GHETTO SUPERSTAR Read Online Free PDF Page B

the band's promotional flyers were taped to the wall.
    Fabiola quickly transformed herself into a performer. Her cocoa-brown skin was set off by a red one-shoulder Tarzan-style minidress. Her sexy red stiletto pumps were fierce and their silver heels gave an extra four inches to her five-foot-three-inch frame.
    Ricky knocked on her door on his way to the stage. “Almost ready?”
    “Yup, go break a leg, I got ya back,” she responded to Ricky.
    As she painted her lips, Fabiola could hear the crowd singing along with Ricky as he sang his old hit. She could tell by the vibe that they were dancing along as well. Then Ricky tried to slide in some of the new material he'd been working on. That's where he started to lose the crowd. Matter of fact, that's where he always lost the crowd. Even the people in North Kakilaki weren't feeling Ricky's new shit. It was a crying shame; he couldn't even sway the country folks.
    The
boos
were Fabiola's cue to hit the stage. She took one quick final look at herself in the full-length mirror and was ready to take on the crowd at the Chicken Shack. Ricky and the band needed her bad.
    The band played her introductory medley in the background. “Introducing to you … for the first time ever at the Chicken Shack … Fabiolaaaahh … Maaayys!”
    The crowd didn't know her from an ant on the sidewalk, so Fabiola's name meant nothing to them. The women didn't care how beautiful she was and the men were too drunk to notice. She was going to have to win the crowd over with her voice. She began kicking a few riffs just to warm up. The audience started to pay a little bit more attention. And then she turned it up a notch or two. She broke out a pre–Bobby Brown vintage Whitney Houston note, holding it for what seemed like forever. The whole place went bananas. The crowd didn't sit down until she left the stage, dancing and feeding the tip jar all the while.
    After the show was over, the whole band sat in the back of the club shaking hands with the patrons, making small talk, and autographing photos. The lines were pretty long.
    A woman walked up to Fabiola and said, “I saw you making eye contact with my man the entire time you was singing, trying to be Aretha. Boo, you ain't Aretha.”
    “Excuse me?” Fabiola looked up at the lady. She looked like she had piled a bottle of Vaseline on her face and probably had a razor blade hidden somewhere behind those big gold teeth that guarded the inside of her mouth.
    “Don't play dumb now. I saw yo ass looking at him,” she said.
    Before Fabiola could respond, Greg stood up, and then Mr. Purple Suit walked up with a girl on one arm and the other empty.
    “Baby, I was looking for you,” he said to the gold-teeth-having, Vaseline-smeared woman.
    Her tone changed and she looked as if she had been busted. “I'm right here, honey. I was just trying to get this photo autographed for you, that's all—since I know you liked the singer girl so much.”
    Mr. Purple winked at Fabiola and walked off with both of his arm pieces.
    “I thought we were going to have to beat up a bitch.” Greg always tried to make Fabiola smile.
    “I wasn't afraid of horse teeth. I could've taken her if it came down to it,” she said and smiled. “I'm not just another pretty face, ya know?”
    “Oh, I know 'bout all that. Shorty looked like she might've grew up sparring with pit bulls, but you sho wasn't backing down from her.”
    “She was tripping from the get-go. I wasn't looking at no man wearing no bright-ass cheap purple suit.” They both laughed.
    The band was still working the remainder of the line when Ricky came up from behind and handed Fabiola two envelopes.One contained her pay for the night, and the other held her cut of the tip money.
    “Count that shit, Fab, 'cause you know that motherfucker always got some shit wit 'em,” Keys instigated.
    “You know I'm on it, Keys.” She smiled, then took a deep breath. This was the part of the show that she hated most: