by M?ta Smith
I peep at the headline, which reads: THE QUEEN OF MIAMI. Mmm hmm, that’s right! I excitedly flip through the pages to see a layout of myself that rivals that of any superstar. I look amazing. Watch out Halle, there’s a new hottie in town! The article says glowing things about me, raves about my skills, and makes Babylon sound like the greatest place on earth.
“Queen of Miami?” Rebeca asks with more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice when she sees the magazine. She picks it up, looks at me, and rolls her eyes, and then throws it back onto the bar. “That’s laying it on a little thick.”
“Green is not your color, Rebeca,” I tell her with a toss of my hair.
“You might be the queen of Miami,” she says, “but I am the queen of Mikhail’s heart.”
“Well, if you’re happy with my leftovers, then fine by me. I love giving to charity,” I tell her, spinning on my heels. She can say whatever dim-witted, jealous comeback she thinks of to the crack of my ass as I walk away.
It’s a good thing that not all of my staff is such a pain in the ass.
“I’ve got great news,” Sascha tells me a few days later as we’re discussing plans for New Year’s Eve. “The folks over at MTV want to use Babylon as one of their countdown sites for their New Year’s Eve telecast. They’re doing something different.”
“You’re kidding,” I scream. “That’s great! What do we need to do?”
“Nothing much. They’ll send a camera crew and a VJ to handle all the technical stuff. You just have to throw a fabulous party. I know you don’t have a problem with that,” she says with a smile.
“This is going to be so cool,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. Of all the clubs in the world, of all the clubs on South Beach, MTV chose mine to broadcast from on the biggest night of the year.
“I just had a great idea, Sascha. Tell me you can do it,” I say to her, excitedly.
“I can do it. Now tell me what it is,” she says with a smile.
“See, Sascha, that’s why I like you. You’re a cocky broad, just like me.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well, how about channeling all the girl power we can muster beneath this roof?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A concert. Not just any concert, but the show of the century. I need you to get in touch with the agents and managers of a few acts. Tell them that they’re invited to perform,” I say.
“That ought to be easy.”
“Well, tell them it’s an ensemble performance. They may not want to share the spotlight, but sell it, Sascha. Let their representation know that their clients are going to be a part of making hip-hop history.”
“Ooh, sounds juicy. What do you have in mind?”
“You remember that VH1 special, Divas Live, don’t you . . .”
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, MY CELL PHONE RINGS IN THE MIDDLE OF the night. I’m tempted not to answer, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
“Hello?” I whisper into the phone.
“Are you alone?” a voice whispers back.
“Yes, Amara, is that you? Where have you been? I’ve called you a million times. I was worried about you!”
“Where is Mikhail?”
“We sleep in separate rooms. But he’s not home. What’s going on?”
“Dimitri isn’t around, is he?”
“Nuh-uh. I hardly ever see that guy at all. I couldn’t tell you where Dimitri is,” I say.
“Well, that’s not a comforting thought. He’s probably after me. Look, I’m going to disappear for a while,” she says.
“What does disappear mean? And what is a while?” I ask. “And what do you mean he’s probably after you?”
“I mean that he’s going to try to kill me. He knows what I’ve been doing. I don’t know how he figured it out. But now I’ve got to get away,” she rambles a mile a minute.
“Amara, what have you been doing?” I ask her.
“I’ve been playing for both teams and it’s catching up to me. I’m going to leave all this behind me. I’m going to become someone else, if possible. For good. I wanted to tell you good-bye.”
“What?! Wait! What do you mean good-bye? Amara, what the hell is going on?”
“Baby, I can’t explain it all. But you’ve got to get away from Mikhail before it’s too late. Do what you need to do, whatever it is, just get out as soon as you can,” Amara says in a hurry. “Bobbi, the authorities are on to him. They have been for a while. They’re closing in. I’m so sorry but I couldn’t tell you what I was doing before and now there’s no time. You’ve got to believe that I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t have a choice. I am so sorry.”
