“Just for a minute,” she says. “And then I’ll help you put everything out.”
“Jay, not for nothing, but I’m not interested,” I say.
I walked into the dining room. “How about we call the birthday boy into the house so we can eat?”
AFTER THE HOT mess that unfolded at my son’s birthday party, I couldn’t begin to explain in any kind of sane, rational way how Sean and I ended up in the sack. My mind’s settled on believing that after his second runin with Daddy, my boy just came to his senses and realized he couldn’t, like, live without me. The circumstances behind our reconnecting with one another—between the sheets, that is—certainly didn’t hurt things.
It happened on the night of the Golden Globes, which is ironic because it’s the one night of the year that I’m most evil. I know, I know—there are entertainment reporters across the land who would kill to get all shined up and stand front and center on the red carpet, rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s glitterati. Thing is, if you’re covering it for a newspaper or a small-time or out-of-town TV station, you’re rubbing a lot more than just elbows. Indeed, the area where they have those reporters—which, including me, totals at least four dozen each year, if not more—is all of twelve feet by twelve feet, which means that we’re practically smelling each other’s asses as we shout perfectly ridiculous questions at the stars making their way into the Beverly Hilton Hotel for the night’s festivities. Covering the pressroom wasn’t any better; in fact, it was a snore. I mean, how many times can one ask a celebrity where they’re going to put their statue and expect an original, smart, clever answer? I’d grown so bored of the whole affair that mostly I just hung back by the refreshments table with a hot cup of coffee in one hand and my tape recorder near the speaker. If I heard anything remotely interesting, I’d check the tape counter and make a notation in my notebook, so that I’d have something to call in to the rewrite desk that was waiting breathlessly for me to give them star quotes to fill out the Daily News’s lousy stories. But mostly I just sat back and watched the action—the photographers jockeying for the shot that would make the cover of tomorrow’s papers, the reporters trying to finesse the flaks for celebrity access, the security detail alternately flirting and scolding the blondes who were trying to use their feminine wiles to get this close to the celebrity presenters, who never really had much to say and made it clear they weren’t up for the prying questioning. Truly, the one highlight of the night was when Cassidy St. James won for best actress, and that was only because I knew how hard my girl Trista had worked to drum up publicity and support for her. I knew she’d be handsomely rewarded for her efforts, at least by her company, if not by Cassidy, who is notorious for treating the people who work for her—Trista included—like minions and hangers-on who don’t deserve respect or thank-yous for their hard work. My girl wasn’t thinking like that, though. When Trista finally made it back to the pressroom, she practically floated over to me.
“We did it!” she screamed, jumping up and down and hugging me all at once. Trista hardly ever lost her composure—she’s the epitome of even-toned civility—but tonight was her night and all that prim and proper stuff went out the window.
“So does this mean that you finally get to calm down and take a break—treat yourself to some much-needed time off?” I asked as I pulled back from our embrace.
“Time off?” Trista laughed. “That’s cute. No, darling, my work is just starting. I have new clients to sign up at TA. I have partner to make. I’ve got…”
“A man to get,” I said, cutting her off. I tapped my watch. “Time’s a-ticking, my dear. Don’t forget the Vow.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” Trista said, “but I’m not going to let that steal my joy right now. I’m going to bask in this victory, if you don’t mind. I’ll think about the boys tomorrow.” She paused for a moment to listen to Cassidy wow the journalists with a teary speech about how wonderful it was to “be accepted at this age as an actress with real chops,” and how she couldn’t have done it without a “great team” behind her. I could tell Trista was bothered that the actress never once mentioned her by name; I made a mental note to grab Cassidy’s quote off the tape, and be sure that the rewrite team attributed the win to Trista’s award campaign efforts. Trista politely clapped when the publicist ushered the newly minted winner off the stage and back to her seat in the awards ceremony audience, and then she turned her attention back to me. “So which party are you hitting tonight?” she asked.
