Chapter 1

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She was the model type. Shorties like her were a dime a dozen. Watching her throw her belongings into her designer bag did nothing for me, except give me clarity that there’d be more counter space in the bathroom.

I sat watching her make a show of leaving me. To be honest, it was beyond dramatic. Only, it was while taking a moment to study the pretty features of her face that I realized I couldn’t recall what her name was. Huh. The blonde curls on her head told me she wasn’t a Chanel. Perhaps Amber? Or Jasmine?

Looking closer, I shook my head. Nah, she wasn’t the type to be named after a flower. It was definitely something exotic or on a rare occasion, something normal.

All I really knew as I continued to watch her pack and mumble swear words under her breath, was that she was the typical model type. An urban model with a pretty face, classic Coke bottle figure, honeyed brown skin and a few hidden tattoos for only private eyes to see.

I should’ve been upset at her impending departure, but again, girls like her came a dime a dozen, especially in the industry I was in, key word: was.

“You’re nothing but a child, Marc!” Her words suddenly came in clear as she finally finished packing – I mean, how many things did she have? “You really need to get your life together. You’re nothing but a little ass boy with commitment issues.”

She’d said “boy” as if it were a profanity. I suppose my male ego should’ve been bruised, but really, I was just waiting for her to hurry up and go. We were in my bedroom and she had all of her essentials on my bed, shoving an item in her bag one after the other.

When I didn’t respond to her remark she merely scoffed and flipped me the bird, turning on her heels and finally making her exit.

It was then that I sat back in my chair and let out a breath.

My “commitment issues” were the least of my worries. There was so much more on my plate already, some clingy model was the last thing I was going to care about.

The thought caused me to reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. And just as I’d suspected, its screen was void of calls, texts or even e-mail alerts.

Perhaps for a regular person this was only mildly annoying, but to me, it was a loud and harsh message.

I was persona non grata.

My manager, Tim, said all would smooth over eventually after it had first happened. That was two years ago. I’d put out an album and it tanked, selling only a measly seventy-eight thousand copies its first week, which was low for Marco Brown. The media ate up my failure and labeled me “washed” and “done.” My name was often attached to negative press, as I was painted as angry and violent. My so-called friends lost my number and the industry blackballed me. And the silence set in.

But the girls didn’t stop coming. The “bad boy” image coalesced with my crooked smile and dimples made the allure easy. When I came in the game at the age of sixteen my team had suggested I fix my grill since my teeth weren’t so perfect and straight, but it reminded me of home so I kept ’em as was. My team suggested I hit the gym to pack on a more muscled look, besides playing basketball, I just didn’t see the appeal of hitting the weights. Whenever I was in New York and hit up Power 105.1 Charlamagne tha God was quick to call me out on how skinny I was and how much I needed a haircut. He’d dubbed me “the Beige Skeleton” as a joke. I wasn’t the clean-cut example of “handsome” yet it was never a problem with the ladies.

Hence why the model could easily be replaced.

My career, though, not so much.

It was late in the evening but still I was hungry and decided to gather my keys and head out for some food.

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