They were standing almost in the center of the room and most of the women who’d been hanging around earlier were scrutinizing her, some of them whispering among themselves, probably dying to know what she had done to merit K Smooth’s singular attention.
“Where’d you get a name like Riley?”
“My mother loves the blues,” she explained. “B.B. King’s real name is Riley B. King.”
“Didn’t know that,” he said.
Riley shrugged. “Little-known fact.”
“So what made you guys want to interview me?”
“I guess it was the Newsweek article,” she admitted. “My editor saw it and hit the roof because they spotted the story before we did.”
“And they’re a . . . white magazine,” he finished for her.
“I don’t know that I’d characterize them that way, but yeah, I guess we see you as one of ours.”
K Smooth smiled. “One of yours, huh? I like that.”
“And it isn’t as though we weren’t interested in interviewing you at some point,” she lied.
“D’you how many requests for interviews I got since that cover? Seventeen. Most from people that were never interested in me before.”
“That’s how news works sometimes,” she said taking a sip of her wine. “We wind up covering each other instead of covering the story.”
“I said ‘no’ to most of them.”
“Then how’d I get so lucky?”
“My manager reads your magazine,” he said. “And I like your nose-ring.”
Riley smiled and stood motionless as he reached out and gently touched her diamond-chip piercing.
“C’mon, man,” Brendan Cole was back. “It’s go time.”
Two enormous security guards wearing black muscle tees had joined them and Riley realized that they’d come to usher K Smooth into the main club. He turned to look at her.
“I’ll be right back. You’ll wait?”
He smiled at her again and Riley nodded, feeling for a split second, the full force of whatever it was that made women act like idiots around him. As he left the VIP lounge, flanked by security and Brendan in the rear, the energy in the room changed. The women who before were on high alert, hoping that he might notice them, seemed to deflate.
The images on the televisions flickered for a moment and then they were all watching as K Smooth made a triumphant entrance into the main club. The room erupted as he made his way to a small stage near the dance floor and picked up a mike with one hand, gesturing with the other for the crowd to simmer down.
“How many of y’all made it to the Garden last night?” he asked.
The crowd began screaming again.
I’ll be right back, he’d said. Just have to go perform in front of two hundred people – no biggie.
“For those of you who didn’t make it out, this joint is all you right here.”
Then the music started and he rhymed, swaying to the music, his eyes closed and movements subtle. His audience was shouting the words out along with him so his voice was almost obscured in the din. Riley grappled with her bag, reaching for her pen and notepad again. She tried to focus her attention on what she wanted to say but it was difficult not to watch him.
And before she could collect her thoughts, he was done. His entire performance had lasted perhaps ten minutes long, and yet no one seemed disappointed.
He tossed the mike into the crowd and during the ensuing mêlée, turned and left the stage, leaving security to the task of ensuring a riot didn’t break out. Riley turned and looked around. The lounge was almost empty now. Everyone else seemed to have departed for the main club. Just as she decided that K Smooth had probably given her the slip, Brendan Cole stuck his head in the doorway.
“You coming or not Riley Terry?”
g
He had a slow, deliberate walk, like someone who refused to be rushed, no matter what. K Smooth was coming toward her from the elevators, but Brendan was no longer with him. Riley had opted to wait in the lobby bar while he did his telephone interview from his suite, and had spent the time writing as much descriptive material as she could – about the club, her impressions of his manager, and most of all, about her first reaction to the man himself.
Of course she’d left out the part where he made her stomach tighten and her palms get sweaty. Details about her overactive libido were not suitable for public consumption and even less likely to be of interest to her persnickety boss.
“Want to go get something to eat?” he asked her.
“Sure,” Riley said. “How’d the interview go?”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
“Where’s Brendan?”
“Why? Do you want him to come with us?” he asked, looking amused.
“Just curious.”
“He’s upstairs calling his girl or something,” Shawn shrugged. “How’s Jamaican food sound to you?”
He ushered her out front and they stood by the curb waiting as the valet hailed them a cab. For some reason, she’d expected a private car. If MTV was to be believed, rappers only traveled in black SUVs. Or flashy white ones with shiny rims or spinners. She smiled to herself at the stereotypes that popped into her head.
“So are you headed to California after this? That’s where you live, right?”
No point betraying that she knew perfectly well where he lived, and had thoroughly Googled him just before leaving the office. She even knew what his favorite restaurants were, that his preferred athletic shoes were Pumas, and that he never, ever wore Nikes.
Shawn laughed. “I live in hotels. Or in Maryland, if you mean where my legal residence is. After this I’m headed to Baltimore for a show. I’ll hook you up with a couple passes if you’re interested.”
“That’s really generous of you, but I probably wouldn’t be able to make it to Baltimore.”
A taxicab pulled up and they got in. He gave the driver the name of a popular downtown Jamaican restaurant.
“So you’re not even curious about seeing me onstage,” he said.
“I did see you onstage,” she pointed out. “Tonight at the club.”
