“That bitch is head-to-toe fake, she even got fake body parts. We’re nothing alike, Derek. That shit don’t make sense. How can you want her and want me?”
“Because I don’t want you anymore, not in that way.”
Jamie unbuttoned her blouse. “I’m thirsty.”
“I don’t have anything for you to drink here, J. I told you, don’t get comfortable.”
“You can give Ritz a daughter but I can’t get some water?!” Jamie yelled.
Derek huffed and puffed and finally went into the kitchen. He had an ice-cold bottle of FIJI in the fridge, but she was not getting that. Derek fumbled in the cabinet for a clean glass. He found one and filled it with warm tap water.
When he reentered the front room, Jamie was waiting for him—naked.
“You know you miss this pussy,” she purred.
“Put your clothes back on and get out, J. For real!”
She put her hands on her hips. Derek’s dick got hard without his permission and it angered him.
“Put your clothes on,” he said firmly. “And go home!”
“I don’t think you remember us. Fuck me first. And if you can leave me after that, then you don’t have to worry about me no more.”
Derek threw the warm water in her face. “Get your clothes on and get out!”
“You wet my hair? How could you?!”
Jamie started to cry. She cried so hard that her body convulsed. She plopped back on the couch and retrieved her clothes between long bouts of sniveling. Derek preferred a pissed-off Jamie storming out, not a brokenhearted Jamie prolonging a painful exit. He left the front room and returned with a towel. He blotted her hair, and her face, smearing her makeup.
“It ain’t you, for real,” he said. “It’s a lot of shit goin’ on with me, girl. I’m sorry.”
“I just can’t believe you dumped me for her, Derek,” Jamie bawled. “Do you know that now she has taken everything from me? Even you.”
Jamie pulled up her jeans to her knees. Then she stood up to wiggle and slide them over her ass. She put on her shoes. Derek couldn’t resist looking at her round, brown ass. She was petite, but power-stacked.
At that moment, Jamie had sexy down to a science—topless, tight jeans, and heels. If Jamie were a different type of girl, she’d make a good living as a video vixen. Jamie was such a cute girl to him; and that was the problem, he wanted a woman. He wanted Ritz.
Derek situated himself on the couch to conceal the telltale erection.
She spied it anyway. “How could you just sit there with a rock-hard dick and not even touch me? Am I ugly to you or something?”
“Never, J!”
Jamie fastened her bra and grabbed her blouse. “Then tell me. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what, exactly?”
“Tell me why you chose her over me.”
“I was just being a dog, just doing what a dog does when he’s tempted,” he lied. “I wasn’t choosing her over you, I was just choosing. I didn’t think about what would happen next. I didn’t think about hurting you, I really didn’t expect you to ever find out. I thought that because she was crossing you, too, that we had an honor among thieves that she’d be too ashamed to ever tell on herself.”
“And you ran up in her without a rubber, Derek?”
He just sat there shaking his head. “I fucked up, real bad. I only hit her one time, and the rubber broke on me. I don’t know if that baby was mine or not. She never let me see the baby, and the next thing I know, she said the baby died. What kind of bullshit is that? I think she was lying all along.”
Jamie nodded in agreement. “She probably was.”
Derek placed his arm around Jamie. “Look, I have some business I need to take care of, and I’ll be gone for a minute. When I’m back, we’ll talk. We’ll, you know, do what needs to be done so that you can at least trust me again.”
Jamie gave him that look. “I want some, baby.”
Derek smiled. “I want some, too, as you can tell. But I’ve got to get out of here right quick. You know, business first. And then you will be the first person I call when I come back.”
“Where are you going?”
“The more you don’t know, the better it is for both of us. Trust me. Look, I don’t want Ritz. I’m never hooking up with her again, ever. And I’ll handle you as soon as I get back, okay, J?”
“You promise?”
“My word is bond,” Derek lied again.
He tilted his head to give Jamie a peck on the cheek, and she quickly turned her face to catch his kiss on her lips. She waited longingly for another. But Derek rose from the couch, hinting for her to meet him at the door. Jamie got the hint.
