The Come Up

by Nia Forrester

  “Lemme holla at you right quick,” he said. “Devin, we’ll be back to get you in a minute.”

  Standing once again with some effort, Makayla followed Jamal down a few doors to his office at the end of the hall, noting that he looked none the worse for the wear. His office, which she’d only been in a couple times before, was more like the living room of a luxury apartment, decked out with modern showpiece furniture. The desk and computer were relegated to the least obtrusive corner of the room, like afterthoughts, which made sense since according to him, most of his “work” happened elsewhere. Like at Onyx.

  “Take a seat,” he told her, indicating a comfortable chair near the door.

  Makayla obeyed, while he pushed his door so that it was almost but not quite shut.

  “So how’re you feelin’?” he asked.

  Makayla shook her head, not able to muster up the will or energy to lie.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

  Sitting even more upright, she looked at him in surprise. “But you …”

  “I goaded you into it,” Jamal said. “Egged you on?”

  “Yeah. Exactly!”

  Jamal nodded. “And I’m your boss so you thought you had to go along with it.”

  “Well, yeah.” Makayla moved closer to the edge of her seat. If he was about to reprimand her for behavior he had practically forced her into, she was going to flip out on his ass. If she could manage it, feeling as crappy as she did.

  “The people you’ll be working with are big-name performers. People used to having folks do what they tell them to do.” Jamal sat on a chair opposite hers. He wasn’t smiling now, but looking directly at her, his expression focused and compelling her to do the same. “Most of them work hard; some of them play even harder. Last night, the drinking you did …”

  “We did.”

  “No. You. I drank one drink for every two you had, Hughes.”

  Makayla was shaking her head as Jamal nodded his.

  “You did. I counted. I put something in front of you and you drank it. I only sometimes drank mine. Most of the night I had water with lemon.”

  “But …”

  “Why?” he supplied for her.

  “Yeah. Why? Were you trying to get me drunk?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure you’d take the bait. But you did.”

  “I still don’t get why you would do that,” Makayla said, beginning to get a little angry.

  “Like I said. The people we work for—the performers? They’re our bosses, just like I’m your boss. Sometimes they play real hard, and they try to get us to play with them. Like we’re their peers. Their … friends. But we’re not. We’re the help.”

  Makayla listened.

  “Those high-dollar, high-alcohol drinks I gave you? Some of our clients indulge like that on a daily. And they don’t always enjoy having someone sitting across from them who’s stone-cold sober, looking all judgmental, making them feel like they might not have things under control.

  “So they’ll push you, press you, and sometimes even ridicule you if you don’t join in on the drinking. And once in a while they have other things, too—cocaine, heroin, hell, I’ve even seen some with PCP—and they might try to push that on you as well. You need to learn how to say ‘no’. Even when you’re talking to your boss.”

  Makayla nodded.

  So. It had been a test. She had known it was, but it wasn’t the test she thought it was. And she had failed miserably.

  Seeming to see something on her face, Jamal leaned forward, his eyes more sympathetic now, and holding hers.

  “Look, this is a lot to take in. I just don’t want to see you learn it the hard way. We’re tourists in that life, you and me. We don’t live there like they do. Okay? So you go in, you take a look around, you sample some of the local specialties if you want. But don’t get caught up.”

  “So I should have said no to the drinks.”

  Jamal shrugged. “Or said yes. But know your limits, and have only as much as you can handle. Every minute you spend with the talent you’re working. And you need to stay sharp, especially when they’re not. Remember that. They’re not your friends, they’re your work.”

  “But not with Devin,” she said. “He’s not just work to me.”

  “I understand. But now he’s not just your friend either.”

  _______________

  When she was gone, Jamal exhaled a deep sigh and leaned back in his seat. No one could ever accuse him of lacking self-control where women were concerned, ever again. The good news was, she seemed not to recall much of the evening beyond the fact that she had too much to drink. If she had, she would know that she wasn’t the only person who had skirted dangerously close to losing their head.

