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If you feel as if you're in a fight, coming out of a fight or headed toward a fight, I wrote this book for you, because I think we thrive in adversity; when the situation is at its absolute worse, in a period of do or die, when we feel boxed in as if there's no choice. That's when we are actually willing and open to re-thinking the way we do things and what we accept.

In the most extreme condition, we have to continue to fight to remind ourselves that this day is not our last day, we’re not done, it’s not over UNTIL WE ARE DEAD.

Throughout life, limits are tested to learn the technique to get beyond them. Overcoming the bad circumstance, the odds and the obstacles, is a sensation greater than anything easily gained. Adversity can be beaten into an opportunity – into a victory.

There I was, in the umpteen bank, for the umpteen time, trying to attain a loan, to keep my business afloat during the worse recession the country had experienced since the great depression. On the contrary, my textile, shoes and apparel manufacturing company actually was one, doing above average until my company hit a financial wall. My company was too young to have the well-established cash flow needed. My retail customers were taking longer and longer to pay. “Everyone is holding on to cash as long as they can.”

“Your credit line is maxed out. How can I help you?" The loan officer seemed sympathetic, but he hadn't said yes or no to my loan.

“Sir, I’m willing to take unconventional steps. How about a loan based on money owed by my customers to me; my accounts receivable?…My company regularly collects hundreds of thousands of dollars from big, well-known stores. My retail customers may not be real fast paying, but they do pay.”

“Mr. Bay, we just don't have the infrastructure or manpower to monitor each borrower's customers to make sure not only your invoices, but also their invoices, are up to snuff. We are a typical community bank and do not have a department set aside to do that.”

I masked my anger, listening, while eyeing the procedural operations of the bank; checking my watch once seeing the cash cow going from teller to teller, timing it from beginning until it was back inside the vault.

“Sir, my company has had six consecutive years of profits. I employ close to 350 people from this community. I and this community need this loan.” I’d conveyed my sincerest request, but his reaction was skeptical.

"Mr. Bay, this type of loan wouldn't be appropriate to grant. I have to deny your loan.”

I was pissed, but I understood the system in which we lived; Why would he come to an ethical judgement? There wasn't a positive incentive for him to behave ethically. Our laws set a minimum standard for behavior. Ethics set a higher standard of behavior.

I lived in a community where the minority was the majority, in the city of Philadelphia. The neighborhood's blocks encompassed the gutter to the filthy rich. I had been at the bottom but was now fortunate to live on the upper end of the hood. It was all due to the strength of my wife. She'd stayed by my side while I had served an eleven-year federal sentence and had used what resources I'd left to bring our dreams alive; a business and a home: Self-reliance. She had it waiting for me when I returned.

I was released eight years ago. All Courtney wanted was a child and my complete devotion. I'd rededicated my vows to her, and we'd produced CB2, our five-year-old son.

Courtney and I were determined not to allow our company's financial crunch to affect us away from the factory, but it had. First, we had to start back working 12 to 14 hour shifts, which ate into our time spent with CB2. We were fortunate to have my mother in law to relieve some of the stress. Still more stress flowed over and made its way to our late-night discussions.

"They wouldn't give me the time of day.”

“In a few months we won’t be able to make payroll.” Courtney was the accountant, so there wasn’t a way to hide anything concerning the financial status of the company from her.

I'd met my wife when she was fresh out of college, still excited about tomorrow and what the world had to offer.

“I talked to some old friends, that’ll float me the cash for pennies on the dollar.”

She was still beautiful, but life had taken her innocence and replaced it with suspicion, that showed in her eyes. I wasn’t willing to discuss any further details, so I rolled over with my back to her.

I'd been labelled the angry black man by many that found it comfortable to suffer peacefully, because I had opened a study hall based on the science of religion; a forum to re-educate through multi avenues of communication: Visually thinking, re-thinking religious teachings, social mores, habits – all the things that contribute to social control of conduct.

During my eleven years of incarceration I’d received a BS in psychology and a minor in civilization, and a minor in theology. I had continued my education with a masters’ degree in mythology and a doctorate degree in history. I was qualified to be angry and to lecture, which had narrowed down to Friday and Saturday evenings, since I was working so many hours in the factory.

I’d made certain the outside appearance of the study hall had no resemblance to a synagogue, mosque or church, nothing to do with a house of worship or prayer. I’d copied and used the architectural design of the most modern library's entrance.

