Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “No. It’s a package deal, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer it if you didn’t have to force my hand?” I ask. But I know the answer to that question as well. Mikhail is a type A personality if I ever met one; to call him a control freak would be a serious understatement.

  Mikhail pushes a gold Montblanc pen at me.

  “I just want to get what I want,” he tells me. “Now, what do you say?”

  Once again I am faced with the opportunity of a lifetime. Mikhail is dangling the keys to a whole new life in front of me. A life filled with yachts and private jets and multimillion-dollar nightclubs and jewelry, and did I mention tons of my very own cold hard cash? I look at the pen, the contract, and at Mikhail. And I say what anyone else in my shoes would say.

  “Yes,” I tell him, and I sign on the dotted line.

  “I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE,” MIKHAIL SAYS WHEN we return to the party. Amara looks like she’s about to burst.

  “Dima, come,” Mikhail says to Dimitri, who joins us. Amara looks puzzled, like she wonders if she should join us or stay where she is.

  “On behalf of MD Entertainment Corporation, I’d like to announce a new partnership. Ms. Bobbi is now the owner of the Babylon nightclub in South Beach, and MD Entertainment Corporation will be contracted to handle operations. She is exactly what we need to make Babylon the biggest and brightest of our venues. To Bobbi,” he says.

  “To Bobbi,” our guests reply in unison.

  “Guess you got it wrong for once,” I say to Amara after the announcement.

  “I guess so,” she says, sounding confused.

  “What did you hear, anyway?” I ask.

  “He said that he had something to propose to you. He wanted you to be his partner and that he needed a woman like you in his life, that you would be good for him.”

  “Duh, Amara! He was talking about business. Now just imagine if I really wanted to marry him. I’d have been fucked up. You had me thinking that he was going to give me a fat rock!” I say, laughing.

  “Mikhail has given you much, much more,” she says. “He’s given you the keys to your very own kingdom.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  September 2006

  WHEN KRIZIA DOCKS IN MIAMI, AMARA AND I SAY OUR tear-filled good-byes. I’m going to miss her crazy ass while she’s gone. She’s going to spend some time with her mother in Brazil, or so she says, but one can never tell with Amara. We promise to stay in touch so I can keep her posted on all the details of Babylon and so I can report to her what’s going on with her guy Dimitri, who will be staying on in Miami to oversee the club opening.

  I take immediate occupancy at Mikhail’s luxurious home. Well, maybe home is an understatement. I mean, would you call a fourteen-thousand-square-foot, fifteen-bedroom, twelve-and-a-half-bathroom residence a home? More like an estate, I’d say! Who wouldn’t wish to live in such a spread with no financial responsibility? I still keep my condo though. I worked hard to get it, and I’m not going to just give it up. Besides, it isn’t like I can’t afford to keep it.

  Mikhail’s place is located on exclusive Indian Creek, a private island off the Broad Causeway. The mansions on Indian Creek Island are all ridiculously expensive, and we’ve got some pretty famous neighbors, like legendary crooner Julio Iglesias and former Dolphins coach Don Shula. There’s even a private police force just to serve and protect residents, as well as a boat patrol just in case some fool thinks he’s gonna pull a home invasion by sea. We’ve got at least six hundred feet of waterfront, and the boat dock is large enough to house Krizia, as well as a smaller craft that Mikhail purchased just for me called Black Beauty. There are even stables with Arabian horses and palominos, and a large portion of our twelve acres is designated just for riding. I’m not much of a horse lover, but I’m planning on learning the proper way to ride when I get a chance.

  The lawns are manicured and as green as Mikhail’s eyes. There’s a swanky country club on the island, so naturally almost everywhere you look is a part of the golf course lawns, but the club is so elite that it isn’t like crazed strangers are shooting balls in our front yard. There’s so much land that they don’t even come near us anyway. In the back of the estate there are flower gardens, herb gardens, a small plot of vegetables, and even some topiary that line a hedge maze, just like in an Agatha Christie novel, as well as an infinity pool that appears to dip into the Atlantic Ocean. In the front there are palm trees and a second swimming pool. I pity the pool techs and gardeners who have to mow all that damn grass and do all that cleaning, but maybe one of them will be a sexy young stud just like homeboy on Desperate Housewives and I can have a little fling. Hey, I may be in a relationship, but I’m not dead, and this leopard damn sure can’t change her spots overnight.

