Corrupted Chapter 7

by Omar Tyree

  So she could relate to Nikola’s original sheep of the family story, and she knew exactly how he felt. She had been propositioned and unsuccessfully courted by jock after disrespectful jock, but rarely had she been chased by the more artistic and intellectual guys. They all seemed intimidated by her height, while underestimating her intelligence because of her past history in athletics. Therefore, her attraction to popular authors made sense. Nikola was closer to what she craved in a man, but she never figured she would be involved with an author she worked with, nor one who was trying his hardest to seem cooler than smart, sexier than respectable, and hipper than honorable. But now she knew the truth. Nikola wasn’t attempting to change his name just for his fanbase and career goals, as Vincent Biddle had intended for him; Nikola was trying to change his entire identity, and Susan felt more needful than ever now to allow him to see the madness in losing himself.

  Yeah, I guess I will meet up with him later, she decided. He’ll need someone outside of his family to keep talking sense into him, because Vincent, Lauren and these slutty young fans are only helping him to become the monster that he wants to be.

  Speaking of the monster, that’s exactly what Jackson’s father thought of him now. And he couldn’t wait to tell his boy Nikola that to his face, right over their family dinner at The Five Points Steak House.

  “Why do you still not use your family name?” his father asked him in his accented English. He was a proud, stern, and wiry-framed man with salt and pepper hair in his late fifties. He wore a dark suit and a thin burgundy tie, while sitting at the head of the table for eight. And the man wanted an answer.

  “Emilio, don’t!” Ernesta, his plump and apologetic wife begged him. She sat to his left, while Nikola sat on his father’s right, and their spirited family dinner was not the place for another argument over names. But it was too late. Everyone at the table had heard Emilio’s question, including his daughter Milana and son-in-law David, who sat next to Ernesta on the left, and his two grandsons, Mathew and Gabriele, who sat on the right next to their uncle. His older son Sergio lived in Boston with his wife and three kids and could not make the trip.

  Jackson spoke up to answer his father over their buttered bread and drinks on the white covered dinner table. Their entrées had not yet arrived. “Dad, I can’t just change my name back now. I have an entire fanbase who follow me as Jackson Smith.”

  Emilio shook his head in the elegant, dim lit room, disgusted by the idea of his son refusing to keep his Italian-born name. He had let it go on for long enough before finally putting an end to it. He explained, “You are already a success as a writer. You should be able to tell them your real name now.”

  The problem was, Nikola not at all anxious to return to his birth name. He considered it a girl’s name with an incorrect spelling. He should have been Nicolo. But he dared not bring it up and insult his mother, who had named him.

  However, his father brought it up again. “Your mother gave you your name,” he stated with emphasis and pointed to her.

  “It’s o-kay,” Ernesta responded in her own accent. “I understand why he did it. But he’s still my little Niki,” she said with a grin and a nod.

  Both of Jackson’s nephews began to smile and hold in their laughs next to him. Little Niki would not have been a bad name had the Tubulatti family settled in a majority Italian neighborhood. But they had not, so his Italian heritage had presented him with more of a challenge. American boys would often laugh, like his nephews threatened to. But Sergio did not have the same concern with his name. His brother’s name was hip and masculine.

  Jackson took a deep breath and decided to ignore it all as their meals arrived. Who could ever understand the personal struggles of a name unless you had been forced to live with it? So Jackson had dealt with it and moved on, until he was finally given an option to change it.

  “Is your Jackson Smith name legal, or is it just a professional pen name?” his Anglo-American brother-in-law asked him. David was a light brown-haired man to the Tubolatti’s family’s black. Both of his sons with Milana became hybrids with dark brown hair.

  Emilio looked on, awaiting an answer himself, but Jackson refused to go there. He had avoided it all before. So he smiled and said, “That’s top secret,” as if he were a spy.

  His sister was irritated herself with his answer. He was being ridiculous. She said, “Niki, come on, if you pay for our dinner, what name are you using on the credit card?”

  Milana, a stern and attractive mother in her early thirties, had often bounced between Niki and Jackson, confused by what to call her brother now. The truth was, Nikola had only changed his name legally a few years ago. For several years before that, he would explain the confusions of Nikola Tubollati to Jackson Smith, mainly for first class airplane travel.

  He said, “Look, can we move on from this? Like Mom said, I’m still her Little Niki, right guys?” he turned to his nephews and asked them.

  The preteen boys laughed uncontrollably at the table, just as Jackson figured they would. They were helping him to present his case perfectly.

