“Who do you think you are, making Caressa cry and feel worthless,” he demanded.
“What are you talking about, Daddy? Caressa is my girl. I would never do anything to make her cry.”
“Well, you did. She came back to the hotel and asked me to get her a ticket back to Los Angeles. Caressa said you’d changed and weren’t her best friend anymore. Maddy, I told you before we did that American Star show, the moment I saw a change in you I was going to stop it. I won’t have you treating friends like servants and you know my sister and I didn’t raise you that way.”
Madison regretted her behavior immediately. “What did she say?”
Before Derrick could answer, his phone rang. He looked at it and then clicked it on and said, “Hello, Shanice.” Madison looked at her dad with concern. She knew Shanice was not going to take the demise of her relationship with her father lightly.
“Now is not a good time.”
Thinking her presence might limit the conversation, Madison started to leave the room. She also hoped to avoid the tongue-lashing she knew she was in for.
“Madison, don’t leave this room. Shanice, I have to go. I will try and call you later,” he said and clicked off his phone.
“We’re not done yet, young lady.”
“Why are you mad at me, Daddy?”
“I’m not mad at you, Madison, but you know what you did. Don’t play dumb with me. You’re acting like a pint-size diva. For all we know the Disney executives could come in here tomorrow and kick our butts out on the street. Remember, what goes around comes around.”
“They’re not going to do that, Daddy,” Madison said as she stood. “Besides, I think it’s Caressa who’s being the drama queen. I just asked her to do what we’re paying her for. What’s wrong with that?”
Derrick takes a seat on the arm of the sofa. “Madison, who do you think you’re talking to? I love you but I know you. Some of those traits you were sadly born with, but I’m not having it. You need to get yourself together and get back to the hotel and apologize to Caressa. I never thought it was a good idea to hire her as your personal assistant. If she is your friend then that’s the way it should remain. If you want her to share in your success, you give it to her without strings. Hire someone you don’t know who’s cut out to be a personal assistant rather than a family member or friend. Why do you think I didn’t want to be your manager or agent? I’m your daddy and that’s all I want to ever be. Do I make myself clear, young lady?”
Madison looks down at the hardwood floor and tries to conjure up her best hurt look, hoping her daddy will feel sorry for her. Sometimes it works and then there are times when it doesn’t. She didn’t mean to hurt Caressa’s feelings but was trying to establish who the boss was.
“I didn’t hear you,” her father said.
“Okay, Daddy, I will go and apologize. But I think you’re right. Maybe I need to get an assistant who’s not so easy to upset. Maybe I do need someone I don’t know.”
“I agree. But you need to let Caressa know why you’re making a change. And if she is your friend, and I do believe she is, then you guys will find a way to keep it that way.”
Madison runs to her daddy and jumps into his arms, hugging his neck and kissing him on his plump cheeks as she says, “I love you, Daddy, and I promise I’ll never be a diva, because I was raised right. I’ll make you proud.”
“I know you will, Maddy. I know you will,” he whispered tenderly.
CHAPTER
2
I tell you it’s not a good idea,” I said firmly.
“I don’t understand why you’re so against this. Your mother sounds perfect to include on the reality show.”
What did Andrew Hart, one of the investors S. Marcus wanted me to meet, know about my mother?
“Trust me, Ava is not worth the trouble. Let’s think of something else,” I said.
“Most successful reality shows have some kind of eccentric characters and sometimes they become even bigger than the stars,” Andrew said.
That’s precisely what I was afraid of. “We can’t let that happen. This is about me and my comeback,” I protested. I started to pick my purse up and leave the dimly lit bar a couple of blocks from Times Square, but Marcus had told me Andrew is not only a big money guy but is also one of the major players behind the popular reality series Run’s House. If anybody could make the show happen it is Andrew. I pretended to peer inside my purse instead, then snapped it closed.
“Then tell me how you see the show, Yancey.”
“It would just have the cameras following me as I go on auditions, take acting and dance classes.” I could tell from his stony demeanor that he wasn’t thrilled about that idea at all. “Maybe we can get the show to hire me an assistant, and he or she could be a wild and crazy character. Maybe we could get some flamboyant gay guy, maybe a white guy who could do a lot of my errands. Or I could ask my friend Dalton, who’s a fabulous songwriter, to act like he’s my assistant.”
Andrew was unimpressed. “I think that’s already been done. I remember the girl from I Love New York having a gay sidekick and it just didn’t work. Now that I think about it, her mother, Sister Patterson, stole the show and was great for the ratings.”
I could only imagine what Ava would do. She’d hang me from a coat rack if that’s what it took to upstage me. “I don’t want that. Why don’t you like the gay assistant idea? Did I mention that Dalton is gay and he has one of those down-low boyfriends?”
“It doesn’t matter, Yancey, it plays into stereotypes.”
“And the problem with that would be?”
“Been done,” he said as if to end the discussion.
“So has the mother thing.”
“Well, we need to come up with something. I got a meeting with MTV, VH-1 and Bravo in the next couple of weeks, and I want to have a solid plan. What about a younger girl to serve as your assistant?”
