Dirty Little Secrets

Joy King

St. Martin’s Press
New York

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS
. Copyright © 2006 by Joy King. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part
of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

King, Joy, 1978–

Dirty little secrets / Joy King.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-35407-7

ISBN-10: 0-312-35407-X

1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Drugs and sex—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction.
1. Title.

PS3611.I582D57 2006

813’.6—dc22

2006040536

First Edition: June 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Growing up I had so many dreams, but never did I dream of being an author. Sometimes in life, the path you are meant to follow
chooses you. Meaning, because of my own trials and tribulations I felt an obligation to tell this story. Who knew that what
started off as a voice speaking inside of me would find its way to the pages of a book? Now I can’t imagine having any other
dream but to be a successful writer.

First I want to thank my mother, Suzy Hoard, who not only gave me life but is also my best friend. Whenever I doubt myself,
you are the one I turn to for guidance. My dad Ellery King, you always told me, “Beware of the fork in the road; sometimes
the hunter gets captured by the game.” It’s those words of wisdom that make you so special to me. My dad James Hoard, your
strength and determination are truly an inspiration. Robin King, you’re the
best sister ever. Ella, Edward, and Logan, you’re the future of our family.

Monique Patterson, when God has a plan, the right people just seem to step into your life. I knew from the moment we first
spoke that you were one of those people. We just clicked, and you saw all the potential in me as an author that I hadn’t quite
seen myself. You are such an amazing editor and so gifted at what you do. I’m honored to be a part of the whole St. Martin’s
Press team, and hope this is just the first of many books to come. Emily Drum, thank you for always getting back to me and
being so professional. Marc Gerald, a toast to a long and prosperous relationship, hopefully one that is drama-free. George
Urdea, thank you for a fabulous Web site!

To all my friends, you know who you are, I love you so much. But I have to shout out a few people: Theron Sisco, you were
with me on this whole book thing from the start, much love, baby. Ron Outcalt, we haven’t spoken in a minute, but our bond
is everlasting. My brothers—Frank Horne, Reggie Laroche, Omar Hamilton, Charles Dixon, and Johnny; my sisters—Marsha Irving,
Tasha Marbury, Adama Robinson, Trixie Matthews, Shemella Jones, Charmelle Coffield, Adiam Berhane, Lissa Resnitzky, and Medina.
Special thanks to Terrence Brown, Keith Lemons, B. Lawson Thornton, Colin Thorne, Bobbie King, Wilma, and my Zip Code family.

Most important, to my readers: I hope this story captures your hearts and leaves you wanting more!

They say to truly cleanse your soul, you first have to expose every forbidden sin. Most prefer to continue through life never
revealing the dark roads they’ve traveled. But I’ve chosen to share my journey. Let me start from the beginning, and tell
you about my Dirty Little Secrets.

I was born August 3, 1980, in Atlanta, Georgia. According to my mother, I had a head full of jet-black curly hair and was
sweet and juicy. In her eyes, I was perfect. She tied a stunning pink bow in my hair, of course. I’m sure all parents think
their newborn is the most beautiful baby in the world, and Mother was no different. When I was three, she said, “Darling,
when you grow up you’re going to be famous. That’s why I named you Tyler Blake—because it’s a movie star’s name, and you were
born ready for your cover shot.”

Mother would sit on the bed brushing my hair and lovingly
tell me, “Tyler, you are everything I dreamed you would be— and more. You’re my little princess, and one day a lucky man will
make you his queen.” Mother figured that if I didn’t become famous, then surely some rich man would come and sweep me off
my feet. Little did she know that my world would be turned upside down, searching for a man who would make me his queen.

I spent hours studying Mother as she brushed her long black wavy hair or applied makeup to her angelic face. Would I grow
up to be as beautiful? I wondered. One morning Mother saw me admiring her in her vanity mirror; she smiled and said, “Observe
and learn, Tyler, because when you blossom into a woman, you will meet a man who will promise you the stars, but you must
also demand the moon. You’re my little princess, and you can’t accept any less.” It seemed Mother instilled this notion in
me from the day I was born.

My sister Ella and I created a make-believe world, which we called Barbie Land. I would make up the most glamorous stories
and act them out with our Barbie dolls. They had big houses, cars, and designer clothes. I would dress them in fabulous beaded
gowns, adorn them with sparkling jewelry, and comb their hair in seductive styles. Barbie lived a jet-set life, and Mother
promised that one day, so would I.

That life, however, was somewhat hard for me to imagine when I scrutinized myself in the mirror. I never felt beautiful like
my dolls. They were slender; I was chubby. They had long flowing hair, and although my hair was long, I wore it in a pigtail.
But my dolls still inspired me. Along with the encouragement of Mother, they gave me hope that one day I would be transformed
into a dazzling diva and live the glamorous life. Mother was determined to guarantee that for me, my sister, and herself.
She even enrolled me in a children’s theater group because she knew
how much I loved acting out the stories I made up. Mother thought participating in plays would give me a platform on which
to dress up and express my theatrical side. I remember how thrilled I was when I got the part of Cinderella. Mother let me
wear my hair in Shirley Temple curls, and I wore a long pink dress. I even wore a tiara. When I performed onstage, it was
as if I had left my body and become a different person. Mother said I looked like a real-life princess and that one day that
life would be mine.

