The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  “Maybe not. But there was just some chemistry or something. I saw where things were headed. I just never thought it …” Harper broke off and her face grew a little pink.

  Makayla touched her arm and laughed. “Never thought it would last?” she said. “Yeah. You and me both.”

  Harper laughed with her, looking relieved. “I mean, just because he was so …”

  “I know his rep,” Makayla said. “It’s fine.”

  “His old rep,” Harper emphasized. “He’s definitely all about business now. Ever since you, I’ve never heard …”

  “Harper,” Makayla said. “It’s fine.”

  There was a lull between them, for a few moments; a lull that bordered on tense. It was never fun being confronted with the ghosts of Jamal’s past. Sometimes, those ghosts were women they encountered at events, who greeted him with just a little too much enthusiasm, and Makayla with none at all.

  Or Makayla would have the unmistakable sensation of being stared at, even though she was in a crowded room, and look up to see the hard, judgmental eyes of a woman, across the room trained on her, an angry, derisive smile on their lips. Nor was it fun when like now, someone looked at her with sympathy and reassurance, telling her in solicitous tones how ‘different’ things were now, and how she didn’t need to worry about Jamal’s past.

  “Anyway, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something else,” Harper said, clearing her throat, and obviously hoping to clear the air with a fresh topic. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to …”

  “Wha’s up, Harp?”

  Before Harper could complete her thought, someone approached from behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against him. Makayla watched as Harper literally cringed and hunched her shoulders, trying to ward off the embrace. The man who had grabbed her looked familiar, but Makayla couldn’t remember his name.

  There was once a time when she knew who all the up-and-coming artists were, because she yearned to be in the music PR business. On the other side of the curtain, it all seemed mysterious and magical, the idea that normal people, because they had talent could be catapulted to stratospheric levels of fame and adulation. Makayla wanted to be part of making that happen.

  Now, she had seen the other side of the curtain, and it wasn’t always pretty. Sometimes, it looked like the scene that was playing out in front of her right now: a young woman who was as smart as she was pretty, suffering the consequences of having traded on her “pretty,” before taking advantage of her smarts.

  Harper was infamous for having had flings with more than a few rappers and had wound up on the wrong side of more than a few rhymes about her sexual prowess, and—if there was any truth to the rumors—on the watchlist of many hip-hop wives. But right now, she looked uncomfortable being grabbed and groped by the young man holding on to her, and twisted free of him, turning to give him an angry look.

  “You see I’m talking to somebody?” she asked. “How you gon’ …?”

  “Aw, my bad,” the young man said, looking at Makayla for the first time. “I’m Rahim.”

  He extended a hand toward her which Makayla shook briefly, mumbling her name.

  She remembered him now. He was the newcomer that everyone said sounded like Rakim, and not just because their names sounded similar either. He had the same leisurely and effortless style, his rhymes sliding off his tongue like he was always freestyling. His performances, the music press said, never sounded canned or rehearsed.

  “This is Jamal Turner’s fiancée,” Harper added pointedly.

  Immediately, Rahim stood straighter and the half-focus he had given Makayla previously, turned to laser-focus. He grinned at her, showing slightly-crooked teeth that somehow added to his charm. He was lanky, and wore skinny grey jeans, bright-white high-tops and a white long-sleeved tee.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, looking Makayla over and nodding. “I recognize you now.”

  Off to his side, Harper was rolling her eyes at his obvious pandering.

  “We were in the middle of a conversation,” she said. “When you just came pushing yourself all up in the middle of it.”

  “It’s fine,” Makayla said quickly. “I was about to go grab a drink anyway, so …”

  Harper opened her mouth like she was about to say something else then sighed instead.

  “Nice meetin’ you,” Rahim said. “Makayla, right?”

  “Yeah. Nice meeting you as well,” Turning away, Makayla headed for the bar.

  “Damn, Harp,” she heard Rahim say. “I been tryna holla at you. But you just … ghosted a nigga. Wha’s up?”

  “How’s it ghostin’ you when I told you, using those words, that you and me were done?” Harper retorted.

  Makayla smiled, counting herself lucky that she had left the world of dating and messy breakups far, far behind.

  ~5~

  One hand on Kayla’s back, Jamal pulled out the chair at the table he spotted closest to the stage. If one could call it a stage. The bar was two notches below low-end, and almost exactly the same kind of place he’d gone to when he first heard Devin Parks perform live. Damn shame. If it wasn’t for how difficult he was, Jamal would have made him a star, and he would have had places like this firmly in his past.

  “This place, man …” he began as Makayla sat.

  “Are you going to start making judgments before we’ve even been here fifteen minutes?” she said.

  Jamal pulled back. He was about to ask her what her problem was—what it had been ever since they left the tequila launch party—but their waitress showed up. Their table was one of quite a few vacant ones, and his butt had barely hit the seat before she made her appearance. When he looked around, he realized why.

  Karma was the kind of place that reserved their tables for patrons who were ordering food. Because of that, the bar, and all the chairs on the outskirts were occupied with the other folks—those who came for the music, and planned to labor over one or two beers the entire night; or young hipsters who were respectably poor and artistic, and in love with the idea that patronizing shitty bars somehow made them even more hip.

