“So she give you any indication either way?”
“No, man. We didn’t even talk about it.”
“You didn’t even talk about it?”
“Nope.”
Brendan made an impatient sound. “I don’t understand,” he muttered to himself.
“I know you don’t,” Shawn said. “That’s why it’s best you stick to managing my career and leave my personal life to me.”
“Cool with me. But can I just say one last thing about this?”
“Can I stop you?”
“You can stop me, but you shouldn’t.”
“Then say your piece, B.”
“Riley’s not just any chick,” Brendan said.
Shawn looked at him.
“There. I admit it. And I would hate to see you fuck that up just because your ego can’t let you accept that she’s got someone else.”
That got his attention.
“Is that what you think this is about? That I’m ego-trippin’?”
Brendan shrugged.
“B, you’ve known me what? Nine years? You think I would get married just to cock-block some nigga I don’t even know?”
“Not just to block but that’s part of it. And I feel you man. When did knuckleheads like you and me ever even have access to the type of women like Riley before we stacked all this paper? But if you get one, one who wants your sorry ass, you best be ready to tighten up.”
Riley wasn’t a “type” but he could forgive the observation. Before he knew her he’d thought the same thing. At first, the thrill had been the same as it always was with women he never could have gotten back in the day.
He’d looked at Riley and all he saw was the girl in the private school uniform, driving by in her parents’ Volvo who looked right through him and the other homeboys as they stood idling on the corner. The girl who watched, bemused when he got called out of class for the hundredth time, summoned to the principal’s office for his most recent transgression. She was the girl he’d secretly wished he could ask to the school dance instead of the hood-rats who hovered around all the time, excited by his bad-boy image.
But now he knew she was so much more than that. He’d asked himself whether he saw Riley at all, or just the girls he thought, a lifetime ago, that he could never have. Asked and answered, a million times over.
“If that’s all that’s bothering you B, you can put your mind at ease,” Shawn said leaning back and closing his eyes against the bright Arizona sun.
g
New York was one of those cities where Shawn’s fan base was so solid that it was impossible to get through the airport without being accosted a dozen times. When they were in JFK, Brendan always walked a couple feet in front of him and tried as subtly as he could to discourage or deflect attention but it hardly ever worked. This time it wasn’t happening either.
Just his luck that at his arrival gate, a high school girls’ basketball team was waiting to board. As soon as he deplaned, there was a single shriek, followed by a chorus and the next thing Shawn knew, he was surrounded by more than a dozen fifteen- year-olds with cell phone cameras. It only took a couple minutes for airport security to show up but by then he had to pose for photos and sign autographs for almost a half hour before he was able to make his way toward baggage claim.
Once he got there, more good times – a baggage handler approached him with a magazine to sign, and that was all it took for a crowd of about thirty to show up. Brendan watched from a safe distance, making calls until the crowd thinned some; then he intervened, leading Shawn out to the curb where a car waited.
December in New York. The weather hadn’t yet turned bitter but it was cold enough to make visible the fumes from the exhaust of vehicles idling in the pick-up zone. Shawn was relieved to slide into the warm interior of Chris Scaife’s Mercedes. After the temperature and the plush leather interior, the first thing he noticed was the blaring music. It was a track from his latest CD. Chris smirked as he looked over at him.
“Kill that noise, man,” Shawn said.
“You’re the only nigga I know who don’t like to listen to himself,” Chris said, lowering the volume.
“You only do it to fuck with me,” Shawn said.
Chris turned to look at Brendan in the back seat as they pulled away.
“B, we need to work on his swagger, y’know what I’m sayin’? All this modesty just ain’t appropriate for hip-hop.”
Shawn looked out the window and tried to ignore Chris. This was the nature of their relationship and had been ever since Shawn was a skinny, eager kid from DC, looking to break into the East Coast rap scene.
He’d met Chris at a showcase organized by a Baltimore radio station, and been picked out of a group of forty other performers to come to New York for development.
For six months, he’d lived in Chris’ mansion in Short Hills, New Jersey being groomed and packaged to become rap’s next big thing. Chris orchestrated everything from his haircut to the color of the Pumas on his feet, and produced the first track he released. Chris took him to all the right parties and introduced him to all the right people, and under his wing, within a year, Shawn had a hit single, and in two, he had more success than he had ever believed possible.
He couldn’t have imagined then that he would have a career in hip-hop that was almost a decade long, and even more money and fame than his young mind would have been able to grasp, even after his first taste of both.
Although Chris was only about seven years older, his and Shawn’s relationship was more like a father-son rivalry than that of siblings, where the master was ever vigilant that the student not outshine him one day. But surpassing Chris would be almost impossible. His tentacles seemed to be in every aspect of hip-hop – clothing, publishing, music and even a couple screenplays in development.
“So word is you’re jumping the broom,” Chris said casually.
Shawn looked at Brendan. “I don’t know yet. I asked her . . .”
“Then of course you’re getting married,” Chris interrupted him. “What woman would say no to all this?”
