Number 3—called her grandmother ‘Nana’; he’d eavesdropped on their phone conversation during the very same drive. And when she said it, it sounded like she was six-years old, which was very cute. This item added to her appeal but gave him little new data. He already knew she was cute and had actually been actively trying to disregard that fact.
Number 4—she had only been outside of the State of New York twice before in her life; a fact which floored him, but shouldn’t have since at one time he’d been just as green and under-exposed to the world. But this fact made him want to take her places, and show her things, just for the pleasure of seeing her react the way she had when he took her hand and walked her into Onyx. Or the way she was reacting now.
Number 5—she stared at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Her most common way of doing this was to pretend to look down and be reading something, and then her eyes would lift and she would watch him through her eyelashes. When she did it, she also wrinkled her brow in faux-concentration. More cuteness. Being stared at wasn’t the disturbing part. The disturbing part was how much he liked it.
And now, number 6. The smart mouth didn’t bother him either, because it meant she was finally letting her guard down. And this time without alcohol having to be involved. Now, though she was still quiet during the meetings, she wasn’t shy about sharing her opinions afterwards. Soon, Jamal would let her handle a couple of them herself, just to see how she might do.
Ever since Atlanta, she’d been his shadow almost all day, every day while he “mentored” her. It felt like a lie, this whole mentoring deal. All he did was let her in on some calls, and have her tag along for stuff like this morning’s unnecessarily long conversation about the comps for Devin’s performance at one of the area’s hip-hop clubs.
“If I give you a piece of sushi all jazzed-up with my JT fixin’s will you try it?”
“With your JT fixin’s?”
“Jamal Turner …”
“Yeah, that part I got. I’m just trying to figure out what you could do to make a piece of raw fish taste good.”
“You’re all hung up on it being raw. So let’s try this first.” He pointed at the shrimp tempura maki. “This one is deep-fried.”
“Okay, now deep-fried I can relate to,” Makayla smiled. “Hit me. The deep-fried one with the JT fixin’s please.”
Jamal mixed the wasabi with soy sauce and threw in a little shaved ginger while she watched with wrinkled brow. Finally he dipped the maki into the mixture and held it up with the chopsticks, offering it to her. Pursing her lips, Makayla shook her head rapidly from side to side, obviously concealing a smile.
“I changed my mind,” she said.
“You’re not allowed to change your mind.” Jamal held the maki a little closer to her lips, beginning to wonder whether he’d made a huge blunder. Focusing on her lips like this was making his jeans feel a little close in the crotch all of a sudden.
Makayla pouted and his jeans grew even tighter.
“How about you close your eyes and open your mouth?”
She spluttered into laughter. “Excuse me? That sounds like the beginning to a dirty joke!”
Or his subconscious expressing itself.
“Fine. Give it to me.” Makayla opened her mouth, but kept her eyes open.
Carefully placing the maki on her tongue, Jamal waited for her to begin chewing but she remained motionless so he reached over once again and put two fingers beneath her chin. Makayla shut her mouth and chewed slowly, different expressions crossing her features in quick succession. Finally, she swallowed and smiled.
“Okay, that didn’t suck,” she said. “And I liked that it was crunchy, and had a little zing to it. What was that spicy stuff?”
“The wasabi. This green paste right here.”
“And I tasted the ginger … that was pretty good,” she admitted.
“Want to try something else?”
Peering down at his plate, she pointed out the seared tuna nigir. “That one. That looks like it’s at least partially cooked.”
“It is. Just a little. With or without the fixin’s?” he asked.
“With, please.”
That went on for a few minutes—Makayla pointing out pieces of sushi and Jamal feeding her. Somewhere around the fourth piece, he realized what it probably looked like to the other folks in the restaurant. And he admitted what it felt like. Or rather, what it didn’t feel like. It sure as hell wasn’t a boss having lunch with a subordinate. Or a mentor with a protégé.
Somewhere in the back and forefront of his mind, he knew that this was all kinds of wrong but he couldn’t make himself stop. Before he knew it, there was one piece of sushi remaining, the most formidable piece—the salmon roe.
“Okay, now that one I definitely don’t want,” Makayla said. “What are those little orange … capsule-looking things?”
“I can’t believe you’re even a New Yorker,” Jamal said shaking his head. “How you gon’ live in the greatest restaurant city on earth and never tried sushi? And even if you never tried it, how is it you can’t identify it?”
“Because I’m from the other New York, Jamal,” she said, looking down at the table and her now-neglected plate of food. “The one where eating out means going to the Chinese take-out on the corner and getting chicken wings and crinkle-cut fries with hot sauce. Or, if we were really splurging, chicken wings with fried rice and an egg roll.”
“Actually, I’m from that New York, too,” he said. “But our splurge was a big-ass calzone cut in half so you could spread out the splurge to the next day.”
Their eyes met and for a split second, he thought she might be reading his mind. So much of their personal histories were similar. All that separated them was ten years in age, and … his position as her boss and mentor.
