Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  I have no idea why I don’t pass out or get sick because I’m surely over the legal limit in all fifty American states. But I’m just getting started. We disembark Krizia, and head to Pacha for more revelry. The entourage is huge as we walk the short distance to the club on foot, laughing and singing all the way.

  Much of the evening is the same as it had been aboard the ship. I’m introduced to more club owners, playboys, socialites, and a few of my competitors who give me my props, but don’t do a good job at hiding their envy when everyone raves about my performance earlier in the evening. I let them hate though; I’m used to it, plus I’m too drunk to make any snappy comments. Besides, I’m experiencing too much of a high, both literal and physical, to engage in petty games. And I’m geeked up at the fact that one of the DJs I most admire, Carl Cox, is spinning.

  The people of Ibiza definitely know how to throw a party; each event stimulates the five senses. The smell of the ocean and miles of flower blossoms are always faintly distinguishable in the open-air venues, even through the stench of sweaty bodies and cigarette and cigar smoke. There’s premium liquor and excellent food. The sound systems are top-notch and the music is nonstop. In addition to the requisite beautiful people, there are samba dancers, transvestites in drag that dance on stilts, fire breathers, people in full-body costumes like cartoon characters, dry-ice machines that blast the heated dance floor with jets of cold air, and some clubs even have swimming pools inside. Not kiddie pools, but full-length ones.

  I dance with Amara, with the wildly dressed club kids who work at the club, with the scantily clad socialites and glamourites, and just have a good time. We party until the sun comes up, then head to an after-hours set. I’m exhausted but too excited to sleep when we finally head back to the yacht at around 10:00 AM.

  Upon our return to Krizia, I have gigs lined up in not only Ibiza, but Saint Tropez, and Mykonos, each paying the equivalent of twenty thousand American dollars! I can’t believe my luck. The great thing about dealing with the ultra-affluent is that they can afford to spare no expense.

  “Are you happy, my sweet angel?” Mikhail asks me, as we lay wrapped in each other’s arms in bed trying to fall asleep after so much activity.

  “Blissfully so,” I reply. “I can’t believe how much money I’m about to make!”

  “I told you that they would love you. The people could not take their eyes off you. You totally enchanted them.” Mikhail nuzzles my cheek with his nose. “My friends and business associates also love you. They say they’ve never had so much fun in their lives,” he tells me.

  I tell myself that this is the perfect segue to find out more about the Apostles who stayed with us all evening. “Those guys tonight, they all work with you or for you?” I ask.

  “We work together. One hand washes the other. We’ve all known each other forever,” he explains.

  “What does that word you all kept calling each other, bratva . . . what does that mean?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s just a Russian thing,” he tells me. “Now get some sleep. No more talk of my friends,” he says.

  “But I like them,” I whine. “I just want to know more about them,” I admit. “Your friends are my friends now, right?”

  “Yes they are. But you know all you need to know about them.”

  “I guess,” I say. I’m too tired to interrogate him, and my mind is fuzzy from all the drinking. Chances are, I wouldn’t remember much of anything I could get out of him. My curiosity will have to wait for another time to be satisfied. “Well anyway, I can’t believe that I’m getting twenty g’s a gig!” I tell him, yawning and wrapping myself in the Pratesi sheets.

  “Twenty thousand is spending cash,” Mikhail says starting to doze off. “You will see, sweet angel. This is only the beginning . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  July 2006

  WHEN WE ARRIVE IN SAINT TROPEZ THERE ARE LUXURY yachts lined along the Quai de Suffren, with topless beauties glistening with oil, soaking up the sun on decks. A slow procession of luxury vehicles cruise the streets that line the harbor and lead to the vast stretches of private beaches dotted with brightly colored umbrellas and beach chairs. It makes Miami look like a city for paupers, a feat I never dreamed was even remotely possible.