“I have a few I have to stop by. The Jacob Lawrence Agency is having their annual bash, and then there’s the Esquire after-party. And Amaya made me promise to go over to Beat Down Records’ party, but I don’t know if I want to be bothered, because Daddy’ll probably be there, seeing as he’s on the label and all. I’m in no mood for his boys and the groupie-ho element he always seems to attract. Besides, I’m tired already, just thinking about covering three parties in one night. I didn’t even do that in college, and I sure as shootin’ wasn’t an old lady then!”
“I know that’s right,” Trista said, throwing me a high five. “You know I’ll be stuck traipsing behind Cassidy. If we don’t hook up later at one of the parties, then I’ll catch you tomorrow at the class.”
“Oh yeah, the class,” I said, rolling my eyes for emphasis. “I can’t believe Amaya’s got us stripteasing in front of complete strangers this time.”
“Actually, I kind of like the idea of knowing how to peel it off,” Trista laughed. “Now all I need to do is get up enough nerve to do it in front of Garrett.”
“Well, after you’re finished with that one, you might want to sign up for another BJ course—the advanced class is even freakier than the beginner’s course we took before,” I giggled.
“Vivian Evans!” Trista said, covering her mouth with her hand and widening her eyes. “Tell me you did not sign up for another Blow and Get Low class!”
“Shhh! Before someone hears you,” I said, my eyes darting around while I laughed. “I’m not going to front—I needed some extra help in the oral pleasure department. And, might I add, I’ve gotten so good I can take practically an entire small banana in my mouth without gagging or drooling. My tongue game is kind of sick, if I say so myself,” I added smugly.
“Eww—tongue game?” Trista said, all at once disgusted and fascinated.
“Tongue game, girl,” I said. “Remind me to show you what I learned.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me—you sound just like Amaya.”
“Maybe. But that girl might be on to something, no matter how pitiful it sounds,” I laughed. “Just do me a favor and keep this between us. I’ll never hear the end of it if Amaya finds out I’m a member.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, trust,” Trista said with a flick of her wrist. “Okay, I have to get back to my seat. Maybe I’ll see you later?”
“Maybe,” I said, giving her kisses on both cheeks. “If not, enjoy your night. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, baby,” Trista said, before sashaying out of the room.
I never did see Trista that night. Instead, I found myself twirled in the sheets with my son’s father, putting my BJ secrets to the best use in all of California that night.
I’m still not really all that sure how I got there. All I know is that I was at the bar, sipping on a cranberry and orange juice, trying to get up the nerve to go over and reintroduce myself to Brian McKnight, whom I’d interviewed and profiled a few months earlier, when I felt a wet kiss on my left cheek. Startled, I fixed my mouth to give whoever slobbered on my cheek a good tongue-lashing. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up and saw Sean. “You working or enjoying?” he said flatly.
Unsure of exactly how I was supposed to react (the devil on my left shoulder said to roll my eyes and toss him a little attitude; the angel on my right kept saying, “The Vow”), I didn’t say anything immediately. I went with indifferent. “Unfortunately, I’m working,” I said.
“Doesn’t look like you’re w
orking too hard over here by the bar,” he said, teasing me. “I will tell you, though, that you’re certainly looking good standing here doing nothing.”
I’m sure I blushed. Was he flirting with me? Was he over the Daddy/birthday party incident? Where was the blonde? I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from asking the last question. I quickly surmised that it wouldn’t hurt to be cordial; let the bitch walk up and see her man having a civil conversation—a downright pleasant one—with the mother of his child. “Why, thank you, Sean,” I smiled. “I was hoping Brian over there noticed, too. Alas, no action. What brings you out on this lovely evening?”
“Well, it sure wasn’t Brian McKnight,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I got an invitation from Jacob Lawrence.”
“Jacob Lawrence, huh?” I said, surprised. “How’d you get that hookup?”
“He’s a client,” Sean deadpanned.
“Who? Jacob Lawrence?”
“Yup.”
