Heartbreak, friendship and scandal...

COMING SEPTEMBER 23, 2008!

Served Up on a Tray
By Darlene Denise

ISBN: 978-0-9818094-8-9
Xpress Yourself Publishing, LLC
www.xpressyourselfpublishing.org/book_served.htm

Washington, DC marketing mogul, R'Tist Hayes has it all—success, a thriving business, prestige and no drama.

With ulterior motives that could shatter their friendship, her business partner, handsome Quentin Simond, introduces R'Tist to Tray Bishop, 1st round NBA draft pick for the Washington Wiz, and the most sought after bachelor in the world.

After becoming Mrs. Tray Bishop, the mask comes off and R'Tist is confronted by the real Tray Bishop, as she endures his physical abuse and cheating ways.

Determined to free herself from the emotional jail built by Tray, R'Tist finds that she was merely a pawn in this game of love and basketball.

Who is Darlene Denise?


DARLENE DENISE is the newest addition to XYP, with her debut novel, Served Up on a Tray, to be released in 2009.

With twenty years of experience in entertainment, promotions, public relations, marketing and event management, in 1990, Darlene founded six degrees mgt., an entertainment/marketing firm. Personal service and strict attention to detail has become the trademark of six degrees mgt., spreading the company’s impeccable reputation nationwide. six degrees mgt. provides an array of management services, including commercial marketing, marketing programs, event management, media relations, philanthropic consultation and personal assistance.

Currently, Darlene is the Executive Director for Big Tigger's Street Corner Foundation, working to eradicate HIV/AIDS in the community.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

