Ashleigh was standing there naked from head to toe, her hands on her hips. She had a nice porn-ish body. And that was a compliment. If you just looked at her pictures on The Site, where she was always fully clothed, you would never know what amazingness she was working with underneath.
Suddenly, Ashleigh buried her face in her palms and started crying. I went to her and held her close.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"You love Kirbie, don't you?" she sobbed into my bare chest. "You wanna be with her!"
"No, no, no," I said. "I wanna be with you, Ashleigh."
"I can't take it!"
"Take what?"
"The competition." She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't know how much longer I can do this. On the outside, you're with Monifa. I have to be number two to that dumb, uneducated bitch. But on the inside your heart belongs to Kirbie so I have to be number two to her too! What does that make me? I'm number three!"
"You're number one, Ashleigh. You know my situation with Monifa. Her brother is my supplier. But as soon as this music thing takes off, I'm done with her and him."
"What about Kirbie?"
"She's an artist on Swope Records. That's it. Why would I wanna be with Kirbie? That's moving backwards. Does Kirbie have a B.A. in Communications? No, she doesn't. Does Kirbie own her own home? Does Kirbie have hundreds of people inboxing her everyday asking her to represent them in managing their music careers? No, she doesn't. Kirbie isn't on your level."
Ashleigh stared into my eyes. "But she gets more Likes than me."
I sucked my teeth and laughed.
She laughed too.
"Let me show you how much I love you," I said, as I grabbed her by her arm. I made her bend over and put her hands down on the mattress. I whispered provocatively, "Showing is what I do best."
With my fingers, I nettled her pussy lips for a few seconds before I stuck my full cock inside of her. I felt her womb clench, and this was the single-most favored sign of appreciation that a woman could give. I began to powerdrive her—both hands on her hips, pumping in full strokes, trying to make her knees give. It only took four full dicks before she went down, and that's when I pulled her arms behind her back as if arresting her. My hands were big so I was able to secure her thin wrists together with one hand. My other hand was on her shoulder.
I started digging in hard. If making love was give-and-take, I was being real generous right now.
I gave it to her relentlessly. She was moaning louder and louder with each stroke. It was maddening. I had told her time and time again to keep her screams to a minimum. The walls could talk, and I didn't want to get kicked out again. On the other hand this was another one of those signs of appreciation. When Ashleigh got like this I called it "hotel mania."
"Coras, I love you!" she screamed.
"Use yo library voice."
"I can't!"
"Do I need to get the duct-tape?"
"If you can reach it without pulling Mr. Pete out," she said breathlessly.
I had a lot of love and admiration, even gratitude, for Ashleigh. She would make somebody a happy husband one day.
Just not me.
She was a hard worker, she wanted me to succeed, she never hated on me or my situations, she had class in an age of indecency—I loved all of that shit about her—but she just wasn't for me. Kirbie Amor was my musical soulmate.
Sometimes I couldn't stay erect long enough to finish Ashleigh off. I would always imagine what it felt like to be inside Kirbie's pussy. I wanted to skeet on Kirbie's brown skin and pull her hair like I hated her. I wanted to stick my tongue down her throat and growl at her and threaten to do her more bodily harm if she didn't marry me right then at that very moment while my dick was buried in her moist hideaway.
Sometimes I needed an extra Purple Gorilla to finish Ashleigh off.
And this was one of those times.
"Hold on, Ashleigh, let me get that duct-tape and another pill," I said.
CHAPTER 13
La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor
Staying in a New York hotel across the street from a business that was owned and operated by a former partner turned traitor could put a toll on a man. But not me. I was more disciplined than most people.
I could have acted out my rage. I could have purchased an Armalite AR-10A sniper rifle with an anodized aluminum finish and set it up at the window and peered through its scope and chambered a round when I saw Eliyah Golomb walking out of his top-ranked record label. I could have fired down at him and watched him do the shakey dance until he hit the concrete and bled out and then adjusted my scope to zoom in on his FAT FUCKING HEAD AND SHOT HIM AGAIN!
