Falling Into Grace Read Online Free PDF

together. So when Camille hit it big with all that fame and money, things naturally got worse. Money only magnifies relationship problems.
    â€œI gotta go, Camille. Text me your address. And call me when you get the package.”
    Strike two and three at the same time. If she couldn’t talk Alexis, who was by far the most forgiving of the Sweet Treats, into rekindling the fire, she sure wasn’t going to be able to get through to Tonya, even though she lived less than twenty miles away and was in the best position to meet.
    Camille set her phone on the coffee table and focused on the nightly news. A reporter blared the misfortune of an old man who’d lost his lottery jackpot to a store clerk who stole and cashed his winning ticket. Camille had seen his story on television before, but now, after talking to Kyra, she could feel his pain. Her own future had been stolen by ... well, according to Kyra and Alexis, by Camille herself.
    In their version of the split, Camille was to blame. Could she help it if the fans wanted her upstage? And how could Darrion have been Tonya’s man if he didn’t agree?
    â€œI’m not going out like that.” Camille closed her eyes, leaned over, and laid her head on the couch’s pleather armrest. She pulled her feet under her behind and grabbed the remote control. She flipped to her favorite cable channels, courtesy of someone in the building’s box-rigging skills.
    Where would she be without all the hookups available in the hood? Humph. Probably someplace better, in a position to afford the authentic versions of all the free, reduced, and slightly inferior products she haggled for just outside the iron-barred beauty-supply house.
    Enough, enough, enough.
    Camille jumped off the couch and fixed herself a bowl of cereal so she could think. Plan A, the reunion scheme, hadn’t worked. She needed another idea. Well, actually, Alexis had already given it to her. A solo career. Yes, she was dirt old as far as the industry went, but every once in a while, a miracle happened for an older singer. It happened for that British woman, Susan Boyle.
    Somebody had to break the age ceiling in American music. Might as well be Camille.
    Cap’n Crunch hit the spot, and the recreation center’s WiFi would soon light the way toward an agent. Camille grabbed her no-questions-asked laptop she’d traded for three autographed CDs and a hundred dollars cash at the barber shop. The serial number had been completely scratched off, and she could sign on to her laptop only as a guest. Truth be told, she didn’t tap into too many systems because she wondered if, someday, the computer might get traced through an Internet connection and she’d have to surrender it to authorities for prosecution purposes.
    The Medgar Evers center, however, was probably a safe place for tapping in. Dallas police officers had far better things to do than chase down hot laptops. She hoped.
    Camille claimed an empty table near an outlet and logged on. She googled B-list artists’ names along with the word “agent.” She guessed most industry professionals who were already working with famous clients didn’t need her. They weren’t desperate for real talent. They’d already discovered their cash cows. The B-listers, however, were still hungry. They were wheelin’ and dealin’, hustlin’ to be noticed, bringing fresh artists to producers and label executives. These people were probably ripe for the picking.
    Next, she googled the agents’ names and started a list of phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and physical addresses for possible leads. She managed to collect fifteen names of potential agents before the most rude bunch of teenagers ever, two boys and two barely dressed girls, plopped themselves down at the next table and started rapping, complete with table drums and a low whine from one of the girls.
    â€œI know you think you got swag, you think you