Carl Weber Presents Full Figured 6: Plus Size Divas Read online

  Full Figured 6:

  Carl Weber Presents

  Electa Rome Parks and Eric Pete

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Black Widow - by Electa Rome Parks

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Oops! I Did It Again

  Chapter 1 - Artemis

  Chapter 2 - A Week Later

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Copyright Page

  Black Widow

  by Electa Rome Parks

  Prologue

  DAUGHTER: Mama, are you getting married again?

  MAMA: Yes.

  DAUGHTER: Why?

  MAMA: I’ve met a man who can take care of us the way we deserve to be taken care of.

  DAUGHTER: Do you love him?

  MAMA: What do you know about love, little girl?

  DAUGHTER: I know you are supposed to marry for love. Everyone knows that.

  MAMA: Well, I tried marrying for love the first time and it didn’t work out. So, this time I’m trying a new approach.

  DAUGHTER: What happened?

  MAMA: After the love wore off, he beat my butt like it was his own personal punching bag.

  DAUGHTER: Oh. I’m sorry.

  MAMA: Let me tell you something you will find out soon enough.

  DAUGHTER: Okay, I’m listening, Mama.

  MAMA: Love ain’t shit. It can turn into something you don’t even recognize. Something ugly. Marry for money; love can come later. And if it doesn’t, then at least you are paid. And by the way, it’s a myth that money can’t buy you happiness. And, don’t ever let a man put his hands on you. If he does, you get out of there. Leave. Run. Do you hear me, sweetie?

  DAUGHTER: Yes, Mama. Of course I hear you, I’m sitting right here.

  MAMA: That’s my sweet girl.

  DAUGHTER: Mama?

  MAMA: What, sweetie?

  DAUGHTER: I’ve thought about it. When I grow up I’m going to marry for love.

  MAMA: Okay, sweetie. Good luck. You’ll learn. There are some lessons you have to learn on your own.

  DAUGHTER: If I don’t get it right the first time, I’ll keep getting married over and over and over again.

  MAMA: Sounds like a plan, sweetie.

  DAUGHTER: I’ll keep doing it until I get it right. You’ll see.

  Big, Bold, and Beautiful, That’s Me!

  Chapter 1

  A few years ago, when I was going through my self-discovery phase, I took a continuing education journal writing class for four weeks, two evenings per week, at the local community college. I was and am always searching for new and innovative ways to educate, improve, and entertainment myself. I admit I have a short attention span and get bored easily, so I’m always trying and experimenting with new ideas and concepts because I’m all about growth as a person. If we aren’t elevating ourselves to the next level, what’s the point?

  But I digress . . . One of the first assignments from the thirty-something, sandy-haired, plain-Jane, anorexic-looking female instructor was to write down three words, three adjectives, that captured the true essence of who we were.

  As I casually glanced around the drab classroom, with our desks situated in a semi-circle, I observed that many students had difficulty simply coming up with three adjectives. They were clueless as they sat at their desks, pens perched and ready to write, deep in thought, while I immediately wrote in bold, cursive letters on the first page of my lined, one-hundred-page pink journal: “big, bold, and beautiful.” Those three words described me in a nutshell. Nothing more needed to be said. That was easy. Bam! Next!

  By the way, I’m Erika Kane, named by my now deceased, high-spirited mother, for the heroine of her favorite soap opera, All My Children. At least she spelled the c in Erica with a k for a bit of distinction. Back in the day, I hated my name with a passion because I was always teased about it. Lucky for me, even then, I didn’t suffer from any low self-esteem issues. In fact, I am and was probably the exact opposite, suffering from an overt high level of self-esteem.

  I don’t know what my mother was thinking, who knows. I am nowhere vaguely close in physical appearance to the Erica Kane on TV, or should I say the one who was on TV until the soap was cancelled after forty-one years on air. Erica Kane, the one who weighs ninety pounds soaking wet with her clothes on, with porcelain skin and barely towers over five feet, is my polar opposite.

  I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a big girl, big boned and proud of every pound and every huggable, squeezable inch. There is simply more of me to love and go around. That’s what my mama always told me, and I have come to terms with the fact that I love to eat. There is nothing wrong with that, nor is there anything like a hearty, delicious, fulfilling meal. I laughed at these skinny minis who starved themselves to remain a size four. For what? It should be a crime to have a 5.7.9 shop at the mall. Not me, honey; give me a twelve-inch well-done porterhouse steak with sautéed onions and a creamy, loaded baked potato with sour cream, extra butter, and chives any day, and I’ll show you a happy lady.

