by Mason Dixon
Kenya interrupted Celia before she could finish painting the unpleasant picture. “I get the gist. Thanks.”
While Celia provided comic relief, Bridget countered by being the voice of reason. “Relationships are always harder when you have something at stake,” she said. “That’s when they matter the most. This one obviously matters to you. And if it matters to you, it matters to me. Good luck tonight. I’ll be rooting for you.”
Despite four years of togetherness, Kenya’s relationship with Ellis had existed in name only. What she was building with Mackenzie felt real. It felt right. Her heart warmed at Bridget’s show of support.
After she had walked in on Ellis and the woman Ellis had risked their relationship for in order to pursue a few moments of cheap thrills, she had lost her ability to trust. Then she had met Mackenzie, who had managed to convince her to trust again. And, perhaps, to love. If her trust was betrayed this time, she feared the toll would be much higher than a broken heart. The cost could be her soul.
*
“Let’s see whatcha got.” Dre reached for the CD containing Simone’s version of Reagan’s single. “Is it as good as the last track you mixed for me?”
“Better. I hope.”
Simone wiped her sweaty palms on the frayed hems of her khaki shorts. She hadn’t felt this nervous since the first time she had screwed up enough courage to ask a girl to go on a date. Then, she’d felt like her whole life was on the line. Now, it truly was. Dre held her future in his hands. If he liked what she’d done to this song, he might trust her with even more. More work meant more money and more exposure. She held her breath as she waited for the music to start pumping from the speakers.
When Dre liked a song, you knew it right away. Hell. Everyone within a fifty-mile radius could hear his whoop of approval as he bobbed his head to the beat and pumped a fist in the air like he was working an invisible speed bag. As Reagan’s song played, Dre nodded his head a time or two but remained uncharacteristically silent. Simone kept waiting for him to give her some kind of sign, but he didn’t give anything away.
“Well?” she asked after the song ended.
Dre regarded her as he leaned back in his chair. “Are you still working at that club in South Beach?”
“Azure, yeah,” Simone said, a bit confused by why Dre had chosen this moment to ask about her employment status. “What about it?”
“How much are they paying you?”
Simone shrugged. “Enough to pay the rent and keep the lights on, but I could always use more.” She didn’t mention the fact that she’d had a chance to get her hands on a hundred grand. Accepting Mackenzie’s bribe would have caused more problems than it had solved. And as far as she was concerned, the subject was closed. Permanently.
“I feel you.” Dre’s worn leather chair creaked as he leaned forward. “I can’t pay you South Beach money, but I want you on my squad. Full-time, not just a track or two every now and then. Because this shit right here”—he pointed to the CD she had given him—“is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. Reagan has something special, and you can help her tap into it. Not just her. I have a whole string of artists who could use your magic touch.”
“Are you asking me to become a producer? Because that’s, like, my dream job.”
“I know. It’s what you’ve been talking about for years. We can make it happen. The money might not be that great starting out, but once we get some airplay and the royalty checks start rolling in, it’ll be peaches and cream after that. Then, once your name gets out there and people start beating down the door to work with you, you can jack up your fees as high as you want. What do you say? Are you ready to stop dreaming about doing what you love and start making those dreams come true?”
Simone thought it over. What Dre was asking her to do was risky. She would be walking away from a steady paycheck and great tips in favor of a career in which she was only as good as her last release. Should she stick with a sure thing or take a chance on the unknown? While her friends would be supportive, her parents would lose their minds. But it was her life and she had only once chance to get it right.
“Let’s do this.”
*
Mackenzie’s cell phone rang as her chauffeur drove her and Kenya away from the crowded city center to the less-populated gated communities in the moneyed suburbs. She glanced at the display, sent the call to voice mail, then turned off her phone.
“Was it business?” Kenya asked.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said with a weary sigh.
“You should have taken the call. It might have been important.”
With so many businesses under her belt, Kenya didn’t know how Mackenzie kept track of them all. If she had that many plates spinning at the same time, there would be broken china everywhere. But Mackenzie managed to keep them going without so much as a wobble.
“If there’s a problem tonight, my general managers can handle it.” Mackenzie placed a hand on her knee. “Tonight, the most important thing in my life is you.” She reached into her jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a telltale robin’s egg blue box. “This is for you.”
Kenya untied the white ribbon securing the box and ran a finger over the Tiffany’s label etched into the square cover. She gasped when she opened the box and saw a diamond and platinum bangle bracelet resting inside. “I can’t,” she said, trying to return the box.
“Why not?”
“Do you have any idea how much this costs?” Kenya didn’t know the exact price, but she was willing to bet the bracelet was valued at over twenty thousand dollars. Four times the price of the first car she had ever owned and almost as much as the salary from her first job.
“Naturally. I paid for it.” Mackenzie pulled the bracelet out of the box and clasped it around Kenya’s wrist. “It looks beautiful on you.”
The bracelet reflected the glow of passing streetlights. Despite its obvious beauty, Kenya didn’t feel right wearing it. Did Mackenzie intend to buy her an expensive bauble every time she needed reassurance when only a few words of comfort were what she really wanted?
