A Good Man Read online

  Outstanding praise for the novels of J. J. Murray!

  I’M YOUR GIRL

  “Murray writes a gentle romance about cultural differences and deep commonalities in a unique tale about white/black relationships.”

  —Booklist

  “Humor and heartbreak are side by side . . . Murray movingly shows emotions . . . a wonderful book!”

  —Romantic Times

  ORIGINAL LOVE

  “Touching, soul-searching . . . not only entertaining, but enlightening as well.”

  —RAWSistaz

  SOMETHING REAL

  “Something Real is about a woman finding herself and finding her voice in a community too quick to judge. Renee and Jay was a promising debut. Something Real, which is a more mature and richer work, is even better.”

  —The Roanoke Times

  “Delightful! Sexy! Touching! Something Real is like a burst of sunshine. This release is definitely something special and something real! This is a story that readers must experience for themselves.”

  —Romance in Color

  RENEE AND JAY

  “A charming, funny romance and a promising debut . . . This Romeo and Juliet story is sweet and romantic with lively characters.”

  —The Roanoke Times

  “An update of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, with a twist.”

  —Essence

  “Renee and Jay is the interracial Romeo and Juliet for the new millennium . . . Renee and Jay is a great read, and I really could not stop reading it until I got to the last page.”

  —Shonell Bacon, editor of The Nubian Chronicles

  Books by J. J. Murray

  Renee and Jay

  Something Real

  Original Love

  I’m Your Girl

  Can’t Get Enough of Your Love

  Too Much of a Good Thing

  The Real Thing

  She’s the One

  I’ll Be Your Everything

  A Good Man

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Good Man

  J. J. Murray

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Outstanding praise for the novels of J. J. Murray!

  Books by J. J. Murray

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Life is a romantic business. . . .

  but you have to make the romance, . . .

  —Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

  . . . see that ye love one another with a pure heart fervently.

  —1 Peter 1:22

  Prologue

  “Bob, we’re in serious trouble.”

  “What’s wrong now, Larry? We have the mansion rigged and most of the Crew moved in, don’t we?”

  “We’re short one Nubian princess and one white guy.”

  “What? I thought we had our princess under contract! I thought it was a done deal! Where is she?”

  “She bailed on us and took a gig with Survivor instead. More exposure, she said. They start filming on Wetang Island off Indonesia next week. Wetang! What a name!”

  “They chose Indonesia? Are they insane? After all the earthquakes, terrorist attacks, tsunamis, and volcano eruptions?”

  “It does add to the element of danger.”

  “But we begin filming next week, Larry! Did you call the other semifinalists?”

  “I did. One’s doing Big Brother as their token woman of color. One got a nice part in Tyler Perry’s next Madea movie, and our last hope decided to play Lady Macbeth in a community theater production of Macbeth in Racine, Wisconsin.”

  “She chose community theater in Racine, Wisconsin, over reality TV? What was she thinking?”

  “Lady Macbeth is a plum role, even if it’s in Racine, Wisconsin, in January.”

  “You offered all of them more money, right?”

  “Of course. I almost doubled it. Still no takers.”

  “They’re insane! They get to stay in a multi-million-dollar mansion for free, eat for free, wear clothes they couldn’t possibly afford in real life, go on all-expenses-paid dates to interesting places and restaurants they couldn’t even get reservations for, and get fifty grand on top of all that, not to mention all the exposure they can use to make even more money later.”

  “It is indeed strange. I guess some women just don’t know what’s good for them.”

  “What about the surfer, what was his name, Rip?”

  “Rip is out surfing in Australia. I called him, and he said, ‘The waves are wicked rad sweet Down Under this time of year, bro.’ That was a direct quote. I assume he’s riding barrels and cutting sick off South Stradbroke Island as we speak.”

  “I hope a shark tears his legs off. He wouldn’t have lasted past the second episode anyway.”

  “And we would have needed subtitles for him. He spoke surfer.”

  “Geez, Larry, what are we gonna do? Are we still getting hits from the Web site?”

  “A few strays here and there, but no white guys. We’ll spam the Internet until we find another one.”

  “And now we’re reduced to spamming for contestants. Why’d we call the show Hunk or Punk? No one wants to be a punk.”

  “It rhymes, and our advertisers love the name.”

  “I liked Beefcake or Cupcake better. Even Hero or Goat would have been better.”

  “The focus group chose Hunk or Punk.”

  “I hate focus groups. They’re inherently stupid, and they eat too many doughnuts.”

  “But our T-shirt sales are picking up.”

  “Our what?”

