And let’s just say, Renaldo did not want to even begin to consider what, exactly, “or else” meant. He eyeballed the throng of teens—there had to be at least a hundred and quickly growing, dressed to the nines in the finest gold and red outfits daddy’s money could buy—and shook his head, pushed the bullhorn into the assistant’s chest, and then started yelling into his walkie-talkie. “Bosco! ETA on the arrival!” he screamed, stomping down the red carpet, his ankle-length gold brocade jacket whooshing hard enough to flicker the candlelight flames that licked the unseasonably warm night air.
“Copy that, Ray—about five minutes over and out,” the driver, Bosco, said quietly into his walkie-talkie as he maneuvered the gold stretch Rolls-Royce through the dark, woodsy roads of Lake Lanier. He’d been ordered to take his time getting to the party, even though it was, quite literally, just two minutes away from the resort where the girls had gotten themselves ready and their anxious parents were spending the night. Bosco couldn’t see through the partition separating the front seat from the main cabin, but that didn’t stop him from glancing through the rearview mirror anyway, wondering just what in the hell the black guy who paid for all of this did for a living to be able to afford to spoil his daughters with such an affair. Shoot, the two-day rental cost for the Rolls-Royce alone was more than $8,000, and he’d heard that dude laid out an additional twenty-five grand to have the car custom-painted—transformed from a shiny, sleek, black machine, into a rich, warm gold tone with red flames painted up the sides, and, after the party, back to black. The suites at Emerald Pointe Hotel, the obviously expensive outfits the girls were wearing, the expansive five-bedroom boat-house, private dock, and exclusive beach he peeped when he took the test run a few hours earlier—it all had to add up to pretty much more than his and his wife’s yearly salaries put together. The thought of it made Bosco sick—as did the laughter coming from the back cabin.
“Come on, turn the music up, it’s a damn party already,” Lauren insisted, shooing Donald toward the control panel that already had T.I. overloading the speakers. Sydney was sitting quietly in the far corner, acting like she had a million things on her mind—and none of them about that fine-ass boy she was sitting beside. In fact, her BFFs/support system/groupies Rhea and Carmen were doing more to entertain the boy than Syd was, which was a crime and a shame, Lauren thought, because had she noticed Jason when she was a single, unspoken-for woman? Oh, best believe she’d have been riding shotgun on Mr. Danden’s lap. She hoped her sister would pull it together and get focused before they arrived. The party was going to do what it do, and there wasn’t anything either of the two of them could change now, no matter how much last-minute worrying, begging, pleading, and barking she did to make sure Renaldo was handling, as she put it, “All the little but important details that’ll make or break a party.” The way Lauren saw it, Renaldo had his check, he was being paid to do his job—leave it to the professionals to sort out. How-some-ever, Lauren wasn’t about to study any of this too long: She looked fly, her party was about to be the straight fire, and Jermaine had just called to say he was on his way. She was good.
“Wait, dammit—you’re going to make me spill my drink,” Donald laughed easily as he hoisted up his Diet Mountain Dew Code Red.
“Forget turning it up, how about turning it off,” Jason said, pushing a CD into Donald’s face. “Pop that in, playa.”
“Oh, a man who knows how to take charge—work, Sydney, you know how to pick ‘em!” Lauren yelled, completely oblivious to the blush that rushed across Sydney’s face, which read, quite clearly, “Sit back and calm the hell down—you’re embarrassing me.”
“No worries, J. She may be acting all shy now, but I guarantee you by the end of the night, it’s going to be a totally different story,” Lauren predicted, snatching the CD from Jason’s hand and shoving it into the player. Sound unheard, she pumped the volume and practically blew out everyone’s ears when a brand-new underground Jay-Z mix pumped through the speakers.
“Aw, shucks—let me find out Jason Danden still got that East Coast flava in him!” Lauren said, nodding her head hard to the beat and gyrating on the leather seat.
“Lord, help us through,” Sydney sighed, shooting a weary look at Rhea and Carmen, who, too, were rocking out to the music. Rhea, sensing her best friend’s nerves were being worked, patted Sydney’s hand to help settle her.
