God Don’t Like Haters
By
Jordan Belcher
Smashwords Edition
Felony Books, a division of Olive Group, LLC,
P.O. Box 1577, Belton, MO 64012
Copyright © 2015 by Jordan Belcher
Cover Model: Destiny Anderson
Hair Stylist: Stacy Powell
Makeup Artist: Jessica B.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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God Don’t Like Haters
By
Jordan Belcher
PROLOGUE
Jazzmine Short
I'm one of the richest bitches in this industry—and by bitch, I mean it as an acronym: Biggest Idolized Talent to Come to Hollywood (I didn't coin this term; a celebrity blogger named Gabby did). I'm arguably the most popular artist ever, and according to Music Swag Weekly I'm "The most Influential African-American singer under 25." And that includes male and female singers. The only black woman close to my status is the award-winning songstress/actress Caylene Hope. But she's old. In her 40s, I think. No one really knows. I don't even think "Caylene Hope" is her real name. Shit sounds good though, don't it? Caylene Hope. It sounds church-ish. She sings that goody-two-shoes crap. That happy-in-love, faithful wife shit that's completely unreal and fantastical.
I'm street. So I sing about drama and no-good bitch-nuccas that cheat, sell dope—and cheat, because that's what them nuccas do. And I go by my real name, the name my momma picked by herself because my daddy wasn't there. My name is Jazzmine Short.
Okay, let me correct that: it was Jazzmine Short. Now it's legally Jazzmine Short-Taylor, but I only use Short because that's the name my fans and the rest of the world knows me by. And when I say world, I really mean it. Nuccas know me above and below the equator. Like I said, I'm a rich B.I.T.C.H!
So tell me why I still feel like shit. Like a puppet. Like I'm not in control of my own career.
It's okay, though.
Mark my words: Today, all of that shit is going to change.
I slam the contract down on the marble island. "I'm signed to Mount Eliyah ENT now, muthafucka."
My husband La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor scoops one more bowl of Fruit Loops in his mouth, then sets the bowl down. La'Renz is light-skinned with muscles, and you can sort of tell how buff he is by looking at how his shirt and tie sits on his frame now. He's attractive, smart and rich, and he uses all of that to his advantage.
I used to be in love with him.
He picks up the contract and looks at the first page only. His watch sparkles as he does so—it's a $40k Rolex Oyster Perpetual. He sees the name Eliyah Golomb, his former friend and business partner, then he sets the stapled contract back down. He picks his bowl back up and shoves another scoop between his lips.
"No, you're not signing with him," he says with a mouthful of cereal.
"I had my lawyer look at everything. It's official. My contract with Taylor Music Group is up."
La'Renz doesn't look fazed. But I know he's pissed. I can feel it in the air. He's the type to hold everything in until the last minute and go berserk on your ass. I'm prepared for his tantrum this time, though. I'll be damned if I'm arguably the most talked about woman on social media and I continue to let a has-been manager put his hands on me.
"You are Taylor Music Group," he says to me. "What makes you think you can just leave?"
"I don't even use that last name. Never have. And I can 'just leave' because my lawyer said I could."
"You think I'ma let you go?"
"You have no choice."
He looks up and gives me his "keep trying me" eyes.
It's coming. He's about to snap. I have a knife in the pocket of my white robe. In my other pocket is my smartphone. The screen is locked but I still have an active application running in the background. It's the "recorder" app. I'm recording this whole exchange just in case he hits me and I can use this in divorce court.
"You wait until we're overseas in a luxury Dubai hotel to pull this shit on me?"
"I didn't want to tell you until it was a done deal. I learned that from you. Make sure all my shit was in order before I make my move."
"I know you’re unhappy, Jazzmine. But you don't go and sign with somebody else, especially my fucking ex-partner, behind your husband's back. You work through it. You find the problem and eliminate it and move on."
"We're not a real married couple and you know it."
"We are too. We're just different. C'mon, tell me what the problem is."
"You're the problem."
"Excuse me?"
"You're washed up. Nobody in the industry wants to work with you anymore. And that's affecting me. When you're not high on cocaine, you're bullying people. When you are high, you're not focused. Eliyah's company is top five in Forbes now. We're not even on the list anymore, La'Renz."
"How do you think that's gonna make me look in the media, you signing to him? I'ma look like a goddamn sucka. Is that what you want?"
"You already look like a sucka. Maybe the world needs to see what I see."
He stands up, and my body goes erect, pulsing into fight or flight mode. I knew calling him a sucka would make him jump. I kind of want him to hit me. That way he'd have to pay financially for all the times he hit me in the past.
He looks down at my hand, which is in my robe pocket gripping the knife. I think he knows I have a weapon.
He looks me back in the eyes. "How long have you been fucking him?"
"I'm not fucking Eliyah—"
"Don't lie to me, bitch. I read the blogs."
"Blogs? Since when did we start believing anything they write? Oh wait, I remember: since GabbyTV posted the video of you fucking Sundi Ashworth in our mansion."
