Her internet search earlier that day had revealed that Onyx wasn’t the kind of club where a person like her could waltz up to the front door and be let in. It was a place where the likes of Jamal Turner went to play, and work; where there was a fifteen-hundred dollar minimum on bottle service, and private rooms where million-dollar deals were made. On the six dance floors, some of the most beautiful and predatory women in New York gyrated in rented Versace and consignment shop Louboutins, on the lookout for their next patron—for the evening or for a lifetime.
Onyx wasn’t the kind of place she could even have dreamed of getting into a month ago. Now, not only was she going in, she was going in on the arm (okay, not really, but close enough) of Jamal Turner. And that merited pulling out the big guns. The big guns were a Philip Lim outfit that she’d picked up at a sample sale downtown in a moment of insanity. The black-and-white satin halter romper was the most expensive item of clothing she’d ever owned; it had never been worn, and Makayla had many times considered selling it online when she was strapped for cash. After all, the prospect of going someplace that was worth it had been slim to none before now.
But tonight she’d put it on, and pulled her long locs up to the crown of her head, creating a cascading ponytail. And because the jumpsuit was beautiful enough to speak for itself, she’d eschewed necklaces altogether and gone the simple earring route. Her makeup was a rich plum lip and kohl-darkened eyes. And of course, the shoes. She had to have shoes befitting Philip Lim so she bought a pair of black python pumps on the way home, with every intention of returning them if they weren’t too scuffed at the end of the evening.
On the subway ride to Midtown, Makayla chose to stand the entire way (who needed those annoying creases on the front of their outfit?) ignoring the looks a few men shot her way. She knew she had amazing legs—in fact, she considered them her best feature—and a booty that a few boyfriends hadn’t been able to keep their hands off. She was wearing the hell out of that Philip Lim romper. So there was no explanation for the fluttery feeling she still had in the pit of her stomach, and the slight tremble of her fingers.
I look good, she repeated to herself like a mantra. I look damn good.
She was still chanting those words in her head when about twenty-five minutes later, she walked up to the darkened door of Onyx and realized that she had no instructions that would help her breach the barrier outside. The large glass doors to the club were blackened over so it was impossible to see inside, and it was flanked by two rather huge gentlemen wearing all black, both of them bald, as though that too was part of their dress code. Neither of them smiled at the patrons who were queued just inside the velvet rope, waiting to see whether they would be admitted.
As was the case at almost every trendy nightclub the world over, occasionally, the staff manning the doors would call someone out of line, deeming them cool enough to cut past dozens of other people and get in right away. Tonight they were two young women—flanked by the bald bouncers—who looked to be about six feet tall because of their super-high heels, both of them in scanty black dresses that resembled negligee, and looking every bit good enough to have walked straight off the runway somewhere.
Suddenly, Makayla felt slightly less confident of how good she looked. But so the hell what? She wasn’t about to let them intimidate her out of going into a place she had every right to be. No, a place where she was required to be by her boss. Squaring her shoulders, she walked toward the end of the very long line and took a place, preparing to wait.
“The hell you doin’ standing in line? C’mon.”
Spinning at the sound of the familiar deep voice, Makayla looked up. Wearing a wine-colored close-fitting t-shirt and chocolate pant, Jamal looked as delectable as usual. And tonight he smelled that way as well, with the same cologne that made Makayla want to throw herself at him when she’d first met him at the club in Brooklyn.
“Hi,” she said, feeling stupid.
“Let’s go.”
Jamal took her hand and shouldered his way around the line and past the two young women in black nighties. He smiled and nodded at them both, as well as at the bouncers, and with his free hand, shoved open the door to a nighttime paradise.
_______________
Jamal didn’t even recognize her at first. When he walked up to the front of the club, he did what he always did by habit, scanning the line of hopefuls awaiting admission. Manhattan was his playground, and on more than one occasion, he had found his playmate for the evening standing outside Onyx; some pretty young thing hoping to be noticed, who was more than willing to take the hand of a tall, dark stranger and have her and her girlfriends whisked away like VIPs.
