Commitment

by Forrester, Nia

  g

  “So what you do when you’re jus’ chillin’?” the fan on the phone was asking.

  “That’s right,” the deejay chimed in. “What’s a multi-platinum recording artist do when he ain’t workin’?”

  Shawn began to answer when something caught his eye. An issue of Power to the People was sitting in front of one of the mikes. Without thinking he reached out to pick it up, and by then there had been four seconds of silence. A big no-no in radio.

  “I golf,” he ad-libbed.

  The deejay and sidekick roared.

  “For real?” the fan asked, sounding skeptical.

  Shawn laughed. “I ain’ tryin’ to say I’m Tiger Woods or nuthin’ but, yeah. I golf.”

  “Charles Barkley golfs,” the sidekick said. “Hell, every Black man in America golfs nowadays, so that’s cool.”

  “Well, if K Smooth golfs, it’s definitely cool,” the deejay said.

  g

  “Golf,” Brendan said, as they exited the studio. “That’s some funny shit.”

  “Think of it this way. Now you’ll be fielding offers for me to be on the cover of Golf World magazine.”

  Brendan thought about it for a moment. “Could open up a completely new market for you.”

  Shawn glanced at the face of his cell phone. It was just after one o’clock, as Brendan had predicted.

  “Let’s head downtown,” he said.

  “What for?”

  Shawn looked at Brendan, who was tapping out a text message. “Riley’s office.”

  He ignored Brendan’s obvious exasperation and opened the issue of Power to the People that he’d lifted from the radio station, flipping through until he found what he was looking for. There was a small thumbnail photo of her above her byline. Instead of the short curls she had now, her hair was in shoulder-length dreadlocks, and her face was slightly rounder.

  The article was titled “Post-Racialism & Paradox.” Shawn read a random sentence: The very notion of a post-racial society is a paradox, presuming as it does that we must maintain race-consciousness if only for the purpose of denying its significance.

  His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. He had never looked at any of her stuff before – hadn’t even read the article she wrote about him – and didn’t realize until this moment, just how out of step a piece on a hip-hop artist was with her usual work.

  He looked up to see Brendan looking at him quizzically.

  “You ready or what?”

  “Yeah.” Shawn rolled up the magazine and stuffed it into his back pocket.

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of her building and double-parked out front. Brendan immediately made use of the time to respond to email and Shawn punched out Riley’s number on his mobile. With midday traffic there was no telling how long it might take to get out to Long Island to the airstrip for the flight to Pittsburgh, so this would have to be quick.

  “C’mon down a sec,” he told her when she picked up.

  A couple minutes later Riley came bounding out of the building, her colorful scarf trailing behind her. She looked no worse for the wear, even after being up most of the night. After quickly scanning the vehicles at the curb, she spotted them in the rented SUV and drummed a quick beat on the passenger side window with her knuckles. Brendan released the locks, giving Shawn a weary look. When the door swung open, Riley climbed in and astride his lap. Before he could speak, she was kissing him and Shawn felt a gradual loss of tension that he hadn’t even known was there.

  “I missed you,” she said as though they hadn’t just seen each other the previous evening.

  Then she seemed to notice for the first time – but only peripherally – that Brendan was there as well and playfully punched him in the arm. Shawn held her by the waist for a moment then ran his hands down over her hips, hoisting her up and pulling her closer.

  “Hey, hey,” Brendan protested. “You need some privacy or what, man?”

  Riley laughed. “It’s just about lunch time,” she said. “You want to take me out?”

  “After Pittsburgh I’m going to L.A.,” he said ignoring her question. “Come with me.”

  Beside them, Brendan was suddenly very still.

  “You know I can’t,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

  “Why not?”

  “Shawn, I work. And besides, do you really want me hanging around all day while you work?”

  Actually, that didn’t sound bad at all.

  “I thought so,” Riley said, misinterpreting his silence. “Why not just enjoy the times when we’re together like right now?”

  “There is no ‘right now’ Riley. I have to jet in a couple minutes.”

  Brendan opened his door and slid out, shutting it quietly behind him.

  Riley looked away, reaching down to pull the magazine Shawn was now partially sitting on out of his back pocket.

  “Hate this picture,” she grimaced, noting that he’d folded it over at her feature. “So what did you think?”

  “I haven’t read it yet,” he admitted.

  “Don’t get your expectations up. It isn’t my best work.” She tossed the magazine aside and focused fully on him once again.

  “Did you hear what I said? I’m leaving in a few minutes. I want you to come to L.A.,” he repeated.

  “Shawn,” she groaned.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about Brian. That’s what this is about, right? The other dude you’re fucking?”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  She slid off his lap and into Brendan’s seat.

  Because I don’t want you to be with anyone else, he thought.

  Riley reached for the door. “Have a good trip, Shawn.”

  Before he could make himself respond, she had shut the car door and was on her way back into the building. She didn’t even look back.

