“Shit, I told him what I know, which is nothing. Lyric was always angry at Ava, but she couldn’t have killed her. That little girl may be a misguided nutcase, but a killer she is not. And, Harmony? Oh, please. That girl is so soft she wouldn’t kill a fly buzzing around her head. Murray’s ass is too old. So I’m all out of suspects myself. It is curious, though. Like what you just said, I had to ask the detective why it took so long after her death for the medical examiner to rule it a homicide. I mean, shit, we buried her and had time to spare before this revelation surfaced,” Melody said.
“Right. And what did Mister Fine Dimple detective say to that?” Gary asked cheekily.
“He said something about the type of poison used not being easily identified by the toxicology test. He mentioned that it’s found in the body’s soft tissue and the samples taken during autopsy hadn’t shown the poison until further tests were run,” she replied. She sighed and closed her eyes again. “I just feel overwhelmed. Ava’s dead. Tour postponed indefinitely. Up and down with my sisters. One minute I can get along with them, the next minute they both hate me. They don’t appreciate anything I try to do for them. Always hell-bent on punishing me for Ava’s mistakes. And let’s not forget a certain piece of baggage that I inadvertently picked up while I was feeling like a mental basket case,” Melody lamented, picking at her gel fingernails.
“Well, I tried to prevent that one,” Gary reminded her. He had tried to keep Ron away from Melody. Gary had been fiercely protective after hearing about Ron’s violent outburst against Melody, but Melody had insisted on dealing with Ron against Gary’s advice.
“Everything is spiraling out of control, Gary,” Melody complained. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this seven years of bad luck shit.” She yawned and put her forearm over her eyes.
“Listen, honey,” Gary said, with his signature effeminate wave, “more money, more problems, okay? I know you were upset they put you through this, but, hey, it’s better than having them rush into a packed concert waving a warrant for your arrest. You know those fuckboy NYPD cops will do it. Those charges won’t stick when your team of attorneys get through stomping all over that shit. Now, where are those charge papers? Because I’m sure the lawsuit is next. I’ll get right on taking care of this bullshit. There will be a PR god that will come down and turn all of this into a million-dollar moneymaker for you. You just leave it all up to me, as usual. I gets the job done,” he said boastfully.
Without opening her eyes, Melody pointed to her oversized Louis Vuitton tote bag. That’s why she loved Gary. Anything and anyone who got in Melody’s way, he would do whatever needed to be done to clear the path. With an emphasis on whatever.
Gary sauntered over and retrieved copies of all the paperwork the police had provided to Melody. She heard him flipping through the pages.
“Mm, hmm. So this heffa still went to the police even after I paid her private doctor bills, paid for plastic surgery to cover the scar, and gave her enough money to ride off into the sunset for the rest of her miserable hood-trash life? You know, some people just don’t learn. She ain’t no different than Ava. Look how much you paid Ava every single month, yet she still threatened you with going public with that story about a certain high-powered senator-turned-president and a certain disappearing baby,” Gary fussed, shaking his head.
Melody squeezed her eyes tighter. She hated even thinking about the affair she’d had with a United States senator and the fact that she’d gotten pregnant by him right before said senator became president. She had quickly taken care of her little “problem.” The affair ended with both of them promising never to see each other again.
It had been particularly painful to go to campaign fundraising events with Sly and watch her then lover proudly display his beautiful, regal wife. He’d even requested that Melody sing the National Anthem during his inauguration. She had wanted to tell him hell no but turning down a president’s personal request would have been a career killer for her. During the entire ceremony, she’d felt the president staring at her, but she never met his gaze. The affair was over, and life had to go on for both of them.
It was one of those secrets that she had buried deep . . . until she’d fallen out with her mother and the blackmail had started. Melody regretted the day that she’d had a moment of weakness and turned to Ava for advice about the senator. She never thought her own mother would later use that information against her. Melody had learned the hard way, more than once, that money could drive people to do some terrible things, even to their own family.
