She said, “You better get your phone out and post a dozen pictures of us.”
I took my phone out, checked to see if Esmerelda had hit me up, saw nothing, then did what Rachel Redman told me to do. Posted a few pics of us on my Facebook and Twitter. Did that to prove to her that I wasn’t ashamed to be with her, that there was no other woman. She needed to feel secure, be in control too. She needed to own and wanted to be owned in the name of love. I was married five years and my ex-wife had barely taken pictures with me, so this was new.
Rachel said, “I’m tagging you in all my pictures. Retweet and share.”
“Thought you didn’t share.”
“Don’t piss me off. You are still in the doghouse.”
“I don’t have a lot of online friends. And only a few people follow me.”
“I’ll up your status. Let them know you’re with your bae having a ball.”
I took her to Rock’N Fish. She switched to Facebook Live and narrated her birthday evening from the door to the table. She had over one hundred thousand sheep following her, but followed only four or five people. She was a front-runner, not a hanger-on. From the door, the joint smelled delicious and my stomach rumbled, despite having had salmon not that long ago.
It was the Hollywood, late-night, shallow, trying-to-get-laid crowd, turning it up. We squeezed by people who were on their phones, looking at a report on Jamie Foxx and Katie Holmes, not surprised that the brother had been shazaming that MILF for the last five years or so. But most were talking about the Kevin Hart scandal, cheating on his wife and getting extorted.
Hollywood was all about gossip. Gossip, food, drugs, and hot sex with strangers. Twenty years ago, this was the type of place I was at every Friday and Saturday night until the lights came on. A few of the younger guys and dolls were probably the grown-up children of a couple of women I banged when I was a teenager. This was the type of place where Margaux would probably hang out, very few black people.
My hand ached from where I had hit Margaux’s pit bull in his stupid face. That fuckboy was lucky he was able to leave there on his own two feet and not unconscious on a stretcher.
The eatery was packed. Accents, foreign languages everywhere. Hot women checked out Rachel Redman’s dramatic dress. We were in the judgment zone. Some gave her a look asking her to sneak away from me. After hours, in Hollywood, women loved women more than they did men. Men looked at her ass too long. I didn’t say anything. If I fought men for admiring her, for lusting, I’d be fighting until the end of days. It wasn’t about their reaction to her, but about her reaction to them. She was focused on me. I regarded Rachel’s sassy body language to see if this spot was okay for an impromptu birthday dinner, or if she wanted to go get another Uber and go somewhere fancier. San Bernardino had paid us well. I could take her to a calmer spot in Beverly Hills. She took selfies, smiled so hard I thought her cheeks were going to explode.
Like Julia Roberts, Eva Mendes, and Issa Rae, Rachel Redman had a Hollywood smile that lit up the room and charged the universe. Men judged women by their smiles. Smiles made women desirable, likable, attainable. But asking a woman to smile was the one thing that made a woman want to frown. Women judged me by how they perceived Rachel Redman. Awesome, sculpted bod on an overjoyed woman. I was confident, well built, an alpha male with a strong heterosexual vibe that made Rachel Redman act girly in my presence. Rachel Redman had the appearance of being well fed, well loved, and well fucked. Women wanted what Rachel Redman had. Made some want to take it. My neighbor had seen me with Rachel Redman many times.
We had drinks and prawns, crab and artichoke dip, followed by raw mini scallops served in the pretty pink half shells with ponzu sauce, seaweed, sesame seeds, and fish roe, then juicy Kapalua rib eye steaks. We ate, laughed, danced. Soon she was two Baileys, two shots deep.
A guy with a mouth painted in firecracker-red lipstick came over. Hair long and blond, expansive and expensive wig parted on the side, cascading down his back. He was dressed in tight red pants, Timberlands, and a cream blouse folded at the elbows. Some men would stare at his ass, get aroused, then get mad when he turned and they saw his Adam’s apple; he was that kind of guy. In Leimert Park, if she was walking away or standing at the mall, with my programming, I looked at ass first, no thought. In other parts of LA, when I was in certain areas, I looked at face and neck before I checked to see if baby had back. I’d been duped more than once over the years.
Blondie hurried to my girl. “Excuse me, but aren’t you the amazing Rachel Redman?”
“You recognize me?”
“Are you mad? That face. You are real beauty. You are fire. Beautiful. Articulate. Intelligent. Graceful. Powerful. I have liked all your pictures on Instagram. I’m spooked to actually meet you. I knew that was you. I knew it. You are killing that dress. You are a chocolate soufflé. Damn. Be glad I’m not straight like the sides of a square. But you could change my religion.”
“Oh, I think I like you. You are my new temporary best friend.”
“You are radiant. I can see the god in you. And you have a body like Amara La Negra and an ass like Erica Ash. Embrace that shit.”
“Girl, you’re going to make me cry. Okay, you can be my permanent best friend.”
As his butterfly lashes blinked under his severely arched brows, his glittery red lips curved upward, exposed a super-white gap-toothed smile. “Gorgeous, ain’t today your born day?”
