Xander was on the East Side. It was the brainchild of Alexander Hausen, a Swedish businessman who had come up with the brilliant idea of opening a string of restaurants and nightclubs that exploited Black culture without the troublesome presence of actual Black people. He had a jazz club in the Village, a down-home soul food restaurant on the Upper West Side, and Xander - the toniest hip-hop club in the tri-state area.
When it first opened, Xander’s patrons were almost all white, but its creator didn’t count on the growing Black upper-middle and upper-classes that barely flinched at his fifteen-dollar mixed drinks and thirty-dollar appetizers. And he certainly didn’t count on rap moguls co-opting the hip-hop Mecca he had developed with wealthy Manhattan socialites in mind. Now Xander was solidly a Black establishment, even if not Black-owned. It was the logical place to throw a party for a rap superstar’s music video debut.
The club had three dance floors on two levels with transparent floors through which you could just make out schools of tropical fish. It was loud, and in some aspects maybe even a little over-the-top, but the dark and flashing lights, gave everything an otherworldly quality. When they walked in, heads turned; as many in her direction as in Shawn’s.
They were led to a table in a cordoned off area that overlooked the lower-level dance floor and a waiter took their order for drinks almost immediately. The music was loud, and it was hard to see with all the strobes but as soon as they settled in, a steady stream of people started coming over to Shawn, shaking his hand, leaning in to speak to him over the music. No matter who approached him, he managed to give them his undivided attention even if only for a few moments.
Riley had forgotten this about him – his uncanny ability to make you feel like no one else existed. Still, knowing him as she now did, she recognized how deliberate his focus was. It wasn’t effortless for him, sharing himself with people this way, but he was always careful to make sure no one would feel slighted. No one besides her and Brendan seemed to notice this about him. All they saw was the image, the guy in music videos holding up his too-baggy pants by the waist-band as he rhymed.
When Tracy suggested they go check out the rest of the club they left Shawn and Brendan to do their schmoozing, and walked around for awhile, taking everything in and finally finding a spot at the bar where they ordered mini crab cakes to snack on. Four or five guys came by to ask them to dance, not seeming to care which of them might say yes. That was new, since Tracy was generally the favored one. Tracy accepted a couple times, but Riley remained where she was, one eye on the table where Shawn was still holding court, the other on her best friend.
During one of Tracy’s trips to the dance floor, Riley looked around to find that Chris Scaife was sitting next to her, Tracy’s clutch on the bar in front of him.
He leaned in, his lips briefly touching her ear.
“Why aren’t you with your husband?”
Riley smiled, trying not to show her annoyance.
“He’s working.”
Chris leaned in again. “Looks like he’s playing to me.”
Riley glanced over at the table where Brendan and Shawn had been joined by a woman – a girl really – in a leather skirt and a red tube top. She had long hair resting on her shoulders in dark waves and wore crimson lipstick. Her nails were long and even from this distance Riley could see that they were painted the same blood-red as her lips. She had an arm draped around Shawn’s shoulder and was perched on the arm of his chair. There was something about her demeanor that was more familiar than that of the other women who had approached him, and by the way he was talking to her, Riley could tell she was no stranger.
Even as Riley watched, the girl used a nail to playfully scrape the side of Shawn’s neck and he hunched his shoulders at the unexpected sensation, turning to smile at her and brush her hand away.
“D’you know her?” Riley asked before she could stop herself.
“One of the dancers in the video.” Chris said. “Come to think of it, Smooth hired her.” He was clearly enjoying her discomfort. “If you saw her shake her ass, you’d probably hire her too.”
Riley said nothing. On the dance floor, Tracy was having the time of her life, eyes closed, moving with abandon.
“So Chris,” she said conversationally, hoping to change the subject. “What would you think about giving me an interview?”
Chris pulled back. “Interview? You still work?”
Riley ignored the implication. “I’d love to sit down with you one day and talk about how you do what you do.”
“Holla at me next week.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “If I call you . . .”
He leaned in close again, even though the music was no longer as loud, and his proximity no longer necessary.
“If you call me, I’ll most definitely answer, Mrs. Gardner.”
The club was getting more crowded by the minute. Many of the new arrivals were people Riley was familiar with from magazines or television – mainly models and musicians – and others she assumed were industry executives with their dates or spouses. Upon entering, they all performed the same interesting ritual; first finding Shawn’s table to say a few words, then walking about the club as though for the express purpose of being seen by everyone there. And finally, they would scan the crowd to determine who was worth their prolonged attention. Some retuned to Shawn’s table but most gravitated towards Chris and tried to engage him in conversation.