But I didn't do that. Because I had discipline.
But I was standing at the window with my palms on the glass, looking down at Eliyah's building, picturing his grisly sniper death.
"That would be too easy," I said to myself. "I got something better planned for you, Eliyah."
I needed to get started on that plan, so I pulled away from the window and loosened my tie and started sorting through my stolen bag of mail. For hours I opened envelopes and listened to artists’ submissions on my laptop, skimming over intros and skits and choruses and getting to the nitty gritty, which were the voices and the passion in those voices.
This was how I built Taylor Music Group. I had an ear for passion. And passion sold millions of records.
But as hours passed, I was starting to grow frustrated because I had listened to half of the submissions and nothing stood out to me. Not one rapper or singer yet. I was starting to wonder if prison made me lose my ear for talent, or if the world's creativity had gone sour.
I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was a breathing technique to remove stress that I learned upstate in a program that was mandatory after release from administrative segregation. After a couple breaths, I felt calmer.
And I thought of Sundi Ashworth.
I logged onto the internet and went to The Site. Then I tapped on the search box and let my fingers hover over the keyboard as I tried to remember Sundi's Site name.
Then it hit me what she told me: My Site name is still SundiTaylor718 … I didn’t change the Taylor.
I typed it in and punched enter.
When her face popped up on my screen, I leaned closer to see if it was really her. I was taken aback by her beauty, as if I hadn't just seen her in person. Her elegance came across well in pictures, and that wasn't the case for most people. As I scanned through her uploads, all I was thinking about was how she had transformed over the years. Sundi had always been cute, but now she was gorgeous. You could look at her eyes and her poses and tell that she had unbridled confidence now.
It sort of upset me.
"You just carried on like I never existed," I said to my screen.
She had been enjoying her life while I was away. That didn't sit well with me.
I kept flicking through her pictures until I was years back into her timeline, until I came across one that made me pause. One that made me very fucking angry. It was a picture of Sundi and Eliyah Golomb cheek-to-cheek smiling at the camera. There were people in the background so I assumed this picture was taken at an indoors public event. The time stamp said this pic was uploaded six years ago, which would have been one year after I had been incarcerated.
"Dammit!"
I knocked the computer off of my lap and stood up, hands on my hips. All sorts of thoughts were streaming through my mind. She teamed up with that white boy a year after I got locked up. She couldn't wait to move on. Did Eliyah fuck her? Did he get in her head like he got in my wife's head?
In search of answers I picked the laptop back up while still standing and set it on my forearm for balance. With my other hand, I clicked on the picture of Sundi and Eliyah. From Sundi's caption—just got hired by Eliyah Golomb himself as an A&R at Mount Eliyah ENT, look out for me hiphop world!—it was clear that this was taken sometime after she signed on. I started reading th
e comments.
Isabel Wright: Way to go Sundi!
Jordyn Ross: That was a power move, girl. #EGENT is the biggest label in the world. Eliyah is a good business man. Way better than La’Renz ever was.
Kathrine DaFireBomb Walsh: Yay! Now you can move on from that graveyard Taylor Music Group!
AuthenticSteveHarvey: Are you gonna sleep with Eliyah like you did La’Renz? These hoes ain’t loyal. #affair #scandal
Kian Mitchell: Ur old boss La’Renz is probably turning over in his cell right now.
Site user: Can u put in a good word for me. I’ll email you my resume.
Aubrey StrokeYaBitch: No female has ever escaped from Taylor Music Group. Buddy Rough is gonna kill you when he gets out.
Leah Hughes: Glad you got away from that pretentious prick La'Renz.
April LuvinMe Heisler: I see a great business relationship in the future between you two! Don’t fuck it up like you did last time!
Owen Patel: Congratulations! The grind don’t stop! You’re gonna look back and wonder why you ever worked for Taylor Music Group under that criminal La’Renz. You’re destined for greatness. You’re the next Debra Antney!