Inside there were virtually several glass rooms with the latest technology, which made a corridor leading to an amphitheater, where I lectured, “…We don't go to heaven! We bring heaven down to earth. Our father which presides in heaven as on earth….” From the ceiling hung a screen for creative visualization, which was important because what we associate in our minds we bring to life.

My ushers, just as distinguished and well-groomed as I was, in their designer suits, took their positions at all entrances as the lights were dimmed.

“…The authority of your will, your mind, positive or negative is the controlling factor. You can’t get mad without the use of your imagination. You amp yourself up by breathing hard, then you picture what you're going to do next…”

Four heavily armed masked men, dressed in designer suits, shoes and gloves, stormed the community bank. Two immediately jumped over the counter and stopped the manager from pushing the cash cow into the vault. The rounds let off from the M4 automatic assault rifle made everyone comply. Everything on the cash cow was quickly dumped into two bags. The masked figures then dashed to an awaiting minivan. The two bags of cash were dumped into two buckets of water, then covered as the minivan sped off. The dye packs exploded, but rose to the top of the water. A metal detector wane was waved over the stacks of cash taken out of the water. It sounded over the tracking devices, which were thrown out of the window.

“…I raise the simple question; is this normal? Is this acceptable, and are there any plans to reduce the imbalance? When a people, an institution or a country can live with a disease so long that we have come to accept it as normal – you know we are in trouble…. My heart is fixed. I must be about my people’s work. My words, my actions, my deeds should be proof. Due to the misuse of our imagination is our short coming. The imagination is a door way to pull those actions to manifest into reality….”

Five ushers replaced the others that were guarding the entrances. I made eye contact with one to the right of me, then continued my lecture. “…The word appropriate is thrown around a lot. This word is as vague as often. Is it appropriate to teach African American children false history, such as; Columbus discovered America, Lincoln freed the slaves, Egypt is in the middle east, and African American history began on a plantation in 1620? Why was it appropriate for Pope Julius II to authorize Michael Angelo to paint Jesus from Black to white? What time period was it? It was 1505. What was happening in 1505? The slave trade was taking place. How can you enslave African people with Jesus being Black? The Pope, the church, the government, all knew the spirit of the people wouldn't accept slavery with a Black Christ. So the enemy became the deity. That what was sacred to us they destroyed, made ugly. Once it was destroyed, they taught us to laugh at anything linked to Africanism. So we would only want the western culture….”

Prizefighter, a metaphor to life; a fair fight for what you want. An opportunity versus the devastation of being the misfortunate. Such an allure to poor young boys and men from the ghettos of the world that draw them to boxing gyms, looking for a better life and willing to try to earn it with their fists.

Nubs’ gym, nothing modern. No digital machines, just iron, steel and leather. You could see where the dumbbells had been wielded and the bags patched. The air always reeked of body odor. Sweat, blood and dreams stained the weight benches and the mats of the rings. Nubs’ gym looked as grimy and dreary and as brutal as the sport of boxing itself. A throwback to boxing days of old. A gateway out of the slums. I’d looked in and entered the gateway when I was a tall chubby eight-year-old. My dad had just gotten a life sentence for beating a man to death, that turned out to be an off duty dirty cop. I couldn't articulate my emotions back then, things were either hard or soft, and I thought I was soft because I was crying to myself a lot. Nothing seemed fair. Hitting the bags and lifting weights were comforting and healing while being in the ring was a relief where I could fight back, be as salvage and brutal as I saw the world.

Years of Nubs' coaching had honed my skills. He’d seen I was full of fight and silently hungry. Nubs was an old prizefighter, that had seen the prize, but wasn't allowed to have it. He only had an index finger and a thumb on his right hand. Some say it was because in the 70’s Nubs threw a fight or didn't throw a fight, but the bookies got even either way. Nubs had used what prize money he'd saved to open his gym, and had come close with many contenders to reaching the grand prize. I'd become his protege, his student. Over an eight-year period Nubs had patiently in a dogmatic way trained me by vigorously repeating a series of fundamental drills in a precise manner.

Time had hardened Nubs’ outlook and changed his approach to his prize; the world championship title. He understood boxing was more business than a sport. But meanwhile, boxing had become a sweet science to me, but Nubs kept me at amateur status, feeding me, “You ain’t there. You need more bouts to get that excellence. You’re almost there.”

