by Kiki Swinson
“You’re my fucking problem,” she snapped, hopping up too. “You don’t know me, so don’t act like you do.”
Eli’s lips curled. “Did I hit a nerve?”
With lightning-fast reflexes, Blake sent her hand flying across his stonelike face.
He didn’t flinch.
Blake struggled like hell not to howl from the pain exploding in her hand.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, smiling.
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “And what about you? I don’t see a ring on your finger. Is this babysitting job pulling you from a little lady back home? Or maybe I should ask how many baby mamas you got running around the projects?”
“Why? You want a baby by me?” His lips kicked up a couple of notches while he stepped closer. “Something like that could be arranged.”
The moment he invaded her personal space, she scrambled backward.
At her frightened look, Eli’s laughter rumbled throughout the house. “Calm down, baby girl. You talk a good game, but it’s clear that you can’t handle a real nigga.”
She wanted to tell him that she could handle anything he tossed her way, but common sense told her that she needed to be careful calling his bluff. Instead, she raised her chin and tossed out, “I’m not your baby girl.”
Eli stretched out his large hand and cupped her right cheek.
Blake flinched but held her ground.
“No. Not yet.”
What the hell does that mean? She waited for her brain to squeeze out another smart-ass remark, but instead only static sizzled between her ears. “I’m going to get dressed before I end up throwing up that greasy omelet you made.”
He laughed as she backed away. “Running scared?”
“Keep dreaming.” She marched away with her heart hammering in her ears.
Eli kept laughing while he watched those thick hips of hers sashay away. He didn’t know why he got such a kick out of fucking with her head, but he did.
As much shit as she talked, she couldn’t handle what she dished out.
Eli returned to the living room and checked out the morning local news to see whether there was any mention of last night’s shooting.
Nothing.
Honestly, he didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. An hour later, he glanced at his watch. Two hours later, he glanced up at the ceiling. How long does it take for her to get ready? Unfolding himself out of the leather sofa, he headed over to the staircase and marched up. “Yo, Blake. What time you tryna make it in?”
No answer.
Eli reached her bedroom door and, remembering her outburst last night, politely knocked. “Blake?”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“What? You’re not talking to me now?”
No answer.
“All right. All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your little feelings.” He exhaled and rolled his eyes. “But didn’t your mama ever tell you not to dish it out if you can’t take it?” He chuckled at putting in his last jab.
When there was still no response, he expelled another long breath and knocked again. “Blake? Don’t you think this silent treatment is childish?”
No answer.
He tried the door.
Locked.
“C’mon. You gotta be shitting me,” he said, feeling his patience draw near an end. “Blake, open the door.” He waited and told himself to count to ten. He reached three before he started hammering and banging on it. “Enough with the fucking games,” Eli snapped. “Open the door.”
No answer.
Alarm bells fired off in his head. “Goddamn it!” Eli rammed his shoulder into the door. The hinges gave way like they were made out of plastic, but what shocked him more was finding Blake’s bedroom empty. “Fuck!”
9
“Fuck that muthafucka,” Blake hissed under her breath as she peeked over at the side view mirror of her candy-apple-red Aston Martin DB9. That arrogant ass had another thing coming if he thought she was just going to lie down and let him and her shady-ass daddy hijack her life.
Fine. Her life is in danger. Now that she knew the 411 and the type of characters she was dealing with, she would handle it.
“A security company?” a stunned Perri echoed back over the phone. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is cool. Just get ahold of that company we hired for Ahmed last year when he went out on tour. They did a good job.”
“Are you kidding? Those guys were a part of Ahmed’s crew when he ran with the Crips back in the day. Ahmed was hit with twenty-odd lawsuits during that tour. They broke more arms and rib cages than we could keep count.”
“But they did their jobs, right?”
Perri paused. “Are you sure that everything is all right?”
“Fine. Everything is fine. Just find a number and get me in contact with those guys. Call Ahmed if you have to.”
“All right. I’m all over it.”
Blake disconnected the call and zipped over to the Paramount lot to put out a bush fire between one of her clients, Wendell Faison, and A-list director Thomas Dash. The hardest part of her job was dealing with actors and their overinflated egos. And Wendell Faison’s ego was growing out of control.
“Where is he?” Blake asked one of Wendell’s flunkies as she hopped out of the car.
“He’s in his trailer,” the short man said, scrambling to keep up. “The director is over there, too, threatening to fire Wendell if he doesn’t come out.”
“And?”
He shrugged his pencil-thin shoulders. “He ain’t feelin’ it.”
Actors. She rolled her eyes. “After all the shit I went through to get him on this picture, he’s bringing his ass out.”
“Good luck,” he said.
“Luck ain’t got shit to do with it.” Her Prada heels stabbed the concrete as she quickened her pace. Sure enough, the director and a team of men were crowded outside the door.
“Blake, thank God you’re here!” Dash tossed up his hands. “Your boy is costing me a fortune.”
“I’m on it,” she promised, rushing up to the door and hammering away.
