GHETTO SUPERSTAR Read Online Free PDF

pointed to the sign. “Damn, they got VIP in the Chicken Shack?”
    They had a little more than a half hour before they were to perform, so Fabiola sat with the rest of the band for a while in a little sitting room the owner had set up for them. Platters of chicken lined the tables. Fabiola had never in her life seen chicken wings that huge.
These people must be shooting them birds up with steroids
, she thought.
    Boonie jumped into a plate of the chicken first thing, sucking bones so hard he could have been doing a commercial for the establishment. “Damn, this barnyard pimp is good as a mug,” he squealed.
    “Fab?” Jack, the trumpet player, called out with his mouth full. “Fab, you gotta get you some of these wings.”
    “Hell yeah, Fab. This shit right here is gooder than a mutha,” Keys insisted.
    “I'm afraid to try it,” she said. “The way y'all acting, they might've battered it in crack or something.”
    Ricky nibbled his lip when she mentioned crack.
    “Just give it a try,” the drummer said.
    “Okay, I'll try it.” She picked up one of the wings off of the platter and looked at it. It was damn near the size of a turkey wing. After taking about three bites, Fabiola decided that it was good all right—good and greasy. “Did they bring us any bottled water?”
    “Nope, but they sent us plenty of this corn liquor.” Tommy, the bass player, held up a plastic gallon jug that was more than three-fourths of the way full.
    “I'm going to go and see if I can find a water fountain somewhere around here then.”
    “I'll go with you, Fab,” Greg, the sax player, insisted. “Don't want to let you out in that buy-one-get-one-free-chicken-special crowd by yourself.”
    Greg and Fabiola made their way through the thick crowd. Hands down, Fabiola was the baddest chick in the club. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe country boys just got down like that, but dudes were pushing up on Fabiola like meat-starved bears. Jaws dropped and mouths drooled; it didn't matter.
    “You wanna dance?” One clown grabbed her hand.
    “No thanks,” she said with a smile.
    “Can I talk to you?” another asked.
    “I don't think my man would like that.” She smiled at Greg, who gave the guy an intimidating stare. Although Greg was as sweet as a peach, with a voice soft as six-hundred-count thread linen, his 350-something-pound physique was definitely threatening.
    “Sorry, man, I wasn't trying to get yo woman.”
    “I understand,” Greg said in his soft voice. “She's fine, ain't she?”
    One dude, who wore a purple suit, was checking out Fabiola real hard from across the room. He had two women with him, but they must not have been enough, because the thirst for Fabiola was evident in his eyes. Fabiola gave him a once-over; the purple suit was hideous.
    She finally found her bottled water at the bar, where she was greeted by one of the assistant managers.
    “We've been so busy tonight that I haven't had a chance to come down, meet you, and say hi, as well as show you to your dressing room.” As they walked back, he said, “I know it's not much but it is somewhere you can change in private, away from the men,” the assistant manager said.
    “Thank you so much,” Fabiola said, almost bowing, grateful that the club could accommodate her in this way.
    As soon as she opened the door to her “dressing room,” she was struck by an overwhelming aroma of lemon Lysol, which camouflaged the odor of the smoke-filled club. No chicken smell. “Thank God,” she said out loud. A breath of fresh air, finally—even if it did come out of a bottle.
    Fabiola's dressing room was normally the employee's rest-room. They had brought in a folding table covered with a white lace cloth. Resting on the table was a mirror, a pitcher of water, and a vase with two yellow roses placed inside.
How sweet
, she thought, smelling the beautiful flowers. On the back of the door was a full-length mirror as well as a hook to hang her clothes on. Ten of