by Love Belvin
Patience’s expression turned crestfallen. That I could read. I was satisfied.
Checkmate.
After a few moments of silence I stood.
“I agreed to Jackson’s request of not wearing your hospitality thin. He understands you’re a busy pair. Patience, your home is lovely.” I gave a demure nod before addressing Dale. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. You have an inviting aura. It’s a relief to know your humility matches the size of your celebrity.” I smiled.
That could have been used as a jab or compliment. In this case, it was the latter.
Jackson was right behind me in preparing to leave. If I learned anything during this event, it was that he could follow and still maintain a position of authority.
“Damn!” Dale exclaimed. “I thought we were just getting warmed up.” He chuckled. “Are there any other observations you’re willing to share before I render my decision?”
I knew that was a rhetorical question, but I took the bait while slipping into my jacket.
“Yeah.” I pulled my collar out, adjusting it around my neck. “When you perform a track like “Licker”, smiling isn’t necessary at any point in execution. I’m sure that’s not what one does while being…licked.” I was sure to end that with a bright smile that eclipsed the salacious tone of that advice.
And then I started out to the door.
Jackson’s going to cuss my ass out.
“Are you going home?” Jackson asked while giving attention to his laptop, similar to what he did on our way to Patience’s home. “I have to check into something in Harlem, then head back to the office. I can have the driver take you home on my way there.”
Did I do something wrong back there?
He hadn’t said anything since we left, beyond agreeing to Dale giving us an answer in two days. I did what I had to do. I did what needed to be done. Patience and Dale painted the picture of solidarity back there. If that was the only language they spoke, we had to reply using the same jargon.
Another inconvenient fact loose in my mind was how Jackson never addressed my running out after going down on him. Every time I recalled that night, I cringed in embarrassment. It was plain ole humiliating. What woman my age enthusiastically gives a man head and then shamefully flees him after his release. I hadn’t quite figured it out myself up until this point and was grateful for Jackson’s ignoring the confrontation as well.
“Are you upset with the way that I handled things tonight?” My tone bit a little. It was self-defensive.
His head ascended from his lap. “And why would I be upset?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know…maybe because my aggression caught you off guard?”
“Elle, I’m anything but an insecure man. I have no problem with you doing your job. If it’s a pat on the back you need, then fine: great job back there. You did well.” His lingering gaze pierced me.
I turned my head to cut the unfamiliar transmission. It made me uncomfortable.
“I actually had planned on going back to the office to check out a few modeling agencies for Erika’s line,” I replied to his original question. “You don’t have to go out of your way. I can tag along, unless that is a problem.”
He still regarded his laptop.
“No problem. I just have to check on some business. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Business?” I checked my wrist for the time. It was after ten at night. “Is it something for Marie?”
What else could it be for Dynamic Branding?
Jackson chuckled, his eyes meeting mine again—finally—and muttered, “The firm isn’t my only business.”
“So, you have another job?”
I couldn’t help the shriek in my tone. Maybe this would pinpoint his whereabouts on Sundays that Candice brought to my attention.
Jackson licked his lips, contemplatively, as he trained his eyes straight ahead.
“They say each millionaire has an average of seven jobs.”
“Are you a millionaire?” spun from my mouth before I could think of etiquette.
It took a few beats, but Jackson replied, “Is this your tradeoff question?” Then his eyes rolled over to mine.
Ughhhh! Why did I agree to that stupid game at his house in Long Island a few days ago?
I shrugged my treaty. He returned it with composure.
“Not yet on my own merits, but I’m almost there.” He cleared his throat. “My father died a few years ago.” I know. “And when he did, I became extremely…wealthy overnight.”
“Sounds like a good father.”
“Sounds like a provisional father,” he corrected before informing the driver of an address for our destination.
What did that mean? I didn’t want to ask; didn’t want it to cost me another inquiry in the game we were playing. The game that would be my undoing if I continued to probe into Jackson’s life. We pulled up to what was obviously a club on Lennox. I caught the Q’s Karaoke Joint on the small yet alerting marquee.