Nubs was a salt and peppered goatee having, bald headed, say whatever he felt, sounding like a pimp one second and a deacon the next; he knew I knew I was ready. I’d grown into a 6’7”, 251 pound, 17- year-old with less than four percent body fat, that could knockout my opponent with my left or right jab.

“Kid, you know you’re great. It's more to it than boxing. We’ve got to make the world love you. We can do this by winning the gold in the Olympics. Then you’re have a straight shot to the belts."

I respected his boxing sense, and had allowed his dream to mingle in to mine.

“Now focus.” Nubs was always a step ahead of me, holding the ropes to the ring as I entered to spar. “Focus! Focus!"

I shot a wicked combination; a liver then a head shot, followed by another liver shot, that folded my sparring partner who dropped to both of his knees.

Nubs jumped the ropes like an energetic child, ecstatic and proud, grabbing me, stopping me from throwing another punch. “Kid! Kid! That's enough! That’s enough! Hit the showers.”

Nubs had hired me to do the little things around the gym; mopping, emptying the trash, scrubbing and spraying down the showers; a deal he and I had agreed upon to put a few dollars in my pocket per week, so I could focus more on boxing and school instead of a real part time job. The shower room was big enough for an eight-man rotation, and to clean it was a workout in itself.

Nubs' closed at eight every night. I would be done with my cleaning by nine o'clock. The gym was only seven blocks from my home, but Brooke, my girlfriend would be there waiting in her car outside the gym. Philly really didn't have a gang problem, but each block was its own click, and blocks were beefing. So Brooke had made it her duty to be there. She was a tribal beauty, a six foot, 149 pound, blue berry black with almond shaped eyes and sparkling white teeth. She was so fine and pretty, grown men didn't care that she was only 17 and still in high school. Many would’ve killed or given their last cent to have her, but she and I had made a pact in the sixth grade, promising it would only be us.

The closer we got to a scheduled fight, the more anxious Nubs became. He and I would lock up the gym together for safety concerns. My relationship with Nubs was more than a coach and an athlete, but not quite a father and son thing. Nubs was more of a crazy uncle figure, that was cool, but didn’t cut any corners with you – and kept everything raw and in its simplest form.

"You have a big fight Friday. No sex. That means head too.” He spoke loud enough to make sure Brooke overheard.

Brooke's car was an older model, a late 90’s something, and it was too small for both of us. She'd worked and paid for it herself, as a clerk in an Asian owned clothing store until the owner's wife realized the owner was mesmerized by Brooke.

I was 17, the idea of sex draining my energy was absurd. I knew all of Brooke's soft spots, and she couldn’t fend me off while she was driving.

“Stop! You heard Nubs. Stop Prince! You make me sick!" Her words were harsh, but the sinister smirk she gave me let me knew her appetite was the same as mine.

“You know how I get before a fight. C'mon.”

We had a secret secluded parking spot, where no one could see inside the car or would bother us, while we used the car as a hotel room.

It was Summer time, so the blocks were alive all day and night. The block I lived on, the homes were neatly kept, narrow, elongated three stories houses, with not much of a front yard and less than a yard apart. I entered my home to be attacked by my youngest sister, Phoenix, a nine-year-old fire ball. She was a new born when our father had gone to prison, so instead of being a daddy's girl, our bond was that same love or stronger.

“You're late! We have to do your ab workout, so a gut check won’t drop you.” She threw a combination of punches to my stomach, that I faked like had knocked the air out of me. She was my heart. She enjoyed me tossing her around, then over my shoulder as I went toward the kitchen.

"Boy, will stop treating her like she's a boy! Put her down!"

The voice of my mother demanded respect, and the sternness of her eyes let you know there would be consequences if she didn't get it.

“C'mon mama! He ain’t…”

“What did you say?"

Phoenix corrected her sentence. "He's not going to drop me. Prince is strong enough to lift us all.”

I kissed my mother's cheek and goose-berried her. “Stop! Prince! Stop! I don't know where your lips have been. Smelling like Brooke. Your food is ready.”

My mother was angelic, beyond beautiful. Her olive brown complexion and greenish brown eyes had people assuming she was cut; black and some other kind of race. People made the same assumption about every member of my family. We all were splitting images of our parents; our mother and father both looked Creole. My dad was a giant of a man. I remembered placing my hand in my father's hand, asking would mine one day be as big.

