Find Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book Two)

by Rachel Dunning

  “I know who Cash Money is.”

  “You do? Wow. You see!? You got heart, Blaze. Show me another twenty year old who knows about the Greats.”

  “Twenty-one. I’m twenty-one.”

  “As I said, not even born! Blaze, without Cash Money, there woulda been no Jazzy Jeff, no QBert. Cash Money brought a whole new level of scratching to turntablism, and then that spread to Hip Hop. Now you tell me about a Hip Hop rec that doesn’t use some of what Cash Money brought to the music. Now think of Chicago House back in the eighties. Sure, it was a movement. But movements are started by people. Think Frankie Knuckles, Felix da Housecat, DJ Sneak, Phuture. These boys were the new breed.

  “You, Blaze. You’re the new breed.

  “I know, this sounds revolutionary. Well, us old school types take our stuff pretty passionately. But I think you do, too. Am I wrong?”

  My throat has swelled up. Because you can’t be told by someone that you’re All That—especially when there isn’t an ounce of betrayal in their voice—and keep your cool. I think it’s easier to keep your cool when people are mean to you, like when I slammed a mug against Xavier’s cranium. If he’d been nice to me, genuinely nice, I think that alone would’ve been a mug to my own cranium.

  “Blaze? Did I scare you off?”

  “Uhm, no, Mr. Randy—I mean, Randy—no, not at all. And, yes, I am passionate about the music.”

  “I know you are. Blaze, I’m gonna talk business wichoo quickly. And it’s not the reason I been kissing your ass the last five minutes. And I’m not kissing your ass. But I know it might sound like it. If you sign with House Market, we’ll keep the music pure. I’m not saying you not gonna make money. You will. But you’re not gonna be Afrojack or Armin van Buuren with us. That I can guarantee you, because we’re too small to offer you that. You’re also not gonna be stuck with me. But I wanna be the one to break you out. Because, when you do move over to the big names—when you sign with Ministry of Sound or Armada Music or something—House Market will still be remembered as the label that broke you out. And an artist’s first record is always her purist. You know that?”

  “Uhm, I can imagine. Randy, should I focus on anything particular on Saturday? Any type of artist—”

  “Just don’t sell out, Blaze. That’s all you gotta know. Many people need to in order to survive. You don’t. Your sound is unique enough—and good enough—for it to create an entire genre of its own. Look, if things go well this Saturday—which they will... Well, Blaze, I’m glad you called...because I wanna talk signing you up for the label. Now. Not later.”

  I feel the sudden urge to sit. “Oh. Didn’t you want to wait—”

  “Check the forums, Blaze. Then call me. And we can talk business. In all honesty, I’d like to get this done before your set with Gavin at Sacrament. Nothing changes there. And this won’t affect you working with him. In fact, it’ll compliment it. So, what do you say?”

  The room starts whirling. I sit on the ground and cross my legs. “I say yes. Of course. Wow.”

  “OK. We’ll talk numbers soon enough. Check the forums! And check what they said about that Mad-Ass Hat as well. His style started drifting months ago, so scroll back. You’re not the reason he was booted, not even close.”

  “Will do.”

  After putting the phone off, I do just that. In light of Randy’s endless kudos to me of the last ten minutes, the forum’s content seems meager. But it isn’t. It’s every artist’s dream. Thirty-seven pages of people talking about “how hot Heaven-Leigh’s style is.” Deep analyses of my music which make me laugh, and praise praise praise. And then some.

  And for what purpose?

  Randy’s words spin in my head:

  Don’t sell out, Blaze.

  An artist’s first record is always her purist.

  And yesterday:

  The folks who come to Sacrament’s underground room are purists. They talk about House as if it were fine wine.

  Then I look for what was said about Mad-Ass Hat, the dude who thinks I’m the reason for him being out of a gig at the very club I’ll be playing at in six days. I type in his name in the search box and hit enter.

  I don’t need to look at the content of the threads. The headings are clear enough:

  Mad-Ass Hat needs to go!

