For the Sake of Love

www.urbanchristianonline.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

by

Dwan Abrams

To Nia and Carrington

I have to thank God for blessing me with my seventh published book. My latest book was inspired by my novella titled,
Only True Love Waits.
That was my first attempt at inspirational fiction. Initially, I planned to expound upon the story, make major changes to the storyline, go deeper with the characters, and create a full-length novel. Of course, it didn't work out that way. The storyline took on a life of its own, completely changing the original premise and the characters.
Voilà
. . . a new story was born.

I want to thank Alex for being so supportive of me and my career. A special thanks to my daughter, Nia, for giving me the time and space to write and think. I love the two of you more than words could ever express.

To Ireana for not just being my sister but my friend. I love you so much, and thanks for blessing me with my adorable little niece, Carrington.

To my mom, Ms. Gwen, for giving me so much love and a listening ear whenever I need it. I love you more than words could ever express.

To my auntie Wanda and aunt Gail for calling me just to see how I'm doing. I love you for that.

To my Sisters In Literary Kinship—I appreciate our sisterhood.

A special thanks to Shameka Powers and Jessica Barrow-Smith for your opinions, suggestions, and wonderful input. I appreciate it so much.

I have been fortunate to have connected with many wonderful people during my literary journey and have been blessed to learn something from all of them. To all of my author friends, whether self-published or traditionally published, I appreciate you!

To all the book clubs that have supported me, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you for the good food, lively conversations, fun retreats, and lots of laughs.

 

Peace & Blessings,

Dwan Abrams

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not;
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is
not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies,
they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall
cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

 

~1 Corinthians 13:4–8~

Atlanta, Georgia

 

Spade couldn't prove it, but if someone asked him, he'd swear even his dreams were in music. He woke up in the morning to the sound of “Live Your Life” by T. I. featuring Rihanna on his cell phone alarm. As he got dressed, music played on his surround sound in his two-bedroom condo. He found himself bobbing his head even when no music was playing aloud; there was always a song on rotation in his head. For him, music was like food; the very sustenance that kept him alive.

Spade had just gotten home from a strenuous workout at the gym when his cell phone rang. When he saw his manager's name appear, his heartbeat sped up. “What you got for me?”

“I have some of the best news of your life. The negotiations are complete, and we're ready to sign the recording contract with Big Ups Records. We have a quick meeting scheduled with the label today at 4:30 p.m. to sign the papers.”

He dreamt of this day ever since he was a kid. He used to sneak and listen to the hip-hop greats, Run–D.M.C., Public Enemy, Eric B. & Rakim, LL Cool J, Boogie Down Productions and the Beastie Boys. And he used to mimic their rhymes. When he felt like being extra rebellious, he listened to Ice T. and N.W.A.

Spade spent countless hours writing lyrics, listening to beats, and rehearsing his stage presence. Most nights he'd stay up until three or four o'clock in the morning laying down tracks. The extra bedroom in his condo had been converted to a studio. He knew that in order for him to be a success, he needed to work while everyone else was sleeping—especially if he was going to be the first Christian rapper to reach legendary status like Jay-Z, Tupac, and the Notorious B.I.G.. Like the mogul P. Diddy said, “If you're chasing your dream, you're not running fast enough. Run faster!”

Spade was very fortunate in the sense that when his grandmother died, she named him as the sole beneficiary on her life insurance policy. His mom didn't appreciate it, but she hadn't been all that responsible back in the day. Being that she had been a crack addict for a number of years, her mother always had concerns that she may one day relapse, even though she never did. Since Spade was her only grandchild, making him her heir seemed the most responsible thing to do to ensure his future. So, as long as he lived modestly, he could afford to work his music full-time.

“For real?” Spade questioned, being cautiously optimistic.

“For real,” he repeated. “You know I don't kid around, especially when it comes to money. I'll text you the address. And be on time.”

“Of course. Thanks, man.”

Once he hung up the phone he could hardly contain his excitement. He pumped his fist in the air as he whooped and hollered in the privacy of his condo. He checked his watch and saw that he only had an hour and a half before the biggest meeting of his life. At three o'clock in the afternoon he felt confident that his neighbors were at work, so he felt free to get as loud as he wanted.

“Woo hoo!” he shouted. He hurried up and put his arm down after getting a whiff of the funk emitting from his armpit. Good thing he came straight home after the gym. He would've been embarrassed if he had stopped off somewhere smelling like stinky cheese.

