Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  Our sex life can only be described as primal or animalistic. Mikhail likes for me to slap him and claw his back while we fuck. He likes to choke me until I feel like I’m about to pass out. And I have to admit that I like it too—a lot. I’m so used to doing the using and abusing, being the one that calls all the shots, but Mikhail is the one man that I’ve come across who won’t let me walk all over him, and doesn’t punk out like a bitch when I turn up the heat. He matches my fire degree by degree. And that’s what scares me more than who he is and what he does. I’m afraid of the fire between us. Because anything that burns this hot has to eventually burn out. And then what happens?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mykonos, Greece

  MYKONOS IS UNBELIEVABLE. NOT ONLY IS IT ABSOLUTELY gorgeous, but I swear that everyone that we meet is a shipping heir, which means they’re disgustingly rich. I hear it so much that I start to wonder if shipping heir is what people call themselves as some kind of code when they’re drug dealers, kind of like owning a barbershop or a car wash in the hood.

  As much as I’m enjoying the high life, I have to admit I am starting to grow bored. I miss America, I miss Miami, and I miss South Beach. I miss hearing people argue over whether Cubans get more preferential treatment than Haitians, and if the clubs on the beach are racist, or if the only color they see is green. I miss pink houses, and eating arepas from vendors on Calle Ocho, and hurricane watches. I want to rock a crowd with familiar faces, and see folks with dreads and braids and grills, driving Escalades and tricked-out classic Oldsmobiles.

  Amara notices that there’s something different about me.

  “Whatsamatta, baby? You don’t seem like yourself,” she asks me while Mikhail and Dimitri are on the ship of one of the Apostles having a lunch meeting.

  “Nothing’s the matter, I’m just bored. This is fun, but I want my life back. This is Mikhail’s life,” I tell her.

  “Maybe, but it will soon be your life. If Dimitri was going to propose, I’d be anxious to plan my wedding,” she says.

  “What are you talking about, Amara? Mikhail hasn’t proposed. I’m just going to be the resident DJ at Babylon,” I say.

  “Aaaaaaaayyyyyyyy!” she screams, scaring the shit out of me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask.

  “I did it again. You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “I have something to tell you, but you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone that I told you,” she says.

  “Okay,” I tell her.

  “Make sure to act surprised later or they will know I told you. Everyone knows I can’t keep a secret,” she says.

  “Then tell me already!” I say.

  “Mikhail is going to ask you to marry him,” she squeals.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask her.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Amara, how do you know this?” I ask. I think she has her facts mixed up.

  “How do you think I know? I was eavesdropping, of course,” she says.

  “You’ve got to be the nosiest, snoopiest chick I’ve ever known,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Hey, it’s how I stay on top,” she says. “I have to always, always stay two steps ahead. If I don’t, how will I know when I’m about to be replaced or if I’m being cheated on? I have to protect my investments,” she says.

  “What investments?” I ask.

  “My relationships. The way I see it, I only have a few years before I have to start thinking more seriously about my future. I must play my cards right so that I can land a husband when I need to,” she says.

  “Somehow, Amara, I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding a husband when you want one,” I tell her.

  “Well, better to be safe than sorry,” she says. “But enough about that. Aren’t you excited? You’ve landed the richest husband a girl could wish to marry. You’ll have so much money, baby!” she says, her eyes gleaming.

  “I’ll get excited when I know it’s true—maybe,” I tell her. “Marriage is such a big step. We don’t really know each other. Plus one morning I heard him tell his ex on his cell phone that he missed and loved her. I even saw a picture of him all hugged up with some blonde woman. Even though Mikhail says he’s in love with me, and he’s possessive as hell, I don’t think I’m the only one.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, baby. Mikhail knows lots of blondes, and he is a European. They’re more loving than Americans,” Amara says with a wave of her hand.

  “Amara, Mikhail is Russian. They aren’t exactly the most affectionate people,” I reply.

  “Pish posh, baby. Mikhail is crazy about you. And remember, I’m never wrong. Remember, I told you that Mikhail was going to invite you on this cruise, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yes,” I say.

  “And I told you that he was in love with you, which he is. Just you wait and see, baby. Just you wait and see,” Amara says.

  I’m dumbfounded. Why on earth would Mikhail want to marry me? We’re having fun, sure, but till death do us part? Amara had to have heard things wrong.

  I can’t focus. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. All I can do is think about what Amara has told me about Mikhail asking me to marry him. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, to be married to a sexy billionaire, and we have an awesome sex life, but is Mikhail really the sort of man that I would make vows and a covenant before God with? I can’t picture it. But I can picture the money, the yachts, the jewels . . .

  I wait and wait and wait. Mikhail says nothing; he doesn’t drop any hints either. Everything is status quo. I’m convinced that Amara heard it all wrong until the night before we are to leave Mykonos and head back to the States. A lavish dinner party is planned and the Apostles are all to join us on board, but Mikhail tells me that I don’t have to DJ. He asks me to put on something sexy, sophisticated, and white. He tells me that he has a very important announcement to make. This must be it.