“Amara, I don’t like the sound of this at all,” I say.
“Baby, just leave,” Amara cuts me off. “Bobbi, listen to me. If Mikhail has to go down, he’s going to take you with him. That’s the kind of person he is. And I guarantee you, he’s about to go down. Forget what I told you about him being a Teflon Don. I have to go, baby. Be careful. And Merry Christmas. Kiss kiss, love you much,” she says, and the line goes dead.
I rub my eyes and try to call Amara back. It goes straight to voice mail. I try a few more times, but it’s no use. Amara isn’t going to pick up. I replay our conversation in my head . I’ve been playing for both teams and it’s catching up to me. I consider the unthinkable. Could Amara be a snitch? If she isn’t, then what is she running from? I wonder who she’s more afraid of, Dimitri or the authorities? And I wonder, what the hell am I supposed to do?
I don’t want to be alone right now. I look at the clock. It’s 4:30 AM. The club is closed for Christmas Eve and Christmas. Something’s got to be held sacred in clubland. We unanimously decided that the staff should be able to spend time with their families, considering how hard they’ve been working and how much we’re going to need them on New Year’s Eve. But I don’t have any family or friends to share the holiday with.
My parents are off sunning on some island. Mikhail is probably off boning Rebeca somewhere and under the current circumstances I wouldn’t want to spend Christmas with him anyway. Amara has gone underground. I have no one to turn to. I debate whether or not to make a phone call. I don’t want to seem desperate or crazy. But I’m feeling a little bit of both, so what do I have to lose?
“Merry Christmas,” I say, way too cheerfully for four thirty in the morning, when Q answers his phone.
“Bobbi?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah. Were you asleep?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, like I should have known the answer.
“I’m sorry. You’re probably with someone,” I say pathetically.
“Boss Lady, I’m not with anyone.”
“You’re not?” I ask.
“No. I can’t spend the holiday with the person I really want to spend it with,” he says.
“Is that right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Would you settle for spending it with me instead?” I ask.
He laughs. “What are you saying?”
“What are you saying?” I ask him. This makes him laugh more.
“Want some company?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I hang up the phone, throw on a Juicy Couture velour sweatsuit and my K-Swiss, and put on a baseball cap. I hop in my Rover and head to Miami Shores, where Q lives. His home is cute and small; it’s a white stucco ranch-style home with a basketball hoop in the driveway and freshly mowed green grass. There’s nothing fancy about it, but it looks absolutely adorable, the perfect bachelor pad.
“Nice crib,” I tell him as he greets me at the foyer. He looks too good for words in a pair of light blue basketball shorts and nothing else.
“Thanks,” he says.
We go into his den and sit on the couch. We don’t say anything at first, we just stare at the TV. Finally, Q wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.
“Merry Christmas, Bobbi,” he says.
“Merry Christmas, Q,” I tell him,
snuggling into the crook of his arm.
Q looks at me and smiles, stroking my face softly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m glad,” he says.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” I tell him. I want to tell him everything that’s going on with Amara, but I don’t want to ruin the moment. Those problems will still be here later, so for now, I’m going to enjoy this time alone with Q.
“Where’s Mikhail?” he asks.
“Probably with Rebeca,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about him, though.”
“Me either,” he says.
Q pulls me close and kisses me. Our tongues dance sensuously, our kisses growing hungrier and more demanding. I let my hands run over his chiseled chest and powerful biceps and my juices begin to flow like Niagara Falls. I kiss his lips, his neck, and his chest before trailing my way down his ripped abs, lowering his basketball shorts. I drop to my knees and pull out his dick. It’s rock hard and feels hot beneath my touch. I can feel it throb as I suck him in slowly, running my tongue over the head of his member until he starts to squirm. Then I deep throat all ten inches of him and then do a little trick I saw in a porno movie; while he is still engulfed in my throat, I stick out my tongue and let it flick over the top of his nut sack.
