The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  “And so you trash the damn room, Kendrick?” Jamal hissed his teeth. “I wonder how your wife gon’ feel about you once she hear that. Her daddy’s what again? A preacher, right?”

  At that, Kendrick’s head snapped upward and he looked at Jamal, his eyes desperate. “Fuck!” he said. “She never gon’ take me back now.”

  Jamal shrugged. “Nor should she. ‘Cause you’re an idiot.”

  “Jay, how you gon’ do me like that? You know …”

  “Here’s what I know. I know I was about to spend the day with the woman who’s gon’ be my wife. And you know what else I know? Instead of spending the day with her, I’m with your stupid ass, fishin’ you out of some trouble you ain’t have no business gettin’ into in the first place. And …”

  “But J …”

  “Shut up. I’m not done. And listen to this real close right here … the next time you do some shit like you did today? Do. Not. Call. Me. This shit is not my job any longer. You feel me?”

  “Oh, so you too big for all this now, huh, Mr. CEO? Well fuck you, Jay.”

  “Fuck you, too, Kendrick,” Jamal said affably. “Now where am I takin’ you? Because you damn sure ain’t comin’ home with me.”

  “Kayla!”

  Jamal tossed his keys on the foyer table as he entered the apartment, but apart from the clatter of the keys’ metal against glass, the space was quiet. He had known even before he got there that she would probably be gone. He’d dropped her off before heading for the Mandarin, and the drive back home had been made in stony silence. Out front, she’d exited the car without saying a word, and went in without looking back.

  If he had to guess, he would bet she had been on the phone with Devin before she even got to the elevator. And that was where she likely was now. As much as Jamal wanted to call her and tell her to get her butt home, his next move had to be a carefully choreographed one.

  Now, finally, she understood that as his woman, there were some things he had a right to demand—that she not spend the night at Devin Parks’ apartment for any reason, ever; that she go easy on all that touchy-feely shit they used to do; and that she always put their relationship first. The silent bargain Jamal had struck with her, and with himself was that he would try never to put her in a position where she had to choose between the two most important men in her life.

  And hell, the truth was, he wasn’t always sure that if she had to, Kayla would choose him. For that reason, and that reason alone—or mostly, anyway—it was still sometimes extremely difficult to be civil to Devin Parks.

  But now that he knew Kayla was out with him, probably helping him choose an apartment, Jamal was torn. He had a free Saturday and he wanted to spend it with her, but if she wasn’t around, he could go to the office for a few hours. On the other hand, something told him that if she came home and he wasn’t there—again—the tiny fissure caused by him being away for almost two weeks and then running out on her this afternoon would widen further.

  Heading into the den, he searched for his iPad, and began checking email. Most were messages he could leave till Monday to address, and others were too involved and would probably pull him into hours’ worth of work, so were best left unattended. But there was one that caught his eye.

  “Look at this,” he said to himself. “A blast from the past.”

  Madison Palmer.

  Madison was the dark-haired beauty he had been seeing when Makayla first came to work for him. A former model, now an attorney, she had made Jamal an offer.

  ‘Let’s build something together,’ she’d said. ‘Choose me, and let’s build something.’

  And he’d tried. When Devin Park’s demons had split him and Kayla up, he tried once again to make it work with Madison, but something was missing with her. In his quiet moments, all he could think about was the girl with the cute, button nose, sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, head tilted to one side, twisting her locs, and blushing as he kissed his way up her leg, from instep to calf to thigh, and higher still.

  It remained one of the big unsolved mysteries of his life: that he could never make himself feel for Madison what he felt then—and still now—for the wholly counter-intuitive choice, Makayla Hughes. Still, there was no question that she was the right choice; she was his rib, his missing piece.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t happy to hear from Madison.

  Jamal opened the message which had as a subject line: Hey Stranger! Opening it, he read the few lines she’d written: Did you know I moved back to Atlanta? I’m guessing not. Best thing I ever did. Getting married in four weeks and coming to NYC to do some last-minute shopping for the big day. Would love to have lunch or something. I have lots to tell you. Call me. I hope you didn’t toss my number.

  M.

  Jamal smiled. He couldn’t say he often thought about Madison once they parted for good, but occasionally, he had regret. Not for letting her go, but for not feeling badly enough about letting her go. And he sometimes remembered her long enough to hope that wherever she was, she was with someone who would find the idea of letting her go harder than he had.

  Typing back a quick response, he told her he would love to catch up and gave her his cell phone number in case she no longer had it. Then, setting the iPad aside, he grabbed the remote to search for something on TV to pass the hours until Kayla made it home.

  But before he could find something, his phone rang. Smiling, he picked it up.

  “Madison Avenue,” he said slowly.

  “Mr. Turner.”

  Jamal grinned. “You sound good, girl.”

  “I feel good,” Madison returned.

  “Did I read that email right? You about to jump the broom?”

  “Yes, you read right. Just weeks away, now.”

  “Well congratulations. I knew it wouldn’t be long.”