  “We’ve been selling reversible Hunk or Punk T-shirts. When you want to be a hunk, you wear the hunk side out. When you want to be a punk, you wear the—”

  “I get the concept, Larry,” Bob interrupted. “But what good are T-shirts if there’s no show? What are we going to do?”

/>   “I’ll handle it, Bob. You just make sure the mansion is ready and the Crew is prepped and primed to be hunky and punky.”

  “But where are we going to get a Nubian princess on such short notice? And where will we find a white guy who’s willing to be humiliated on national TV?”

  “Bob, this is America. There’s always some woman who thinks she’s a princess. Look at Bristol Palin. And there’s always a white guy who likes to be humiliated. Look at Al Gore.”

  “Oh, yeah . . .”

  Chapter 1

  It started with a phone call from Sonya Richardson’s publicist.

  “Sonya, how’s it going?”

  I haven’t heard from Michelle Hamm in five years, Sonya thought. “Fine, Michelle. How have you been? A better question is where have you been?”

  “I expected only to leave you a message.”

  Sonya sighed. Michelle was infamous for not answering her questions.

  “I am so surprised that you answered, Sonya,” Michelle said. “It’s ten o’clock on a Friday night. Why aren’t you out with your bad self?”

  Because I don’t have a “bad self” anymore, not that I ever had a bad self. “I lead a quiet life now. You know that.”

  Just me in my suburban Charlotte, North Carolina, home on my suburban couch in my suburban great room, watching my new flat-screen TV bought at a suburban electronics store. Wow. This is the first phone call in days that hasn’t asked me for a donation. Hmm. Michelle’s on the line. I may be donating my time somewhere soon.

  “Let me guess,” Sonya said. “There’s some WNBA function I just have to attend.”

  “Nope,” Michelle said. “WB is doing a new show called Hunk or Punk.”

  She’s calling me to discuss what’s going to be on TV. “And what does this have to do with me?”

  “You’re single.”

  She has to remind me. Ten hard years in the WNBA, playing for two Olympic teams, traveling around the world several times, taking mission trips to Haiti and New Orleans in the off-season. I had no time for a man. I barely had time for myself.

  “What’s your point, Michelle?” I have my own TV shows to watch.

  “They’re looking for a strong, attractive, literate, intelligent black woman just like you.”

  “No, they aren’t. Not on shows like that.”

  “They are. Wouldn’t you like to have twelve hunky men fighting over you?”

  “No.”

  “The actual word is ‘woo.’ These men are going to ‘woo’ you on national TV.”

  Woo? Noo. “And you thought of me?”

  “I could only think of you, Sonya.”

  “Gee, thanks. Um, you’re still single, aren’t you, Michelle?”

  “Yes, but I am not—”

  “And you’re strong, attractive, literate, and intelligent, right?”

  “Of course, but I don’t look anything like you. I’m thick in some spots and much thicker in others. Some spots I haven’t seen in years, not even with a mirror. You’re cute. You probably still have some baby fat. Unless you’ve let yourself go.”

  “No, I’m still in shape.” I just don’t have anyone to admire my shape except me. “What makes you think I would go on TV to find a date?”

  “Are you married, shacking up, or dating anyone now?”

  “No.” Loneliness is next to godliness. Most of the time.

  “Are you even trying?”

  “No.”

  “Then maybe you have to go on TV to get a date.”

  Sonya shook some cobwebs from her head. “That makes no sense.”

  “Sure it does. It ain’t happenin’ with what you’re doing now, right? Why not roll the dice and see what happens and get paid to do it at the same time.”

  Because I don’t need it to happen! “Look, I’m not hurting for money, and I don’t need a man, okay? I’m happily single.” And my couch needs me to keep it warm. My remote control whimpers when I’m not around. My TV sighs whenever I don’t turn it on.

  “C’mon, Sonya. No one is really single and happy. If it weren’t for my cat and an occasional hookup, I’d be miserable. Why don’t you live a little? Go on the show. Let your hair down. Have some fun for a change.”

  I’ve never had much hair to let down. “No.”

  “Well, look at it another way. Do we really want another diva with an attitude representing us on TV? This is our chance to show America a real black woman for a change.”

  Now that is tempting. I am sick of what’s on TV for the most part. Reality shows are often faker than regular shows. It’s why I watch Animal Planet and Man v. Food just about every day. Those are real shows. I mean, who doesn’t want to know what parasites are living inside the human body? And who doesn’t eat? And sometimes the shows seem to overlap. I’ll be watching something about tapeworms on Animal Planet, and then I’ll wonder if the host for Man v. Food has a tapeworm that helps him eat so much. How many shows can do that overlap?

