Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “What are you talking about, Mother?”

  “You might not think I know what kind of person you are, but I do. I’ve always known. You’ve had a problem keeping your legs closed for a long time. You’re a slut. Your ways are whorish. You are not a lady, you’re a tramp. You always have been, and you always will be. I don’t know where you get it from,” she says.

  “Ask Dad,” I tell her. As respected as my father is, I know he keeps girlfriends. I come by my whorish ways honestly, and that’s what she can’t stand. She knows Dad isn’t faithful, but she would prefer to live in denial. She’d never divorce him anyway. She likes his name as much as she likes his money. Dad won’t divorce her because he’d rather spend his money on women my age than give half of it to her.

  “You’re disgusting. You’re a hateful child. But your attempts at hurting me won’t work. You are the focus of this conversation, Roberta, you and your whorish ways. Leave your father out of this. You think that because you toss around the amount of money you’re getting paid, I won’t see this situation for what it is? I know you’re sleeping with this new boss of yours,” she spits. “You can’t tell me otherwise.”

  I hang up the phone. There’s no sense in me sitting there and being verbally abused. Sure, what she’s saying is partially true. I am sleeping with my boss. But the point is I don’t have to. I want to. Nothing is going to change with my mother anyway. I wanted someone to know where I was going and I accomplished that. And since my mother voiced her displeasure, she’s made the trip all the more appealing to me.

  THE DAY THAT I SET SAIL, A LIMO COMES TO FETCH ME, AND I kick back for the quarter mile drive to the marina. I promptly open the bottle of Gentleman’s Jack in the wet bar, pour a glass, and mix it with a little OJ. I toast myself and drink it down quickly since the ride is so short.

  When I reach the yacht, I find an entire stateroom filled with goodies just for me. There are clothes, shoes, handbags, some gorgeous jewelry, both real and costume—you name it, all in my sizes and suiting my taste. It’s just like a scene out of my favorite movie Casino, when Sam blesses Ginger with a chinchilla coat and all the jewelry she could ever dream of wearing. Mikhail has clearly put some thought into these purchases, because there isn’t a single item there that doesn’t scream Ms. Bobbi. Everything is just my style: unique, original, and outrageous. I ask Mikhail if this is just another perk for being a valued employee, but he simply laughs and leads me up on deck where we meet Amara and Dimitri.

  “I told you, baby,” Amara says when she sees me, laughing heartily. “When I eavesdrop I do it right. I knew he was going to invite you.”

  When we set sail, a loud foghorn blows, and Amara and I prance about singing the theme song to The Love Boat. When we finish our duet, Amara gives me a huge hug and kisses me on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you said yes, baby. I guarantee you’re going to have the time of your life. Just you wait and see,” she enthuses as she clasps my hands in hers. I notice a fat rock on her ring finger. It’s at least five or six carats. My eyes bug out and I raise my brows at her.

  “Is Dimitri your fiancé?” I ask her.

  “Ay, baby, no!” she says, holding her ring up to the heavens so it sparkles in the sun. “He’d have to do much better than this trinket if he wanted me to marry him! This is just a friendship bauble.”

  As materialistic as I claim not to be, I realize that I’m very happy that I have friends like that, and I’m anticipating some trinkets of my own.

  OUR FIRST STOP IS NASSAU. MIKHAIL, DIMITRI, AMARA, AND I go shopping as soon as we get off the ship, where I load up on perfume and gold bangles. I also get some handbags and gear from Fendi. Fendi has never really been my cup of tea, it’s so ’80s in my opinion, but it’s Mikhail’s dime, and the selection in the boutique is so much different than what I see hoodrats in the States rocking.

  Mikhail seems to enjoy the shopping as much as I do. If my eyes light up when I see something, he just buys it; he doesn’t even wait to see if I really want it. I tell him that he’s being way too generous, but he keeps insisting, which is good, because I don’t really mean it when I tell him the gifts are too much. A nagging voice in my head keeps telling me that nothing in life is free, and that if it seems too good to be true it probably is, but I shut it out. After all, I am going to be working on this cruise and the no-holds-barred shopping is too much fun to resist.