That could be trouble all on its own. “Would she be in the business?” I asked.
“I hadn’t thought about that. If she was, it could make it interesting.”
“Could she be fat? And dark.”
“Why?”
This was difficult territory for me, and I didn’t know how to talk about it without sounding, well, difficult. “Because it’s about me, and I can’t run the risk of having some young pretty girl upstaging me. I was once young myself and I know how these so-called actresses will do anything to get a gig.” I took a sip of my cranberry juice with club soda. It is just a little before three and a little too early for a drink. Well, unless you are an alcoholic.
“Do you have any other relatives or old friends besides your mother who you’ve been out of contact with?” Andrew asked. “Reunions are always good for ratings and big hits with sponsors.”
I felt a cold jolt race up my back. “What are you talking about? Have you heard something?” I asked. I know it is impossible for Andrew to know about Madison. Ava is the only one who knows. Still, curiosity got the better of me and I’d gone to visit Madison’s website and even signed up for her fan club. She is a pretty girl, but I’m still not sure how much talent she has.
He was oblivious to the sudden fear gripping my insides. “Have I heard something like what? I was just thinking about Keyshia Cole and how she and her mother reconnected on her reality show. One of the producers from that show is a friend of mine and sent me over several episodes. At first it was like watching a train wreck, but then I really found myself touched by some of the moments between the two of them.”
“I heard about the show but never saw it. I think Keyshia Cole is a great singer but rather low class,” I offered, attempting to make the point that I wanted my show to have class.
Andrew finished the rest of his Coke. “Well, we got a couple of days to think of something. I got a call right before I came over here from Lyfe Jennings, the singer who did some real time in prison. It seems he’s interested in doing a show as well. They want me to be a part of their team.�
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Was he dismissing me? “Please don’t do that. Marcus tells me you’re the best, and if this is going to be successful, then I’ve got to have the best.”
“Then we’ve got to come up with something,” he said pointedly. “And sooner rather than later, Yancey. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you.”
I LIE IN BED beside S. Marcus, the stark white sheets entangling our bodies like satin ribbons. Both our chests are heaving from the marathon sex we just had. I turn my head, and stare at S. Marcus, wet strands of hair clinging to my face as I smile.
That man knows he can lay the hammer down with the best of them. So whenever he calls I’m there. I’d left my meeting fully intending to have Chinese food with Ava and call it a day. But as I looked over the takeout menu, my cell phone rang and it was him telling me he was in town for a meeting. I asked where he was staying, and before he could get “Seasons” after the word “Four,” I was hailing a taxi on the way to his suite.
He turns, looks at me, his face not two inches from mine. “What?” he asks, still slightly short of breath, smiling.
I’m all smiles right back. “It’s not going to work, so stop trying.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“Trying to make me fall in love with you and that thing you do.”
“That’s what’s up?” S. Marcus said, lifting himself up, on top of me, a confident smirk on his face. “I’m not trying to do that anyway.”
“And why is that?” I say, half playful, but the tiniest bit serious at the same time. I really had no clue as to where this relationship was heading.
He lowers himself, gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Because I know you’re already in love.” He laughs as he rises up off me and jumps, naked, out of bed. “And very soon you won’t be able to deny it,” S. Marcus says, not turning around. As he walks to the bathroom, his sculpted, curvaceous ass entrances me so much that I don’t really hear what he said. He stops at the door, turns around, and leans against the bathroom doorway. I try not to look down at his manhood, which is still semi-erect, but I can’t help myself. He notices and says, “Yeah, just what I figured.”
“Boy, take your shower,” I laugh, throwing the pillow across the room at him.
I flop back onto the bed, feeling spent yet rejuvenated, giddy like a teenage school girl. Yet I knew to remain cautious from my years surviving in the romance jungle.
In the bathroom, I hear S. Marcus slide open the glass shower door and turn on the shower.
Not yet, I tell myself. Wait until he’s all the way in, washing his face, has soap in his eyes and can’t come out and bust me.
I count to ten and then spring out of bed. I don’t throw on my panties and bra, because although I know he likes long showers, I won’t take any chance at getting caught.
I go to his slacks first and, unlike most men who just throw them to the floor while getting undressed before sex, S. Marcus folds his neatly, along with his shirt and underwear, and then rolls his socks into a ball before climbing naked into bed.
He is a neat freak, plain and simple. Not just with his clothes, but with everything. His business papers are always stacked neatly. I remember how I didn’t seen the faintest hint of dust on any surface in his house when I first met him. His face seems always clean shaven, his hair always cut crisp and his lining always razor sharp. His manicured fingernails are short and clean and look polished, although a closer inspection reveals they are not. All this had me wondering could he be one of those down-low guys who I’d found myself dating in the past. It didn’t matter how many times you asked the questions “Are you married?” or “Have you ever been with another man?” Some men could lie so easily.
I almost married a man like this once and also dated a man who I later discovered was married. For that reason I am up searching through S. Marcus’s pants pockets, then the dresser drawers and the shelves of the entertainment center, looking for his wallet.