  But ghetto-fabulous athletes and flashy rappers who spend all their money on bling and whips like the Cash Money Millionaires have nothing on the people who are kicking it on the Côte d’Azur. This is not a place for the hood rich; Saint Tropez is strictly a playground for the ridiculously wealthy. You can tell that these people have plenty of euros to throw around but won’t be going bankrupt anytime soon as a result of their lavish lifestyles.

  Amara has warned me about hustlers, con artists, and wannabes who flock to Saint Tropez looking for the ultimate score, and from the looks of things, I can see why Saint Tropez is a pimper’s paradise. There is just too much money around for it not to be. Someone with game and a good mouthpiece can easily come up here. And from what I can assess, Saint Tropez has usurped Miami as a gold digger’s mecca. Everywhere I look there are women who appear to be in their twenties and thirties, strolling arm in arm with men nearly three times their age. It’s obvious that they’re being given the world from the looks of their clothes and jewels. If you want a sugar daddy, one with means that won’t stop, Saint Tropez is the place to find him. But the competition has to be stiff; Saint Tropez has more beautiful people than Miami, if that’s possible.

  Business booms in France. If working Ibiza put me on the map, then I have to say that working Saint Tropez has blasted me into the stratosphere. I spin at three top venues, Les Caves du Roy, the VIP Room, and the bar at the Byblos Hotel. I receive rousing applause and cries for encores well into the wee hours of the morning. I’m swarmed and bombarded by people after my sets and I love every second of it. I’ve always had people who enjoy my work, but this is something totally different. These people treat me like I’m a rock star. People always say that the French don’t like Americans and that they think we are crass, ignorant, and stupid. But if they have any contempt for Americans, I can’t tell from the way everyone I encounter kowtows to me. I’m aware that a lot of people here aren’t French—they’re vacationing just like me—but I don’t care where they’re from because men and women alike refer to me as “La Belle Americane,” and treat me like royalty.

  I work at my most exciting party during the whole cruise in Saint Tropez, a private affair for Jay-Z and Beyoncé aboard their chartered yacht (which, by the way, pales in comparison to Mikhail’s ship). The crème de la crème of hip-hop society is present at this party. Aside from Jay-Z and some Def Jam execs, the new singer Rhianna is present, as well as Diddy and Kim Porter. Russell and Kimora Simmons are there together despite their separation; they’re taking a family vacation but have left the children with a nanny for the evening. To my pleasant surprise, Bentley is there, accompanied by his girlfriend, Dez, who seems a bit distant and unhappy; she doesn’t say much of anything to anyone at the party. She clearly doesn’t want to be here. I don’t know why she’s unhappy, because the party is the shit, and from the account of all the tabloids, Dez has overcome insurmountable odds to reach the level of stardom she’s achieved and now she’s sitting pretty. She’s won awards, her albums have gone multiplatinum, she survived an attempt on her life from some crazy woman, and she has Bentley. She seems to have it all, but often some of the most successful people in the world are also the unhappiest people in the world, and I guess she falls into that category.

  Bentley flashes me a huge grin and winks when he sees me, and I swear that Dez gives me the stank eye as I step up to the turntables dressed in Brazilian carnival regalia. Does she know that I almost slept with her man? It’s doubtful, unless he’s said something, but I don’t sweat it; I have a job to do and I’m intent on doing it to the best of my ability.

  I do the damn thing to death! I know I have officially arrived when all eyes are glued not on Beyoncé’s famous backside, nor fixate
d on the exotic Dez, nor staring at any of the other international ballers on board, but all attention is centered on me as I work the turntables. In the words of Biz Markie, “Damn, it feels good to see people up on it!” It’s exhilarating when Beyoncé comes up to me after my set, enthusing about how much she likes my style. And when Jigga asks how he can get in touch with my management to talk about possible tour dates for some Def Jam artists, I think I’m going to faint. I just give him my cell phone number and e-mail address and tell him to get in touch with me directly. The thought alone of Jigga and I being on a first-name basis and chatting on our cells makes me feel like the queen bitch of all queen bitches. I know that I have to stop being greedy and cheap and put some serious thought into getting representation soon, because things are definitely looking up.

