“And that’s why you love me, sister.” MJ leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as he slid back onto the bar stool. “So what us gon’ do now that we ain’t got no jobs? You know I ride or die for you, girl, but MJ isn’t going back to the shampoo bowl.”
I couldn’t even think about that right now, but I knew we had to find something fast before Kris and Hollywood Scoop Media blacklisted me throughout the entire industry. I toyed with the idea of a wrongful termination suit and called an employment lawyer friend who told me I definitely had a case. But I knew even if I won the case, after months of litigation and a six-figure legal bill, no one would ever hire me again and my career would officially be over for real.
Even though I couldn’t process the idea of finding a new job, I knew I’d need to get my act together quickly, because with Eric moving out, I needed a new gig ASAP to keep a roof over my damn head.
“Bartender, keep ’em coming.” I raised my glass, waiting for a refill.
The persistent and annoying vibration of my cell phone was what finally woke me up. I rolled over in the queen-size bed Eric and I used to share, still dressed in the suit I had worn yesterday—the shittiest day of my life.
MJ and I had drowned our collective sorrows in endless rounds of Hennessy and mojitos and bad karaoke at Coltrane’s. I had managed to stumble home at some ungodly hour and had fallen straight into bed. I now tried to raise my throbbing head up from the pillow, but it was too heavy. I blindly felt around with my hand to grab the phone off the dusty nightstand. I could only manage to open one eye to squint at the flashing number on my phone. I saw a New York area code, but I didn’t recognize the rest of the numbers, so I let the call go to voice mail. The caller didn’t leave a message, choosing instead to call back less than a minute later. I answered, figuring whoever it was wouldn’t do anything but keep calling until I did.
“Hello?” I mumbled hoarsely. The scratchy sound of my own voice made my head throb even harder. No more mojitos. Damn you, MJ.
“Hey, girl. Wake up. It’s Vanessa,” said a much-too-cheery voice on the other end of the line.
“Hey, V.,” I said. My voice cracked as I registered that the happy tone from another planet was that of Vanessa King, all-around homegirl and my former college roommate. We both earned our stripes growing up in rough neighborhoods, me on Chicago’s South Side and Vanessa in Compton, and we became fast friends the moment we stepped on Harvard’s campus freshman year with the same inner-city chips on our shoulders.
I sat up in bed, raking my hand through my short matted hair, mad at myself that I hadn’t tied it up with the scarf last night. As the memories of yesterday’s firing and last night’s breakup rushed into my consciousness, I fell back into the pile of pillows on my bed, groaning. “Oh, my head.”
“Damn, girl. Aren’t you too old for hangovers?” Vanessa chuckled. “Wake up, heffa. I need to talk to you.”
“Girl, if only you knew. I just had the day from hell.” I slowly recounted the past twenty-four hours to Vanessa. As I repeated the details of the single worst day ever, I tried to quiet the rising nausea in my stomach with a swig of the Pepto-Bismol I kept in the nightstand drawer. I placed the bottle back in the drawer stuffed with travel brochures, home decorating magazines, and real estate listings. This drawer might as well be called the drawer of lost dreams. I’d always loved to travel, and I collected travel brochures about all the places I dreamed of going with Eric. The magazines were dog-eared with furnishings and paint colors for the dream home Eric and I said we were going to buy for our family one day. Buying a home for my family would also be a part of a dream I’d had since I was a child who grew up bouncing from apartment to apartment when my mom couldn’t pay the rent. I had always wanted to be the first in my family to own a home. But what family? What home? I’d been busy giving my life to Hollywood Scoop! for the last five years, and now that Kris has tossed me out on my ass, I had nothing to show for it. No family, no man, no memories.
As I heard my seven-year-old godson, Damon, laughing in the background, my stomach clenched. Would I ever have children of my own? Or had that possibility died along with my journalism career and my relationship with Eric?
“I’m so sorry,” Vanessa said. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I should have. That certainly would have been better than going out with MJ’s crazy ass. MJ, who made me have another drink every time I mentioned Eric’s name because he said he was officially black history. You know he never liked us together.”