  My boldness, well I inherited that from my mama. I have always believed in giving credit where credit is due. My mother, bless her soul, was a damn fool, and I say that with nothing but love and respect. Mama didn’t take anybody’s shit, male or female. Plain and simple. That’s probably why I had three different stepdads before I was eighteen and she was fatally stabbed by a lover the month before I turned twenty-five. I knew I carried her genes because I’m just as opinionated, feisty, and outspoken as she was.

  No one has ever had a conversation with me and walked away without knowing my stance on issues ranging from religion and politics to sex. I don’t scare easily and I rarely back down. My boldness and sassy mouth have gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion, but they have also gotten me the upper hand in situations as well. So, I consider them an asset.

  Now, as for my beauty, I learned I possessed that early on. When some of my jealous teenage girlfriends, from back in the day, tr
ied to make me feel bad about my weight by suggesting I try various diets, I ignored them. They thought they were so cute with their flat, deflated butts, tiny Barbie doll waists and 34B breasts. I had noticed how their so-called boyfriends couldn’t keep their eyes off my ample bosom, plump thighs, or high-rise, juicy booty. I soon learned that the only thing that wanted, or needed, a bone was a dog. Men wanted a little cush in their push. And I had cush to spare, for days. No, I never had any problems attracting the opposite sex. Men flocked to me like bees to honey and my honey spot was sweet. Sweet enough to eat.

  To top it all off, I had a great sense for fashion; I was definitely a fashionista. I could shop until I dropped, seven days a week if I could. I may have shopped at Macy’s, Lane Bryant, or the big-girl racks at T.J. Maxx, but I rocked what I wore to perfection with full, sista attitude. I loved color and plenty of large accessories, big bags, and high heels.

  Yes, big, bold, and beautiful, that was me.

  A Helping Hand Goes a Long Way

  Chapter 2

  It was Friday. Friday the 13th to be exact. Bill day. Come rain or shine, I wrote out checks for my bills every Friday like clockwork. I got that from my mama. I was sitting behind closed doors in my chic new office at Last Chance, my newly remodeled hair salon, when there was a heavy knock at the door that pulled me out of my daydreaming reverie.

  “Yes. Come in,” I called out.

  Nobia, my assistant-slash-receptionist and best friend in the whole world for the last three and a half years, stuck her head in, smiling. That’s what I adored about her: she always had a pleasant, peaceful demeanor about herself. If she was having a bad day, you would rarely be able to tell, unlike me. When I was having a bad day, everyone knew it. I made sure of that.

  “She’s here. Are you ready for me to send her in or do I need to give you a few minutes?”

  I shook my head in confusion. “Who’s here?” I asked. “Send who in?”

  “Jasmine Bass,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a quizzical expression. The last few days I had been absentminded.

  “Oh yes, you mentioned she was on her way; send her right in.” Jasmine was the young woman I had heard about through a long-time client. I had asked Nobia to contact her and ask the college student to come see me at the salon just the other day.

  “Will do,” Nobia said, stepping back out into the plush-carpeted hallway.

  A few minutes later a pretty, young girl with bangs and a short bob entered my office dressed in dark denim jeans, a form-fitting multi-colored top, and red Van sneakers. She stood tall, lanky, and confident.

  “Hi, Jasmine. Come on in. How are you?” I inquired. “Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I’m Erika Kane, the owner of this shop,” I stated, standing up and reaching out to shake her small hand.

  To my surprise, she offered a firm, self-assured handshake and then proceeded to sit down in the chair in front of my massive Italian black lacquer desk. She looked at me as curiosity shone clearly in her bright, receptive eyes.

  I cleared my throat. “I realize we have never met, so I guess you are wondering why I asked you to come to my salon/office?” I inquired, taking a seat back behind my desk in my black swivel chair.

  “Actually, I was,” she said, twisting slightly in the pink-cushioned black chair that accentuated my office. In fact, my entire salon was decorated in shades of pink and black, my favorite colors.

  “Well, to be honest, I overheard one of my clients, one of your mother’s friends, talking about your predicament a few days ago.”

  Jasmine remained silent, listening.

  I continued. “I understand you are a junior at University of West Georgia, an education major and sociology minor. I understand you will not be able to go back fall semester, which begins in a couple of days, because you are short five hundred dollars.”

  She nodded and spoke. “Miss Erika, I worked two jobs this summer, as many as possible, but I’m still short by approximately five hundred because there were a few emergencies that came up that I had to help Mama out with. I’m a little short on my fees and I don’t have any money at all for books. They get even more expensive once you start classes in your major,” she said rapidly. “I guess I’ll have to sit out this semester.”

  I didn’t skip a beat. I reached into my open desk drawer and pulled out a check. “You aren’t short now. I want you to have this,” I said, walking around my desk, handing her a check with a beaming smile on my face.