  Mad-Ass-Hat: Gavin, why are you torturing us!?

  Mad-Ass Hat: Sell-out!

  Mad-Ass should go back to making hats.

  I guess no one said connoisseurs couldn’t be vicious—as vicious as that dude Skitz-O, the very first negative post I read about myself online.

  “And what happens if I get on your bad sides?” I whisper to myself, still staring at my phone’s browser. “Will you eat me up as badly as you’re chewing up Mad-Ass now?”

  I feel a strong urge to find this Mad-Ass’s number, to explain that it wasn’t me who got him booted. It was “the people!” And then? Would it sting no less? And what if he went to Gavin and told him about the forum—the one DJs are not supposed to know about? And now I know why they shouldn’t, because a DJ shouldn’t be subjected to the statements of people’s taste. Even if the statements are true, the music is all we have.

  I hear Vikki’s dulcet howls from behind the drums and the Stratocaster. Her voice cracks a little as she sings, because she’s pushing herself. I get up, look beyond the stand I’ve been sitting behind. She’s sweating, swinging the mic as if it were a person’s neck, and her music’s strangling it.

  Singing about the pain, I think.

  I decide I’ll never again look into those forums. If I get booted out, I don’t wanna know what’s being said about me behind my back. I just don’t. I think it would destroy me. Sure, Mad-Ass’s ego is stung right now. But what would happen if he saw all these comments? He might stop mixing altogether.

  Or, worse, he might mix while high.

  And end up dead with a needle in his arm...

  “God.” I delete the text with the login details. The password was pretty complex, so I’ll never remember it.

  I look up at Vikki again.

  Even though I’m the only one in this warehouse she’s singing to (Vlad and his partner Sasha don’t really count as a crowd), she might as well be singing to a packed house at Madison Square Garden. She believes it. And believing it could still happen is probably what keeps her singing ever day.

  The love of it.

  And if you lose that, you’ve lost everything.

  I decide I won’t hunt down Mad-Ass (or even try and figure out what his real name is.)

  Let him keep loving the sounds. When you have nothing left, you at least have that.

  -9-

  A week ago, I had no boyfriend, no best friend, no gig lined up at the hottest nightclub in Brooklyn. No hope of making the rent. I was six months away from being out of an apartment. My mind was filled with thoughts of a friend whose final image had embedded itself in my very aura because it was so gruesome.

  And now?

  I have the hottest, kindest, most incredible man who I can call more than just a boyfriend. He’s my lover. I can call him the guy who pulled my mind away from horrors of the past, simply by being there for me, by listening to me. By understanding me. I have a wild and crazy girlfriend who I can relate to and who doesn’t do drugs like so many other people in this scene. Something I really need in a friend. I have two boys I can call brothers (big and strong older brothers!) How awesome is that? Not to mention the monsters at the entrance to this abandoned shack of a warehouse—Vlad and Sasha—in black suits and ready to kill. They’re my bodyguards as much as Vikki’s. I know that.

  I have a place to stay. I have a record-deal just on the verge of happening. I’m gonna be mixing at the greatest club this side of the East River.

  And who did this all for me? Even if he hadn’t planned to: A boy I’ve known since I was five. A drug-dealer who’s own H killed his very own sister. A boy—because Xavier is no man; age is not what determines that—who grabbed me by my wrist
and flung me off a chair at the Swallow Café. The same boy who stood up for me when Tolek tried to fuck me by virtue of my state of ultra-inebriation, pulling a Ruger revolver and pointing it at Tolek’s filthy head.

  And the boy who took my virginity, kindly, slowly, gently. Regardless of circumstances.

  That boy.

  Forgiveness is an easy thing when put in perspective.

  I decide I don’t need any “protection” from him. I want to meet Xavier again. He won’t hurt me. I know that. Deep down, I do.

  But he might hurt himself. And I can’t let that happen. Not to a friend of mine.

  Not again.

  -10-

  I text him. He answers instantly. I quickly come to appreciate that he was probably never hiding from me, he’s more likely embarrassed for what he did. Here’s the exchange:

  Me: How are you?

