Four Times Over

By Regina Rome

FOUR TIMES OVER
Regina Rome

One life story. Two countries. Thousands of mistakes.

"Learn about life the way I have. The chapters are the guidelines and my life is the lecture."

Ace Bentley takes us on a life-changing rollercoaster ride in two continents over a span of three decades. In this semi-autobiographical novel, Ace chronicles her adventures and draws insights that will transform not just the way you think – but the way you feel – about life.

Ride shotgun as Ace goes from promising straight A student to medical school dropout, from dating scumbags to drowning in bitterness, until she succumbs to the world’s miseries and becomes an all-out drug addict, criminal and convict. She reaches out to us from inside the walls of her California prison cell and gives us glimpses of devastating moments, then jumpstarts the rock bottoms with humor and inspirational lessons.

Race with Ace as she retraces the steps that trapped her within the confines of her drug addiction, until she spun way out of control. When the labyrinth of struggles is too difficult to understand, what choices do we really have? How many times do we have to fall down before we realize that the only failure in life is when we don’t gather the strength to get back up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Regina Rome
• Release date: Apr 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310887987

Book preview

PROLOGUE

San Francisco, California

July 27, 2001

I was 23 when I left San Francisco for what would eventually become the most important journey of my life. Fear, regret, shame, sadness, anger, and bitterness were all rolled into one confusing ball of fire in my gut. Was I prepared for this? Absolutely not. My long, straight dark brown hair that ran all the way down to below my waist used to be lustrous and shiny. My white, porcelain skin was freshly washed but without a trace of make-up. My skin hadn't been moisturized for months and my brows were not shaped. Not a single piece of jewelry adorned my entire body – except for a broken piece of navy blue plastic that was previously part of a hair comb, inserted in my navel to ensure the piercing didn't close. Stylishly fashioned in a hip hop orange jumpsuit displaying the word PRISONER in bold black letters, with my wrists in handcuffs and my ankles in shackles, I knew with absolute certainty that the bus I

was riding wasn't headed towards a Cosmo photo shoot.

There is always that one growing up experience in your life when you've driven blindly for what seemed like an eternity in the wrong direction, that you inevitably reach a dead end. You search desperately for signs to your destination but can't find any. You attempt to maneuver a u-turn but you already know that it's impossible, because there are simply some damages that are irreparable. That experience is always the one story worth telling. And this is mine.

California Department of Corrections

Valley State Prison for Women remo

Chowchilla Desert, California

4 Hours Later

90546! The correctional officer howled out my inmate number and I scrambled to stand.

These people probably don't realize what a horrendous challenge it is to walk around in handcuffs and shackles. And they don't even know how to talk in

the usual decibel volume. They have to scream out everything, as if everyone in the universe were deaf. They act like they have disposable vocal chords and are issued a brand spanking new set each morning.

I am officially nothing but a number now. I represent the 90,456th female prisoner in the State of California. Wow. What an honor. l deserve a freaking medal.

I entered the holding cell with seven other women. It was strip search time. The officer looked like a no-nonsense lesbian with a sinister grin plastered on her face. We were instructed to remove every piece of clothing. Is she serious? Even my underwear? Dammit. I looked around quickly and realized I was the only one still wearing something. I yanked it off and could feel my face burning red as the blood rushed to my face. Focus, focus, focus. No big deal. I’ve done this hundreds of times at the county jail. Just another strip search.

But it wasn't. This time was different. I was instructed to squat while the officer inspected my soul with an enormous mirror. Then she asked me to place both

hands on the wall. I looked at her and threw her a mental question mark. She glanced at me and screamed, in a voice loud enough to be heard from California all the way across the globe to Thailand, Bitch, get yo hands on the wall and bend the fuck over!

In the spirit of sadism and masochism, of dominating dikes, and of plain simple fear, I did as I was told. She hollered again, Now spread your butt cheeks and cough!

This was definitely not a strip search – it was a cavity search. But in reality, it was a dignity strip.

24 Hours Later

The door of the six-by-ten-foot prison cell clanged shut and a cold, hideous shiver slowly crept down my spine. I sat on the mattress and looked around at the walls of layered hollow blocks. I walked to the tiny round metal sink, bent my head to the faucet, and gulped down an ocean of water. I gazed at the toilet beside the sink and wondered how many prisoners have planted themselves down on that toilet in the last three decades. Two years may seem like a walk in the park for some of the inmates here. Twenty-four months may even seem like a joke for the lifers. But for me, 730 days in this level 5 state penitentiary was definitely going to be raging fiery hell. And I could already feel the unforgiving desert flames licking and burning every inch of my Filipina-American skin.

They say that whenever something happens to you, you either let it define you, let it destroy you, or let it strengthen you. I am not writing my story for your humor and entertainment. There is a massive arena of that available on the web, television and media.

I am sharing bits and pieces of me with you so that you will learn about life the way I have.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is not a novel ~ this is a manual. The chapters are the guidelines, and my life is the lecture.

"That is the price you pay

For the life you choose."

 Michael Corleone

in The Godfather: Part III

Karma

Year 1976

In 1976, a new revolution that would define the next decade started simmering all around the world. It was also the year that the economy was falling apart and financial reservoirs were running low. Fashion had suffered a Humpty Dumpty fall from the fabulous 60s and women were walking around in dreadful flared jeans and shapeless dresses. Yet, one thing was absolutely certain. People were shedding their inhibitions and freedom was in the atmosphere, as clear as the shining sun.

Before Wild Cherry’s Play That Funky Music hit number one on the charts that year, that thing called fate worked its magic on two people.

Manila, Philippines

A lady descended from a heavily tinted sedan and walked into the lobby of a commercial center in the central business district of Makati. Her name was Eve Remington. She was tall, slender and agile with glossy ash brown hair, milky translucent skin, captivating green eyes and the face of an angel. Hands down, she was beautiful.

Eve was of mixed race: her mother was Spanish-Filipino and her father was Irish-American. Her blood was tinged with remnants of a Texas cowboy turned U.S. Air Force Brigadier General, yet her heart pumped the hospitable culture of the Philippine Islands. She’d been born in a province in the Philippines called Pampanga, raised in military bases all over the world and was discovered by a supermodel agent at age 18. She was a master at her game: with her beauty, she could launch any line of clothing and make the brand an instant national hit.

Eve strolled into the studio and was swamped immediately by a slew of makeup artists in preparation for her Vogue cover shoot. As the senior hairstylist started blowing her hair out into the apple bob so infamous that 1976, Eve worked her hand to the wooden magazine stand that was planted beside her chair. The cover of an entrepreneurial magazine Manila Today featured the rags-to-riches tale of a businessman that appeared to be in his 30s. Eve gazed into the eyes of the man on the cover and was instantly intrigued.

She turned to page 27 and started reading. The story began in the rural provincial streets of Manila, where a peddler by the name of Victor Bentley began his rise from the devastating ashes of poverty to the luxurious kingdom of wealth. The young and hardworking Victor put himself through school while selling souvenir products on the streets, and after graduating college, he pursued his dreams relentlessly.

At age 22, Eve was a popular fashion tour de force in the Philippines. A socialite and celebrity in the Metro Manila’s crème