Vengeance Read online

  Shayne dated other women, while Hannah dated men. It was kind of confusing to me at times, but I was clear about one thing: they were entitled to live their lives in any way that made them happy about living at all. They were doing better than me because I couldn’t stand the thought of being touched by a man or a woman. I was also clear on that. Maybe one day that would change, but I somehow doubted it. I found guys attractive but didn’t believe that any would find me attractive and, even on the off chance that one did, sex to me was associated with violence.

  I was Shayne’s shampoo girl at her spa and loved it. A few women had been insensitive enough to ask about my scar, but I wouldn’t discuss it. Some found it rude and refused to tip me, but most actually felt sorry for me and gave me bigger tips than normal.

  Hannah had agreed to my deal about contacting her mother and my grandmother. We both decided upon letters without a return address on the envelopes. That way we could say what needed to be said and did not have to be stressed out over their responses. It was more like: “Hello, I’m alive, love you, don’t worry, and good-bye.” There were some fluff words in between, but that was the gist of both three-page letters mailed a week before Christmas inside sentimental holiday cards. Hannah’s had a Hanukkah theme on the front and I found one with a black angel decoration.

  I felt good about letting Grandma know that I was still breathing. After truly considering it, I found it immature to let her worry. She was not in the best of health and not knowing my fate was probably weighing heavily on her. Hopefully, she would understand why I had to leave. I did not tell her about being raped. That would have been inconsiderate, not to mention pointless. She couldn’t have done anything to prevent it from happening any more than I could have. Nor could she do anything to make things right anymore than I could.

  I still wasn’t feeling Sebastian, and Nigel had cut off his friendship with Hannah over the “incident.” I felt bad about that, but Hannah was cool with it. Her exact words: “I’m not about that druggie life anyway. And I damn sure don’t want you around it.”

  I wanted to point out that as soon as we walked out our front door, we were surrounded by drugs, but I got what she was saying about it being in our home. I was just appreciative of the fact that Hannah had even brought me back with her—she could’ve left me right in that hospital room to fend for myself, or even in the bus station. She had not said a word about Shawn, so I figured that she was truly done with him. I wasn’t quite sure who she was dating but I knew she was dating men exclusively. She would skim over discussing this guy or that guy but did not bring them around me. She had stayed out overnight four or five times since my arrival, cautioning me not to open the door or go outside late at night by myself. She was very protective of me and I could tell she had a sisterly or motherly kind of affection for me; two things I had never had, since I was an only child and my mother, along with being insane, hated the fact that I was ever born.

  Hannah was the only reason that I stopped plotting to step off a train track and stopped waiting for someone to attack me and slit my throat in an alley. It was obvious that she would be hurt by that, and I didn’t want to hurt her. I had grown to love her as, well, like the mother I had never had. We were two people with similar yet different traits that we allowed to hinder us, and that was what made our bond so strong.

  My love and appreciation for Hannah is what landed me out in Times Square on Christmas Eve, doing something I never thought I would do in this life. I was walking to the train from the spa, upset that in spite of working my ass off, Shayne could only afford to pay me minimum wage. Back in 1987, the minimum wage in New York was $3.35. So even working under the table, for forty hours a week, I was barely making $135 each payday. My tips added in another $50 or so a week. I would give Hannah most of my money to go toward bills, or purchase groceries for us to share when I could. I had only been working a few weeks, so I had only about twenty dollars saved up. I wanted to purchase Hannah a nice gift, even though she stole most of what she desired. I wanted something to come from me.

  I had seen this necklace in Macy’s for about thirty-five dollars, so I was short. I didn’t have the nerve to try to steal it. With my luck, I would’ve gotten caught my first time shoplifting and landed in “baby booking” for Christmas. That could’ve spiraled into a butterfly effect of the police figuring out who I was and forcing me to go back home or into foster care. I wanted to stay with Hannah. I also wanted that necklace.

  I had not ventured to sing anything since Thanksgiving when everyone praised my voice. I still thought they were full of shit, but what if they weren’t? Every day, on my way to and from work, I had seen people out in Times Square in costumes, or singing, or playing an instrument—even pans—while people tossed money into their buckets, bags, hats, or cups. I was on the way to the train to head home that evening when I decided to go for it. If I could get fifteen people to give me a dollar each, thirty people to give me fifty cents each, or sixty people to give me a quarter each, and a little extra for tax, I could get her that gift. I did the numbers in my head and, of course, Times Square was crammed with people doing last-minute shopping.

  I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to sing. I needed to keep in the holiday spirit, but we never celebrated Christmas much in my house growing up. Everyone was in their own various states of depression. However, Hannah had been playing some holiday music around the apartment. I tried to think of one or two that I comfortably felt like I knew the beats and music to in order to pull it off.