“Let me get this straight: Jacob Lawrence, the head of one of Hollywood’s largest talent agencies, and the youngest player in the game, goes under your knife?”
“Yup.”
“Well I’ll be damned—he’s what, like, thirty-seven, thirty-eight years old? And he’s a dude. Since when do men get work done?”
“He’s thirty-eight, and he’s not the only man I’ve performed corrective surgery on. A good thirty percent of my business comes from men looking for a little tweaking. But you didn’t hear that from me, Ms. Daily News—I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with that in the paper, Viv,” he said, getting all serious.
“But…”
“Uh, but nothing, Vivian Evans. If you want to keep getting that child-support check, you better keep that one to yourself. The moment my clients think their confidentiality has been violated, my business goes down the tubes—and so do those lovely checks I drop off every month. So, please, babe, keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, fine,” I said, feigning disgust. “Go on ahead and ruin my chances for a Pulitzer. I coulda been a contender if my baby daddy wasn’t blocking my story.”
Sean cracked up, and held up his finger to signal the bartender. “Yeah, um, let me get a Heineken,” he said, then turned to me. “What’s your poison?”
“Nothing for me. I’m still working on this cranberry and orange juice.”
“Cranberry and orange juice? Come on, Viv—it’s an awards night, live a little!”
“I can tell you it’s not all the fun it’s cracked up to be,” I said. “And it’ll help to be sober if I’m going to put the moves on ol’ Brian over there.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m not going to be taking too much more commentary on Brian McKnight. He’s corny anyway. Second of all, if you have something stronger than juice, you might be inspired to stop hugging the bar and actually get to work.”
“For your information, I’m working quite hard right now, and I need to stay just as sober when I’m working as you do. Why you so worried about the Daily News’s quotes all of a sudden? Or is it that you’re just trying to get me drunk? Where are your drinking partners, anyway?” I asked, the closest I got to inquiring about the blonde.
“Mmm, now there’s an interesting prospect—Vivian Evans, looking sexy and feeling tipsy. You know, a brother might be tempted to take advantage of a good-looking drunk woman on a rich night like this,” Sean said, leaning in closer to me. “I came alone. You drink. I’ll watch.”
I have to admit, I wasn’t exactly expecting that compliment, but I was quick on my feet—I knew an opportunity when I heard it. My man was moving toward a proposition. Damn if I wasn’t going to hear it and take advantage. A little play was in order. I frowned, smirked, and then let out a definitive, “Negro, please. What in the world has gotten into you—you been drinking?”
He laughed heartily, ran his fingers over his locks, and shook his head. “Can’t pull the wool over Vivian Evans’ eyes, can I?” he said.
“No, Negro, you can’t. No matter how much I love me some Sean, I think I can smell a con job coming and going. I know you much too well to know that there are plenty other women in this town who would be more than happy to keep you company—a few of them to whom you’d probably like to return the favor, so cut the Billy Dee act.”
“You’re absolutely right, Vivian Evans—you do love me, and you know me well,” he said, laughing some more.
“Nice try, though. Keep that up and one of these days you might just win an Oscar of your own.”
“You know what, Vivian? That’s what I love about you—you never hesitate to put ’em in their place.” He was quiet for a minute, as was I. Our eyes scanned the room, neither of us sure of what to say next. A waiter broke the silence when he sashayed over to us with a tray full of sushi—part of the Asian-fusion theme the Jacob Lawrence Agency had created for the evening. “Uni roll?” he practically sang. I was tired of the finger foods, and I definitely was in no mood for raw fish that had been circulating around a party for hours, so I passed. So did Sean. “I’m hungry, and this sushi isn’t getting it. Want to go get a bite to eat?” he said.
I was beside myself but unsure of how to respond. Here I was with the love of my life, who was inviting me out for some one-on-one, presumably to spend some time together—and not to discuss child support, or get into an argument over the care of our child, or what went wrong at Corey’s birthday party. But where was the blonde? And why was he all of a sudden asking me out? And where was this sudden interest coming from? Did my rendezvous with Daddy have anything to do with this?