“Stop all that crying, you spoiled brat!” Derek teased as Jamie finally left his apartment.
“Don’t forget to call me, Derek.”
Derek shut the door and bolted it.
Jamie’s bruised ego enhanced the effectiveness of Derek’s performance. In her mind, of course, he only slept with Ritz once. Of course, the rubber broke. Of course, the baby could or could not have been his child.
Of course, he’d call when he returned.
Jamie really liked Derek, and she really hated Ritz. Human nature dictated that Jamie should have been wrecked by the double betrayal. But outside forces were working against an imminent heartbreak.
Jamie, much like many young working women, felt obligated to seize the spotlight (before the competition did). Coupled with the lack of face time in their technology-driven relationships, their tunnel vision for success was secure. Jamie’s ambition shielded her from devastation. A good cry followed by Derek’s good lie was all she needed to move on. The women of Jamie’s generation had learned to date like men.
Besides, ruminating over each relationship betrayal could result in career immobility.
And there was no time for that.
Jamie returned to her parents’ home. That weekend, she got her stuff and herself together and attempted to put all of the unpleasantness, betrayal, and pain behind her as she got ready for her new life.
She would be at her new gig on Monday and she would find a new man. There are plenty of fish in the sea, right? But Jamie also knew she wasn’t interested in any of those fish. She couldn’t stop feeling what she was feeling for Derek.
She would pour herself into her new career. She vowed she would focus on building her wealth. Jamie would have so much money that she would one day buy that station and fire Ritz, she vowed. That crusty bitch will still be there when I make my millions. Ritz Harper would see Jamie again. And when she did, Jamie would be in control. She would have it all!
On Monday, Jamie reported to work. Before she could get situated at her workstation, she was given a pink slip. Jamie’s first day of work was Skid Row Monday, the day the Dow Jones slumped nearly 780 points, marking the biggest single-day point loss in history. Jamie’s new life was not to be. At least not yet. She knew she would have to move back home. And she would need another job.
Jamie called Ruffin.
8
Homicide detective Tom Pelov only trusted two things in this world: his Glock and his gut. And his gut was telling him that something wasn’t right about the Ritz Harper case. Sure, it was closed, and he’d actually delivered the fatal bullet to the supposed killer. But something wasn’t right. It was too neat. It was too perfect. There was more to this case. And Detective Pelov couldn’t let it close.
Consider: Ritz Harper was a shock jock and a force in the music industry; the would-be killer, Jacob Reese (now deceased), was a music industry groupie, an aspiring producer. The music connection bugged Detective Pelov. Had Jacob been a crazed fan, or a murderous stalker, finding him scaling the fence at Ritz’s home would be expected. But the music connection meant that something other than money was in it for him. Perhaps the promise of a record deal? If so, who promised it?
There were other problems: Jacob Reese was the kind of industry wannabe that nobody would have missed. He wa
s expendable, and judging by the way he carried out his murder plot, Jacob was stupid, too. The music connection and Jacob’s lowly status in the industry indicated that Jacob Reese was a hired gun. Killing Jacob before he got to Ritz was one small victory; but Jacob’s employer was fully capable of hiring someone else to finish her off.
The irony, Detective Pelov knew, was that Jacob’s fate was sealed the minute he took the job. Had he been successful in killing Ritz Harper, he would have become a dead man walking. Just three weeks before his retirement, Detective Pelov reopened the case. If his gut was right, Ritz Harper’s would-be killer was still on the prowl. The shock jock had so many enemies, where would he start?
Detective Pelov emptied the contents of the Ritz Harper case file and studied his cast of characters. Next, he carefully read each statement gathered from the lone witness, and from friends and relatives who had gathered at the hospital for Ritz.
The old German/Italian detective grinned. “Holy shit.” He laughed to himself. “Why didn’t I notice this before?”
Detective Pelov tore one statement from the notebook and put a star on it.
“Gotcha!”
Ritz was ecstatic about the pitch meeting and especially excited that Chas actually had the juice to pull it off. She put on her game face for Ruff, anticipating his wrath when she asked for a few days off. Ruff was entitled to vent—Ritz was his star talent, and she had just got back in the swing of things.
