Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  I take a seat in the office and look around at the walls that are adorned with what looks like some old and expensive art. “I do want you to come to Greece. I had been planning on surprising you. But I am aware that you’re here to talk business, that you want things between us to remain strictly professional. That’s what you want, right?”

  I nod yes. It isn’t the whole truth. I find Mikhail sexy as hell, and I already know what he’s capable of in the bedroom. Plus he intrigues me to no end. He’s so mysterious and I’m fascinated by the world that I imagine he lives in. I don’t want to keep things professional. I want it all.

  “Well, then, let me make this simple and get to the point. As we discussed before, I want you to be one of the resident DJs at Babylon. I also would love it if you could re-create the magic you’ve brought to Mansion at my club.”

  I want to scream yes, but I keep my cool.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “I want you to be the face of my new club. You have the ‘it’ factor, star quality. You make people notice you, and once they notice you, you make them fall in love.” Mikhail smiles at me when he says this.

  “Well, thank you for all the nice things you’ve said,” I say.

  “I sense a but coming on,” Mikhail says.

  “Well, yes. Let me get this straight. You want me to go to Greece and you want me to be a resident and promoter at Babylon, but you want to keep things professional?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I don’t buy it. “Do you make a habit of taking all your resident DJs to Greece?”

  “Actually, yes I do,” he says. “As Amara may have told you, I go to the Mediterranean every summer. I love music, I love to entertain, and I throw a lot of parties. I like to travel with the best. I am inviting you to Greece as the onboard DJ, because you’re the best. We’re going to all the major destinations in Europe: Ibiza, Saint Tropez, perhaps even Monaco.”

  “So you want me to come on board as a part of the staff?” I ask him.

  “Not exactly,” he admits. “Bobbi, I really like you. I want you to work with me, but make no mistake, I also want you.”

  “I’m not for sale,” I say.

  “Rich girls usually aren’t,” he says.

  “Who’s a rich girl?” I ask him. I wonder what he thinks he knows.

  “You are,” he says.

  “You got it wrong, buddy,” I tell him.

  “Oh, I know a lot about you, Ms. Bobbi Hayes. I know that you’re from Chicago and that you aren’t as street as you make yourself out to be. I know that your father is a big shot lawyer and your grandfather is a famous civil rights leader. You’re not as mysterious as you think,” he says.

  “First of all, I don’t try to be street or mysterious. I’m from the South Side of Chicago. I am what I am,” I tell him.

  “And you probably grew up in a mansion,” he says back with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “and with servants. So why the act?”

  “There is no act,” I say. Here we go again, another person with preconceived notions of what I should be like. “It’s possible to live in a mansion and still be a down-to-earth, around-the-way girl. Believe me. When are people going to realize that with me, what they see is what they get? Just because I’m not walking around with a damn tiara on my head and carrying around a little yapping mutt doesn’t mean I’m not being true to myself,” I tell him. I’ve had this conversation a million times before and it irks me every time. “You don’t hear me out here yelling gangsta gangsta, do you? No, you don’t. Yes, I lived in a mansion. Yes, we had people who helped run our home, but I never refer to them as servants. I’m no snob. It seems like you want me to be just like the rest of the world expects me to be, but I’m not. I don’t judge people for not having money and I don’t want to be judged because people think I have it.”

  “Yes, but you have to admit that having money makes your life easier,” he says.

  “The hell it does,” I tell him. I’m not going to go into my life story and tell him about girls who didn’t like me and wanted to jump me because I wore cute clothes, or boys who only wanted to kick it with me because they thought I was a meal ticket. That was a long time ago. I’m over it. Kind of. “Besides, I wouldn’t know because I don’t really have any money,” I tell him.

  “You aren’t hungry,” he says.

  “That depends on your perspective. I’m hungry because I want to be a success at what I do. I have ambition and drive. No, I’m not worried about what’s for dinner. I mean, I’m eating. But my parents cut me off years ago. Everything I have, everything you see me with, is all mine. I’ve worked for everything I’ve got.”

