The Come Up

by Nia Forrester

  “I know you must be excited to get home in just a couple nights.”

  He’d gotten into the truck next to her and was starting the engine. In the backseat, DeJuan shuffled around, making a big production about finding and securing his seatbelt. Makayla ignored this transparent effort to communicate his discomfort at being relegated to second string, and turned to look at Jamal.

  “Yeah,” she said smiling. “I am.”

  He didn’t mention her grandmother, but she knew that was what Jamal meant. And she wanted to say more as well, to talk about how she thought when she first left New York that after the first couple of days of apprehension, it would get easier. That she would feel some semblance of relief, or get some rest when her days and nights weren’t about taking care of Nana. But instead the opposite was true—it wasn’t restful, it was stressful being away from her and Makayla couldn’t wait to get back. That was the kind of thing she could tell him, and he would understand.

  But with DeJuan in the car, she would say nothing of the sort.

  She and DeJuan, despite how closely they worked together, hadn’t exactly bonded this trip. He obviously saw her as competition for the spot of Jamal’s most valued team member, and never failed to take advantage of an opportunity to one-up her.

  “One more night to wild out,” Jamal warned. “Then back to the grind.” Maneuvering out of their parking space, he looked over his left shoulder at the traffic zooming by them on Ventura Boulevard, before gunning the engine and pulling away.

  “We’ve been on our grind the whole time we’ve been away, though,” Makayla pointed out.

  Jamal turned and smiled at her. “Yeah, you have been. You did a good job managing that pain-in-the-ass friend of yours.” Then he seemed to recall that they weren’t alone and looked over his shoulder at DeJuan. “You too, man. Great teamwork.”

  DeJuan grunted something unintelligible in response.

  Since tonight was the second to last night of their trip, and she didn’t want DeJuan to carry his stank attitude back to New York with him, Makayla made a mental note to pull him aside while at Devin’s show, to buy him a drink and at least try to make a personal connection, maybe ask him a little about his life. All this time, the distance between them seemed like a rite of passage that she was obligated to endure. After all, who was she? Who was she other than some lowly admin assistant who had been unjustifiably promoted just because she was close to Devin Parks?

  But now she was getting her bearings a little bit. After going to meetings with Jamal, being on calls with him, helping him negotiate concessions from club owners, she thought she just might have a head for this business after all. So she was going to need the other team members to work with her, and even coach her when necessary. DeJuan, as the golden boy, would set the tone for how everyone else treated her, so getting on his good side if she could was definitely the smart thing to do.

  “Who’s feeling like Mexican?” Jamal said suddenly, his voice animated. “There’s a good place over in Studio City that’ll put us all in a food coma.”

  The restaurant was authentic Mexican, complete with rough-hewn solid butcher block tables, colorful tapestries and the smell of chiles roasting on an open flame. At the table for four, DeJuan and Jamal sat on one side, DeJuan in the corner seat and Jamal on the end, his long legs stretched in front of him while Makayla sat directly opposite, painfully aware of how her knee brushed the side of one of his legs.

  “Enchiladas, tostadas, burritos … decisions, decisions, decisions,” Jamal announced to the general company. Then he looked up at Makayla. “What’re you having?”

  “Chicken quesadilla, I think.”

  “How ‘bout you?” He looked at DeJuan.

  “I dunno,”DeJuan mumbled.

  “Well, when the waiter gets here, get me some of these fully-loaded nachos to start. I’ll be right back.” Jamal pushed away from the table and stood. Makayla’s eyes followed him as he headed in the direction of the men’s room.

  When she looked up, DeJuan was staring openly at her, a tiny smirk on his face. Looking hastily down at the menu, she cleared her throat.

  “So how long have you worked with him?”

  “Three years, give or take a couple months,” DeJuan said.

  “And it’s been a pretty good experience?”

  DeJuan shrugged. “You should know by now. You spend enough time with him.”

  “Well, our experiences may be different.”