  The tables were mostly vacant. That accounted for the rocket-speed with which their waitress showed up.

  She was wearing a short black skirt and black polo. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail and when she leaned in to hear their order over the loud music, Jamal saw a little grime under her fingernails. The last thing he wanted to do was eat anything that she was serving up. But he would order it nevertheless, just so they could stay at the table.

  He looked at Makayla whose expression was still that of someone who had just licked a lemon.

  “Kayla?”

  “Just a beer,” she mumbled.

  “Bring us your chicken wings,” Jamal said, refusing the menu she offered. “And a Sam in the bottle, please. Kayla, what kind of beer for you?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  And when the waitress left, she turned her chair and pointedly stared toward the stage.

  A Jill Scott wannabe was performing, cradling the mic, cupping it in both hands and wailing into it. Her hair was wrapped high and tight into a wrap of red, black, green, and gold, and she was wearing the obligatory long skirt, and sandals. The funny thing was, her voice was halfway decent, and if she wasn’t so preoccupied with fitting herself into a little box of her own creation, there might even be something to work with.

  Jamal couldn’t help himself. Old habits die hard. If he saw someone perform, he almost always thought of ways their look or sound could be improved, filing, and refiling them into different slots in his mind: indie rock, mainstream pop, hip-hop, neo-soul … Sometimes it was difficult to do, because to see what they could be, he had to look beneath the many, calcified layers of who they thought they were.

  Or in this performer’s case, who she wanted to be. She wanted to be the earthy, authentic, and abundant Jill Scott. She was straining her voice to accomplish that, when if she le
t it do what it naturally wanted to do, it would be more like Oleta Adams, smoother, creamier … huskier.

  “Dev should be coming on right after this, I think.”

  Jamal returned his focus to Kayla, sitting across the table from him. Her arms were folded and she didn’t look at him as she spoke.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  She lifted her eyes to meet his and they were flat, but not quite expressionless. There was a little irritation there as well.

  Lifting partway out of his seat and leaning in so he could speak into her ear, Jamal lowered his voice. “You mad at me about somethin’?”

  At that moment, before Kayla could answer, if that was what she intended to do, Jill Scott-ish stopped singing and the room erupted into applause, Kayla reached into her purse and produced Jamal’s phone, sliding it across the table. The band kept playing, but the tempo changed, making the transition to a more frenetic jazz-like beat.

  Intending to look down, Jamal instead looked up, squinting as he listened. It sounded like Devin Parks. He wasn’t onstage, and hadn’t sung a single note, but it was as identifiably his as Billie Holiday’s voice was hers from the very first note of ‘Good Morning Heartache.’

  Unless Jamal was mistaken, Devin had written this music. And it was good. Even more than that, it was recognizable. Newer artists, those who were talented yet untrained, tended to write music that was derivative and bore obvious markers of their musical influences, be it Mayfield, Green, or even Pharrell Williams. Few of them wrote something that sounded new, and unique. Devin Parks was one of the few Jamal knew who pulled that off.

  Looking around, he took note of the crowd, and the change in energy. They were leaning forward, like he was leaning forward, in anticipation. And a few had risen from their seats and were already applauding.

  “Is he a regular here?” Jamal looked at Kayla, who was looking at him.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. Then she looked toward the stage, her lips pursed in a thin line. It was only then that Jamal realized that before he’d gotten distracted by the music, she was about to tell him what her problem was.

  “C’mon, Kayla, what’s …”

  He spoke just as the crowd began to cheer and whistle, and Makayla turned away from him, focusing once again on the show. Devin was now onstage. He held a bass guitar in his hands, and was looking down at it, eyes closed, his fingers moving across the strings. Sometime in the last few seconds, he had ambled forward, joining in with the band as they played.

  Devin’s lips moved as he strummed, and he tossed his head from side to side, like a man in pain, never looking up at the overexcited crowd, never even acknowledging they were there. He was better; even better than he had been over a year ago when Jamal had tried—and failed—to get him in line long enough to join SE. Often, Jamal wondered how high he could have helped Devin’s star rise, and he was wondering it again now.

  The set was short, and contrary to Jamal’s expectations, he didn’t sing at all. He played four numbers, two with accompaniment, and the other two as guitar solos. After the last one, he looked up at the crowd for the first time. His attention, finally turned in their direction, seemed to energize them. There were whistles and cheers as Devin gave a cursory bow in their direction and then exited the stage.

  This habit, of being almost oblivious to his audience used to irk the hell out of Jamal when he was working with him. He never seemed to engage with them at all, like he was doing them a favor by letting them witness something that he did solely for his own pleasure. Not unless Makayla was planted front row center would he even look up. But it seemed like it was working for him.

  Jamal watched as Devin headed for the rear of the club, and just as he was about to head down a hallway someone stopped him; a woman. He paused to talk to her for a second and then yoked an arm around her neck, pulling her in closer for a long, deep kiss.

  What the hell?

  The woman lifted her head and grinned up at Devin who offered her one of his lazy smiles in return. It was only then that Jamal realized who she was. Harper.