  “Really?” Mikhail asks, like he doesn’t believe me.

  “Really,” I tell him. “Is it hard to believe? It isn’t like I’m living in the lap of luxury. I’m comfortable, and I’m fine with that.”

  “You’re happy being . . . comfortable?” Mikhail asks, like I shouldn’t be. “You’d rather be comfortable than have it all?”

  “I didn’t say that. Of course I want it all. But I want it all on my own terms. I don’t mind working hard to achieve my goals. I like to hustle.”

  “I think you’ll change your mind about that,” he says knowingly.

  “Oh you do, do you? And why, may I ask, is that?” I ask.

  “Oh, I have my reasons,” he says cryptically.

  “Well, whatever,” I tell him. “God blesses the child that’s got his own. I’m proud of the things I’ve managed to get on my own, prouder than anything else. I have a nice condo, I have a Range Rover, and I’m able to pay for those things with the money I make spinning. I get to do exactly what I want and I love my job, and not a lot of people can say that. My parents have the money. I’m just your average Jane.”

  “There’s nothing average about you,” Mikhail says. I grin but say nothing. “That’s why I want you to accept my offer.”

  “Which one?” I ask. “The residency or the cruise?”

  “There is only one offer,” he says.

  “So you want to play hardball, huh?” I ask him.

  “Always.”

  “So how much does this offer pay?” I ask.

  “I thought you didn’t care about money,” he teases.

  “I don’t care about my parents’ money. I never said I don’t care about mine.”

  Mikhail grins at me. He puts his hands together and swivels a bit in his chair. He’s trying to figure me out. I can always tell when someone is doing that.

  “Let’s just say that you won’t be dissatisfied.”

  “And let me guess, is sleeping with you a requisite of the job?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “You can do that if you want to, though. I will not try to stop you. But you can have your own quarters if you like.”

  “What if I want to do both?” I ask. “What if I want to fuck you and have my own room?” I ask.

  “You can have it,” he says. “Is that what you want?” he asks.

  I don’t answer his question. Instead I step out of my skirt, climb on top of the desk, and kiss him. He removes my bathing suit and spreads my legs. Then he kneels to the ground and unbuckles my sandals. He slips my shoes off and begins sucking on my toes, which tickles a little bit, but feels really good. He kisses his way around my ankles, up my calves, across my thighs, and stops just short of my dripping wet pussy. He looks up at me, his green eyes full of yearning before he dives in, engulfing my clit in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. I grab a handful of his thick, wavy hair as I arch my back in pleasure. I kick all sorts of papers and cups holding pens and envelope openers off the desk when I come, pulling his hair and moaning his name as my orgasm drains my body of all energy.

  But Mikhail is far from finished. He reaches in the desk drawer, pulls out a condom, and slips one on. And instead of a quick nut Mikhail is long-lasting and nonstop. He twists my limbs like a pretzel, taking me in every possible position in every corner of the room. He pounds me on top of the d
esk, I ride him in his swiveling chair, and he hits it while standing up against the wall. Somehow we end up by the window and my breasts are pressed up against the glass.

  “Look at the ocean. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks as he fucks me doggy style.

  “Yes,” I scream while reaching around to massage his scrotum.

  “This is nothing compared to what you will see. I’ll give you fame. I’ll give you the job of your dreams on our return, I’ll give you anything you want in this world,” Mikhail pants in my ear.

  “For now, just give me the dick,” I moan, bucking and thrashing. I’m so turned on and moving around so much that our bodies are soaking wet, especially between my legs.

  “Come away with me,” Mikhail says, slapping my ass and biting my neck.

  I’m so close to the brink of ecstasy again, and all it will take to send me over is a few more strokes. Mikhail teases me. He enters me a millimeter at a time.

  “Does it feel good?” he asks. I can barely speak. He slaps me on the ass again, this time harder, adding a yank to my hair.

  “Answer me,” he commands, but I don’t say a thing. Not because it doesn’t feel divine, but because I want him to slap my ass one more time, just one more good whack and I’m there.