Tonight, his eyes had immediately drifted to the toned legs and perky ass of the girl standing near the back of the line, gradually drifting upwards until he got to the top of her head from which flowed long, dark locs. It was the locs that made him pause in recognition, and then she looked down into the little purse she was carrying, turning her head slightly as she searched for something.
Nah, he thought. Hell nah.
But yeah, it was her. Makayla. Jamal tried to reconcile the eye-catching woman before him with the one from the office, of a girl who wore inexpensive, purely functional outfits with little or no makeup. She was pretty enough, with a rich clay-brown complexion, perfectly bow-shaped lips and a cute little button-nose; but nothing special. Or at least, she hadn’t looked special before now. Now she was definitely among the most attractive women out there, resting her weight slightly on one leg, which had the effect of cocking her ass out just a little and drawing his eyes downward to stare at it even more.
Jamal sighed, remembering Chris’ admonition not to make things messy. Ah damn. It was always easier to behave when his colleagues weren’t so freaking cute.
And then he thought about Madison, who Robyn had introduced him to a couple weeks earlier, and who he had vowed to try to give a fair shot. She was beautiful, accomplished, a good conversationalist and sometimes even got his humor, which some women found hard to take. Madison knew how to laugh at herself, and didn’t get insecure when he occasionally teased her. A lawyer at one of the firms Scaife often did business with, she was the kind of woman that could seamlessly assume the role of partner, or one day even the wife, of say, the COO of Scaife Enterprises.
Not that he was looking for a wife. Not right now. But once a brother hit thirty-five, he had to start thinking a little more long-term. And though he enjoyed the single life, Jamal wouldn’t describe himself as a confirmed bachelor or anything. He was more like a serial monogamist. And a family was on the agenda for sure, just not the immediate agenda. A few times there had been women he thought he might give it a shot with … and then a distraction would show up.
And tonight, Makayla Hughes in her little black shorts was definitely distracting. But if there was one thing Jamal prided himself on, it was his ability to keep his eye on the ultimate prize. He was going to be COO of Scaife, and Devin Parks was going to help him get there. Makayla, as good as she looked tonight, was just a means to an end.
So Jamal walked up to her and grabbed her hand, tugging her out of line and toward the entrance. She looked up at him in surprise as they exchanged greetings, then her small, cool hand clutched his, holding on tight as they headed inside.
Jamal liked the way she reacted once they were there. Pausing at the threshold Makayla took a breath—he felt the heave of her shoulders—like someone walking into a surprise party just for them. It had been awhile since he’d allowed himself to be impressed by the exclusive places he was privy to as part of his job. Few were the clubs, parties and events he was denied entry to anymore. Everyone who was anyone in the music business either knew him or wanted to know him, and though he didn’t like to think of himself as jaded, it had been almost a decade since anything actually gave him pause.
But Makayla’s reaction made him pay attention once again, and admit that Onyx was definitely something to behold. The walls were the
darkest obsidian, and the fixtures all gold-plated. The black lacquer furniture only emphasized the effect of being inside someplace secret, and outside of the known world. In the bright light of day, it might look tacky, but at night, it was magical. The music, pounding an urgent beat in the background added a sense of urgency to the mood, like something exciting was about to happen.
“Wow.” Next to him, she exhaled audibly. “This is …”
Words seemed to fail her and Jamal smiled, taking pleasure in the fact that Makayla didn’t care whether her reaction made her seem unsophisticated; and he especially liked the way she gripped his hand even tighter, like she was at risk of being swept up and away by this much beauty all at once.
Leaning down and speaking against the shell of her ear, Jamal tried not to feel smug when she shivered at the contact. “This right here,” he said. “This is where your more important work is done.”
Turning, Makayla looked up at him, her eyes curious. “Here? How’s that?”