  The interior of the mansion is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve seen some of the best mansions in Chicago, from Louis Farrakhan’s “palace” to a Pulitzer Prize–winning author’s town house on the North Shore. This place is so gorgeous, right out of an architectural magazine or something. Mikhail says if there’s anything that I don’t like I can feel free to change it, but everything looks perfect to me. We have the best of everything, from fine china and crystal to antique furniture to custom-made rugs that are hand looped. There’s no skimping on quality around these parts, but would I have expected anything different from Mikhail?

  On top of everything, I’ve got a really tight studio that takes up three whole rooms in the house. I don’t know how Mikhail got it built so fast and why he committed to such a radical change for a live-in girlfriend, but when you have money like his, you can really make things happen. I’ve got my usual setup in one room: Numark CDXs, some Technic 1200s, a Pioneer mixing board, an Apple G5 laptop, plus a new toy I got, a Korg OASYS Open Architecture Synthesis Studio that I’m dying to fool around with. In the second room I’ve got a full-on recording studio that is comparable if not better than any other professional studio, and the third room is a soundproof recording booth. I can’t wait to see what kind of mixes and beats I can create in my lab.

  But I don’t have much time to play at the moment. For my first official duty as the new owner of Babylon, Mikhail recommends that I hold a press conference. I select Skybar at the Shore Club as the location. My objectives are to announce the opening of Babylon and formally introduce myself to those in the media who aren’t already familiar with me. I’m more excited about the press conference than I was about my debutante cotillion. I see the opening of Babylon as my real coming-out affair.

  My family has declined to attend, which isn’t surprising at all so I am not upset. Frankly, I think it’s better this way because none of the attention is going to be taken away from me. It’s my day in the spotlight. Mikhail is by my side, but he tells me to do all of the talking and that he’s content to sit in the background and let me shine in the spotlight.

  There are reps from all kinds of media at the press conference. The Miami Herald, Ocean Drive, InStyle, OK, People, US, and even the tabloids are there. Our publicist, a woman named Sascha Palmeri has mega contacts, and she hooked the whole thing up. It’s better than I could have ever imagined! This is not your average run-of-the-mill, blah press conference. It’s more like a junket for a major motion picture.

  The journalists are all gathered into a holding room, where all kinds of appetizers and beverages are served. I treat them to all the tastes of Miami, from southern-style soul food to Latin American favorites. Footage of my performance at the Winter Music Conference is playing on a large projection screen in the middle of the room. Just when they are starting to grumble a bit and wonder where I am and when this show is going to get on the road, I make my big entrance.

  A swarm of harem dancers arrives ahead of me and does a sensual and exotic belly dance. After their routine is over, more harem girls enter, tossing flower petals on the ground. And then a group of four hot, bare-chested men carry me while I recline in a sexy pose on a divan, dressed in an elaborate Arab
ian princess costume. At least it’s the stereotypical version of what an Arabian princess looks like; I imagine real Arabian princesses leave a lot more to the imagination. My muscle boys set the divan down and I stroll behind a DJ setup in the middle of the room, the chiffon and beads of my costume swinging as I swish my hips.

  There are flashbulbs popping and the cameras clicking away as I give the journalists a little taste of the magic I make whenever I get behind some turntables. I dazzle them with my skills for about five minutes; I just want to give them a sample. I can tell that everyone in the room is captivated. It isn’t like people haven’t seen a female DJ before, but while most DJs blend into the background and pump a subtle soundtrack, I’m totally brazen, absolutely outrageous, and I want folks to get a show. I want them to get an eyeful not just an earful, and that’s what makes me so unique.

  I step down from the DJ equipment and take a seat at a long table in the middle of the floor that is decorated with mini disco balls and shiny silver CDs. I open the floor up to questions.

