The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  “Yup. Nine tonight.” He disappeared around the corner.

  “Tonight?” Devin repeated. “I thought you were gon’ come out to …”

  Makayla gave him an imploring look, begging him without words not to make things more difficult than they needed to be. She went to most of Devin’s gigs when Jamal was out of town, and to a fair number of them even when he was in town. What she didn’t do was go to nearly enough of Jamal’s work-related events. Because, well, she hated them.

  She hated the overly-coiffed women who smiled false smiles to her face and then tried to cozy up to her man when her back was turned. She hated the smarmy guys who plied her with empty flattery, and name-dropped to impress her before they realized she was with one of the most impressive names in the room.

  And she hated that while they were at these events, Jamal sometimes had to transform into That Guy—the one she’d first met, who was funny and glib all the time, with the real Jamal almost completely closed-off and inaccessible. It was almost like flipping a switch.

  Jamal was always irreverent and fun, but now Makayla knew the difference between his native charm and that which he turned on for show. She didn’t like it when he turned it on, and at those events, he always did.

  Becoming CEO of Scaife made him more intentional about it, and more calculated. And Makayla hated to think that one day he might do it so easily he wouldn’t even know the difference between the real and the fake.

  “It’s the launch party for that new tequila brand,” Jamal said as he emerged from the kitchen, an apple in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

  “Oh. Now I remember.”

  One of SE’s artists had become a tequila-maker. He had his own label, and an eye-catching bottle that looked like a rugged cut of ice. Apparently, he was set to make a mint from it. It had been on the shelves in New York and L.A. for several months, but after tonight would go national, and then international by fall.

  “We can go late, leave early,” Jamal continued. “I just need to make sure everybody sees that I showed up.” He tossed a glance in Devin’s direction. “You wan’ ride too, man? Lots of industry folks should be there. Couldn’t hurt.”

  Devin’s eyes narrowed slightly as though he was waiting to hear the catch. “Nah,” he said dragging the word out. “Thanks. I got a gig tonight. Kay was gon’ try to come out, but it sounds like you got other plans for her.”

  “What time’s your set?” Jamal asked, taking a bite of his apple.

  Makayla watched the exchange, practically holding her breath. This was the most civil exchange she had seen them have in months. She almost didn’t want to move, in case she broke the spell.

  “‘Round eleven, midnight, somethin’ like that,” Devin said, still sounding wary.

  “Where at? Maybe after the tequila thing, we’ll stop through,” Jamal said.

  This time Makayla did hold her breath. Please, Devin. Be nice. Please. Please.

  “Yeah, that’d be cool,” he said. “I’ll text Kay the details.”

  “Cool,” Jamal said impassively. Then he cracked the seal on his bottled water and headed for the bedroom. “I’ma chill out a little before tonight. So y’all keep it down out here, ladies.”

  Devin shot her a look as Jamal left.

  “See what I mean?” he said between clenched teeth, once he was gone. “Just when you think his ass is about to act right ...”

  Makayla said nothing, thinking only that the identical words could have—and probably had—passed Jamal’s lips referring to Devin.

  “You look amazing.”

  Jamal slipped his arm was around her waist as they entered Club Indigo, giving obligatory smiles to the handful of cameras that were there, and lifting his chin to acknowledge a few people who greeted him.

  Makayla knew that his words—however sincere—were also meant to reassure her. She still wasn’t comfortable with all this. When they first got together, she had been naïve enough to think that she could continue to live an anonymous life. Like Ice Cube’s wife, or somebody like that. Makayla was pretty sure she could still shop at Walmart without anyone stopping to stare, or knowing who she was.

  So that was her plan; to live life out of the camera’s view. And it should have been easy because Jamal was the face of SE. He was the one everyone wanted to see at events, not her.

  But that was not entirely true. Ever since word got around that notorious playboy Jamal Turner was engaged, it was like there was a bounty on her head. Black Twitter exploded with speculation and bloggers posted theories about which one of his former flames had managed to close the deal.

  Most banked on it being Madison Palmer, the woman he had been with just before her. And Madison undoubtedly looked the part of the stereotypical trophy wife. Long, sleek, dark hair, styled to perfection, vanilla latté complexion and always well put-together like a professional model.

  ‘How many places did you take her to, anyway?’ Makayla remembered asking, one night as she perused some shots online of Jamal and Madison. There were plenty of shots.

  Jamal had reached over and slammed her laptop shut, dragging her toward him by the ankles.

  ‘Why you want to sit over there makin’ yourself mad all night?’ he’d asked, propping himself on his elbows and looming over her.

  ‘I don’t want to be mad all night,’ she’d said. ‘I want you to make me … not mad.’

  That night, he had her begging him to stop, her nerve endings thrumming, her mind cloudy and muddled—all coherent thought impossible.

  Afterwards, when he was asleep and Makayla lay awake, she made up her mind—she was Jamal’s woman, so she had to claim it. He never pushed her to be more of a public person, and she knew he never would. That wasn’t his style, to try to remake her into anything other than she was. But that night, she resolved that she wasn’t going to hide, not out of insecurity, or for any other reason. There were too many thirsty women out there, gunning for her spot.

