Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “Well, now that you’ve seen me, what are you planning on doing?” I ask. No sense in wasting time. I’m feeling really horny; I usually do after a set because DJ’ing is like sex to me—sensual, hot, and passionate. I want this beautiful stranger in my bed, not just standing in front of me.

  “I have lots of plans for you, Ms. Bobbi. But for now, I’d like to take you to breakfast,” he replies, smiling. His teeth are a little crooked, but oddly, that adds to his appeal.

  “Before or after we sleep together?” I ask him bluntly. I love shocking my victims before I go in for the kill. I wonder if that makes me a sexual predator.

  He chokes a little bit on a piece of ice he’d been chewing. “You mean I have a choice?”

  “Not really,” I tell him. “You can come with me to my place, where I guarantee you I will blow your mind and then fix you breakfast, or you can catch me at my next gig just like everyone else.”

  “Are you always this aggressive?” he asks.

  “Only when I’m trying to get what I want,” I tell him.

  “Well, what do you want from me?” he asks me.

  “Everything, and then some,” I say. I grab him by the hand and lead him out of the club.

  I take him to my home, hoping I won’t regret it. We get to my place in no time flat, him following behind me to my small Ocean Drive condo in a canary yellow Lamborghini Murcielago. We’re balling like that?, I muse with a smile of approval. The car alone makes me wet; it’s like a hard cock with wheels. But I wonder if he’s overcompensating for a lack of manpower in the bedroom.

  As soon as I shut and lock the door behind him, I grab a handful of his thick, soft hair and kiss his full pink lips. I never kiss guys; I guess that it’s the whore in me, but kissing really is too intimate to do with strangers. But I want to be intimate with this guy. I don’t know if I’m feeling out of sorts from being reminded of Kaos earlier, or if I’m stinging from Q’s rejection. Maybe I’m just tired of empty sex and I want to feel intimate with someone, not just sexual, even if it’s just for one night and even if it’s all pretend. Whatever it is, he’s a good kisser, and I can feel his body respond instantly. We stand in the alcove, our mouths pressed together for what feels like hours, before I take him into the bedroom.

  “Wait a minute,” he gasps in between kisses.

  “What?” I moan.

  “You don’t even know my name,” he says.

  Apparently my reputation as a slut does not precede me. “So what,” I tell him, and begin to kiss his neck as I unbutton his shirt.

  “Don’t you want to?” he asks.

  I look him dead in his hypnotic green eyes. “Maybe I will later. But right now, I want to feel you inside of me. Now can you get with that or not?” He stares back at me, as if deciding what to do. Then he pushes me roughly onto the bed, loosens his tie, and rips his shirt open before descending upon me.

  We make out for a while longer, frantically removing our clothing and grinding our pelvises together like a couple of high-school kids. Groaning, I flip him over on his back like a wrestler and straddle him. I reach into the nightstand and pull out a condom. In a swift motion I rip open the package and place the rubber into my mouth. As I pull out his cock and slip the condom on with my lips, I feel his body tense and then relax. Oh, hell no! I sit up in disbelief. This man is older, but I can’t believe that he’s gotten off already.

  “Did you come?” I ask him.

  “Yes,” he says.

  I sit there momentarily dazed. I knew that I was good, but not that good.

  “It is not a problem,” he says matter of factly. “Do you have more condoms?” he asks.

  “Well, yes but,” I begin. He grins at me and then motions toward his crotch with a nod. Although he’d climaxed, his penis is still at full attention. He won’t need any time to rest or recuperate; he is rearing and ready to go.

  I reach into the nightstand drawer again, extracting a roll of six condoms. I dangle them in the air and with a sly grin ask, “Will this be enough?”

  “Maybe,” my new friend answers, “or maybe not.”

  Ah, music to my ears!

  WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE SEX? IT WAS MIND-BLOWING! I have what I think of as an insatiable appetite for all things carnal, but the man who shared my bed made sure I was fully satisfied. He was more than I could have hoped for, a very pleasant surprise.

  “So what’s your name?” I ask him after our marathon sex session. We’re sitting in my bed, sharing a joint.

  “Do you make a habit of smoking with gentlemen you don’t know?” he kids.

  “You’re no gentleman,” I tease back.

