Mr straight up no chaser, p.1
Mr. Straight Up No Chaser, page 1
part #1 of Baes of Juneteenth Series
Mr. Straight Up No Chaser
Baes of Juneteenth
Sherelle Green
Copyright © 2023 Sherelle Green
Coffee’d Pink Creative LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, incidents, organizations, and characters are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual organizations, business establishments, persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Apart from brief quotes embodied in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or copied in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission of the author, Sherelle Green, or the publisher.
Editor: There For You Editing
Mr. Straight Up No Chaser
After opening a cultural community center in the heart of Chicago, Porter Crowne is determined to make The Blackout Fest the best Juneteenth celebration yet. Especially when chosen as Mr. Black Chicago. Partnering with influential members of the community will ensure its success. However, if you aren’t following the plan, you’re in his way just like the curvy, feisty vlogger who argues with every suggestion he has.
Popular influencer, Alanna Raven, has had much success as a body positive educator. When she gets the call to join The Blackout Fest planning committee, she’s all in. With a new strategic partnership on the line, she has one chance to shoot her shot. However, she has a deep secret. One that could threaten everything she’s worked so hard for. And unfortunately, the one person who can help seal the deal is a man whose mind and body infuriates her more than it should.
Thank You
BIG thank you to the authors who helped bring the Baes of Juneteenth series to life in this multi-author anthology.
In the Baes of Juneteenth multi-author series, we invite you to journey to different cities to celebrate Juneteenth with the men of Mr. Black, an organization honoring Black love, Black culture, and Black history.
* * *
Mr. Straight Up No Chaser by Sherelle Green
Mr. Right Now by Sheryl Lister
Mr. Down for Whatever by Elle Wright
Mr. Alpha Undone by Kelsey Green
Mr. Second Best by Angela Seals
Mr. Big Stuff by Aja
Mr. Play for Keeps by Kimmie Ferrell
Mr. Take Me As I Am by Iris Bolling
Mr. On Your Knees by A.C. Arthur
Mr. One and Only by Sharon C. Cooper
Mr. Tall Dark and Unavailable by Tina Martin
Dedication
To those who have fought and continue to fight every minute, every hour, and every day to educate the world on Black history, Black culture, and Black love.
Dear Reader
Porter and Alanna tugged at my heartstrings, while diving into the history of Juneteenth took me on a cultural journey I was even more surprised by. There are a lot of powerful quotes throughout, each meant to invoke thought and are a favorite of mine.
If you’ve read any books in my Crowne Legacy series, you’ll recognize familiar names or faces. Porter is the oldest son of Pharaoh Crowne! If you’ve never read a book by me before, this is a great story to start with.
I love creating bonus content, so make sure you read the bonus quickie at the end! Additionally, check out the list of ways to celebrate Juneteenth and Black history in Chicago.
Much Love, Sherelle
Contents
Message
Curated Playlists
The Untold Legacies:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Bonus Quickie
Celebrating Juneteenth in Chicago
Baes of Juneteenth Series
Want More Crowne Legacy?
Would Love To Hear From You!
Want More Black Lush?
About the Author
Message
“I believe in making contradictions productive, not in having to choose one side or the other side. As opposed to choosing either or, choosing both. ”
Angela Davis
Author. Political Activist. Scholar.
Curated Playlists
June 19, 1865…when freedom finally came for all. In 2021, Juneteenth became a federal holiday.
Music inspired by Juneteenth:
Spotify Playlist
* * *
Mood Music for Mr. Straight Up No Chaser:
Spotify Playlist
* * *
“Music is powerful. As people listen to it, they can be affected. They respond.”
Ray Charles
The Untold Legacies:
Mr. Black Organization
Every legacy has a story … this is ours.
* * *
PORTER
Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery. Famous words of Malcom X and the motto I lived by in my life.
A lot of folks assumed I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but mine was wooden and frayed enough to cause the bottom to splinter, cutting my mouth every time I took a bite.
I had to learn to eat without touching the spoon or starve to death. In many ways, the streets of Chicago raised me. Concrete steps and red brick buildings tough enough to withstand decades of people trying to tear them down.
All my life, I’d been wondering when it would finally be my time to step into my truth.
My destiny.
A predetermined legacy that I always felt like I was chasing. A rainbow with no ending or beginning, unable to prove to my family, my community, and especially myself that I was destined for a purpose greater than the life I’d been living. Everyone had a past and parts of their life that they’d rather keep hidden. While some lifestyles were best kept secret, my family was well-known in the world of restaurant chains and athleticism.