  “I see that you are dating the Russian after all,” Bentley hisses at me through a tight smile as he shakes my hand after the set.

  “Jealous much?” I ask him, smiling right back. “I see you’ve got your girl with you too,” I say, glancing in Dez’s direction. Her famous hazel eyes feel like they’re going to bore a hole right through my body. I flash her a broad smile and an enthusiastic wave, in an effort to seem casual and friendly.

  “Jealous much?” he quips. That’s one of the things that attract me to Bentley the most; he’s a big smart-ass, just like me. I know that if we’d met under different circumstances, we could have been a hot couple.

  “I’m sitting on top of the world right now, and I’m loving it,” I say.

  “So is that your way of saying yes, you are jealous?” he asks.

  “Well, you know how we feisty stubborn women are. That’s all you’re gonna get, so take it how you want it,” I reply. We share a laugh and then Bentley gives me a great big bear hug.

  “You are too much, girl! But honestly, you’re tight. You’ve got skills. I don’t think Dez likes you much, though,” he says, winking at her and blowing a kiss in her direction. Dez simply rolls her catlike eyes and turns away from him. “Too bad, huh? I think the two of you should team up for a project.”

  “Damn, what did I do to her?” I ask.

  “Nothing. She thinks I’m cheating on her, that’s all. She acts like that anytime I’m around a beautiful woman,” he explains.

  “Well, are you cheating on her?” I ask. The thought of working with Dez is appealing; she’s one of the few female rappers I actually like. I’m hoping Bentley is right and we can collaborate, because she’s a talented lyricist and I’m sure I can diffuse any negative feelings she thinks she has for me.

  “Do you consider finger-fucking sexy DJs at nightclubs cheating?” he asks, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “Nah, not really,” I say, reminiscing on our interlude with a smile. We just stand there grinning at each other like two dopes. I start singing “Holla Back Girl” and we crack up laughing.

  Mikhail must catch our little exchange, because before I can say Moscow, he comes right over, slips an arm proprietarily around my shoulders, and hovers by my side. And not only does he hover, but he gets on my last nerve. When I try to discuss religion with Russell Simmons, Mikhail just has to put his two cents in. I’m having a great conversation with Kimora about her adorable little girls and her Baby Phat line, and in pipes Mikhail. I can’t say two words without Mikhail completing my sentences or even answering questions for me. I don’t like it one bit, and decide to try to nip his behavior in the bud.

  “Why are you bugging?” I ask him discreetly as I kiss him on the cheek when we go to sample food at the lavish buffet table.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says innocently.

  Oh, he wants to play the nut role, does he? I give him a small dose of South Side fire. “I don’t need a puppet master pulling my strings,” I tell him as I feed him an hors d’oeuvre. I want to cram it down his throat for being so overbearing but I don’t. “Let me speak for myself,” I say, slightly agitated. Mikhail’s cantankerous mood is starting to interfere with my networking and put a damper on my good time. And although I know that I probably wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him and that I should be grateful for my opportunities, I don’t need people thinking that I’m some idiot with a Svengali behind me and no talent. That’s where I draw the line. He obviously wants it known that we are an item and he isn’t about to let another man get close to me; but I’m not about to change the way I do business because of his insecurities. This is supposedly what he wanted and expected from this trip—to make me a star—and now he’s acting like he doesn’t want to let me out of his sight.

  The wild thing is that he had no problem with that greasy club owner, Marco Delgado, winking and drooling all over me in Ibiza, but now that we’re here with my peers in a hip-hop crowd, he wants to get all possessive and jealous. I’m not sure if he’s jealous because he thinks I’m going to hook up with someone here, or if he’s jealous because I’m getting so much attention.

  “I’m sorry, my sweet angel. I was just trying to help,” he says innocently, but I know better. He’s definitely feeling threatened.

  “I know you are trying to help, but I’ve got this,” I tell him. “You don’t want people to think I’m stupid, do you? Now chill out, okay? Come on,” I say with a smile. “Let’s get back to the party.” But Mikhail isn’t placated.