“The kind of woman who would say no to all this,” Shawn said.
Chris laughed. “Ah, I got you. College girl.”
“Something like that,” Shawn mumbled.
The last thing he wanted to do was discuss Riley with Chris-fucking-Scaife. Loved him like a brother, but with Chris, nothing was sacred. Especially nothing that pertained to women.
“So what’s her name? Do I know her?”
Shawn laughed. “No. You don’t know her.”
“Why you holdin’ out on me? My feelings are hurt.”
“Yeah. Sure they are.”
“C’mon man, what’s her name?”
“Riley.”
“Riley what?”
“Riley Terry.”
“Why is that name familiar?” Chris said under his breath.
Shawn looked at him. If he found out Chris read Power to the People then he’d have to alter his whole worldview.
“She’s a writer,” Brendan supplied. “For a magazine. She did a feature on him last year.”
Chris looked at Shawn. “Damn. So she’s got her own. Good move. So when can I meet her?”
Shawn shook his head. “How about never? Does never work for you?”
“That’s cold,” Chris said. “I introduce you to all my significant others.”
Shawn laughed. “That shit kind of loses impact after I meet number three and four in the span of a couple weeks.”
“Okay, so keep her to yourself, Smooth. Can’t do that forever. If you marry her, you gon’ have to let her out sometime,” Chris said.
Shawn felt a sudden rush of apprehension. Chris was right. Riley hadn’t told him so in as many words, but he sensed Brian was completely out of the picture. For the first time since they met, he felt like she was his alone – a safe space he’d managed against all odds to carve out in his crazy life.
But if she said yes – and he was still nowhere near sure that s
he would – as his wife, she would be exposed to all the craziness. So far, all she really knew was Brendan who was practically a saint compared to the likes of Chris Scaife.
The dirty truth about hip-hop was that the music videos were a pretty accurate depiction of the lifestyle – the women, the parties, the drugs, the spending like there was no tomorrow; and for some, the guns and drama.
The last thing in the world he wanted was for Riley to see any parts of that mess. His nostrils flared at the thought.
“So where you want to go, man? I told you, you can stay at my crib.”
Chris had moved on, thankfully, to other subjects, probably bored now that he realized Shawn wouldn’t be goaded into talking about his almost-fiancée.
“The Four Seasons is good,” Shawn said.
He glanced at the time. It was just after four so by the time he checked in, he could go get Riley at work, or call her to come by.
“I told you I been talking to Glock, right?”
“Yup.”
Glock was the two young guys who’d opened for him.
Shawn hadn’t spent much time with them on the seven-city tour. Had avoided them a little bit, in fact. They were hot-headed and irresponsible – magnets for trouble; the same as he’d been at their age.
He wasn’t down for all that anymore. Just twenty-eight he still felt as though he’d lived five lifetimes’ worth of running around acting a fool.
“I see big money from those two,” Brendan predicted.
“I’m banking on it,” Chris nodded. “As a matter of fact, they’re in the city right now. I’m about to check them out at the studio. You interested, Smooth?”
“Lemme check in at the hotel and make some calls.”
He would make sure he had a suite, get things set up so Riley could meet him there later, and go check out the new wünderkinds of hip-hop. He didn’t want to work at all these next few days but he’d already slacked off by not paying close attention to Glock’s performances at his shows, so putting in some time with them in the studio was probably a good idea.
Chris dropped him off and he checked in, getting a Tower Suite with a skyline view and terrace. He left a key at the front desk for Riley and called her as soon as he was got to the room.
“Can I see you tonight?” he asked without greeting.
The excited intake of breath on the other end was almost as good to hear as her voice. “You’re here already?”
“Just checked in at the Four Seasons.”
“Of course I’ll come tonight. What time do you want me?”
“As soon as possible.”
Riley laughed. “Do I get to finish my work first?”
“If you have to,” he said.
“Yes, sadly I do. But I’ll come right after.”
“So I might head to the studio then, check some things out. I’ll leave you a key downstairs in case I’m not back by the time you get here.”
“Should we go out someplace nice for dinner?”
“Oh, no we’re definitely not going out,” Shawn said.
After he’d showered and changed, he headed back to the lobby where Chris, and Mike and Darryl a.k.a. ‘Glock’ were already waiting for him.
“I have to swing back by here in a couple hours,” he told Chris as they left.
“We got plans to hit the club tonight though man.”
“That’s what you’re doing. But I have to be back around seven.”
“Oh I got you,” Chris said. “Riley Terry.”
He’d remembered the name. If he was right about the way Chris operated, he’d probably already asked someone in his office to look into Riley’s background. By tomorrow he would know more about her than Shawn did.
Chris shrugged. “She wouldn’t like it at the club anyway. Females pushing up on you, all that mess.”
Shawn sucked his teeth. “Fuck them ‘hos.”
Darryl laughed. “You can always hand them off to me, Smooth.”
“So you out the game, man?” Mike asked.
Shawn thought about it. Slowly, and almost to himself, he nodded.