“Nah, that was just . . . an appetizer. So let me send you some passes.”
Riley shrugged. “Okay. Send me the passes.”
“Don’t just humor me.” He leaned in closer. “If I send them, you have to come.”
“I’m not humoring you. If you send them, I’ll be there.”
Shawn narrowed his eyes “I don’t believe you,” he said.
Riley laughed but didn’t deny it. Of course she wouldn’t be there. If she understood Greg – and she was pretty sure she did – this was not meant to be some long, probing exposé. All she had to do was write up something that proved they weren’t completely out of touch and call it a day. And besides, she was fairly certain he’d extended similar invitations to no fewer than five other women tonight alone.
Maybe he was much, much better looking than she expected, and more articulate than most in his industry, and traveled unpretentiously by taxi cab but she couldn’t let any of that cloud her judgment. The scene at the nightclub made it clear that the fundamentals were the same. Parties, women. The usual crap.
Pepper Island was crowded for a Thursday, and Riley forgot until they were inside that her dinner companion was likely to draw the attention of everyone in the room. Even by the standards of a bunch of jaded New Yorkers, he was a big deal. Just about every head seemed to turn in their direction simultaneously and one woman dropped her fork so that it clattered loudly against her plate. The manager ushered them to a table that was obviously meant to put K Smooth on display, and suggested that the chef make them something that wasn’t on the menu. He accepted, looking at Riley for confirmation before he ordered Red Stripe beer for them both.
Through the crab-stuffed jerk chicken wings she asked him about when he’d first started writing lyrics, and how he got into what he called “the rap game.” And during the escovitched gray snapper entrée they
talked about his adjustment from a private to a public life.
He was describing how he’d landed his first recording contract when he stopped midsentence and Riley looked up expectantly. She’d been scribbling in her notebook as he spoke, her fingers not moving quickly enough to keep up with his words and her own racing thoughts. He was staring at her, his expression inscrutable.
“Look up once in awhile,” he said.
Riley studied his face for a moment until she was satisfied that he was teasing her.
“Better yet . . .” He reached over and slid her notebook away, shutting it and putting it aside.
“I have a good memory, but not that good,” she protested. “How am I ever going to remember everything you say?”
“I’ve talked enough. Your turn.”
“I’m not being interviewed,” she pointed out.
“Neither am I. At least not anymore.”
Riley laughed. “Do you want me to lose my job?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your job. Tell me about it. We talked about my job, now let’s talk about yours.”
Riley narrowed her eyes, trying to decide whether he was genuinely interested or just throwing her a line.
“That’s not generally how these things work,” she said. “Interviews, I mean.”
“Yeah, but everyone prefers a little give-and-take. I ask one, you ask one.”
“Okay,” Riley capitulated. “Deal. What do you want to know about my job?”
“How’d you get into it?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer, always have been actually. My only challenge was figuring out how to get paid to do it. And once I did, I realized I couldn’t be happy doing anything else.”
“I understand,” Shawn said.
“Is that how you feel about your work?”
“Yes. It is,” he said simply. “If you could interview anyone in the world who would it be?”
“I would interview . . . Nelson Mandela.”
“Aw c’mon,” Shawn said. “That’s a safe answer. There has to be someone else.”
“You asked your question and that’s my answer. My turn. Besides your own, whose music do you most admire? And why?”
He grinned. “That’s two questions.”
“Don’t get technical,” she leaned forward. “Give me a name. And not another rapper, either.”
“Okay. I guess I would have to say Nina Simone.”
Riley smiled. “I love Nina Simone. Why do you like her?”
“Because when I hear her voice, I feel what she was feeling when she sang.”
There was a lull between them and he took the last swig of his beer, looking over her shoulder for their waiter and motioning for another one.
“Had you heard my music before tonight?” he asked after a moment.
“Of course. But mostly in passing.”
Riley stifled a smile at his expression. Clearly, he was irritated by that answer.
“So, not a fan of rap music or not a fan of mine?”
“Not a fan of rap music,” she admitted.
“So how come your magazine didn’t send someone else to interview me?”
Riley shrugged. “I think this interview was an . . . impulse.” She’d almost said “afterthought.”
“But not your impulse.”
Riley said nothing. The way he looked at her was unnerving. He didn’t seem to have that thing that most people had – where you look away when caught staring. He just kept right on staring, directly into her eyes. And no matter how she tried, she was always first to avert her gaze.
“So where’s your entourage?” she asked briskly.
“I travel light,” Shawn said.
“Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“I guess I thought every rapper came with a lot more baggage.”
“Some do.”
“Do you think that’s one of the reasons that Newsweek reporter wondered whether you were a pariah among hip-hop performers?” Riley asked. “Because you don’t have a crew with you everywhere you go?”
“You’d have to ask her,” he said. “I didn’t even know what the word ‘pariah’ meant till I looked it up.”