“C’mon.”
Still holding her hand, Jamal led her past the first two dance floors, behind one of the bars and up a spiral staircase that was partly hidden from view. The stairs led to a private sitting area with a balcony that overlooked the dance floors below, on which hundreds of people danced. Jamal stood at the balcony, pointing down into the crowd.
“Watch them,” he instructed. “See how they’re moving. See what they’re wearing. This is where everything starts. Places like this. In clubs like this, they’re doing the dances, wearing the clothes that won’t show up in places like Cincinnati, Ohio for another year. Won’t be on the pages of magazines for another eighteen months or more.”
“This isn’t where it starts,” Makayla countered shaking her head. “It starts in Brooklyn. Or gay clubs in the Village. People who come to places like this don’t make trends, they co-opt them.”
Jamal looked at her, making out only part of her face in the flashing lights. “Okay, I give you that. But a trend doesn’t become a trend until the mainstream culture takes it, replicates it and produces it for the masses.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thinking that’s going to turn Devin off,” Makayla warned. “Devin and other artists like him.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so. ‘Mass-produce’ isn’t exactly a buzz-phrase for that crowd. They want to be one-of-a-kind. Not some record company creation like some kind of … boy-band.” Makayla leaned against the balcony railing but did not look at him as she spoke.
Grinning, Jamal leaned in as well, wanting to catch her gaze. Sometimes she came across a little unsure of herself, but now he knew for certain she wasn’t. Not at all. If she was quiet, it was because she was sizing things up, figuring out the lay of the land before she let loose with the strong opinions he was pretty sure she had.
“I think this music might be messing with my hearing. Did you say boy-bands? That’s what Scaife does? What I do? Produce boy-bands?”
“Not literally, no. But even your hardcore hip-hop line-up isn’t that hardcore. They’re … formulaic a little bit.”
Jamal laughed. “Wait. What did you just say to me?”
Makayla shot him a quick glance, looking momentarily worried that she may have insulted him. “I mean …”
“Nah, it’s okay.” He touched her arm. “There is a formula for making a successful artist. It’s just that it’s supposed to look like there isn’t. So if I’m bending over and showing my drawers, I damn sure want to know how much you see.”
Laughing at the analogy, Makayla looked at him, bolder now and directly in the eyes. “I’d be happy to tell you what color your drawers are,” she said. “But it’s not like I can see your nuts or anything.”
Jamal threw back his head and laughed a full-on belly laugh. “Well, that’s a relief. Let’s sit down,” he said. “And get a drink.”
Makayla smiled and nodded. “Okay.”
“You are over twenty-one, right?”
He knew darn well she was, but couldn’t help teasing her. She was still holding back around him a little bit. Most of his new staff were like that at first; some of them were downright starstruck when they first started working for him, finding it hard to separate him from the clients he worked with. But not one to stand on ceremony, Jamal made sure he nipped all that in the bud.
He had taken every single new member of his team on similar club excursions in their first month; his equivalent of an orientation and a welcome lunch rolled into one. During an evening drinking with him, spending the night dancing and chillin’ with him, all of the starstruck nonsense was dispensed with, and he got to see who they really were. In these unguarded ‘meetings’ he got as accurate a read on people within hours as would have been gained from months and months of in-office interaction.
“I’m well over twenty-one,” Makayla returned.
“Good. So you won’t have any trouble keeping up.”
Makayla’s eyebrows rose a little and she smiled at him, no doubt hearing the challenge behind his words. “No trouble at all.”
5
Oh god, she was going to die. She was going to just D.I.E. No one could throw up as much as she had and not just keel over and drift into the sweet hereafter. Her stomach felt like it had been literally turned inside out like an old gym sock, and Makayla was pretty sure that was what its lining tasted like as well. Bitter and bilious, foul and … ugh, just thinking about it made her want to vomit again.
