A Man Inspired Read online

  The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.

  Copyright © 2005 by Derek Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Warner Books with Walk Worthy Press™

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group, USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Walk Worthy Press

  33290 West Fourteen Mile Road #482, West Bloomfield, MI 48322

  Visit our Web sites at HachetteBookGroupUSA.com and www.walkworthypress.net.

  First eBook Edition: January 2005

  ISBN: 978-0-446-50707-3

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  PART I

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chaptrer eleven

  Chaptrer twelve

  Chaptrer thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  PART II

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter thirty-four

  Epilogue

  Reading group guide

  “SO, JERMAINE, CAN I ASSUME THAT IF YOU FOUND A WOMAN YOU COULD CONNECT WITH ON EVERY LEVEL, YOU’D MARRY HER?” CANDACE ASKED.

  Jermaine appeared surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because some brothers are scared to commit, even if they have found someone who fulfills them on every level. Putting myself in the shoes of your fans, I’m just curious to know what you would do.”

  “I’m not afraid of commitment. And I think a love like that is a beautiful thing.” He began laughing nervously. “Yeah, I’d marry her.”

  “The great Jermaine Hill, the golden-voiced speaker who inspires the country about life and all—I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous,” he quickly retorted.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really.”

  They walked along silently for another quarter mile or so. Candace silently relished her interview success. She had finally broken through that macho wall of his to witness his genuine emotion. Arguably, it was the first honest emotion he had displayed so far this week . . .

  For Mom and Dad,

  you two are truly my inspirations.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for blessing me with the opportunity and time to do what I love—the glory is all Yours.

  To my parents, Doris and Nokomis Jackson Jr., thank you for supporting and encouraging me in every way possible.

  Denise Stinson—thank you for believing in me and providing the avenue to get this work published. The vision of Walk Worthy Press is so needed today—you’re a beacon of light!

  To Marina Woods, for your encouragement and for introducing me to Denise—what can I say? A million thanks.

  Dr. Courtney Walker, your constant encouragement and living example mean so much to my life. You are a true friend.

  To Bishop Shelton Bady and Sister Kim Bady, thank you for always being examples of excellence and godliness.

  To Bishop T. D. Jakes—your ministry continually motivates me to reach for the highest heights.

  To the knowledgeable, friendly people at Warner Books and in particular the wonderful editorial skills of Frances Jalet-Miller—thank you.

  To the authors who have encouraged me—Brandilyn Collins, Maurice Gray Jr., Ruth Mayfield, Brad Meltzer—many, many thanks!

  To Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker—you both continue to blaze a literary trail I hope to follow.

  To the Jackson and May families and the employees of Anadarko Petroleum in The Woodlands, Texas—your encouragement has sustained me along the journey. Thank you!

  Prologue

  THE OLD WOMAN knelt at the foot of the bed, rocking slowly back and forth on aching, swollen knees as she voiced aloud her heartfelt prayer to God. The simple act of praying had always come easily to her, a blessing at the moment because unfortunately her once-vibrant memory was deteriorating fast. Her doctors had diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s disease several years previously, but Bell Davis wasn’t about to let that negative report prevent her from having daily lil’ talks with Jesus. With withered hands, she resolutely clutched a six-inch-long golden cross that had faithfully been handed down through five generations from her ancestry as she focused her heart, soul, and breath for the task of intercession. Her prayer today, like each day the past few months, was targeted toward the one problem currently sticking in her side like the proverbial thorn.

  Twenty-eight years ago she had taken in and then begun raising her sister Shirley’s three-year-old child, Jermaine. Bell hadn’t been exactly thrilled to do such a thing but she didn’t have a choice, really. Both Shirley and her husband had been addicts—hopelessly strung out on crack cocaine that rendered them completely unfit and unable to take care of their only child. So rather than see the young boy become a ward of the state, Bell rescued him from that drug-infested home and brought him to live with her in Baltimore, where she could raise him in an atmosphere filled with love and hope. He had been a mischievous little kid, but what was the saying everybody always observed with knowing smirks on their faces? Boys will be boys . . .

  As he continued to grow and develop into a man, Bell noticed that he was anything but an ordinary young boy. In fact, for Bell he was truly a little gift from God. Jermaine possessed a unique ability to speak publicly in a way that commanded the attention of anyone listening. With rich, melodious tones, his vocal style, cadence, and flair naturally conjured up images of the most powerful of public speakers—and accordingly, that was the life he had chosen to lead. After securing a four-year, all-expenses-paid scholarship to Howard University, he had graduated a year early as a media communications major with his sights set on making a name for himself.