  “Are you going to come?” he asks. Mikhail spanks my ass so hard that my eyes water.

  So I say the only thing a girl in my position can say:

  “Oh yes!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  June 2006

  WHEN I ACCEPT MIKHAIL’S OFFER, I DON’T REALIZE HOW much my life is about to change. I see the gig as just another job and Mikhail as just another fling. That is, until I see just how much money is on the line. Mikhail doesn’t lie; I am very, very satisfied with my compensation. He pays me the sum of $150,000 to be his official summer cruise DJ. In cash. No bullshit! He slides a briefcase with stacks of money wrapped in paper bands over to me, pops the lock, and flashes the cash. I look as hypnotized as John Travolta did in Pulp Fiction when he opened the mysterious briefcase containing whatever it was that people were dying and killing each other over. I swear that the money glows, it has a bright gold aura to it, and I can hear a choir of angels sing as I ogle the bills before snapping the case shut and holding it tightly on my lap.

  I know you’re probably thinking that because my family is wealthy $150,000 should mean nothing to me. But it does. Like a true rich kid, I’ve lived a life of credit; I charged whatever I wanted and someone in an office somewhere paid the bills. My parents never even got on my case about my spending either, no matter how much I spent. I never had much cash in my personal accounts because of that. I didn’t need it. My “real” money was in my trust fund and Mother and Daddy supplied all my needs. Poor me, right? Well, before you go judging me, let me just tell you that if you’re never trusted with any money, you can’t possibly learn how to manage it. My parents did me a great disservice, because when they first cut me off I went into so much debt I thought I’d never find my way out. So I’m just like anyone else; when I see a hundred and fifty grand in cash just for me, it feels damn good. I know a hundred and fifty g’s isn’t exactly equivalent to hitting the lottery, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, especially for what can only add up to a few hours of work a week, and especially with the luxurious working environment.

  Mikhail tells me I can expect to make at least $10,000 to $15,000 a week and probably more, working as a resident and promoter at Babylon; we’re “seeing how things go.” When he first ran the number by me, I asked if he was adding an extra zero by mistake. His answer was that if it were any other DJ, it would be a mistake, but that he wanted me and would pay top dollar to get me. I know that I’m nice on the turntables and everything, but I’m pretty sure that a part of the reason that I’m making so much is because I’m fucking him. Some folks (like Mother) might say that makes me a high-priced ho. You know what I say to that? Kiss my pretty ass. Correction: kiss my pretty rich ass! I already told you I’m a slut and that isn’t going to change.

  On top of all the money, Mikhail also says that he’ll leave my schedule flexible if I need to travel, and that I’ll have more freedom than I would working at any other club on the beach. I’ll definitely travel on occasion, but part of the reason this whole setup appeals to me is because I can stay put. I’ve traveled so much over the past couple of years that I just want to chill for a while. Besides, why go anywhere? I live in Miami, the greatest fucking city in the world. Fuck what people say about New York and LA and Vegas. Nothing beats Miami.

  When I do the math in my head I realize that I’ll make at least a half mil in the next year. That’s bananas! No DJ makes that kind of money, but then again, no club owner is like Mikhail Petrov, there’s no club like Babylon, and we all know that there’s no DJ like Ms. Bobbi! Mikhail told me that he’s willing to spare no expense to have the best club in the world, and he doesn’t care if it’s well into the millions! Yes, my deal is so sweet that it seems too good to be true. But I know that what Mikhail is going to pay me is just a drop in the bucket for him if he’s willing to pump millions into such a fickle business as the club scene. He must anticipate making a shitload of money when the club opens.

  As I sign my name on the dotted line, I hope that I’m not signing my soul over to the devil. I am a preacher’s grandkid, and I was raised in the church, so I think I’m pretty knowledgeable about how the devil operates. “The devil is a liar!” my grandfather always says. “He’s a trickster and a slickster! He’ll offer you the world, but he can’t really give you anything but a one-way ticket to hellfire and damnation and eternal misery.” But come on! Who’s gonna turn down that kind of cash? Would you? Besides, as a preacher’s grandkid, I also know that God hasn’t given me the spirit of fear, and no weapon formed against me can prosper. So I say a little prayer and get ready to embark on this new phase in my life.