  “Ms. Hayes,” a reporter shouts.

  “Please,” I say, “call me Ms. Bobbi.”

  “Ms. Bobbi, how long have you been a DJ?”

  “For over five years now. But music has always been a major part of my life. I’m a classically trained pianist and I play guitar in addition to spinning records. I plan to branch out into recording in the very near future,” I tell them.

  “Ms. Bobbi, what can we expect of the new club?”

  “Babylon is going to be wild, over the top, outrageous, and unique, just like me. You can expect an experience like you’ve never had. I’m taking all the elements of the best nightspots from around the globe—Ibiza, Mykonos, Saint Tropez, New York—and weaving them together at Babylon. There’s going to be state-of-the-art sound, along with some of the best DJs in the world, a top-notch bar, excellent service, and a few little extras that I’m going to keep you guessing about.” I wink and laugh. The journalists laugh too.

  “Ms. Bobbi, when is the club set to open?”

  “The club is going to open on Halloween. It’s going to be a bash like no one has ever seen. Everyone who is anyone is going to be there, from models and celebrities to the locals who are in the loop and truly make the South Beach scene what it is, I can guarantee that.”

  “What about the competition with Las Vegas? Isn’t Vegas the place to be on Halloween? Or at the Playboy Mansion?”

  “Humility isn’t my strong suit, so forgive me when I say this, but there is no competition. Babylon is the only place to be this Halloween.”

  “Ms. Bobbi, how did you get your name?”

  Damn, I think to myself. I’m going to have to talk about my family.

  “Well, although I’m named after my father and grandfather, both named Robert, I wasn’t too fond of the name Roberta. I prefer Bobbi. However, friends and family call both my father and grandfather Bobby, and that caused some confusion. My grandfather came up with the idea to call me Ms. Bobbi, and it stuck,” I explain.

  “Ms. Bobbi, I see that your father and grandfather aren’t here today, nor are any other members of the Hayes brood. Rumor has it that your family is not pleased with your career choice. Tell us, how does your family feel about your new business venture?” one of the women journalists asks. She cocks her eyebrow at me like she thinks she’s going to make me sweat. But I can handle her.

  I smile a small, tight smile, and say, “Unfortunately, due to my father’s and grandfather’s hectic work schedules they can’t be here today, and my mother is feeling a little under the weather, so naturally I want her to get some rest. But my family is wonderful. They are supportive of everything that I do and they’re unbelievably happy for me,” I lie, smooth as silk. You’re damn right they’re unbelievably happy for me; no one who knows us would believe it. But old habits die hard; I was raised to keep Hayes family business within the Hayes family, and to never speak against the family with outsiders.

  On Sascha’s cue, I wrap things up with the press. It’s always a good idea to leave people wanting a little bit more, that way they maintain their interest. I can hear the journalists buzzing as they exit, and I know the conference has been a smashing success. I feel great.

  Mikhail and I have dinner at The Forge, and when I get home, there are several red boxes engraved with gold on the dining room table. Cartier! I run over to the table and pick up a card that has my name on it. It reads: These jewels pale in comparison to the way you shine. Love, Mikhail. Corny, but sweet, I think. I tear into the pile of boxes and admire the fine selection of jewelry that Mikhail has chosen. There are rings, watches, bracelets, necklaces, pens, eyeglasses, you name it. If Mikhail weren’t so classy I’d swear he got these from a heist of the Cartier store, there’s so much stuff. Then I tear into Mikhail. We make love for hours, fucking in practically every room of the mansion.

  “I don’t know how I keep up with you, sweet angel,” he tells me. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  “You’ve got to eat your Wheaties if you want to keep up with me,” I tease him.