“Pharaoh come do these dishes! Phihiem come take out this trash! I’m not telling you again!” Our mother was the general of our family.

At 12 and 14, both of my baby brothers were taller than my mother who wasn’t short. She was six feet.

“Phelisa, I’m so glad you were open. I didn't have a thing to wear to the concert. Child you’re a lifesaver. Thank you too Precious for hooking us up!” Some people I didn't know, came down from the third floor of our home, which was a department store for men, women and children. The best of the best for the low low.

My family’s financial survival depended on the income from my mother’s unauthorized store, which was supplied by teams of boosters who sold my mother the merchandise for 20 percent of the price tag or whatever my mother talked them down to.

Precious, my 16-year-old sister, almost identical to my mother, except our mother outweighed her by thirty pounds. Precious helped ran the store. She was the salesperson, coordinating the gear for the customers. Precious had an eye for fashion, along with a millionaire’s attitude and openly flossy ways. She sat at the table staring at me, while our mother escorted the customers to the door.

Precious was semi jealous of the closeness between Phoenix and myself. She and I had been very close until our father had died. The prison said our father had hung himself, but the autopsy showed he'd been beaten to death, then hung. We both took the death differently. She'd become calculating, and boxing was my relief valve.

“What do you need me to do this time?"

"Just get the fight over with as fast as possible. I don't trust the owner of the club where we're promoting your-after-party.”

She looked a little hurt, then smiled. "You.”

My mother was family centric and made sure we all supported each other. My brothers and Phoenix were too young to sit ringside, so they were made assistant trainers, but stayed in the dressing room. From my notoriety gained from boxing and the respect shown to me in the streets, my brothers worshipped me. In the dressing room they would imitate my intensity, silently bobbing to mental music while Phoenix studied Nubs who took my ear buds out of my ears, shouting his instructions for the one-thousand-time.

“Remember your overhand right combo. He's a sitting duck for it.” Phoenix mimicked Nubs’ gut to head combo.

I loved rap music. I put my ear buds back in and zoned out while Nubs finished taping my hands. Then a kiss from Phoenix and two hard pounds from my brothers. It was a ritual we performed each fight before I headed toward the ring.

I had tunnel vision; I could only see the ring, the ref, my opponent and his corner team, everyone else and everything else were blacked out, only the sound of rap blasted in my head.

The bell would sound, and I would mentally teleport the fight to another dimension; afloat in space, only two warriors and the occasional arm and voice of the ref and the thunderous voice of Nubs from nowhere and everywhere, “Now! Now!"

The building that was now my factory had been an old decrepit warehouse. It was huge, and once renovated, perfectly suited our means. The entrance opened into an elegant showroom, displaying the merchandise. A sale representative was always on hand, managing the computer and phone.

The main area was open; four sections with six subsections, two hundred and sixty-five sewing machines, combining pieces to make a whole. We kept down overhead by paying piece rate versus hourly wages, whichever was the greatest.

There were eight quality control inspectors in each section along with a mechanic and a foreman.

Upstairs were the business and payroll offices and the fashion room, where our designers and engineer hatched their creativity. Courtney had stolen the assistant designers from several of the best designers in the fashion industry.

The heart that pumped the life force throughout the company was our sales reps. Courtney again had lured the next to the best, of the best, with the highest commission rates, plus the quality of our merchandise was top-notch and easy to sell. We'd built a strategy room just to meet with the sale reps twice a month. Business had gone so well, so fast, that we were having growing pains. All of our sales reps were seasoned vets and well connected. They didn’t have to pitch, only suggestions and the orders flowed in.

Even though it was early Summer, our designers and engineers were putting on a winter line semi fashion show and lecture, describing the fabrics, the cuts, the reasoning behind every detail of the clothes and the stylish and sturdy structure and comfort of the shoes.

Once I saw that my sales reps were happy with what they’d seen, I stood, “I would like to thank you all for such a good job and if there’s no other item needing to be discussed, I’ll see you…”

"Excuse me. There's one thing I’ll like to discuss. It’s feedback from my regulars. They say they're only receiving 75 percent of their reorders. Can you check into that?"

I was the factory manager. I knew what went out and came in.

“Has anyone else had this feedback?" The majority of the sales team nodded, "Apologize, but assure them that at the time of their reorders, we filled it to the best of the inventory on hand would allow, for the timing within the season. Thanks for the great job. Keep up the good work."

