Play It Forward

by Frederick Smith

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Dirty little secrets can lead to public scandals and unexpected love affairs…

  Malcolm Campbell is the director of a south Los Angeles organization focused on mentoring gay youth, and his nineteen-year-old nephew, Blake, is being sent to stay with him for the summer. Malcolm has always been a community and family role model everyone looks up to. But he also has a secret he never knew he had… until it pops up on the Internet.

  Across town, in the closed and closeted world of Black Hollywood celebrity, pro-basketball player Tyrell Kincaid and R&B singer Tommie Jordan are public heroes in a very private relationship. After a series of indiscretions and slipups, the relationship becomes fodder for speculation and outing by the paparazzi and nationally-known gossip reporter Livonia Birmingham.

  Despite living in two different worlds in L.A., Malcolm, Blake, Tommie, and Tyrell find themselves in the same arena, where they’ll have to risk it all to protect their hearts and their destiny.

  Play It Forward

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

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  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Play It Forward

  © 2015 By Frederick Smith. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-293-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: January 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Greg Herren and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast

  Preface

  Our communities have made lots of progressive history in the past few years or so. A lot has changed since 2009, the year this novel is set:

  The election of President Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, and a Black First Family in the White House.

  Marriage equality bans being challenged and struck down by state and federal courts.

  Revenge porn laws, making it a prosecutable crime to “get back” at someone online if they choose to leave a relationship.

  Sports heroes like Jason Collins and Michael Sam, among others, declaring who they are and making it easier to be out, proud, and a current professional in sports.

  Talented musicians like Frank Ocean, among others, declaring who he is and making it easier to be out, proud, and a current professional in hip-hop, R&B, and pop music.

  The public figures make it easy.

  The private figures, those neighborhood celebrities, so to speak, do the hard work in Black, Chicana / o Latina / o, Asian Pacific Islander communities to make life easier for their community members to accept their same-gender-loving, two-spirit, gay, queer family members and friends. They run community organizations in their own ’hoods to make life easier…to be a safer space…to show the intersections of race, class, and gender.

  My hat goes off to the professionals who run these LGBTQ organizations in their communities and on college campuses. My hat goes off to my Student Affairs and Student Union colleagues who work to help all students—but especially queer students and queer students of color—find a home away from home. My hat goes off to the scholars doing people of color, queer, and queer people of color scholarship on their campuses, making sure that these stories are given their proper place in academia and history. There are too many to be named, but if you know them…applaud them. If you are one…pat yourself on the back.

  A lot has happened since the 2008 election of President Barack Obama. We’ve made history. We have a lot more work to do—challenging racism, classism, sexism within the LGB community. Helping to push forward an agenda for the transgender community. Seeing connections between all oppressions, and not just the ones that directly affect you.

  You can do a lot more to make history, wherever and whoever you are.

  Yes, we can all make change!

  Frederick Smith

  September 2014

  Chapter 1

  June 2009

  Much of the trouble started when that video I made, but didn’t really make, hit the Internet.

  I was on my second round of Grey Goose and tonics with my best friend Kyle and his longtime love, Bernard. It was a seventy-degree Sunday evening in June, just before the large rush of younger Black guys made their way into The Abbey in West Hollywood, just before the ambient lounge music transitioned to the current hip-hop songs. Though we enjoyed a good time out, we enjoyed it with the company of other thirty-somethings, and at a time of day when we could actually hear our conversations above the sound of music.

  Kyle, Bernard, and I were this close to winding down our time together—as we all worked and had somewhere to be on Monday morning—when Bernard, troublemaker that he is, brought up the long-gone Clinton-Obama rift of 2008. He knew how to get me started and thus delay our departure.

  “I still can’t believe you voted for that lady, Malcolm,” Bernard said rather loudly, his cocktail swirling but never spilling out of the glass in his left hand. “I am still holding that against you. You lost your Black card with me.”

  “Oh gosh,” Kyle said and rolled his eyes. Everyone knew Bernard loved a debate…and trouble. Kyle could be equally dramatic. That made them a good match for the past eight years. “Here we go again. That was almost a year ago. Give it a rest.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m not going to get into it. We all know Hillary was much more experienced and ready for day one on the job than Barack was.”

  Bernard rolled his eyes and continued, “How can you say that? Most of her alleged experience was on her husband’s watch.”

