This past year I was faced with one of the most trying obstacles that I have experienced in a very long time…birthing this baby. Although you hold in your hand this beautiful book, it took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, heartache, and pain to produce the sequel to
A Hustler’s Wife.

But before I tell you about the process of writing this book, I have to be
totally
honest with you and come clean about something that I’ve held in for a long time. My first novel, the book that put me on the map and went on to become a #1 bestseller—
A Hustler’s Wife
—was so dear to me because parts of the story were based on actual events in my very own life. There you have it! You heard it here first, straight out of the horse’s mouth.
And
…if you are a true Nikki Turner fan you’d know that the novel’s ending was only a fantasy, my fantasy. It breaks my heart to say that my Des didn’t come home, but at that time in my life that was the ending I wished for. I absolutely loved that ending and I know you did, too. I mean, you tell me what girl who has a man behind bars with a sentence equivalent to football numbers wouldn’t? But as you know, in life things don’t always happen when, where, and how you want them to. I may hold the power in the pen but sometimes no authority in my own reality.

Writing a sequel isn’t easy. A part of me wanted to postpone this book because I had another story that I was longing to write—
The Black Widow—
a book that I had on my heart big time! I could easily have written it in sixty days flat. However, I knew it was now or never and I’d given my word to you that the sequel to
A Hustler’s Wife
would be my next book, and I don’t make promises to break them.

So, I commenced to push this baby out. As I pushed and pushed, it wouldn’t come. I mean the story line was there but I just couldn’t fully focus to write it. It seemed like every possible curveball was coming my way. I had so much stress and confusion surrounding me. (I’m not going to bore you with the specifics, but don’t worry, one day I’ll give you the in-depth details between the pages of yet another Nikki Turner Original!)

I was convinced that this was just a storm in my life, and I had to stand the rain. So many nights I cried, asking God when this hurricane was going to leave my world. But I knew good and well that I was a survivor and had made it through much harsher conditions. The bottom line was that I wasn’t going to be a casualty of this storm, and I knew giving up wasn’t an option. No, not when the e-mails, letters, and calls were pouring in asking for this sequel. The only thing that I was really sure of was that I wasn’t going to disappoint my fans. To make a long story short: My back was up against the wall, the clock was ticking, the deadline to turn in my book had passed, and I needed a plan. There was only one place I could go to seek the right answers. I leaned on the One that I knew wouldn’t steer me wrong. I fell on my knees and begged God to remove this madness from my life, but if that wasn’t possible, to help it get resolved quickly, or at least remove it long enough so that I could get focused and start this book.

I don’t know if y’all are feeling me but if you don’t know the power of God, darling…let me be the first to share my testimony: After I put it in God’s hands, ten minutes later, what seemed to be a routine checkup call from my platonic friend Antonio Tarver turned out to be the answer to my prayer. He invited me to the first two weeks of his training camp in Vero Beach, Florida, to give me the solitude and peace I would need to write. Staying at Antonio’s lavish beach house was enough to clear my mind and get me focused so that I could do the damn thing. Two weeks later I returned home with over a third of this book completed, and about twelve pounds lighter thanks to Dudley Pierce, Antonio’s strength and conditioning coach. Dudley, if you are reading this you literally changed my life by putting me on the road to eating and exercising right.

But as soon as I returned,
Riding Dirty on I-95
dropped and then the I-95 tour started. Life on the road is always hard and not glamorous at all—don’t let anyone tell you different. And living out of a suitcase and promoting from damn near sunup to sundown leaves no time to write. Toward the end of the tour, I ended up getting sick (don’t worry, your girl made it through). The doctors sat my butt down, but how could I rest when my editor was calling me every single day, even Sundays, gently asking, “How’s the writing coming?”

I had to explain to her that nothing great was ever created overnight. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and fine wine only gets better with time. Shoot, it takes a baby nine months to develop and we definitely wanted this baby to meet its full potential. It may have taken thirty-seven days to write the first draft of
A Hustler’s Wife,
but it actually took years for the series of events that made up the story to come to a head. I wanted to let this baby go through all its trimesters and a premature birth wasn’t an option. My editor agreed with me and when I e-mailed chapters to her, I would title the electronic files as “hardest labor ever,” because it was indeed, and also so that she could keep the faith in me and the story. (I’m so glad that I did send the chapters over to her as I wrote them, because if I hadn’t, we would’ve lost the entire book. After I finished the book, my computer crashed, and my backup disk had an error on it. Thankfully, my editor was able to e-mail the chapters back to me. I lost all my information and e-mail addresses. If you haven’t heard from me or my fan club in a while it’s because I no longer have your e-mail address, so please e-mail me,
[email protected]
) All in all I was glad that I didn’t get sidetracked by the chaos or that I didn’t force the delivery of this baby. I wanted to feel proud of my creation, and most of all make sure that it was worth your wait. And if it took me another nine months to do it, then so be it! (I’m glad it didn’t though.)