  “Stop it, you two,” Milana barked across the table at her sons. She could see clearly that her brother was using her American-born sons to his advantage, and she didn’t like it. So she gave her brother a hard eye, taking after her father.

  “All right, well let’s pray and eat,” Jackson suggested to his family. Despite his name change, they remained traditional and close-nit Catholics. So they joined hands around the table as Ernesta said the grace.

  “Amen,” they all concluded before digging into their meals. Tossed garden salad with Italian dressing was included.

  “So, when are you gonna get married? That’s what I want to know,” Milana asked him as soon as Jackson stuffed his mouth with salad.

  He nearly choked on his lettuce. “Why?” he mumbled through his food. “Girls never liked me. They would only be marrying me for the wrong reasons now,” he assumed.

  “That’s because you were always picking the wrong ones,” his sister argued. “I had plenty of girlfriends who loved you.”

  He frowned and said, “Of course your girlfriends loved me. But they were like family. That would have been like incest.”

  Ernesta quickly looked at her grandsons and warned Jackson, “Watch what you say.”

  Milana shook her head and added, “You were always chasing after the little blondes, who always had boyfriends. I mean, what did you expect?”

  Jackson thought about Susan Randolph, who had light brown hair and soft green eyes like David’s. “Well, I’m not interested in the blondes now,” he commented. “I have my hands full with my career.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” his sister countered snidely.

  Emilio didn’t have much else to say. On one hand he was proud of his son for becoming a successful American writer, but on the other, he was still embarrassed at having to live with his name change, or whatever. He still didn’t understand it all. But one day soon, he planned to get to the bottom of it, and long before he would reach his death bed.

  Maybe once his career settles down and he’s not as popular as he is right now, he will return to using his real name, Emilio hoped. Nevertheless, he still wished that his son could have used Nikola Tubolatti to amass fame in his prime, like the Spanish kids he often watched in baseball. They were not changing their Latin names to become successful. So he remained spiteful of his middle child’s decision.

  Niki could never stand up for himself as well as Sergio or Mia, he reflected. And this is the result, he changes his family name.

  Emilio continued to breathe gravely and shake his head as he ate his well done steak, loaded potato and asparagus. At least his son was not a bum, a homosexual, or an Italian-American criminal. So he told himself to be pleased with his three successful adult children, as his wife had often told him, and to breathe easy with that.

  It will all work itself out in time, he told himself. Niki will soon realize how important his family name i
s to him.

  Speaking of family names and respect, Chelsea Christmas strutted around the streets of New York as if she didn’t care anything about hers. Nor did she care who had a problem with it. So as he sat, pissed off, inside of a black stretch Hummer that was parked outside of a popular comedy club, she let it be known that she didn’t give a fuck.

  “If this bitch look at me one more time like she has a damn problem, I’m gon’ give her one,” she commented spitefully to her professional basketball friend.

  Chelsea had changed her clothes into more mundane, Friday night attire of a sparkling rhinestone t-shirt, tight blue jeans and fancy heels. She was so hooked up with her jewelry, earrings, expensive pocket book and self-made swagger, that it caused plenty of jealousy from some of the younger women who surrounded her.

  “Girl, just chill. She didn’t say anything to you,” her tall basketball friend whispered.

  “Well, I didn’t plan on being in the middle of an entourage of people when you asked me out to the comedy club tonight, Damon. Because you already know, I don’t like this kind of shit,” she complained.

  Damon exhaled and shook his head. Women were worth more trouble than he had bargained for. He whispered, “A lot of these girls are just tag-alongs to make sure the limo’s not empty. And they make the night more, you know, fun-filled.”

  Chelsea asked him, “Is that what your basketball teammates think? That’s exactly why y’all spend so much money and end up stuck with these broke hos, while they all audition for the next episode of Basketball Wives. And they know damn-well half of them will never be married. They’re just damn baby factories to get money.”

  “Excuse me?” the taller and younger, Dominican girl asked her from the opposite side of the Hummer. She wore a simple white wife-beater, black jeans and basic heels, and didn’t need much else. She had the natural model girl look.

  “Bitch, you heard me!” Chelsea snapped at her. She had been around broke model bitches at night clubs all around the country, including hundreds of them in Miami. She considered them all the same; shameless opportunists.

  Predicting the drama, her friend Damon immediately guided her toward the open door to climb out the back. “All right, let’s go,” he commented quickly. He didn’t want or need the extra bullshit that night.

  But the slighted, model girl opened her mouth and continued the with drama before he could make it out of the Hummer with Chelsea.

  “Yeah, you need to take her out,” she commented weakly.