  Amara has no such qualms or reservations; she exudes an air of entitlement. She knows that she deserves the best things in life, and when she sees them, she just makes her desires known and Dimitri foots the bill. Their relationship seems so free, natural and easy, unlike Mikhail and me. We’re going into this wrong, mixing business with pleasure and playing games. Someone is destined to end up hurt. But I’m determined it won’t be me.

  After Nassau, we sail to the Turks and Caicos Islands and hang out there for a couple of days. It’s absolutely gorgeous! The crystal waters are excellent for scuba diving and snorkeling, and I get a chance to see and touch all kinds of fish, and even a giant sea turtle. I feel like I’m in the middle of Finding Nemo, in awe of the blue tang, angelfish, giant manta rays, and dolphins. I also try my hand at parasailing, which I will never do again because it frankly scared the shit out of me, and I Jet Ski until my thighs are sore.

  The time I spend with Mikhail in what I regard as paradise on earth is wonderful. Traveling on someone else’s dime is always cool, though. Mikhail is considerate and adventurous, and willing to partake in just about any activity I want to do. He makes being around him fun. Not to mention it’s heaven being able to indulge in just about anything I can imagine, from food and drink to pampering.

  The staff waits on me hand and foot, even though technically I’m one of them. I don’t resort to yelling at them and verbally abusing them the way I see Amara do frequently, but I do pick up the habit of snapping my fingers at them. It sucks because my mother does that and I hate it, but now I know what a power trip it is to snap my fingers and have whatever I want at my tips in a matter of minutes. But the snapping isn’t the only thing that is changing about me. The way I think about a lot of shit is changing. I can’t deny it. What surprises me is how quickly it’s all happening; what surprises me more is that I am not putting up a fight.

  I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m already caught up in my own hype. I’m becoming everything I said I’d never be. Materialistic. Shallow. I’m committing a great sin. I’m becoming an idolater. A lover of the world. Before all this, nothing gave me a bigger high than playing my music. But this glamorous life is starting to feel real good, and the high it produces is running a close second. When it isn’t forced on me, couture fashion feels good against my skin. Once my adversary, money has become my friend, and now that I have it, I’m never letting go. I have decided to embrace excess. The lavish life is definitely for me. Kimora better watch her back because there is a new queen of fabulosity on the scene.

  My old life is over, because now I have the best of both worlds. This is my game and I’m playing by my own rules. I get to do what I love and I’m making a gang of money for it. I get to kick it on a whole new level, a level that most people only dream of. But this isn’t a dream; it’s my life, my new life. Meet the new and improved Ms. Bobbi. I am so over anything regular. From now on, it’s absolutely nothing but the best.

  Even though I’m not about to commit to Mikhail, I am so done with run-of-the-mill hotboys that I pick up at my gigs back in Miami. There’s no way that I can go back to bullshit. And everything that isn’t this is bullshit. Mikhail is the real deal. He isn’t a hotboy, he is pure fire. Ghetto celebrities just aren’t going to cut it for me anymore, and the way Mikhail is living, he makes everybody I’ve ever kicked it with, no matter how rich and famous, seem like a peasant. He has style, class, looks, swagger, and the money to set shit off lovely.

  I’ve never met anyone quite like Mikhail Petrov, and I doubt that I ever will. But although he’s fly, there is one thing competing with him:
my memories of Kaos. And no amount of money and no gift can ever give Mikhail the edge over his competition. There was something so indescribable, so beautiful about the way we were in love. I’ve moved on, yes, but a part of me will never be able to let that go. Ever. So it doesn’t matter that I’m here with another man, and it doesn’t matter how many new lives I begin. I still think of Kaos all the time. I still dream of him. Probably now more than ever. I still feel him every time I step up to a deck and do a set, because if it hadn’t been for him, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be the DJ that I am. But then, if he hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be here on this ship. Hell, maybe I would; maybe Kaos would be the DJ and I’d be along for the ride. There’s no way to know.