The retailers were taking advantage of the consignment deal Courtney had used to attain easier placement in their stores. The retailers had a complete quarter of a year to pay for the merchandise and could reorder as many times as possible as long as the items were in stock. The bigger chain, retailers were stocking every store, then waited to the last second or up to a month after the quarter to pay, which had caused my company's cash flow shortage.

My office had a view of the parking lot in the back of the building, and it overlooked the common area of the factory. I opened my office door to see my wife sitting at my desk, on my PC. On the screen I could see she was going over the books.

“What's wrong with your computer in your office?"

“I came over to discuss these angel investors.”

“That’s exactly what they are.”

“Okay. Who are they?”

“It doesn’t matter to me who they are.”

“Fine! The health insurance cost ate it all, anyway.” She typed in hedge fund and asset-based lenders for the cash deposits.

“The quarter ends tomorrow. Use the consignment payments.”

“That's needed to cover the material that’s been ordered. We need to down size or cut medical coverage all together.”

The medical coverage was one of the bright spots of the company, helping those who on their own wouldn't be able to afford medical coverage, which would’ve been 100 percent of the employees.

“We’ve discussed this already.”

Problem, cause, solution, implementation. This time instead of going directly to the banks, I went to a SBA, a small business association with the hopes they could direct me to a grant or a loan. I received the same double talk from the clerk. “The type of loan you’re requesting is different. This type of thing is usually done in a backroom in private.”

"No. This would be a legal transaction. Just enter the information and see if any bank is willing to buy the accounts.”

“Mr. Bay, this isn't a broker's house. We can't help you.”

The term different and deficient are not synonymous. Insecure people believe that if something is different, it's deficient in some way. I left the building mad but determined to think of a means to come up with the cash. I’d lectured; your intellect and imagination equal your personality and your physical actions, which are you; so I tunneled my energy to think of a new innovative way to get the resources needed.

For days I paid for expensive lunches with high profiled athletes and actors and actresses; people with a disposable income but known capitalists. I was blown off, made to wait, then cancelled or told by the ones that did show up, “I'm not in the business of spending money. I’m in the business to make money.”

"If you invest in this company eventually you’ll make a hundred times more than you would from an endorsement.”

“Mr. Bay thanks for the meal, but I’m not interested in investing in your company.”

I sat there angry, but I understood people have a frightening capacity to follow what is to be considered the normal order and to shy away from new innovative concepts.

The five hours of the study hall being opened was for just that; studying. The format was similar to school, but a mediator and an instructor were assigned to the classes because of the critical thinking approach. I had banned the military approach of break people down then building them back up; the system of teaching most institutions believe is the best way to teach.

The study subjects were science, astrology, herbaceous, civilization, psychology, mythology and engineering, communication, arts and philosophy. The ages of the members ranged from seven to eighty-one. There were over two hundred members, mostly my employees and their spouse and family members or friends. Unexpectedly the younger generation had embraced the philosophy of the study hall; they could see the problem was with the failing system, not the black man and woman.

I would sit in on the discussions of each group; the study hall was encouraging and supportive to not only the youth but the adults as well.

My lectures consisted of digital slides, visual references to corroborate the facts in my lecture. The ushers would dim the lights, then take their position at the entrances.

"…They say; Black folks sold Black folks into slavery, so we can't blame the white man for slavery. Who is this they? Is the they; people who ancestors owned slaves and got rich off of the labor of slaves or the trade of slave?…We must follow the chronology of history that rewards all research. Let us go back to Prince Henry the navigator, he sent his men down the West coast of Africa. The first thing they did was kidnap Africans from off the coast of Moratanga. They then sold these Africans to Pope Martin the V; in other words; they sold slaves to the church. So the whole intention of the Europeans were the kidnapping of Africans and enslaving us. Then when DeAugo Asseboa came down the West coast of Africa with approximate 600 men, believe it or not another European was with him named Christopher Columbus. They told the King Ansa, we're coming here to build a castle, asking could they. The king wanted to know why in my land. They said for trading. King Ansa said no. Then DeAugo Asseboa said if you don't allow us to build this castle, we have big guns, that can destroy you and your village that are called cannons. And we will, take you and your people to be traded.

