“There were a couple messages for you,” Riley said, sitting on the back of the sofa for a moment to loosen her bootlaces. “One from that guy from EMI.”
“Yeah?”
His contract was up for re-negotiation in a matter of months and other labels had already begun the courting process. Record executives blowing up his phone and texting him to try to set up a meeting. How they managed to get his private numbers he would never know.
“He left his call-back information for the hundredth time. You might want to think about using it this time before he starts camping outside our front door.”
She was flipping through the mail now, opening some and discarding others.
“Look at this.” She handed him an envelope. “I got a guaranteed acceptance platinum Visa. I swear, a month ago they would have laughed in my face if I dared to apply for something like that.”
“It’s the bank account, Shawn said, dropping the application on the coffee table.
“Oh, yeah. The account,” Riley said, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers.
She still wasn’t comfortable with the fund his lawyers had set up for her and Shawn would have bet anything she hadn’t touched a dime of it. She told him she would have preferred a pre-nup but even now, he hadn’t an ounce of regret for not asking for that. More often than not, he was preoccupied with thinking of something, anything that he could give her that she would really want. And if a bank account with a sum in the high six figures didn’t even increase her pulse, he was at a loss for what that might be.
He walked up behind her now and wrapped his arms about her waist, reaching up to tug the mail from her fingers and scattered it on the floor at her feet. She laughed but pressed herself back against him.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “Twice in the last twenty-four hours is plenty enough for me, thank you very much.”
“Now see, that’s just your dirty mind. All I want to do is make out like we’re in high school.”
She turned to face him.
“You would never have been interested in me in high school. I was the nerdy girl at the front of the class that guys like you ignored.”
“Guys like me?” Shawn said. “What kind of guy was that?”
“The cool guys,” Riley said smiling up at him. “The hot guys.”
“You think I’m hot?”
She twisted her lips. “You know you are.”
“Oh, you said I had two messages,” he realized. “One was from the EMI guy. What was the other?”
“Stephanie from Arista,” Riley said.
Shawn held his breath. “What did she say?”
“Nothing. Just left a number.”
Shit.
“I better call them back,” he said pulling away. “I’ll give them my cell so they stop calling here.”
Riley shrugged. “Well, you live here, Shawn, so where else would they call?”
When she was in the bedroom, Shawn listened to the voicemail and dialed Stephanie’s number on his mobile as she recited it and deleted the message.
“This is Smooth,” he said when he heard her voice. He purposely didn’t use his given name.
“How are you?” she said, her voice purring.
“Good. How ‘bout you?”
“Wonderful. So I thought I’d give you a call to let you know that I’m actually going to be coming your way for business in a week or so. And I wondered if you wanted to get together.”
An image flashed through Shawn’s head of Stephanie in that Pittsburgh hotel room naked, her upper body hanging over the edge of the bed as he labored over her.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, she repeated, her voice rising to such a pitch he’d clamped a hand over her mouth.
“I’m really not in a position to be negotiating a new contract right now, Shawn said, keeping his tone impersonal.
Stephanie laughed. “And if you were, I wouldn’t be the person you’d be negotiating with. This would be purely a social visit.”
Shawn took a deep breath. “How’d you get this number?” he asked lowering his voice.
“Your wife. Is listed,” Stephanie said her tone incredulous.
“So you do know that I’m married.”
“Yes. I read about it in a magazine. Doesn’t matter which magazine. And it doesn’t matter that you’re married either. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Stephanie. It matters to me.”
There was a moment of silence and then a sigh. “You sure you don’t want to take me out for a drink?”
“Not happening, Stephanie.”
“Okay,” she sang. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Hey! Was that who you called that night?”
“Stephanie?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t call here again.”
Shawn heard her chuckle. And then the phone went dead. He listened to the silence for a moment more then glanced toward the bedroom. He could hear Riley moving about in the closet, oblivious. Somehow he was going to have to convince her to change the phone number. Or accelerate their move to the new place.
“Baby, could you come in here?” she called out to him. “I need you to grab something from the top shelf for me.”
Normal life calling.
g
They went out for dinner at the Chinese restaurant three blocks away from the apartment. Shawn ignored the stares he got from a table full of young Asian guys, one of whom was wearing a throwback Wu-Tang Clan t-shirt. He kept his head down in his lo mein, trying not to make eye-contact, hoping they wouldn’t come over. He considered not going to the club at all, thinking how much more he would like to just stay in bed, watch a game on television, Riley somewhere nearby working on her laptop.
“We don’t have to go, y’know.”
She seemed to read his mind.
“Yeah I do. We talked about this.”
And they had; at length. The one thing he made sure she understood before they got married was that his time was frequently not his own – just being K Smooth was his job in much the same way that going to the magazine everyday was hers.
He had to cultivate his brand, make sure he was seen and talked about even when there was no new music to promote. There would be more tabloid photos with captions that weren’t true. There would be rumors, blogs that claimed to know about his ‘secret love-child’ or assorted other crap like that. But it was part of the gig. The key to every successful career in entertainment was to make sure the public always heard something about you, so even the negative stuff had its role.