Riley watched, amused, as he responded to most overtures with a complete and utter lack of interest – clearly he was not in the mood for business.
In the middle of one of his audiences, she slipped away, and headed for the dance floor where she had last seen Tracy. She found her still dancing and not looking like she was planning to stop anytime soon.
“I’m going back to the table,” she yelled into her ear.
Tracy glanced at her dance partner then at Riley. “Okay, let’s go. But you didn’t have to come get me. I could’ve found my way,” Tracy said, taking her clutch from Riley.
As they got closer to the table, Tracy’s pace slowed. “Hold on. Who is that?”
The dancer in the leather skirt was still sitting on the edge of Shawn’s chair, her hand on his back.
“Some girl from the video, Chris said.”
“And you’re coming to rescue me? How about rescuing your man?”
“I don’t think he needs rescuing, Tracy.”
“Oh please. I don’t know why you’re afraid to claim what’s yours.”
“What’s mine? I don’t think in those terms, sorry.”
“Riley, don’t be stupid. Remember what I told you this afternoon about the kinds of women out there? Well this looks like one of them.”
As they got closer to the table, the girl in the leather skirt noticed them, and after watching their progress for a moment, leaned in and said something to Shawn. He looked up as though just realizing she was there, and nodded at whatever she’d said. She left just as Tracy and Riley arrived. Brendan stood to allow Tracy to take his seat and Riley sat next to Shawn. He reached out and rested a hand on her leg, lightly squeezing it.
Around one a.m. the flashing lights and the music stopped abruptly, and after a brief chorus of groans from people caught off guard on the dance floor, there were several loud booms as three enormous screens descended from the ceiling above the bar. Then the music began again and Shawn’s image appeared amid cheers and screeching whistles.
He was standing against the backdrop of a gutted building, wearing all black – an oversized vest that gaped open to show his bare chest, pants on his hips, exposing the waistband of his boxers, and combat boots. His words were angry – about broken promises, civil unrest, and alienation – and his tone placed explosive emphasis on certain words. His face was hard but his movement fluid, illustrating feeling for each and every syllable. Then the background changed and he was joined by dancers – women in a skimpy version of army fatigues – the obligatory exhibition of tits and ass that was a
n indispensable part of every rap video since 1989. Only after it was done did Riley realize she’d completely forgotten to look for the pushy dancer.
A few seconds of complete silence while the screens were raised was followed by thunderous applause. Riley looked at Shawn, who seemed remarkably composed. But of course he would be. He was accustomed to public admiration. She reached for his hand and squeezed it, smiling at him, but before she could speak the table was practically mobbed by people offering compliments. When the music and flashing lights resumed, the crowd around them dispersed except for Mike and Darryl who were joined by Chris holding a glass of amber-colored liquid.
“Yo man, that shit was tight,” Darryl said, offering his hand. Mike did the same, and they both hovered around asking questions.
Rather than carry on yet another uncomfortable exchange with Chris, Riley excused herself and went in search of the Ladies Room. Several women were standing the mirror, checking their make-up and reapplying lipstick. One or two of them noticed her when she came in and paused to look her over, obviously recognizing who she was. The loss of her anonymity was probably the hardest part – that and not knowing what was going on in people’s minds when they stared. Not that some women didn’t have it written all over their faces. Riley could practically read their minds as they wondered how she’d managed to bag K Smooth.
She’s cute, she could imagine them thinking. But she ain’t all that.
Riley found an empty cubicle and stayed inside longer than was necessary, finally coming out to wash her hands and check her own make-up. Thankfully, it still looked okay since she didn’t have the foresight to bring along lipstick and powder in a cute little purse like the ones all the other women seemed to have. What a waste of brain-space; she had become one of those women who obsessed about how her make-up looked, she realized resentfully. It was about as alien a thought-process as she’d ever had, and one that would make Lorna shudder, but it was what it was.
When it became impossible to hide out in the restroom any longer, Riley headed back out, stopping at the bar for a glass of cabernet then turning to map out the least circuitous route back to the table. Just as she was about to give up the exercise as futile, she spotted Shawn, standing by himself for the first time since they’d gotten there, watching her. Riley took her wine from the bartender and raised the glass to her husband. He smiled at her from across the sea of people between them and inclined his head in the direction of a door, partially hidden in an alcove with the word ‘Staff Only’ stenciled on it in white letters.
Riley made her way toward him and Shawn took her hand pushing open the door, pulling her in behind him. They were in a hallway harshly lit with fluorescent bulbs and lined on either side with offices and steel exit doors at the very end. Riley squinted against the unexpected light then turned to look at Shawn.
