brown eyes and long bushy eye lashes; sweet luscious lips that encased the straightest whitest teeth I had ever seen in a black man’s mouth; and chiseled high cheek bones with deep set dimples in each one. I felt myself gawking at him and praying to the good Lord that he didn’t notice. After all this was a business meeting- and I definitely needed that job and planned, by any means necessary, to get it.
In a gentlemanly fashion he guided me to one of the plush cherry wood chairs and offered me a seat (… pulling it out for me and holding it until I sat down securely). Once I was comfortable, he took a seat at his beautiful matching desk. We carried on a friendly conversation for five or six minutes, during which he complimented me.
“Ms. Harris, forgive me but, I must tell you what an extremely attractive lady you are. I usually don’t make a habit of mixing business with pleasure, but in this case, Sister, I must make an exception,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a sexy and alluring manner.
That negro knew he was the bomb. I felt little horns protruding from my temples. I jus’ hoped he hadn’t seen them. In a way it was good. Maybe I wouldn’t have to work as hard to get the damn job. Oh, I was going to be professional and lady- like; but, I be damn if I wasn’t gonna’ use what I had to get what I needed. Hell, it was cool if he liked what he saw, just as long as he stayed in his place. I’d already been dogged by one negro, so I wasn’t about to be nothin’ else but respected by them from here on out. Oh, I admit I liked him…and something about him said I’d be seeing a lot of him. But for the moment it was all business.
For the most part, the interview went fine. I daydreamed about Mr. Lafrance… (Kenta) on the way home. I could see his face jus’ as clear as if he still stood in front of me. I kinda’ wondered if he really thought I was that attractive. I even wondered if he was still thinking about me after I left (the way I was thinking about him). I musta’ been crazy or something. Hadn’t I said I was through with men? Hadn’t I had enough problems in the past? But there I was again… sitting there, driving along, mesmerized by a man that I knew absolutely nothing about. The sad part about it was that it was supposed to have been about business…a job! Why was the shit even going on in my head?
When I got back home I checked the caller ID. Susan had called (I wondered what new bullshit she had to tell me about today... (whose husband dumped who, or who was pregnant for who?) I wished home girl would get a damn life. I also saw that my mom had called. I guess she wanted to know how my job hunting was going. The last name on the list was Devan. I wondered how in the world that fool kept getting my number every time I changed it. I had finally gotten over his crack-head ass and he had started calling again.
Devan and I met two years after I moved to Charlotte from Jersey. He was very handsome. His chest muscles danced through his shirt, and his abs formed the perfect washboard. I imagined myself riding it like a sliding board to a sandpit. On top of that, the negro was bowlegged and had an ass to die for. He was slightly pigeon- toed which gave him a really cute walk and stance. When I saw Devan I had to have him. 6’1…6’2…200 pounds solid, that pretty honey complexion, curly jet-black hair neatly cut and tapered on the sides…shit! He was another “Pretty Boy Floyd”! Oh my God!
I remember the day we met at Clifford’s house. We stood up outside next to my car and talked for hours. I felt