You had to maintain a dull hum in their consciousness at all times; and amplify that hum to a roar only when necessary to sell your product. Some artists made the mistake of maintaining a roar and wound up overexposed. Others let their hum dwindle to nothing, so that when they needed to, they couldn’t revive it with all the hype in the world. It was his challenge to maintain balance between those two extremes.
“I don’t understand what’s in it for you, that’s all. Hanging out in clubs till all hours. I can see why the club owners want you there, but other than that, I don’t get it.”
“That’s where the business is done. And besides that, it’s free publicity. We show up, people write about it.”
“A bunch of rappers in a nightclub is not exactly news, Shawn. Unless someone winds up getting shot.”
Shawn laughed. “Oh, why’s it gotta be about somebody getting shot?”
“You know the love affair between hip-hop culture and firearms. Come to think of it, that would make a good story.”
“If you write some shit like that, I’ll divorce you.”
“You won’t get rid of me that easy.” Riley tossed a packet of soy sauce at him. “Why don’t we go to Harambe instead?”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “Poetry-reading? No thanks.”
“It’s slam poetry, not poetry-reading. And besides, if you think about it, you do the same thing as most of the guys there. Wasn’t that the point you made that night I
interviewed you, when you were trying to put me in my place? That poetry is free-stylin’ but without the music?”
“And if you think about it, rock-and-roll and R&B come from the same place. But today, one doesn’t have shit to do with the other. And I wasn’t trying to put you in your place; I was trying to get you into my bed.”
“I disagree,” Riley said, biting into a stalk of broccoli.
“That I was trying to get you in . . .”
“No, silly. About slam-poetry and what you do not having anything to do with one another. The only difference is that rappers sold out and started rapping about money and cars, stopped rhyming about things that really matter.
“Like, remember when rap was defined by Public Enemy,” she continued. “And that old group Digable Planets. Remember when hip-hop used to be about struggle? When it used to be about pain?”
“Riley, it’s always been more complicated than that. It was also about going to parties and macking on the hottest chick there. You’re idealizing it.”
“I don’t think so. It used to be an art form and we sold it out to crass commercialism.”
“So you think I sold out.”
“No.” There was some reservation in her tone.
“But?”
“But some of what you rap about doesn’t really reflect who you are and what you’re about. Some of it is so . . .” she stopped herself and bit her lower lip.
“Go ahead. Speak your mind.”
“It’s so shallow. Beneath you.”
“That’s because it’s a fucking business, y’know what I’m saying? Not a social justice movement.”
“Now you’re mad,” Riley put down her fork.
“I’m not mad,” he lied.
“You are.”
“Okay, fuck it. Yeah I’m mad. If my own wife doesn’t even respect what I do . . .”
“Actually, I have great respect for what you do, and for how well you do it. But who cares that I’m your wife? You should be more concerned that I’m a person whose opinion you value.”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“So you only value my opinion because we’re married.”
“Don’t try to turn this around. You just told me you don’t think my rhymes mean shit.”
“I didn’t say that, Shawn.” Riley shook her head. “All I’m saying is . . .”
Shawn leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“That’s what I heard you say, Riley.”
“Then you weren’t listening very well.”
“We better get home, get ready for tonight.” he said, tossing down his napkin and shoving away from the table.
g
Chapter Seven
Shawn had been ready for almost an hour, sitting in the living room and glancing at his watch and nursing his annoyance from the conversation at dinner when Riley came out of the bedroom. Still brushing her hair, she was wearing a short white tube top in an iridescent fabric that stopped just above her waist, and a long, sleek, form-fitting black skirt that began just beneath her hipbones and fell to her ankles. Long slits on either side of the skirt traveled from hem to mid-thigh. On her feet were black strappy high-heeled sandals that were sexy beyond belief. She didn’t often dress this way, but when she did it blew his mind because she had no earthly clue how damn beautiful she was.
Last year when he was on the road and could only stop in New York for a day or sometimes no more than a few hours, they would sometimes meet at restaurants downtown or the Starbucks in Herald Square. Shawn always looked forward to the moment when he would watch her walk in, wearing one of her tomboyish outfits, baggy overalls, or painter’s pants and motorcycle boots. It drove him crazy, knowing that beneath all of those layers of completely un-feminine clothes, she was all woman - gently curved hips, round ass, firm, gravity-defying breasts.
But those were the things any man loved about his woman or about women in general. With Riley, the attraction was deeper and more subtle than that. He loved the slenderness and length of her neck, the way it arched when they were making love, its softness at her nape when he kissed her there; he loved the honey-toned translucence of the skin on her breasts; and her feet, the toes long and fragile, the toenails always unpainted but still pink and perfectly formed like tiny seashells.
“Ready?” she asked him now.
“Yeah, I have to call Chris.”