Okay, the plot thickens. DeAugo Asseboa said to the king, but we can give you some guns, so you can go to other villages and bring us people to be traded instead of you. It's documented the Europeans’ stolen technology; killing devices had enough force to motivate the survivors to go into the villages of the Aumuga and the Dejarra and kidnap them. So, they gave them guns and rum and told them if they didn't bring these Africans to them, then they would be the ones enslaved. Guns and Rum. This created a havoc, chaos where slavery did not exist. Then came other European nations; The Dutch, the Portuguese, they gave other villages guns and rum to kidnap you. What they did was gave rum and guns to enslave us. It was between Spain, the Dutch and the Portuguese, using Africans to fight each other and whoever won, slaves were gained. And because of our ignorance of making the victim the perpetrator; we say Africans sold Africans into slavery. Can't we see, that it worked so well, that the inner cities that they want back now….”

The heavily armed designer suits robbers were in the process of a bank robbery. Everyone in the bank was complying. A security guard was couched in a corner with his gun drawn, trying to build up the nerves to be a hero. The robbers had bagged the money off of the cash cow and were headed toward the entrance when the security guard stepped out with his gun aimed at their chest. His adrenaline rush had him screaming, scared and jittery. “Put your hands up! Don’t…”

The guard's nervousness made him shoot at the sight of the robbers raising their hands with the gun in them.

The bullet proof armor under the designer suit absorbed the shot, but the bullets from the M4 riddled open the security guard's chest.

An usher, exchanging disks in the projector, made eye contact with me, then gave a nod before returning to his post. “…So, they've created gangs. And they’re giving one group of brothers guns and drugs and other groups guns and drugs to create chaos and havoc. The same thing that was done on the west coast of Africa. Now it's the west coast, east coast, gulf coast and the Midwest of America that they're experimenting with, and all we can say is Black on Black crime or violence. Did the indigenous native of this country kill off themselves? No. The blood thirsty Europeans did that single handedly but buried the facts with lies called American history. But in order to destroy a people you make them look like the perpetrator of themselves. They then taught us to hate ourselves even more through the divide and conquer. That's where victims become the perpetrators….”

I'm Precious. Prince is my older brother. We're close but had been closer. After the death of our father, I'd become more protective and possessive. Prince had become introverted except when he was in the boxing ring. He had a showmanship as if he’d transformed from his quiet humble self into the ultimate warrior who possessed the cunning, the agility, the power and the patience to devour an opponent at any time during the bout.

I was with my mother and my boyfriend, Shey, cheering and screaming, supporting Prince at his boxing match. Despite the violence surrounding the sport, and everything else too; the viciousness, the blood, the steep rows of seats ascending from the ring, the stench of liquor, weed and cigar smoke that filled the air, the horrible show of fashion by the so-called ballas and the women strutting in high heels, none of it bothered me or my mother. What we saw was 5000 people had turned out for an amateur fight to see my brother who was known for administering brilliant but brutal beatings. His performance was crowd pleasing; flash and flair, blood and guts, regardless how crude and barbaric it was, you couldn't look away. Prince’s style captivated the audience. Boxing was my brother’s ticket to the land of riches and he would be able to pull our family from the poverty, violence, drugs, crime and other dangers of the industrial wasteland of Philly.

The fight was a very impressive third round knockout for Prince, but instead of the sport reporters focusing on my brother, giving him his due respect, they gathered around Mr. Frank Bosco, a high profiled fight promoter and manager, along with his son, the Hammer, the heavy weight top contender of the world; the great white hope.

“Hammer, are you ready for the Bruiser?…Hammer, you're scouting the up and coming Prince?…”

Shey and my mother were in the ring hugging and congratulating Prince. I was furious that my brother was being overlooked, so much that I began banging on the bell until even the people leaving stopped and gave me their attention.

“That's more like it! All heil to his majesty, Prince! Sure he made it look too easy, but it's because he's so great!"

The reporters blew me off and went back at the Hammer.

I banged the bell again.

"Ask him; who ran him out of the amateur ranks, made him give up his dreams of going to the Olympics.”

It was an upscale struggling but elegant restaurant during the day, so it was cheap to rent as a night club from ten to two at night; making it the perfect place for Prince's victory celebration slash going off to college party for Shey. A small venue compared to the normal places we'd used to promote parties, but its atmosphere absolutely fitted what I was going after; a setting for family and friends, except I underestimated the number of Prince’s fans who thought fans and friends were synonymous. And I didn’t know Shey had as many friends.