  “Well, Ms. Bobbi, you are right about that,” he says with a little laugh. He looks at me with those amazing emerald eyes. “Hello, gorgeous,” he says, then smoothes my hair back from my face and kisses me on my forehead. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mikhail Petrov,” he says.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I say, rising to my knees on the bed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “I sure hope not. I had on his underwear most of the night,” he says grinning.

  “As in Mikhail Petrov, the new owner of Babylon?” I ask him.

  Babylon had been one of my favorite clubs. Located on 6th and Washington, the club had been shut down for about six months, after the original owner died of a heroin overdose. His wife got everything he owned, which included the club and two very posh restaurants. Having no interest in running his businesses, she decided to sell them. Then rumors started circulating that a group of Russians came down from New York and bought everything for $15 million. In cash! The words mafia and organized crime had been circulating too. True enough, those words were used to describe just about everyone in Miami, from street gangs to the government, but I can’t help but wonder if the man I’d just screwed seven ways to Sunday was a Russian mobster.

  “One of the new owners, yes,” he says.

  “Wow. I thought you would be older,” is all I can manage to say. I settle back in the bed and take a deep drag of the joint.

  “I am older,” he says. I emit a small, stiff laugh. I’m not sure if it’s Mikhail or the weed that has me so nervous, but I’m starting to get paranoid. It isn’t like I haven’t been around my share of dope boys, hustlers, and pimps. And I love the thugs. But the things I’ve heard about Russian organized crime send a chill through my body. They aren’t like Folks, or Disciples, or Latin Kings, or even MS-13s. I’ve heard that even the Italian mob is scared of the Russians! They’re rumored to be the most powerful and most brutal of all the so-called ethnic mobs. I sit there trying to act normal, but even Stevie Wonder could see that the vibe has changed dramatically. I’ve gone from being sensual and aggressive to acting all weird, a combination of horny and scared and I don’t know if I want to kick him out or jump his bones. I fidget. I twirl my hair. I can’t stop clearing my throat.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and ask me what you want to ask me?” Mikhail props his weight onto one elbow and faces me. He looks amused. Amused is good. It’s better than angry. “Then I can ask you what I want to ask you.”

  “Ask you what?” I stammer and avoid Mikhail’s piercing stare.

  “If the rumors are true, if I’m a part of the dreaded Russian mafia,” Mikhail says, wiggling his fingers in the air and making a noise like a ghost and then he laughs. “I’m foreign, I’m not dumb. I own a television, and a radio, and I read. I know what people are saying about me,” he says.

  “I haven’t heard any rumors,” I lie and regret it instantly. Of course I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone on the scene has heard them.

  “You’re a horrible liar,” he says, ruffling my hair like I’m a child and kissing me on the forehead again. “And you’re a horrible actress. Everyone on the South Beach scene wants to know about the Russian mobsters who bought Babylon.”

  Fuck it then. I’m busted. “Okay, I admit it. I may have heard a peep or two.”

  “Peep, peep,” Mikhail says
and tweaks my nipples. I laugh and then I get serious.

  “Well, are you? Are you in the Russian mafia? Are you some ruthless, cold-hearted killer?” I ask.

  “I am no killer,” Mikhail says. “This I can assure you.” Mikhail reaches for his pants and for a second I panic because I think he’s going to put his pants on and walk out the door. But I don’t want him to leave. I want to know everything about him. And I want to fuck him again. But he doesn’t put on his pants and he doesn’t leave. He pulls a pack of clove cigarettes out of the pocket and throws the pants back on the floor.

  “You didn’t really answer my whole question,” I reply. I extend my hand for a cigarette. Mikhail hands me one.

  “I know,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows devilishly. He laughs and cups my chin in his hand. He kisses me softly, then gazes at me. Damn those green eyes! I’m weak. I look into them, and I can’t think straight.

  “I mean, what is the Russian mafia anyway?” Mikhail asks.

  Oh, hell yeah, he’s in it. He’s definitely in the mafia. He’s about to get all semantic with me and try to run me in circles with some game.

  “I’m from the South Side of Chicago. I know a gangster when I see one. I don’t care how much you try to clean it up.” I take a puff of the clove and blow smoke circles.

  “Is that right?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I tell him.