“We’re here,” Jackson informed before leaving the car and helping me out.
From the moment we hit the sidewalk, Jackson’s presence took on a new demeanor. A man of average height, a mohawk and cinnamon skin approached us, handing Jackson a clipboard with a stack of papers.
Right away, Jackson accepted them and asked, “Is he here? Everything set up for him?”
“Yes, sir. His crew arrived about five minutes ago. Mr. Phillinganes asked for a tour. Camille was showing them around, last I saw.”
Jackson nodded and paced with speed. I found myself making effort in my strides to keep up. On the way inside, at least a half a dozen people greeted Jackson, mostly with great reverence and wide eyes.
“Marge,” Jackson called out… to whom, I didn’t know.
“Yes, boss?” A woman with a deep tenor answered.
Without paying a glance to the voice, he ordered, “My guest will have a lemon drop…more sour than sweet.”
He didn’t even ask if I wanted a drink, much less what I wanted. He remembered my drink of choice. But what was most revealing was that this club belonged to Jackson.
“Coming up! Sparkling water for you, boss?” Marge the bartender asked.
“I’m good.”
“All right,” she piped out.
The place was dark with strobe lights placed all around. There was mild music playing, certainly not at the level you’d hear at a club in business. And this was indeed a club. There was a long bar mildly lit with hidden bulbs along the underside. The tables varied in size, but were covered with candles and standing mini menus similar to the booths. We walked until we neared the stage. It was small yet nicely positioned in the room, giving a feel of intimacy. Now that I was at the top of the room and it was virtually empty, I could gauge the full size. It wasn’t monstrous, but how many clubs in the city were?
“Why is the grand not placed? It was delivered first thing this morning!” Jackson barked.
“Sir, Camille asked that we wait until after tonight to set it where it belongs.” A short man wearing a logy paperboy hat, matching his posture explained. “You know, just in case you didn’t like it and decided to return it.”
Processing the tiny man’s words, Jackson nodded solemnly. “Where is he?”
Just as he asked, I heard a round of choreographed hits to a set of drums. Then I saw a small group of people nearing us. There was one woman and about five men with her. She looked to be in her sixties but exuding grace and style. She wore a sheer ivory blouse, gold sequin high-waist pants and heels. Very festive, but well-coordinated. Her makeup was heavy yet fierce. This woman was definitely in touch with her inner diva. When one of the men’s eyes caught Jackson’s, he smiled broadly in recognition.
“Jax!” he called out fondly.
“Brad!” Jackson returned the warm familiarity. “It’s always a pleasure.”
The two embraced. And I heard someone behind me alert me of my drink that I took and sipped immediately.
Perfection…
/> “You know it’s nothing, man.” He used his neck to gesture around him. “This is quite impressive, man. Q would be really proud.” There was undeniable authenticity in his tone.
“Well, I’m trying to place one foot in front of the other, man. That’s what he taught me.” Jackson humbly returned. “I know you’re busy, G, so I won’t keep you. Have you seen her yet?” He strode over to the grand piano.
“Only by glance. Let me see what you got going over here,” Greg muttered excitedly before following Jackson.
It was when I caught his profile that I realized he resembled Wesley Snipes, just more graceful. I followed the gentleman, curious about what was going to take place. Greg took a seat on the bench and adjusted the proximity to the piano and tapped the keys creating a melodic rhythm, but only for a few seconds. Then he cued the drummer and together, they played a few riffs.
“It’s new…fresh. It hasn’t been broken in yet. You’ll need someone who knows what they’re doing to string her right,” Greg advised.
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” I asked before gulping more of my cocktail. Jackson regarded me dubiously. “To interview Greg, here?”
“Pardon me?” The woman who ushered the group of men over, and whose name, I assumed was Camille, howled.