  So now she had a silent deal with herself. At least twice a month she would go to one of these public events, the kind where Jamal had his picture taken with chart-topping artists on a step-and-repeat, and people hollered out his name. The kind of event where, when he walked in with her on his arm, people would ask who she was and who she was wearing, and she would have to submit to being introduced, and inspected.

  And so that was what she did; and for the most part, she found that it wasn’t nearly as bad as she feared it would be. If anything, people seemed to appreciate her “unique” look—which downtown was not unique at all—and think that somehow, she was a “statement piece” of Jamal’s, yet another way he was trying to get ahead of the trend, and change the game.

  ‘They don’t know what to make of you,’ he’d joked after one party where Makayla’s locs, piled high in a complicated style about six inches high had gotten way more attention than warranted in a roomful of Black folks. ‘Next month, you watch; every dude in here will have a girl with locs or some Poetic Justice type shit.’

  Even though they joked about it, the fact remained—she was a unicorn in an arena of thoroughbreds, and Makayla couldn’t imagine that she would ever be comfortable with parties, places, and people like the ones that made up the landscape of Jamal’s daily life.

  Club Indigo was a winter wonderland in the middle of June, the entire place decorated to look like the Arctic, with snow-machines, faux-icicles hanging from the ceiling and female servers wandering around in fur bikinis and white UGGs. Well, say what she might about entertainment folks, Makayla had to admit they sure knew how to throw a party. In one corner of the room, among the transparent Lucite furniture, was a Sno-cone machine which their usher told them, was making vodka Sno-cones in a variety of flavors.

  That was another thing—Jamal always had an usher now. Whenever they showed up at one of these things, there was a staffer who seemed to have been instructed to “take care of Mr. Turner and his guests” because they stuck around with Makayla and Jamal for the entir
e event, hovering somewhere off in the background, prepared to pounce and be of service. And Jamal, being who he was, always tried to get rid of them: ‘Nah man, we good. I’ll let you know if we need anything.’

  But it never worked. They still hovered.

  “You want to go check that out?” Jamal nodded in the direction of the Sno-cone station, which was set up like a traditional bar.

  The sno-cones were being served in martini glasses with long, thin silver spoons.

  Makayla smiled and nodded. It looked like fun at least. And she wasn’t used to having fun at these things.

  At the bar, two slender young women dressed in furry white dresses, hair slicked back and shiny were making sno-cones, and drenching the shaved ice with the featured tequila, dyed different fluorescent colors for the occasion, bright pinks and blues, greens, and oranges.

  “I forgot to tell you something, by the way,” Jamal said as they waited their turn.

  “What’s that?” Makayla looked up at him.

  He was looking especially hot tonight in charcoal-grey pants and a close-fitting white shirt which he wore as though he’d simply thrown them on in haste. And his beard was growing in thicker. Makayla preferred it when it was about three weeks old, not too dense, not too light. He knew what she liked, because she’d once mentioned it, and since then, Jamal visited the barber accordingly as though only her taste mattered.

  “I’ve been giving some thought to it, and I figured out which flowers we should get for our wedding.”

  Makayla stared at him. “You have? You did?”

  “Yeah.” Jamal reached into his back pocket and pulled out his smartphone, playing with it for a while and scrolling through something.

  Makayla watched, speechless, staring at his bowed head, his silky, dark brows furrowed in concentration. He’d given some thought to the flowers? She reached out, resting her hand lightly on his chest to get his attention and he looked up from his phone, smiling at her quizzically.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I just … love the hell out of you, that’s all,” she said.

  The woman standing in line just ahead of them turned, and gave them both an ‘aww’ smile.

  Jamal grinned, still looking a little puzzled. “I love the hell outta you, too. Here … check this out.” He handed her the phone. “Calla lilies,” he said. “But all white. And maybe a little baby’s breath.”

  Makayla smiled at the sound of Jamal saying the words ‘baby’s breath’. Who would have thought he even knew what that was? She looked down at his phone and studied the image.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “Yes. Calla lilies and baby’s breath it is.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “Cool. Keep my phone, okay? Stick it in your purse or something. It’s ruining the line of my pants.” Then he turned to face the bar, and ordered two of the sno-cones, handing one of the long-stemmed glasses to her.

  Makayla rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mr. GQ. And by the way, I’ve got something to tell you as well,” she said as he moved her out of the stream of traffic and toward a more private area in the room. “Something to ask you, actually.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I want to go ahead and hire a personal assistant,” she said.

  Jamal paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Wrinkling his brow, he leaned in. “You were serious about that? A personal assistant? I thought you were just talkin’ ‘bout someone to help with the wedding.”

  “It would be the same person, but I think I could use other help too.” Makayla stuck her chin out.

  He looked at her bemused, eyes slightly narrowed. “What the hell for?”

  “I told you. To make appointments and make sure I’m doing stuff right. To keep us on track and sync our appointments for things like the caterer, and getting fitted for what we’re going to wear …”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to get just a straight-up wedding planner for that?”

  “She does both.”