I had to ask—hey, I ask questions for a living, and damn if I wasn’t going to get the 411 on that chick.
“How would your friend feel about that?” I said.
“What friend?” he said, looking at me quizzically.
“Your friend who crashed Corey’s birthday party.”
Sean looked perplexed, then sheepish. “You know, Viv, she isn’t who you think she is,” he said.
“Oh, really? Seems like the two of you were pretty friendly at that record-release party, and she was practically clinging to your arm when you showed up on my front stoop,” I said quickly.
“Viv—she’s my publicist,” he said simply.
“Your publicist?” I said. My eyes widened. “What does a plastic surgeon need with a publicist?”
He sucked his teeth and tossed his head back. “Come on, Viv—I just told you Jacob Lawrence himself is a client. How do you think I get high-profile people like him to bring their business my way?”
I didn’t say anything, just raised my eyebrow and nodded. So she wasn’t what I thought she was, huh? Well, that certainly changed things.
So what’s a girl to do on a starry night with a half-drunk ex she’s still got the hots for who’s asking her out for a meal that will likely end up hotter and steamier than any plate we could get at a late-night eatery? A half-drunk ex I had to convince to propose and marry me in the next ten months? Not for nothing, but this could jump-start my Vow. I had to force myself not to jump at the invitation. You know, play it cool. But not too cool. “Actually, I probably should be getting back to the house soon,” I said, turning him down but trying to add just the right mix of reluctance so that he’d know I was interested. I didn’t want to sound desperate, but I did want to go out with him. “My mom will be bringing Corey home pretty early tomorrow so he can get ready for school, and I’ll need to get his things together before I turn in, so…” I said trailing off.
“Um, okay, well, are you sure? It’s still early yet,” he said, searching his watch. It was just after midnight.
“I’ve been at it for a while, and I really want to get out of these shoes. I love them, but they don’t exactly feel like sneakers,” I said.
“Hmm, sounds like the lady could use a massage,” he said.
“You offering?” I asked. It just slipped out—I certainly didn’t mean to make it seem like I was throwing myself at him. But Sean was the foot massage master. He’d taken a few
courses in college when he was a freshman studying to be a sports trainer, and I was the happy recipient of many a foot and calf rub, particularly when I was carrying our child and could barely feel my legs and feet from the pressure of the pregnancy. Dr. Jordan (what I started calling him when he switched his major to premed) even prescribed yoga therapy for me to help stretch my limbs and make me feel more comfortable and relaxed in the final days before I gave birth. It worked. Not that it didn’t still hurt like hell, but my labor was only three hours, and it took only ten minutes of pushing to bring our son into this world—unheard of for a first-time mom—and my OB-GYN assured me that it was due in large part to my exercise and massage regimen.
“I’ll make a deal with you: you make me some of those delicious banana pancakes of yours, and I’ll give you a massage you’ll never forget.”
And, yes, I worked him out like a… what did Amaya say? A porn star. But even though our tryst on the living room floor at my place was exceptional, what happened after our hot and heavy session was by far the more interesting part of the evening—well, morning. After we’d finished making love, Sean, like the gentleman he is, got up and got a sista a cool drink, a pillow, and a blanket so that we could cuddle on the couch while Donny Hathaway’s voice filled the room. And we just got to talking about Corey and what we wanted for him, and how hard it must be for him to live with his daddy in one place and him in another and how lucky we had it growing up with both our parents in the house and how we were going to work really hard to give him as normal a life as possible. “Wouldn’t it be something, though, if he could have a mom and dad in the same house, though?” I’d said after we grew silent, each of us lost in our thoughts of our son.
“I guess,” Sean said quietly. “But there’d have to be a solid foundation, with a lot of love and very little conflict for it to work. Who’s to say that could happen with us?”
The Vow Page 16