  “Well, you knew more than I did. But it was the funniest thing. Once I stopped looking, there he was. Like he was waiting for me.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jamal said, nodding. “When you comin’ to town?”

  “Next week, as a matter of fact. And I wanted to make sure I made some time to check in with old friends. Like you.”

  “Was I a friend to you though? I mean, for real.”

  “Jamal, what you were was a good guy holding out for the right girl. And I just wasn’t the right girl. Although I hear from Robyn she might have been under your nose all along.”

  “Yup.” At that he smiled again. “Funny how things work out, right?”

  “And you’re going to be a married man yourself before too long.”

  “So it would seem. But we can talk about all that over lunch or dinner,” Jamal said, putting the television on mute and continuing to flip channels. “What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I’m free on Tuesday. Same day I get there. Would that work for you, for lunch?”

  “Yeah. I think so. And if not, I’ll damn sure clear the decks for you, Madison Avenue.”

  On the other end of the line, Madison laughed. “I’d forgotten this about you,” she said. “All that careless charm, making the ladies fall headfirst in love with you without even trying.”

  Jamal said nothing.

  He didn’t want to go down that road, of having Madison tell him she’d been ‘in love.’ Because he hadn’t been. At least not with her.

  “But don’t get all worried,” Madison said, reading his silence. “I’m not hoping to dredge up all that old stuff. I definitely wanted to catch up with you on a personal level, but there was something else as well.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well you know I’m still in entertainment law down here, right?”

  “Yeah …”

  “I’ve been hearing some things. And I thought you might want to get ahead of it. Before it explodes and …”

  Jamal sat up, his brow furrowed. “Explodes? Sounds serious.”

  “It could be. Or maybe it’s just the usual; some trashy person looking to ruin ca
reers, and …”

  “Whoa. Ruin careers? Now you got me worried.”

  “There may be nothing to it. But I’ll spill the tea when I see you. Like I said, it might just be someone looking to get their fifteen minutes. But you’re my first stop when I get to New York, if you’re free for lunch on Tuesday.”

  “Nah. Sure thing. What time, and where?”

  Madison named a popular Midtown restaurant that was close to SE, and Jamal reached for his iPad, overwriting another appointment. And when he hung up, he tried to get off his mind that ominous phrase: ruin careers.

  She was still pissed.

  Even though she was trying to pretend she wasn’t, Jamal knew that Kayla was still not feeling him since he ran out on their flower-seeking expedition the day before. She didn’t get in until just before midnight after her little apartment-hunting date with Devin. The lateness of her return had been a dare. She knew damn well that relationship was a little too close for comfort as far as he was concerned.

  Sure, Devin Parks might be ambivalent about his sexual orientation, but at one time in the not-distant-enough past, he had been all up in Jamal’s woman. So yeah, all that chummy bullshit didn’t work for him. Jamal let it slide this time because he knew she had to do that thing all women did: making sure he felt discomfort that was equal and proportionate to what he’d made her feel.

  But while he didn’t care about that little show of independence, he did care that she was keeping her distance from him now; and in the meantime, spending way too much time with Robyn’s brother.

  Nate Crandall was almost as pretty as his sister, and worked in public relations, a field Kayla was interested in as a possible career. So, it was probably about that. Jamal really had no cause to be irritated that she was deep in conversation with him for such a long time. Or so he kept telling himself as the minutes ticked by.

  “How’s the wedding planning coming along?”

  Jamal turned and looked at Robyn Scaife, shaking his head. “You’d have to ask Kayla that. Not my territory.”

  Robyn rolled her eyes and shook her head. “So basically, what you’re saying is, you’re not participating at all.”

  Glancing over to the other side of the room where Makayla was finally wrapping up her marathon conversation, Jamal shrugged. “I do whatever she asks me to do.”

  “Oh Lord. Aren’t you getting married in November? This November?”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “That’s not even six months away, Jamal.”

  “How long does it take to plan a party?”

  Robyn sighed. “So again: what you’re saying is, you’re not helping her at all.”

  “Yeah I’m helping! I got her a wedding planner,” he said, recalling the sidewalk conversation the day before.

  “Well, good.” Robyn looked slightly more mollified.

  She had over the past few years become one of his best friends, and his professional confidante as well. As deputy general counsel at Scaife Enterprises, and the wife of the man he had replaced, Robyn’s ear and instincts were vital. As a friend, her advice was invaluable.

  Since getting married to Chris Scaife and bearing his two youngest children, Robyn had blossomed. She was more beautiful, confident, and poised than ever, making up one half of one of Black New York’s most sought-after power couples.

  Chris, the other half of the couple, had moved on from heading up SE and was now working almost exclusively on developing a film company that would produce documentaries about social justice issues. Chris Scaife, of all people, had begun to think about his legacy, and had found a way to make money and do some good at the same time.