  I decide to call Dad to let him know about my new business venture. Maybe he’ll be proud of how much money I’m making even if it isn’t being made practicing law, plus I want someone to know my whereabouts. I am going to Europe after all, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I don’t owe anyone any explanations but I do want to show a little consideration. After all, what if something happens while I’m away?

  I call my dad at the office, but he isn’t in. I try his cell, but he doesn’t answer. Begrudgingly I dial my parents’ home. Please pick up, Dad, I pray silently. I do not want to talk to Mother! No such luck. The phone rings a couple of times and I am greeted by Mother’s voice on the other end.

  “Mother, it’s me. Is Dad there?” I ask, without even saying hello. But I already know that he isn’t there. Think about it. If you were married to a shrew like my mom, would you hang around?

  “He’s not here, Roberta,” she says. My mother’s voice is as sweet as Alaga syrup, but masks more bitterness than bad vinegar. I hate being called Roberta; it sounds so matronly. She knows this. But if I say anything slick about it, she’ll act all hurt and accuse me of attacking her. I can hear her whining now. “Why are you disrespecting me just because I called you by your given name? You should be proud of that name.” Then she’ll go crying to my dad, whenever he makes his way home, about what a horrible child I am. I know her tricks. Ten seconds on the phone and she’s already trying, and succeeding, to get on my nerves. I sit there quietly, trying to figure out what to do next. Send a fax? An e-mail? I really do not want to talk to her.

  “What do you want?” she barks. “You know I hate it when people just sit on the phone and don’t say anything.” Yes, I do know, which is the reason why I did it.

  “Look, I’m going to Europe for a while, about two or three months,” I tell her.

  “Well, which one is it, Roberta? Will it be two months or three months?”

  “I’m not sure. I just wanted to let you know. My cell will work there if you need to reach me. Or you can send an e-mail because I have a BlackBerry,” I blurt out quickly. I’m hoping that I can speed thi
s call along without a lecture or any insults being fired back and forth, as is usually the case when I talk to Mother.

  “Why are you speaking a mile a minute? You’re obviously up to no good. Don’t lie to me, Roberta. You know that I have the gift of sight. Je suis une Toussaint. I’ll see right through any of your lies,” she says. Oh Lord! She’s getting Creole on me! Then she sighs, “Honestly, Roberta, I don’t know why you can’t get your life together.”

  “My life is together,” I inform her. “I’m going to Europe to work.”

  “So the topless DJ’ing hasn’t worked and now you’re going to go for the gusto and become a full-out strip dancer,” she drawls sarcastically, her Southern accent particularly heavy. “Are you going to dance the cooch in some tawdry burlesque cabaret in some godforsaken country?”

  “Oh, Mother, no one even says strip dancer,” I tell her. “And for your information, I’m not going to go dance the cooch, whatever that is. I’m going to Europe to DJ. And I’m not exactly topless. Sometimes I wear feathers,” I say, just to piss her off. “I’m the guest of Mikhail Petrov. I’ll be the official DJ on his luxury yacht. And he’s paying me a hundred and fifty thou,” I say.

  “A hundred and fifty thou what?” she sniffs.

  “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mother.” I want to see what smart remark she can come up with in response to that.

  “So is this man the Russian version of the sultan of Brunei? Are you going as some kind of hooker?” Good old Mother, she’s as quick-witted and negative as ever.

  “Please, Mother, don’t be vulgar,” I say, affecting her tone. “It’s all on the up-and-up. He’s my new employer, the one who’ll be paying me close to a half million dollars a year to be the resident DJ and promoter at his new megaclub. It’s going to be the biggest and best club on all of South Beach.”

  She’s quiet for a second, and it’s a second I’m grateful for, because she starts in on me as soon as it is over. “I’m sure you slept your way into the job.”