  Harper Bailey. One of his team when he was in development. She was still in that department, working under Bryant. And now, it appeared, she was … under Devin Parks as well.

  Glancing over at Kayla he saw that she, too, was watching Devin. Her eyes were slightly widened, and like him, she was looking over at Devin and Harper. Apparently, Jamal wasn’t the only one taken off guard.

  Well, that little fucker always had been full of surprises.

  “That was so not cool,” Makayla said shaking her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  Devin shrugged and reached up behind his ear and retrieving a cigarette.

  He rarely if ever smoked. Occasionally, after a performance, he smoked a single cigarette, as a ritual. He never bought them himself, but bummed them off one of his band members, and smoked it out back in the alleyway of the venue wherever he was performing.

  That was where he and Makayla were now. She had followed him out when Jamal and Harper had fallen into conversation once Devin and she joined their table. Devin, wanting to escape the fans coming up to speak to him about his music had beckoned for Makayla to follow him out back.

  “Nothin’ to tell,” Devin said.

  “Oh, so that wasn’t Harper’s tongue down your throat back there?” Makayla said.

  Devin was digging around in his pockets, searching for a lighter probably. His hair was getting long in front, hanging in loopy curls into his eyes, though the sides and back were shaved almost bare.

  “Look, I don’t need to tell you everyone I’m screwin’.”

  “Is that all this is?” Makayla asked.

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  Makayla wasn’t about to put Harper on blast by mentioning the exchange she had overheard at the tequila launch party, because she had no idea what that had been about. But she knew Devin. His relationships, such as they were, tended to be private and clandestine. Never had she seen him engage in a public display of affection with anyone. So maybe this thing with Harper meant something to him. Except none of his past things had ever “meant something.” Except for her.

  Shoving aside the suspicion that that might be what was making her uncomfortable, Makayla pressed on.

  “You’re still seeing that doctor, right? Didn’t he tell you that getting involved right now probably wasn’t …”

  Finally locating the lighter, Devin lit the cigarette, sucking so hard on it, his cheeks hollowed in for a moment.

  “I don’t know that you could say I’m ‘getting involved’,” Devin said, exhaling the first puff of smoke and squinting when it reached his eyes.

  “It looked involved. She was holding your hand when you guys walked over to our table. I mean …”

  “She’s like that,” Devin said. “Touchy-feely and shit.”

  Makayla shook her head, still trying to make eye-contact. “I just think it’s weird that you wouldn’t at least give me the heads-up. You know I used to work with her. And that she still works for Jamal. And also, you know she’s got …”

  “What?” At that, Devin looked directly at her for the first time. “She’s got what? A rep? Is that what you about to say?”

  Makayla shrugged. “Well, she does. And it …”

  Devin gave a harsh laugh. “Let’s be real. You think I’m in a position to judge people for crap they used to do? Far as I know, there aren’t too many churchgoing girls out there who’d be interested in a dude like me.”

  Churchgoing girls.

  Makayla had tried not to be too intrusive about Devin’s therapy, but she had been wondering what he was discovering about himself. Was he into guys? Was he into girls? Both?

  Back all those years ago, they were together, there had been nothing about his enthusiasm level that would have made Makayla question how much he enjoyed sex with women, with her. And later, when he confessed that he was seeking satisfaction elsewhe
re—and had gone on to explain exactly where he was seeking it—she was shocked, and assumed that it was an identity he had long suppressed, or was exploring in that progressive, Bohemian way that Devin seemed to explore everything. Only later did she realize that it wasn’t an exploration at all, but a compulsion that he had no explanation for, and that she could not even begin to understand.

  “Does Harper know …?” She couldn’t find the words to finish the question. She wanted to say, ‘about your past’ but was it, past? She wasn’t even sure of that.

  “You know I don’t put myself out there like that.”

  “Devin, this is just …” Makayla shook her head, still not knowing precisely what she was trying to say.

  “I can’t spend my whole life loving only you,” Devin said.

  Makayla’s mouth opened, but again, she was at a loss for words. She lifted her eyes to meet his; they were soulful, blue-green, and mysterious as the ocean. She took a step closer to him, then drew in her lower lip to prevent it from trembling. Reaching out she extended a hand. Devin’s gaze dropped and he took it, his long, tapered, guitar-roughened fingers grasping hers, and pulling her closer.

  “You ready to tell me what’s up?”

  “Huh?”

  Makayla turned at the sound of Jamal’s voice, realizing for the first time that they had been driving in silence since they left Karma. Night had turned into the wee hours of the morning, but one would not have known it by the crowds still on the sidewalks as they pulled away from the bar in Chelsea. New York was still wide awake.

  “You were givin’ me all kinds of attitude when we left the party. And then at Karma ...”

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to see Madison again,” Makayla said.

  Why prolong her curiosity? The night had already turned surreal with Devin and Harper making out in the middle of the bar, so why make it worse?

  “How’d you know I was going to see Madison?” Jamal asked.

  “I wasn’t snooping around in your phone if that’s what you’re thinking,” Makayla said quickly. “It went off while I was holding it. And I saw her text.”