The Last Street Novel Read Free Page B

artist checked the radiance of his skin and touched him up with dark brown powder to take away his shine.
    Shareef then looked over at Heather Cooke, the entertainment host. She was a mixed-race, cream-colored woman with long, dark hair and sharp features. Shareef’s old friends from the neighborhood had told him about her the night before at Friday’s when he told them about his interview that morning.
    “That girl Heather Cooke is bad. You might want to try and slide her your number after the interview, son. Hooking up with her would be good money,” they told him. And they would all be watching, including his grandparents, who had recently moved to Harlem’s West Side in Morningside Heights near Columbia University.
    Hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers loved to watch the New York Cable Network news in the morning. NYCN gave them a stronger rundown on the local news and events as opposed to the ABC, NBC, CBS, and Fox affiliates, who focused more or national and international news with only a slice of the local. So plenty of urban New Yorkers would see his interview that morning.
    The pressures of fame never fazed Shareef Crawford. He was perfectly at ease in the limelight. He craved it, as much as he craved good-looking women like Heather Cooke, who wore a dark gray business suit with a purple blouse.
    Yeah, she do look good. She look like a Brazilian or some shit, which means she got black blood in her, he smiled and assumed to himself.
    Right before the commercial break, Heather introduced a tease of their upcoming interview.
    “Next up in the world of books and publishing is a new hot summer beach read from Shareef Crawford, The Full Moon. We all know what happens to our hormones during a full moon. And we’ll be back to talk to the author about his latest hot novel after the break.”
    The key words to Shareef in the introduction tease were “summer beach read.” He hated hearing that shit. It made his books sound like bubble gum, pop culture songs from suburbia. However, it was what it was, and he had made millions of dollars writing it. So he had to suck it up and accept it.
    “Okay, we’re ready for you,” the assistant told him again. She led him over to the news set where a sound technician slid a mini microphone under his sports jacket. He didn’t have to say much before Shareef had taken care of the microphone and clipped it into place.
    “Looks like you’ve done this a few times before,” the technician assumed.
    “Yeah, about twenty-five to fifty times on different shows,” Shareef joked to him.
    The news anchor, James Callahan, a tall, middle-aged and graying white man, stuck out a manicured hand from his dark suit to greet the author before Heather could.
    “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he commented.
    “Good things?” Shareef asked him, taking his hand.
    James hesitated with his grin. “Well, let’s just say I hear you have a way of expressing yourself with the ladies.”
    That meant the man knew nothing about Shareef except what he had heard from women going crazy over his books. However, misperceptions were part of the fame game. Some people heard everything but knew nothing for sure. And again, Shareef was forced to let it slide.
    “Well, don’t believe everything you hear. But sometimes you can believe it,” he joked within earshot of Heather. He knew she had heard it. It was his preliminary flirtation with her.
    Finally, he slid into the guest chair next to her. She looked at him, touched his knee and smiled.
    “I started reading your book last night and had to stop myself to get some rest for work this morning,” she told him.
    “That means I was on your mind all last night, hunh? You know we have dreams about the last things we do at night,” he told her.
    She grinned, shook her head, and faced the cameras. It was the only thing she could do to avoid his advances. Shareef figured as much and backed off. He was there to do an interview and to pitch his new book to