“You get Chas on the phone right now! I am going back on the air tomorrow!” she yelled.
“But, Miss Harper, you don't understand. You were shot,” said Dr. Grevious. “You lost a lot of blood. You almost died. You're still very weak.”
“Muthafucker, I know I was shot! If anyone knows I was shot, it's me! And the only weak thing in this room is standing in front of me telling me what I'm not going to do,” Ritz said. “If you can't do what I ask, I want another doctor. And you better bring a hospital engineer in here, too. I need an ISDN line hooked up immediately. And give me some more painkillers. Now!”
The ISDN line would enable Ritz to have broadcast-quality sound. It would be a direct feed into the studio's equipment. Ritz had an ISDN line hooked up in her home, just in case she needed to do her show from home, which was rare. There were many on-air personalities who frequently did their show from their homes. Rush Limbaugh's home was his studio. Doug Stephens, a syndicated morning talk-show host, had several homes throughout the country from which he broadcast. It was actually rare for him to do a show from the studio. It would seem like a dream for most to be able to roll out of bed or from wherever and for four hours work from the comforts of their home. That was the life. But Ritz chose to go in every day. It made her show feel and sound more authentic.
Besides, she had live guests and she didn't want any of those people knowing where she lived. Ritz's show was unique. It demanded that she be in New York, in the studio, in the mix of everything.
Ritz preferred it that way. She loved the commute in from New Jersey, especially on days when she was driven. She felt like a real celebrity in the tinted Lincoln Town Car or the Navigator that the station paid to have her driven in every day. She loved being on Park Avenue, where the wealthy lived and did their shopping. It was quintessentially everything Ritz had imagined about working in New York— walking into the hi-rise, hi-tech Park Avenue address, decked out in the latest designer gear and frames, looking fabulous. No one could see you if you worked from home. You couldn't be admired or even hated from your home. You couldn't be a star working from your home. Ritz wanted stardom, and that meant coming into the city every day, being seen, and doing her job better than anybody else.
She also loved interacting with the people at WHOT. She wasn't friendly with anyone there. She mostly barked orders or received praise. But the interaction made her feel like somebody. And that was important to Ritz Harper.
“Miss Harper, we have a package for you” was the greeting she got every afternoon when she arrived, always two hours early, for her shift. She loved the packages from some fan or public relations person trying to butter her up to be nice to their client.
“Miss Harper, Eduard Davis just sent you a box of his latest designs!”
Eduard's couture shirt company was called Karma, with the tag “Looking Good Is the Best Revenge.” Ritz loved the Urban Hippie line of Karma, which was ironic because she never quite grasped the concept of karma in her own life.
“Miss Harper, Don Ramos called. He has a necklace that he made for you to wear at the awards program next week.”
Years ago, it was Jakob the Jeweler who was Ritz's jewelry person, but he got too famous and too big. That was before the money-laundering scandal that got him arrested and on the front pages of the local papers. Until that point, everybody who was anybody in entertainment had visited and purchased from Jakob the Jeweler. Ritz dumped him long before the controversy. He became too common. She found Don Ramos— actually, he found her— before she was even big enough to afford the jewels. He saw Ritz's potential. So she gave him a shout-out every chance she got on the air. In exchange, she got thousands of dollars of free diamonds and platinum jewelry— one of the many perks of being Ritz Harper. She loved the perks. She loved being big enough to make other people successful, too.
Being a star was what Ritz Harper lived for. Being in a hospital bed, with tubes sticking out of her, an ugly hospital gown with her ass out, no makeup, no hairpieces or wigs— for crying out loud, it was a bit more than she could take. She had to get back. And she had to get back now.
She pressed the emergency button to call for the nurse.
Her second-shift nurse came running in. She was one of the nice ones. This was the first encounter any of the nursing staff would have with a fully awake, almost full-strength Ritz Harper.
“Yes, Miss Harper?” said Nurse Betty-Jean. “What can I get you?”