“But we’re both a long way away from chicken wings and crinkle-cut fries. So …” He picked up one piece of the salmon roe sushi, the slightly smaller of the two. “You ready?”
Taking a deep breath, Makayla seemed to consider. “What does it taste like?” she asked. “Because it looks … disgusting.”
“Like the ocean,” he said truthfully. “The weirdest part will be when you bite into the salmon eggs. They kind of …” He hesitated because he knew what he said next might turn her off. “They kind of … explode in your mouth.”
“Are you kidding me?” She leaned back and away from the chopsticks. “Hell no.”
Not smiling, Jamal kept them within reach so all she needed to do was lean forward and open. “C’mon,” he said. “Something new. That’s all it is. The world’s a big place. Don’t you want to taste all of it?”
She twisted her lips, making that adorable little pucker once again.
“C’mon,” he said, looking her in the eye. “I got you.”
Closing her eyes, Makayla leaned forward and opened her mouth.
_______________
Devin was onstage and probably doing a good job. The crowd certainly seemed to be into it. Around her, folks were rocking and swaying to his rhymes, holding their fists in the air and a couple even rhyming along, which was incredible because it meant that they’d heard of Devin, and knew his music. What they’d all assumed was that he would be virtually unknown in the Southwest, but now it seemed like they may have been wrong. Still, the internet had limitless reach, so maybe it wasn’t that surprising. But Makayla could scarcely concentrate on her surroundings let alone on the significance of Devin potentially having greater market presence than anticipated. While he was up there in the fog of his performers’ high, she was down here floating on a high all her own.
She wasn’t even sure how it happened, but one minute they were having lunch like two regular colleagues and then the next thing she knew Jamal was feeding her. The first piece of sushi she understood because she was being a little bit of a baby about trying it, but after a while it became a thing, and the way his eyes got dark like that … she could almost believe he was feeling her too.
If all that weren’t enough, it was what he did say when she got to the last pieces of sushi, the really scary-looking ones with the little … pustules all over them.
I got you, he said. She literally tingled when she heard those words. I got you.
It was sexy, for sure. But it was more than that. Something about the way he said them caused little pinpricks behind her eyes like the beginning to a flood of tears; and to stave off a really embarrassing display, Makayla shut her eyes tight, opened her mouth and took the leap. And the result? She didn’t care too much for salmon roe sushi, honestly. But she might try it again, just because of the association it had with that moment, when Jamal Turner looked her in the eye and with all earnestness said, ‘I got you.’
He said something else as well; something about tasting all life had to offer. Something philosophical and deep that made her pensive and excited, and apprehensive all at once. When he said those words, she felt … fearless for a moment, like there was nothing she couldn’t do, because Jamal was there and had assured her that it would be okay. She was so floored by it all she had hardly spoken a word when he drove them back to the hotel.
Makayla made it a practice—no, it was her creed to stay very firmly between the lines that life had laid out for her. If she did that, things were manageable, predictable and made sense. And she would never see her life descend into the kind of madness and chaos that she’d witnessed around her growing up. But with just a few words, Jamal had her questioning that when all he meant was that she should try a piece of freaking sushi. Back at the hotel, they’d gone their separate ways to get ready for tonight. But unless she was crazy, there was a brief moment in the elevator, when she was about to get off when he wanted to say something more to her.
But he didn’t say anything, so Makayla was left with her own fevered imagination. While she showered and got dressed for the evening, Makayla told herself to stop being an idiot. He was still her boss, she was still his employee and the idea that he might be interested in her was still crazy.
But just in case she wasn’t crazy, she wore her white crocheted halter top that showed lots of skin but had strategically-placed denser weaving just over the nipples. Devin, who stopped by her room to wait for her to get dressed, said it looked like she was advertising her “wares for sale.” But he was always especially squeamish about her wearing revealing clothing.
Not for sale, she teased him. I’m giving it away.
Yeah, well you’ll probably get lots of takers, Devin mumbled as they left the room. That was about as close as he was going to come to telling her she looked pretty good.
So far, during Devin’s club appearances, there was very little for her, DeJuan and Jamal to do. It wasn’t like he was playing Madison Square Garden or anything. So mostly, they hung around, enjoying the music themselves and gauging the audience’s reactions. Tonight was no different. They’d all driven over together and Devin got set up, and then DeJuan went off on his own, probably to go try impress some local women with tales about his big-time recording industry job in New York.
And Jamal, as was his habit, only watched the first half of the set and then disappeared outside. Devin had played six venues so far and in each and every one of them, Jamal hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in anything or anyone other than making sure the music sounded good and the performance went well. In some ways, his reputation did him an injustice—if Makayla were to go only on the folklore, he should have been making conquests everywhere he went. But so far, nothing.