  I take special care in getting ready for the evening because I want to look my absolute best when Mikhail proposes. Me, a billionaire’s wife! Who could imagine? I have the onboard stylist put my hair in an updo and apply my makeup in a soft neutral palette except for my eyes, which are smoky and exotic. I put on a Chloé chiffon gown with an empire waist that is funky and classy at the same time. And I wait some more and practice my surprised look in the meantime.

  People begin to board the ship. The Apostles are all accompanied by women young enough to be their daughters or middle-aged women who have gone overboard on plastic surgery. Someone really ought to tell these women that less is more, and that you can get too much of a good thing. When they hug me, their rock-hard boobs poke me in the chest. Who do they think they’re fooling with these mammoth mammaries? No one, and I mean no one, over the age of twelve with a real D cup can go without a bra in certain outfits, at least they shouldn’t, but these women are so perky without the support of a brassiere that their breasts look like they levitate. I see more than my share of trout-pout lips filled to the outer limits with collagen and duck-billed platypus mouths plumped up with Gore-Tex implants. I have no idea why a woman would put the same thing that’s in a winter coat into her lips, but to each her own, right?

  When dinner is served there are about fifty people on board. Dinner is amazing. There’s foie gras, which I won’t touch because I don’t want any part of a force-fed goose’s or duck’s or whatever’s liver, but the guests rave on and on about how flavorful and tender it is. There are also all kinds of other gourmet appetizers and such, but the kicker is the Cajun food that’s served as the main course. Since my family is from New Orleans, I know a thing or two about Louisiana cooking, and although I know that the chef is from somewhere over in Europe, you couldn’t have told me that he wasn’t flown in from the French Quarter; the food tastes totally authentic. There’s shrimp étoufeé, jambalaya, seafood gumbo, dirty rice, red beans and white rice, fried catfish and grits: you name it, we’ve got it. I’m in seventh heaven a
nd so glad that I chose not to wear something clingy because I’d look like a stuffed sausage if I did.

  After dessert is served, which is bananas foster, red velvet cake, rice pudding, and peach cobbler, the ’itis (for those of you who don’t know, the ’itis is when you get sleepy after eating too much) is kicking in, and all I want to do is stretch out like a pig and go straight to bed. I want all our guests to go home. But the end of the dinner party is nowhere in sight. A jazz band sets up on the deck and begins cranking out standards and classics.

  “Come take a walk with me,” Mikhail says. Amara looks at me with excitement in her eyes when we excuse ourselves from the party. We stroll along the deck until we reach the business center and then we step inside. Mikhail takes my hand and kisses it gently.

  “Bobbi, you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You give me a feeling deep in my heart that no one has ever given me before. Together, I know that we can rule the world,” he says.

  Mikhail reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something that he keeps hidden in his hand. This is it, I think. He’s going to hand me a ring. Will it be ten carats? More? But he doesn’t hand me a ring. He opens his hand, and in it is a set of keys dangling from a platinum and diamond monogrammed B key chain. The key chain is gorgeous, but I don’t get it. Is he giving me the keys to his heart? If he is, this has got to be the corniest shit ever. So junior high! I don’t have to use one of my practiced surprised looks, because I am genuinely surprised as hell.

  “Bobbi Hayes, it is my sincere hope that you will do me the honor of accepting a very special gift. I want you to be my partner,” he says.

  “Your partner?” I ask.

  “Yes, Bobbi. I want you to be a partner in my newest business venture: the Babylon club in Miami.”

  “You want me to be your business partner?” I ask him in a stage whisper. I don’t even know for sure what business Mikhail is even in.

  “That is right.” Mikhail smiles at me. “Bobbi, those are the keys to Babylon, your new club.”

  “ My new club?” I ask.

  “Yes. I have the transfer of ownership papers here for you. The club will be yours. I want you to run it. I want you to make it a success,” he states.

  “You do realize that I’m a DJ, right? I promote parties on occasion, but I’m not that kind of businesswoman,” I say. “I can’t run a club.”

  “Yes you can. You will be an equal partner in the club, but more important, you will be the face of Babylon. And you will be paid very well for your services. In return, you will be expected to headline certain events and make certain appearances. You’ll have plenty of support; the club will actually be run by a corporation. There’s a staff already in place. However, your input will be highly valued, and you will have a say in many important decisions regarding the club.”

  “Yeah, but a club? It seems like a lot of responsibility. And it sounds like it will take time away from what I do, which is spin.”

  “You don’t have to do much of anything but be your brilliant, charming self,” he says with a grin. “And I assure you that there will be plenty of time for you to DJ. You will have the biggest and best venue to wow the crowds in.”

  “Yeah, but what if I want to do stuff? What if I want to learn?” I ask, because what happens when this ride is over? What happens when Mikhail decides he’s tired of me and finds a new woman to court? What am I left with? Sure I’ll always be a DJ and no one can take that away from me, but will I still have my fans? Will people still regard me as the hottest female DJ around, or will they think I’ve gone soft and commercial? God forbid people thinking I’ve gone corporate!

