Rhythm and Blu

by Jennings, S. L.

  “Harold,” he answers, smiling, which makes the ends of his thick mustache curl up at the sides. He takes my outstretched hand for a shake. His grip is oddly gentle for such a formidable man. “Harold Faulkner.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harold,” I manage to get out before the doors slide closed.

  And then there’s nothing but twenty-four floors standing between me and my absolute worst fear.

  By the time the doors open to the foyer, I’m dizzy and I think I may faint. But I take a few deep breaths and force myself to keep it together. I can fall apart later and definitely plan to, followed by eating enough salted caramel ice cream to slip into sugar shock. But for now, I’m all about my business, and not even Riot Blu will throw me off my game. I refuse to let him take one more thing from me.

  However, any hope I had of maintaining my cool is quickly dashed away when I see a familiar form approach to greet me as I step off the elevator.

  Oh-my-fucking…

  “Kaz?”

  “Rox?” Although he frowns, I’m glad to see that he is just as good looking as I thought he was under the sobering morning light. However, I’m not sure he feels the same. “How did you find me?”

  “Find you?” Now I’m frowning. “I’m here for an appointment with Riot Blu. I’m doing a story on him.”

  “You’re the writer from The Seattle Tea?” He looks genuinely shocked. He runs a hand through his tawny locks. “Shit. That’s ironic as fuck.”

  “What is? And what are you doing here?”

  “I live here. RB is my boy, and I help him out from time to time. And what’s ironic is that you seem to hate him, yet you have to write what I’m assuming is a pretty big piece about him.”

  Add in the fact that we slept together not even eight hours ago. But that dirty little detail goes without saying, and hopefully, will never pass either of our lips.

  “And you didn’t think to mention that you were friends with him last night?”

  “Just like you mentioned you were scheduled to interview him today?”

  Touché.

  “Sooo…” I look around the foyer and peer over his shoulder into the unit. “Is Riot in or is this a bad time…?”

  Kaz’s back straightens, and he answers, “Oh, yeah, sorry. Come in.”

  He ushers me through the entranceway, which leads to the lavish living room, I have to force my jaw shut before it falls to the ground. The space is vast and open enough to fit my entire apartment, and it’s tastefully decorated in cool, neutral tones. Tinted floor to ceiling windows serve as walls, allowing warm, inviting sunlight to fill the area. It’s simple, elegant, and not at all what I expected considering Riot’s bad boy persona. Where’s the half-naked video models and empty bottles of champagne? Where’s the grimy, overflowing ashtray of burning blunts and the freeloading entourage?

  Better yet, where’s Riot?

  “Have a seat; make yourself comfortable,” Kaz says.

  I take a central spot on one of the sleek, yet comfortable couches that give me both a view of the entrance and the hallway leading to the rest of the condo.

  “Can I get you anything?” Kaz asks. “Water? Tea? Coffee?” He lifts a brow, as if he can smell the hangover on me.

  “Sure, I’ll take some coffee. You actually live here?” I ask, trying to fill the empty silence with anything other than what went down last night.

  “Yeah,” Kaz replies, padding to the kitchen. That’s when I notice that he’s freshly showered, groomed and dressed in jeans, a white tee, and cross trainers. “Well, I live in the building, but I’m here mostly.”

  “So what do you do exactly?”

  He shrugs, his focus on the French press before him. “A little of everything honestly. Whatever Riot needs me to do.”

  “So you’re like…his assistant?”

  A small smile plays on Kaz’s lips, and he shakes his head. “Nah. Nothing like that. We’re friends, and since I’m trying to break into acting, he thinks this will be a good opportunity for me. And in turn, I help him out a bit.”

  Acting. Not sure how that has anything to do with fetching Riot’s dry cleaning, but okay.

  Kaz comes over to hand me a cup of coffee before taking the seat across from me. I take a sip and scorch my tongue, but it’s better than the alternative. Honestly, the safest bet would be to eighty-six this meeting and reschedule…at a time when I’m not sitting across from my one-night stand.