  Jamal had no doubt that a big part of the influence that led to the change was another power couple, Shawn and Riley Gardner. Shawn, once SE’s most lucrative artist, had retired from performing altogether and was, along with his wife, becoming a big name in racially-conscious philanthropy. Shawn and Riley were now pretty much recognized as the conscience of the hip-hop community by championing issues that were once considered too risky to speak out about publicly.

  And Chris Scaife was, by his nature, attracted to risk. Particularly if there might be rewards of comparable scale. And thus far, the rewards looked to be pretty considerable—his production company was attracting talented documentarians and big-money backers as well, though they had yet to release a single film.

  “Are you guys thinking about getting pregnant right away?” Robyn asked, following his gaze over to where Makayla had now joined the kids, helping them build a Lego castle.

  “Thinking about what?” Jamal’s head whipped around to look at Robyn. “Aw, hell nah. No time soon,” he said shaking his head. “She’s in school and I’m never home. Ain’t nobody thinking about babies right now. And you better not plant that idea in her head either. I’m serious.”

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Makayla was skillfully corralling Robyn and Chris’ little ones Caitlyn and Landyn, along with Shawn and Riley’s two, and Brendan and Tracy’s daughter, Layla. As helpers, she had two of Chris’ older kids, Jasmin and Kaden.

  Robyn laughed and touched his arm. “She may be in her twenties, but you’re not getting any younger. Don’t you want your kids out of your house and in college somewhere while you’re still young enough to enjoy traveling, and doing cool things with your wife?”

  “We’ve got time.”

  “If you had a kid today, how old would you be by the time they left for college?” Robyn challenged, taking a sip from her wineglass. “Why do you think I strong-armed Chris into having these babies back to back? I need a good decade to enjoy doing active things with my husband once we’ve sent them off to live their lives. Think about that.”

  And then she sauntered off, leaving him standing alone.

  Shit. He hadn’t thought about that.

  If he waited another two years, he would be almost fifty-eight when their kids left home. But Makayla would only be forty-seven when these not-yet-born babies were college-age. Hell, forty-seven was young. Before Makayla he had dated a few women who were about that age, and some of them were only just coming into their own. As far as he was concerned, women basically peaked at, or around forty. That was when she was at her sexiest and most vibrant—when she knew who she was and had stopped apologizing for it.

  If he wanted his wife to himself by the time she was forty or so, they had already missed the boat. But if they started their family within a year …

  Jamal looked over at Makayla again, and something in his chest clenched when he thought about her mothering their children. She would be amazing at it, he had no doubt. The way she had cared for her grandmother before she passed away assured him of that. And he definitely wanted kids, there was no question.

  Boys. Two, or maybe even three of them.

  But what did Kayla want? They had never talked about kids. And Jamal had always assumed they would have them when he was ready. But he hadn’t planned the timing, nor even thought about it. Instead he and Kayla talked about her career goals, and his.

  Suddenly, thanks to Robyn, it seemed like he had more things to accomplish than he would have time to accomplish them.

  Watching Kayla get up from her place on the floor and say something to the kids as she left, Jamal’s eyes followed her. As was always the case for occasions like this, she had done something special to her hair. It fell in wavy coils to the center of her back and was pulled up and away from her face on the sides and top, peaking in the middle. Until her, he never knew—nor had reason to think about—the beauty of locs. He loved hers—the rough texture, the sturdiness, and the symbolism of them; and the way she held her back and neck regal and erect when they were piled high atop her head. And he loved the attention she got; and that he got just from being with her.

  In his business, locs were still almost subversive unless you were part of the neo-soul, or world music scene. Or if not subversive exactly, they were very much the exception rather than the norm. Except for niche music, almost e
veryone went for the long, sleek mane of lighter-side-of-brown hair, and the almost airbrush-perfect makeup.

  Jamal dug it that his woman stood out from all that, because he wasn’t opposed to standing out himself. Kayla was into darker makeup shades when she wore any at all—wine-colored lips, smoky eyes, and her naturally clay-brown complexion only enhanced, never lightened or altered with heavy foundation.

  And the way she dressed was different too. Now that she had the resources to indulge her taste in fashion, she went for the yin-and-yang look. Boyishly baggy palazzo pants or billowy skirts in silk, linen and other natural fabrics, coupled with brief, lightweight but close-fitting tops with spaghetti straps; halter or tube tops, her neck and shoulders, and sometimes her back on display … sexy as fuck.

  Without pausing to think how it might look, Jamal followed her, tired of the persistent distance between them—physical and otherwise.

  He found her in the powder room, as expected. She was just leaving, but he crowded her back inside and leaned against the door, looking her over. Her nostrils flared a little, as though she could smell how much he wanted her.

  “What was that, a job interview or something?”

  Makayla’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you …?”

  “You, and Robyn’s brother.”

  She smirked, her eyes becoming lazy and exasperated. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “That’s why you backed me up in here? To ask what I was talking about with Robyn’s brother?”

  “This is where I’m supposed to get all jealous and shit, and take you home early, right?”

  Makayla said nothing, just sighed, her expression impassive.

  “Because if that’s what you’re thinking …” he continued.