"Taxi, taxi!” I yelled, as I ran down Pennsylvania Avenue in my new Christian Louboutin sandals. "Goddamnit," I fussed as my heel slid down into a crack.
I hate the cabs in this city. It's a ton of damn cabs in this city, and it always fucking seems like they are at lunch and shit. I continued walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, determined not to be late for my meeting with Quentin Simond. Big things were about to happen for me. My inroad to being a part of one of the biggest corporate umbrellas to hit this city. I had to woo this man over by working the skills that I definitely knew I had.
As I approached the corner of 13th and Pennsylvania, I noticed a cab stopped at the light. I tapped on the partially opened window and made eye contact with the driver. He motioned with his thumb for me to get in the backseat, and I was too thankful. The light turned green before I had a chance to get the door completely open. I swear it felt like this man had his foot on the gas and was about to take off.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, immaturely as I quickly climbed in the back. "Ruth Chris, up Connecticut, please." I smoothed my linen skirt and caught him peeking at me through the rear view mirror.
"Nice day," he remarked as he turned down the stereo.
"Yeah, it is," I replied, not really interested in any conversation.
He continued to dart his eyes back and forth from the road to me. I wanted to slide over on the other side of the cab because I felt like he should have been shoving quarters in the plastic slot that separated us. Just drive!.
Before he could mutter another word, I pulled my cell phone out of my bag and pretended to be answering it. This was something I was becoming good at doing. God bless whoever invented the vibration feature on cell phones. You know, in case you’re trying to pull that “I'm on the phone shit” and somebody really called you and the shit rings!
I carried on my imaginary conversation until we hit the circle. I noticed that traffic was stalled, so I leaned over, looked at the meter, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and shook it at him.
"Thanks," I said as he reached around in amazement.
"I can drop you at the front," he said, trying to get a glimpse at my cleavage.
"No, I can walk. I don't mind," I said disgustedly. I snatched the latch on the door and stepped out. As I walked past the passenger window, I put an extra switch in my step. You wanna look at something do you, look at this, you fucking pervert!
As I walked into the foyer of the restaurant, I heard a horn blow. Thinking it may have been Quentin; I turned and noticed that it was the cab driver. He had slowed down, rolled down the window and was waving this little bitch wave. I scowled up my face, rolled my eyes and continued into the restaurant.
Quentin was standing to the left of the entrance speaking to a striking man. I slowly walked up behind him and soaked in the features of the man that stood directly in front of him, who was gazing past him and right at me. I stood beside Quentin and smiled.
"Hello, hope I'm not too late," I managed to say.
"No, baby, you right on time," Quentin said as he hugged me.
Quentin was handsome and distinguished. Rich, too. He was the former Vice-President of one of the major cable conglomerates who was now venturing out to do his own thing. The true story, however, is that the "powers that be" wanted to sell the company and new owners wanted to clean house.
"Good, because I think there is a cab strike," I said with a fake chuckle.
"No problem, sweetheart. Let me introduce to you Tray," he said as he pulled me toward the gentleman. "Tray, this is R’Tist."
"R’Tist, now that's different," Tray said as he gently shook my hand.
"Thanks," I replied. "My mother was an aspiring one.” I made eye contact with Tray, wanting to look deep down in his soul, but at the same time, recognizing whom I was talking to. "Tray Bishop?" I asked, just to be sure.
He smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah, that's me, trying to be incognito, but they made me take my hat off in here.”
"Yeah, Tray's going to join us for lunch," Quentin cut in. "I ran into him last night at the Zone and invited him. You don't mind, do you?”
"Of course not," I quickly answered. I was going to love every minute of this.
Quentin walked over to the hostess, said something to her and then motioned for us to follow them. Tray extended his hand, as if to say after you, and I gladly obliged. I could feel him looking. I didn't give him too much, because I'm sure that he gets plenty of that.
Tray Bishop was what the league considered the next Jordan. He had the moves, the style, the grace, the courage, the heart and the game. He was the most sought after bachelor in the league. Women were moving to DC just to get a chance to meet him. Hoping that they'd be the one. Black, White, Chinese, Puerto Rican, you name it they were after him. Season tickets for the DC Wiz sold out nine hours after they announced that Tray had signed on. It was phenomenal. And, there I was, someone who had never been star struck, having lunch with him.
As we walked to the table, every head turned. You could tell that every man in a business suit wanted to jump up and yell, "Can I have your autograph," but they wouldn't dare. The women did double takes.
Yeah, I thought to myself. Eat and weep. I wondered if anyone noticed the sly smile that had formed across my face.
The hostess sat us in a private booth located in the rear of the restaurant. Quentin thanked her and she handed us our menus and exited the booth, closing the velvet curtains separating us from the other patrons. Tray reached for a chair and pulled it out for me.
"Thank you," I smiled.
"My pleasure," he replied, as he sat directly across from me. We briefly exchanged glances and smiles before Quentin sat down.
"Now, I don't know if this is going to be a business lunch or a social lunch," Quentin said as he opened his menu and looked over at me. "You want to talk business?" he asked.
"Well," I thought loudly. I wanted to get this shit done. I have been chasing your ass for three months. "It's up to you, Quentin."
"Naw, it's up to you, Babygirl. I don't have much to say. Everything that we have talked about is cool with me and I'm down with it. I want us to make this happen.”
Before he could finish his thought, two waiters peeked through the curtain and in at us. Quentin looked over and put his finger up as to say “one second,” but it was obvious that they weren't there to take an order.
"Can I help you?” Quentin asked, clearly agitated. The two waiters shook their heads quickly and closed the curtain. Quentin looked over at Tray and chuckled.
"Maybe you can get our shit free," he laughed. Tray shook his head and stared at the menu, while at the same time taking glances at me.
I reached out for Quentin's hand and rested my fingertips on his fingers. "It's cool, Quentin. I guess we can talk about everything I have when we meet Thursday night," I said, wanting to get some clarification that I was “in.”