He hopped in the shower, planning to get in and get out in less than five minutes. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed a doughy-to-the-touch golf ball-sized lump on his lower torso. It didn't feel tender, but Spade was confident the lump hadn't been there before. At least he hadn't noticed it. He immediately got out of the shower smelling of sandalwood. He grabbed the handheld mirror sitting on his bathroom countertop and studied the lump. Pressing it, he couldn't help but wonder what it was.

Far from being a worrywart, Spade didn't think the lump meant anything. He figured he probably had a small cyst that could be easily removed, so he called his doctor to make an appointment.

The physician's assistant on the other end told him, “Would it be possible for you to come in today?”

Not a snowball's chance in a volcano. His meeting today was too important. Not that his health wasn't, but the lump wasn't bothering him. It didn't hurt. Whatever the lump was, Spade was certain waiting a few more days wasn't going to make a difference.

“Sorry, I can't. I have an important meeting scheduled. I can't miss it.”

The PA seemed reluctant. “Okay, but you really need to get this checked out ASAP. What about first thing Monday morning?”

“I can do that.”

The PA scheduled the appointment, and Spade went on about his business. He brushed his freshly cut Afro temp with a curly look to it and got dressed in a suit and tie. As hot as it was outside in the month of May, Spade sacrificed his comfort in favor of professionalism. He figured Jay-Z and Diddy wouldn't show up at a business meeting with the bigwigs looking thugged out, so neither would he.

Thinking about what this meeting could mean for his future put a huge smile on his face. He went to his meeting feeling like the shot caller he aspired to be one day.

When he arrived, his manager and attorney were already there waiting. He noticed that the record company was laid out with expensive furniture, paintings, sculptures, and a huge fish tank filled with piranhas. It was obvious that an interior decorator had hooked that place up. He had been there before, but he was so nervous about auditioning for the label execs that he hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings. Now that he was there to seal the deal he could relax somewhat.

When Kerryngton Kruse, the CEO of the parent company of the label signing Spade, entered the room, everyone stood up. He was like a combination of Tommy Mottola, Suge Knight, Russell Simmons, and Jay-Z all rolled up into one. He had this air about him that could intimidate even the hardest thug on the street or locked up. People called him a pit bull. Not to his face, of course, but that was his reputation. Spade noticed how everyone called him Mr. Kruse out of respect and jumped every time he made a move. Dude reeked of money. He looked like he wiped his butt with hundred-dollar bills.

“Spade,” Mr. Kruse said, “I've heard so much about you that I had to come over here and meet the man who people are saying has the lyrical genius of some of hip-hop's greatest.” He shook Spade's hand. “I listened to your demo, and I was very impressed with you. I've worked with some of the biggest names in the industry, and I'm personally going to help produce your debut CD. The fact that you can sing too . . .” He nodded like he was impressed. “That's what's up.”

Spade felt highly favored at that moment. He knew that was nothing but God directing his career. “Wow. I'm honored. Thank you.” He tried not to smile too hard. He didn't want to appear soft, because he had worked too hard to establish his swag and tough guy image.

“Gentlemen, I'll let you get back to business.” His tone was professional, confident, and in control.

“Let's get down to business,” the record label attorney said. He showed Spade every place he needed to initial and scribble his John Hancock.

After initialing each page and signing the last page of the lengthy contract, Spade received a check for his hefty advance. The record company gave him the upfront fee to cover the costs of recording, producing, mixing, and mastering the record.

“Congratulations,” the record label attorney told him. “Welcome to Big Ups Records.”

“Thank you.”

The attorney placed the documents in his briefcase. “Have a great day.”

Spade's attorney waited until the mahogany door closed behind the record label counsel before saying, “If there's any money left over from the advance after all the costs of recording are paid for,
those
coins can end up in your pocket.”

His manager chimed in, “Yes, that's why we negotiated you such a high advance. It's in your best financial interest to keep recording costs low. You already know it's very common for artists to never see any royalties from sales unless the record becomes a major seller.”

“I understand.” Spade sounded confident. He had heard too many artist horror stories and refused to be another statistic. Many of his friends were established artists, and they warned him about the perils of the music industry. That's why he listened attentively when his lawyer had told him that “Artists aren't actually paid any royalties from sales until the label has covered or recouped their expenses from making the CD.” He explained that some of those recoupable expenses can include the artist's advance, recording and producing costs, the costs of promoting, marketing and advertising the record, tour support, video production, packaging, manufacturing, shipping, warehousing expenses, and mechanical royalties paid to songwriters. And that wasn't even all. There were more reasons for the record company to withhold money and negatively impact royalty payments.