“You remembered my birthday?”
“Facebook reminded me.”
“I love your brows. My first time seeing braided eyebrows up close.”
“When is your next show? I follow you and love reading about you singing in Japan and London and Switzerland. And I loved the pictures you posted in Lagos, Abuja, Accra, and Uganda. You always looking good. Girl, you know I want to be like you when I grow up.”
“Trying to get a new agent. They booked me to sing the national anthem at a Rams game, but after that performance, you know, I think I’m about to make a few changes in my life. Cat who books shows in London heard my music, saw my YouTube page, and wants to meet me. We talked. He said it’s time for me to move to the Big Smoke and share my talents with the people living in the London fog. He’s right. I need a big change right now. And London can be the new start.”
“You going over there with gorgeous Estelle, sexy Adele, and fine-ass Corinne Bailey Rae? And don’t get me started on Craig David and that Nigerian producer Lemar Obika.”
“Did backup or some work for most of them. Lot of talent is over there.”
“Listen, are they paying you to sing the anthem?”
“Same they paid Jennifer Hudson.”
“Girl, please.”
“It’s all about the exposure.”
“So, you’re kneeling or not kneeling?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“There is no Switzerland in this situation.”
“I have options.”
“Rocking a black glove and raising a black fist like Tommie Smith and John Carlos?”
“You will have to wait and see how I decide to flow. This scares me. I don’t want to be involved. And I don’t want to mess up the song.”
“What if a gun-carrying lunatic is in the crowd? They love making hashtags.”
“Never thought about someone getting that crazy. But they do flip out.”
“Think twice about singing that anthem. I mean, with all that’s going on, it could end your career. Unless you have that Kaepernick money and you’re banked up, I’d think twice. That fine-ass man can’t get a job and you’ll get stuck singing hooks on trap songs. You know how they do.”
“Yeah. Easy to attack a black woman.”
“You know they love going after black women. They went after Janet over a nipple that a white man exposed. His hand made it happen and she was blamed. He showed the titty and walked awa
y unscathed. I will never say that motherfucker’s name again as long as I live. How did Janet get blamed for what he did? The randy white boy exposed the power of the black titty and the nipple owner took the L. The takeaway? Whatever we do is wrong. No matter how we do it, wrong. And if they do it, if they shoot us in the back or hang us in a cell, we still wrong.”
“You are so right.”
“Everything they do is right. Even the names we give our kids is wrong, unless it’s the same made-up names they give their kids. If we don’t use the names they like . . . job application deleted. Ain’t that some mess? So, yeah, whatever we do is wrong. When you dislike someone, they can do nothing right in your eyes. Even when they are wrong, we catch the blame.”
“You are definitely giving me food for thought. Don’t want to get shot over a song.”
“Can’t kneel. Ha. All the black groups are saying is stop killing us and we want to be equal. And white extremists who consider themselves the only Americans say, nah. You better have your paper stacked before you go down on a knee, and you’re in the unemployment line if you stand. No matter what you do, prepare to be dragged across social media like you’re chained to the back of a pickup speeding down a dark road in Jasper, Texas. You know how they do it.”
“I’m so glad you put those words of wisdom in my ear.”
“Miss Isaiah, when I’m not dressed up like this. That’s my real name.”
“I’m so glad I met you, Miss Isaiah. You are amazing.”
“OMG. I’m having a conversation with the famous Rachel Redman.”
“Not famous yet.”
“You’re famous to me.”
“What’s your name tonight with your crew?”
“Tonight I’m Beyoncé Celeste.”
“That name is dope.”
“My girlfriends are Beyoncé Georgette and Beyoncé Simone. There are four more of us around here somewhere. We even have a Beyincé and a Beyoutcé. We had another Beyuponcé, but she was tripping so we put her ass Beyoutcé. Anyway, my princess, we are the Beyoncés.”
“You don’t say?”
“Oh, we cé.” She moved her hand from side to side like the dancers in the “Single Ladies” video. “We cé day and night and whenever they play the queen’s music. Honey, if we’re at the mall and Bey comes on, we take over like a flash mob. Good thing they don’t play Bey at church.”
“I always wanted to kick it with Bey on my birthday.”
“We can make that dream come true. Honey, we have light Bey, dark Bey, faux Bey, real Bey, rich Bey, poor Bey, and ugly Bey, but I’m the Bey of all Beys, and I’m your Bey tonight.”
Rachel Redman laughed so hard her eyes watered.
The ecstatic fan asked, “Are you rocking Fenty Beauty too?”
“Hashtag, support Rihanna.”
“Bish, you know those are the rules.”
“You see the other white people makeup brands are suddenly trying to fake being woke and pro-black, posting all of their brown-girl products on Instagram? They ain’t never done no shit like that ever. Rihanna comes to save us and now all of a sudden you notice black girls exist?”
They laughed like best friends. My opinion didn’t matter. Never would among women. I knew to never make a comment about a woman’s hair, clothing, or makeup unless she asked my opinion, and even then, my opinion would be however she felt about it.