  That was when I noticed my phone ringing. A call from my sister in Indiana. A downer, much like the political debate Bernard was trying to reel me into again. I wasn’t feeling having this political commentary over cocktails, especially for
an election competition a year behind us.

  “Having that inside knowledge of how things work and how to make things happen is experience,” I said. “It’s called social and cultural capital, but it’s all a moot point. Election is long over. We made history and Barack is the man.”

  “True, but I’m a long way from forgetting,” Bernard said with a laugh. Raised his glass to mine and we toasted. Political rivals in our minds, but friends because he loved my best friend Kyle. “To unity…and change.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said reluctantly, and toasted with Bernard and Kyle. Noticed a lot of our thirty-something acquaintances were being replaced by twenty-somethings. That tended to happen just around seven on Sunday evenings at The Abbey. “The kids are starting to arrive, and I want to be gone before it gets too crowded and all that drama that comes with them starts. And I definitely don’t want to see anyone from LADS.”

  “Amen to that, girl,” Kyle said and placed his almost-empty glass on a nearby table. “I don’t know how these kids stay out all night on Sunday, as if they don’t have to work or go to school on Monday. I’m already going over my to-do list in my mind.”

  “Please, baby,” Bernard interrupted. “Most of them don’t have jobs. Trifling little things. So glad I’m not on the market now.”

  Bernard kissed Kyle on the cheek, and they gave each other that look lovers give when they want to do couples things in bed later. I felt like quite the third wheel, though it’s something Kyle and Bernard would never say out loud. We’d been doing our Sunday afternoon meetings at The Abbey for years, even before Black people started taking over Sundays.

  “I don’t know how they can afford these fifteen-dollar drinks like they do,” I said. The Abbey was known for its pricey mojitos and martinis of all flavors, but most people ignored the prices, as the bar was the best place to see and be seen in gay and gay-friendly L.A. We were all playing Hollywood, even if it wasn’t our reality. I’d exchanged my standard khaki pants and button-down for something a little more casual and Abbey-worthy. Hollywood, I could never quite fit the part or find myself paying for those designers and labels that many wore…just because. I’d never been the fit-in-just-because type.

  “Okaaaay.”

  “Most of them are pretending to be someone’s stylist, assistant, or an actor, or whatever,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe how many ‘models’ and ‘singers’ come into LADS for the free food vouchers…Oh, okay, go ahead and make out while I talk, guys.” I did air-quotes around the so-called careers of the young men I encountered in my day job.

  Bernard whispered a sweet nothing in Kyle’s ear and pulled him closer. Eight years and still happy. Still making out with each other like day one, they looked like two chocolate drops joined at the hip.

  As my friends hugged and kissed each other, out of the corner of my eye I could see a group of young brothas, probably in their early twenties, staring and pointing our way. First, I thought it was the rare surprise of seeing Black-on-Black romance in West Hollywood that caught their curiosity and attention. Black guys were friends, not potential love interests, in West Hollywood. I was sure none of them had had any Black romantic couples as role models, but then again I couldn’t assume anything these days. My work with young, Black gay men at the LADS organization opened my eyes to the fact that not everyone grew up middle class with two parents like I did. The job definitely challenged my upbringing and comfort zone. Nothing was a surprise. Anything could happen, and often did.

  Much like it did when one of the twenty-something men, dressed in a black V-neck T-shirt, gray shorts, and black Oakland Raiders hat, nodded at me as a directive to walk his way. I excused myself from Kyle and Bernard, as they were on their way to third base and ignoring me at the moment, and walked across the room toward the massive fireplace near the front of The Abbey where brotha stood.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Didn’t know much else to say. His presence intimidated me a bit. Young, athletic, cute, masculine brotha. Definitely not the type that would put me in his target demographic. I knew he had to be a good ten years younger than me. But I wasn’t looking for any type of romantic relationship, so shyness and intimidation wasn’t necessary. As I got closer to him, I could tell he loved Hanae Mori cologne. Smelled good on him.

  “Whaddup, bro?”

  “Not much,” I said.

  He held out his free hand to fist-bump mine.

  “What you up to?”

  “Just about to head out,” I said, deepening my voice, shortening my phrasing, performing masculinity. “Came in earlier with a couple buddies over there.”

  “Damn, thas too bad,” he said and smiled. Nice set of pearly whites contrasted beautifully against his rich mahogany skin. “You looking good, bro.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and replied like a nerd, “You don’t look so bad yourself. I like your cologne.”