  Brendan got in and looked at him. “What happened?”

  “Mind your business,” Shawn mumbled.

  g

  Pittsburgh wasn’t exactly a disaster, but it definitely wasn’t among the best shows he’d ever done either. When the lights went down, and he heard the crowd reacting to the light show and the bass beats, he just couldn’t make himself feel the energy. Then in the middle of his second set, he forgot the words to one of his rhymes. No one seemed to notice because the crowd was so loud. No one except for Brendan, who was standing just offstage, arms folded like a high school principal waiting to scold him for being late getting to class.

  To make matters worse, at shows this size the front rows were almost always just industry people who were more interested in assessing the performance than enjoying the music. This time he was more irritated by it than usual and moved from one end of the stage to the next, avoiding front row center as much as possible. The lights, hot on his neck and back, the rattling vibration of the music in his chest, perspiration making the mike slick and difficult to hold – everything seemed off.

  Shawn kept his eyes shut, moving to his own inner rhythm, increasing the intensity in his voice to compensate for the fact that he had already mentally moved beyond the show and was thinking about what he would do afterward. Tonight all the applause in the world wasn’t going to change that. When the lights finally went down, he left and didn’t return for an encore.

  Shawn showered backstage instead of waiting to get back to the suite as was his habit. He didn’t want to go back to the hotel. At least not alone. He would think too much and what good could come of that?

  At least there was the reception and an after-party to go to. Brendan insisted on receptions after every show so he could rub elbows with local deejays, industry writers and fans and generally, he only had to do a walk-through. No one expected him to stick around, but sometimes there were reasons he wanted to.

  Shawn had noticed her in the front row, sitting with a dude he recognized as an Arista executive and made the educated guess that she would be among the reception guests. She was, wearing jeans with a suit jacket as though sh
e’d changed at work. Something about the way she watched him onstage made Shawn sure he could have her with minimal effort, which was good because he didn’t feel like working for it tonight.

  As soon as he walked into the room, he spotted her with two men, all three of them holding glasses of champagne. Without bothering to check who else might need his attention, Shawn approached them.

  “I’m Shawn,” he said, extending a hand to the men first. “Glad you could make the show.”

  “Enjoyed it,” one of them said. “Glad we could be here.” As he spoke, he rested a hand on her back in a subtle indication of possession and she moved a fraction of an inch away from his touch.

  Shawn smiled at her.

  “Glad you could make it,” he repeated, looking her directly in the eye.

  She smiled. “You’re a hell of a performer.”

  He shrugged, feigning modesty. “Well, it’s what I do.”

  “You do it well.”

  His competition stepped forward again. “We’re from Arista, by the way. I’m Keith Mason, this is Lee Hadwell; and this is Stephanie Downing.”

  Shawn kept his gaze focused on Stephanie. She had a flawless complexion, the color of rich, dark chocolate and a mane of jet black hair that she’d swept back and up into a loose knot. When she smiled, she had a slight overbite, which turned him on for some reason. He assessed her figure unselfconsciously and smiled as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, embarrassed by his frank stare.

  “So, what’s your interest in me?” he asked still looking directly at Stephanie.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Arista Records,” Shawn said innocently. “What’s your interest?”

  “We’re always looking to expand our stable of artists,” Keith said, an edge to his voice.

  “Then you should meet my manager,” Shawn said.

  He looked around and quickly found Brendan, calling him over. Brendan sized up the situation in less than thirty seconds and immediately occupied Keith and Lee in conversation. Shawn turned his back to them, deftly separating Stephanie from the rest of her group.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she said.

  “Only if you want me to.”

  Shawn took two steps closer to her. To see Keith and Lee now, she would have to stand on her toes and peer over his shoulder. Stephanie took a swallow of her champagne and pursed her lips, still clearly unsettled by his gaze.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Do you want me to get you in trouble?”

  Her eyes rose to meet his.

  g

  Shawn rolled out of bed and stepped over the jeans Stephanie had shed on the floor nearby.

  “You do this all the time,” she said in a teasing sing-song voice as he walked away. “Convince women to do things against their better judgment.”

  “Not lately,” Shawn said truthfully, from the bathroom.

  “Well, you’re good at it. I can’t even believe I came up here with you.”

  They always said that.

  “I’ll probably get fired,” she continued. “But it was worth it.”

  Shawn rolled his eyes. He flushed and washed his hands, wondering how long it would be before he was alone. Fucking Stephanie had cleared his head, but now his uninterrupted thoughts would be welcome.

  “I have your latest CD. Haven’t listened to it, though.”

  “Maybe now you will.”

  He found his boxers and pulled them on before sitting on the edge of the bed, searching the sheets for the remote.

  “Maybe I will.”

  She was running her hands up and down his back in a way that should have been relaxing, but instead put him on edge. Shawn fought the urge to shrug away from her touch and stood, trying to seem casual about heading for the bar.