That life would be a far cry from the one I was living. It was obvious to Ella and me that our parents were married in name
only. Mother was so cold and distant toward our daddy. She constantly complained about how hard she had to work to provide
for the family and that he had no ambition, no goals. Daddy was content with our modest house on a tree-lined street, one
family car, and nonexistent family vacations. Daddy’s idea of a vacation was for all of us to go to the local park for a picnic
of Mother’s special barbecue chicken with potato salad and corn on the cob. He definitely had no desire to lounge on an exotic
island, as Mother dreamed of doing. Like Mother, I too yearned for so much more.

As time passed, Mother’s frustrations began to build. One night I woke up to the sounds of Mother and Daddy arguing. “I’m
so tired of coming home and seeing you sitting on the couch doing nothing! Why don’t you get a job?” Mother yelled.

“I have a job; business is slow right now,” Daddy explained.

“Business is always slow. This isn’t the life you promised me, Carter. You told me you were going to have your own business
and make a lot of money. What happened to the big house, the cars, the furs? I would’ve been better off staying at Saks, working
behind the makeup counter.”

“Maria, I’ve done the best I can. Things just didn’t work out the way I wanted them to. But I love you so much, and we have
two beautiful daughters.”

“Ella and Tyler are the only good things that came out of this marriage. Love don’t pay no bills, Carter. But I will not stay
trapped in this depressing life. I deserve more than this and, more importantly, so do my girls.” That night I had a clearer
understanding of why Mother was always so angry at Daddy. Mother felt Daddy had deceived her.

One evening, Mother came home late for the third night in a row. My daddy was waiting in his favorite chair, with a glass
of Johnnie Walker in one hand and the remote control in the other. Ella and I knew the moment Mother walked through the door
because the loud screams woke us. We jumped out of our twin beds and ran to the top of the stairs. Daddy rambled toward the
front door and began yelling with a drunken slur, “I know you been with that man again! Don’t lie to me, woman!”

Mother marched toward the kitchen, ignoring Daddy as if she didn’t even see him. Her blatant disrespect pushed Daddy over
the edge, and he lunged at Mother. “Maria, don’t you walk away from me! I’m the man of this house, and you better treat me
with respect!” Then Daddy grabbed Mother.

My heart sank when I heard Daddy speak those words. I knew Mother didn’t respect him, and if anybody was the head of the household,
it was her. Daddy was a self-employed plumber, making little money, but we lived in a middle-class suburban neighborhood with
a house full of brand-new furniture and a big color television. Mother even managed to get us a brand-new car after Daddy’s
old hoopty kept breaking down. Ella and I never questioned where all the money came from, because Mother would always say,
“No matter what, only the best for my two girls.”

All of a sudden Daddy was on top of Mother, his hands around her neck, choking her. Ella and I remained frozen as Mother kicked
her legs and tried to pry Daddy’s fingers from her throat. “You think I don’t know about that man you been seeing?” he said
between clenched teeth. “You ain’t nothin’ but a whore. Sashaying out this house in your fancy new dresses and expensive perfume
you bought with money you got from that man. I’m gonna choke the devil right out of you, do you hear me!”

I felt like I was watching a bad movie, and I desperately wanted to change the channel. But this was real life. My daddy was
murdering my mother right before my eyes. I had never known Daddy to be violent, and his behavior was sending chills down
my spine. As I sat there with my hands clutching the banister, I heard Ella whisper, “You stay here, Tyler. I’m going to save
Mother.” Five years older, Ella always felt the need to protect me. Normally she was shielding me from bullying kids in the
neighborhood. Tonight it was from our daddy. She ran downstairs and picked up the glass vase Mother had bought in a local
antique store. I screamed as it shattered and blood spilled from Daddy’s head. He lay on the hardwood floor looking dazed
and confused.

Mother gasped for air as Ella held her.

Later that night, as Mother packed up our clothes and whatever belongings could fit in the car, Daddy begged her to stay.
“Maria, Maria, please don’t leave me, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll never put my hands on you again. I love you, Maria. You’re my
life.” His cries fell on deaf ears.

When Mother made up her mind about something, she didn’t look back. Daddy had been wrong for trying to kill Mother, but I
still loved him and I hated to leave. Despite his sometimes drunken behavior, Daddy was the kindest man I ever met. He always
believed in being fair, and my friends loved him
because he thought all kids should be treated equally. If I had a new doll and didn’t want to share it with my friends, he
would sit me on his lap and say, “Tyler, sharing is the most rewarding gift you can give someone. If you don’t learn to share,
how will you ever appreciate all your blessings?” I never forgot those words, and I reflected on them every time I wanted
to keep something all for myself.

As we drove off, Mother looked at Ella and me. “If a man hits you once,” she said, “he will hit you for the rest of your life
unless you decide to end his—or he decides to end yours. I want to live and I want your father to live, so we will never come
back to this house again.”