  And he certainly had done just that. Now grown and living on his own in the glitzy, star-studded lights of Hollywood, Jermaine appeared to have realized his childhood dream. As the key figure in a successful motivational-speaking business, he was now generally recognized as the foremost inspirational guru in the country. And like any mother, Bell had been so very proud to see Jermaine achieve such a staggering level of success. Still, despite the seemingly wonderful glamour and riches that the world was lavishly heaping upon him, Bell knew there was something still not quite right in her baby’s heart. A night didn’t go by when she didn’t have the same terrible, haunting dreams concerning him. Dreams that revealed what she knew was taking place in those dark, secret closets of his life.

  “Save my son, oh God . . .” she cried out hoarsely between broken sobs. The past few weeks she had so poured out her soul that there were no more tears left to shed. All she had now were broken, choppy heaves of exhausted, worn-out lungs. “S-s-save . . . my . . . so-oo-oon!” The indescribable anguish now piercing her
heart was a pain only a mother could intimately know and suffer. Though she had not actually given birth to Jermaine, she had raised that young man like he was her very own. So it didn’t matter what anyone else said—Jermaine Hill was . . . her son.

  “Save my son . . . breathe life into him, oh, God . . . breathe life into him . . .” She knew that Jermaine couldn’t hear her. But that wasn’t the important thing. She knew her Heavenly Father was listening.

  NO LESS THAN THE WORLD had been offered to him, and every fiber of his being should have been reveling in such incredible favor and opportunity. It was certainly well within his right to do such a thing—most men would have sacrificed much to experience the height of fame and recognition that was now being afforded to him. But this Saturday morning found Jermaine nervously spinning the compact black Colt .22 pistol around on palms and fingers clammy with perspiration. In his mind he replayed a half-dozen or so scenarios, none of which were pleasant and all of which involved the one bullet chambered in the pistol being fired in the direction of his head. Though this was his first try at Russian roulette, the game’s gruesome twists of chance were not applicable to him, really. Because who needed the distraction of probability when for some godforsaken reason you actually wanted to kill yourself?

  In reality, he should have been the last person in this predicament. Twenty-four months was all the time it had taken for him to climb to the top of virtually every nationally recognized list along the motivational speaker’s circuit. A month from now and he would have his own cable show to supplement the wildly popular one-hour segment he currently did for national radio. Wildly popular, indeed. Not only were calls from the late night network interview shows pouring in daily, but he also was courting several publishers for a book deal that would reportedly be the largest ever offered to a motivational speaker.

  Not that any of that mattered to Jermaine right now. From where he sat on his bed, he lifted his tired eyes and allowed his gaze to linger forlornly on the framed pictures of Ronny and Eric resting atop his tempered glass nightstand. His two best friends from his undergrad days at Howard University, they had been killed in a car accident on this very day nine years earlier. To tell the truth, they had been closer than friends to him; they had become the brothers he had never known in the loneliness of a solitary childhood experience. But they were gone now, and their tragic deaths had triggered Jermaine’s catastrophic relapse into a fragile, private shell of an existence with no outlet for his feelings. The loss of true friendship and brotherhood for him was almost unbearable, even after almost a decade had gone by, for he had painfully learned that when you’re famous, nobody wants to be with you for the person you are inside. The sad truth was that nobody really cared about the person you were—the only thing that mattered was the rapid accumulation of money, fame, and prestige. People entered and exited his life in a much-trafficked revolving door, with every new person inevitably bringing ulterior motives for gaining access to his inner circle. After a while, he discovered that the only person he could really trust was himself, which in turn became a problem once he began to forget just who he himself was.

  Lifting the gun to his head with shaking hands, Jermaine pressed it firmly between his eyes. The barrel was starkly cool against his fevered skin. He wanted to cry but there were no more tears left for him to shed. This from a man whose smooth baritone voice was heard on the airwaves all over the country. By the past year, at the age of thirty, he had traveled to every continent in the world. There was enough money in his bank accounts to finance a who’s-who of A-list parties every weekend. To willingly share his bed, he’d had the kind of women who typically graced the cover of beauty magazines. He’d driven exclusive, custom-made cars that could not even be purchased from the average automobile dealerships.

  This was Jermaine Hill, whom the country had fallen in love with in two short years. The man with the golden voice who was fast becoming an icon in urban lore. A star of stars. A celebrity of celebrities.

  But on this Saturday morning, sitting alone in his room at a quarter past nine, Jermaine Hill had a gun to his head. And he was playing a dangerous game at which he was hoping to succeed.

  PART I

  Character is what you are. Reputation is what you make people believe you are.

  —ANONYMOUS

  Chapter one

  CANDI, CANDI, TURN YOUR radio on, girlfriend! My show is about to come on, and you know how gooo-ood that man makes me feel.” Candace simply rolled her eyes as her fingers continued their rapid, fluttery dance atop her laptop’s keyboard. She was fifty words from finishing her last paragraph for the Ebony magazine column, and not even her best friend, Tasha, was going to cause her to lose focus just now.

  “Candi, you hear what I just said?”