  “Like the way you networked with me?” he snaps. “Are you going to sleep with Bentley so you can work for him?” I look around to see if anyone heard him, and luckily he hasn’t drawn any attention from anyone other than Amara, who is totally eavesdropping.

  “Is that what this is about? You think I want to fuck someone here? This is business. Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, flipping the script on him. I roll my eyes and start to walk away from him. He grabs me roughly by the arm.

  “You don’t want to fuck him? Or have you fucked him already? I saw you on a date with him, remember?” he says, his voice rising a little.

  “That was only business,” I tell him.

  “It didn’t look like it,” he says.

  “You’re one to talk. You were out that same night with Misty!”

  Mikhail looks like he’s going to say something, but ultimately does not respond. He just walks away. Amara is standing next to me in a matter of seconds.

  “What was that about?” she asks.

  “You were eavesdropping, girl! You know what it was about,” I say to her with a laugh.

  “Okay, baby, you got me,” she says back. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’ve done to Mikhail. I’ve never seen him so possessive before.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. I don’t need a man acting like he owns me. I don’t care how much he spends on me,” I say. “And now look at him, trying to make me jealous.”

  Mikhail has shifted gears and is in flirt mode. He’s so obvious, flitting about and kissing Kylie Minogue’s ass, telling Beyoncé how beautiful and talented she is, and chatting up Naomi Campbell. I ignore him and leave him to his games, but this becomes difficult when none other than Misty Blue shows up.

  “Speaking of the devil! What the fuck is she doing here?” I ask Amara.

  “Oh, baby! Misty Blue? She’s a piece of work, a vapid airhead. She’s absolutely vile and repugnant.”

  “Yes, I know,” I say, cutting her off. “But why is she always around?” I ask. I swear Misty is as unwelcome as herpes. There is no cure for her and her ass pops up in the damnedest places and at all the wrong moments. It seems like she’s going to be around for life, and she certainly gets passed around.

  “Baby, let me tell you something about Misty Blue. She calls herself an actress. She’s no actress. She is, how you say? A porn star,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say.

  “Yes, baby, but what you probably don’t know is that Misty is also a call girl.”

  “What’s the big difference?” I ask.

  “Not much, I guess,” she says. “They both sleep with men for money. One is legal, one i
s not. But I just don’t like her. She’s trouble. Girls like me, we never ask for money. We don’t cheapen ourselves. We are treated well because we carry ourselves well. I don’t need her around making things difficult, confusing people. Gold diggers aren’t hookers but when they see her in this circle, sometimes the men, they don’t realize that. They think they can treat us the same way they treat them. Girls like Misty are bad for my business.”

  I don’t care about all that. “Amara, are Mikhail and Misty fucking? Did they ever have a thing?” I remember that Misty is a prostitute. “Oh my God, is he a client?” I ask.

  “I doubt it, baby. Mikhail wouldn’t fuck her with someone else’s cock! He likes to think of himself as a classy guy. That’s part of the reason he is attracted to you. You come from a good family, your name means something. And you’re talented. He can show you off in any circle he runs in. He can’t do the same with Misty.”

  “Yeah, but his dick doesn’t care about all that,” I tell her.

  “True, but I think theirs is a different kind of relationship than what you’re thinking. Misty hangs around Mikhail and he keeps her around because he has rich friends that she can sink her talons into. A girl like Misty can be helpful to a man like Mikhail. And Mikhail can be very helpful to her,” Amara explains.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Say, for instance, Mikhail is trying to work a deal. Maybe things aren’t going so good. He has a party, and Misty entertains his business prospect. The prospect is happy and much more agreeable to business. Maybe Misty plants an idea or two in his head. And the guy pays her very well for her services. Mikhail uses plenty of girls like her; she isn’t the only one.”

  “So what is he, a fucking pimp?” I ask, my stomach knotting up in disgust. “This whole thing reminds me of the movie Foxy Brown.”