by Meta Smith
But this time the buzz was that the artist claimed he wanted as many girls as possible seen, not just the same faces. Usually, a label rep would call agents and have them send the production office head shots and comps of the top girls, but lately, there were more and more cattle calls, and the pay scale was getting lower and lower. The video girl thing was beginning to not be worth the effort.
This time not even her manager had the hookup. And normally, she would just say forget it. But for Bentley, she would make an exception. It was like some ghetto Cinderella story: a handsome prince wants to meet all the available ladies in the land to be by his side—in a video anyway. Desiree didn’t let that fade her, though. She knew that Titanium Records could see all the women in Miami, but none had the raw sex appeal she possessed. Her star was just starting to shine.
Desiree watched the girls ahead of her in the line audition. Some of those broads had to be on crack if they believed they had what it took to be in a video. A skinny, pale redhead busted out in a full-on cheerleading routine. She even ended it with a backflip. What the fuck was she thinking? This was a rap video casting, not the auditions for Bring It On.
Another girl ripped her dress off and began spasming all over the place in her underwear. She obviously thought she was doing one hell of a sensual striptease, because she kept on grooving after the casting directors screamed out, “Next!” three times. Then they had to call security to escort her out of the hotel. She reeked of liquor as the rent-a-cops dragged her past Desiree. She demanded to know right away if she had been selected, then threatened to key everybody’s car. Crazy bitch!
The girl directly in front of Desiree in the line surprised the shit out of everyone by standing on her head, splacking her legs open, and gyrating her hips. It was a move straight out of the shake booty club. After her little freak show she hopped up full of confidence and proudly strutted out of the room like she just knew she had a part on lock.
Desiree couldn’t have paid for a better time to audition. The clowns before her would only make her look better, if that was possible. And unexpectedly, Bentley and his crew came breezing in, causing a commotion. Looking extra crisp in a Sean John shorts sweat suit, a fresh white T-shirt, and immaculate Jordans, Bentley drew all eyes to himself. The crazy cheerleader shrieked and hounded him for an autograph. How unprofessional! He politely declined, saying he’d have to sign autographs
for everyone if he did one, and he was really only stopping by. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and any disappointment she may have felt vanished.
Bentley took a seat at the table with the casting directors. His boys nudged each other, taken aback by Desiree’s beauty. Desiree made eye contact with Bentley and felt a charge of electricity flow through her veins like a current. Bentley was fine as hell. He stood at six three, with a flawless golden brown complexion, a muscular frame, and a hypnotic smile complete with dimples. And he was tatted up and slightly rugged, just the way she liked her men. Desiree thought to herself how much she wanted to grab ahold of his freshly done cornrows and tongue him down. She felt her nipples harden and licked her lips sensually. Now was not the time for subtlety.
Bentley grinned at her, his straight white teeth sparkling as bright as the baguettes in the platinum cross dangling from his neck. She dug that he was fly without being overly flashy. Men who were too flossy were usually selfish: they spent all their dough on themselves. Desiree couldn’t do shit with a man like that. But Bentley was just her speed.
“I’m Desiree,” she stated to the casting directors before handing over a registration sheet and her comp card.
“Turn around, please,” a stoic, middle-aged white man demanded. Desiree pivoted slowly, making sure they drank in every inch of her curvaceous body.
Ayoungblondman operated avideocameraandaradiosimultaneously. He cued up the music, and Bentley’s latest release boomed from the speakers. Desiree grooved to the pulsating beat, her body moving fluidly as running water. Desiree was aware of the impact she was making and took full advantage. She shook her hips with sensual power, exuding pure sex appeal.
Judging by the casting directors’ faces and by the way Bentley’s crew was talking shit among themselves, Desiree knew the lead part would be going to her. Bentley gave Desiree a wink, and she thought her heart would explode out of her chest. Desiree wanted to stay and flirt with him, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. She had to let him know from jump that simply because he was a star wasn’t going to change her game. He’d have to come correct, just like everyone else. She wasn’t some green girl with the naïveté to think that she could sleep her way into a video; she was a professional. The casting couch was no myth, but women sleeping their way to the top happened far less often than most people thought.