I was a Crowne. The grandson of pro-athlete and restauranteur Stanley Crowne, and the great-grandson of activist and pro-athlete Freeman Crowne. Yet, despite what most of the public knew about the history of the Crownes, I knew a different kind of history. One of organized crime that my father, Pharaoh Crowne, had cultivated into an impressive empire.
Which meant I understood playing in the darkness, lurking in the shadows, and getting my hands dirty more than most.
“Come on,” I muttered, tapping my thumbs against the steering wheel of my rental car as I waited for the black iron gate to open after I entered the code to gain access into the private property.
The sun was starting to set in the distance, but my focus remained on the snaking road that led me closer to the grand Victorian styled home that served as an African American Historical Museum in the day and was considered a historical landmark.
There was something about Victorian homes with their gothic influences and high-pitched ceilings that really spoke to me creatively and I wasn't that creative to begin with.
I parked in the back next to what many would assume was just a tornado shelter.
“Shit,” I huffed, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and glancing at my Cartier watch after I exited the car, noting that I was already forty minutes late for my meeting.
In my defense, I wasn’t the kind of man who was usually invited to important meetings that I had to travel by plane and rental car to get to. I left those kinds of meetings to the suits.
I was more of a hoodie and Timberlands kind of guy.
Except today though.
Today, I was looking damn good. I felt out of place enough in my own skin sometimes, so the last thing I wanted to do was show up sticking out like a sore thumb.
When I got the call from the Mr. Black of Scottsdale, Preston Scott, to meet at the secret underground lair that was for founding family members only, I wrestled back and forth on if I should attend. The location wasn’t the easiest to get to for me, but that wasn’t the only reason I hesitated.
Up until recent years, I’d been an inactive member of Mr. Black, an organization that was created at the height of the civil rights movement when five Black men saw a need to be a beacon of hope in Black communities across the nation. My great-grandfather, Freeman Crowne, was one of the founding fathers of Mr. Black, and was a man who was still admired by so many in the city of Chicago.
His activism was admiral.
His leadership was unmatched.
His service to his community was generous.
His fight for our country was award-winning.
His skills on the basketball court were Hall of Fame worthy.
Plainly put, he was that dude.
In my Crowne family, you usually belonged to one of two groups. There were those who stood tall as trees, strong enough to uplift our race and bear the burdens of society. And there were those climbing up the arms and branches of the ones standing tall to elevate our family and ethnicity to even higher levels of generational wealth and prosperity, whether through legal or illegal means.
I was one of the members that belonged to the third category that didn’t get much recognition. The ones doing the dirty work on their hands and knees, planting the seeds in fertilized dirt for those trees to surge and grow strong enough for the others to advance.
I liked the dirt.
But I liked being clean sometimes, too.
I just wasn’t there yet, and with so many goals left to accomplish in life, I felt slightly out of place attending this meeting right now.
Chill the fuck out, I inwardly cautioned, adjusting the collar of my shirt before tugging on my olive-colored Alexander Amosu suit as I entered the private code to the building, cursing when I hit the wrong numbers.
There are too many damn codes to get into this mug. I understood why, but I was already trying to figure out if I could suggest some all-black swipe cards instead as I made my way down the narrow hallway to the two-person elevator.
Back when our forefathers used to come to this lair, they took the ten-minute descent down the longest set of winding stairs I’d ever seen in my life.
The first time I visited the lair, I was with my Uncle Nash, and he didn’t allow me to use the elevator back up as a rite of passage and understanding of those who came before me.
Before I could reminisce too much, I’d already arrived, walking purposefully down the hallway, only slowing my steps when I reached the main conference room, four pairs of eyes on me when I entered.
Dante Powell. Nero Bond. Titan Stone. Preston Scott. All members of one of the five founding Mr. Black families, myself rounding off the fifth.
“Nice of you to finally show the fuck up,” Titan taunted, the two of us doing our signature handshake.
“You know me,” I teased, popping my collar. “Fashionably late as always.”
“Are you wearing Amosu?” Dante asked. “The Nigerian designer?”
“Sho’ the fuck am.” I placed my backpack down and wiped off the shoulders of my suit to show it off a bit.
Preston shook his head. “We were about to get started with the meeting without you.”
“I told them you’d show up eventually,” Titan mentioned.
“Nah, he didn’t say that shit,” Nero revealed, calling out Titan. “What he said was that one of us should have met you at the airport so you couldn’t back out.”