  There was that smirk again. “I bet they are.” DeJuan was passably good looking, and a hipster, with a penchant for Andre 3000 knock-off outfits. But he had a smug attitude and one of those faces that made Makayla just want to smack him.

  She narrowed her eyes and then widened them. Was he implying ..?

  “In answer to your question, I learned more from him in two months than I learned anyplace else I ever worked in my life,” DeJuan said. “Especially about the music business. But you know the most important thing he taught me?”

  Makayla shook her head slowly.

  “That every man has an Achilles heel. Jamal’s is women, and the flattery he gets from women. He falls for it every single time like it was his first time,” DeJuan said. His tone was that of an idle thought, but Makayla knew better. This was DeJuan putting her in her place. “But then …” He shrugged once more. “He moves on, and it’s done.”

  Makayla held his gaze, determined not to be the one to look away first. To deny what he was insinuating would look like an admission of guilt. To ignore it entirely, looked the same way.

  Their waiter approached and they ordered Jamal’s nachos, and a few tapas, telling him that they were still mulling over their entrees. And then, they were alone together once again. Knowing that all hope of an amicable one-on-one had drifted out the window, Makayla sighed.

  “I think I’ll go wash my hands before the food gets here,” she said, getting up.

  As she rounded the corner near the women’s room, she collided with someone, and knew before she even looked up who it was.

  “Whoa. Where’s the fire, Hughes?” Jamal put his hands on her forearms to steady her, not letting go even when he had.

  “Whatever happened to ‘Mack’?” she asked, quietly.

  His eyes grabbed ahold of hers and did not let go. Makayla felt it then; for the first time, she was absolutely certain—he was attracted to her, too. A momentary sense of triumph was replaced by a quaking sensation in the pit of her stomach, of apprehension, and of excitement. Jamal released her arms, but not by simply letting go. Instead he allowed his fingers to glide down their length, from just above her elbows, down her forearms, over the backs of her hands.

  “Your boy Devin kind of ruined that nickname for me. Told me it didn’t suit you.” Jamal shrugged. “And I decided he’s right.”

  “You could just try calling me ‘Makayla’,” she suggested.

  Jamal smiled his lopsided smile. “Maybe,” he said, finally. “But that’s what everyone else calls you. I need something all my own.”

  Then when she couldn’t think of a single thing to say in retort, he smiled, brushed by her and headed back to their table, leaving Makayla standing there like an idiot. In the women’s room, she splashed some water on her face and talked to herself in the mirror.

  “Don’t let him play you like that, girl,” she said. “He is just a man. Like any other man.”

  Except that was not quite true, and she knew it.

  _______________

  This was the only performance of Devin’s Jamal watched from beginning to end. L.A. was a tough market for an East Coast up-and-comer. While New Yorkers liked authenticity, in L.A. the preferences were very different. All one had to do was look around the nightclub they were in. The women here were a case-in-point—they all seemed to be remodeling themselves to fit some movie starlet ideal. Thinner, blonder, and with bigger boobs than their New York counterparts, they couldn’t care less if someone called out their ass and breasts as fake. Fake meant that
they had the money to pay for their good looks; and in L.A. there was no shame in that. It was no accident that whenever he was in town, Jamal found it much easier to focus on work. Makayla, with her crown of locs, stood out like a sore thumb. Or from his point of view, like a queen among peasants.

  Though he was supposed to be paying attention to Devin, and to the audience’s reaction to him, Jamal found his eyes drifting toward her, watching her. She knew all of Devin’s songs and sang all of them along with him, staying close to the stage and looking up at her friend while he did his thing. Devin, knowing she was there, often looked right back at her, seeming to address Makayla directly with some of his lyrics.

  Jamal watched the intimate yet public interaction, rethinking his previous impression that the two were probably just friends, the way Makayla claimed they were. He didn’t know why it should matter, except that it would mean she may have lied to him, and that he didn’t like. Working his way over to the bar, he ordered a Stoli. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Out of L.A., and back to New York where staying in his lane wouldn’t be as difficult.