  Xavier: I’m sorry.

  Me: I know, but how ARE you? Your head.

  Xavier: Cut, as it deserves to be.

  Me: You need help, X. I can’t lose another friend.

  Here, a tear breaks loose on my part. I wipe it away quickly, but I’m thinking about Savva. Thinking deeply of her, because this is her brother I’m talking to. And he looks like her, same diamond-shaped face, same black hair. Same amber-eyes.

  Xavier: I’m no friend, Blaze. I am what I am. You’re better off without me.

  Savva spoke in dark tones before she died. I never read the hints.

  Me: You ARE a friend. And also an asshole. Did no one tell you never to hit a girl? But I do love you, X.

  No answer.

  Me: X? You there?

  Xavier: I’ve also always loved you, Blaze. Since we were kids. I love you...more than you know.

  I’ve heard this from him before. And believed it. Because we’d always been friends. And, I think, when you’re deep in the world of drugs, when you’re surrounded by people who’d kill for a fix, you might believe you love anything remotely human. As far as I recall, I was Xavier’s only real friend. He and Patryk were “buds.” But Patryk got onto the H when Savva did—not as much as her, but enough to fry his brain. Enough for him to lose just enough of his built-in humanity so that people sensed there was some sort of emptiness there within him.

  As far as I know, I was Xavier’s only real human friend. One who didn’t have her brains fried yet.

  I decide to call him. He squashes the call.

  Me: Answer my call, Xavier. Please.

  I call again. He squashes it.

  Xavier: Blaze, I’m embarrassed. I just want to be alone.

  So did Savva, I think.

  Me: No! I won’t let you! Now answer my call!

  I call. He answers. His voice is hoarse and harsh. “You baked?” I ask.

  “I was. I’m on a serious downer.”

  “How much of a downer?”

  “A hard one.”

  “Xavier, where are you? Don’t do anything stupid!”

  “Blaze...look, I’m just really sorr—”

  “Xavier, where are you!?”

  “Blaze, I’m cool. I’m at my place.”

  “And where is that these days?”

  “Blaze, I swear, I’m good.”

  “No! You’re freaking me out! I need to come see you...”

  Here, he starts sobbing. Vikki has stopped playing because she notices I’m panicking. She comes over to me and gestures, What’s wrong?

  “Xavier? Please, answer me!”

  “Blaze, it’s cool, baby. We had a good run—”

  “No!”

  He puts the phone down.

  When I look at Vikki, she’s pale and freaked out. Her face looks foggy, so I figure I’m tearing up.

  She shakes me by the shoulders. “What!? Tell Vikki—what is it?”

  Through quivering lips, I tell her. And I also tell her I think he’s about to take himself out. She cries, “Vlad!”

  Vlad stomps over. She talks in Russian to him. He calls Sasha over. Vikki says to me, “This Xavier... He is a dealer?”

  I nod. She talks in Russian to Vlad. I hear Xavier’s name being repeated by her. Vlad makes a call. He and Sasha confer. Then Vlad pulls out a picture on his phone. Sasha looks at it. He shows it to me. Vikki says, “This is him?”

  “Yes.” She talks in Russian to Vlad. In an I-barely-speak-English accent, he says, “He live here!” He points down. “In Villiamsburg.”

  Vikki says to me, “WE GO TO HIM NOW!”

  We run out of there fast.

  Band practice is over.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  -1-

  Declan Cox

  The problem with Tatiana is that she’s all a man would look for in a woman. A shallow man.

  She’s got the temperature in her luxury Brooklyn Heights condo so hot that she’s walking around in a tee, and white shorts so high that they could double-up as a bra. A bra which she desperately needs, because her tee is so see-through I’ve been able to make out the dark shade of her areolae already several times this morning.

  Two grand an hour, I keep saying to myself. With an option to get three for her “friends.” Just put up with her shit and take the two grand an hour.