As usual, the studio was overrun with people who didn’t have any business there. Apart from him and Chris, a couple technicians and Mike and Darryl, it should have been empty, but a parade of girlfriends, and friends of friends were hanging around trying to turn a recording session into a social occasion, making it almost impossible for him to think about the what he was there to do. He needed quiet when he worked but some dudes thrived on constant chaos. It wasn’t enough they wrote about it – they had to live it too.
Shawn always tried to keep his head down, hoping to discourage visitors to the studio from approaching him, but it never worked. Now, despite the fact that he was sitting by himself, head down and writing in his book, he could see the legs of the person standing directly in front of him, even before she spoke. Tight jeans and pink high-heeled boots. Pink boots. He had to look up.
“What’s up, Smooth?”
She had her arms folded across her chest and her head cocked to one side, looking like she had mustered up all her courage just to approach him. She had a cute smile and one dimple in her left cheek. Long, dark brown hair with auburn highlights was piled atop her head in a ponytail that cascaded out of a rubber band in glossy waves.
Shawn smiled back at her.
“Nothin’. What up with you?”
“I just wanted to say that your last CD was nothin’ but the truth.”
“Thank you.”
He waited for her to say more, but she just stood there, smiling that single-dimpled smile.
In the beginning, when he was just starting to get a taste of what fame was like, he would look at girls as fine as this and not believe that they were offering themselves to him. Then after awhile, not only did he believe it, he started to think he was entitled to their attention. Now he’d reached the stage where he almost didn’t notice them at all. They were part of the scenery unless and until they stepped to him like this one had.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Keisha. I’m Mike’s cousin.”
He held out a hand and she took it, holding it a little longer than was necessary, letting go one finger at a time.
“So I heard you was filming a video next week,” she said. “In the Bronx?”
So that’s what this was about. “Yeah. You a dancer?”
“Trying to be.” She looked suddenly shy again. “You think maybe I could get a part or something?”
Shawn shrugged. “I don’t do casting for the videos.”
“C’mon now,” she said, sitting next to him. “You know you could put me in the video if you wanted to.”
“Yeah but I don’t even know if you can dance,” he pointed out.
“You’ll be at Sans Souci tonight with Mike and them, right?”
He said nothing.
“So look for me on the dance floor. If you like what I can do, can I be in the video?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“What else could I do for you to put me in the video?” Keisha asked, looking him right in the eye. She held his gaze for a moment until Shawn smiled and shook his head.
“If you can dance, I’ll put in a word for you,” he said, ignoring her question.
It was funny how she had that shy, innocent act down pat and then the next minute she was issuing invitations for him get into her drawers. The rap game could show you some crazy shit.
“So maybe I’ll see you tonight.”
The twitch in her hips as she walked away made it clear she knew he was watching.
“You like that?”
Shawn glanced over his shoulder. It was Chris, grinning at him.
“Nothing wrong with looking,” Shawn said.
“Yeah, but how you can look at a piece like that and not touch is what fucks me up.”
“You need to clear the studio so we can do some work and stop worrying about my dick,” Shawn said.
Chris laughed.
“I give you two months, playa. Two months before you trip up. Married, my ass.”
He got more writing done than he expected and spent the afternoon listening to Mike and Darryl free-styling, watching how they moved and dissecting their technique. They had an old-school flavor about them, but unlike the old-school rappers they didn’t rhyme about their skills, they rhymed about guns and the ghetto and bodies laid out in the street. All the grim realities that had gradually crept into the music and culture, threatening to take the whole damn thing over.
He tried to stay away from most of that unless he said something very definite to say, but the young hotheads like Glock liked their rhymes bloody. And nowadays, if you left that out entirely, people started hollering about how you weren’t “keepin’ it real”.
During a break, Mike and Darryl were eager to hear his opinion, excited that he’d liked what they did. He’d been doing this for almost ten years, so to a couple of teenagers, that had to seem like an eternity. Shawn gave them high praise, not letting on what he really thought. To some ears, they weren’t just different from him, they were better. Across the studio, Chris raised his eyebrows. No words needed to be exchanged - they were thinking the same thing.
Shawn left the studio around seven-fifteen, taking a cab back to the hotel. When he opened the door to the suite, he saw Brendan first. He was flipping through a magazine and laughing at something Riley must have said. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“Alright Brendan, pay up,” she said as soon as he walked in. Then she looked at him. “He said once you got into the studio, there was no telling when you’d leave. Bet me a hundred dollars you’d be there until at least midnight.”
She shoved herself up and off the bed, taking a couple of steps toward him, looking hesitant for a moment until he opened his arms to her. She leaned into him and he held her for a few seconds before letting her go to look her over. She was wearing all black – a close-fitting Henley, skinny pants, boots and a cropped light leather jacket that fit her snugly.
Shawn gave Brendan a look over her shoulder, silently inquiring.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d see whether you wanted to grab something to eat,” Brendan explained.
“You knew I was in the studio,” Shawn pointed out.
Commitment Page 12