I wanted to personally respond to everyone on The Site who had posted some hating shit about me or Taylor Music Group. But I knew that would be stupid. I tossed the laptop on the bed and it slapped shut on its own. If I wanted to prove to the world that Taylor Music Group was a force to be reckoned with again, the wrong step to take would have been to try and argue my point in online replies. No, I had to put it in these muthafuckas' faces. I had to become number one in the world again.
I had to get to work.
With a new fervor, I started tearing open more envelopes. But after a couple more hours of listening to thirty or so more submissions, I was starting to grow despondent again. Nothing stood out. Nothing grabbed me. And my trash bag was … empty?
"What the hell am I gonna do now?"
I picked up the trash bag and started balling it up to stuff it in the hotel's trash bin, when I felt something hard. I unraveled the bag and reached inside. It wasn’t empty. There was one more CD, after all.
I read the front of it. "Swope Park Gritter Vol. 2. Coras Bane, featuring Slim Eight, Yayo Love, Kirbie Amor ... produced by Gee Beats ... hmmm."
I knew Yayo Love. He was my artist before Eliyah stole him.
With a revived interest, I stuck the CD inside the laptop and pressed play. The sounds that came out of the speakers had me bobbing my head—it was quality production, original and ear-catching. The first rapper, Coras Bane, had a nice flow. I was trying to decide if he was somebody I could work with when the next rapper, Slim Eight, came on. Slim Eight's style was slower but there was still passion behind it. I was impressed so far. But when Yayo Love started rapping, I felt disgusted. There was no rhythm. His originality was gone.
This isn't the same rapper I signed eight years ago, I thought.
But the next track opened up with a singer that completely blew me away! I turned the sound up, listening to the woman's voice fill my hotel room. I was starting to get goose bumps, she was so good.
She's it!
I grabbed the CD and turned it over to the back so I could look at the song list. The girl's name was Kirbie Amor. I listened to every song she was featured on and I was so excited I kissed the CD and hugged it to my chest.
"I haven't lost my ear," I said. "I still got it. This bitch is better than Jazzmine!"
I looked at the back of the CD again, searching for the contact information. When I found it, I pulled out my cellphone and made the call.
CHAPTER 14
Ashleigh Hedgman
I handed the promoter the one-page agreement. "Three artists will be on stage," I told him. "Their names are listed on there as well as their titles. Coras Bane, rapper. Gee Beats, producer. Kirbie Amor, singer."
"Just three, right?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Okay. But if we see more than three artists on the stage that'll be a breach of the agreement and we'll shut your show down immediately. This is the Sprint Center, not Kemper Arena or the Midland. We don't wanna see a bunch of rappers and entourage prouncing around on-stage."
"It won't happen," I said. "But I would like to ask for"—I leaned to the side, and with two fingers I squeezed an imaginary apple seed—"one teensy-weensy little favor."
He put his hands on his hips and made an umph sound, as if he hated favors. But I could tell he was one belly-poke away from a smile. Men liked it—or couldn't resist it—when women begged.
"I don't do favors," he said.
"Just this one. Please?"
"What is it?"
"My producer, Gee Beats, is a functioning alcoholic," I explained. "Is it okay if he has an open bottle or two on stage while he's deejaying?"
"Open bottles, no. Cups, yes."
"He needs a bottle."
"I need a Ferrari."
"Have a heart, Jason."
I said his name like I knew him. But all I really knew about him was what he posted on The Site, which was the avenue I used to contact him. Jason Carell had a hellavuh following and an impressive track record in promotion. And I was sure he knew that I managed two of the hottest artists in Kansas City.
His eyes were checking me out. He stuffed his hands in his slacks pockets, shifting his weight to one foot as if trying to look behind me at my ass. He was wearing a suit. And I was wearing a suit for girls—a classy white jacket with a bootytight skirt.
"My daddy was a wino," Jason said. "He drank day and night."