She turned to head for the kitchen, and Shawn’s eyes widened. What had looked to him like a tube top was actually bare at the back except for two spaghetti-sized strings holding it together. Practically the entire expanse of her back was exposed. Smooth, soft skin – his wife’s skin – on display for any dude who felt like looking. He weighed the odds that she would change her top if he told her he wasn’t comfortable with it and came up with slim to none. She would probably insist on principle.
“You’re going to be cold,” he tried.
“I’ll wear my coat over this when we’re outside, Shawn, obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “So we’re going with the entire possé tonight?”
“Just Brendan. Chris is meeting us there.”
“Yippee,” Riley said dryly.
“You never even met the guy. You might like him.”
“Doubtful,” she said without elaborating.
Shawn shook his head and reached for the phone.
Sans Souci was a members-only penthouse club in a Park Avenue high rise. The walls were six-inch thick tempered glass that revealed the city, laid out below them in lights. There were no VIP areas, because the entire establishment was exclusive enough to make those distinctions unnecessary. At the door, bouncers in designer suits ushered in members and their guests.
The interior was all plush leather and suede, crimson walls with gold leaf and 14kt sconces, designed lounge-style with a central dance floor that was always occupied. On any given night, some of the most recognizable faces in the entertainment business were likely to be in attendance. A night at Sans Souci was never recreation for Shawn; it was always work and all the more so because it masqueraded as fun. Every year, when his fifteen thousand dollar membership fee came due, he hesitated before paying it; not because of the money but simply because he couldn’t think of a single instance where he’d actually enjoyed himself at the club.
Chris was already inside with Mike and Darryl, standing near one of the bars, surveying the scene, drinking cognac. That was Chris’ formula - impress the new guys, cultivate their goodwill so that by the time they hit it big, they would insist that no one but Chris Scaife produce their tracks. Sans Souci was like the Atlantis of the hip-hop world – to the up and coming, it was no more than a rumor, a place they weren’t quite sure existed because it sounded almost too fly to be real. Every ten feet there was a Grammy-winning producer, artist or record label executive. This was where the real action was, not in the boardrooms.
Before he and Riley were even close enough to speak to them, Shawn noticed Chris’ taking her in from head to toe and felt a simultaneous surge of pride and possessiveness. Almost without thinking about it, he extended a hand and she took it in both of hers, leaning into him, oblivious to his motivation.
“Want something to drink?” he said in her ear.
“Wine would be good.”
Chris stepped away from the bar as they approached and held out a hand to Riley. She smiled and took it, allowing him to introduce her to Mike and Darryl. Shawn focused on getting Riley’s drink, trying to look anywhere but at Chris Scaife’s hand resting casually on his wife’s bare back.
He was leaned over the bar when he spotted her – Mike’s cousin, the girl from the recording studio, across the room. She was wearing a black bodysuit and swaying to the music, swirling a tiny umbrella about in what looked like a strawberry daiquiri. Once again, it took him a minute to remember her name, but he definitely remembered that body. And the cute, single-dimpled smile. Shawn looked away, instead concentrating on getting the bartender’s attention. That kind of t
rouble he did not need.
“I’m going to look around a little bit,” Riley said as she took her glass of wine. “Excuse me everyone.”
As she walked away, there was a lull in the conversation.
“Damn, Smooth,” Darryl said after a moment or two, his gaze still following Riley. “I ain’ know you was putting it down like that. Your wife is bad, yo.”
Brendan shook his head and laughed. “Don’t do it, man. Don’t even look in that direction. Unless you want to see this nigga go off.”
Shawn forced a smile. “It ain’t even like that.”
“Oh, it’s most definitely like that,” Brendan said.
“I don’t blame you, man.” Chris said. He, too, watched as Riley made her way through the crowd.
Shawn’s eyes narrowed.
“She got a friend?” Chris asked, eyes still on Riley.
“Her best friend,” Shawn said, happy to offer up Tracy to divert Chris’ attention.
“And you should see her,” Brendan said, letting out a low whistle. “But I got dibs on that one, son.”
“There’s no dibs on a piece of ass. Let the best man win,” Chris said.
This was how he used to talk. Didn’t see anything wrong with it then. But now it sounded different to his ears.
“Speaking of the honeys . . .” Mike began.
Shawn tuned them out.
After awhile he lost sight of Riley. The last time he saw her she had wandered over in the direction of the Ladies Room and just before that talking to some other woman, both of them looking out across the city, pointing things out to each other. She was comfortable on her own; didn’t seem to have even the slightest impulse to stick close by him just because she was in an unfamiliar social situation. Once or twice, guys stepped to her and Shawn watched as she smiled at them. But each time she shook her head, probably refusing invitations to dance.
“That your girl you came in with?”
Shawn looked around. Keisha was standing to his right, leaning on the bar next to her cousin, still holding her strawberry daiquiri. It was melted, but she still held the glass, stirring slowly with the little umbrella.
Commitment Page 20