  So there I was in my brown Members Only jacket, a plaid skirt and leggings singing “Someday at Christmas” by Stevie Wonder. I started to give up less than a minute in; I felt foolish. Then a miracle happened. People started tossing money into my right boot, which I had removed and placed in front of me, since I had nothing else to collect coins in. By the time I finished that song, I had lost count of what people were tossing and quickly came up with a follow-up song. Some people stood there like it was a concert, so I couldn’t sing the same song again.

  I cleared my throat while I thought of something else and several people praised my voice. Maybe Hannah and her friends were right about my talent?

  I started belting out “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt and, to my surprise, people actually started dancing with each other in front of me, between tossing more coins and even some dollar bills into my boot.

  I started truly getting into it then, and some of the other street performers started throwing daggers in my direction. That kind of motivated me more. Even though I was going to have to ad-lib some of the lyrics, I broke out into “Give Love on Christmas Day” by The Jackson 5. I was singing and dancing my ass off. I was executing moves that I didn’t even know I had, and realized something important right that minute. When I was performing, it was the only time that Caprice Tatum actually felt free. All my fears, all my pains, all my shame, and all my insecurities faded away. It was such a natural feeling for me; a natural space. I decided right then that in spite of my flaws, I had found my “calling.”

  Through the crowd, I could see a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce pull up to the curb and the back window roll down. All I saw were eyes at first; piercing eyes. Then the driver got out, walked around to the rear passenger door, and opened it. A tall white man with dark brown eyes got out in a tailored three-piece suit, and a mountain of a man climbed out the front passenger seat. He was not as tall as the first man, but he outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. His complexion was redder and he looked mean as a snake and glanced around the crowd with caution. I made him out to be a bodyguard. As the taller man walked toward me, presumably to get a closer look and to hear me better, the crowd parted for him like he was the president of the United States. But I knew he was definitely not Ronald Reagan.

  He was, however, creating a stir. People started pointing at him and whispering. Several women straightened up their clothes and struck seductive poses. I was completely confused, but one thing was clear:
he was an important, recognizable man and a lot of women wanted to have sex with him.

  I stopped singing after that last song and retrieved my boot. I pulled the money out and did a quick count. I had more than enough to purchase the necklace but needed to get to Macy’s before they closed. They were not opening on Christmas Day!

  I shoved the money in my pockets as people rushed up to the tall man, trying to engage him in conversation and introducing themselves. I heard a few people refer to him as “Mr. Sterling,” but still did not know who he was. The rest of the crowd had dispersed, and the other performers seemed relieved that I had shut the hell up so they could try to get some attention.

  I was about to hustle to the train to get to the store when I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a second?”

  I turned to face him. He was extremely attractive and reeked of money, if there was such a thing as reeking of money.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  “Look, I’m just a kid,” I told him. “I’m underage.”

  He looked confused and then laughed. “No, it’s not about that. I don’t have any problems getting women.”

  “He damn sure doesn’t!” some women yelled out. “He can have me in a heartbeat.”

  He glanced at her and then back at me. His bodyguard approached the woman to make sure she didn’t try to make a mad dash to get to him. “My name’s Richard Sterling. I enjoyed your singing.”

  I shrugged. “And?”

  “I’m having this holiday party and I was looking for something exciting . . . someone different to entertain my guests.”

  “And?” I asked again.

  “And I find you to be fascinating.”

  “This was my first real performance. I only know a few songs by heart.” I was wondering how much money he was talking but knew that I was nowhere near prepared to give an actual concert . . . not at a party.

  “Oh . . . I see,” he said in disappointment. “Well, you’re very talented, so you should pursue it. What’s your name?”

  I ignored the name question. “Funny you should say that because I came to that conclusion right about the time that you drove up. But most people won’t hire me because of”—I pointed to my scar—“this.”

  “What’s this? I don’t see anything,” he said, clearly lying to me. “All I see is a stunningly beautiful young lady who has an amazing voice and some great dance skills to go with it.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “So do you think that I could speak with your parents about you performing at my party, Miss . . . ?”

  “My parents told me never to tell my name to strangers, or even talk to them.”

  “You’re not a toddler and . . .” He surveyed the immediate area. “You appear to be out here in the middle of Times Square, one of the most congested areas in the entire world, by yourself.” He paused. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know that it makes sense that someone who is apparently both famous and rich would be willing to let me sing and dance at a party.” I eyed him up and down. “What is it? Some kind of orgy where a bunch of old men take advantage of teenage girls?”

  He frowned. “Once again, it’s not about that, and I’m not that old, for the record.” He gazed into my eyes, like he was analyzing me through them, and then sighed. “Never mind. You have a nice night. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I said back to him.

  He was about to walk away when he added, “Just make sure you don’t waste your talent out here on the street corner. I was going to offer you ten thousand dollars to sing at my party. I’ll just find someone else to give it to, but you truly are gifted.”

  I almost fainted. “Did you say ten thousand dollars?”

  “I did.” He grinned. “I assume you thought it was going to be much less.”

  “I was thinking more like a hundred dollars. Ten thousand?” I asked again. “Are you for real?”