  After the first couple drinks, Jamal stopped having alcohol altogether. He had to drive himself home, after all. And he had to make sure she got home okay as well. But Makayla kept right on guzzling whatever he ordered. And once she loosened up, she started talking, about school, about her love affair with the entertainment business and even about a girl group she tried to start when she was in middle school, called the Hellcats. And she was hella-cute when she was tipsy, often leaning in close so he could hear her, and flipping a couple of those locs out of her face as she talked, the gesture fluid and sexy. Her scent was one Jamal recognized, called Clean. And that was how she smelled. Clean. If she was a date and not an employee, he would have closed the distance between them, met her halfway and buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her and kissing her there …

  What the hell? He was doing it again!

  With each successive drink last night, Makayla’s eyes grew brighter and she got chattier, and before he knew it, he was seriously feeling her, like any other woman he might have met during a night out, sneaking peeks down the front of her romper which gapped a little in the front and offered up brief glimpses of cleavage. And it wasn’t just the occasional sightings of the swell of her breasts, either. It was her humor, her intelligence and the way she obviously studied the entertainment business, just like he studied it. Makayla Hughes was definitely a thinking man’s kind of woman. Sexy he could get any day of the week, but sexy and smart … there was no greater aphrodisiac.

  The thing that almost did him in entirely was when she started talking about why groups like N-Sync got so hot.

  See, she said, leaning in tantalizingly close once again. It’s the transference of feelings white teen girls have for Black teen boys. So you’ve got your Nick Carters and Justin Timberlakes, right? … All blonde and All-American, but they have a little Black boy swagger in ‘em, right? And that, my friend, makes it socially-acceptable for these little white girls to lie in bed and secretly touch themselves to what—let’s face it—is essentially Black music …

  Jamal almost spat his drink out, he laughed so hard.

  Just listening to her break things down like that—smart as a whip even when she was damn near close to drunk—made his dick hard. Jamal had to excuse himself for a minute and go give himself a pep-talk in the men’s room, reminding himself that she was off-limits for a whole host of reasons, and that he had a perfectly nice thing he was getting started with whatshername who was closer to his age-bracket, very attractive her-damn-self, and probably just as smart as Makayla. He spent almost fifteen minutes mentally talking himself down until it bordered on ill-mannered to have left her alone for so long.

  But when he got back to their table, she was nowhere in sight. His head whipping around in near-panic thinking she’d wandered off in her semi-drunken state, Jamal finally spotted her. Leaning over the balcony and looking down at the dance floor, she was being chatted up by a brother in too-tight jeans and a crewneck shirt. And since he had no reason like Jamal did, to restrain himself, he was leaning real close to Makayla and she was yucking it up with him like they were old friends. Jamal watched for a few moments, taking in her smile, her posture and the way she flipped those locs out of her face. A moment’s mascu
line competitiveness overtook him and he was seconds away from going to get her when she turned and saw him.

  When she did, Makayla touched her companion on the arm and indicated that their time together was over, making her way back over to him, still smiling and with a fresh drink in hand.

  Do you know who that was? she asked in an incredulous stage-whisper. Victor Cruz from the New York Giants!

  Never heard of him, Jamal lied.

  Makayla giggled. She was so freaking adorable when she giggled.

  Me neither. But I figured he’s a pro-football player so that has to count for something, right?

  Nah. Jamal said staring down at her. It doesn’t count for shit.

  And that was the moment, right then—him looking down at her, her smiling up at him, both of them standing so close, ostensibly so they could hear each other over the music. Jamal leaned in, she lifted her chin … and sneezed. Right in his face. They both laughed in surprise.

  Makayla reached up and with a cool damp hand, wiped both his cheeks, giggling some more.

  Oh my god, she said. Did I get you?

  Nah, he said. You didn’t get me.

  But almost.

  _______________

  “They have a point, Devin. You have to consider it.”