“Oh my God, girl, how did you do that?” he asks, moaning in ecstasy.
I don’t answer; I suck and suck while stroking his shaft. He grabs me softly by the hair and pulls me away, then scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the bed. Q removes my clothes, kissing my skin as it is exposed. He stands there in front of me after I am naked and looks at me lying there on the bed.
“You’re so beautiful, Bobbi,” he says and then kneels down and spreads my legs. Q licks me until the bedsheets are soaking wet and his face is glistening with my juices. Then he gets a condom, puts it on, and eases himself inside me. I close my eyes and sigh, but Q commands me to look at him. I do as I’m told and our eyes remain locked while we rock in perfect rhythm.
“I’m falling for you, Bobbi,” he says.
“I feel the same way,” I moan.
Q and I make love over and over, learning each other’s bodies and discovering what brings each other pleasure. We kiss, we talk, we laugh. It’s a better Christmas than I could have ever imagined. But when we’re spent and can’t make love anymore the dam bursts and my problems come flooding back.
“You okay?” Q asks me.
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Lots of stuff. My friend, Amara, for one. I spoke with her last night and it scared the shit out of me. She’s in trouble, and I think I am too,” I say. “If Mikhail ever finds out about this . . .” My voice trails off as I consider what would happen. Q sits up in bed.
“Bobbi, I think there are some things that you should know, before this gets any deeper,” he says. “I have no idea how to tell you, and I don’t know how you’ll feel about me after I do.”
“Just tell me,” I say. “Give it to me straight.”
“You are in trouble. I’m going to do my best to help get you out, but you’ve got to trust me. Can you do that?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. It just doesn’t always seem that way. You wanted to know what’s been going on at the club. And I’ve wanted to protect you from this somehow, but I can’t keep you in the dark anymore. You need to know what you’re up against. Bobbi, Mikhail is laundering money through the club. It’s drug money. He doesn’t sell drugs, but he washes money for members of Colombian drug cartels. Rebeca introduces them, and she does most of the actual work.”
“That’s not hard to believe,” I say. “This is Miami. Who isn’t laundering drug money? I just get the feeling that there’s more to Mikhail’s empire than that.”
“And your feeling is right. Mikhail’s got his hands in some of everything. He’s also been selling Russian submarines. Mikhail makes billions at this hustle; he doesn’t need the Colombians losing shipments. They smuggle the coke into the country using the subs. They travel outside the Coast Guard’s radar.”
It all sounds like some plot from an action flick. This can’t be my life. But as crazy as it sounds, it gets crazier.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Is there anything else?”
“Yeah, unfortunately there is. Mikhail is a player in the sex trade,” he says.
“You mean like prostitution?” I ask.
“Yes, but on a deeper level. A part of Mikhail’s business includes bringing women from Russia and the Ukraine to America to work as sex slaves.”
I think of Misty Blue and wonder if that was how she became involved with Mikhail.
“Bobbi, almost everyone in a position of power at the club is into something dirty,” Q continues.
“Like who?”
“Almost everyone,” Q says. “Joey J., he’s a legit guy. But Sascha’s dad is in the Italian mafia in New York. They’ve got some kind of partnership going, which is how Sascha got the job. She knows what’s going on, and it’s her job to make Mikhail look like he’s on the up-and-up,” Q reveals.
“My girl Sascha?” I ask. I like her and she’s such a good publicist. It’s hard to imagine her doing dirt behind my back.
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ve covered Rebeca and Sascha and Joey. But what about you? What’s your part? You told me you assess risk, and you look out for Mikhail. What exactly does this mean?” I ask him.
“I hook the Colombian cartels up with distributors here in Miami.”
“You introduce drug suppliers to dealers?” I ask him. “Those are the deals that you broker?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Is that all?” I ask.
“That and I tip Mikhail off with what’s going on with the authorities. I’ve got some connections with the police and the feds.”