  We’ve done everything from move the couch to the east wall, then back, then to the east wall again; moved two Picasso-style paintings from the bedroom to the lounge, and back again. We’ve also moved the bed, several times. And the couch in there as well, while she’s lain on the bed and watched us, sucking on an ice pop. Slowly. And using a lot of tongue.

  I’ve tried to keep it professional, but this is so far beyond it that I can’t even think straight.

  At twelve, things get worse. Her posse arrives. And they’re equally tightly clad (although, thankfully, they all have bras).

  Every time Tatiana Watkins—who has not bothered to take her ring off—opens her mouth, she sounds like Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

  “Declan. Trevor. Please meet my girlfriends. Samantha Ryder and Dalya Somerset.” Samantha is a straight-haired red-head, blue eyes to kill. Dalya is as blonde as Tatiana, although a lot better endowed. A lot better. The temperature is suddenly too hot for me. The three women stand by the door and smile demurely at Trevor and me.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I say, and extend my hand out to them, right in between them so they can decide amongst themselves who’s gonna take it first. Samantha Red-Head does. She holds onto it a little too long. There’s no ring on her finger. Dalya the D-Cup does have a ring—a monster of a rock if I’ve ever seen one. And a man who probably compensates with money for what he doesn’t have.

  In a voice you’d expect to hear in a Legally Blonde movie, Dalya says, “Why, yes, Sammie and I been hearin so many good things ’bout y’all.” Southern accent. And I’m thinking, Hello Mizz Parton. “Now, I must say, you weren’t exaggerating, darling!” She flicks a hand at Tatiana (which I’m pretty certain smacks her breast), then makes no effort to disguise her ogling at me and Trev.

  We’re both in tees, and sweating, and it’s taking every ounce of energy I have to not take even that off, because it is hot in here!

  “Boys,” Tatiana says, “me and the girls are just gonna sit and chat in the bedroom. I think I liked layout C better than any of the rest in here. You go ahead and set that up and then, when you’re done, just holler—or simply come in.”

  Layout C—that would be one of the A to P layouts she took the time to prepare on very detailed sheets of blueprint paper. We’ve been through A to P at least once. And C is where the couch sits on the north wall. I’d bet money on the fact that either Sammie’s boyfriend or Dalya’s husband is an interior designer. And that maybe he was suckered into preparing the layouts “for the girls.”

  Said Trio disappears into the Den of Sin which is Tatiana’s bedroom. “Trev, we gotta get the fuck outta here.”

  Trev smacks me. “Bro! Are you fucking insane! Damn! There’s three hot hot HOT women in there
right now just asking for it!”

  I slap him hard on the chest. “Then you go in there and satisfy them! I can’t fucking do this, bro! Damn, and the heat! What the fuck is up with that?”

  “Deck, we both know what’s up with it.”

  “You’re a whore if you fuck her. You understand that, right? A male whore. I mean, she is paying us to be here.”

  This quickly kills Trev’s grin. “Fuck. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Right, because the babe has got you thinking with the wrong fucking head, homes! Now go spank that fucker in the bathroom if you have to, but you gotta focus!”

  “Me? What about you?”

  I’m thinking of this angel I have back home. And every time this skank appears with her nipple-flaunting tee in my face, I wanna blow this joint and tell her to go fuck herself. Or her vibrator. Or maybe even her husband. How’s that for a thought? “I’m fine. Let’s just get Layout C done and then scram. I think I’m gonna put Skate on the next job with her.”

  “Just be sure to tell him that if he wants to do her, he needs to do it on his own time.”

  That statement somehow gets me laughing. And eases my mind about the utter crassness and openness about this chick! We start moving the couch over to the famed North Wall. “Trev, how long do you think some other dudes would’ve lasted here?”

  He laughs. “Homes, I was ready to do her—married and all—the second I saw those pink discs shining through her tee.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Knock what off?”

  “Knock off describing her mammary glands in such detail. I have a girl I’m with, and that I happen to love!”

  Trev drops the couch. “Did you just use the L word?”

  “Trev, the couch, I’m still holding it.”

  “Damnit, nigga, put that fucker down and talk to me.” Trev’s in cool-ass mode now.