I want to thank you so much from the depths of my soul and the bottom of my heart for buying my books. As long as I am a writer, I promise I will continue to push out the hottest Nikki Turner Originals that you’ve grown to love over the years. My prayer today is that you receive this one as you have all my babies and that you enjoy the fruits of my labor. Having you love this book is enough for me to know in my heart that all the pitfalls and perils that I endured while birthing this book were not in vain.

I can say it a million times over and over again and you will
never
know how much I do love you for changing my life! For saving my life! Thank you for embracing my craft, my talent, and the mere fact that I am able to do what I love to feed my children! And it is all possible because of YOU!

You have no idea, I’m so emotional right now! I’m crying, I’m sweating, my heart is beating fast as I reflect on the love you’ve given me from DAY ONE when
A Hustler’s Wife
was released! Tears are falling on the keyboard! I’m weeping, and my children hear me. They are outside my door knocking and inquiring about what’s wrong with me. I think I’ve written enough. I’m taking a deep breath and making the last push!

Here’s my new baby! I hope you love it as much as I do! I present to you the newest member of the Nikki Turner dynasty,
Forever a Hustler’s Wife
!

Forever Yours,

Nikki Turner

CHAPTER
1

A Million Damn Dollars

A
s Yarni Taylor entered the old courtroom and searched for a seat toward the front, she couldn’t help but overhear clients arguing with their attorneys as well as the chitchat of folks waiting for their loved ones’ cases to be heard. “I wish they’d hurry up and get this started, because I got to go to work,” one person said. Another asked, “So you think that Boo-boo gon’ come to court and testify on Freddie Boy?”

She tried to control the sway of her ample behind as she walked down the aisle, but all eyes were on her. Yarni wasn’t sure if it was the confidence she exuded or her exotic looks—almond-shaped hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and caramel skin so smooth you wanted to lick it—which were complemented by her cream-colored Tahari suit that, like a little red Corvette going a hundred miles per hour on the highway, hugged every curve. Diamond studs glistened in her ears, and a huge six-carat rock weighed down her left hand. She wasn’t a stranger to the courts. A suc cessful attorney, she had won many cases in the very room in which she was now taking a seat. This time, though, Yarni wasn’t there to defend a case.

If it wasn’t for all the bad luck, there would be no luck at all,
Yarni thought as she sat there trying to be strong, holding back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. The system had railroaded her man, Des, once again. The last time was almost fifteen years ago, but no matter the outcome, just like before, she was going to hold her man down through it all: rain, sleet, hail, or sunshine…bad, good, happy, or sad…win, lose, or draw. One thing was for certain, and two things were for sure: She had Des’s back, and he had hers—through hell or high water.

When Yarni first met Des, he was already a street legend, and she was just a high school girl who had been raised by a single mother. Her mother had given Yarni every opportunity that a girl like her could ever want, all in hopes of her growing up to be a strong, independent woman, but once she met Des, Yarni didn’t care about anything her mother had given her or instilled in her or any of it. Yarni and Des fell in love with each other hard, but their perfect relationship was put through the test of fire when Des was arrested and convicted for a murder he didn’t commit. For ten years after that, Yarni rode for her man, never losing hope, and eventually got his sentence overturned. Yarni later became a lawyer to help other minority men caught up in the wrath like Des had been. And now here they were again, facing another murder rap. Yarni sat on the edge of her seat while waiting for her husband’s case to be called. But first, another defendant was up for a bail bond hearing, temporarily distracting Yarni from thoughts of Des.

“Samuel Johnson, you are being charged with three counts of murder, threatening a witness, tampering with state’s evidence, conspiracy to commit murder, shooting in an occupied dwelling, possession of a firearm while a convicted felon,” the court clerk stated as she looked up at the man standing in front of her before taking a deep breath and continuing, “use of a firearm in commission of a felony, kidnapping, torture, abduction, malicious wounding, felonious assault, and use of a firearm near a school zone.”