  Lately, there had been a few too many occasions where he and Makayla had exchanges that felt dangerously like flirtation. It was obvious he wasn’t the only one thinking about taking it further, either. The way she looked at him these days was like an open invitation, like … foreplay. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t hooked up with women he worked with before; and even a few who worked for him as well.

  Scaife was a pretty liberal atmosphere in that regard—how could it not be, with the Boss’ own reputation? At least until he got married. Chris’ current assistant, Chastity was probably the only one he hadn’t banged. But more than that, the whole culture of the organization was changing since he settled down. No longer was it an oversexed, anything-goes bacchanal; Scaife Enterprises was growing up, just like its CEO.

  You guys are just so puerile, Robyn had once said shaking her head in disgust listening to him make a crack about one of the women in the accounting department. Not to mention sexist.

  They were at a company event—an evening of semi-formal dinner and dancing—where it was always fun to see how women who were buttoned-down and professional by day let loose a little by night.

  Why is it sexist to make a comment about a woman’s … assets? Jamal had laughed.

  The music business is sexist, baby. Always has been, Chris chimed in.

  And you’re fine with just going along and perpetuating it? Robyn demanded, getting up from her seat in a huff. You’re a married man and a father of daughters, Christopher. It would do you good to remember that.

  What the hell does ‘puerile’ even mean? Chris quipped once she was gone.

  I can’t give you the literal translation, Jamal said. But I’m pretty sure it means your wife is pissed at you.

  Once an office where you might squeeze your woman’s backside in a crowded elevator while everyone else discreetly pretended not to notice, it had become a place where on Fridays, Robyn Scaife sometimes brought in her kids to play on the floor of their father’s office for part of the day. If you called him, you might hear the peal of baby’s laughter in the background, or the sound of a kids’ electronic toy. If that was the new culture, Jamal had to consider carefully whether getting it on with one of his staff was conduct becoming for the next COO.

  Next to him two women twisted and gyrated to the music, bumping their butts against each other in a manner they probably thought seductive.

  “I like this guy!” one yelled to the other, indicating the stage where Devin was tearing up the mic.

  “Not my kind of music so much, but he’s cute!” the other returned.

  Jamal rolled his eyes. Well, at the end of the day there was always that—he was “cute”. Devin played acoustic guitar, read sheet music, wrote his own lyrics—which were pretty damn good—could sing and rap, but what it came down to at the end of the day for some people was, ‘he’s cute.’

  Up near the stage, Makayla was loosening her locs from their ponytail and pulling them up higher on her head, probably to get them off her damp neck. Jamal watched as she shook them loose, scooped them up and refastened them. A few at the back remained free, trailing down below her shoulder blades. Wearing a black tank and close-fitting jeans, Makayla’s only embellishment that evening was a pair of large gold hoops and a statement ring. Her lipstick was dramatically dark and her eyebrows accentuated, but otherwise, she appeared impervious to the L.A. scene which required an altogether different type of nightclub look unless you were in Silver Lake or one of the city’s other hippie neighborhoods.

  Leaving his glass on the bar with a twenty underneath, Jamal made his way through the crowd toward her, arguing with himself the entire way. When he was close enough, he put a hand at the small of her back. Makayla spun to see who had made the contact and smiled when her eyes met his. Onstage, Devin was in that transcendent space that artists sometimes go to, where their surroundings and even the audience were irrelevant, and all that mattered was the music. The interesting thing was that when that happened, the audience connected to the artist even more. That was when the truly great performances happened.

  “He’s killin’ it, isn’t he?” Makayla said, getting on her toes and speaking loudly into his ear.

  “Yeah.” Moving his hand from her back, Jamal instead grabbed her wrist, and without a word, turned and pulled her along with him.

  What are you doing, man? What are you doing? What are you doing?

