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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 25, 2007 - 07:07 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

I really appreciate you all comin' back! The plot thickens, I assure you. :-) Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more of my book.

Thanks for reading, Jada

Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.

I entered the building. No kinda grand entrance, just shuffled.

I was dressed in sweats (big mistake but how the hell did I know how hot it was gonna be?), 'n a tank with a way too big— bulky enough to hide my tits but thin enough not to cook in—fabric shirt buttoned over it. My hair's braided n' pinned on top my head, under a plain baseball cap, on right ways—no rap stylin' for me.

And not a drop of make up.

I looked like a twelve-year-old runaway whose boom box had been stolen. But that was better than looking like a hot chick on the Hollywood streets.

As I swung my pack to the chair, one of the cops looked up and smiled. Hefty gal, gun on her hip. Looked like she coulda been a cousin on my mom's side. I took a chance she wasn't gonna bite and smiled back.

I guess she thought I looked like a cousin too 'cause she greeted me in Spanish.

Being the well-mannered young lady that I am, I replied first in that language, then switched to English. It's America, after all. Speak English!

"Hi. I'm new to town. Any ideas on a safe but fairly cheap place I could rent?"

"Shit," she squinted as she took a closer look at me, "you're not a boy."

"Yeah, but I'm safer this way, right?"

"In this neighborhood, that's for sure. Lemme think. Most hotels around here are not for you, some pimp'd take one look and try to recruit you. Hotels that're safe? You'd need to go to Bev Hills and—"

"No can afford," I mangled my English with a smile.

She shook her head. "Yeah, I get that one. Well, there's lots of outlying communities that are much safer . . . look, I'm getting off now. Let me sign out while I try to figure some semi-close place for you to stay." She turned with a thoughtful frown on her face and went into the back. I sat down next to my pack and waited. Minutes later she came out from the corridor and walked up to me.

"Want some coffee?"

"Sounds good. And a semi-clean ladies room?"

A grin followed as she stuck her hand out. "I'm Rita Montoya."

"Jada Nichols."

"Nichols? I thought you were . . . ah, I guess I'm wrong, unless . . . marriage?"

"No marriage. Irish dad. Mom's family is Fernandez."

"Ah, that makes sense. And you're moving here because? Please forgive me, I'm not being nosey but if I know what you wanta do, figuring out where to point you'll be easier. LA's very segmented."

As we walked out of the Police Station and up the street to a donut shop (cops really do hang out in donut shops. I was so surprised), I gave Rita the two-minute version of my life. You know, hatched under a flat rock in the desert, grew up sorta, did the college thing and got the degrees but couldn't do much with them at home, moving to LA to have a life.

Rita laughed at that. "A life? In LA?"

"Well . . . more of a life than sitting on a cactus wondering how I got thorns in my ass. I've got a good work history—"

"Doin' what?"

"Translation mostly," I replied as I pointed to a devil's food chocolate doughnut. The girl behind the counter put it on a plate and handed it to me over the glass countertop. "I worked my way through college at a law firm, sometimes in paperwork translations—everything from contracts on real estate to drunk driving tickets—sometimes being sent to the courts or down to the police station to translate for my bosses' clients."

"Is that what you want to do in LA?"

"I don't care much what I do in LA, long as it's legal, and fun."

"That's all well and good," Rita huffed, "short-term. But what about long-term?"

I was thinking this chick has a bunch of little sisters. I smiled as I paid the bill for both our donuts. "I have no clue."

We plopped ourselves in an orange plastic booth. "Why on earth'd you take business and creative writing?" Rita asked as she munched down a glazed doughnut chased with hot black coffee.

"'Cause I love books. I love writing. I love hiding my head in a dream world. I think it has to do with having nothing but an imagination as a child. I have a great family, don't get me wrong. Terrific parents. Fabulous older brothers. But I'm the youngest and for a girl in a small desert town there just wasn't much of a life. So I made up my own in my head. I got the Masters just 'cause I wanted to learn more about how writing worked. I'm not planning on making a career out of it."

Rita suddenly got an arrested look in her chocolate-colored eyes. "But you don't mind using your knowledge of creative writing, along with your skill at translation?"

"Not at all. If you can think of a way to mesh the two I'd be thrilled."

There was a long stretch of silence, Rita staring over my right shoulder out the plate glass windows at the front of the shop so lost in thought her donut was forgotten. Suddenly, she looked back at me.

"What do you think of Hollywood? You want to be an actress? A model? Whata you think of celebrities?"

Odd sort of questions she was asking me, I thought. But I figured there was a method to her madness so I replied, "I don't know enough about Hollywood to give you an opinion . . . I've only been here about an hour. Don't want to act—I love books, not movies, not plays, so something like that's never interested me. Modeling would bore me to death—look this way, look that way, click click click. And I think celebrities are just as screwed up as the rest of us."

"Then why come to Hollywood?"

"Similar to the warm weather I'm used to, lotta people speak both languages I speak, and I figured I could find a good chili relleno if I was having a chili relleno attack. I could also afford the bus ticket to here and not to a lot of other places."

Rita laughed. "That's the best reason of all." She was looking speculative again.

I let this slightly sardonic expression show on my face because I just couldn't resist answering the qustion she didn't ask—

"If what you really wanta know is, will I go ga ga workin' for some Tabloid Queen who can't remember to put on her underwear before a big night out on the Town, the answer's no. And I learned a long time ago that the only useful autograph's on the bottom of a contract!"

Rita broke up completely. And that must have made up her mind for her.

"I've got an idea. Don't know if it'll work but I heard— Want me to make a call?"

I grinned.

"Anything’s better than sleeping on a street corner."

"That isn't gonna happen anytime soon even if this doesn't work. The last thing I need to find when I come in to work in the morning is your—"

"Cold, dead body in an alley?" I finished the sentence along with her, speaking in unison. And together we broke up laughing.

You can always tell someone is going to be a good friend when you share the same really sick sense of humor.



Thank you for reading, Jada