Yarni thought the clerk should have taken a bow after putting her vocals through so much work. Instead, the clerk looked out into the packed courtroom, which was so quiet you could have heard a mouse pissing on the carpet. The sheer number of charges forced every single spectator to direct his or her undivided attention to this particular case, curious as to how one person could have so many indictments against him.
Damn, I haven’t heard anybody with that many charges since the Briley brothers,
Yarni thought, recalling a 1979 case involving brothers who were sentenced to death for an eight-month string of gruesome murders in Richmond.

“Your Honor, we’re here to ask for a bond for Mr. Johnson,” the defense attorney said. “He’s a father and a Little League coach.” The attorney walked around the oak table where he and his client were standing and approached the judge at the front of the courtroom. “He has always lived here. His roots are here, Your Honor.”

The judge’s hands were folded as he glared at the defendant through his glasses, which sat on the tip of his nose. Samuel Johnson fidgeted in his orange jumpsuit, his eyes never meeting the judge’s stern gaze. Just looking at the man, Yarni felt that Mr. Johnson was being taken for a ride. Instead of the nice trim or touch-up on the jailhouse braids most attorneys made sure their male defendants had before appearing in court, Samuel’s hair was in a nappylike ’fro. He hadn’t shaved, his goatee was raggedy, and it didn’t help that his fair skin accentuated his dark shades of hair. He turned around to glance into the audience and to make matters worse, his gray eyes were blinding, like sun rays around his pupils, making him appear almost devil-like.

The first thing I would have done was buy that man a pair of brown contact lenses,
Yarni shook her head at her thoughts.

The defense attorney was trying to pretend to have confidence, but because of the number of charges, he knew he really didn’t have a leg to stand on. He hadn’t even done the proper research to prepare for the hearing. What was the use? “Your Honor, he isn’t a flight risk.” The attorney went through the motions.

“I beg to differ,” the feisty prosecutor interjected, rising from his chair. “These are very serious charges, Your Honor. With serious consequences. There’s no reason for the defendant not to run.”

The judge looked at the defendant and then at his defense attorney and bluntly said, “No bond. Next case, please.”

The defense attorney turned, walked back behind the table, and began gathering his paperwork. “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to look his client in the eye. “I did all I could do.” When his client did not respond, he shrugged his shoulders and added, “I don’t know what you were expecting. With all those charges, you were fooling yourself thinking that a bond would come out of this.”

“I was expecting what the fuck you promised,” Samuel snapped. “You promised me a bond, motherfucker. You sold me and my girl a fucking dream.”

The bailiff was slowly walking over to escort Samuel Johnson out of the courtroom, and before anyone could stop him, Samuel spit on his attorney. Next, he drew back and punched his attorney in the eye. The lawyer fell to the floor holding his face. Snatching up a chair, Samuel screamed, “Succckkk my dick!” and hurled the chair at the judge. It missed, but as the judge was running for his chambers, his black toupee fell on the ground.

For a few minutes the courtroom was completely out of control, and although the deputies were trained to handle situations like this, they were shocked themselves and very slow to react. Two of the three deputies looked like they had been eating a few too many Twinkies, which was probably why they weren’t too swift on their feet.

Samuel charged toward his attorney, who had gotten up and was trying to make it to the door. Unfortunately, the attorney wasn’t the track star he used to be, so he wasn’t fast enough either. Samuel grabbed him by the neck and hit him three times in the back of the head before the deputies got a hold of him and pulled him away. The bystanders were in a frenzy. While Yarni didn’t agree with all of the defendant’s actions, she could understand his frustration. His lawyer appeared to have given up on him.

There was a brief recess not only to get the courtroom back in order but also to get the judge’s toupee back on and straight. Once all was calm, the bailiff announced the next case: “The state of Maryland versus Desmond Taylor.”

Yarni’s heart raced and skipped a few beats when the deputy sheriff brought in Des. He, too, had on a bright orange jumpsuit, but Des’s dark chocolate complexion, compact muscular body, and swagger made him stand out. Yarni’s heart melted as her eyes met Des’s for the first time in more than three weeks. The last time she saw him was when he jetted out of the hospital room after the birth of their first child, Desi Arnez Taylor.