“I just hate a greedy-ass bitch. There’s a special place in hell for all of them, if you ask me. If I could wipe them all off of the face of the earth, I sure would. Especially to protect you.” Gary winked and brought Melody another drink.
Melody opened her eyes and sat up a little bit.
“I agree. Thank God for BFFs that deal with all of the greedy bitches in your life for you,” she joked, taking the drink.
“For sure,” Gary agreed. He was definitely a lifesaver. Melody sent him to do all of the things she didn’t want to deal with, including delivering Ava’s stipend every month. Gary had been the one who told Melody that Ava was intending to blackmail her.
He turned around and saw Melody looking at him. “What’s the matter? You don’t look so good. Lie back down, chile,” he instructed, patting her on the hand.
Melody stared at him for a long minute before she acquiesced.
“I . . . I just need rest. I’m exhausted,” she replied, easing herself back down on the pillows. She stared up at the ceiling and felt like her entire world was falling apart before her eyes.
Detective Simpson’s voice played in her head. Whoever poisoned your mother had to have regular, ongoing contact with her. This wasn’t done overnight. It took some time and planning.
Chapter 8
Lyric
The beat from Drake’s “Hotline Bling” resounded through Milk River, a Brooklyn hot spot. Lyric felt the music course through her body, but even the catchy beat was not enough to cheer her up. It was her friend Bethany’s idea to hit up the club, hoping to take Lyric’s mind off of Rebel. Maybe they would even cop a few Percocet and Xanax pills, Bethany had told her. With little extra prodding, Lyric decided to go along with the party plan. She had nothing to look forward to anyway.
Bethany was a spoiled child and wealthy heiress to a hotel magnate and television executive. In other words, a trust fund baby who never had to work and spent most of her time partying and getting high. She had been a lifesaver to Lyric after she had found Kim and Rebel’s two-timing asses in bed together. Bethany had let Lyric crash at her loft in Manhattan’s meat packing district and even rolled a fat doobie for Lyric when she got there. Bethany was rich, but she was good people when it came to helping a friend in need.
Bethany also encouraged Lyric to get fancy and find a replacement for Rebel. Put on a hot dress and go get somebody and show that bastard you’re over him. Three ecstasy pills and a blunt later, Lyric listened to her friend and let her hair loose . . . literally. The long side of Lyric’s hair fell to the left with a few curls dancing around her jawline. She dressed in a black, form-fitting bandage dress that accentuated her hips, a pair of Bethany’s designer pumps that she could hardly walk in, and a full face of makeup, complete with false eyelashes. Bethany’s doing and certainly not Lyric’s norm. She would’ve preferred her usual grungy jeans, leather motorcycle jacket, and steel-toed boots.
Bethany wore something similar—the obligatory tight freak’um dress, a pair of Red Bottom pumps. Her blond hair was piled high on her head in a purposely messy top bun. They’d definitely commanded attention when they walked into the club together, arms linked. Ebony and ivory, Bethany had joked. They were beautiful contrasts to each other.
Sitting at the bar, Lyric watched the partygoers sway their bodies and move their hips and feet to the music. In a club full of humanity, she felt entirely alone. That, it seemed, was the story of her li
fe.
Lyric pretended to belong, but deep inside, she just wanted to be holed up in a dark room getting stoned . . . alone. Lyric nursed a snifter of Hennessey, her favorite drink. She watched as Bethany jumped to the music and whirled around on the dance floor. Bethany had endless energy, the life of every party. She also had no shame. She hitched her dress up a few times and twerked like she was working for dollars. Lyric laughed and shook her head. At least her friend was amusing.
Lyric’s eyes wandered to the velvet ropes that separated the regular club goers from the VIPs. She remembered a time when she received all of that special treatment and attention. She watched the female club hostess trail into VIP with $1,000-plus bottles of liquor adorned by sparklers and place the bottles on the table in front of a very good-looking man who was surrounded by throngs of women and a bunch of security personnel. Obviously, the man was someone important.