“Are the feds onto him?” I ask. “Amara mentioned that Mikhail’s empire was going down and that he’d take any- and everyone down with him.”
“The feds are definitely involved. It’s all just a matter of time.”
“What does this mean for me? For you? Are we going to go to jail?” I start crying softly. Q holds me in his arms, consoling me.
“Not if I can help it,” he says.
I GO THROUGH THE DAYS BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW Year’s Eve on autopilot. I have no idea where my life is going, but I keep things moving as if nothing has changed. The only alternative is a complete nervous breakdown, and by the grace of God, that doesn’t happen. My body is going through all the usual motions, but underneath my cool demeanor I’m a wreck. Everyday I wake up and think, is this the day? Will today be the day that Mikhail reveals that he’s onto me? Will I get arrested for conspiracy to all Mikhail’s dirt?
I want to seek comfort in Q’s arms, but that isn’t possible. My body craves him, remembering how good we felt together; it was definitely more than a fuck. I ask Q how he’s going to get us out of this mess unscathed, but he warns me not to discuss the matter at the club or over the phone, which leaves me with no other option but to pray that he’s going to fix this mess. Somehow Q and I manage to act normal around each other, but it’s hard. We both feel the spark between us but we know that doing anything out of the ordinary could cost us our lives.
I fantasize about transferring my money to a Swiss account, or better yet a Cayman Islands one. I could hop on a plane and just disappear. I wouldn’t have my career but I’d be safe. I wonder if I should act on these dreams, but come to no solid conclusions. I just hope that I have time to do whatever it is I need to do before the walls come crashing down.
New Year’s Eve begins like any other day. I wake up at around ten in the morning, work out for an hour, and then I have Mikhail’s cook fix me a decadent breakfast of Belgian waffles with plenty of butter and maple syrup, a few strips of turkey bacon, some turkey sausage links, an egg-white omelet, and a bowl of tropical fruit salad. I wash
it all down with a half pitcher of Bellinis. I may as well enjoy the benefits of living the high life while I can, because my days are numbered. I just don’t know what will happen when my time is up.
To relieve my stress (but not my paranoia) I fire up a bowl of California Indo and take a few tokes before I hop in the shower. I take a few more hits when I get out. I put on some Rock and Republic jeans, an ornate wifebeater, and throw on some crisp white jumpers. I top it off with a vintage Kangol and head to the Agua Spa at the Delano for a relaxing massage, a skin smoothing body polish, and a mild and light facial. I can’t help but think of Amara and wonder where she is and if she’s managed to elude whoever was after her.
After my spa treatments, I head to Vidal Sassoon to get my hair and nails done. Then I eat a burger and onion rings at Johnny Rockets and down a thick chocolate shake before I roll to MAC to have my makeup done. I could have someone come to the mansion and do all those things there, but I wanted to get out of the house and soak up the energy of my city. And I don’t want to take any chances of running into Mikhail if I don’t have to.
New Year’s Eve is always an extra-hype night in Miami. There are several A-list celebrities in town to ring in 2007, and they’ll all be at Babylon. I almost feel sorry for the other clubs on the beach. Almost, but not quite. Their little celebrations are going to pale in comparison to my fête. Not only is MTV broadcasting, but so is the television show Deco Drive. I’m going to do my best to enjoy all this success, even though it may end at any moment.
With a whole lot of prodding, begging, cashing in favors, and mad phone calls from Sascha and myself, we’ve managed to accomplish the impossible; all the top female hip-hop artists are coming to perform at Babylon. Regardless of her connection with Mikhail, Sascha is great at what she does. In an unprecedented event, we’ve got fresh-out-of-the-pen Lil’ Kim teaming up with a healed Foxy Brown, as well as Miami’s reigning hip-hop queens, Trina, Jacki-O, and Dez all doing a 2007 version of the hip-hop classic, “Not Tonight (Ladies Night).” Missy is singing the hook. Tonight is going to be off the chain.