“You can start by telling me where my shit is.” Ritz hadn't thought about her personal effects until now.
“Um, you didn't come in with anything— not even ID.”
“What?! Where is my fifteen-thousand-dollar Gucci crocodile bag?! Where is my cell phone? Where is my makeup?!”
“Like I said, Miss Harper, you only came in with the clothes on your back. I'm sorry.”
“You certainly are! How do I get an outside line on this phone?”
“Just dial nine and there will be a dial tone, and dial whatever number you need to. Is there anything else I can get you? Do you need some water or something?”
“I asked that doctor for some more painkillers,” Ritz said. “Do you think you can make that happen?”
“I have to consult with your doctor first. But I'm sure that won't be a problem. I'll be right back.”
Ritz took a deep breath. It hurt to breathe. She must have irritated her lung with all of that yelling. Then everything started to hurt. The pain medication had definitely worn off, and reality hit Ritz. Her head was pounding. Her eye socket was throbbing, too. And there was a rumble of pain in her chest. She grabbed her breast and noticed that it was flat.
“What the fuck?!”
Ritz had not taken inventory of her injuries. It had been less than two weeks since she had come out of the coma. She knew she had been shot. But she had been so caught up in her emotions that she wasn't thinking about her physical state. From seeing her mother, whether it was for real or in a dream, to reuniting with her aunt and knowing that they still had things to work out, to reconciling with the fact that someone actually tried to kill her— Ritz was an emotional wreck. She knew she had to “recover,” but what that entailed, she had no clue.
She pulled back her gown to see the heavy bandages and a drain in her breast area. One of her plump, perfectly implanted breasts was now flat as a pancake. She hadn't looked in the mirror, either. If she had, the sight of her swollen, bandaged face and black eye would have been enough for her to forget about her plans of leaving the hospital. She would not have wanted any photos taken of her in this condition, and there were paparazzi camping out, hoping for an opportunity to snap a shot of Ritz Harper.
“Maybe the doctor is right. Maybe I'm not ready,” she said to herself. Then, just as quickly, she shook the thought out. “I have to come back. That motherfucker who did this to me is not getting away with this. I have to show everyone that I will be back and better than ever. Now, where the fuck is Chas?”
Chas had not been back to the hospital since that first night. Ritz really missed him and was confused by his absence.
“What's all the noise and commotion? You have the nurses' station all in a tizzy. Behave yourself!” said Tracee, as she walked into Ritz's room.
“Hey, lady,” Ritz said. “Where's Chas?”
“I don't know. I haven't seen him for a minute.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since you stood me up at the airport. You know how I hate to wait at the airport!” Tracee said, trying to get Ritz to lighten up.
This was the first time the two friends had actually gotten to talk alone— there was always someone in the room. Tracee kept a low profile. She wanted to give Ritz time to heal. She was also well aware that the shooter was still out there and she wanted to keep everything around Ritz calm and normal— as close to normal as possible under the circumstances.
Tracee had been there. She had spent every waking hour of the last two weeks at the hospital, at Ritz's be
dside, with her aunt and uncle, with the detectives. She was the rock, holding everything together, keeping their spirits up.
“I know, I know,” Ritz said. “Believe me, it wasn't my fault. Can you please get Chas on the phone for me? I need to see about getting an ISDN hookup in this hospital.”
“For what?!” Tracee looked incredulous.
“Tracee, if I don't go right back, I'm not sure if I ever will,” she said. “I have to show the motherfucker who did this that he can't kill me. I'm still here. I need people to know that.”
“You aren't even allowed to have a cell phone in here— why would you contemplate a radio show? I think that coma ruined some brain cells, too!”
“You don't understand, Tray. I have to get back. I have to get back on the air as soon as possible. I have to!”