The place was packed. Bottles popping, loud music and lots of hugs. Shey had filled so many voids in my life. I loved him and he cherished me. He looked square, but to anyone who paid close attention to details, it was obvious how fine polished he was. Nothing Gotti, but the best of everything. An eighteen-year-old man, laid back with the calm intellect of 50 years of experience; That was Shey demeanor. When people saw him, they really didn’t, because that's how he wanted; inconspicuous, it was the key to his success. Many who saw us together wondered why, how could we be, our styles were so contrasting. Unknown to most, Shey was the man, his way of thinking before reacting, his respect and courtesy. At first glance I was struck by his rich dark skin and deep jet black wavy hair and his flawless million-dollar smile, plus the fact he could afford to do the things I was dreaming of.

It had taken almost two years for Shey to come clean with me that he dealt heroin, and his promotion company was a way to clean his money. If he hadn't told me, I don’t think I would've believed it or ever found out. Prince had hinted at it to me in a warning, but he wasn’t certain because of the success of Shey’s parties and concerts. Shey had taught me the promotion game, allowing me to handle the clubs, but he handled the concerts. He was my safety valve, but he'd helped me to find my independence, shown me the connections to establish my name as a promoter, given me confidence.

My eyes were sharp. I could distinguish the real from the fake; people and clothes and jewelry. There were a lot of imitations and knock offs, wannabes hungry for an opportunity to be, people trying to get next to Shey. I wanted all of Shey’s attention, but it was his time to shine, so I accepted playing the background and watched the door while Shey mingled and played the gracious host.

A crew entered. New Yorkers, somewhat refusing to be waned by the bouncers. Shey quickly made his way to the door, intervening, not letting anything get out of hand. "These are my VIP’s. I’ve got them.”

Four huge Columbians; I could tell they were the muscle by the way they guarded a man thin enough and pretty enough to be a woman but fly and distinguished. He resembled an older Marc Anthony. He and Shey greeted each other with a hug and smiles; closeness and respect.

“I didn’t think you would make it.”

I'd seen the man the night of Shey's graduation, but Shey hadn't introduced me. He'd distant me from them as he did again and led the man off to a secluded area. I could tell by Shey’s body language they were discussing something serious.

“Find a replacement or just do it during the breaks or better yet, come home on the weekends and handle things.”

“I’m cool man. I’m done.”

Both their eyes locked, reading the other. “Nothing I do or say will change your mind?" A simple shake of the head. "You know I love you like a son. I only wish the best for you.”

Another hug, then the thin man’s crew led the way toward the exit. I knew the guy had to be important. He’d made a trip from New York for a five-minute meeting. I got a good look at him as they passed. Shey stopped me from staring by taking my hand and leading me to the dance floor. I had learned not to ask questions because it pushed Shey away, but by being silent he would eventually confide in me.

The look in Shey’s eyes was of joy, a peacefulness, and his touch was so tenderly arousing.

“I love you Precious.”

“I love you too.” I was about to kiss him when I spotted Brooke, popping bottles and showing all of her teeth, being extra friendly with one of Shey's balla-friends, while a group of boxing fans had Prince's attention across the room. "Let me handle something. I’ll be right back.”

I left Shey on the dance floor, then grasped Brooke's arm, manhandling her as I pulled her away from the guys. "Bitch, I will beat your muthafuckin' ass if I ever again catch you disrespecting my brother. Now go over there and stick to him like glue.” I shoved her in the direction of Prince.

My brother wasn't soft. He was just one of those people that didn’t complain. He would deal with things until he could solve it. It was strange, physicalness was a last result for him, the opposite for me.

The warmth of flesh on flesh. The salty sweet taste of sweat. The delightful excruciating pleasure of sex. It was as if it was our first time together and we wanted to make sure it wouldn't be the last. Shey and I both were exhausted, lying in each other’s arms at Shey’s house. I was scared again, thinking I would be alone again when Shey went off to college. He and my mother were my only friends. No one else understood me or I couldn't stand being around anyone else for an extended period of time.

I'd met Shey at a Young Black Entrepreneurs of America Meeting when I was 13. My mother had made me go to get me out of her hair. Shey had asked what type of business I was thinking of starting. I'd tried to ignore him, but he wouldn't allow me. What caught my interest was when he'd said; think of money like air, it's enough in the world for us to live, share and to enjoy it together. It links us together. Let us make it together.”