Ritz strolled into Ruff’s office and plopped down on his gray leather couch. Ruff was busy sending an e-mail to the Three Suits, a trio of wealthy white boys who had bought the station from the Gogel family. The Three Suits had requested the playlists for the week; they often asked for such mundane things. Asking for playlists, especially when they didn’t know any of the urban songs on the lists, was just their way of exerting control. The hell with that the station was fiscally sound, operating underbudget, and had sky-high ratings; the Three Suits wanted Ruff to answer to them, to send the message that although Abigail Gogel strutted around the station as if she still owned the place, she really didn’t.
Ruff looked up from the e-mail long enough to acknowledge Ritz. She’d interrupted his thoughts, as usual.
“Look, Ruff, I realize that I’m just getting back into my groove, after the baby and all—”
“It’s not in the budget, Ritz,” Ruff said, cutting her off. Whatever Ritz Harper wanted these days got a swift hell-to-the-nawl.
“Ruff, I’m not asking for a Macy’s Day Parade.”
“That’s a first.”
“Look, I want to take a few days off. I need to relax my mind, to do some searching to see what else the Excursion can become.”
Ruff smiled broadly. He didn’t know what her angle was, but getting her out of that studio right before the ratings report hit would be great for Michelle Davis. Ruff tried not to be too supportive of the idea. He didn’t want her to know that he was desperate to cut her loose.
“Well, I do understand that you’ve been through your share of tragedy over the past few months,” he said. “But I don’t know. You have been away a lot over the last few years. I will run it by Abigail and see what she says. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it, though. And what about Chas? Do you want him to stick around the studio, to work with one of your seat-warmers while you’re gone?”
Ritz spun around like Linda Blair…all she needed was a mouthful of pea soup to kick off the Exorcist reenactment.
“No!” she roared. “Chas is going with me. We both need to reevaluate the show.”
Ruff furrowed his brow. Her reaction was definitely out of order. But Ruff knew what Ritz meant, and he didn’t care enough to warn her about the noncompete clause in her contract. He wanted to ship her ass to the competition. Ruff nodded and returned to his e-mail. This time he was sending a note to Michelle Davis: It’s time for you to work behind the mic again! He was smiling.
Ritz stood up, her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me where we’re going and when we’re coming back?” Ritz said, now curious about Ruff’s reaction, which was out of the norm.
Ruff didn’t even look up from the e-mail. “Be safe,” he said halfheartedly.
As Ritz was leaving, Jamie was heading toward Ruff’s office to thank him for the second chance (and the assignment change). Just in time she spotted Ritz leaving and ducked into an open space and waited for the six-foot siren to mosey on by.
“Fucking bitch,” Jamie said under her breath. “Nasty. Ho. Bitch.”
Jamie hated Ritz openly now. And she didn’t care who knew. Ruff had assigned Jamie to Veronica Villagomez’s show, the V Spot, and she was happy. Jamie had no reason to ever speak to Ritz.
Not that Ritz cared. Ritz would’ve thought nothing of speaking to Jamie, and she actually wanted to talk to her nowadays because Derek had vamped. He hadn’t returned any of her calls, and his voice mail had been full for a week. Ritz didn’t think that Derek would double-back to lame-ass Jamie, so she was concerned. And horny.
9
Chas would never acknowledge that outing so-called thug rappers resulted in high ratings, and for obvious reasons. The well-dressed cosmopolitan cutie enjoyed his fair share of down-low lovers, and Ritz’s “Gay Fridays” segments severely limited his dating pool. No matter where her gay gossip came from, the public automatically assumed he was the source.
For this “Gay Friday,” Ritz revisited an oldie but goodie, with even more dirt. Aaron played his intro, a two-snaps-up rendition of Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls”…toot toot, hey, beep beep…as Ritz reeled in her listeners.
“So, how you doin’?” Ritz purred.
The seemingly innocent phrase was the code intro for some tawdry gossip, and her audience knew it.
“Well, I’ve always been up front about who I bring home,” she began. “I guess that gives me the liberty to point out the pillow-biters that want to pretend that they’re not on the team.