  “I don’t have to consider shit. Ten minutes in business with these clowns and they’re already trying to get me to break my word to some folks I been rollin’ wit’ for years, who helped me come up in the first damn place.”

  Makayla shoved the plate of fries between them closer to Devin, reaching for her burger. It was almost four p.m. and her appetite had only just returned, and she was ravenous.

  After a long day of meetings with Devin and the Scaife development team, she had the go-ahead from Jamal to take off and nurse her aching head, so she and Devin had left together and gone to grab a bite. Maybe because she was there to help keep him in check, Devin had for the most part behaved himself. Until someone suggested that he do a short promotional tour down South and out West. Thus far, Devin’s popularity was limited to the Northeast. His independent distributor—the only one he could afford—only had limited geographical reach, and a sub-par web presence.

  The theory was that by hitting a few small venues in different parts of the country, he might build up a fan base in those regions as well. Devin on the other hand wanted to keep playing the Northeast and use the web to get his name out in other places.

  The internet can only do so much, Jamal had argued. And frankly, we’re not trying to litter the worldwide web with your stuff that isn’t recorded up to the standard we’d want to see for you.

  Litter? The word had gotten Devin all riled up in two seconds flat. Like what I’ve been producing is just what? Garbage?

  Nobody’s saying that, Dev, Makayla jumped in.

  That’s what it sounds like he’s saying.

  If I thought you were putting out garbage, would you be here? Jamal demanded.

  That had calmed things down some, only to have them escalate once again when the dates suggested for his travel schedule clashed with some he’d already booked in clubs around the tri-state area. And the idea of canceling on club owners he had longstanding relationships with didn’t sit too well with Devin. His loyalty was one of the things Makayla loved about him and wouldn’t change for all the money in the world. But this was going to be for his benefit in the long run. Surely he had to see that.

  “You can reschedule those dates,” she said. “If these folks want to see you pass on an opportunity like this, they’re not that interested in seeing you make it. And if so, screw them.”

  “Screw them?” Devin stopped with a french fry mid-air and looked at her with his piercing blue-green eyes. “We already talkin’ ‘bout screwin’ people? C’mon, you’re starting to make me think this is a bad idea not just for me, but for you too.”

  “You act like we’re selling our souls to the devil.”

  “Hell, we might be. That Chris Scaife was one intense motherfu…”

  “Then don’t do it, Devin!” Makayla shoved her plate to the side and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms and letting out a puff of air. “I’m not trying to drag you kicking and screaming every inch of the way on this thing!”

  “Kay …” Devin reached for her arm across the table, grabbing one of them and rubbing it with his thumb. “Listen.”

  Makayla looked at him, swallowing her annoyance, trying to remember that this was her friend. Her best friend in the entire world. Closer than a brother. “Why’re you always standing in your own way?”

  “I know you think that’s what I’m doing right now but it’s not. Remember what I told you when I agreed to this? Money ain’t the only thing of value. There’s other things too.”

  “I know that. But money’s not unimportant either. Neither one of us ever had too much of that, and with it think of what we could do. You know the last time my grandmother was able to go to a real doctor, not just some quack willing to milk her of all the Medicare dollars they can get?”

  Devin said nothing.

  “And when was the last time your mom had a vacation, Devin? Not even a vacation, but more than a couple days off even.” Makayla unfolded her arms and let him instead hold her hand. “Principles are great to have. And we can make sure we hang on to ours, but not to the point of being … stupid.”

  With his free hand, Devin scratched the back of his neck, thinking.

  “You can continue to be the voice of morality all you want. But I’m going to be the voice of reason. For both of us.”

  “We can’t sell out. Not this easy.”

  “And you can’t keep saying ‘no’ to everything just because they think you should say ‘yes’. At least think their suggestions through with an open mind. Don’t just throw up roadblocks.”

  Devin sighed. “If I can … if I can reschedule the local gigs, and the clubs are cool with it, I’ll do the tour.”