“The only thing you have to do right now is stay black and keep living. Your ass almost died. Oh, wait a minute. You did die. I was holding your hand when you flatlined. I was pushed out of the room when the nurses and doctors came in with the defibrillator to bring you back. I was here with your aunt and uncle, crying for days when you wouldn't wake up. I remember every moment. That radio will be there. Or maybe it won't. But you, Ritz, you have to take care of yourself.”
“But you don't understand!” Ritz shouted. “I— ”
“Oh, hell no! You aren't going to yell at me. I'm not one of your peons. And you're supposed to keep your voice down. You're constantly going, trying to hit the next mark. Maybe this happened for a reason. Maybe you got slowed down because God is trying to get your attention.”
“Don't bring God into this. I'm halfway thinking that this God of yours ain't all he's cracked up to be,” Ritz said.
“Watch your mouth! That God of mine is the reason why you're still breathing. You better know that what happened to you didn't just happen.”
“Not you, too!” Ritz said.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. So you're saying it's my fault I got shot?”
“No, I'm saying it's your fault that you aren't paying attention to what's happening to yourself and the world around you. It's your fault that you're so caught up in your own ambition that you've forgetten how to treat people. It's your fault that you spend so much time working on your outside and how you look that you haven't done much work on your inside, building your spirit.”
Ritz was stung by Tracee's words.
“Why are you coming down on me?” Ritz said. “I was the one who was fucking shot by some fucking nut job. Somebody tried to fucking kill me! I don't give a fuck what I did in the past, I've never done anything to warrant that!”
“You're not hearing me. Of course you didn't do anything to warrant being shot. I'm just saying you should take this time and use it as an opportunity for self-reflection. Use it as a catalyst to make some changes.”
“Yeah, I am going to make some changes. The first one is to fire Chas if his ass doesn't come here real soon and let me know what he's doing to get me back on the air.”
Tracee could see that Ritz wasn't ready to have a deep conversation. She backed off. Another time would come. Tracee didn't want to upset her friend, she wanted her to get better and heal. But she wanted some healing to come from within, too.
“I'll call him right now,” Tracee said. “You just relax. I overheard the nurse saying she had to bring you some painkillers. That should put you out for a minute. Sleep and take care of yourself. I will be right here. I'm not going anywhere.”
15
Chas wanted a sober assessment of what he thought was a perfect night. He gently pulled back the covers, and the sun was literally shining on what he believed to be the perfect ass. It was full, tight, perfectly round, with dimples on either side.
Positively delicious, Chas thought. Just looking at it made Chas want to sink his teeth into it. He knew he would have to have a taste before he left. Chas loved one-night stands. He loved the cat-and-mouse chase in the first moments, when his eyes locked on his prey at a club, the instant electricity, and the tight pull on his loins that let him know there was indeed a connection. He loved the quickened pace and pounding of his heart in anticipation of that first kiss. The urgency of getting somewhere to release all of the sexual tension that was building up was the most exciting. It could be in a dark corner of a park, in an alleyway, in a car. The un- folding mystery of where he would actually find sexual gratification made the chase more like a drug. He had to have it. He always had to do it with someone new.
Chas couldn't remember the last relationship he had. It was probably high school, when the thought of being with somebody for an extended time was part of the fantasy of life. Having that special someone who was your very own, who would be there forever. But when he walked in on his special someone going down on the star quarterback, Chas's fantasies were dashed. The reality was, there was no such thing as happily ever after— at least not forever. There was only happily right now, until the next new thing came along.
He used men just like he used everyone for his own purposes. Mr. Perfect Ass's purpose this night was just to allow Chas to release some tension. Chas's plans of bringing Moon to New York were dashed. Ernest Ruffin had other plans, and it included bringing Ritz back as soon as she was able. The news was getting around quickly that Ritz was recovering. Ruff asked him to extend her Best of shows for one more week and then they would have guest hosts fill in for one week at a time. Chas was trying to work Moon in as one of the fill-ins, but Ruff wanted to keep the female flavor flowing.