  “Should we shoot for another date?”

  Kaz lifts his brow amusingly, prompting me to reword my question. “For the interview. If Riot’s busy, we can reschedule.” Shit. I think Kaz and I had a good time, but now that business has blurred into pleasure, there’s no way I’m putting my professional ass on the line for round two.

  Kaz shakes his head. “He should be done soon.”

  Done with what? Or with who? Any other columnist would be chomping at the bit for just a taste of the tea on Riot Blu, especially after his very Kanye-esque meltdown just months ago. But any other columnist didn’t suffer the most tragic of all heartbreaks at the hands of the enigmatic, bad boy singer either. Granted, I’m unprepared and don’t have a damn thing written down to ask him, so pressing Kaz for info wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world, but then I’d have to confront the consequence of truth. And yeah, I could handle seeing him on TV, strutting the red carpet with the thottie of the moment hanging off his arm, but seeing that shit in person? I was woman enough to admit that I wasn’t quite ready for that.

  “You look worried,” Kaz comments after a few silent moments. Well, silent for him. I was having a full-blown summit in my head.

  “I’m not. It’s just…” I don’t want to be here.

  “You’re worried about last night. And how it will reflect on you professionally.”

  Ok, let’s go with that. I nod. “You know how this business is. Reputation is everything. And for a woman, especially one of color, it’s easy to get labeled as someone who sleeps her way to success. And that’s not me.”

  Kaz nods thoughtfully. “I get that, and I hope you know I don’t see you as that type of person.”

  “Thanks. So…keep it between us?”

  “That goes without saying. But if you need me to say it, I won’t tell Riot.”

  “Won’t tell Riot what?”

  I hear him before I see him, and somewhere buried deep inside of me, a piece of me feels him too. The heat rushes to my cheeks. Needles prick the back of my neck. And even my nipples tighten beneath the lace and cotton of my bra.

  He steps into view and my breath catches. He’s bare-chested and barefoot, with only low-slung joggers to hug the V of his chiseled hips. His usually golden hair is wet and slicked back, the darker hue making the blue of his eyes even more radiant. A towel straddles his neck to catch any stray droplets of water from his nape. He’s older, harder, but I see him…I see the boy I once knew resting upon those high cheekbones, slicked across his bowed lips, dusted over his nose that was always a little crooked, yet endearing. I see him laying next to me on the floor of my childhood bedroom, a shared pair of headphones the only thing between us. I hear his voice echoing in my head, so sweet and smooth like liquid sin, and I feel the effect it had on my young, trembling body as it flowed through me before finding its home in my heart.

  That’s what we were to each other: home. He was the boy next door who needed to escape his controlling stepdad’s temper. I was the girl who just wanted to give him a soft place to land. And now that I look at him—all ripples of muscle, ink, and swagger—a part of me still wants to be that for him, even knowing that he’s so far gone from the scrawny teen who once needed the refuge of my arms.

  When Riot’s eyes find mine, he pauses, as if a distant memory has scratched against this new, broader, shinier version of my old friend and first love. But he quickly blinks it away and smiles. Not the goofy, bright smile I had dedicated songs to. But the one he used in TV interviews. Polite, nonchalant, yet seductive enough to make you want to
see if there was more to the man behind the platinum voice.

  “Roxanne Lee,” he says, my name rolling off the tongue as if he’s said it a thousand times over the years.

  He strides over to me, and in a panic, I jump to my feet, nearly spilling hot coffee all over my blouse. Fuck, I’m nervous. And, of course, he seems more than comfortable in his skin as he wraps his arms around me, pressing his naked chest against my breasts, and bear hugs me so tight that he lifts me right off my feet. I go rigid, not knowing what the hell to do with my own limbs. Don’t you dare fucking smell him, I tell myself. At least my nose complies when the rest of my body has decided to completely betray me.

  “Damn. How you been, girl? It’s been a minute,” he murmurs, setting me down.