  “I’m for real.”

  I bit my lip. “But I was being honest before when I said that I don’t know a lot of songs. When is your party, where is it, and how would I get there? I mean, if I manage to come up with some songs.”

  “My party is not until New Year’s Eve, it is at my home in Alpine, New Jersey, and I would send a car to get you and your mother or father. That way you won’t have to be concerned about anything happening, or having to talk to strangers without one of them.”

  I was frozen in place, not quite sure what to do, or how to pull the entire thing off. Ten thousand dollars would be one hell of a gift for Hannah. I could pay her back in a lump sum for all of her help and compassion toward me. I forgot all about Macy’s and the necklace.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mr. Sterling asked. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Um, I live with my aunt,” I lied. “Her name is Hannah. She’d have to come with me. Is that cool?”

  “Cool,” he said, and then grinned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black business card, then handed it to me. All it had on it was his name and number. “You can call me personally to set it all up.”

  His bodyguard chimed in. “Are you sure about all of this, sir? That’s a private number.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, Virgil.” He looked at his bodyguard and chuckled. “It’s my private number, after all.”

  Virgil looked embarrassed and stood back.

  Mr. Sterling then gazed back at me. “So I’ll look to hear from you, or Aunt Hannah.”

  With that, he left, and I rushed home to tell Hannah about what happened. I ended up using the money collected in my boot to purchase all the fixings for Christmas dinner, along with a cheap tree that I dragged home myself and decorated with Hannah’s lace from around the apartment.

  When I told her that I had met a man named Richard Sterling who wanted me to come to Alpine, New Jersey, to sing for his New Year’s Eve party, Hannah started screaming. “The Richard Sterling? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Who is Richard Sterling?” I was sitting on the sofa trying to figure out how to solve her squeaky Rubik’s Cube but stopped when she had such a fit over it.

  “Richard Sterling, the billionaire?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. He was in Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur and a bodyguard. I’m assuming that’s the one.” I paused after what she said sunk in. “Did you say billionaire? Not millionaire but billionaire?”

  “That’s exactly what the fuck I said.” Hannah sat down beside me and started waving her index finger in my face. “I told you that you could sing your ass off, baby girl. This is the beginning of something major.”

  When Hannah made that statement that night, I had no idea how factual it would become. Long story short, I did more than meet a bona-fide billionaire in Times Square. I ended up meeting my protector, provider, teacher, savior, biggest fan, talent developer, and often even my priest. I ended up meeting the father that I had never had!

  PART TWO:

  THE REFRAIN

  It has been nearly twenty-five years since I left Atlanta. While I am grateful for all the success, wealth, and fame I have been able to obtain throughout this journey called life, I have never forgotten what they did to me. The four of them tried to break me and, for a time, they accomplished their goal. As my fortieth birthday approaches, before I celebrate that milestone, before I embrace that significant benchmark, vengeance will be mine.

  —Wicket, circa 2012

  Chapter One

  Saturday, June 9, 2012

  1:42 p.m.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The Ritz-Carlton suite was over thirteen hundred square feet with a panoramic skyline view of Atlanta, a music area with a grand piano for me to practice on, an executive study, a butler’s pantry attached to the formal dining room, and a bedroom with the kind of high-thread-count bedding that I was accustomed to.

  I was soaking in the massive tub with “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele seeping through the surround-sound sys
tem and singing along with the words. Her vibe was so relevant. Our musical styles varied somewhat but we were both getting paid to do what we were passionate about, so it was all good. The video for “Rolling in the Deep” had over 400 million views on YouTube, but my video for “The Other Side of the Pillow” had nearly 900 million views. Glad my body was looking tight that week we filmed it in Punta Cana. Otherwise, I would have been worried about people seeing my flaws forever and would have cringed when I heard the numbers. Even though my song was dope, the visual effects of the Dominican Republic made the video truly pop. Most people in the United States would only ever dream of traveling the world. I was blessed to actually do it on the regular. Sounds crazy but I had more than a million frequent flier miles.

  Then again, I was actually flawless, keeping it real. I really didn’t have any choice other than to remain unblemished and impeccable with both my looks and tastes. Rivalry was thick in the music industry and it was no longer completely about selling records, even though I had sold more than 150 million albums and over a billion singles at that point in my career, shattering all kinds of records. It was about being a performer. Selling out arenas for hundreds—sometimes thousands, if bootlegged—of dollars per ticket and making the world believe you were the shit. That you could walk on water, that you were superhuman and unparalleled and untouchable.

  Untouchable? I was definitely that for an overabundance of reasons. I tried to quickly distance myself from the long-ago memories that were persistently clambering back and focus on my upcoming show that evening. As always, I was going to turn it out, but first I had to get dressed and go do a sound check. I hated sound checks. They were nothing but an intrusion on a perfect day. I had been doing the shit long enough that they should have known exactly what settings to have on the soundboards, but each venue space was different, so I dealt with it.