“Your Honor, this defendant is being charged with the murder of his former attorney,” the prosecutor stated. “We recommend denying bail because this man is a serious flight risk.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor, but the prosecutor is mistaken,” said Mark Harowitz, Des’s new high-profile attorney. He was a commanding presence in his custom-made navy pinstripe suit and elaborate bow tie. His cockiness let everyone in the courtroom know that he was not some public pretender who was on the same payroll as the prosecutor. It wasn’t hard to imagine that his bank account held quite a few more zeroes than the judge’s.

“Desmond Taylor has a stable residence in Richmond, Virginia, where he was born and attended college,” Harowitz said.

The prosecutor stood and countered, “And Virginia was the place where he served a ten-year prison sentence for murder, Your Honor.”

Harowitz cleared his throat then calmly voiced, while holding his hundred-dollar ink pen, “A murder that he did not commit and for which he received an unconditional pardon.” He turned to look at the prosecutor. “He was robbed of ten years of his young life.”

“How ironic it is that two years after he is released from prison his attorney, who Mr. Taylor feels railroaded him, is murdered in cold blood,” the prosecutor responded. And we have evidence that the defendant was less than forty miles from the scene of the crime on the same day.”

Harowitz looked directly at the judge. “Technically this evidence as well as any mention of prior crimes is inadmissible in a bail hearing. We’re here only to prove that he isn’t a flight risk, which he isn’t, and to determine what is a reasonable amount for a bond,” he said calmly.

“My client has strong ties to the community. He has a newborn daughter and a large family that loves and supports him. He and his wife have a lucrative luxury-car dealership, which he manages himself. His wife is a very successful attorney, who is here today in the courtroom.” He turned and briefly made eye contact with Yarni; she offered a small smile to the judge before looking at Des. Des smiled at her, and her heart melted again.

“We’re not here to discuss his wife,” the prosecutor said in an irritated voice. “We’re here to discuss your client’s checkered past.”

Harowitz was about to let loose a verbal onslaught on the prosecutor, but the judge finally stepped in. “Sidebar.”

Both attorneys approached the judge’s bench.

“Fellas, this isn’t a boxing match.”

“Your Honor.” The prosecutor jumped in, determined to have the first say. “I’m making it known that this guy is an ex-offender and doesn’t deserve a bond.”

“Ex-offender?” Harowitz said. “No. He was railroaded in the previous case, and by law he’s indeed innocent until proven guilty.”

“Which I intend to do,” the prosecution said, lacking conviction.

“I’d like to see that happen when the only evidence you have is a measly gas receipt charged to his company credit card from some station forty-eight miles away from the murder scene. On top of that, any one of his twelve employees could have used the card to purchase gas. Where are your witnesses? Your exhibits?” Harowitz looked at the prosecutor, who seemed to be tongue-tied and unable to respond. “Cat got your tongue? Or better yet, did a law change and someone forgot to send me the memo? My client deserves a reasonable bail.”

The prosecutor looked to the judge, his Shriner buddy, for some help. “Your Honor, the only reasonable bail in this case is no bail.”

“I hear you both, and you both have good arguments.” The judge sighed. “Bail is going to be set at a million dollars.”

“Your Honor!” Harowitz exclaimed. “A million dollars? That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“That’s my ruling. It is what it is. Let’s not forget that I’m the judge, and I make the final decisions in this courtroom.” With that, he struck his gavel once and signaled with a nod for the attorneys to take their places back behind their tables.

“Thank you, Judge,” the prosecutor said as he walked away with a smile of victory on his face and a bounce in his step. Although his Shriner brother had set a bond, he had still, in effect, ruled in his favor. As far as the prosecutor and the judge were concerned, no black man besides an athlete or entertainer could ever make that kind of bail.

Both attorneys positioned themselves behind their respective tables facing the judge. When Des observed the big smile plastered on the prosecutor’s face, his first thought was that he was conquered, but his gut told him differently, and his gut was usually right. Harowitz didn’t give him any indication of what was said during the sidebar, so Des just focused in on the judge as he began to speak.

“Bail will be set at one million dollars cash.”

Chills went up Yarni’s spine, but she tried not to let the ruling affect her. She focused only on what the judge had to say. “The rules on this bail are as follows: You can put up one million dollars cash, or if you own a piece of property valued at least three times the one million dollars, that can be put up to secure your bail.”

At least there was a bond, so Yarni knew there was hope. She struggled to hold back her tears. She didn’t want to break down, not now at least, not in the courtroom. Des gazed over at her as he whispered in his attorney’s ear. Yarni quietly moved her lips to say “I love you,” and nodded, offering him a small smile, which Des returned.

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