  Even as he pushed his way through the crowd and toward a small alcove near a door, the refrain played in his head. When he finally got her where he wanted her, Makayla’s back was against the wall, and they were about two feet away from one of the fire exits. Her head fell back as she tried to meet his eyes. Hers were curious, inquisitive.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked, giving voice to his thoughts. But her expression told him that she knew exactly what he was doing, and that she wanted him to do it.

  Jamal palmed her face with both hands and leaned in, crushing his lips to hers. Makayla’s arms came up and around his neck, and she opened up to him, her tongue meeting his halfway. She let him lead, let him pull her hair loose, allowed him to thread his fingers through it as he kissed her mouth, then her jaw, then her neck. Makayla was quivering a little and Jamal felt her soft intake of breath when his lips made contact with her skin. Finally tiring of his exploration of areas other than her lips, she put a hand up to the back of his head and pulled his face toward hers again, capturing his lower lip between hers and gently biting it. Between them, Jamal’s dick woke up.

  Ah shit …

  Pulling back a little he focused on the kiss. Because that was all this could be. That was as far as he would let this go.

  Makayla made a sound at the back of her throat that he couldn’t hear so much as feel. A soft rumbling groan of pleasure. Kissing, like lovemaking was always ten percent technique and ninety percent chemistry. They definitely had the chemistry thing down pat, because he was getting harder and wanting more. She tasted almost sweet, fruity, probably from something she drank earlier in the evening. Jamal’s hands traveled from her face and down her neck, and Makayla pressed forward, encouraging him to touch her breasts. He did. They were soft, the nipples hard even through the barrier of the two layers of fabric provided by her tank and bra.

  “Jamal …”

  She said his name in a gasp, and her own hand descended, touching him through his jeans.

  “Shit,” he said aloud. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Reaching next to them, he shoved open the fire door and dragged her outside with him into the alleyway. He didn’t know what he had in mind, but once they were out there and Jamal realized they were not alone, he was both disappointed and relieved. Several other couples had apparently had the same idea and were having drunken make-out sessions, pressed against the wall. One guy had his hand halfway up his girl’s dress while she writhed against it.

  Makayla and
he exchanged a look and she laughed. Her lipstick was hopelessly smeared, and was probably all over his face as well. Jamal cupped her chin with a hand and with his thumb, removed the dark plum smudges around her lips. Makayla let him, a small smile on her face. Then she returned the favor, and after a moment extended a hand, palm up.

  “My ponytail holder?”

  “Oops.”

  Laughing again, she shook her head. “You dropped it?”

  “I was busy.”

  Reaching back, Makayla used two long locs from either side of her head to secure the rest, then she looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to dictate their next move.

  “We should go back in,” he said finally.

  “Okay.” Makayla nodded, and turned to head toward the front of the club, since the fire door didn’t permit entry from the outside.

  “Hey.” He stopped her with a hand on her arm and pulled her against his chest one last time, kissing her briefly on the lips, then taking her hand and leading her back toward the bright lights of the LA nightlife.

  Just as they got back inside, Devin was finishing up his set and the crowd was showing their appreciation with applause and whistles. As was his practice, Devin gave a brief half-bow and made his way backstage.

  “We need to work on that,” Jamal leaned down and said to Makayla. “He can’t be acting like he’s doing them a favor by being up there.”

  Makayla nodded her agreement and was about to say something when DeJuan appeared next to them.

  “I been lookin’ for you two,” he said. “We gotta grab Devin and go to the VIP.”

  “Why, what’s up?” Jamal asked, raising his voice to be heard.

  “Chris is here. He brought Deuce and Robyn out to see the performance. They been here the whole time.”

  Jamal pulled back and looked at DeJuan, surprised. “Word?”

  It was always a good sign when Chris showed special interest in an artist. Maybe some buzz had traveled the distance back to New York, making him curious to come see for himself. If so, that augured well for Devin Parks.