So, when Spade said, “I understand,” he really did.

“You thought you worked hard before,” his manager said, patting him on the back. “You haven't seen anything yet. The label knows that playing live shows has proven to be a great way to build up a fan base and has a direct effect on sales, so we included a provision in the contract to help cover some of the costs associated with touring.”

“I remember.” He knew the advantages of performing live firsthand. That's how he got discovered. His mix tape had been moving a lot of units, and one of his songs got some airplay on Atlanta's biggest radio station. He had even been written about in a national magazine as an up-and-coming artist to watch. Locally, he performed at hot spots around the city and established a cult following. He had generated so much buzz that record companies A&Rs attended his shows to see what all the hype was about. He was definitely no stranger to hard work.

“Great,” the attorney said. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, you guys did a pretty decent job covering me on the particulars during the negotiation process. I feel good about everything,” he said sincerely. “Now let's get this money.” He rubbed his hands together.

The attorney stuffed some documents in his accordion-style briefcase. “Absolutely.” He shook Spade's hand.

His manager said, “It's been a pleasure. Give Bria my best.”

Spade couldn't wait to go over to his fiancée, Bria Murray's, house to share the news with her. “I will.”

Finally, Spade was free to go. No longer an independent artist, he was officially signed to a major record label, and that felt real good to him. He couldn't wait to release his CD and go on tour. With the financial backing of a major label, Spade felt his career could go all the way to the top.

On his way out, he waved at the model-looking receptionist sitting behind her desk. She returned the gesture.

Once outside, he looked up to the heavens and thanked God. He paid particular attention to the baby blue sky with just the right touches of white sprinkled throughout. Spade smiled to himself as he thought of God as the ultimate artist with the whole world as His canvas. Designing the sky was probably just His pastime.

He stopped off to get a large Mellow Mushroom pepperoni pizza, a liter of Dr. Pepper, two Blu-rays from Redbox—a horror movie for both him and Bria and a romantic comedy for her—and a fresh bouquet of colorful flowers for his girl. He knew that she liked flowers, and they both enjoyed pizza and movies on Friday nights. That had become their ritual.

Before he even got to Bria's house in Lithonia, he had made the decision to tell her about his recording contract but not the lump he'd found. Bria had a tendency to worry enough for the two of them, and he didn't see any point of getting her all worked up over something that would most likely turn out to be nothing.

When he arrived at Bria's two-story brick front house, he tucked the soda bottle underneath his armpit, balanced the warm pizza box in the palm of his hand like a pizza delivery driver, with the flowers and Blu-rays resting on top. He then pressed his back against the doorbell and the love of his life came to the door looking fit and sexy in a long, figure-hugging striped dress. Bria—a few months younger than Spade—had a curvaceous body that turned heads whenever she entered a room.

She grabbed the box and let him in. “The pizza smells good.”

He followed her into the traditional-styled kitchen. They placed all the items on the island.

“You know you short, right?” Spade teased as he reached out to hug her, noticing that she was walking around barefoot. She usually wore four- to six-inch heels, which made people think she was much taller than her five feet four inches.

She pretended to smack him. “Shut up,” she said, laughing. They hugged and briefly kissed. “Do you like this toenail polish on me?” She held up her foot and flexed, showing off some red-looking color.

“It's cool.” He didn't care about her polish. He just knew she had some suckable toes.

She picked up one of the movies, opened the case to read the title, and smiled. “Good choice.” She then did the same thing to the other Blu-ray and nodded her head in approval.

Bria retrieved two plates from the cabinet before picking up the bouquet and inhaling the scent of the fresh, gorgeous gerbera daisies in vibrant assorted colors and placing them in water.

Spade grabbed two glasses, filled them with ice, and poured their bubbly drinks. “We need to raise some glasses,” he announced.

“What's up?”

“Your man over here,” he patted his chest, “just signed his first major record deal.”

“Shut the front door! Baby, I'm so proud of you. Congratulations!” She left the flowers on the counter next to the sink and hugged her man again. She then planted kisses all over his clean-shaven face.

He loved the way she smelled. Clean like a body wash with a touch of Tommy Girl cologne. He especially loved the way she made him feel like he was the greatest man on earth. Like she believed he could do anything, which made him feel as though he could do anything. He could tell that she was genuinely proud of him.