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Informationen zum Autor E. Lynn Harris Klappentext The final book from 10-time "New York Times"-bestselling author Harris, featuring Yancy Harrington Braxton, one of his most popular characters. Leseprobe Mama Dearest CHAPTER 1 As I savor the first sip of my second glass of wine, my eyes move to the television and I say to myself, “Yancey, that’s the bitch who got your life.” Here I am in a third-rate hotel (it used to be a Days Inn) down the street from the Jackie Gleason Theater near South Beach in Miami. I’m in the second week of my role as Deena Jones in a bus-and-truck company of Dreamgirls. The producers aren’t extravagant when it comes to lodging, and I can’t wait until this tour is over and I can get my beautiful ass back to New York City where I belong. I’m sitting here watching the DVD of the 2007 Grammys, and there is Beyonce singing and gliding across the stage with Tina Turner. That should’ve been me singing with Tina or on the stage alone, but things haven’t turned out the way I’d planned. And I don’t have much time before it will be too late. My name is Yancey Harrington Braxton, and I’m a singer and actress. I’ve been close to stardom and even had a big pop hit at the beginning of the decade, but just as I got near Beyonce and Tina status, something happened that slammed the door in my face. I’m thirty-six in actress years, which really means I’m a sneeze away from turning forty. At times that scares me, but thank God I still have my looks, especially a body that could compete with a twenty-year-old on the beach and in the bedroom. I had come to Miami with a plan to make a second comeback but I’m running out of ideas. Maybe I need a stalker; then people would feel sorry for me. I could do the drug thing and go into rehab. It looks like it might work for Miss Whitney and Lord knows it ain’t hurting that crazy singer from England, Amy Winehouse. I’m much too vain to put on a few pounds and then become a spokesperson for one of the weight-loss companies like Queen Latifah. But there has to be something legal that I can do to push myself back onto the national scene one last time. This is a time when it seems everybody and their mama has a reality show. Surely there is still room for a legitimate star of my caliber. Yeah, that’s the ticket—I need my own reality show. I took this job even though I hate working with a bunch of no-talent people who’ve never set foot on a Broadway stage unless they were pushing a broom across it, but I’d run into some tough times with my finances. Besides, I’ve played the role of Deena Jones since I was in my twenties and could do it in my sleep. Gone are the days when I can demand first-class transportation, suites and car service. Let’s not forget my name over the title on the theater marquee. Most producers and directors aren’t savvy enough to recognize talent and class in one package. Thank God I still own a really nice town house on the Upper East Side. I’d always planned to use it as my nest egg but now when I need to sell it, the real estate market has gone to hell in a handbasket. A lot of people were interested in purchasing it, but with the banks tight with money, even so-called rich white folks are having a hard time getting a loan. My real estate agent told me that my best hope for getting my asking price is if some rich Russian falls in love with it and pays cash. I told her that she needs to get her ass on a plane to Russia quick, fast and in a hurry. If I sell the house, I’ll get myself a smaller place and there will still be enough money left over to get new headshots and some new outfits and go sit my ass in some spa where rich men hang out. I just can’t take another night in a seedy hotel w...