  What gets to me the most, what keeps me awake some nights, what makes me feel that there’s a sliver of ice in my heart that will never melt, and what causes the pain that I do anything in my power to numb, even self-destructive shit, is the fact that his death is my fault. Because I warned him. At least, I tried to warn him about that damn bike. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a great biker; he was. He always drove carefully. Hell, I used to ride with him, and I loved it. Then one night I had a dream that the street opened up and swallowed him whole, and I knew. I knew something bad would happen to him on that motorcycle. He laughed at me. They say God has a reason for everything, but what reason did he have for taking my love away from me? Not even the good Reverend Dr. Robert Hayes Sr. can tell me that.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy. Life is really good. And the smell of success is so sweet. But Kaos’s love was sweeter. Money can’t even replicate that feeling. But it helps, even though nothing will ever bring him back.

  WHEN WE SET SAIL FOR EUROPE, THERE’S NOTHING BUT THE Atlantic Ocean for a few days. It’s kind of scary sitting on a deck and just seeing nothing but water all day and all night. I wonder what would happen if we got lost or ran out of gas or broke down. And my crazy ass can’t get the theme to Titanic out of my head, even though Celine Dion is my least favorite singer. How does the captain know where the hell he is going anyway? And what if someone on board goes crazy and tries to kill us all? Who would rescue us? I’ve seen scary movies with plots like that, and you know the black person is always the first to die in a scary movie. So I’m limiting my time looking at the sea to a minimum, because it makes me too paranoid.

  Mikhail and Dimitri hole themselves up in the business center for hours. It seems that I hardly even see Mikhail, which is crazy as hell because we’re on the same ship! And when he is around, his cell phone is glued to his ear, or he’s fiddling around on his Palm Pilot, or he’s pecking away at his laptop. So I spend most of my time with Amara, which is cool because Amara is fascinating.

  Amara has impeccable taste and always looks fabulous, seemingly without any effort. She wears nothing but the best, but what she wears never screams that she’s trying to impress. Amara doesn’t like to stay put in one place for long, so her clothes are never fussy and complicated but rather free and easy like herself, which, when you think about it, is probably the best way to go for someone so statuesque. Her hair hangs long, loose, and straight to the middle of her back, and is a combination of various shades of brown due to constant sunshine and sea water. She never wears it up or pulled back. She wears a lot of jewelry, but it’s classy and never gaudy, and as for makeup, although she certainly doesn’t need it at all, she seems to always have it on. She is always camera ready, and I have no idea how she does it. I think I’m pretty, but my good looks don’t come naturally. There’s a lot of work, thought, warpaint, and chemicals that go into making me look good.

  As stunning as she is, Amara’s appeal is more than skin deep. She’s been everywhere, she knows everyone, and she’s done everything. She was born to a wealthy family in Brazil that, she reluctantly admitted, owned a sugarcane plantation. She thought I’d be insulted that her family once owned slaves, and she was right; I didn’t like to hear that she was associated with a plantation of any kind. But since I don’t want people to judge me based on my family, I decide to extend her the same courtesy.

  She went to school in the English countryside, and when she finished, her life consisted of shopping and partying and pretty much nothing else. She tells me that her brothers run the business, that she has a trust, and that she gets her money from the business and her family. They don’t really expect her to do anything but be Amara. She’s free and happy and genuine, and I want to be her so bad.

  “You don’t want to be like me, baby,” she tells me when I share my admiration of her hedonistic lifestyle with her. From the way she says it, part nervous and part sad, I know that there’s a lot more to that statement and a lot more to Amara than meets the eye. I’m instantly curious.

  “Why is that?” I ask her.

  Amara smiles and chuckles softly. “No one should ever try to be like someone else, ah?” She goes on in that way of hers that is somewhere between making a statement and asking a question.

  “Mmm,” I say, raising my eyebrow at her. Amara is hiding something. “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Comparison is the source of unhappiness,” she says wisely, and I know it to be true, but I wish she would tell that to my family. They are always comparing me to other people.

  “Oh, okay,” I say, not believing her. Amara and I sit in awkward silence for a moment.