  Jamal took a mouthful of his sno-cone and nodded slowly.

  “You feel like you need one, then okay. Hire your personal-assistant-slash-wedding-planner.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me ‘no’?” Makayla asked, teasing, tasting her own spoonful of shaved ice. It was melting fast because of the alcohol, a little moat of pink liquid settling around the edge of her glass.

  “One day, probably. But not today.” He kissed her on the temple and winked at her.

  “Glad you made it out, man!”

  Jamal’s eyes broke from hers as he turned to greet Ahmad, the artist whose tequila venture they were celebrating.

  “We got some of the top-drawer stuff over here in the VIP,” Ahmad said. “If you and your lady want to come with me …”

  “I think I’ll just circulate a little. Thank you though,” Makayla said.

  She already knew what it would be like in the VIP area. Lots of women, most of whom were neither the wives nor significant others of the men present; and none of whom would show any interest whatsoever in speaking to her.

  Wives and fiancées, and side-chicks were like the Crips and Bloods of the entertainment business. Though she tried to maintain strict neutrality and a policy of minding her own business, Makayla knew that the sparkler on her left index finger had placed her squarely in one camp rather than the other.

  “Come find me when you’re ready to roll out,” Jamal said, leaning in to speak directly in her ear so Ahmad wouldn’t hear him.

  Makayla nodded and watched as he made his way across the club with Ahmad, being stopped every few feet by people who wanted to greet, or engage him in conversation. Watching him walk away made Makayla feel especially craven for his time and attention. She had only been focused on his trips, and how long he’d been away, forgetting that even when home, his time was not his own.

  When he had the wherewithal to give it, Jamal’s undivided attention was heady, mind-blowing stuff. When they were alone at home, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do, he touched her constantly, saturated her with kisses and warmed her with sudden hugs. She basked in him.

  At times like that, he was her drug, and Makayla literally followed him around their apartment like a little kid, wanting him within view, and within reach at all times. Once, after he’d spent just five days in Seattle, she had followed him from the bedroom to the kitchen, and then to the den, thinking he didn’t notice that she had no business in any of those places except that he was there.

  Until he pushed himself off the sofa and without glancing at her said, completely deadpan, ‘I’m about to go to the bathroom, and I might be in there a while. You comin’ or not?’

  And Makayla had laughed and tossed a sofa cushion at him. ‘Ew, Jamal!’ she screamed. ‘I didn’t need to know all that!’

  ‘You’re the one who’s been shadowing me all morning. Thought you might want to know the itinerary.’

  He grabbed her in a quick bear-hug before walking out of the room and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I love it that you missed me so much,’ he said. ‘But for real. I’m lockin’ the bathroom door.’

  Remembering it now, Makayla smiled. In her clutch, something vibrated. Just as it vibrated a second time, she reached for Jamal’s phone checking to see whether it was something he would want to attend to right away. It was a text message. The first thing she noticed was the name of the sender: Madison Avenue. For a moment she was confused, and then she read the message and made the connection. ‘Madison Avenue’ was probably Jamal’s nickname for his ex. He only bothered with clever nicknames for people he liked a lot.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, the message was like a bucket of cold water in the face.

  Yes. Tomorrow definitely on. Excited to see you!

  Tomorrow definitely on?

  Makayla’s head whipped around as she tried to locate Jamal. As if seeing him could tell her what she wanted to know: why was he meeting Madison? And why hadn’t he mentioned it?

  But the panic lasted only a matter of seconds.
Jamal didn’t cheat, and he didn’t lie to her. She trusted him, and would vouch for his intentions any day, all day.

  But Madison … that was something else entirely. Makayla had no idea what her intentions might be. And Jamal, having been involved with her in the past should know better. He should have at least mentioned it.

  “Have you seen so many thirsty broads in your life?”

  Makayla turned and looked into a pair of familiar hazel eyes, smiling and then hugging her former colleague.

  “Harper! I never see you anymore.”

  “That’s because when you come to SE you only ever go all the way to the twentieth these days.”

  Harper Bailey was one of Makayla’s favorite people at Scaife Enterprises. She had been one of Jamal’s team in the development department, and just like Jamal, had a knack for developing close relationships with the talent; sometimes a little too close. If Makayla had been one to care about gossip and innuendo, she would have at least raised an eyebrow at some of Harper’s rumored exploits.

  Tonight, Harper was dressed more like the pretty young woman she was, than one of the parade of rappers she tended to socialize with, and occasionally date. Instead of baggy jeans, she was wearing black pencil pants and a funky tunic top with ankle boots. And instead of the backward fitted cap Makayla remembered her wearing to work almost every day when they worked together, Harper had pulled her corkscrew curls back into a ponytail.

  “How come you never stop in just to say ‘hey’?” she asked.

  Makayla shrugged. “It’s awkward now a little bit,” she admitted.

  Harper grinned, and shook her head. “You really should get over that. The whole time you were working with us, I knew something was up with you two.”

  Makayla looked at her, surprised. “Really?” She leaned in as though she had heard wrong. “But … I mean, there wasn’t something going on with us the whole time. At least, not in the beginning.”