  She glanced at the amount. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she shouted, jumping up to retrieve it from my outstretched hand. “You didn’t have to do this. You don’t even know me,” she said, staring at me in utter disbelief.

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t have to know you. I believe in you, Jasmine. There is no way in hell I could have slept at night if I knew of a young girl trying to make a better life for herself and couldn’t finish college because of a five-hundred-dollar deficit. By the way, I wrote the check out for one thousand to give you an extra cushion to play with.”

  Jasmine jumped up again, hugging me tightly. “I don’t know how I will ever repay you. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  I pulled her back so I could see her face. “You already have. The smile on your face and the joy in your heart is enough. Paid in full.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you so much, Miss Erika,” she said with tears in her eyes. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I can’t wait to tell Mama.”

  “Just study hard and make us both proud, which I know you will,” I said as I escorted her to the door. “And whenever you have the opportunity, lend a helping hand and pay it forward.”

  “I promise, I will,” she said, walking away with a priceless smile.

  As I closed my door to return to my bill paying and privacy, I felt giddy inside. Giving back always gave me a warm, euphoric feeling that I thrived on. That was another thing I had discovered about myself. If something made me feel good, then I was going to get mine, over and over and over.

  Burritos, Black Beans, and Guacamole

  Chapter 3

  “Are you about ready to go?” Nobia asked, sticking her head into my open office door. I was shutting down my desktop computer. “It’s almost eleven-thirty,” she said.

  “Yes, I’m starving,” I said as I opened and reached into my lower desk drawer for my large leather purse that I had purchased last weekend. “I have been craving burritos with black beans, sour cream, guacamole, and pico de gallo all week. I can almost taste it.”

  “Me too, girl. Let’s get out of here so we can try to beat the rush-hour crowd. You know their Friday’s specials bring in the customers from far and wide.”

  We walked up the hallway to the front of the salon.

  “Ladies, we will be back in an hour or so. We are just down the block if you need me, at the Mexican restaurant,” I called out to two of my stylists who were standing at their stations with clients. Loretta had been with me since the beginning of my new journey, over two years now, and the new kid on the block was Destiny. I had hired her about a month ago and was still getting to know her. As usual, Carla hadn’t arrived yet, even though she had a client waiting impatiently in the sitting area, flipping through a magazine and checking her watch every few minutes. I never understood how Carla kept clients, but I guessed they were able to overlook her shortcomings because of the magic she performed on their hair. She was an excellent, sought-after stylist and the problem was that she knew it.

  Nobia and I made our way a half block down to one of our favorite eateries. The service was good, the staff was friendly, the prices were reasonable, and the food was excellent. This restaurant, and many other retail storefronts just like it, was one of the main reasons I decided to open Last Chance in this particular neighborhood. I appreciated the entrepreneurial spirit of the small business owners and I relished how everyone looked out for one another in an ethnically diverse area.

  “Erika, did
I tell you that you were wearing that jumpsuit, girl?” Nobia asked, looking me up and down with no qualms, admiring my chic black outfit with gold accessories, including the open-toed high heels that gave a peek at my recent, weekly pedicure. I couldn’t get enough of pampering myself. I deserved it.

  I paused to model on the sidewalk, turning in a slow, deliberate rotation with my arms outstretched.

  “You have, but you can tell me again.” I laughed, tossing my long, straight, silky hair. Even though I owned a salon and had a cosmetology license, I adored wearing wigs and had many. Today I rocked my Naomi Campbell look, with bangs and straight black hair that hit right below my shoulder blades. I looked fierce, if I must say so myself.

  Nobia and I walked farther, taking our time and enjoying the seasonal weather of September. “It’s such a beautiful day. I wouldn’t trade Georgia weather for anything or anyplace,” Nobia shared. At forty, she had a round, chubby baby face that made her look younger. She had on a blue maxi dress with dark sandals, and usually wore her hair in a dark brown body wave that stopped right at the nape of her neck. She was also a big girl, but I still had to work with her on her sense of style because she would wear a maxi dress every day of the week. I think she thought they concealed her size.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “On what?” she questioned, pausing in mid-step and looking at me curiously.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me again how gorgeous I look today.”

  Nobia burst into good-humored laughter. “Girl, you are too much.”

  “I know but you love me anyway.”

  As we opened the door to the restaurant and stepped inside, we were immediately greeted with “buenos dias” and cheerful smiles.

  “Where do you want to sit?” Nobia asked, surveying the remaining open booths. At the moment, the place was only half full, but it was quickly filling up as customers filtered in for Tuesday’s specials.

  “Let’s sit near the bay window, our usual spot, so that we can people watch and gossip,” I shared, scooting into a wide booth near a large, open window that displayed all the activity up and down the busy intersection.