Dash complained, “If it were up to me, I would’ve fired his ass a long time ago, but the studio won’t let me. They’re actin’ like his name is Denzel Washington or some shit. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.”
“I know. I know.” Blake attacked the door again. “Wendell, open up!”
Dash leaned over and hissed, “I don’t know what kind of bullshit you pulled to get this two-bit actor on this project, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you sink my career along with it.”
“It’s not going to come down to that,” she snapped.
“You’re damn right it’s not. I still got a name in this town, and if I get fucked on this, you better believe I’m going to return the favor.”
Their eyes locked at the clear threat, but unlike her hardheaded client, she knew better than to piss off a four-time Oscar director—not without some kind of insurance policy. “Give me five minutes.”
After another round of silent eye combat, Dash bobbed his head and stormed away. His team followed behind him, leaving her and Wendell’s flunky to share an oh, fuck look. Drawing a deep breath, Blake turned toward the trailer door and pounded that mutherfucka like the damn police. “Wendell, open this goddamn door before I torch the muthafucka with you in it!”
At the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door, she eased up.
“Are you alone?” Wendell asked.
Is this negro high? Blake glanced at her watch. Shit. It’s not even nine o’clock yet. “It’s just me and—”
“Gerald,” his short flunky answered.
The moment the lock disengaged, she threw open the door and stormed into a thick marijuana haze. “Have you lost your damn mind?” She shoved him back from the door.
“Ow,” he whined like a bitch as he stumbled backward.
She was not in the mood. “Do you have any idea
what the fuck I went through to get your ass on this picture? Now you’re holed up in this fuckin’ trailer costing the studio more money than you’ve ever seen in your damn lifetime actin’ like some scared bitch.”
“I know. I know.” He twisted up his face and tugged on his robe.
“You fuckin’ know—so what’s the problem?” She jabbed her hands onto her hips as a way to prevent them from flying across his jaw.
“I . . . don’t know if I can do this. Kissing on niggas and shit.” He shook his head. “What if muthafuckas start thinking my ass is really gay and I get typecast?”
“Please tell me that you’re fuckin’ with me.” Blake twisted around. Was Ashton Kutcher about to pop out and say that her ass is being punked? She glanced around to check for cameras.
Wendell picked up a blunt from an ashtray and toked on it before answering, “Nah. I wouldn’t joke about no shit like this.” He blew out a long, steady stream of smoke while his eyes drifted low. “Look, I already got a bunch of niggas from my old crew clownin’ about my ass being in some black Broke-back Mountain shit. How am I supposed to hold my head up after that shit?”
“Let’s get some shit straight.” She marched over and snatched the blunt out of his hand. “It’s called acting for a reason. You came to me moaning and groaning about how your last agent couldn’t even get you an audition for this picture. So now that I’ve pulled some strings and put you on without an audition, you want to pull a big fuck you on me and blow my shit up. Do I have that right?”
“Nah. It’s nothing like that,” he weaseled.
“Yes, muthafucka, it is.” Blake got up in his face. “You’re fuckin’ with my rep now, and I can’t have that shit. You wanted into the big leagues. I got you in. Now quit your bitchin’ and get your ass out on that set. You’re going to kiss, fuck, or do whoever or whatever the hell Dash wants you to.”
Wendell opened his mouth, and Blake slapped her hand over it before he said word one. “If you so much as think about fuckin’ this shit up, I’ll hire someone to shove a hamster up your ass and then drop you off in front of a string of paparazzi at Cedars-Sinai. You feel me?”
Wendell’s eyes bugged.
“Don’t. Test. Me,” she warned, smashing the blunt out on his chest.
Wendell winced, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Good. I’m glad that we understand each other.” Blake straightened up and hand-ironed her black trousers and crop blouse. “You have two minutes.” She turned and stalked toward the door. “Don’t make me come back on this set,” she said, and bolted out. Ungrateful muthafucka.
Blake spent the rest of her morning putting out fires all over town. She didn’t mind so much since it made her feel like she was back in control of her life. It didn’t stop her from checking the rearview for Eli’s fine ass every two seconds. Skipping out on him this morning didn’t mean that she had seen the last of him—nothing about him said that he was the kind of brothah to give up easily.
I can still go to the police.
“And tell them what?” she argued with herself. That story Eli laid on her last night sounded dubious at best. All she had were street names of characters who lived in another state. No. She was going to handle this shit herself. Blake placed another call to the office.
“B. Scott Management,” Perri answered.
“Did you call Ahmed?” she asked.
“I, uh, just hung up with him.”
“And?”
“Bad news. Apparently the man who was head of his security last year was killed a couple of months ago. Ahmed said it was all over the news.”
Blake rolled her eyes. “Great. Just great.”
“Would you like for me to find, er, a more legit security firm?”
“I don’t know,” she hedged. If she was dealing with street thugs, shouldn’t she get people who knew the game? Instantly, her mind skipped to Eli again. Not only did the brothah take down niggas like the Terminator, but he also looked damn fine doing it.
“Ms. Scott?” Perri chirped.