“I’m sorry, Mackenzie, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting such a lavish gift.”
“Don’t you want me to spoil you? Like I said the night we met, I like making dreams come true. And I want to help you fulfill yours. Will you allow me to do that?”
Kenya decided to concede defeat rather than press the issue. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“You could try, but I don’t know how successful you’d be.” Mackenzie looked out the window as the car pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling Italianate mansion. “We’re here.”
As she looked at the multimillion-dollar home and the lush surrounding grounds, Kenya felt in over her head. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. She wanted to slow down, but she didn’t know how. Meeting Mackenzie’s parents was the next logical step in their relationship, but why was she so reluctant to take it?
“Relax.” Mackenzie turned Kenya to face her and kissed her so tenderly it nearly brought tears to Kenya’s eyes. “My parents will love you as much as I do.”
It took a moment for the import of Mackenzie’s words to register. “Did you just say—”
“Yes, I love you. After we have dinner, I intend to take you back to my place and show you how much. Is that okay with you?”
As she stroked Kenya’s cheek, Mackenzie’s eyes glowed with affection. With love. For her. A gift even more precious than the one circling her wrist. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”
Mackenzie smiled. “My parents are waiting to tell you I’m far from perfect, but you’re free to ignore everything they say.”
Kenya leaned into the pressure of Mackenzie’s hand. “I’m looking forward to hearing all their stories about you.”
“Let me spare you the trouble. I was a bratty child, a bratty teenager, and an even brattier adult. But you make me want to be better in every way. Better than I’ve ever been. Better than I ever thought I could be
.” Mackenzie fingered the bracelet. “That’s more than worth a minor investment.”
Kenya felt lightheaded. Like she was breathing rarefied air. “I’m just a girl from a blue-collar family in Tallahassee. I’m not used to such luxury, such extravagance, such—”
Mackenzie silenced her with a kiss. “Get used to it. Because as far as I’m concerned, this is just the beginning.”
When she’d gone speed dating a few weeks ago, Kenya had been in search of a new beginning. In Mackenzie, perhaps she’d found her Happily Ever After as well.
A distinguished African-American man in a charcoal gray suit opened the limo door and stuck his head inside. “Are you planning to sit in the driveway all night, or will you be joining us for dinner?”
“We were on our way, Dad,” Mackenzie said.
“Of course you were.” He offered his hand to Kenya and helped her out of the car. “You must be Kenya. I’m Michael Richardson.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He held Kenya’s hand in both of his. “I assure you the pleasure is mine.”
“I can see where Mackenzie gets her charm.” As well as her height and her sexy alto voice.
“Fortunately, she got her looks from her mother. In every other way, though, she is her father’s daughter.”
He wrapped his arm around Mackenzie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Kenya was touched by the obvious affection between them. She had never seen Mackenzie look so unguarded or carefree. Out of bed, anyway.
“How was your golf game last week?” she asked as they walked toward the house. “Mackenzie hasn’t told me who won.”
“Golf game?” Michael furrowed his brow. “Mackenzie detests golf. I tried to teach her when she was younger because some of the best business deals are made with a handshake after a round, but she would rather chase a fuzzy yellow ball around a tennis court than hunt for a dimpled white one in a bunker.”
Kenya turned to Mackenzie for an explanation. The morning after they had made love for the first time, Mackenzie had left her a note saying she couldn’t stay because she had to meet her father for an early morning round of golf. But according to Michael, Mackenzie hated the sport. Why would she lie? Was it the only thing she had lied about, or was she harboring other secrets? Had she, despite her many assurances she had changed, reverted to her old ways?
“Thanks for ruining my cover story, Dad.” Mackenzie turned to Kenya. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. I left you that morning so I could arrange to buy you the present I gave you a few minutes ago. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished.” Kenya felt like kicking herself for being so quick to believe the worst. She trusted Mackenzie implicitly on the dance floor. If they were going to make a life together, she needed to be able to trust her after the music stopped. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered as Michael led them inside.
Mackenzie curled an arm around her waist and drew her closer. “I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me later.”
Mackenzie fixed her with a look that left no doubt how she expected to be compensated, and Kenya couldn’t wait to begin paying her debt.
*
Simone hung up the phone after her call to Jolie went to voice mail. She needed to give two weeks’ notice at Azure before she made the jump to Liberty City Records, but she didn’t want to do it by leaving a message. She decided to do the right thing. The responsible thing. She would give her notice face-to-face rather than resorting to the impersonality of a phone call.
As she dressed for work, she felt an odd sense of relief knowing her time at Azure was limited. She would miss getting paid to hang out with her friends and she would miss interacting with the customers, but she definitely wouldn’t miss the drama that swirled around the club like a toxic cloud. No more watching the revolving door to Mackenzie’s office to see who would walk through it next. No more jilted lovers crying in their Technicolor drinks. And, perhaps, no more Kenya.