  “Bobbi, this is something that I think you will be able to understand. I’m sorry to disappoint you but a lot of people jump to conclusions about me just because I am Russian. It’s as simple as that. If a bunch of us who have made it try to help each other out and build a legacy for our families, our people, our country, people say we’re a gang. The same thing happens to successful black men, does it not? Racial profiling, stereotypes . . . people are afraid of what they don’t know or understand. Some people always want to think the worst, no matter what,” he says, and I nod my head to show that I feel him because he does have a point.

  “I am educated. I have an economics degree from the University of Lvov. I am an international businessman. I happen to be very ruthless when it comes to business. I didn’t get rich by being nice. For that I have no apologies. Like you, I am who I am,” he says, puffing his clove.

  I wonder how straight Mikhail is being with me. I have yet to meet a hustler, a gangster, or a criminal of any kind that has readily admitted to what he does. The people who are always yapping off at the mouth usually don’t have shit and haven’t done shit. Posers. The ones with something to lose, the smart ones anyway, lie like a motherfucker. After all, we’d just met and he had no obligation to tell me anything. What difference does it make anyway?, I tell myself. It’s just sex. It isn’t like he’s my boyfriend. His business is his business.

  “Okay, I feel you,” I say. “I’m sorry if I offended you. Really, I am. I wasn’t brought up to jump to conclusions about people,” I tell him. I realize that it’s not a totally true statement; my mother has always encouraged me to jump to conclusions about people based on appearances, but I don’t go into all that with him. Instead I ask, “Now, what do you want to ask me?”

  “Well, the reason I came to see you tonight was to ask you to consider becoming a resident DJ at Babylon.”

  “Well, I’m not just a DJ, I’m a promoter,” I tell him.

  “Even better. I want you to bring the same event you do at Mansion to Babylon. We open in a few months and I want you to come on board as a part of the team.”

  “Word?” I ask. Talk about luck. I get the fuck of a lifetime and a tight gig at the same time and I wasn’t even trying. I knew being a slut could pay off.

  “Yes,” he says, “word.”

  I laugh at his contrived attempt to sound cool.

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “I’ve been following your career for a while now. You’re a star in the making.”

  “DJs don’t become stars,” I tell him. “Not really. They become known.”

  “That’s before you came along. Besides, you’ve got more up your sleeve, don’t you?”

  “I’m not wearing sleeves,” I tell him. “I’m naked.” Mikhail kisses my shoulders and runs his tongue down the side of my arm.

  “You sure are,” he says. “But you’ve got a plan. You’re not going to play records all your life, are you?”

  “Why not?” I ask. Then I laugh. “Yeah, Mikhail, I have plans,” I inform him.

  “Care to share?”

  “Eventually.”

  “So you think you would want to work for me? I am, after all, a very dangerous man.” He crooks his eyebrow at me.

  “I laugh in the face of danger,” I say and laugh in his face. Mikhail kisses me and then looks at me with a serious expression.

  “Well, do you feel bad about sleeping with your new boss?” he asks.

  “No. It’s not like I knew who you were before I seduced you. And you’re not my boss yet. Besides, who says I’m going to continue sleeping with you?”

  “Aren’t you?” he asks.

  I say nothing, I just slide beneath the sheet and take Mikhail into my mouth.

  CHAPTER THREE

  June 2006

  DAYS GO BY AND NO WORD FROM MIKHAIL PETROV. NOT a peep. I wonder what the fuck his problem is. It’s not like I expected a relationship from the guy, but he made some pretty lofty promises; I did expect him to call so we could at least talk business. When I hadn’t heard from him after a week I decided to do a little reconnaissance so I could see what he’s really about. Maybe this guy I slept with wasn’t even the real Mikhail Petrov. It dawned on me that maybe he was some sicko in a rental car who got off on pretending to be someone else. In Miami, anything is possible!

  I go online and google him; the first thing I do is an image search. The guy I had the one-nighter with was definitely Mikhail Petrov. So what was the deal with the disappearing act? Did he reconsider hiring me? Or worse, did I get played? I search some more, and up pops a lot of boring shit about company takeovers, mergers, and acquisitions. Standard businessman shit. Not one peep about mob ties. Not even a peep about associating with mobsters. Maybe he was on the up and up, at least about the mafia stuff. But as far as I was concerned he was full of shit about everything else.