“MJ’s possessive ass never likes you with anyone,” she snorted, laughing. “He’s like a jealous boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else to have you. Except no sex.”
“Stop playing. You know there’s no one for MJ but Ms. Beyoncé. I do believe that boy would go straight for her.”
“I know that’s right.” Vanessa giggled. “So what are you going to do about a new gig? You should come out here to New York and find something new.”
Vanessa had been saying this to me for weeks, ever since she and her husband, NBA All-Star Marcus King, was traded to the New York Gladiators. I’ve sat through enough teary phone calls over the years to know that Vanessa was looking at this trade as a fresh start for her husband’s career and their struggling marriage. She told me that having me there would give her some support and a real friend in a city full of fakes.
“I may just have to, girl. Knowing Kris, I’m sure I’m blacklisted at all the LA media companies.” I had worked really hard to get to this point in my career, and the thought of starting over brought tears to my puffy eyes. I let a few fall onto the pillow, sniffing hard to stop my running nose.
“Ah, hell. I know you’re not crying over that witch! We are better than that. No one gets the best of us!”
“I know but damn. Did she really have to fire me?” I whined into the phone, giving into my pain of losing both my job and Eric in the same day. I wasn’t sure which hurt more.
“OK, look, I think I can get you a job interview within the week if you’d seriously consider moving to New York.”
“Really?” I didn’t dare get my hopes up.
“Yeah, a soror of mine, DeAnna George, is the president of the publishing unit of PrimeTime Media Group, and over dinner last week, she was telling me about all the drama she was going through to find a new editor for one of their properties, DivaDish magazine and the website.”
“I’ll take it!” I said quickly into the phone. Suddenly the thought of a new job and a new life three thousand miles away from Hollywood Scoop! and Eric sounded like a lifeline I couldn’t afford to pass up.
“Well, slow down, sister. It’s not my job to offer, but you know I’ll put in the serious good word and lean on her to make it happen. She’s always trying to get Marcus and me to give one of her publications an interview, so I’m sure she’ll be salivating if she thinks I owe her something.” Vanessa laughed.
“For real, V., you know I’ve always wanted to run my own show, and no one is better connected than me. That brand is hot and has a lot of potential.”
“Consider it done. I’ll call her as soon as we get off the phone.”
I smiled and thanked my best friend for always having my back. We caught up on how the move was going, her search for a new home, and getting Damon settled into a new school.
“So why are you calling me from a new phone number?” I asked.
“Kareem got me yet another cell phone,” Vanessa said, sighing into the phone.
“Kareem is still on the payroll? I thought you were going to get Marcus to fire him and get a new agent? I know that’s your man cousin and all, but he has no business managing Marcus’s career. He’s so shady.”
“Girl, don’t I wish. You know I want that bastard out of our lives, but he’s fam, and if I learned nothing from Marcus during our marriage, don’t nothing come between him and his boy.” Basketball players were no
torious for carrying childhood friends and family members on the payroll, but Marcus had upgraded his cousin to agent/manager, giving him a damn near twenty-four-hour presence in Vanessa and Marcus’s marriage. A former basketball star himself, he had grown up with Marcus. The two of them actually looked more like brothers than cousins with the same six-foot-five frame, ebony skin tone, and lean, muscled athletic build.
“OK, forget Kareem. This is like your third new phone number in the last six months. What’s Kareem up to now?”
“Kareem says it’s a new security thing with us moving to New York. I’ll explain when you get here. Look, I’ve got to bounce and take Damon to his doctor’s appointment. I’ll call you as soon as I speak with DeAnna. Hopefully you guys can get on the phone together today.”
“I really appreciate this, V. Honestly, you have no idea.”
“No doubt, girl. We always have each other’s backs. You just hurry up and get your butt to New York.”
She laughed, and then her voice turned serious. “After all, I need my best friend in the same city if I’m going to survive the concrete jungle.”
CHAPTER 2
Vanessa
Marcus!”
“Marcus!”
“Mrs. King!”
“Marcus and Mrs. King! Over here, please!”