From where Lyric sat, she could see that he had a headful of close-cropped jet-black hair. He wore a full, neatly trimmed beard. Around his neck hung thick gold, Cuban Link chains. Typical, but still sexy. The old Lyric would’ve gotten a few more drinks in her and boldly walked over to him. The new Lyric just watched from afar, left to wonder about the gorgeous mystery man.
“Are you going to dance or what?” Bethany screamed in Lyric’s ear. Lyric whipped her head around. She hadn’t even noticed that her friend had danced her way back to the bar.
“Uh-oh. Wait a minute . . . Somebody is caught up,” Bethany said into Lyric’s ear over the music. She followed Lyric’s trancelike gaze over to the VIP section.
“Not me,” Lyric replied, waving Bethany off.
“Oh, yes, you! You didn’t even see me standing here talking to you. That’s how mesmerized you were,” Bethany teased. “It didn’t take that long for you to get over that loser, Rebel, now, did it?” She nudged Lyric in the ribs.
Lyric’s cheeks flamed over. She rolled her eyes and took the last gulp of her Hennessey. Bethany was observant and aggravatingly persistent.
“Oh, please. You know damn well I’m not ready to be looking at no-damn-body. You’re wrong. I was just bored and started watching the little show over there. That’s all,” Lyric shrugged.
Bethany laughed. “Mighty defensive. I know that look anywhere. So, do you want to know who that is?” She wiggled her eyebrows. Lyric rolled her eyes and smiled coyly.
“I’m not saying that I’m interested, but sure, who the hell is he?” she asked, jerking her chin in his direction.
“I knew it. I knew your ass was attracted to that cutie over there,” Bethany screamed.
“Shhhh!” Lyric hushed her friend, glancing around to make sure no one had heard Bethany’s big mouth.
“Girl, that is Khalil Aziz. He’s one of the young Saudi princes. Which means oil money. I’m talking, he has the kind of money he can burn. He loves to come to spots like this and hang out with hip-hop artists. He even made a few rap songs and dabbles in the industry. He pays big-name rappers big stacks to be on his records just for the notoriety. He damn sure don’t need the money. I’m sure you heard like four or five of his popular mix tapes. Your sister’s man, Sly, was on a couple. People say Khalil would give up being a prince to be a rapper full time, but the royal family won’t have it. I guess he’s fascinated with the lifestyle,” Bethany filled her in.
Lyric listened intently, though she tried hard not to react to the information. Now she remembered why he seemed familiar to her. Rebel talked about him often and even pointed to him once while they were in a club uptown and said Khalil was a wannabe that threw his money around to be liked. Rebel personally hated Khalil and often referred to him as an “insecure punk.” She recalled mention of some beef over a record that went sour. Either way, dude sounded like he was way out of her league.
“And one more thing. Khalil is known to always have the best dope in town. I’m talking about that primo, overseas, high-you’ll-never-forget, shit. See, whenever he arrives back in New York on his private plane, those customs boys at the airport aren’t even allowed to search him or his shit. So outside of the rumors that he carries over $200,000 in cash at any given time, he’s also known around town to be the free dealer. Like he just gives the shit away with no cares about a price. Shit, I’d fuck him for a taste of that good dope alone,” Bethany said, licking her lips.
“Yeah, okay. Shit, rapper or prince or king—either way, he’s out of my league,” Lyric said dismissively. She turned her back on her friend, who was distracted by an old friend passing by and ordered another drink. It was turning out to be a long night.
“I was just going to ask if I could buy you a drink,” a man appeared at Lyric’s side, his left hand falling to her lower back.
“Get your hand off of me,” she hissed, twisting away.
Lyric noted a slight accent in his English. Her scowl softened a bit before she looked over her shoulder. Maybe he was unfamiliar with the customs of this country.
“I usually don’t approach women in clubs. But my boss sent me over,” the stranger said, jerking his head toward the VIP area. “He thinks you’re beautiful. He says you’ve been staring at him all night. But he also says he is impressed that you did not come over and force yourself on him like the rest of the women here. He would like to meet you, if you please,” the man bowed slightly at the waist, his hand over his heart.
