by Love Belvin
by Love Belvin
MKT Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by Love Belvin
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by Visual Luxe
Table of Contents
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Love Acknowledges
~Other Books by Love Belvin
~Extra
1
I felt all eyes on me as I clomped through the large media room with purposeful speed. The only thing I could hear was a siren of betrayal. All I saw were frozen bodies on either side. My fists were clenched at my hips, jaw set, and eyes determined, approaching the private consult room. I slammed the latch of the knob down and rammed the door with my shoulder.
The two armed officers on guard leaped and turned to me with hands on their holsters.
“Oh, god!” Laura cried behind me. “She’s my staff—his former counselor! The one I told you about!” I felt her move behind me to gain my side. The officers didn’t pull out on me, but they didn’t relax either. They both stepped closer to their transport. “Wynt—”
“You promised me, you fuckin’ dumb ass twat!” I blasted off. “I told you not to go over on that side of town! You told me you were over it. Had been ‘freed from the bullshit,’ were your exact words!” His neck twisted as I paced to the left and right of him with my finger to his face. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. Knock him upside his head and hope that would get through to him. “I put everything on the line for you. Stayed up late nights typing letters of reform; tweaking non-existent work experience on resumes to match them with whatever job you attempted; stood in front of the judge with your dumb ass; took groceries and clothes to your children on your behalf when I didn’t have the money!” My lungs were on fire and lips drawn so tight they hurt. “You’s a fucking liar and deserve whatever they’re throwing at your dumb ass!” I turned to leave the tight room.
Laura swiped to the right to get out of my way, her sapphires wide with fear and shock. The room was quiet—hell, the whole building seemed that way, and I couldn’t decide if it was my boiling anger clogging my ears or influencing my senses. Honestly, I didn’t give a shit. I was done.
“If I could clap I would,” his voice was catatonic, deadpan. My head whipped over my right shoulder instinctively. Gutiérrez cocked his head to the side, eyes eerily stolid.
I swung myself around, needing a better view of it. Of him.
Shit… How did I miss it?
“Ju read the file, but ju weren’t there. What they put in there maybe had ju feeling bad for me, but ju never ox me what happened. I was eight jears old!” he shouted, bucking at me against the cuffs they’d attached to the chairs. The cops were on him, holding him, though I doubted he’d attack me. He never tried. “I remember the first time that pussy fucker touched me. I still smell the cocaina from his fingertips tight on my shoulder and nose next to my fucking ear!” The chords of his neck swelled, his mouth balled as he pinned me with bulged eyeballs. “I couldn’t fuggin’ talk to tell mi mamá how bad it hurt. She stood at the door and whimpered, though. She was halfway in the room, rushing him…waitin’ for a fuggin’ hit.
“‘Vamos! Vamos! Vamos!’ she jelled at him—or me. ‘Darse prisa!’ she kept saying…her legs fuggin’ shakin’. He was too big…so he pulled out and spit on his hand and jerked his verga. I ain’t know it the first time, but by the fifth one I knew he was vassing me wit his fuggin’ spit!” His neck rolled, eyes possessed, rendering me spellbound.
With mere words he locked me into the room with his eight-year-old self. Was showing me the moment that changed his life forever, transforming him from an innocent immigrant from the slums of Santo Domingo to a most wanted terror on American soil.
“And when he got enough on dere, he rammed it in me so hard! So hard, I saw fuggin’ stars. The sweat comin’ from my crawjin’ skin. Felt like…felt like I shitted mi pantalones. But I didn’t, beech! I can’t shit wit a big ass crack cock inside my ass!” He leaped in his chair again. This time both officers had to switch stances to keep him down. Spit flung from his thin lips, the vein running the center of his forehead raised blue. “I fuggin’ pass out, watching me perra mamá sniffle and dance. But not cos of me. ‘Cos she wanted the fuggin’ trade off!”
My chest caved like a blow met it.