  Candace nodded twice as she continued staring at the computer screen with steely brown eyes that refused to blink. Twenty words. Her last sentence.

  “Candi, you’re gonna make me hurt you . . . I’m not playing . . . I—”

  “Taa-daa!” came the writer’s exclamation, purposely cutting off her friend’s voice. She pressed the key command to save her article, then fashioned a graceful pose with her fingers outstretched like a gymnast who has just vaulted into the air, flipped multiple times, and landed without stumbling. A perfect ten.

  “Are we done now, Dear Miss Black Abby? Because if you make me miss Jermaine Hill, trust me—it ain’t gon’ be a pretty sight.”

  Candace reluctantly lowered her hands and somehow suppressed a desire to throw one of her pillows at Tasha. Her thinking was that if it hit Tasha’s head, it would certainly do more good than damage.

  “Black Abby, huh? Now that’s original. Did you take all morning to think of that, or did it just come to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was up half the night thinking about it,” Tasha responded with a smile as she leaped off the bed and dashed over to the stereo. Within seconds the announcer’s intro to the program she and millions of others loved and listened to entered the spacious bedroom in surround sound.

  “Everybody in America, listen up! It’s time for the hottest hour on the radio waves! If you’re driving your car, get over to the slow lane; if you’re at work, then take a lunch break and turn the volume way, way up! ’Cause coming to you right now is the most dynamic speaker in the nation today, the man with the golden voice guaranteed to get you excited and inspired about life! Here he is, America—Jermaaaaaaiiiiinnnnne Hiiiiiiillllll!”

  The pulsating beat and feel-good lyrics of Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration,” the standard music accompanying Jermaine Hill’s intro, rang out all over the room.

  As Candace re-fluffed the five lace embroidered pillows now strewn all over her bedspread from Tasha’s hasty departure, she laughed out loud at her friend’s pitiful attempts to dance in tune with the popular song.

  “Shhh, Candi! He’s about to come on!”

  “This is Jermaine Hill once again coming to you live with an OD of inspiration for your soul,” proclaimed the smooth, sexy voice through the speakers. “That’s right—an overdose, because you and I both know you need it. So let’s kick things off with my theme for today—how to make every day meaningful.”

  “Oh Jermaine, yeeesss,” cooed Tasha. “Help me to make my days more meaningful!”

  Candace caught Tasha’s eye and made a brief gagging motion with her hands at her throat. “I can’t believe I’m letting this go on in my own bedroom,” she mumbled. “What is it with you and this guy, anyway? His material isn’t that good.”

  “Shh!!!” Tasha’s fiery glare made it clear that Candace was treading on some very thin ice.

  Fine, Tasha, fine . . . Never mind that this is my house you’re flappin’ those lips in. And my own bedroom for that matter . . .

  Jermaine Hill continued speaking. “Don’t you sometimes wonder where all the time goes? Those days turn into weeks, months, and before you know it another year has gone by. And what do you have to show for it? More debt? More fa
mily problems? More promises you made to yourself that have gone unresolved? Yeah, you’re going around in circles, aren’t you? A cycle that leaves you distracted, unfulfilled, and wanting more.” He paused for a second.

  “So how do we change that, hmm? How can we make our days more meaningful? Let Jermaine give you some simple suggestions . . .”

  CANDACE SLIPPED OUT OF her bedroom a few moments later, leaving Tasha all alone with her radio fantasy man, and made her way down the spiral staircase, shaking her head at her friend’s naïveté. Then again, if listening to Jermaine Hill inspired Tasha, who was Candace to say otherwise?

  That poor girl is going to do what she wants . . . that’ll never change . . . I still love ya, though . . .

  Opening the custom-made ivory French doors that led into her sunroom, she stepped gracefully across the threshold and inhaled deeply. The intermingling smells of the richly polished golden oak floor, the white gardenia-scented potpourri baskets on the bar countertop, and the French vanilla candles lit on the coffee table immediately filled Candace’s senses. Of the five bedrooms, four bathrooms, den, kitchen, and dining room that were enclosed in the spacious house, this room was definitely her favorite. There was a uniquely feminine atmosphere saturating the room, from the soft and sensual fragrances to the lavender and gold pillows embellishing the cream-colored sofa to the paintings hanging along the walls. The three large canvas prints adorning the room were intimate portraits depicting various stages of womanhood—a young girl playing hopscotch, a mother nursing an infant child at her breast, and a grandmother looking to the heavens clutching a worn Bible to her bosom.

  Incidentally, this was the only room in the house where she did not (and in fact, could not) write anything at all. No magazine columns, articles, poetry, or short stories were birthed in here; no, there wasn’t so much as a sheet of paper or a pen in the entire room. This was her getaway—a personal refuge and sanctuary where she could fully celebrate being a woman—and where she could taste the savory fruits of success that life had bestowed upon her.