Then he smiled, so it was difficult to decide whether he was joking or not. Riley leaned back in her chair waiting to see what he might say next. Sometimes interview subjects revealed more when you didn’t ask questions than when you did. But for someone who made a living with spoken word, he seemed remarkably comfortable with silence.
He didn’t speak for almost a full minute.
“Political stuff,” he said suddenly. “That’s what I see you writing.”
She nodded. “Yes. A lot of the time that’s the kind of stuff I write. But more about racial politics than politics in the traditional sense. And gender politics,” she trailed off, not wanting to talk too much.
“Gender politics,” he repeated.
“Yeah, the balance of power between the sexes and. . .”
“I know what gender politics is,” Shawn said lightly.
“Of course,” she blushed.
“So gender politics interests you. But rap doesn’t.”
Riley tried not to look surprised. “I see what you mean. But I guess I just haven’t looked at rap through that lens.”
“Interesting,” he said playfully mimicking the tone she’d used to remark on his lack of an entourage. “Maybe you should.”
She fought the urge to defend herself. It wasn’t as though he’d read anything of hers, and she could hardly be surprised that a rapper thought rap was the most interesting place to look if you wanted to capture the zeitgeist.
“Poetry?” he asked suddenly.
“What about it?”
“Do you write it?”
“Not very well.”
“But you do.”
“Sometimes,” her shoulders hunched reflexively, protectively. And then she realized where he was going. “And yet I don’t listen to rap.”
“Exactly.”
“I understand you wanting to defend what you do,” Riley said, sounding more argumentative than she intended. “But I guess I don’t think most rap today says anything. And most of it certainly isn’t poetic.”
Shawn nodded, not in agreement, but as though she’d confirmed a suspicion he had.
“I’ll send you some stuff,” he offered.
“Sure.”
“But you’re right; a lot of rap isn’t poetic, but it isn’t supposed to be. Some of us aren’t poets; we’re the town criers, putting out the word on what’s going on in the streets.” He emptied his glass of the last of his beer. “Don’t be so skeptical, Riley. You might be surprised.”
“Which are you?” she asked.
“Which . . ?”
“Are you a poet or a town crier?”
“You’ll just have to listen to my music and find out.”
“I have listened to your music.”
“No,” he corrected her. “You said you’d heard it. That’s not the same as listening.”
Riley smiled. “You got me there.”
Of all the things she expected from this interview; being challenged on an intellectual level was not among them. This was supposed to be a mildly entertaining interlude during which some materialistic, profane youngster described his Bentleys and showed off his most recent jewelry acquisition.
Smooth, she now realized, had not been adequately captured by the Newsweek feature. Maybe she’d have a story after all.
Riley glanced around and for the first time realized how late it was. Almost all the other patrons had left.
“They won’t ask us to leave,” Shawn assured her, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. “Even if we stay till four in the morning.”
“That must be nice,” she said. “Knowing that the world will bend to your will just because you’re famous.”
“I don’t know about ‘the world’,” Shawn
said. “A few restaurants in Manhattan maybe.”
Riley laughed. “All the same, I should go. Thank you for this, for talking to me on such short notice.”
“Don’t get all businesslike on me now. Let’s get some coffee or something. I think there’s a Starbucks a few blocks over.”
Riley hesitated for only a moment. “Okay.”
Shawn took care of the bill, and tipped everyone, even taking a minute to thank the chef before they walked out into the night. His stride was slow and he walked close enough to her that their fingers occasionally brushed. He smelled like clean, fresh soap. In the air between them was something heavy and unspoken. Riley could see her breath in front of her as they walked and it was cold enough for her to want to shove her hands deep in the pockets of her coat, but she didn’t.
A couple walking in the opposite direction with a cocker spaniel on a leash recognized him and with saucer eyes, stopped dead in their tracks. Shawn deftly avoided looking in their direction, pretending to find something interesting in a store window.
“Very good,” she laughed, when they were out of earshot. “Nice pass interference.”
“Pass interference is was what you were supposed to do,” Shawn said. “But you just left me wide open. I’ll show you how this works. Next time, you block me like this.”
He came closer, so close his chest was almost pressed against her and she had to look up to see his face.
“How was I supposed to know?” she said, trying to slow her breathing. “Some celebrities love talking to their fans.”
Shawn grimaced. “Celebrity.” He hunched his shoulders as though the very sound of the word made him cringe. “All I do is make rhymes. I don’t know anything about being a celebrity.”
“Yeah, yeah. How about all the free drinks, the big banner with your name on it in the club? And all those women fawning over you. Looked like celebrity treatment to me.”
“A’ight, you got me there. But that’s all external stuff that gets projected on me by other people. Doesn’t have anything to do with me – Shawn Gardner – the regular guy.”
“Do your other interviewers fall for that? That’s a really nice line. In fact, it sounds like you’ve used it before.”
He looked down at her, trying to muster a straight face, but before he could get a word out they both dissolved into laughter.
Commitment Page 2