  “It all sounds great, Mikhail, really it does. But I’ve already had to fight so many battles with people thinking that I only am where I am because I come from a family with money. I’ve struggled even more because people think that the only reason I get gigs is because of my late fiancé, who was my mentor. It’s not going to get any better if people think folks are constantly giving me things.”

  “Why do you care so much what people think? I do not care what others think of me.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone cares what other people think. Perception becomes reality.”

  “What is wrong with being perceived as rich? Rappers are always bragging about their wealth.”

  “Let me explain something to you about hip-hop culture. It’s cool to be born poor and get rich through music. It gives people hope that they can make it out of their situations too. And it’s acceptable to have a little somethin’ somethin’, you know, be middle class and come up through hard work and a hard hustle, but only if you’ve had to overcome some kind of unbeatable odds or unspeakable tragedy, like a crack-addicted mother or an abusive father. People can relate to that. For example, Kanye West had a very middle-class upbringing, but what makes him different than say, Common? Kanye stared death in the face and told it to come back later. People root for you when they think that you aren’t too different from them.”

  “Go on,” Mikhail says, intrigued.

  “If you get too large, if at any time your audience doesn’t feel that it can relate to you, your game is shot. People accept me now despite my upbringing because I’ve proven myself, and I let it be known that I work my ass off. And it doesn’t hurt that people know that my parents cut me off. I mean, my dad was quoted in a Black Enterprise article as saying that he cut me off because he wanted me to value hard work and because he believed that I was so gifted that I could make it in this world without his money and influence. But that was all media spin. It kept him from looking like an asshole who turned his back on his only child because she refused to step forward and take her place in the bougie elite. And it kept me from looking like a poor little rich girl who’s been handed everything on a silver platter.”

  “I see. And I understand your reservations. But trust me,” Mikhail says and I almost bust out laughing. Trust me are the most famous last words heard before a fall. “I am a very smart man. I didn’t get this rich and this successful without taking some calculated risks. It is time for you to take such a risk. If you say yes, you will reach the highest levels of success attainable. And if you wish, we can keep any mention of our personal involvement hush-hush. This is your spotlight to shine in. I want no credit or attention at all.”

  Mikhail reaches into his desk and pulls out some documents.

  “Look these over and tell me what you think,” he says, shoving the papers at me.

  I give the papers the once-over. I know a little about legal jargon and contracts because of my dad and my old job as a real estate agent. But I’m no lawyer; there could be a clause in there that sells my firstborn child to Rumplestiltskin and I’d have no clue. I read the papers again, this time scanning carefully for anything that stands out, but I don’t see anything suspicious. As a matter of fact, the more I read things, the better they sound.

  The MD Entertainment Corporation is the contractor that will oversee the operations of the club. The land and physical building are mine. I am obligated to appear as a DJ once a week, and as a party hostess once a month. However I can appear more if I choose. My salary is a whopping $10 million, half payable when I sign the contract, the other half payable on the first year anniversary of the club. From that point onward, I receive $10 million a year. There’s a clause about early termination, but who’d want to terminate? Plus I receive the exotic car of my choice, and I can upgrade or switch cars every year as well. I’ve seen enough. I just have one question.

  “So what’s the catch?” I ask Mikhail.

  “The catch?” he asks. “There is no catch. You have everything there in black and white.”

  “There has to be a catch. This sounds fabulous, too fabulous. Millions of dollars, a luxury whip. If something seems this good, it’s more than likely too good to be true. What’s in it for you?”

  “Lots of money, a serious tax shelter for my most lucrative corporation, and making you very, very happy. It’s a win-win situation
.”

  “Yeah, but what happens to us?” I ask. Mikhail likes to mix business and pleasure, that’s obvious. And he loves to play games. “Things are good between us now, but I need to know that if we decide to stop seeing each other or if your feelings change, that you don’t try to take this all away from me.”

  “Do you wish to stop seeing me?” he asks.

  “No. Not at all. I’m happy,” I say.

  “I’d never dream of taking any of this away from you. It would serve me no purpose. I give it to you from the heart. I love you. No matter what happens between us, the club is yours.”

  “Mine, huh?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. I sit there thinking about the proposition.

  “I would also like to ask you something else,” Mikhail says.

  “What?”

  “Move in with me.”

  “Move in with you? What, here? Live on a boat?” I ask. I love the yacht, but there’s no way I could live on it.

  “No, Bobbi,” Mikhail says with a laugh. “I have a wonderful home in Miami with more than enough room.”

  “Won’t that make keeping our relationship low-key a little difficult?” I ask.

  “Not necessarily. Who would really know?”

  “South Beach is a small world after all,” I tell him. “Can I take one offer without the other?” I ask. But I already know the answer. Mikhail has a definite modus operandi; he makes two offers at once, they’re not mutually exclusive, and one is so good that you accept the whole package because you don’t want to miss out on the other part of it. That’s how he got me on the yacht in the first place.