"Yeah," he replied. "That's cool. Perfect actually, ‘cause I want the group to know that you are now an intricate part of this whole thing so we can move forward. I already told them about you, and what you are bringing to the table. I want to keep this shit small, ‘cause the more niggas involved, the more money that got to be split up and we ‘bout to make some money," he smiled, putting me at ease.
Anything that Quentin Simond had his hands in turned to gold. He had already taken over the marketing for Johnson and Johnson, Reebok and Coca-Cola. But my ideas to hit the urban market with local and national urban wear campaigns was going take that shit to another level. My idea was to take the male dominated urban gear market and put a female twist on it. Sex sells, and taking sex to the next level, and making it sexy and classy, would take that company over the top.
"Finally," Quentin sighed, as what I assumed to be our “real” waiter walked through the curtain. "Can you do me a favor?" he continued. "Can you keep everyone out of here?” The waiter nodded her head, apologized, took our orders and walked out.
"So Tray, what's up man? What's gonna happen this season? I ain't ‘bout spending no money on no losing shit," Quentin said, as he sipped his water.
Tray laughed and leaned back in his chair. Damn, this man. He leaned forward and picked up his glass of water, took a sip, placed the glass back on the table and looked directly at me.
"I never lose at anything I put my heart, sweat and tears into, Quentin. You know that, man."
I swear he was looking right through me. I picked up my glass of water and realized that my hand was trembling. What the hell? I took a sip and put the glass back down, silently praying that I wouldn't spill any, my damn hand was shaking so hard.
"Yeah, mothafucka, that's what YOU say. But you one fuckin’ man. Those brothas on that goddamn team sorry as shit. They talking ‘bout they gonna make some changes. When?" ranted Quentin.
"Man, it takes time. You can't change stuff overnight. You know that yourself," Tray replied.
Quentin waved his hand at Tray, snatched his napkin off of the table and placed it on his lap. "You sound like one of those bitches giving a news conference. Fuck that shit," he said. "Let's make a deal," he continued as he leaned in toward Tray. Tray mechanically followed suit and placed his napkin on his lap. He leaned into Quentin.
"What's that?" Tray asked.
Quentin touched his nose and darted his eyes toward the curtain. He lowered his voice as if the room was tapped.
"Y'all mothafuckas lose; you give me my fuckin’ money back for my season tickets. How ‘bout that shit right there?” With that, they both burst into laughter, and I felt myself laughing right along with them.
"Fuck you, Quentin," Tray replied. "Like you paying for that shit anyway. That's some corporate shit you write off on your goddamn taxes, man. Who you think you foolin’?”
Lunch arrived and we all ate and talked. Tray and I took glances at each other every time we could. I couldn’t believe that I was feeling and acting like this. Out of all the ballers and entertainers that I know, why the hell was this man makin' my drawers wet. I didn't like the feeling at all. I felt like I was losing myself and I needed to regain control.
We finished up, Tray paid the bill and we were on our way out of Ruth Chris, when a patron finally worked up the nerve to ask Tray for an autograph. He willingly stopped and signed it. He shook the fan’s hand, shook his wife's hand and we headed toward the door.
The valet took Quentin and Tray's valet tickets and we talked as they waited for their cars. I looked down at my watch and realized that it was damn near rush hour and I had to catch a cab back to my sister’s job so she could take me to pick up my car from the dealership.
"Hey," I said as I stepped up to Tray and Quentin, interrupting their conversation. "I gotta catch a cab back downtown to my sister's job–”
"I'll drop you off,” Tray interjected, before I could finish my sentence. I have to go to the Dome anyway."
"Okay," I said sheepishly. My heart began fluttering, especially when Tray softly hooked his finger around mine and we both waved Quentin off. My finger stayed entwined in his until we walked over to where the valet parked his car. Before the valet had a chance to get to the passenger door, Tray had it opened. His hand brushed the lower part of my back as I slid into the soft leather seat of his S600 Sedan.
I watched as Tray shook the valet's hand, giving him a tip. He climbed his six-four frame into the car and the seat immediately adjusted for his stature. He glanced over at me, winked, smiled and shifted the car into drive. As we eased out onto Connecticut Avenue, he turned on the stereo, but turned down the volume. He then lifted the top of the center compartment and pulled out his cell phone. He slid it down in the hands free stand and turned it on. As we drove, I listened to eight messages that he had received since we were in the restaurant. Three were from his agent, two from his father, one from his brother and two from women. One named Les and another named Karen. He saved every message except the one from Karen.
I kept my eyes forward, wondering why he was playing these messages aloud, especially the two from the women. My face remained expressionless as I attempted to mouth the words from the song playing on the radio. I didn't want to seem as if I was really paying attention.
Tray reached over and touched my hand with his. "That's a beautiful ring," he complimented.
I lifted my left hand and looked at the ring on my finger. It belonged to my grandmother.
"Thank you," I replied. I placed my hand on my lap and looked out of my window.
"Why are you so quiet?" He turned the radio completely off.
"Me?" I pointed to myself. No, dumb ass, the bitch sitting beside you.
He laughed a little and looked in my direction as we stopped at the light. Damn, it's like he's taking the scenic route. "Who else would I be talking too? Why are you so nervous?”
"I'm not nervous," I stuttered. "I just don't have much conversation because I really don't know you."
"Well, that's how people get to know one another, through conversation. But if you don't wanna talk to me, then I guess we'll just keep riding because I don't know where you have to go," he said as he pulled off from the light.
I laughed softly too myself and said, "My sister works at the court. It is down the street from the Dome."
"Is that where your car is?"
"No, my car is at the dealer. She's going to drive me out there."
"What dealership?”
"Land Rover, in Greenbelt."
"I'll take you, just tell me where Reenbelt is."
"It's Greenbelt, with a G," I laughed. "And thank you, but you don't have to do that. I don't want to put you out.” I looked out of the window as we headed down 7th Street. When the hell did we get on 7th Street?
"I don't mind, really. To be honest, I'd like to spend some time with you. You know, trying to break the communication ice," he smiled.
I looked over at him and he had this stupid ass grin on his face. "But don't you have to stop past the Dome?"
"Yeah, for a second, then we can go out to Reenbelt, with a G.” We both laughed.