“I’ll call you back.” Blake disconnected the line and swore under her breath.
Riiiing. Riiiing.
She glanced down at her cell’s caller ID.
UNKNOWN.
Eli.
She didn’t know how she knew. She just had a sneaking suspicion that it was him ready to cuss her ass out. Her fingers itched to accept the call. If she did, she would be giving up control—and she wasn’t ready to accept her father’s henchman into her life indefinitely.
Blake shook her head and allowed the call to go to voice mail. If she had to, she’d check into Hotel Bel-Air and hide out until this whole thing blew over.
Over the next few hours, she submerged herself back into her work. Wheeling and dealing with studio top dogs ate away the day. By the time night descended, she’d almost forgotten about her gangster problem.
“I want that video,” Ajet Austin stressed from across the dinner table.
“That’s not possible.” Blake took the last bite of her salad. Had she known that he was going to spend the whole meeting begging her for the tape, she would’ve canceled.
“This is unacceptable,” he said, mopping the sweat from his forehead. “I’ve already kept my end of the bargain. I’ve put six of your clients in top film productions. How much longer are you going to hold that video over my head?”
“It’s called insurance,” she reminded him.
Ajet slammed his fist onto the table, causing the dinnerware to jump.
“And that’s my cue,” she told him, dabbing the corners of her mouth. However, when Blake went to stand up, Ajet’s hand struck out like a snake and latched around her wrist. “Wait! Don’t go.”
She glanced down at his grip and waited for him to remove it.
“Please,” he added, and then slowly released her.
Holding her temper in check, Blake shifted her gaze back to him. She couldn’t help but get off on the way he squirmed in his seat. She remembered when she first got into the business and applied for a position at his studio. The jerk-off had taken one look at her and gotten up and locked his office door. Muthafucka thought that every bitch was desperate enough to suck his pasty-ass, needle-thin cock in order to get through the door.
He thought wrong. Now look at his cryin’ ass.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re going to play this game until I get good and tired,” Blake informed him, and watched as a rainbow of color rushed across his face. She knew if she was just dealing with Ajet and his greedy Hollywood ambitions, he would have told her to kiss his ass a long time ago, but Ajet’s older brother had political aspirations. Some people even speculated that he had what it took to make it all the way to the White House. All of that would be shot to hell if he had a brother who loved snorting smack off ten-dollar hoes.
“C’mon. Smile,” she told him. “This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”
More sweat beaded across Ajet’s forehead while his left eye twitched.
“I don’t like this shit,” he grumbled.
“Too damn bad.” She glanced at her watch again. “You got this? I got somewhere else I got to be.”
“But we’re not finished talking.”
Rolling her eyes, she reached into her clutch and then tossed down a stack of twenties. “I hate to eat and run, but we’ve covered everything.” She turned and, again, Ajet grabbed her hand.
“I’m not finished talking to you, goddammit!”
Every head in the restaurant turned toward them.
Somehow she managed to keep her smile intact while she calmly told Ajet, “Unhand me.”
Sweating like a pig, he lowered his voice. “I need guarantees. That . . . that as long as I play ball, no one—absolutely no one—will ever see that shit.”
“I’ve already given you my word.”
“Your word?” He laughed.
“Take it or leave it.”
“And what if something happens to you?”
“N-nothing,” he stammered. “I’m just asking. Is there a law against me asking a question now?”
Blake held her tongue while her mind raced with a new possibility. How desperate was this man to get his hands on that video? “Let’s just say that you better hope that nothing ever happens to me or that lil recording will go viral faster than you nuttin’ on that crackhead’s titties.”
Ajet’s jaw tightened into a hard line.
She flung his hand off of her as the puzzles inside her head clicked together. “Fucking asshole.” Blake stormed out of the restaurant before she did something that was going to land her behind bars. Blazing out the front doors, she now had no doubt in her mind that last night’s attempt on her life had nothing to do with her father’s bullshit and everything to do with her own.
If it hadn’t been for Eli, the shit probably would’ve worked too. Fuck. That meant that she really was indebted to her father.
She was so preoccupied rearranging the puzzle pieces inside her head that she didn’t hear Ajet come up from behind her to swing his big-ass arm around her neck.
After the initial shock, she used one hand to try and break his hold and shoved the other hand into her purse for her piece—but it was gone. Eli never gave her weapon back.
“Fuck you and your damn word,” Ajet hissed, tightening his grip.
Plan B.
Blake used both arms to try and break his grip while simultaneously jumping up and bringing her sharp heels down onto his toes.
“Awwww!”
Despite Ajet’s howl of pain, his hold remained locked across her neck. Her lungs burned inside her chest while the pressure inside her head built. Any second now she was going to fuckin’ pass out, and God only knew what that asshole’s plans were after that.
No. I can’t die out here like this.
She kept scraping at his arm, getting nowhere. When darkness crept around her peripheral, a familiar baritone rumbled from somewhere out of the night.
“Let her go.”
Ajet and Blake froze until Eli’s voice returned, even more menacing. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”