"So you understand the struggle then?"
"Yes. He killed himself by jumping off a bridge. He was holding my mother when he jumped."
I gasped.
"Your producer can have his bottle," he said. "But it's at your own risk. If your people under-perform, they won't be welcomed back. The whole city will be watching."
"Thank you, Jason." I gave him prayer hands and a little bow. He shook my hand and walked off.
I stood there in the aisle with my purse strap on my shoulder, looking around at this enormous indoor arena. There were more than 19,000 seats. The Sprint Center's first concert was by the English singer and songwriter Elton John, and now this stage would be blessed by the up-and-coming rapper Coras Bane.
I hated that I had to ask Jason to allow Gee Beats to carry his liquor bottles into this prestigious venue. It was a waste of a favor. We were nobodies, basically, making ridiculous requests that should have only been reserved for celebrities. I had talked to Coras more than once about starting a new team. Gee Beats had a horrible addiction and Kirbie Amor couldn't be counted on. But Coras, as bullheaded as he was, swore we had the best of the best.
Blind, I thought.
But who was I to call Coras blind? Here I was, a college-educated woman of God, competing for a drug dealer's love against a jobless female who expected hand-outs (Monifa) and an even younger girl who was not only a negligent singer but a pill-selling hoodrat (Kirbie). Where did my standards go?
Andre "Coras Bane" McDougald was just supposed to be a one-night stand. I hated that I welcomed him into my life and agreed to help his career. Now I couldn't pull away. I was invested. At first I tried to tell myself that he was just a good dick, a fun disposable thug that tickled my happy place every so often, but then his sex became an integral part of my health and well-being. He became more than meat. I had fallen in love.
My phone started ringing.
I sat down in a fifth-row seat as I went in my purse for my cell. My shoes were killing me! These steampunk stilettos were no joke. I crossed my legs.
"Hello?" I answered.
"May I speak to Ashleigh Hedgman, please?"
I didn't recognize the voice.
"This is she. Who's calling?"
"Hi, my name is La'Renz Taylor. I'm the CEO of Taylor Music Group. I just came across a CD titled Swope Park Gritter Vol. 2 that I found very interesting. On the back I saw your contact info."
> Oh my God! This was La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor! I had followed his outstanding career and accomplishments long before I even had an interest in being in the music business. La'Renz had been a multi-millionaire before he went to prison. Taylor Music Group was a brand name. I had just recently read a blog that he'd been released.
And now he was calling me!
This could be Coras's big break!
I gathered myself. "Yes, I'm Coras's manager."
"Do you also manage Kirbie Amor?"
"Kirbie?" I echoed.
"Yeah, the girl singing on the mixtape. Do you manage her?"
"Uh, yes."
"I'd like to set up a meeting with her—and you, of course. I'll fly the both of you out to New York and we can talk about how we're going to make Kirbie the biggest superstar the world has ever fucking seen. We're gonna force-feed these muthafuckas Kirbie Amor soup every waking day of their lives. How's that sound?"
I was flabbergasted. "Um ... Did you listen to Coras Bane's rapping skills?"
"Yes. He has talent. I like his style."
"Would you be willing to work with him instead?" I asked.
There was a pause on the line.
"I'm not interested in a rapper. The industry has enough. I'm specifically calling about Kirbie Amor right now. She captivated me with her voice. Then I listened to her the second time through and actually heard her lyrics. She's singing about selling drugs! That floored me. I need to sign her. Now."
I looked up at the stage, watching the workers set up for tonight's show. I didn't know who was performing tonight. Coras and the gang were to perform next week.
"Hello?" La'Renz said.
I started thinking about what would happen if I connected Kirbie with La'Renz. The former mogul surely had the resources—or at least used to have the resources—to make Kirbie Amor a household name. She could be a millionaire in a matter of months. With the sudden success, I knew that bitch would be quick to forget about all of the things I'd done for her. She'd rub her fame in my face. She'd take Coras from me.
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