  “Earth to Sonya.”

  “I was just thinking about . . .” I can’t tell her I was thinking about tapeworms. “I was just wondering why you think I’m a real black woman.”

  “You’re a success story without the extensions, the attitude, and the diamond-studded fingernails. You grew up in Jersey as an orphan in the ’hood, got raised by your saintly grandmama, you were the first in your family to graduate college, your college team won the national championship twice, you were an all-American in college three times, your team made the NCAA tournament all four years you were there—”

  “I know my bio, Michelle,” Sonya interrupted. “What’s your point?”

  “You’re not only beautiful—you’re actually interesting, unlike a lot of the beautiful people on TV. If I were the average American couch potato, I’d want to get to know you better.”

  “I am a couch potato.” And loving every lazy minute of it. “Couch potatoes are not interested in the lives of other couch potatoes.” If there were a market for it, it would already be on TV.

  “Sonya, you are the ultimate role model for black women. TV needs you.”

  TV needs me about as much as I need TV. Wait a minute. I need TV, mainly to help me sleep. Does that mean TV needs me to help other people sleep?

  “Michelle, please listen,” Sonya said. “I am not a role model. I played ball. I earned my living playing with a ball. That doesn’t make me—”

  “You’re a role model,” Michelle interrupted. “Little girls looked up to you.”

  Right. I’m too short for them to look up to me. “And I’m forty. Those shows are for much younger women. I don’t have a chance of being a Nubian princess.” Who thinks up that noise anyway? Nubian princess? Why not Nubian queen? TV is always downgrading black women.

  “Forty is the new twenty.”

  “Not to a twenty-year-old,” Sonya said. Or to a forty-year-old with a reluctant knee, elbows that pop for no reason, and toes that rarely warm up.

  “You could be glamorous, you know.”

  “My glamorous days are over.” Not that I had any in the first place. When they put makeup on me for those WNBA calendars, I felt like a clown. “Don’t they have an age limit for shows like that?”

  “You just made the cutoff.”

  How nice. “Thank you for thinking of me, really, but no thanks.”

  “Um, I already sent in a few of your old headshots and your bio.”

  Sonya shot off the couch. “What?”

  “And the producers are very interested in what they’ve seen. They want to meet with you soon. As in, as soon as you can get to LA. That kind of soon.”

  The witch! “You already signed me up?”

  “It’s what I do, right? And I didn’t exactly sign you up. I just sent a few pictures and your bio. No harm in that.”

  “Michelle, you haven’t really been my publicist for the last five years,” Sonya said. She turned back to her TV and tuned it to The Food Channel, muting the sound. “And Michelle, those headshots have to be a
t least ten years old.”

  “They’re actually fifteen years old.”

  Geez, I was still a kid! “But that’s not how I look now. You’re misrepresenting me.”

  She’s still misrepresenting me. She tried to paint me as some “bad girl from Jersey” back in the day to increase my salary, as if being “fierce” would put more people in the seats. No one bought that mess. Nike wouldn’t have signed me to represent their shoes if I were a “bad girl” from anywhere.

  “I’ll bet you haven’t aged a day.”

  I have aged many days, and a few more during this conversation. “Michelle, I have several body parts heading south, I have wrinkles, my evil knee cracks—”

  “And all of that can be fixed or hidden,” Michelle interrupted. “They are really interested in you, Sonya. They are willing to pay you a lot of money to take the role.”

  The what? “The role? I’m playing myself, right? How is that a role?”

  “You know what I mean. You’ll be playing the role of the woman in waiting, the role of the damsel in the castle waiting for her knight in shining armor, the role of—”

  “The desperate middle-aged woman afraid of dying alone,” Sonya interrupted. Ouch. That hurt to say. It must be somewhat true if it hurts me like that.

  “It’s funny you should mention desperate, Sonya. The producers actually sounded desperate when I talked to them.”

  “So let them remain desperate. I’m not desperate.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman alone on a Friday night.”

  “And I’ll be a beautiful woman alone on a Saturday night, too.” And on Sundays and Wednesdays, I’ll be a beautiful woman getting my prayer and praise on in church. “I like my life, Michelle. I like quiet. I didn’t know how necessary quiet was to me until I had some quiet. Silence is indeed golden. You know I didn’t like all that noise and hype. I never liked doing post-game interviews or having any microphones jammed into my face or cameras following my every twitch. And now you want me to go on TV for what, months? That’s not me at all. You know this.”