“For those tuning in for the first time who may not be up to speed, let me school you on the gay studio thugs. I love the hotness. I love honest gays. And I love closet gays. It’s the studio gay-bashing thugs that I’m outing. There are corporate conversions—these rappers and singers who sleep with recording industry types just to get a deal. But even after they get the deal, they still allow banji boys to tap them in the phatty. But artists, deejays, dancers, roadies, and label CEOs all play the thug role. Some play the role so well that they also have girlfriends and baby’s mamas and they rap about killing down-low jiggas on their albums.
“Which brings me to today’s ‘Gay Friday’ super star…”
Aaron cued up Diana Ross’s hook, “I’m…coming…out…”
Ritz swiveled in her chair. She enjoyed this more than a ride at an amusement park. The Queen had been hinting all week about some explosive gossip that she couldn’t wait to tell her league of loyal listeners. And now it was time to dish the dirt.
“I won’t be too hard because I know Chas digs this guy,” Ritz teased. Even Chas’s ears perked up. What was Ritz about to say?
“Well, here it goes. My sources tell me, and I’ve had three different sleuths to verify this, that Hardcore has been making the phatty-only party rounds.
“You remember Christopher Hardcore Harris, don’t you? The multiplatinum rap artist, self-proclaimed hit man, and protégé of kingpin Tony Montana? Well, it seems Christopher has been working those lips again, and I don’t mean spitting lyrics.”
Aaron blasted one of his favorite sound effects, Ice Cube and Chris Tucker’s “DAMMMMMNNNN…” from the comedy film Friday.
In Los Angeles, Christopher “Hardcore” Harris sat in his sparse mansion, the only remnant of his past riches. Ritz Harper had accused Hardcore of being a gay rapper and effectively ended his stellar career.
Almost immediately, Hardcore planned a comeback; and he would be so hard this time around, no one would ever believe the gay rumors.
Hardcore went underground, reinvented himself, a
nd reemerged as the Dark Beast, a Goth-inspired rap artist.
No label would meet with him, so Hardcore took matters into his own hands. He filmed his own video and released his entire album on the Internet. He was confident that fans would support him.
The first release—which went straight to YouTube—was “Soul Stealin’,” a sinister rap (with a hook from a nursery rhyme) that paid homage to grave robbing:
A tisket a tasket
crack open that nigga’s casket
get the gold tooth out of that nigga’s mouf
he won’t need it
cuz he’s gone down south
The light-complexioned Dark Beast dusted his face with white, translucent Goth powder and encased his eyes in vamp eggplant eye shadow. He donned Victorian, black brocade trousers and high-heeled Goth gentleman’s boots. With his full-length, three-tier coachman’s cape, the Goth transformation was complete.
On the video shoot, Dark Beast was outside a graveyard, during daylight hours. He was so busy posing and lip-synching for the camera, Dark Beast didn’t see the actual interment that was taking place behind him. (That family was now suing him.)
Hardcore anticipated the video to go viral, and it did, after Vibe trashed it: “Hardcore’s ghoulish fake-Goth-star alter ego is the biggest marketing flop in the history of hip-hop.”
Rolling Stone was worse: “Hardcore’s career is dead and buried. Perhaps he should venture into the graveyard to dig that back up.”
The video generated more than a million hits, but less than a hundred downloads of the album.
Not one to give up, Hardcore sent a demo to Goth rocker Marilyn Manson, seeking a rap duet. He was actually considering it. Things were looking up, Hardcore thought.
He was listening to the Ritz Harper Excursion and couldn’t believe that she was outing him again!
Ritz continued, “The DownSouth crew, you know, those Atlanta gay boys, threw a backyard barbecue in a rented cabin. Hardcore was there, and my sources tell me that he disappeared into the back room, where he served it up real good. And the entrepreneur passed out his CDs, too! Hardcore might have thought that his salad-tossin’ tongue tricks were safe, but the party hosts had cameras in every room to broadcast live footage throughout the cabin. The revolving door of DownSouth boys report that Hardcore is very talented, although everyone left their CDs behind.”
Ritz Harper Goes to Hollywood! Page 4