Desiree left the audition confident and happy. There hadn’t been any
competition, but she spotted Ysenia Cruz, her sworn rival, coming in as she was on her way out the door. Ysenia was a bitch! She’d hated Desiree ever since Desiree beat her out to win a bikini contest at the All-Star Cafe. Petty shit. The prize was only five hundred dollars, but Ysenia acted like it was more like five thousand. Ysenia cut her eyes at her and made a bunch of slick-ass comments under her breath every time she saw her. Desiree wanted to beat her ass, but she knew that Ysenia really wasn’t worth it. But if she ever stepped out of line and jumped bad enough to actually say something to her face, Desiree was going to stomp her ass.
But not even Ysenia could spoil Desiree’s mood. As far as the video was concerned, it was a wrap. And as far as Bentley was concerned, Desiree could feel that this was the start of something big.
CHAPTER 12
D
ESIREE HIT THE SHOWER AS SOON AS SHE GOT BACK to her spacious one-bedroom apartment. She loved living in Surfside
because it was perfectly located. She was a short fifteen-minute ride to Aventura Mall, a ten-minute ride to South Beach, and within walking distance of Bal Harbour, the elite shopping center that housed some of the world’s most exclusive and expensive shops.
Desiree’s crib was hooked up lovely with white custom-made rugs, a plush white leather sectional, and a pink bedroom fit for a queen. She even collected art and had several avant-garde pieces on display. It looked just as good as any apartment in a magazine, and she loved coming home to it. After shacking up with Ginger and then Dan, it felt good to have a place to call her very own.
Desiree switched on the CD player and felt the sounds of Dave Hollister soothe her as they pumped crystal clear through the Bose surround sound system. Desiree went to her bedroom and took off her clothes. She sighed as the air from the cooling vent licked her overheated body. She wanted to roll a spliff, pour a glass of wine, and relax, but didn’t have time. Her major sponsor, K.G., was in town, and coming to scoop her in about an hour. She had to be breathtaking when she saw him, because she planned on hitting him up hard. Her birthday was coming up, and she planned on being laced lovely.
Desiree met K.G. over Memorial Day weekend, and he’d been open ever since. He was in his thirties, from Detroit, and paid out the ass. The old-school hustler type, real mellow and smooth, he told her he owned a couple of barbershops, beauty shops, and record stores in Detroit, Lansing, and Flint, Michigan, but Desiree knew that it was all just a front for his main enterprise: hustling. Desiree figured that out quickly because he always claimed to be in town on business. What the hell kind of business did he have to do for a barbershop or record store in Miami that he couldn’t do up in Michigan?
Desiree didn’t care though, because K.G. kept her pockets fat. He laced her with jewels and cash and was always a good time. The downside was he was a stone freak, a little too freaky for Desiree’s taste. Still, the payoff was worth it. Desiree knew that all men were dogs or freaks or perverts, so she didn’t expect much more. She figured if there was such a thing as a nice guy, he probably wouldn’t want her anyway.
A guy like K.G. couldn’t talk shit about her lifestyle, past or presen
t.
K.G. respected her hustle. He was grimy his damned self, so what could he say about her? She wasn’t hurting anybody; she was just doing her thing. Some guys had a real hang-up about dating a “video girl.” They’d get jealous or accuse them of fucking all the rappers, but K.G. seemed to get off on it. And he was always generous in showing his appreciation. Thanks to K.G. and a few other high rollers, all Desiree ever had to do was dress, rest, and wait for the next modeling job. But lately, that hadn’t been enough. She was yearning for something more.