"We worked through that, Jazzmine."
"Don't say we. You worked through that."
"That situation benefited us. You know it did. You're songwriting got better."
I gasp. "You are a bitch-ass, opportunistic muthafucka to say something like that. I shouldn't be surprised but I am. My songwriting got better because you cheated with Sundi? Really?"
"It's true. You had more pain to write about. It was a real-life experience that you could draw from."
"I've had tons of real-life cheating niggas in my life. I didn't need my so-called husband to be added to that list."
La'Renz walks over to the bar, bends over and snorts a line. I never turn my back to him. "The media won't support you and Eliyah's relationship," he says, as he rubs his nose. "Professional or intimate, they won't support it. You're a young black girl leaving a black man for a white man. The blogs will eat you alive. I'll get the sympathy this time."
"People don't see color nowadays."
He laughs.
"Eliyah Golomb is Jewish, not white," I say.
"Obviously you haven't thought this through. Go ahead, leave. And watch the career I built for you disappear. Eliyah is just using you to get to me." He grabs his trench coat and pulls his strong arms through the sleeves. "You still have a show to do in Abu Dhabi in two more hours. I'll meet you there. And if you don't show, I'm suing you and your Jewish boyfriend."
He walks out the suite and slams the door behind him.
I collapse onto a bar stool, drained. I wasn't going to ad
mit to him that I'm sleeping with Eliyah. I was just going to let him speculate, like I had to do with Sundi Ashworth until the truth finally came out and couldn't be denied. La'Renz is gonna feel my pain.
I take the knife out of my pocket and set it on the counter, then I get up and walk to the terrace doors and open them to invite the cool Dubai breeze inside. I step out onto the gold terrace and rest my hands on the shiny gold rail. This is utterly the best view of any city I have ever seen in my life. A whopping seventy stories in the air, I feel like a bird. Dubai has unsurpassed luxury and peacefulness and I can finally enjoy it with the weight of the contract off of my chest.
Buzz! Buzz!
My phone vibrates inside my pocket so I pull it out and see that I have another thousand comments on my Site post from earlier. I had posted three words: Change is coming, with no hashtags or emoticons or nothing. This was my hint to the world that I'm switching record labels, and a few fans picked up on it.
Emily Bauer: Are you finally leaving Taylor Music Group? About time! You either need to sign with Gizelle's label or with Eliyah Golomb's label.
ChromeGat OaklandStyle99: change is already here, you dumb bitch. It's called evolution!
ChiTown Millie Walker: I hope you’re talking about changing labels. La’Renz is a has-been. You need a new team to take your career further. Get rid of that coke head husband of yours. I screamed my head off when you married him.
Jamie Collins: I’ve already purchased my tickets @JazzmineShort. Can’t wait to see you in Abu Dhabi! I love you!
Aaron White: Are you ever gonna do a song with Caylene Hope?
Jamaican Kill Squad: Change is coming? You need to change your dress lol
Barnett Phillips: Would you like to make $200 to $2000 a day? This is not spam! Click the link here
Brenda Clark: Is “Change Is Coming” a new song title?
Tyesha816: I love your music! When are you coming back to Atlanta?
JayJay Cooper The Beast: I’m your #1 fan. I have your face tattooed on my back. No, I’m not crazy. I just love and respect you that much :)
Rosie Foster: I’m praying that your change is for the better
I have some of the best fans in the world. And some of the best haters too. When I first got in the music industry I was 19 years old (I'm 24 now), and the social media realm was overwhelming. It made me cry all the damn time reading people's negative comments about my life, my singing, about my food choices, even the names of my songs. Their comments weren't meant to critique; they were just hurtful for no reason at all. La'Renz taught me how to overlook the hate by only responding to the support. After a while my eyes started subconsciously skipping over the bullshit posts and only seeing the love. At least most of the time that's how it went. Sometimes the hate was so outrageous I couldn't help but notice. But for the most part, social media didn't stress me anymore.
It's just a tool, La'Renz had said of The Site one morning, while grabbing me by the arms and trying to shake my tears away. It's just a tool, Jazzmine. Use it to help you. Have fun with it. Stop taking it so fucking serious.
Now I'm able to scroll down my timeline and laugh for hours on end. Getting over social media hate is something I can credit La'Renz for. But the real life hate that comes with being a superstar ... I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.
I shut down The Site app and take a look across Dubai, proud to be where I am today. Proud that I came from a Memphis ghetto with no hope, to being a mainstay on the Billboard Top 100. I'm even more proud that I'm able start a new chapter at a new label soon.
"I'm gonna be free," I say into the sky with my arms open, cheesing like a little girl. "Free. Free! Do you hear me, Dubai? I said FREE!"
And suddenly, unexpectedly, my feet are no longer on the ground.
I scream, as I'm flipped over the railing by someone's strong hands.
Falling. In circles. I can't grab onto anything. All I can do is scream at the top of my lungs, but even that's hard to do because my throat fills with rushing wind and chokes me as I tumble and freefall from fifty stories up.