Pulling her attention back to her surroundings, Makayla realized that Devin was almost done. Glancing at the time, she looked around for DeJuan and Jamal and seeing neither of them, decided to head backstage so she would be there when Devin finished up. Sitting in the small, narrow hallway just off the kitchen, which was all the “dressing-room” Devin had been given, she waited until she heard the final crescendo of applause.
Moments later, he emerged, sweaty, pupils dilated and a little worked-up. The performers’ high was a very real thing where Devin was concerned. Makayla was used to his routine, and knew that for an hour or so afterwards, he would talk a mile a minute and have difficulty sitting still.
“I hate doing this with recorded music,” he said. “A live band would be so much better.”
“And so much more expensive,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I know.” Devin wiped his face with the back of a hand. “But they got lots of money. You mean to tell me SE can’t afford a couple local musicians and …”
“But then that would mean getting in earlier for rehearsal time with new guys, possibly lengthening our stay in every city. Or if they had some of your regular guys from New York, more plane tickets and hotel rooms. And they’d have to pay them for their time, and …”
Devin made a scoffing sound. “Listen to you. How you gon’ try to reduce good music to dollars and cents? You’re beginning to sound like him already.”
“Like who?”
“You know who.” Devin looked at her and shook his head. “I’m about to hit the head.” He walked away and left her standing there.
Makayla refused to be ashamed because she was beginning to think like a music executive. Hadn’t that been the point? Devin would get some exposure and she would learn the business. But she was pretty sure she knew the real problem. Part of the appeal of the trip for him had been the idea that they might see some new places, explore states and cities they’d never visited, and do it together. But instead, she was with Jamal almost every waking hour. Well he was going to have to suck it up, because this opportunity was too huge for either of them to pass up.
And she at least had no problem with the arrangement where she had to spend almost every waking hour with Jamal.
“He did good.”
Makayla looked up at the sound of DeJuan’s voice. DeJuan Stokes—she had been warned by Harper, one of the other development team members—was used to being the best. He was positioning himself to become the next Jamal Turner. But the difference was, according to Harper, he was somewhat underhanded, somewhat … unethical. DeJuan was effective now because he had Jamal looking over his shoulder and making sure he didn’t cross any serious lines, but, Harper predicted, he was going to become one of those record executives artists complain about. The kind who neglected to tell them about the more restrictive clauses in their contracts; the kind who sold them pipe dreams of instant stardom just to get them to sign on the bottom line, and who wouldn’t hesitate to similarly stab his colleagues and team members in the back.
“Where’s he at though? Jamal’s out front with the truck. We’re going to get something to eat, talk about the plan for tomorrow.”
Though they sometimes had breakfast as a team, often Jamal liked to do a quick check in after each show and brief them on the next venue. For most of these meetings, Devin showed little sign of listening, and even less of interest. He barely managed to look in Jamal’s direction let alone respond to his questions so it usually wound up looking like a session at the United Nations, where Jamal spoke and Makayla listened, translating Devin’s stubborn silences and wordless grunts into answers.
“He’s in the bathroom. We’ll meet you out there,” Makayla told DeJuan now.
“Yeah. Hurry up.”
Devin returned moments later, wiping his hands on a paper towel which he wadded up afterwards and tossed unsuccessfully at a trash can.
“Okay, so are we free tonight, or is the big boss gon’ hold us hostage while he listens to himself talk?”
“He’s outsi
de. Let’s go,” Makayla said, not bothering to address his sarcastic comment.
She was eager to get outside not just so the night could be over, but because during a meal, she could read Jamal’s reactions to her and reality-test her earlier impression that maybe, just maybe, there was something there. Her hopefulness was a little embarrassing, so she definitely wasn’t going to share anything with Devin. She barely wanted to admit it to herself.
“Would be nice to get some sleep before four a.m. this time,” Devin complained as they headed back out to the main club. Makayla ignored that comment too. Complaining was practically Devin’s hobby.
Outside the club, they looked around for a moment before they spotted the black rented SUV. It was idling about a block down, so they headed toward it. And as they drew closer, Makayla squinted. There was someone else inside, sitting in the passenger seat next to Jamal and it definitely wasn’t DeJuan. It was a woman. She and Jamal were talking to each other animatedly, and she was resting a hand on his shoulder as she spoke. Jamal said something she found amusing and the woman tossed back a long, dark mane of hair and laughed with her head back.
Disappointment, jealousy and … betrayal all twisted up into a tight, leaden ball at the pit of Makayla’s stomach.
“Well, well, well …” Devin said under his breath. “Who have we here?”
Yeah. Who the hell have we here? Makayla thought sourly.
9
Madison was standing naked at the window, overlooking Old San Antonio. From behind, she looked like something that should be captured in a painting, recorded so that her figure could be admired for the ages, long after they had both turned to dust.
Good sex had a way of making Jamal poetic.
“I’d better hit the shower if I want to make that flight,” she said without moving. “It was irresponsible of me to come.”
“You sorry you did?”
The Come Up Page 8