Unlike Mackenzie’s other paramours, Kenya had a mind of her own. And a life filled with more important things than partying and keeping track of the latest trends. Simone doubted her friendship with Kenya would end after she quit Azure, but part of her wondered if it would survive Mackenzie’s wrath. She hadn’t intended to call Mackenzie out on her cheating, but she hadn’t been able to resist an opportunity to wipe the smug expression off Mackenzie’s face after Mackenzie called her into her office. To let her know that her money and power didn’t make her a better person than she was. It just meant her bank balance had a lot more zeroes on the end. Not a trade Simone was willing to make. She might not drive a six-figure sports car or be able to jet off to Europe on a whim in a private plane, but she had integrity. One thing Mackenzie’s money couldn’t buy.
She grabbed her keys and prepared to head out, but her doorbell rang before she could leave her apartment. She opened the door to find a nervous-looking young woman standing on her doorstep. Her visitor was wearing camouflage cargo shorts and a tie-dye T-shirt with a picture of a ganja-smoking Bob Marley on the front. Her hair was teased into an oversized Afro that would have put Angela Davis’ iconic one to shame. Her soulful brown eyes searched Simone’s face as she shifted from foot to foot.
“Are you Simone Bailey?”
“Yes, I am. May I help you?”
The young woman visibly relaxed and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Reagan Carter. Dre told me where to find you.”
As she shook Reagan’s hand, Simone made a mental note to remind Dre not to give out her home address. She didn’t want any stalkers or irate artists showing up on her doorstep unannounced. But she supposed she could make a one-time exception in this case. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She opened the door wider. “Come in. Would you like something to drink?”
Reagan blew past her, her musk-scented perfume wafting in the breeze. “Sure,” she said with what sounded like false bravado. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
While Simone headed to the kitchen to grab a couple of ginger beers from the refrigerator, Reagan sat cross-legged on the couch and tucked her worn tennis shoe-clad feet under her thighs.
“I listened to your version of my song,” she said as Simone popped the tops on the sodas. “I just wanted to tell you I thought it was dope, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Cool. I’m glad you like it.” Simone hadn’t expected to see someone barely out of her teens exhibit such a professional attitude. She took a seat opposite her. “How long have you been singing?”
Reagan’s face lit up. “All my life. I had my first solo when I was three during an Easter pageant at church. I caught the bug for performing then. Now all I want to do is get up on a stage and blow. I don’t care if there are two people in the audience or twenty thousand. I just want my voice to be heard.”
Simone had a feeling Reagan was speaking figuratively rather than literally. “What’s your story?”
Reagan’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?” she asked defensively.
“As Dre put it when he first told me about you, you’re young, but your voice sounds like you’ve been through some things and come out the other side.”
“I grew up in the ’hood,” Reagan said with a shrug. “You can guess the rest. My story’s no different from anyone else out here trying to make something from nothing. What about you? With that accent, I bet you grew up sipping fresh coconut milk on the beach rather than hiding in the bathtub while someone did a drive-by on your block.”
Simone nearly laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion, but she held her mirth inside so Reagan wouldn’t think she was laughing at her. She had a feeling Reagan didn’t make friends easily—that she’d had to force herself out of her comfort zone to come here today—and she didn’t want her to shut down when she was trying to open up. To forge a connection.
“My parents left Jamaica when I was six years old,” she said. “We didn’t have much except for the cl
othes on our backs. Our first place was a cramped two-bedroom apartment. My parents had one bedroom, my sisters shared the other, and I slept on the pullout in the living room. It was a tight squeeze for the five of us, but the apartment had more room than the shanty we left behind. Plus it had running water and indoor plumbing. Two things we didn’t have back home. So, yeah, I’ve seen some things, too.”
“Maybe we were meant to work together.”
Reagan’s smile was so infectious Simone couldn’t help but smile back. “Maybe so. We should set up a time to compare notes and figure out what direction we want to take.”
“How about now?”
Simone glanced at her watch. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I can’t wait to start putting some polish on your raw talent, but I have to be at work in half an hour. That’s not nearly enough time to do much more than scratch the surface.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had to be somewhere. I should have called first to see if you had some free time. Why did you let me ramble on like that?”
Reagan bolted out of her seat. Simone felt like a cowboy trying to corral a bucking bronco. She placed a hand on Reagan’s arm to ground her.
“I let you ‘ramble on’ because I wanted to hear your voice. Isn’t that what you want?”
Reagan nodded fervently. “Yes, I want that more than anything.”
Any doubts Simone might have had about putting Azure in her rearview vanished when she saw the hunger in Reagan’s eyes. Reagan had talent to spare and the drive to match. And she had the chance to nurture both.
“Meet me tomorrow at noon at the coffeehouse down the street. We’ve got work to do.”
*
Kenya leaned back so the butler could clear her plate from the last of her five courses. She felt like she had wandered into an episode of Downton Abbey minus Maggie Smith’s withering putdowns. The Richardsons didn’t seem to be as hung up on decorum as the title-bearing family in the popular BBC series, but the opulence surrounding them was on the same level. Kenya was tempted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. This was a fairy tale, not real life. And she was Cinderella, praying the clock wouldn’t strike midnight.