  Makayla smiled. “Okay. I promise, I’m not going to sell out. And I won’t let you, either.”

  Pulling his hand away Devin gave her a sideways glance and reached for a couple fries, beginning to eat once again.

  “What?” Makayla laughed.

  “I see the way you look at your boss, all bug-eyed and shit. Don’t let dude lead you down the path of iniquity, sis.”

  “The path of iniquity?” Makayla laughed and looked down to hide the guilt she was sure had to be transparent in her eyes. And even if it wasn’t transparent, Devin had always been able to read her pretty accurately.

  “I’m just saying. He’s not good at what he does for no reason. I bet he be talkin’ folks into all kinds of mess against their better judgment. Don’t become one of those folks.”

  “I don’t know that there’s anything Jamal Turner would need to talk me into,” Makayla said.

  “Yeah, ‘cause you’d give it up willingly.”

  “Shut up.” Makayla threw a french fry at his head and took a sip of her water, thanking the gods of melanin that her complexion wouldn’t betray her blush.

  She could have denied what Devin said, but what would have been the point of telling that lie?

  6

  “What d’you mean you’re not going?”

  Jamal looked up. “I have a good team on it. DeJuan, and Makayla to keep him …”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Chris shook his head and stood, taking his one-year old son over to the play-yard set up in the corner of his home office. “You invested how much in him already?”

  “Practically nothing.”

  “But to send him on a cross-country promotional tour for almost eight weeks with two staff. How much will that little road-trip set us back?”

  Chris crouched next to the baby and idly played with his curls, pausing to hand him a little red car. This one—Chris’ fifth kid—he’d sworn was his last. Landyn Scaife looked just like his mother—golden-skinned and wide-eyed, just as the now two-year old Caitlyn looked like her father. Dropping the red
car with a grunt that sounded like defiance, Landyn reached for his father with chubby arms outstretched. Chris let the baby grasp his fingers, but didn’t pick him up, obviously intending to wait out his infant son’s outrage at being put down to play on his own.

  “Twenty-five, thirty … somewhere around there, depending.”

  “That’s chump-change, right?”

  Jamal looked at his boss and knew right away that ‘yes’ would be the wrong answer. Chris didn’t get rich by disregarding sums of money in the tens of thousands of dollars. Shifting in his seat, Jamal cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say that, but …”

  “But you’re willing to throw it away.” From his position crouched on the floor, playing with a little stuffed automobile, Chris still managed to look intimidating.

  “Throw what away?”

  Robyn Scaife came breezing into the room in a white bikini and aquamarine sarong. Tan, no doubt from sunning herself out back, she’d pulled her pixie-cut hair away from her face with a dark blue bandana. Though he knew better than to let his gaze linger too long, Jamal’s eyes were drawn to her chest. A woman of many assets, Robyn’s breasts had always been near the top of the list as far as he was concerned. It was crass to even think of his friend in that way, but, damn, that was a nice pair.

  “Robyn, we’re working,” Chris said, his eyes roaming his wife’s body, though much more openly than Jamal had dared moments earlier. He was trying to sound stern, but he could never quite pull it off as flawlessly with her the way he did with other people.

  “I know, grumpy. I just came to get the baby. And to remind you both that Mrs. Lawson has lunch set up outside.” She leaned over the play-yard and expertly scooped her son up with one arm, bracing him against her hip and sweeping out once again. “It would be inconsiderate to let all her hard work go to waste,” she called over her shoulder.

  Chris shook his head and stood, taking a moment before he was able to resume his tough-guy persona. Jamal looked away and cleared his throat to mask his grin. It didn’t matter how much he groused, griped and complained about interruptions, Robyn was relentless about making sure Chris’ life wasn’t just about work. And after all, this was originally supposed to be a purely social event—Robyn had invited Jamal and Madison over for lunch by the pool which had quickly been hijacked to become a working afternoon.