Jason chuckled and shot a knowing glance toward Sydney. “Yeah, um, you know, I’m from New York, so I can’t exactly get rid of the, um, East Coast flavor.”
Sydney smiled back as she punched SPEED-DIAL for Renaldo, and all at once signaled Lauren to turn down the music. “I just want to make sure everything is all right,” Sydney started for what felt like the fiftieth time since they had gotten into the Rolls.
“Syd, just let it go—we’re already on our way to our hot party. You should be chillin’ and getting ready for your star turn on our red carpet. Time to do the last-minute panty-line check and get focused!”
Sydney turned off her iPhone and sat up. “What, exactly, would someone who doesn’t wear panties know about lines?” she teased as she bumped up her roller-set curls and adjusted the thin gold straps of her fringed Ungaro minidress.
“Oh, you know wha—” Lauren started in response.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies! We’re here—we’ve arrived. The red carpet awaits!” Donald said, clapping. “Save the Saturday Night Smackdown for next week. We’ve got to go to work!”
“Yay!” Lauren said, throwing up a “hoorah” cheerleader hand for good measure and grabbing her 14-K gold compact out of her purse to check her lip gloss and powder. “Um, Rhea, Carmen, darlings, let me by—my sister and I really should be the first ones out of the car. Wouldn’t want the paparazzi to get it confused.”
Sydney rolled her eyes, shook her head, and willingly moved closer to her girls to avoid Lauren’s mad rush to be the first one out of the car. Lauren was giggling like a child on Christmas morning as she waited for the driver to open the door. “Ooh, my fans await!” she said to no one in particular as the doors opened to a crowd of literally one hundred and fifty or so of their closest friends, all screaming at the top of their lungs. Spotlights searched the starlit sky, and one was trained right on the Rolls-Royce. Goldfinger queued the music—“Party Like a Rock Star” blasted through the speakers as Lauren gingerly stepped her perfectly pedicured Vamp Red toes onto the red carpet, smoothed out her red Carmen Marc Valvo, and bounced to the music, mouthing the words and tossing beauty queen waves to the crowd. She stopped and struck a pose for the photographers, putting on the glamour puss she and Donald had perfected back at the hotel. One for YRT, yes, sir.
But Lauren’s fabulousness was instantly forgotten (except in her own mind, of course) when Jason stepped out of the Rolls and extended his hand to help Sydney out—so loud were the cheers you would have thought he’d just thrown the winning touchdown. After several individual and couple shots, Sydney and Jason paused next to Lauren to pose for flicks. The photographer’s flashes were punctuated by squeals of “Ohmigod—I knew something was up with them!” and “Damn, Sydney done upgraded, fo sho.” Sydney continued to smile as she wrapped her arm around Jason’s muscular arm and gave it a little squeeze, as a signal for them to move down the candlelit red carpet. Like the perfect escort, Jason accommodated her wishes, and the newly minted couple stepped forward. From all the energy in the air, Sydney was clear this was a big moment…how big she had no idea.
Lauren wouldn’t allow for such folly, though. “Where’s the stage? Where’s Renaldo? And where is my drink? Seriously? I need you on point, people—this is my damn night! Somebody needs to come with it! Syd? Get your boy!”
“Oh, gosh, Lauren! Sydney! Welcome. Welcome,” Renaldo gushed, rushing up to the girls as if on cue, bullhorn in his right hand, cell phone in the left, assistant with drinks in hand bringing up the rear. “A signature cocktail, ladies?” he said, snapping his fingers to signal the assistant to hand over the
drinks—a pretty pomegranate, rosewater, lime squash concoction served up in martini glasses that had been dusted with gold-colored sugar. The sisters graciously accepted their cocktails and let Renaldo lead the way. “The stage is set up in the great room. I’ve a special signal arranged for Goldfinger to play Ludacris’s ‘Georgia’ the moment you’re up and ready and there’s a critical mass of friends on the dance floor. Everyone is swiping their red cards to gain entrance as we speak.”
“Perfect,” Lauren said. “Now, be a dear and see if Jermaine Watson has arrived. He’s my special guest, and he’s supposed to be here waiting for me. Thank you.”