“You know the female audience is one of the most coveted in radio. Ritz has been able to dominate that market. I don't want to mess with that,” he said. “We're going to put some placeholders in there until Miss Ritz is ready to regain her spot.”
Ruff's decision made Chas boil inside. That was not his plan. Chas's plan included replacing Ritz altogether and showing that he was the actual mastermind behind the success of the Excursion. He could create a star out of anyone, and if he got the chance to put Moon on the air, he would prove it. But Chas had to play it cool. He had created Ritz just as Dr. Frankenstein had created that thing, that monster. And now all eyes were on Dr. Chas's Miss Thing. What an unlucky break, he thought, that she was recovering.
A fake smile crossed Chas's face as Ruff was speaking.
“So I need your help in shaping these shows over the next few weeks and bringing in some hot guests,” Ruff continued. “Do I have your cooperation?”
“Of course,” Chas said. “The only reason why I brought up Moon was because I didn't want Ritz's ratings to drop even one point. And I knew that Moon could stir enough shit to keep WHOT hot. But your plan makes perfect sense. So who's the first fill-in?”
“Michelle Davis.”
“That hot chick from Fox?” Chas said. Chas might be gay, but he wasn't blind. She did not have a face for radio. She had a face for television. And if she could bring any of that hotness over the airwaves, he may be able to stick to his plan, just shift it from a Moon to a real star.
“Yep, that's the one,” Ruff said. “She's excited about doing it. She doesn't normally do radio, but she said she really hit it off with Ritz when she interviewed her for that magazine piece and had her on her weekend talk show on Fox. She considers it an honor.”
“Well, I consider it an honor working with her,” said Chas.
Chas went to the club that evening and picked up Mr. Perfect Ass. He went to Mr. Perfect Ass's place— appropriately, in the Meatpacking District of New York. Chas did his best plotting while he was plowing into some fresh meat. He was often mistaken for a bottom, the kind of man who liked to take it because of his slight build and elegant ways. But Chas was a top dog all the way.
He walked over to the world's best ass and rubbed his hand across the round, smooth surface— the result of fresh waxing. Chas aroused himself quicker than even he could believe. He reached over and grabbed a condom off the end table and put it on. Mr. Perfect Ass stirred. C
has climbed on top of him, straddling that ass. He grabbed his hips and guided him upward as Chas reached around to feel Mr. Perfect Ass's equally perfect penis, which was completely swollen. Mr. Perfect Ass let out a moan in anticipation as Chas parted the man's cheeks with his other hand and carefully guided his own fully engorged penis into the opening. Chas slowly tapped once and then expertly found his spot as he leaned forward, letting himself fall in with an exhilarating thrust.
While he was grinding and churning himself into a frenzy, Chas thought how good it felt being top dog. He thought about everything he had accomplished. He thought about Ritz, and with a guttural moan, he exploded. Chas fell off and onto his back, chest heaving as Mr. Perfect Ass removed his condom and massaged his spent private parts.
Chas was deep in thought. He thought about the shooting.
He thought about his next move. He had a lot of business to tie up. He knew what needed to happen, but he had to make sure that he and the program director, Ernest Ruffin, were on the same page.
Chas slid out of bed and walked, still deep in thought, to the bathroom. Stopping in his tracks, Chas put his arms out, touching both walls in the hallway leading to the bathroom. He turned and said matter-of-factly, “I got a lot on my mind, so I'm gonna let myself out after I shower. I'll call you.”
Chas had no intentions of calling. He was too engrossed in the other things that were turning him on lately. The power tripping. The puppeteering. The masterminding. He had a plan. And if it worked, no piece of ass could top the feeling that would be awaiting him.
16
Randolph Jordan was satisfied. He had finally landed a big contract that would pay him six figures for about three weeks of work. He was set to rewire a hospital on the East Side. Since leaving corporate America and starting his own electrical contracting business, Randolph wasn't sure if he'd made the right choice. The first couple of years were lean, to say the least. But business was certainly picking up.
Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? Page 7