Desiree knew that the video thing wouldn’t last forever. Pretty soon the next hotgirl would be on the scene and someone would put her on. Most girls only worked about two years if they were lucky before either folks got tired of looking at them or they got tired of being eye candy and moved on to something else. Desiree planned on staying in the limelight. All the rappers—Lil’ Kim, Foxy, Eve, Trina, even Missy—would have to bow down and give her props. She planned on a total takeover of the industry: music, films, fashion, the whole gamut. She was going to be a mogul like P Diddy or Russell, paid and powerful.
Within forty-five minutes, she was dressed in a black Prada sundress with ruffles at the hem and some matching Prada sandals. For accessories she rocked smoke-colored, rimless Prada sunglasses and a small black Prada purse. Though Desiree loved high fashion and haute couture, she hated being a walking mannequin. She preferred to mix and match quality vintage pieces with modern designers for her own signature, funky style, like she saw all the stars do, or have her clothes made. But K.G. had bought
her the outfit from the Prada store in Bal Harbour a month before and wanted to see her in it. So Desiree did what he wanted, because as long as he was hooking her up, his wish was her command.
K.G. arrived shortly thereafter in a rented Aston Martin Vanquish from Xotic Cars by the airport. They had all the fly whips, from Lamborghinis and Ferraris to Porsches and Hummers, and for the right price you could ride right. Desiree felt a wave of excitement as she got in the car. This was how she should always roll, she thought. She greeted K.G. with a juicy kiss and a warm hug. He liked it when she fawned all over him.
They dined at Smith & Wollensky. Desiree adored sitting on the restaurant’s deck and watching the speedboats and yachts pass by. The evening air was crisp and cool, a far cry from the mugginess of the day. She sipped on chardonnay and engaged in minor chitchat with K.G. Mostly, he commandeered the conversation, boasting on his mansion in Southfield, his fleet of tricked-out Caddys, and his collection of rainbow-hued Mauri gators. Desiree felt herself both disgusted by his cockiness and arrogance and fascinated with his down-to-earth Midwest style. He was an asshole and the boy next door all at once. But one thing was certain: he knew how to treat a woman.
They cruised the strip until around midnight, riding down Washington and Ocean Avenue Drive, flossing the Aston Martin. Desiree relished all the attention she was receiving, posing and preening like there were cameras rolling. It was obvious that K.G. loved having a trophy like Desiree by his side by the size of the smile plastered on his face the whole time. When they rolled up to valet parking at one of her favorite spots, Club Level, Desiree was in seventh heaven. Monday nights at Level were always off the chain. The line snaked down Washington, but Desiree and
K.G. bypassed it and went straight to the velvet rope. The club’s doormen were handpicking people to enter, but welcomed Desiree with open arms and warm smiles. Desiree always brought in big spenders, so practically every doorman at every club on the beach was always happy to see her. They knew they were going to get broken off properly by her escort. Desiree noticed the C-note K.G. discreetly slipped Fabrice, the host, impressed by his confidence and attitude. He was a man who knew he deserved the best and made sure that everyone else knew it too.
Hip-hop pumped through the club, putting Desiree in a partying mood. She made a beeline for the ladies’ room while the VIP hostess led
K.G. to their table in the VIP section of the main room. K.G. liked to be in the middle of all the action, so he preferred that location to the several other VIP sections in the enormous venue.
Desiree hoped that she wouldn’t run into Bentley. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him; she didn’t want him to see her with the next nigga. Hustlers were one way but celebrities and athletes were much different. They had another set of rules, and Desiree didn’t play that game anymore. She lived and breathed the streets; she didn’t have time to fuck with studio gangsters and bright suit-wearing ballers always competing with her for shine. Those cats couldn’t handle a bitch like her, though she was going to make an exception with Bentley. He seemed like the real deal, not a faker. They could be a power couple, but with a Bonnie and Clyde twist. Yeah, Bentley was a nigga she could ride for.