  This small talk on looking good was definitely a set-up for a one-nighter, since we hadn’t even exchanged names yet. After a couple Grey Goose and tonics, I could have been game, had brotha not looked like some of the clients I served at LADS. I wasn’t going to turn into one of those thirty-something midlife-crisis cases who got off on picking up guys who could be their younger brother, cousin, or worse yet, son. Back in my twenties and early thirties, when I was single and desperately looking for anyone, and working at the bank, I would have taken a guy like this home for the night. No questions asked. No background check. Sometimes no names exchanged. That was how I’d ended up with a string of exes whose lives were the social issue of the month. Now, I was happily single and looking for more than a one-night-only kind of arrangement. And I definitely wasn’t looking for drama or to help someone else solve their drama. That was only for work.

  “Turn around for me, man,” he said. Snapped me back to reality from my dating flashback.

  I smiled and said, “Excuse me?”

  “I wanna see what you working with up close.”

  “You talking to the wrong guy,” I said. “I’m not like that.”

  “Oh, so it’s like that, then?” he said. “Thas okay, man. I seen your ass halfway across the room. I knew it was you. Thas whassup.”

  He nodded and pursed lips at me. Like he was sizing me up. I knew the look, having been around the block myself over the years. But I didn’t know this young man, his history, health status, or motive for sizing me up.

  “How about names?” I said, wanting to change the subject and get us on track to normal conversation. I’d pretty much determined I wasn’t going to do anything with him beyond The Abbey. “I’m Malcolm. You’re?”

  “Just call me Compton for now,” he said and nodded.

  “As in…from Compton?” I said, a little confused, and waited for a response or explanation. None came. I’m such a nerd at times. Silence. “All right.”

  One of his friends brought back three drinks from the bar and handed two to Compton. Berry martinis in tall glasses.

  “Take a sip,” he said. “I want you all liquored up tonight, man. Thas whassup.”

  “Thanks,” I said, to be polite. “But no thanks. I don’t take drinks when I haven’t seen them getting made. And I’ve already had two. Gotta drive.”

  “Two for me, then,” he said. Chuckled. Tossed the straw out of one drink and gulped down about half in one swallow. “You one of them proper niggas, huh? That’s cool. I know them proper niggas like you get freaky in the sheets.”

  I hated the whole tired conversation about who speaks like what. Kinda like how who voted for whom in primary elections a year ago validated one’s membership in the Black community. I knew it—the talking-proper conversation—was a class thing, how people valued education as children, how people sized up community allegiance. But this was not the time for giving Compton a sociology lesson. Nor was I very keen on befriending a guy who, like many other young men without social skills, communicated his desires through sex talk and conquests.

  “Compton, you don’t know m
e and I don’t know you,” I said. “I understand you’re young and probably don’t know a lot about how real men want to be treated and approached, but the talk about sex. Not so much.”

  He put his berry martinis in an empty spot on the fireplace ledge and pulled out his iPhone.

  “I know you well, Carlton,” he said and ran his fingers across the face of the phone. Even though we were almost twenty years past The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air TV show, the character Carlton was still synonymous with being a proper-speaking Black nerd, even though I didn’t think Carlton was a nerd.

  My phone rang again. My sister, again, from Indianapolis. Must be urgent. No one calls long distance, over and over, without some kind of emergency. I knew something had to be up.

  “It’s Malcolm,” I said, correcting Compton again. “Hold on a sec. I gotta take this. Be right back.”

  I walked toward the patio door at the front of The Abbey. Just a tad quieter than inside, but quiet enough for a thirty-something not to have to shout in the receiver of a cell phone.

  “What’s going on, Marlena?” I said. Don’t laugh at my sister’s name—our mom loved Days of Our Lives back in the day.

  “It’s your nephew, that’s what’s going on,” she said. She sounded pissed off, once more, about Blake, her oldest son, my only nephew. Again, don’t laugh at my nephew’s name—my sister loved Dynasty as a teenager.

  “What did Blake do now?”

  “He’s still spending all his goddamn time on that damn Internet, meeting all kinds of strangers,” Marlena said. “I just walked in on him getting head from this boy from down the street he went to high school with…and the house reeked of weed. I can’t take it no more.”

  My sister Marlena had always had a difficult time with Blake. Her other kids, the twin girls, were angels compared to their older brother, born in Marlena’s senior year of high school.