  I straighten my clothes and peer up at him. He’s always been tall, but now he’s got at least a foot on me. And every inch of his frame is all man.

  “I’m good. Thanks for asking. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me on behalf of The Seattle Tea. I know you must be busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  He steps back, looking me up and down like he’s a fat man and I’m a buffet. “Damn, girl. You grew up.”

  I nod, irritation pinching my lips. “You did too. Shall we get started?” I reclaim my seat to show him that I’m here for a purpose other than allowing him to ogle me like I’m up for auction. Realizing that I have no intention of running into his arms to complete this little reunion, he takes the couch across from me, sitting in the same space that Kaz quickly evacuated when Riot hugged me, disappearing in the direction that Riot just came from. So much for wanting to remain professional. Pretty sure I’m looking all kinds of fraudulent right now.

  Stilling the tremble of my fingers, I fish out my small digital voice recorder from my bag and set it on the sleek wood and glass coffee table between us.

  “So…” I begin, trying to collect my thoughts.

  “So.” Riot leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You really do look good, Roxy.”

  “Rox,” I correct him. “I go by Rox now. It’s better to be a little ambiguous in my line of work.”

  “I’d say, especially looking the way you do. A music writer…bet your parents love that.” He ends his statement with a throaty chuckle as if he can almost imagine the fit they pitched. Still, I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right.

  A shrug. “They’re proud either way. Yours?”

  He scrubs a hand over his face then leans back into the couch cushions lazily, slinging an arm over the back. “How long have you been writing for The Seattle Tea? I honestly thought you’d be working for a major label by now. You always were a better lyricist than me.”

  I don’t miss how he swerved that question, but I’m too annoyed to pretend I’m interested in his personal life, although I am curious about his family. My parents told me that his mom and stepdad split some years back, and while I was sympathetic, I didn’t want the conversation to merge into speculation about Riot. And his was a name that hadn’t been uttered between us for several years.

  Determined to get back on track, I plaster on a tight, polite smile and ask, “There’s been some early buzz about your upcoming album, The Riot Act. Is it finished? When can fans expect to hear the first track?”

  He shakes his head, and I’m surprised he even answers me, although his tone is clipped. “Not yet. Soon.”

  “Can we expect your signature sound, or will you be hitting us with something completely unique of the Riot Blu we’ve heard in your last five albums?”

  With that, a slight frown burrows between his brows. “Is there something wrong with my sound?”

  I blink. Open and close my mouth. Then the words tumble out much less gracefully than I intend. “No, um, no. It’s, uh, great. Obviously. You’ve gone multi-platinum. Won a Grammy for Best New Artist. Your last tour sold out in every city worldwide in less than an hour. You top the charts with every single.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” he smirks.

  “It’s my job.” It’s not a lie—knowing who’s who in the industry actually is part of my job. But none of that information was retrieved as work-related research.

  “Is it?” It’s almost like he knows that I’ve been keeping tabs on him, even when I told myself that I didn’t give a damn about him or his music.

  “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  It’s all I can do to keep from jumping to my feet, leaping over the coffee table like a spider monkey, and slapping that smug smile off his pretty face. He always had the ability to piss me off more than anyone else. Probably because I cared about him more than anybody else. Cared. Past tense.

  “Moving on. Will there be any unexpected features on The Riot Act? Rumor has it, you’re working with hitmaker, Nick Wilde, for the first single.”

  He shrugs, seemingly bored. “Yeah. Nick’s a friend and a musical genius. But you knew that.”

  I did, but I don’t let on. “Fans are still talking about your appearance in the last Marvel blockbuster. What about other projects? Any plans to return to the big screen?”

  “Did you like it?”

  I frown, stunned by his question. “Huh?”

  “Did you like my performance? What did you think?”

  “Um, I didn’t see it,” I lie. Of course, I saw it. Everyone saw it. And while his part was a short cameo where he pretty much played himself, I have to admit, he did well.

  Not that I paid much attention. Or replayed it a couple dozen times.