Titan shrugged. “Or maybe I said that.”
“And be honest,” Nero furthered. “You wanted to ditch us, right?”
I didn’t answer, but they already suspected the truth. A huge reason why I’d actually made the meeting was that Titan had dared me a bill in the group chat that I’d make up some excuse and cancel on them. Anyone who understood anything about me knew that there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to win one-hundred dollars, but even though all five of us were located in different states and had our own lives, our own friends, and a shitload of responsibilities, we all shared the commonality of being a part of a founding Mr. Black family.
When we attended the national Mr. Black events, we tried not to segregate toward each other too much and give folks reasons to whisper about us, but over the years, it had connected us in ways that didn’t need to be explained. Kind of like that cousin you only saw at family reunions, weddings, or funerals, but always cut up with when trying to guess who was fucking around on who or which family member would be the next one to kick the bucket.
“Gimmie that shit,” I muttered, snatching my money from Titan’s hand before Preston motioned for all of us to take our seats at the round mahogany table that served as one of the few original pieces of furniture left from the organization’s conception in 1965, the same year Malcolm X was assassinated.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Preston stated, hitting buttons on the touch screen of his device. “As part of the founding families, we’ve all been members of Mr. Black since we turned twenty-one. Yet, it wasn’t until I was attending the networking event this past October that I realized for the first time since our grandfathers and great-grandfathers stood in this room, that each founding family has a member as the chosen Mr. Black rep for their city right now.”
I sat up straighter in my chair, sharing a look with Titan before he stated, “I suspected it had been a while. But I must have been so busy with work, I didn’t realize this was the first time in over fifty years.”
“I don’t think the National Executive Board realizes it either,” Preston presumed.
“I agree,” Dante said. “If they had, no doubt they would have called us into a private meeting at the event.”
“And I still can’t get over the fact that none of the members of our family are sitting on the board right now,” Nero reminded.
I ran my tongue over my teeth, soaking in the revelation. “Y’all don’t want to say it, but we know the exec team is bullshit. At least it is when it comes to voting my family on the board. We ain’t clean enough for their bougee asses.”
I loved the Mr. Black organization as a whole though. In more ways than one, becoming Mr. Black had saved me right when I needed it.
“But you can’t knock the fact that the Chicago chapter chose you as their Mr. Black,” Titan indicated. “The people spoke, and the board had to listen.”
“True dat. That's why I will always preach the good that the men of Mr. Black do. Hands down, we're the shit."
Titan laughed at me, shaking his head.
“As founding families, we have clout in this organization even without any of our family on the board,” Dante mentioned.
“We have our forefathers to thank for that.” I kissed up to the sky.
“We do,” Preston agreed, linking his hands in front of him. “However, I’m more concerned about using our leverage in our cities … since, up until now, all five of us weren’t in this role.”
“What were you thinking?” Nero asked.
“Juneteenth is now a federal holiday, but it doesn’t change the fact that most of the nation is not even acknowledging it,” he answered. “Nor do many Black folks even know why Juneteenth is important.”
I didn’t admit to them that until a few years back, I myself hadn’t truly known that we celebrated Juneteenth because June 19, 1865 was when enslaved Black people were emancipated in Galveston, Texas more than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation.
In many ways weren’t really free after that though. Not by a long shot.
Titan crossed his arms over his chest. “You want us to be more educationally focused. Aggressive in our approach to teach our cities through Mr. Black about our culture.”
“And shed a bigger spotlight on our history,” Dante finished.
“You both read my mind,” Preston stated excitedly.
“Because my mind was there, too,” Dante responded. “Some of our kids don’t have access to the technology needed to learn about Black holidays. Securing resources for our communities to utilize during our Juneteenth events is for the betterment of the people, not the perception.”
The perception is never what it seems, I thought, my mind wandering back to a few years ago when nothing in my life seemed to make sense and every part of me was screaming for my mind to understand what my spirit already knew.
“We all have a mission to uphold,” I stated. “A birthright as the current Mr. Blacks of our founding fathers who entrusted future generations of their line—blood or otherwise—to continue their mission of making sure our Black and brown youth aren’t left out of the history books. I grew up in Black schools that didn’t even discuss Black history.”
“Exactly,” Preston stated, looking to each of us. “It’s not fair that Juneteenth isn’t given the same love as the Fourth of July. We can’t let this generation and others to follow to forget who they are … their history. Their place in this society. Their ancestors who fought for their freedom.”