A flash of shame and embarrassment lit Lyric’s cheeks aflame.
Oh my God! How embarrassing that he caught me watching him like some bar wench stalker.
Her eyes darted back over to the VIP lounge, where Khalil sat smiling like a harem king surrounded by his concubines. Lyric quickly averted her eyes. Her stomach fluttered.
“Thanks. But tell your boss, I’m good. I don’t accept invitations from strangers,” she said flatly.
“Maybe if he came himself, instead of having his royal servant do his bidding, I could respect his offer. No offense,” she quickly added.
Suddenly Bethany wedged her way between Lyric and the emissary.
“Um . . . excuse me. Hi, I’m Bethany,” she intruded, rudely jutting her hand in the man’s face. He took a few steps back, clearly taken aback by her blond girl bravado.
When the man refused to shake her hand, she quickly retracted it. “Shit, I forgot you guys have rules about all of this. Anyway, don’t mind my friend, here. She’s just having a bit of a rough time tonight. You know, a lot on her mind,” Bethany chuckled, tapping her finger against her temples, as if to get her point across. It was difficult to tell how much the man understood. “In fact, she was just telling me how handsome she thought Prince Khalil was,” Bethany said, nudging Lyric from behind. “Remember you just asked me, ‘Who is that fine dude?’” she said in mock desperation.
Lyric rolled her eyes at Bethany, shaking her head in silent protest.
“And how much you’d just like to meet him. For no other reason than to get a glimpse of his royal gorgeousness up close,” Bethany finished, cutting her eye at her friend.
When Lyric didn’t respond, Bethany continued. “She’s just a little shy,” Bethany explained, playfully patting the man on the shoulder.
The man turned his attention back to Lyric.
“Prince Aziz would like nothing more than to have the company of you and your friend. No strings attached,” he said. “I can’t go back over there and tell him you refused. He is a man of great pride, and he does not like hearing the word ‘no’—this is unacceptable.”
Lyric sighed. Between Bethany anxiously bouncing on her legs like a child begging for a toy and the messenger’s wary look, she finally relented.
“One drink with the royal entourage, Bethany. That’s it,” Lyric cautioned. “Bad enough there’s a million bitches in there fighting for his attention. That shit is so gauche.”
“One drink. I promise,” Bethany said cheerfully. In a bold move, she hooked her arm through the flunky’s and off they went to VIP.
“Thirsty as hell,” Lyric mutte
red behind her friend. She was a handful to be sure.
Lyric felt all eyes on her when she walked behind the velvet ropes. She quickly took a seat where she could see and hear Khalil’s raucous party. Khalil’s man had told them to sit and wait, as if they needed an appointment to see the prince.
Women surrounded the prince as he tossed handfuls of one hundred-dollar bills in the air, laughing as they scrambled on their knees like hungry dogs looking for scraps on the floor.
“Oh, see. This shit is not for me. I would have to be high as hell to stay up in here,” Lyric leaned in and whispered into Bethany’s ear. Were all men, regardless of race and religion, dogs? It appeared so.
“That’s just showing off. You know all of these rappers and rich entertainers act like that. Look at how Mayweather acts when he goes out. I heard he’s the nicest fucking guy behind closed doors. Don’t judge him before you know him,” Bethany advised.
“You, I want you,” Khalil slurred, pointing to a Hispanic chick with a thick ass and tiny waist.
“Ass implants,” Bethany mumbled.
“Definitely,” Lyric agreed.
They both watched intently as Silicone Ass rushed over and put her bottom in Khalil’s face. One of his side men dumped a small hill of cocaine on the balloon cheeks. He bent down and snorted it all up in one inhale. Khalil threw his head back and laughed. Then he slapped the girl’s ass so hard she squealed and nearly fell flat on her face.
“Get her out of here now!” he yelled. Two more of his side men rushed over and dragged the girl out of sight.
“These bitches ain’t loyal!” he yelled. Then he picked up one of the most expensive bottles of liquor sold in the club—the gold bottle of Ace of Spades—and took it to the head. Loud laughter followed.
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