My neck jerked and eyes widened at that. Jackson let off a soft and quiet snort, perceptibly amused by my question. Going along with the obvious lost girl role, I threw back the last of my martini and smiled mildly, mostly with my eyes. Jackson paused for a few beats, still humored, eyeing me with a special regard that intensified the heat striking my belly from the alcohol.
Calmly, he called over to the tiny man and asked that he bring another lemon drop on the sour side. Then he turned back to me.
“My apologies. I’ve been so anxious to get my crony’s expertise that I’ve lost my manners along the way.” Crony? Jackson, this man is old enough to be your father! He had to be over fifty. “Elle, please meet piano aficionado, Greg Phillinganes.” He turned to his crony. “Greg, Elle is an associate at J.G. Wizer and Hunter. She hasn’t made the association yet.”
“Aficionado?” I asked, stumped. “You teach…study music?”
“Teach…you could say. Greg is a world renowned producer, song-writer, composer and recording artist.”
“Blah!” Greg dismissed with a wave his hand, humbly. “I’m not world renowned, clearly.” He chuckled, as did his friends behind him and Jackson. But Camille didn’t crack a smile.
“Well, your work is. Everyone knows something you’ve lent your genius to, even uninformed Elle, here.”
“Oh?” Greg seemed intrigued. “You sing? I thought I heard the scratch in your vocals.”
I never said that.
“It’d be nice to show Jackson what this baby can do against vocals,” Greg suggested and played another riff.
Another drink was being handed to me before I could decline. Picking up my discomfit, Jackson snickered again. So, he does more than scowl like his pit-bull, Camille over here? Locking eyes with her made me take a swig at my drink.
“Why don’t we try “Fairy Tales”?” Jackson muttered seductively, but with sinister as he rested his lean body against a cylinder pole there near the stage. It was awfully sexy the way he folded his arms at his chest, preparing for a show. He was incredibly stimulating, to my dismay. “I happen to know Elle is quite familiar with that piece of yours.”
Hang on! Who said Elle could sing?
But I could. And I quickly decided if Jackson wanted to put me on the spot, I would play his game and embarrass the hell out of him.
Greg started tapping at the keys and it took me a moment to realize he was leading into the familiar tune. As I recognized the melody, I set my drink down on a nearby cocktail table. When it was my cue to start, Greg gestured to me with his head. I began reciting the lyrics without thought. It was a bit uncomfortable at first. I hadn’t sung in front of a crowd since… Gosh, I had no idea. But singing was an old talent I used to manipulate people. It was a sport for me. I’d considered this over the years. I was good at altering my image to suit myself…and others when it benefitted me. So, it was easy to reflect on my story. And this song was definitely my story, which made it easy to recite. It was organic.
I’d always been the pretty preacher’s kid who could sing. Often times when my promiscuous ways reared, it was always brought up. ‘You’re such a pretty girl with a beautiful voice. Your daddy’s a pastor. Why do you mess around like that?’ I hated it. Hated the expectations, the disappointments, the title.
When I sang, it was to evoke a reaction out of people. Whether it was in church singing about Zion for people’s deliverance or in a small nightclub, after hours, doling out notes to seduce an intriguing man old enough to be my father, I knew how to milk the intended attention.
As I belted out the melodic story of failed marital expectations, I thought about my mother’s excited response to my announcement of marrying Henry. I was dismayed, felt a level of disappointment I could no longer run from and decided to take head on. There was sheer hope in her eyes when she told me it would work with Henry, who was a kid. We were both young, equally courageous in our pursuit of consequences. She told me it would all work out. She was sure. She wanted a big dainty wedding, but I managed something small. And so it was, I was married to a stranger that couldn’t handle the responsibility any more than I could. It all meant one thing for me: No more reckless living. I had to stow my antics. Grow up.