I need to get his Social Security number, and somehow find the funds to do a background check and make sure that he isn’t another John Basil Henderson who—while he was doing those wonderful things he did to me in bed—was thinking about some other man in sexy underwear, and how they would get together later that night.
Minutes later, I still haven’t found his wallet, and realize that he has to be at the end of his shower. I turn in a circle, looking, wondering where he could be hiding it. Then it hits me. I forgot to check the nightstand drawer. That’s where it is. It has to be.
I race back to the bed and nightstand, but before reaching it, I hear the water stop and S. Marcus humming loudly.
“Hey Yancey, how did your meeting go? We got busy so quick last night I forgot to ask you about it,” S. Marcus calls through the bedroom door, making me jump. His voice sounds closer than the shower, like he is standing just on the other side of the door.
“It went well, but I want to talk about it when you got some time,” I yelled back.
Is it worth it? I thought. Should I risk getting caught, just because the man is neat? I’m staring right at the bedroom door, knowing S. Marcus could walk back in at any minute. But then again, I was holding his wallet in my hand. Sifting through its contents would only take a second.
“Would you like to order some room service?” S. Marcus calls out.
“Whatever you like, Marcus,” I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding different. Then I find his Florida driver’s license. I yank it from the wallet, hold it right up to my face, my hand shaking slightly. I don’t see his Social Security number, but I do see his first name Seneca and his birthday, which actually seemed to jump out at me: 8/12/1983. He told me he is in his thirties, so that makes him a liar. Guard up. This man is really just a boy, I thought. How could he be so young and yet so confident? And if I ever considered being truthful about my age, this child could be my son. But I guess I’m getting ready to enroll at Cougar High. But I hadn’t reached cougar status yet, so I’ll leave that to Ava.
I quickly shove the license back into the wallet and drop it into the drawer. I leap back in the bed just as S. Marcus is opening the bathroom door.
He walks over, a snow-white towel wrapped loosely around his narrow, flat waist.
He leans over me again. “You still breathing so hard, baby. You been playing with that pussy while I was in the shower?”
“Why I need to do that?” I said, playfully pulling him on top of me. “I got the real thing.”
“Yeah, you do,” he said. “And you can have it anytime you want it.”
CHAPTER
3
Ava stood in the kitchen, about to pour herself a cold glass of white wine, even though she knew drinking alcohol was against her parole. But she needed a drink after dealing with that damn probation officer of hers. He had threatened her that she would go back to jail if she didn’t get a job. He had even suggested she work at McDonald’s. Who did he think she was?
Ava tilted the bottle, about to pour the golden liquid into her glass, when she heard a knock at the door. She set the bottle down, wondering who would show up unannounced.
She asks, “Who is it?”
There is no answer.
Ava steps closer to the door, wraps her hand around the knob, and peeks out of the peephole. A black woman was standing out there, but her back was turned to the door.
“I said, who is it?”
The woman turns around, and Ava sees a distorted, fun-house image of a young woman the color of a brown crayon. “What’s happening, Ava?” she called out.
Just when Ava thought her day couldn’t get any worse, it was about to. It was Lyrical, and Ava had no choice but to open the door.
“Bitch, I thought I wasn’t ever gonna catch up with your ass.” The tall and slender African-American young woman slid into the foyer. “Shit, this is a motherfuckin’ nice-ass neighborhood and house.”
After a few moments a speechless Ava regained her composure.
“Lyrical,
what the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“I figured you’d forgotten about our little motherfuckin’ deal. Did you lose a bitch’s number?”
Lyrical Chante Sanders was a twenty-two-year-old from Harlem who had befriended Ava while in prison. While Ava looked to Lyrical as a friend, Lyrical saw Ava in a strange way as the mother she had never had, being raised by her grandmother. She had been let out on early release, about six months before Ava.
Lyrical was tall for a girl, and she was dressed in jeans, with men’s boxers and a wife beater. Lyrical struck fear in most of the inmates, which Ava recognized during the first week, and a friendship was born. She was serving time for transporting drugs, which Lyrical said she had done without her knowledge for a no-good boyfriend who only visited Lyrical a couple of times while she was in the joint.
Ava owed her a debt. Lyrical made sure nobody messed with Madame Ava, as the other prisoners called her, and in return Ava promised to help Lyrical with her music career and change her decidedly masculine style. She had a cute shape, a perfect size four, Ava guessed. She is wearing a ratty denim jacket and dirty cloth tennis shoes. Her hair, which is shoulder length and black, and could’ve looked nice with some more attention, is parted on the side. It is broken off on the ends, and looks like Lyrical used her fingers to rake through it instead of a comb.
“I didn’t lose your number, girl,” Ava lied while giving her former friend a half hug. “I was going to look you up when I got settled.”
“Yeah,” Lyrical deadpanned, not believing Ava for a second, “I figured as much. That’s why I followed you home. I thought we might report to the same probation office, and I just asked a couple of those bitches up there if you were reporting and they said yes. It didn’t take long to get one of those bitches to sing and tell me what day you report to your parole officer, so I just hung around and it was like, bam, there you were. I just followed you home. Pretty smart for a dumb bitch like myself, huh, Ava?”
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