“Ju dunno what it’s like to see a pretty niña like you and get her so hot to suck me off, but go soft in her mouth ‘cause that nasty ass feeling in my ass feel so good outta nowhere. Ju ain’t dere at night when I stay up to trick the nightmares of big fingers at my fuggin’ shoulders!” he shouted, body jolting with volcanic potential.
“So, when I found out that miserable piece of shit was staying in a crack house three blocks from my shelter, not far from a school, fuck you think I was gone be about? I know ju tried ya best to help me find work,” he sang, head bobbing with the cadence of his delivery. “…a place to live, and help me out wit mis hijos and shit. But…” His shoulders shot up in the air. “I tried. I did. I did eberyting ju ox me to. Eberyting. Ju sit in this shitty office, tryna tell people to…accept shit.” His chin dipped, eyes plastered to me. “I lived shit I can’t accept. Dat chupa polla deserved to die!” he screamed, exploding with all the darkness Gutiérrez had carried with him all this time. “And I saw his sweat shoot from his pores when I twisted mi cuchillo in him. His body shook and his eyes crossed from the pain. When I saw all that, baby girl, ju was outta ju league. Your words ain’t mean shit. Dat high was better than him or mi mamá got from him rippin’ my ass hole.”
Erupting were all the years of shame, disgust, and helplessness a child could carry into adulthood. Violence pulsing in every artery. I felt it. I experienced it all in those three minutes of horror this thirty-two-year-old convict, and soon to be convicted murderer had been carrying. He wasn’t my first. I’d heard more deplorable stories of rape and betrayal. Only one more heart-ripping. But one that included a schedule of sober men scheduling times to victimize a helpless child—several a day.
Luiz Gutiérrez had me fooled, though. He was the one who convinced me he fought those demons of implacable, vindictive violence. Gutiérrez made me believe he didn’t harbor rage and he was ready to move on, which inspired me to go the extra mile to ensure his transition from discharged inmate number 481-6389 to law abiding citizen, Luis Gutiérrez. Not to mention his last conviction was aggravated assault and armed robbery.
I was frozen in place, numb from all the small tell-tale signs I’d missed, trying to believe in the greater good of humanity. Then I realized he was right: I was out of my league—or burned out. Either way, the handwriting was on the wall.
I turned for the door and trudged through almost as fast as I arrived, though this time was just as purposeful.
“Wynter!” Laura called behind me.
I tossed a glance over my left shoulder. She stopped, throwing up her arms, asking more questions than necessary with that one gesture. T
he decision had been made.
“I’m done, Laura!” I kept my stride to my cubicle.
“Done?” my supervisor shrieked as though my accent was as thick as Gutiérrez’s.
“It’s a fucking wrap. I quit!”
Mike stood with an expectant smile.
“Raj,” Frank Cramar, a movie studio executive, boomed and came charging at me with his arm extended. “It’s always good to see you, brother!”
I stood, taking his hand, and he pulled me into a hug as usual.
“Pleasure is all mine,” I returned, slapping his back.
“Mike Brown.” Frank went to Mike as I saw two people coming in after him.
Frank never took a serious meeting alone. This could go either way.
“Aye, man,” Mike greeted while giving him dap.
“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Frank offered as he took to the chair at the head of the conference table. We were in Universal City headquarters, just outside of Hollywood.
“This is the meeting we’ve been anticipating for some time now, huhn?” Frank started, and I could smell the nervousness on him. I’d known this dude for years. “Well, I’m not going to spend time preambling bullshit.” He clapped his hands, elbows on the table. “We’re unable to offer you the role at this time.”
I dropped my head to help with the dizzying spin.
“The hell?” Mike barked.
Frank held his hands in the air. “I know. I know—”
Mike pushed up to the table. “We been on this shit for four fuckin’ years now, Frank!”
“I swear. I know.” Frank pledged, nodding.
“This man done jumped through every fuckin’ hoop y’all put in front of us, including giving that last supporting role in the Rom-Com to fuckin’ Dale, knowin’ damn well, Raj coulda kilt that shit. And Gabby asked for him!”