The flashing cameras and the bright lights from all the TV crews were blinding. I tried to put my head down and into Marcus’s back while he clutched my hand as we made our way through the screaming crowd.
I couldn’t remember the last time he held my hand.
I could smell the hypnotic scent of his Prada cologne through the dark gray wool of his double-breasted Zegna suit, which was complemented by a crisp white-and-black pinstripe shirt with French cuffs, gleaming onyx cuff links, and an ebony silk tie. My man looked like $150 million and worth every penny the New York Gladiators were paying him.
And I was holding my own today if I did say so myself.
At twenty-eight, and after giving birth to our son, Damon, I could still turn a brother’s head with my lush curves, tiny waist, and full breasts that stood at attention. My milk-chocolate skin gleamed with Donna Karan body-sparkle lotion. A bright red silk Roland Mouret off-the-shoulder knit dress hugged my Coke-bottle curves that would make Pam Grier look anorexic in comparison. I paired the dress with black patent leather Jimmy Choo platform stilettos. Walter, my hairstylist, had slicked back my thick jet-black shoulder-length hair into a chic high ponytail with a pompadour that elongated my features. My favorite makeup artist, Kiki, who had come to our apartment at what seemed like the crack of dawn, had done her magic, too. I inherited my mother’s flawless deep mocha skin, so Kiki opted for Bobbi Brown’s ultrasheer foundation and highlighted my high, sharp cheekbones with a shimmery bronzer. My eyes, large dark brown pools flecked with hints of gold in the light, were accented with smoky shades of honey gold and warm brown. Kiki added a few silky lashes in the corners for pop and arched my thick black eyebrows to perfection. For my lips, she finished with a matte crimson shade from Dior that was a bit brighter than I’d normally choose, but today was a very special occasion.
We were aiming for the stage in the front of the Madison Square Garden pressroom where Gladiator owner Davis Jennings, Coach Brad Townsend, and Kareem stood applauding at the front of the room. As we tried to weave our way through the throng of screaming reporters, I smoothed down the front of my dress and silently prayed that my hair would stay in place with the rising heat in the tiny room. I have hair like Oprah; it’s superthick and seems to grow overnight. Everyone thinks it’s a weave, and sometimes it has a mind of its own, so hopefully Walter had used enough pomade to keep my edges in place. The last thing I needed was photos of raggedy flyaways in the front of my hairline to pop up on those nasty gossip blogs.
The Madison Square Garden pressroom was packed, as well it should be.
After all, the King had finally come to New York.
Marcus’s trade to the struggling New York franchise had been speculated about for months. He was billed as the silver bullet that would bring a championship to the Big Apple, and the entire city—from the mayor, to the tourism board, and fans posting videos on YouTube—had been pushing for him to come. And I was, too. It was time for a fresh start, not only for Marcus’s career but also for our marriage. It was time to leave the scandal behind us.
Marcus and I had been so happy in the beginning of our marriage. We met our junior year at Inglewood High School. He was the star basketball player and had all the girls chasing after him, but I played it cool. After all, I was fine as hell and had all the boys sniffing around me, so there was no need to chase. Once I decided to give him the time of day, there were immediate sparks. He was fine and he knew it. I was cute and I knew it. But the first night we met, we talked forever, and it was as if everyone at the school faded away. He was tall with smooth dark skin, cheekbones that could cut glass, full juicy lips, sexy hooded ebony eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, and a smooth, confident walk that looked like a panther’s. He approached me in the school hallway and without comment walked me away from the guy who had been trying to spit some tired game. I was hooked and he knew it.
I had always been focused on my classes and getting out of Inglewood as quickly as possible, but I hadn’t counted on falling in love with Marcus. We tried to see each other as often as we could, but with his rigorous practice schedule and my mom keeping me on lock with my studies, it was tough. His cousin and best friend, Kareem, was also on the team. Handsome basketball stars who looked as if they could have been brothers, the two of them ran our school. I could tell Kareem didn’t like that Marcus and I had started dating. I was standing in the way of him and his boy and the harem of girls that seemed to trail them in the hallways Monday through Friday. Kareem ate up the attention, but Marcus soon had eyes only for me. Kareem couldn’t understand why he settled for one girl. I’m sure he had hoped after graduation things would cool off when we all headed off to college, but they didn’t.