“Uh, um, not a problem, um—you’re Lauren, right?” Renaldo asked, his cocktails and prescriptions starting to get the best of him.
“That’s correct,” Lauren said, a tad disdainfully. She reached into her purse and pulled out her dedicated cell, which she’d set on vibrate earlier, to be sure she didn’t miss Jermaine’s phone calls. Though she was sure it hadn’t rung since the last time her man dialed her digits, she still checked to see if there were any missed calls. Nothing. She slammed the phone shut. “We’ll be on the stage,” she said, signaling to Donald to follow her.
“Jason and I are going to go greet our guests,” Sydney said.
“See you at the top,” Lauren said, turning on her heels and grabbing Donald’s hand. She was grateful for the breeze that blew through the glass French doors running the length of the back of the house. Renaldo had wisely left them open to keep the air circulating among the hundreds of people who were piling in and working up a sweat in the great room, and to give easy access to those who chose to have drinks and food from the four-course buffet set out on the bonfire-lit beach.
Lauren had barely gotten into her over-the-shoulder sexy dance on the stage when she noticed the commotion—saw a swarm of her guests rushing through the French doors and out onto the beach. “Aw, damn,” said Donald. “Can’t take your people nowhere. I told you to get security.”
“Shut up, D,” she laughed nervously. “It’s probably that hooker Julia out there dropping it like it’s hot. You know how her big booty draws a crowd.”
“Indeed,” Donald said, craning his head to see if he could catch a glimpse of what—or who—was causing the ruckus. “Regardless, we better get out there.”
Donald took Lauren by the hand as they walk/ran to the patio leading out to the beach, where a massive crowd had gathered. It was quiet, save for the music blasting from the system and what sounded like two guys exchanging heated words.
“I’m just saying, you obviously ain’t handling your business too well, money, because if you were, your girl, Sydney, here wouldn’t have been out on a date with me last week,” Lauren heard one of the voices say.
“You guys, just stop—this is so fifth grade, seriously,” Sydney pleaded. The desperation in her voice made Lauren push harder through the massive collection of bodies gathered around what turned out to be her sister, Jason, and Marcus.
“Well, you couldn’t have been handling business too well yourself, money, because it’s pretty obvious who she chose,” Jason said, folding his arms. “In case you missed it? We came together. This right here?” he added, nodding at Sydney, “All me, playa. All me.”
“Man, listen, Sydney Duke and I been doing the relationship thing for four years. You were in the limo for five minutes. Seriously? You need to back up and let a grown man handle grown-man business.”
“Aw, it’s like that, playa?” Jason asked as he took off his suit jacket and his boys—read the entire football team—crowded around him. “Grown man, huh?”
Lauren got to the center of the action just as Jason’s fist pounded down on Marcus’s left cheek like a hammer on a nail head.
“Oh, my God!” Sydney screamed. “Stop it! Just stop it!”
“Syd, get out of the way!” Lauren yelled, pulling her sister from the fracas, which turned into an all-out brawl, with half the football team bouncing on Marcus and his crew. Fists were flying, girls were screaming, martini glasses crashed against the patio and crunched under fast-moving feet that tried to carry their owners away to a safe perch where blows could be avoided but the drama could still be seen.
“Are you all right?” Lauren yelled over the rumble.
“Get off of me—I have to get out of here,” Sydney said, pulling her arm from her sister’s grip. She ran toward the backstairs leading up to the bedrooms. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Donald!” Lauren yelled. “Do something!”
“Hold up, what you want me to do? Them some big boys,” Donald huffed.
“Donald!” Lauren yelled.
Just as she tried to rush through the crowd to get to her sister, Lauren’s dedicated phone vibrated. Jermaine.
“Go get Renaldo and tell him to grab every grown man in the house!” Lauren hissed to Donald as she snatched open her purse and reached for her phone. As her fingers touched it, the crowd surged against her, knocking her purse and the phone onto the floor. “What the hell!” she yelled, trying to keep the bundle of bodies and feet from trampling her phone.
The party dissolved into total chaos.
The flickering light from the candles that lined the ceiling-high shelves caught Lauren’s eye, making her remember that they lined the stage, which was equipped with—yes!—a microphone. She tore away from the tangle and rushed over to it.