When I got to the bridge and sang about pies in the sky, I found my eyes on Jackson. His were already stapled to me. Enraptured. He didn’t know about my vocal abilities. Or my past. He only knew what I gave him, which was very little. Why acquaint him with the demons this song brought back to memory? I didn’t believe in fairy tales. I only knew reality. I understood that there were people who were genetically damaged in the womb. Some of these people, like me, were destined to be alone. They were too strong willed. Their power was too potent and could destroy all around them if wielded. I didn’t want to be that person to Jackson. He was young, promising. There was nothing I could offer him but physical stimulation, as far as his personal life went.
Yet, here I was, in his club, singing my heart out. Caroling with rare public emotion.
When it came time for the piano solo, Greg stole the show. Immediately, I recognized the chords he played and the way he adlibbed over the usual arpeggios. I knew nothing about instruments, but had my fair share of lovers who were musicians that I’d serenaded for fun. By the hunch of his shoulders and the manic movements of his lips, I could tell he’d poured his soul into his craft. I could only hope for that level of dedication to anything.
Greg’s conclusion was met with a round of applause. His impromptu performance was that riveting. He offered the small crowd of about eight a humble bow. I noticed Jackson didn’t offer his applause. Perhaps it was because he’d been aware of Greg’s skills, hence him being there that night. Or maybe because, per usual, he was turning over something in his ever-churning mind. Either way, it was the end of our time at Q’s Karaoke Joint.
“That’s it for me, man. I promised Elle I’d only be a few minutes, and here I have her performing.” Jackson’s eyes raked over to me sans a smile, though I could hear a few chuckles from the other side of the piano.
“Okay, Jax. Glad I could stop by. Maybe we can do breakfast before I head out of town tomorrow,” Greg rose to give Jackson some manly dap.
“Let’s make it happen,” the younger man agreed.
Minutes later, we were in the back of the Town Car and I was going through the emails on my phone, content with the silence Jackson clearly preferred. It had been a long day for the both of us. Together. We’d met a stalemate. It was weird. We’d agreed on being discrete lovers, but neither was prepared to lower guards to coast into a traditional affair. If he wanted to call it off, I’d be fine. I’d just revealed a part of my life to him that I preferred to keep private. I had no idea
why it was so damn easy to slip up with Jackson.
Yeah. It’ll be best if we pump the breaks on said affair.
“Fairy tales.” I heard him note casually from across the car. “So, you sing?”
Jackson’s head was still buried into his iPad.
I was a little thrown when I croaked, “I entertain…when so inclined.”
Then our eyes met. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
Unable to remove my eyes from him, they adored his warm toffee skin, ember eyes and neatly stubbled face. He alternated between the two and I couldn’t decide which suited him best.
“Are you cashing in your question?” I found myself uttering.
He rolled his lips together, contemplatively. He then lowered his chin, seductively. “Sure.”
Crippled by disappointment of his acquiescing, I gave a soft nod and rolling of the eyes. I reclined in my seat on a sigh.
“I grew up a church girl, Jackson. I got plenty of practice coming up. And on top of that, I’m a P.K., securing me more microphone time during services.”
His head cocked to the side, expressing incredulity. “You’re a preacher’s kid?”
“Can’t choose your parents,” I hummed, bored with the conversation already.
“Do you still sing in church?”
A sharp chortle escaped the back of my throat. I clapped my mouth in correction of the blurt.
“I don’t go anymore. I figured I’d retire from the shame I brought on the house of God. I think He agreed.”
Jackson sat back, his eyes pinned to mine. “So, you were a brat?” he fished.
“Among other stereotypical ‘P.K.’ characteristics.” Although I held his gaze, for the first time in my life I was not as bold as I presented, disclosing my loose ways.
He arched a brow. “As in?”
“As in the all.”
If it wasn’t clear before, it was made clear with that absolute admission. But Jackson didn’t react. He didn’t flinch or blink. His eyes remained impassive. I didn’t know what that meant, but was ready to move past my messy childhood. Eventually his eyes went back to his screen. I chewed my lips, considering the next move.