  Mikhail had already gotten the pussy so he didn’t have to lie about wanting me to spin at Babylon. Maybe he wanted to string me along and secure some future pussy. I don’t know what else his motives could have been for telling me he wanted to hire me, because he certainly doesn’t act like he wants to. Maybe I’m being too antsy; Mikhail’s a busy man and I’m sure Babylon is only a part of his vast empire. So I will give him a little time, but only a little. Guys like him think the world revolves around them and people bend over backwards to give them what they want. But Mr. Mikhail Petrov is in for a surprise.

  I GO TO NIKKI BEACH CLUB ON A SUNDAY NIGHT AND AS USUAL, people are dying to get inside. Once again Q is at the door. What is his deal? All of a sudden he’s everywhere. And he still isn’t friendly. I speak to him, and he barely acknowledges my presence. He just gives me a little nod and continues to stare forward with all the seriousness of one of Louis Farrakhan’s security force, the Fruits of Islam. Once again, I’ve been igged by this nobody. He must be gay or something, because no man in his right mind would turn away from me. But whatever it is, it’s his problem. A guy is one thing I will never chase.

  The men clamoring for entrée are schmoozing and attempting to bribe doormen, discreetly pressing bills damp with sweat into the gatekeepers’ palms. Young women are exploiting their flesh by wearing the skimpiest outfits they can find, and craning their necks so that their flawless young faces can be seen, expediting their entrance. People fight for recognition, not wanting to be seen waiting to get into a party, the ultimate sign of not being in the loop on South Beach. Adding to the fervor, Jamie Foxx is in to celebrate the multiplatinum success of his album, Unpredictable. Lucky for me I’m on the list, and I sail in. I’m pissed that I’m not DJ’ing; who’
s better than me, right? But I look on the bright side; I can actually kick back and have fun. There’s champagne everywhere, women are throwing themselves at Jamie, and he’s charming everyone in sight, enjoying himself to the fullest. It’s the party of the year.

  I first met Jamie when he came down to shoot Any Given Sunday years ago. I opened for Miami favorite and Terror Squad’s DJ Khaled at a party he threw while Jamie was shooting Miami Vice. I know a million women who’d kill to be hanging out with this super talented movie star with a tight ass body, a beautiful voice, an Academy Award, and all the perks that come with that. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t really get into the swing of things. Sure, on the outside, I appear to be the same fun-loving, outrageous Ms. Bobbi, but inside I’m in turmoil. Even though I thought I’d gotten Mikhail out of my mind, I find myself thinking about him all the time. My body even experiences aftershocks when I reminisce about the way we felt together.

  This isn’t like me at all; I never, ever wait for a man to call me. And I don’t get sprung just because the sex is good. I’m not that girl. Just to make sure I don’t become that girl, I have a rule: I never take phone numbers. I let guys come to me. But here I am like a dork hoping that I run into him, crossing my fingers in hopes of him dropping by my place although I detest unannounced visitors, or looking for flowers even though guys hardly ever have flowers delivered these days.

  Then I snap out of it. Here I am, the famous Ms. Bobbi, well, almost famous, and I’m sitting around thinking about some short Russian guy, instead of having a blast chilling with Jamie Foxx and his friends. The best of everything is on the house, and I get to kick it instead of having to work and miss all the fun, and here I am tripping! I should be mixing and mingling with the celebrities since, in a way, I’m one too. I should be networking and having a good time, so that’s what I decide to do.

  More champagne is delivered. Jamie looks at me with an impish grin, shakes his bottle, and pops the top. Champagne sprays all over me, but I don’t care. Normally I’d be ready to beat somebody’s ass to the white meat if they did that to me. I’m not a fucking video girl so I don’t get off on champagne showers. But instead, I get him back, spraying him with bubbly until his white linen shirt is soaked and transparent. Before I can say boo, groupies are flanked around him, offering to help dry him off. One woman damn near licks the champagne right off him. Groupies! I ignore them, fill my champagne glass with Cristal, gulp it down, and then refill it again. I’m on a mission. I have libation so all I need is to meet some people, maybe even find a fine, muscular body to play with after the party, and I’ll be good to go.