“Marcus Green. Get your granola-crunching, backpacking, patchouli-wearing behind off of my sister’s guest!” she yelled into the microphone, just as Goldfinger stopped the music. “And all you Neanderthals who’ve turned my party into the WWE SmackDown, I’m gonna need y’all to get the hell on. Now!”
Lauren’s directive had some impact, but it wasn’t until Renaldo and several of the waiters and the bartender started pulling boys off of each other that it actually calmed down. When Marcus started yelling, it got really quiet.
“Forget this, man,” Marcus said, standing up and wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t need this.”
“You don’t want this is what you meant,” Jason said, straightening out his shirt and dusting the sand off his suit pants.
“Nah, man, it’s all you. But just remember this: You may be playing in the game, but I’m always going to take home the trophy,” Marcus said, backing away from the line of football players who were again gathering behind their team co-captain.
“Um, excuse me!” the bullhorn sounded.
Lauren craned her neck to see who in the world was yelling into the electronic megaphone, and, more, just who was calling attention at her party, in her house.
“Just what trophy would you be talking about, Marcus Green?” the girl yelled again in the bullhorn.
This time, Lauren didn’t need any introductions; it was Dara. She knew the voice, and it was as clear as crystal. This girl had lost her damn mind showing up at her party. Lauren snatched off her shoes and practically Kung Fu leaped off the wooden structure onto the dance floor, just feet away from her best-friend-turned-nemesis.
“Um, excuse me—There was a weight limit to the guest list and you didn’t make the cut. I’m going to need you to vacate the premises,” Lauren snarled into the microphone.
“Oh, aren’t you just the little Chris RockNot,” Dara yelled into the bullhorn. “I was just trying to get some clarity and give some clarity on a few things, honey. And then I’ll be leaving.”
“I think we’re all pretty clear that you’re a tramp-ass hooker who can’t be trusted around other people’s boy-friends,” Lauren yelled. “No more clarity necessary.”
“Oh, sweetie, trust. There are some things you and your sister most certainly need to know, and I’m here to make sure you hear it from the horse’s mouth: I’m having Marcus’s baby.”
The room erupted into gasps audible enough, Lauren was sure, to be heard over the expanse of Lake Lanier. Jason folded his arms and chuckled; his football buddies knocked him on the arm and back in celebration,
like he’d just won a prize. Marcus, on the other hand, looked like he was about to vomit.
Lauren didn’t know what to do—barely squeezed out a “What did you just say?”
“Oh, you heard me. I’m having Marcus’s baby. So all of this chitchat about trophies and sloppy seconds and that damn Sydney Duke can really just, oh, I don’t know, come to a halt,” Dara said. And then she really leaned into the bull-horn and said, “Now!”
“Oh, you know what?” Lauren said, rushing Dara, “I will beat your ass like you stole something.” But just as her hands got a good grip on Dara, a pair of arms embraced her in a bear hug. “Let me go! Let me go, dammit! Stop it!”
“Baby, it’s me—you don’t want to hit her, trust me,” Jermaine said, holding Lauren in his arms. She instantly calmed. “From what I can see, she’s not worth it.”
“Oh, what do you know, Boyz N the Hood?” Dara yelped into the megaphone.
“Look, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so there’s no reason for us to be getting into it. But you messin’ with my girl right now, and she’s asked you to leave, so leave.”
“Why don’t you show her the door and then walk through it with her,” an even louder and deeper voice boomed. Lauren turned toward the source, praying a miracle of all miracles, that it wasn’t who she thought it was—Altimus.
“Yo, Mr. Duke,” Jermaine said, releasing Lauren from his grip and raising his hands like someone had a gun to his chest. “I was invited, you know what I’m saying?”
Altimus continued walking toward Jermaine, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to let him inch closer to his daughter and her boyfriend. “I told you to stay away from my daughter, and I meant it. Looks like somebody’s hard of hearing, though,” Altimus said easily, eerily.
“I, um, I…” Jermaine started.
“No, no, partner—see, it’s over now. You and me? We need to go on outside and have a little talk. And then after I’m finished talking…”
If Only You Knew Page 14