“I know,” Frank tried, face tomato red at this point.
His eyes bounced between Mike and me apologetically, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d paint him the victim.
“Not one movie Raj was featured in made less than nine hun’ned million worldwide. And that animated one had everybody checkin’ for dude because Tamoon, the bear in it, was the fuckin’ breakout character, thanks to fuckin’ Ragee!”
“Damn it, I know, Mike!” Frank raised his voice for the first time.
“Then what’s the problem now, Frank?” I finally spoke up.
That was the thing in Hollywood: Everybody liked the kissing ass and popping bottles, even knowing the knife destined for your back was being sharpened by the honing steel. I’d sang at Frank’s daughter’s sweet sixteen. Had made a visit to his partner’s son’s academy for free; he was the Co-President of Production. I’d had them at my estate, been to their homes, met their elderly parents, even attended a funeral for one. So, when they told me I’d be up for a lead role in a major romantic action film alongside an A-list female, I believed them. The problem was, the project kept getting pushed back. Three times. In May of last year, the last time it was postponed, the execs told us 2018 was when we’d start shooting for a fall release. A week ago, when we reached out for a follow up, Frank called us in for today’s meeting.
Now, he couldn’t look me in the face.
“I swear, Raj. I fucking swear, your name is on this script. It really is—”
“Then when the fuck do we start shootin’?” Mike demanded, his voice echoing off the walls.
The Asian woman next to Frank jumped in her seat. Frank’s hands flew into the air again.
“Hostility won’t help here, Mike,” he tried reasoning.
“You ain’t helping here!” Mike roared.
He was flexing, spit flinging from his mouth, and eyes deadly wild. The other guy with Frank leaped from the table and left the room. I sat back calmly, holding my chin in my hand, waiting on the next move. The shit was that frustrating, but something in my spirit held me calm.
Blinking hard and fast, Frank croaked, “It’s the rumors, Raj. The board isn’t comfortable with them. They won’t go away.”
“Ru—” Mike slammed his back into his chair, his arms shooting in the air.
I couldn’t help my scorn. “I’m gay, Frank? For real?” I cocked my head to the side, unable to hide my smug grin. “You let them ride on that craziness?”
“I tried, Raj.”
“Not fuckin’ hard enough!” Mike yelled again. “This two-thousand-fucking-seventeen and rumors about being gay keeps niggas from eatin’?” Mike was just as astounded as I was.
Frank shook his head.
“What brought this up again, Frank?” my voice deceptively calmer than my manager’s.
“I don’t know.” Frank shook his head again, his face to the table. “The blogs are keeping it alive by mentioning it several times a year. Your association with LeRoy Goshay…” His hands flailing in the air. “I don’t know… The fact that you haven’t formally addressed it after all these years. You turning down that invitation to the Rainbow Love benefit concert.”
“Oh, because their queer ass agenda goes against his religious beliefs and he doesn’t cross that fuckin’ line, that’s a problem in Hollywood?”
“Someone brought up the extreme homophobia amongst closeted gay religious men.” Frank’s eyes landed on me.
Mine squinted. Was he now questioning my manhood?
“What’s up, man?” Mike stood from the table.
“Sit down, Brown,” I warned.
This wasn’t the streets. Mike was good at what he did and so was I, but we had to keep in mind the opponent, and the rules they played by.
“Nah, man,” This time Mike’s palms went into the air. “I just feel like some shit went down that we ain’t being made aware of. I thought you was peoples, Frank. Now, you bringing up ludicrous shit that’s been circling around a good man, no different from the way it does every rapper and R&B singer. Motherfucker, it’s the culture of blacks, man!”
I pushed my hand toward him to shut his ass up. “Easy.”
“Nah, man. It’s crabs in the barrel shit black folk do when they hatin’. This nigga ain’t no more gay than you—never mind,” he corrected. “I ‘on’t know what the fuck you do when Marjorie outta town. You damn sure don’t ride for my client.”
That pissed me off.
This nigga really just accused a Universal boss of being on the DL!