  “You want something?” he asked.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “Bombay Sapphire?”

  “Sure.” He poured them each a drink and sat next to her again.

  “Here’s to spontaneity,” she said.

  They clinked glasses and he finally found the remote, switching the TV on and finding ESPN.

  “Wow,” Stephanie said dryly.

  Shawn looked over his shoulder at her. She was reclining against the headboard and sipping from her glass.

  “What?”

  “I’ve had some dismissals in my time, but switching on a sports channel? That’s got to be one of the all time most obvious.”

  Shawn didn’t deny it.

  “Why’d you invite me up here?” she asked. Despite what she’d said about being dismissed, she didn’t look too pressed about leaving.

  “Why do you think?” he asked.

  “Fair enough. But I mean, really. Didn’t you think beyond that? To this precise moment?”

  “I didn’t think you were expecting a slumber party.”

  Stephanie laughed, sounding genuinely amused. She sat up, the sheets falling to her waist. She was really something to look at. Damn near perfect in fact, but now that he’d had her, she left him completely cold, and with no urge whatsoever to revisit the experience.

  “So what you’re saying is that most women leave without being asked to do so.”

  Shawn looked at her evenly.

  “Well I’m going to shower first. If you don’t mind.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Shawn said looking away once again.

  She padded to the bathroom naked and Shawn watched her progress, waiting for the sound of the water before punching out the number. He listened for the ring, not knowing for sure whether he was really going to go through with it. Apologies weren’t his thing. Never had to do much of it.

  Riley picked up on the third ring, sounding a little groggy as though about to drift off to sleep.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “Hey you.” Her tone was wary. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” he said. “You alone?”

  “Yes, I’m alone.”

  She said it as though it should have been obvious. Like there was no other possibility. He wished that were true, but her boyfriend had the right to call her up and be in her bed within the hour if he wanted. It was Shawn who was the interloper.

  “How was the show?” she asked now.

  Shawn felt a twinge, thinking about the woman in his shower.

  “It was a’ight,” he said softly.

  “And how about you? How are you doing?”

  He’d woken her up past midnight after having insulted her just that afternoon and she wanted to know how he was doing.

  “I’m good.”

  “I was planning to call you,” she said after a moment. “About L.A.”

  Shawn leaned back, waiting.

  “I mean, I’ve never been to one of your shows. So maybe I could come out. For the show this weekend. If you want me.”

  “Yeah, I want you,” he said. “I’ll get B set things up. We can fly you in on Friday. Or Thursday night if . . .”

  “Shawn. Stop,” she said. “I’m doing this, okay? I don’t need Brendan to set anything up. Just call me around Wednesday or so,” she said yawning. “I should have a more solid plan by then.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “And look, about this afternoon . . .”

  “Forget it. You’ve been traveling a lot, you’re tired and cranky. I get it.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “No, really Shawn, forget it.”

  “Damn, can’t a brother apologize? I’m sorry. I was trippin’. I know if I heard anyone speak to you like I did today, I’d kick his ass.”

  “Apology accepted. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He looked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat just as he hung up. It was Stephanie, at the bathroom door, looking at him archly.

  “That was quick,” he said.

  “Well, I figured I’d bett
er hurry up and get out of here. In case you wanted to, I don’t know, call your girlfriend or something.”

  “She isn’t my girlfriend,” Shawn said.

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  g

  Dylan was a nineteen-year-old UCLA sophomore who wanted to be in the music business. A towheaded kid from Nebraska, he’d developed a love affair with hip-hop when he was thirteen and hadn’t recovered since.

  It had been Brendan’s idea for Shawn to have a personal assistant on the West Coast and even though most of the time it was an annoyance trying to think of things for the kid to do, on this occasion, Shawn actually found him useful. A couple days ago, he’d given Dylan the task of finding every article Riley had ever written, including any she wrote before she started at Power to the People and damned if he didn’t come back with about ninety Xeroxed articles in a binder, organized by date, indexed and separated by color-coded tabs.

  “This is tight, Dylan,” Shawn said, flipping through the first few pages. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. I put a sticky on the one about you that she wrote last year,” Dylan pointed out. “I read some of it. She’s pretty good. But I guess it runs in the family or something.”

  Shawn looked up from the binder. “What do you mean?”

  “Lorna Terry’s her mother.” And when Shawn looked back at him blankly. “She’s one of the foremost radical feminist writers in the country. Maybe even the world. She’s a professor at Gilchrist College, in New York?”

  Radical feminist professor? Once in awhile Riley made references to her mother teaching but the picture Shawn had called to mind was of someone standing in front of a roomful of sixth graders, not this. Definitely not this.

  Suddenly, so much about Riley came into focus; like the way she never seemed to want to take anything from him, no matter how small. She wouldn’t even let him order a car to wait for her since she insisted on skulking out of his hotel rooms at four-thirty in the morning. When he suggested it, it was the closest he’d ever seen her to annoyed.