  “You are suspicious of me, no?” she asks.

  “I like you, Amara,” I tell her.

  “I like you too, but you have suspicions about me,” she replies.

  “Well, I know there’s plenty about you that you aren’t telling,” I say.

  Amara smiles widely and clasps my hands. “What makes you think that?” she asks.

  “Just a hunch,” I say. “But it’s cool. A woman is entitled to her secrets.”

  “This is what I like about you. You’re smart,” she says. “And you are right. A woman must have her secrets. But a woman must have her confidantes, no?”

  “No doubt.”

  Amara looks around to see if any of the staff is present. We’re alone. She speaks in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Can you keep a secret, baby?” she asks. “Will you be my confidante?”

  “Of course,” I say. I love gossip, the juicier the better. I can’t wait to hear what she has to share.

  “I tell Dimitri that I am from a wealthy family. But let’s just say I bend the truth a little.”

  “Word?” I whisper back. “You’re not rich?” She’s a good actress because there isn’t anyone around who could guess that she isn’t from the manor born.

  “Well, I am now, baby,” she says with a laugh.

  “But what about the sugarcane plantation?” I ask.

  “A lie.”

  “What about the school in the English countryside?” I ask.

  “I read about one in a book,” she says.

  “I can’t believe it,” I tell her.

  “Is my secret safe with you?” she asks me.

  “Of course. I’m no snitch,” I tell her. “But what’s the real deal?”

  “I’m from a small village outside Sao Antonio,” she whispers. “I have learned from a very young age how to use my feminine wiles to get what I want. For me, it is a matter of survival. I watched my mother work for rich people her whole life. She almost worked her way into the grave. She got me a job scrubbing floors and doing housework for a family near the home where she worked. The man of the house took one look at this bunda,” she says pointing to her perfectly round ass, “and I never had to scrub floors again. Neither has my mother.”

  “Damn, that’s like a Spanish-language soap opera,” I tell her.

  “Yes it is, baby. Where do you think my mother got the idea to send me to work for a rich family? I’ve never done well in school.” Amara laughs and raises her eyebrow at me.

  “You go, girl,” I tell her. I ain’t mad at her. “So how did you meet Dimitri?” I ask.

  “I met
Dimitri three years ago in Monaco,” she says. “I was there with my Italian lover, Antonio. Antonio was a bastard. He was filthy rich and very good-looking, so sometimes I would forget what a bastard he was. But he had a habit of drinking too much and then wanting to make love, and I could not forget about that. I detest a sloppy drunk man, baby. I will not share my bed with one. But he would drink and think he was more irresistible than Casanova. This caused a lot of friction between us and I had made it up in my mind that I was going to leave him, but I was going to enjoy myself in Monaco first and then catch up with my friends in Saint Tropez. I think he could sense that I was going to leave him, and he became very bitter about losing my favor, baby. You know that the men, they can not resist Amara.” She tosses her hair and laughs.

  “One night, Antonio and I were at a casino playing baccarat, and he starts to call me all kinds of filthy names. Baby, it was awful. And he slapped me, right there in front of everybody. I was mortified. I was going to scratch his eyes out, when out of nowhere comes Dimitri. He’s dressed in a fine tuxedo, baby. You should have seen him, it was so fabulous. He grabs Antonio by the face and slams him to the floor. There’s a moment of silence, and everybody is sitting there with their mouths open wondering what is going to happen next,” Amara continues. She’s sitting so close to me that if I moved an inch we’d be French-kissing.

  “Girl, what did he do?” I ask.

  “Nothing. He just raised his hand, and out pop two guys who pick Antonio up and carry him out of the casino. Then Dimitri straightens himself out, adjusts his tie, and smooths his hair, and buys me a bottle of champagne. We spent hours talking, and when it was all said and done, I had my things moved out of the suite with Antonio and into the suite that Dimitri was in. We’ve been together ever since.”

  “Well, what happened to Antonio?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, baby. I don’t care really. No one has seen him, but it’s probably because he’s too embarrassed to show his face. That or he drank himself to death,” Amara says.