  But later in the week, my body feels like it’s been hit by a Mack truck. Every inch of me is aching, my head hurts, and my stomach feels like it’s been turned inside out. I am sick as a dog and I chalk it up to nerves and stress; I have been going a hundred miles per hour since I got back, and I’ve got to be riding on fumes. I figure with a little rest I’ll be okay. But it doesn’t get any better as the days go by. It gets worse. Everything that I eat or drink comes right back up, even water, and it seems as if I’ve gained ten pounds overnight. I do some mental mathematics and realize that I haven’t had a period in over two months. I was so caught up enjoying myself on the yacht, moving into the mansion, and doing press for Babylon that I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

  Could I be pregnant? Of course I could. I’m a grown-up and I know how those things work, but I also know my body. I never used any birth control when I was with Kaos and I never got pregnant. Withdrawal had worked fine for me in the past. I think back to the night in the disco when Mikhail came inside of me. It stands out because that’s the only time that he’s done it; he prefers to ejaculate somewhere he can see it, like my tits, my face, my stomach, or my ass. If I’m pregnant, that’s got to be the D-date. I know I shouldn’t have let him come inside of me, but twenty-twenty hindsight isn’t going to help me now.

  Mikhail isn’t stupid either. He calls me on the possibility of pregnancy after seeing me wretch and hurl for the better part of two days.

  “Maybe you’re pregnant?” Mikhail asks, and it sounds as if he is hopeful. I’ve been rushing back and forth to the bathroom all day. I don’t answer; I just wait for the next wave of nausea to hit, and when it does, it’s a tsunami.

  “Bobbi, are you pregnant?” he asks while I’m on my knees in the bathroom, my face buried in the toilet bowl as I pray to the porcelain god.

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Would you tell me if you were?” he asks.

  “Were what?”

  “Pregnant,” he says.

  “Of course,” I lie. “You’d be the father. Why wouldn’t I tell you?” I ask him. I can think of plenty reasons why I wouldn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Women are funny that way,” he says.

  “How would you know? Have you ever gotten anyone pregnant before?” I ask him.

  “Yes,” he admits nonchalantly.

  “Uh, okay. Who?” I ask.

  “It makes no difference,” he says cryptically. I want to say, Like hell it doesn’t. If I’m going to be thrust in the middle of some baby mama drama, I want to know about it. But I don’t say anything. I’m too queasy to argue or probe him for info.

  “Okay,” I say, and resume puking until I’m dry heaving.

  “Did you eat something bad?” he asks.

  “Must have.”

  “And you’re sure you’re not pregnant?”

  “I’m sick,” I manage to say in bet
ween heaves. The nausea subsides and I go to the sink and rinse out my mouth.

  “Yes, but how do you know for sure?”

  “Oh, I know for sure. I have an IUD. For some reason I just don’t get periods that often. But when I do, they’re horrid.” I don’t know where I get the idea to say that. I’m afraid of IUDs because I just can’t understand how a tiny little squiggly piece of plastic or metal or whatever it is can stop me from getting pregnant. I don’t trust it.

  “I didn’t know that,” he says.

  “Oh yes. I wouldn’t have let you come inside of me if I wasn’t on something. I’m very responsible,” I tell him. The lies just won’t stop. Mikhail isn’t buying it, and I know why. It’s because when he asked to come inside of me, I distinctly said, “I don’t want to get pregnant.” But that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  “Don’t you want babies?” he asks.

  “Someday. But not nine months from today.” Finally, I speak the truth again.

  I go lie down and Mikhail slips the sheets over me, pats me on the back, and says in a low but stern voice, “I love you, Bobbi. But I don’t believe you. Not for one second. I think you’re pregnant. And if you are, don’t abort my child. We will get married and raise it together. A child conceived in love can never be wrong; it can never be a mistake. If I find out that you’ve killed my baby, I will kill you,” Mikhail says, leaving me alone in a state of shock.

  Did this motherfucker really just tell me that he would kill me if I had an abortion? Is this the same man I made love to a million times just the other day? I don’t know what the hell to say or do or think. He had to be dramatic, right? He wasn’t serious, was he? Does he think I’d marry him after he’s told me he’d kill me if I aborted? I mean really, what kind of shit is this? I try to block it all out and get some sleep; it makes no sense to get all worked up over what could still be a nonissue. Until a doctor tells me that I’m pregnant, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not.