A Jhené Aiko number came on and they yelled, broke out singing that hell wasn’t a place, hell was other people, as they danced like misunderstood strippers. Rachel Redman was not to be outdone by anyone. Birthday girl let loose like never before, her voice angelic and soothing, the kind that made you fall in love. She turned it up, showed she was bad like Syd, SZA, Daniel Caesar, Sy Smith, dvsn, and Brent Faiyaz. The world applauded her singing. Rachel was a vibe, passionate, sensitive, an R&B woman with an R&B soul, a bad girl gone good, an angel with the voice of a wife, made to be a queen, and she wasn’t a sister made for silly simpletons. While they had everyone looking our way, coming our way, dancing our way, I moved away, left the spotlight. I had a bad feeling. Was looking around to see if I was being watched, and not in a friendly way. My instincts said a storm was coming. My instincts were rarely wrong.
While they put on a show, I called Jake Ellis. “Let that woman breathe.”
“We just got out the shower. Drying off. I have a minute. Whassup?”
“I saw some suspicious white boys in the area. Five or six.”
“Mormons.”
“They’re not down our way when it gets close to dark. We’re still their sundown town.”
“What are you thinking? Margaux?”
“Not Margaux. Garrett was pissed.”
“You know good and well he’s not going to send none of his relatives this way. That yahoo doesn’t want a war. He’s a fake. Boston better stick to singing that John Lennon song and abusing women.”
“Calm down, bro. Chale, I don’t want my favorite boga to have a stroke.”
He laughed. Chale meant “friend.” Boga was a Ghanaian living abroad.
“Bruv, I haven’t been called a boga since I was back home in Ghana.”
I was going to tell him about Rachel and the Russian, Rachel and London, but his lover got up under him—heard her say something soft and provocative in French, spoke so whoever he was talking to would know he was with a woman. He made a sound, the kind a man made when a woman took him in her mouth. He took a breath, then said, “Bruv, let me call you back later.”
I let him go. Had called to make sure he wasn’t on the road after my daughter.
Rachel Redman moved through the crowd, came back to me, not dancing, not smiling.
“What bitch are you calling and talking to behind my back on my birthday?”
“Jake Ellis. San Bernardino business.”
She looked at my phone. “Code?”
I told her while I pulled her closer, cupped her butt, squeezed, and pressed my finger into the crack. She wasn’t having it and pushed my hand away, eyes green, on a mission.
She said, “Stop trying to Ben Affleck me.”
“You like it when I do it.”
“You really need to change your code to my birthday. Month, year, and day.”
“Should I?”
“The code to mine is your birth month, day, and year, so, yeah.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“You never try and creep my phone?”
“No. Why would I violate your privacy and do that?”
“That’s what people do. You’re weird.”
“Childish.”
“You’re still weird.”
“Sometimes you find out too much, and then it’s impossible to have a relationship.”
“Sometimes you don’t know enough and you end up living a lie.”
“Touché.”
“You know momma don’t play.”
She turned my phone on, verified what I’d said, and her smile returned.
She asked, “You hurt someone?”
“Not today.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Not lying. Just had a sit-down dinner in Pasadena.”
“How much they owe?”
“About two hundred thousand.”
“People get killed for one hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and fifty cents less than that.”
“I thought the lowest rate was for the price of cheese on a Big Mac.”
“You’re getting too old for that life, Ken Swift.”
“You’re too old to wear a dress that tight.”
“With this body and breasts like this? As hard as I work out? Never.”
“Men are looking at you like it’s dick o’clock.”
“Women look at me like it’s clit thirty.”
“Yeah. You have secrets.”
She poked her tongue out at me and crossed her eyes, then laughed at herself.
After a few more social media fans came and went and a dozen selfies were posted, we hit the bar. Baileys, beers, shots. Rachel Redman could drink. Said that was the Eskimo in her blood. She sang as we stood at the bar, danced, then put her arms round my neck. I held her booty like it was a life preserver. She loved that public display of affection. Birthday girl kissed me over and over. Old-school music jammed. Total sang “Kissing You,” and we slow-danced, grinded on each other like we were the only people in the room, and French-kissed and hummed the whole song. Rachel Redman was a fun drunk. A hot, sexy, dancing, singing, fun drunk.
But what I had just heard had left me disturbed, and I couldn’t let it rest.
I asked, “When were you going to tell me about moving to London?”
“You mad?”
“Depends on what you say next. When was this decided?”
“I decided that this morning. I woke up alone, crying, feeling depressed. That’s why I went to the gym so early. I was at the gym by four in the morning. You weren’t in my bed. All those strangers were messaging me and sending me gifs, and all I wanted was one message from you. I wanted to wake up to you, then hoped you’d wake up and come to me, take me to breakfast.”
“Sounds like you want to push restart on everything.”
She moved her braids from her face in a sexy motion. “I need a new start.”
“You’re singing the national anthem at a Rams game?”
“I think when they play Seattle. But my agent is working to get me on the books.”
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 17