After we graduated, Marcus and Kareem went to UCLA, and I flew east to Harvard with dreams of becoming a child psychologist. A long-distance relationship was tough, but Marcus and I made it work. One night when Marcus and I returned to his dorm after I had managed to scrounge up enough money to fly home to LA to celebrate his birthday, Kareem had left a little present of his own: a buxom blond stripper wearing nothing but Marcus’s game jersey in his bed. Marcus tried to get me to laugh off what he said was Kareem’s little prank as he pushed the pouting girl out of his room, but from that moment on, Kareem was officially on my shit list. So when Marcus came out of UCLA as a first-round draft pick for the Phoenix Lasers and named Kareem as his new agent, I wasn’t happy that he was going to continue to be a part of our lives. A car accident had ended Kareem’s college ball career a few months earlier, and Marcus was determined that he and his cousin would live their NBA dream together, so I kept my mouth shut.
Marcus felt like he owed Kareem since he wasn’t able to get to the pros like he did.
I always suspected that Kareem was shady, but every time I tried to talk to Marcus about my concerns, he shut me down. He just couldn’t or wouldn’t see that Kareem didn’t have our best interests at heart, and I knew someone else could have done a better job managing him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been stealing money from us, but there was no way to tell, because Kareem had a tight grip on our finances. Even during our quarterly financial review with Kareem, I was never quite sure how much Marcus had made and how much was going out. Marcus only halfway paid attention, so he was not even concerned that something could be wrong.
We were excited that he had finally achieved his dream of playing in the NBA. We knew we wanted to get married eventually, but right before the draft our senior year, I found out I was pregnant and Marcus was adamant that we get married right away. We didn’t want our child to grow up without a father in his life,
so we went down to the justice of the peace that summer and got married right after he signed his contract with the Lasers. We moved to Phoenix, and our little prince, Damon Marcus King, was born six months later. Our little family was complete. And I prayed we would always be that happy.
As soon as we moved to Phoenix, the other NBA wives tried to school me in the treacherous realities of being married to a professional athlete. And while I listened patiently, I believed that Marcus loved me too much to succumb to the groupies who would be lying in wait in every city to which they traveled. I learned the way the game was played. These tricks, white, black, Latina, Asian, Martian, whatever, were relentless in their pursuit of our men. And thanks to sites like Balleralert, those hookers could track their movements, share their hookup tips, and post their freaky sexcapades with players. Not to mention the whores that would flash their bare vayjayjays from the stands as players ran up and down the basketball court, and the bitches that would bribe a hotel housekeeper to let them into a player’s room and would lie naked across his bed, willing to do whatever he wanted after a game on the road. I heard so many unbelievable groupie-gone-wild stories from the other NBA wives that my guard was up even though I thought that wouldn’t ever be something we would have to deal with. I trusted Marcus, and I knew he loved me.
For the first four years of our marriage, we were blissfully happy. I stayed home and raised Damon, putting aside my career dreams and telling myself my priority should be my family. I traveled with Marcus as much as I could, but three years ago I started to notice a change in Marcus as his star really began to rise and the pressure on his career increased along with the temptations. It seemed like everyone wanted a piece of my husband. Whether it was the media dissecting and critiquing every step he made on the court on SportsCenter, the coaching staff pushing him and his teammates to bring home a championship, or other players in the league trying to make a name for themselves by talking trash to or about him on court and in their own interviews, the pressure was intense. The worst for me was the chatter on the blogs. Instead of covering Hollywood’s leading men, they soon wanted to cover nothing but basketball players, their million-dollar contracts, lavish lifestyles, and sexcapades. The attention was relentless as the sites posted every picture they could get and featured straight-up lies speculating about players’ relationships, marriages, and sexuality. It was a dirty business. I tried to stop reading them, but of course whenever friends and family members saw something about Marcus, they always forwarded the links to me.
Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) Page 3