Desiree arrived at her and K.G.’s table to an ice-cold bottle of Cristal. Desiree calculated how much money he’d spent on her so far. At least two to three hundred at dinner, another six hundred on the bottle, and he’d more than likely buy another one. Desiree wondered how much money he made. He was definitely a major player in the dope game, and not some street corner hustler. Ironically, K.G. was low-profile on the Miami streets. Usually, the serious hustlers all had a name for themselves, even the ones from out of town. A few of the girls she knew who were kicking it with heavyweights in the drug game had never seen him before he started going out with Desiree, and didn’t know shit about him.
Desiree liked it that way. Keep them bitches guessing at all times. But Desiree was also guessing. She wondered how much of his time he devoted to his legal business and how deep was his connection to the streets. Did he deal directly with a cartel? Was he hooked up with Colombians or, even worse, Russians? Desiree realized that she didn’t really know K.G. at all, but his money spent, so what difference did it make?
“What’s on your mind, baby girl?” K.G. interrupted her thoughts over the music, startling her.
She smiled innocently. “Whether or not we’re going shopping tomorrow. I saw this really sexy lingerie at La Perla, and I want to model it for you.”
K.G. grinned at her. “Nah, baby girl! Remember I told you that after my meeting tomorrow I gotta bounce,” he said. Desiree’s face fell.
“Don’t worry, baby girl. I ain’t forget that your birthday is coming up. I’ma break you off, and you can pick that up, as well as some shit to wear in the Virgin Islands. I’m taking you there in a couple of weeks, so clear your calendar. You haven’t been there before, have you?”
“Nope,” Desiree lied. She was a little disappointed because when she shopped with K.G., it was like having a walking credit line.
“Yeah, get that La Perla, some fly swimsuits, and nothing but sexy shit.
I’ma give you your own Platinum card. We gonna do the damn thang.” It was music to Desiree’s ears. Desiree clinked his champagne glass with hers and took a long gulp. She knew that she should sip the good shit, but she was in the mood to celebrate.
They spent a few hours getting bubbly, getting their groove on, and mingling with some of the other ballers. Level was off the glass! It was filled to capacity with the trendsetters and tastemakers, all dressed in the latest gear, drinking and having a good time. White, black, Latin, and Asian had all come together for the love of hip-hop. There wasn’t shit like it anywhere! New York and L.A. clubs closed at 2 a.m., maybe 4. But in Miami the party don’t stop until it’s over, whatever time that is. After the clubs close, there’s always an after-party, breakfast, or the hotel.
Desiree heard the DJ shout out to Bentley and his crew around 3 a.m., but the crowd was so thick that she couldn’t see him. Good, she thought. He probably can’t see me either! Desiree planned on playing it demure with Bentley. She was going to be all whispers and softness like Marilyn Monroe, one of her idols. She’d let a little toughness show through, but only to make sure he stayed interested. No man really wanted a pushover. She wanted to be sweet but not square. A square girl would never be able to snag Bentley.
&
nbsp; Looking out at the crowd of revelers, Desiree wondered why no one in Miami had a real job, because if they did, she didn’t know how they managed to do it. There was too much temptation, too many good times to be had. Who could kick it like this and then go to some nine-to-five in the morning?
K.G. and Desiree left Level around 4:30 a.m., and Dez thought she spotted Bentley in an upstairs VIP section on their way out, but couldn’t be sure. People were still packed like sardines, and Desiree couldn’t see that far without her glasses, which she never ever wore.
Desiree and K.G. rode to the News Cafe on Ocean and picked up a sandwich for him and a fruit plate for her, then headed to K.G.’s luxurious suiteat the Delano Hotel. Desiree adored the way the white fabric billowing from the archway flowed in the balmy night breeze. She wouldn’t mind an accent like that at her oceanfront mansion after she made it big. She also loved that the hotel had no signage. That’s what made it so exclusive and special to her. If you didn’t know what the Delano was, you didn’t need to be there.
Once in the suite, Desiree nibbled on her fruit while K.G. took a shower. She had only managed to munch on a few strawberries and pieces of succulent watermelon before K.G. called out asking her to join him.