  “Did you, uh…did you…” For the first time since we sat down, he’s nervous. I can tell. It’s the way he chews his lip. I can imagine that he’s wishing it were his fingernails, but that was a habit I helped him kick the summer before junior year.

  He drums his fingers against the back of the couch as if he’s running them over ivory keys, another one of his tells. I know where he’s going with this, and maybe it’d be better if I rip the Band-Aid off. He was never good at confronting the hard shit.

  “Did I see you on that show?”

  He swallows before nodding. “Yeah.”

  “I did.” I don’t know why I don’t just lie like I did before and put him out of his misery. But this piece is all about his fall from grace, and his resurrection as the prince of blue-eyed soul. We have to start from the bottom so I can capture him reclaiming his spot at the top.

  Riot nods, his eyes low. “Yeah. I thought you might have. So you know how I…”

  “I know how you got so high and drunk that you attacked a producer, then later passed out in the pool. How have you been doing since then?”

  “You asking for the story? Or because you want to know?”

  Another kernel of honesty. “Because I sincerely want to know.”

  His lips twitch into a half smile. And a hardened piece of me cracks wide open.

  “Better. There were some dark days. Times I just wanted to say fuck all this shit, and disappear. When you’re on top, everybody wants to be you. But the second you slip from that pedestal, those same people will be all too happy to step on you for their come-up. Honestly, I was just tired of it all. Tired of all the expectations and bullshit opinions and superficial shit.”

  “Is that why you left LA and came back to Seattle?”

  “Yeah, that. And other reasons.” The way his gaze runs over me makes my whole face flame.

  “And those reasons are?”

  He doesn’t answer, at least not right away. And maybe if given the chance, he would have. But before he can even part his bowed lips, Kaz enters the living room, followed by two other men as big and intimidating as linebackers.

  “Sorry to interrupt, RB, but the crew will be here in 10.”

  “Cool,” Riot nods. “That’ll give Roxy time to settle in.”

  “Um, excuse me?” I pipe up, my gaze going from Kaz to Riot. “Settle in?”

  “I’m sure you want to unpack and get a tou
r of the place,” Riot answers. I would think he’s joking, but Riot sucks at jokes. He always laughs before getting to the punchline.

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You’re moving in for the exclusive. Dude at The Seattle Tea said it was an expose on the life of Riot Blu. And, seeing as I’m Riot Blu, the smartest and easiest solution would be for you to stay here.”

  Oh, hell no. HELL NO.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?” Riot even has the nerve to look confused. As if he can’t imagine why I’d be opposed to living with him. Unbelievable.

  “Because I have a life and a job and an apartment. I can’t just move in with you for a story. No. That’s absurd! And extremely unethical.”

  He shrugs. “Those are my terms. You want the story that every publication in the nation is vying for then you have to agree to them. It’s not like I said you’d be sleeping in my bed…unless you want to.” He waggles his brows which I answer with an eye roll.

  “But for real, Rox, you’ll have your own room, your own space. All I’m asking is for a little of your time. All I’m asking is for you to stay. I can’t tell you what my life is like better than I can show you. And I wanna show you. So take it or leave it.”

  He climbs to his feet without another word and strides towards the direction from which he came with the two larger gentlemen following behind. No goodbye. No plan to finish the interview. He was leaving the ball in my court.

  I look up at Kaz, who peers at me expectantly. I can’t even imagine what’s going through his head right now, and I’m in no mood to guess. Not when I’m seriously considering signing my life away for a paycheck and a taste of success.

  “Need a ride to go get your things?” he asks. And while there’s not a hint of annoyance in his tone, I don’t doubt that his opinion of me has changed.

  I glance down at the digital recorder on the coffee table. Shit. I don’t have nearly enough to even call this a story. And I didn’t bust my ass for scraps all these years to blow my chance at the exclusive of a lifetime. Not for Riot. Not for anyone.

  Deep breath and a long blink to gather my courage, and I climb to my feet.