The wind is loud in my ears, just as loud as my screams.
"Aaaaaahhhh!"
I'm plummeting toward the earth and there's nothing I can do to stop me and it feels unfair and so fucking terrifying! My robe snatches off of me and the wind takes it and now I'm falling in bra and panties. My screaming isn't helping but I keep doing it.
The hotel parking lot is below me. It's getting closer!
Four hundred feet.
Three hundred feet, and dropping faster.
"Aaaaahhh!"
At two hundred feet, I hear other people screaming and I think I see fans pointing. It’s at this point I know I’m going to survive. Because I’m too young to die, because I have a legal commitment to Eliyah and his company now, because it just wouldn’t be fair if I—
Splat!
CHAPTER 1
7 YEARS LATER
Kirbie Amor Capelton
"Slow down, woman. You're driving too fucking fast. Don't you know we got pills in the trunk? Enough to get us thrown in prison for life? Kirbie, slow the fuck down!"
I looked over at my boyfriend Archie Waters. He was sitting in the passenger seat with a puzzled expression, as if he didn't know why I was speeding. But I had told him a thousand times before we left California that I needed to be back in Kansas City before 9 pm to record a song that could really get me noticed in the mixtape arena.
"I wouldn't have to drive fast if we would've left sooner," I said accusingly.
I didn't slow down. Fuck that. We've never gotten pulled over on an out-of-town trip and I've sped through the Midwest region plenty of times. We always took the other necessary precautions, though, to counteract my lead foot. Low key vehicle: 2015 Volkswagen Passat. Up-to-date paperwork: license, stickers, insurance. We kept our seatbelts fastened too.
We were fine.
But teaming up in the recording booth with Slim Eight, an underrated but talented underground rapper from Houston, Texas, only came around once in a lifetime.
Archie said, "Are you tryna blame it on me that we didn't leave sooner? That's your fault, not mine. You and Mark were talking nonstop about bullshit."
"No, we weren't talking about bullshit. We were talking about music. And that wasn't why we were late and you know it."
Mark was our pill plug. He sold the best ecstasy pills on earth. They were branded as Purple Gorillas. Each pill had a gorilla shape stamped into it to distinguish it from the lesser-quality Transformer x-pills. Me and Archie—or just Archie, if you wanted to exclude me—had an exclusive deal with Mark that nobody else in the Midwest could get.
Outside of the drug game, Mark was an undiscovered California rapper. His rap name was Mark Beltrán, the last name a play on his Spanish roots as well as a reference to the South American drug cartel that was rumored to have a heavy stake in the music industry. Mark was a terrible rapper. The worst. He couldn't ride a beat if he was hogtied to it. But he studied the music industry and lived music like I did and we often had some interesting talks that stretched longer than Archie would have liked. But today we didn't talk that long because I had somewhere to be.
"That music shit is bullshit," Archie said. "It's a hobby. Both of yall—you and Mark—are delusional if yall think yall are gonna get rich off of that shit. Yall need to stick to what yall know. And that's hustling."
"I don't wanna hustle forever, Archie. I don't know about you, but I'm looking for a way out that'll benefit both of us and our families as well."
I switched lanes, zoomed past several cars that shouldn't have been on the highway at all, let alone the fast lane. Then I switched back to the fast lane and started coasting. This Passat had some get-up!
"And why are you tryna blame being late on me talking to Mark? We were talking while you were loading up the car. I'm late because you took off this morning and went to the casino. We were already late when we went over to Mark's."
"I didn't g
o to the casino. I told you that."
"Where'd you go?"
"I went to drive around Mark's neighborhood to make sure the scene was cool beforehand. I caught a flat on the way back."
"Liar," I said.
Sometimes I thought Archie was trying to sabotage my music career. For the last week I had been telling him about Slim Eight and the possibility of me and my indie labelmate, Coras Bane, recording with Slim It could open doors. But Archie had possibly slammed those doors shut by taking off this morning. I knew he was at a casino or somebody's gambling house. I know he was. He was a compulsive gambler. In Kansas City, I had to make some calls to have him banned from the Boats, but he'd just go out and get his fix whenever we were out of town. If you questioned him about his addiction, he'd just say, You can't take the money wit' you when you die. Might as well spend it.
Those were the words of people who thought the future would never come. But I had big plans for myself. Tangible dreams and goals of greatness.
I would have let Archie drive to California by himself but I was afraid he'd gamble all our drugs—
Woop! Woop!
Panic struck me as I took a look in the rearview mirror and saw the police with their lights on. Bastards snuck up on me.
Archie looked back and quickly turned back around. "Goddammit, Kirbie! I told you to slow down!"
"Dammit."
"Pull over."
"No! We have life in prison in the trunk, remember?"
"They can't search unless we let 'em."
"That's what the law says but that doesn't mean they're gonna abide by them." I kept driving, then reached under my seat for my .380 pistol. I set it on my lap.
Archie looked at me like he was about to have a heart attack.
I'm not letting nothing get in the way of my success, I said to myself.
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