Before I could speak up, Frank did, shooting to his feet. “I love Ragee, dude! He’s my friend!” Mike blew out hot air, dismissing that claim, but didn’t speak once two beefy security guys wearing blazers and hidden pistols came through the double doors and took post. When Frank glanced behind him, it seemed his frustration went up a notch, and he grabbed his hair, yanking locks of it against his scalp as he groaned. “Bob, the least vocal chairman, brought up the deep rooted and long history you have with an openly gay man—”
“Bi-sexual!” Mike corrected like he actually liked LeRoy. “That shit can be offensive, just ask them Rainbow Love mufuckas.” His tone was cynical. Mike didn’t give a shit about being PC unless it meant being in a pussy crisis.
The two never got along. No one in my circle really cared for Mike except me. They only respected the hustle he produced that helped us put food on the table. And so many of us ate from my grind. We’d made millions together, and I made double of that income alone.
“Oh, I don’t mean to be offensive,” Frank tried. “I’m just giving you the context of our conflict. We can’t market a gay man as straight on film. And we can’t afford the backlash of a secret sexual preference being exposed during the promotional run. Not to mention, you’ve never once, in your entire career, publicly—or privately—dated anyone.”
“Oh. Is that what this about?” Mike asked animatedly with wild eyes. He turned and slapped me on the shoulder. “I guess you ain’t fill ya boy in, Raj.” Frank’s curious eyes bounced over to me. Mike’s devious laughter boomed through the room. He looked at me, but I had nothing for him. I hated surpris
es. This shit wasn’t scripted. “Fuck it.” He shrugged. “Raj engaged.” Frank’s eyes shot from Mike to me again, begging for answers.
This was fucking ridiculous. Thirsty at best. I didn’t fabricate to gain opportunities. I fell on my knees to petition them—and not in front of no man.
I shook my head, needing to put a stop to this before Mike embarrassed us out of Hollywood. “Don’t, B,” I warned.
“Nah, Raj.” He snorted. “Now ain’t the time to be covert with your real world. We’re living in the age of the fuckin’ millennials. They don’t value privacy; they fuckin’ hate that shit. You holding on to that shit costing you opportunities. You gotta give a lil.” After a pause where he stared at my profile—because I damn sure wasn’t running with that bullshit—he turned to Frank. “Being married don’t prove you straight, but if it helps clear up the mystique, you should know.”
“How—whe—” Frank couldn’t speak fast enough.
“For a few years now. You know dude weird as fuck. It’s always his way, his terms.” I could hear the smile in Mike’s words.
Every muscle in my body clenched. I hated liars and more than that, I hated having my life curated, which was basically what happened when you became a public figure. It was only about image, never about the soul. Fame and celebrity kill the souls of many. It had already eaten at enough of mine. I fought every day to protect what was left of it.
After what felt like hours of me staring into the fine details of the granite conference table, Mike and Frank looking between each other and me, Frank grabbed his phone from the table.
I glanced up to find him motioning to his colleague it was time to go.
“Let’s see how this plays out,” he muttered. “I can’t guarantee anything, but can stall the process by holding up casting.”
“For how long?” Mike asked.
“I can’t say,” Frank gritted then turned to me. “It’s never personal.”
I rolled my neck, feeling the tension throb from my shoulders. “Nah, Frank,” I replied dryly. “It never is, homie.”
Frank paid me a few seconds of inspection before turning toward the door, nodding for the security guards to let him out.
We walked into the house and I went straight to the living room for the bar. Mike was on my heels, still spitting shit I wasn’t trying to hear. I was a calm man, shut out most noise and was able to sift through lots of bullshit that way. But my manager was the opposite. He talked—shit, talked his way through everything. Mike was a Brooklynite, born and raised in Bed-Stuy amongst some of the most notable figures in music, and the most gutter niggas you’d ever heard of. He was hood, street—one from the trenches. One thing about his breed was their ability to hustle to survive. He’d done well by me; I’d always given him that. But there were times he worked against my brand and moral code.