Slowly rolling over, she reached for the pail next to her bed, too weak to do anything about the rancid stench that rose from it. She would have to get up and empty it. The odor wasn’t helping her already fragile stomach, and pretty soon she would have to manage being in vertical position so she could make sure her grandmother took her medication.
Putting a hand over her mouth in case there was some of the same projectile vomiting she’d experienced in the wee hours of the morning, she managed to slide over the edge of the bed and sit on the floor. It was cool, which felt unexpectedly good, so Makayla allowed herself to slide the rest of the way down until she was curled in a fetal position, her cheek pressed against the wood. Just as she was beginning to entertain the thought of taking a short nap there, her phone rang.
The noise was jarring and unpleasant to her clanging brain, so she made herself sit up as quickly as was possible in her current condition, and groped about until she found it, buried somewhere among her bed sheets.
“Yes?” She croaked as she answered it.
On the other end someone laughed. “Thought you said you could keep up, Hughes.”
Jerking upright, Makayla was rewarded by a swimming, dizzying sensation, accompanied by the now familiar roiling in the pit of her stomach.
“Jamal?” she said.
She’d forgotten—probably too drunk to recall—that it was Friday, not Saturday. A workday; and unless she got her ass in gear, it would be a late-for-work day as well.
“Yeah. I need you in here for a nine-thirty with your boy. Drink lots of water, Hughes. And then call for a car.”
“A car?” Makayla repeated.
“We have a car service. I’ll have Karlie send you a car. You need to be here for this meeting. C’mon now. I thought you said you could keep up.”
“I can. I just … never…” Makayla reached for the pail, hoping against hope that she wasn’t about to throw up while her boss listened on the other end of the line. “I just …”
“Here’s a tip,” Jamal said, amusement still in his voice. “Every alcoholic beverage you consume must be followed by twice its volume in water. No exceptions. Because of that rule, I haven’t had a hangover since I was nineteen. It’ll make you piss like a racehorse all night, but you won’t miss work the next day. And you better not miss work today either. I need you in here.”
And with that, he hung up, leaving Makayla to hug the pail next to her and upchuck the very last remnants of whatever that greenish-gray stuff was, and then stand up to stagger her way
to the shower.
When she made it into the office, she was only fifteen minutes late for work, and comfortably on time for the meeting that Jamal said he needed her for. Clutching a large bottle of water, Makayla walked slowly toward her office, ignoring the stares and titters from the offices flanking the long hallway. She looked like half-baked cow crap; she knew that, but just didn’t care. Having mustered up only as much energy as it took to drag on a rumpled gray linen skirt and white t-shirt with black gladiator sandals. She wasn’t even sure whether her last pedicure was holding up but had neither the will nor the energy to go in search of her ballet flats.
All she could manage before heading out to the waiting car was a quick check that Nana had taken her pills and a promise that she would be home early to cook.
Now, as she got to her office, she was surprised to find none other than Devin sitting at her desk, feet up, and playing around with something on his phone. Wearing jeans and a distressed army jacket, he looked like the very antithesis of how she felt—bursting with energy, health and a decent night’s sleep.
“What the … damn, Kay, what you been up to?”
“Shut up,” she said shoving his feet off her desk.
“You smell like … Are you drunk?”
She was. Apart from being hung-over, Makayla realized as she swayed unsteadily in the shower earlier that morning, that she was also still a teensy bit inebriated. Insufficient hours had passed for her to be completely clear of all the alcohol in her system. Jamal Turner had been no joke to keep pace with. He ordered drink after drink, each and every one names she had heard of but never personally imbibed—Courvoisier, Perignon, Bombay Sapphire, Tequila Ley … drinks that should probably never be consumed in the same sitting. But like an idiot, she had.
“I was out last night,” she explained, collapsing into the vacant chair and taking another swig of water.
“Who with? I never known you to drink like that.”
“Long story.”
Before she could say another word, Jamal was leaning into her office. Nodding at Devin, he crooked a finger at Makayla.
The Come Up Page 4