  Chelsea looked back and yelled, “Bitch, get out with me then. Come on! You wanna keep running your mouth like a little girl, then I’ll treat you like one. I’ll wipe your little ass all over this sidewalk.”

  “You’re the one’s who’s little.”

  Finally, Damon told her, “Stop it, all right. Just stop it.”

  “Well, who is she?” the model girl asked him. She wanted to know why Chelsea seemed to be getting special treatment, especially after she had fucked Damon so well that afternoon up in his hotel room. She at least deserved an explanation. Was this feisty black woman his wife, girlfriend or what?

  “She’s my friend,” he told her simply.

  Chelsea listened to the tone of their conversation and assumed things immediately. She was a best-selling author with great perception. So she allowed things to calm down as she climbed out of the Hummer and reached the pavement with the others in their group; two more basketball players, three male friends, four other girls, and the big beefy comedy club security.

  Okay, this is same scene we all know about and write about it, Chelsea told herself as the Dominican girl climbed out of the Hummer behind them. This is straight out the bling-bling, ghetto books, the movies, videos and TV shows.

  They were all dressed urban fresh in fancy, summer t-shirts, oversized and tight jeans, high-priced sneakers and heels, expensive jewelry and bags, and bright summer dresses with attention-getting hairdos. Nevertheless, Chelsea gave the Dominican girl another eye and admitted that she was easily the best-looking candy of the bunch, even without the extra gear. With her deep, dark set eyes, flawless light brown skin, flat as a board stomach, loose wavy brown hair, perfect ass, and sexy moist lips, Chelsea gave the girl a nod of recognition. Miss Dominica was a natural beauty who would make a top ten list at any party. Chelsea wasn’t even hating on her, she was only responding to the girl’s hate on her.

  So, obviously, this girl has feelings for Damon, and he dun’ brought me out here in the middle of this shit, she mused, calculating the raw emotions. So did he fuck her yet or what?

  She shook her head and began to smile. It was all beginning to feel comical to her, just like the club they were about to walk in. But she was now outside of it all, looking in through a focused camera.

  See, that’s why I don’t get too deep with this superstar shit, she told herself. You just fuck ’em with a condom on and learn to let ’em go. But if you really wanna settle down, you gotta find yourself a nerd-ass nigga to do that with. I wouldn’t even dream about settling down with this motherfucker.

  First of all, at twenty-six, he’s still too young, she concluded. So he’s gonna have that player shit in him for another five years.

  To humor herself, and to gather more research for new book material, Chelsea decided to go along with the nonsense and remain with these young-ass ballers at the New York city comedy club. As expected, they got much love from the comedians and the audience as they were all ushered over to a VIP section in the far corner on the dark room.

  Now why would he even want me up in the middle of this shit? she continued to ask herself as she sat there taking it all in. Doesn’t he realize that I’m older than everyone in his little posse. Or maybe that’s the point, he wants more maturity around him tonight, while I’m still up in New York, because I’m flying the hell out of here in the morning. I’m taking my ass right back home to Miami.

  Instead of socializing with the group, Chelsea enjoyed the raw comedy of the performers on stage and observed Damon’s posse in silence. Unless he was putting on a front for her, the tall, young man was definitely the calm and collected leader of his crew. The rest of them were loud and boisterous like an uncivil locker room. Whether Damon was the oldest or not, she wasn’t sure. But his teammates and friends were definitely working the girls that they were with, steadily teasing, joking and groping them. They even invited some new girls over to their VIP section, who were already seated inside of the club. And all but Miss Dominica were happy to engage them. She acted as if she was above it all and had only ordered water, while the rest of them had plenty of mixed drinks and champagne on an increasing tab.

  “Girl, you better get yourself a damn drink instead of that water,” one of the guys teased her. She ignored him with a grin and no contact, but they grabbed and fondled the other girls.

  Okay, so she’s obviously protected, and they know not to fuck with her, Chelsea conceived. And if no one else is really with her, then she’s obviously waiting on Damon.

  To check her hypotheses, she stood to excuse herself for the restroom to see how the Dominican girl would act once she left. She also wanted to see if Damon would speak to her.

  Sure enough, as soon as Chelsea reached the restroom area she looked back and caught Damon leaning in the girl’s direction, and getting her undivided attention.

  Yup, I knew it, she thought. I’m gonna end this Mack Daddy shit as soon as I walk back out here. The fuck is his problem?

  Back at the VIP tables, Damon Greer leaned over in his sparkling neck of jewelry and asked, “Ingrid, you all right.”

  The Dominican beauty faced him with passionate, hard eyes as if she could burn a permanent scar into his dark skin. And she nodded to him hesitantly.