“This is the first time all night we’ve . . .”
He put a finger to her lips and leaned in to kiss her along her collarbone, his fingertips brushing her nipples through the light fabric of her dress. Riley leaned her head backward, eyes closed until she felt his hand behind her head, pulling her face to his. His tongue pressed between her lips and she opened up to him. He had a thousand different ways of kissing her but every single time, he took her breath away.
“My husband is such a good kisser,” she breathed, when he raised his head for a moment.
“Shut up,” he said, kissing the shell of her ear. “You talk too much.”
“You want me to be quiet?” she teased. “Even though I’m complimenting you on your . . . skills?”
“I never said I wanted you to be quiet,” Shawn said, smiling, his lips pressed against hers once again. “Just that I want you to stop talking.” He pressed his erection against her in just the right spot and she gasped.
They leaned against the door, and the bright lights, and open space of the hall all melted into the backdrop of Riley’s consciousness. She pulled back, kissing him as he had her, along his throat, over his jaw, and down again to his Adam’s apple. She could tell he liked that by the way he pressed against her even harder; so she didn’t stop, wanting to drive him just as crazy as he drove her.
A warm feeling spread from deep in her center, outward in slow concentric circles until Riley wasn’t aware of anything but Shawn’s warmth, his hardness pressed against her and the taste of him as she kissed his neck, his mouth and back again. His breath was hot and fast in her ear, and Riley put her hand down between them, stroking him through the fabric of his pants. Shawn grabbed her wrist and instead raised the hem of her dress, slipping a hand into the waistband of her panties, caressing the skin there, coming tantalizingly close, but avoiding touching her where he knew she most wanted to be touched.
“Stop it,” she breathed against his lips.
“Stop what?”
Riley could feel his smile.
“Teasing me.”
She grabbed his hand and pushed it further down. Finding her wet intensified his excitement and Shawn thrust his tongue into her mouth again, his fingers feather light as they moved over her. Riley pushed hard against him, twisting until he understood what she wanted and inserted his fingers inside her, allowing her to pleasure herself that way. She couldn’t have said how long they were there, Shawn’s motions mimicking the rhythm of their lovemaking. Then the door shifted.
It took Shawn a moment to pull away, and Riley caught her breath, reluctantly releasing him. He braced the door to prevent it from opening and looked down to smooth Riley’s dress, kissing her one last time before they stepped aside to let the intruder in.
It was one of the bouncers who’d ushered them into the club earlier. He looked at them both and said nothing though it was clear from his smirk that he had some notion what had been going on. A soft tinkle at their feet as the door was opened wider made them all look down.
Riley had knocked over her glass of wine and it splattered across the industrial brown carpeting and onto Shawn’s khaki pant leg. He bent to inspect the damage while the bouncer brushed by them and disappeared into one of the offices. While he was there at her feet, Riley looked down at him and he back up at her, his eyes lingering on her legs. He reached out and with a smile, slid a hand up her thigh until Riley grabbed it and shook her head in warning.
“I say we head straight for the exit and go home,” Shawn said.
Riley grinned at him. “Are you serious? Just walk out of your party and go home?”
“Yeah. Let’s go finish what we started.”
“Straight for the exit?” she confirmed.
Shawn nodded.
But back in the club, they were assailed once again by loud music, the dark and strobe lights. Almost immediately a dozen people descended on him, reaching out to him to claim even a tiny piece of his attention. Riley drew further and further into the background with each person who approached. And for awhile he was so caught up in being K Smooth he didn’t seem to notice she was there at all. Then, in the middle of a conversation with a record executive, without even turning around to check, Shawn extended his hand behind him. Riley grabbed it in both of hers and held on tight.
g
Shawn turned off the CD and leaning back in his chair with arms folded, looked over at Brendan.
“See what I’m saying?” he asked. “That’s not an opening act sound, that’s a top billing sound.”
It wasn’t the first time Brendan had heard Glock perform but from the look on his face, he was impressed with the recording. It was undeniable now that they were more than onstage hype – they could produce in the studio as well.
“How’d you even get this?”
“Chris slipped it to me,” Shawn said. “I guess he thought I needed the heads up.”
“What’d he say about it?”
“He didn’t have to say anything. He knows it. I know it. When this CD drops these kids will own hip hop,” Shawn said.
Brendan grimaced. “That’s bullshit. You’re not about the same things as
them. This is strictly underground, hardcore shit.”
“So what you saying? I’m not hardcore?”
Brendan shook his head. “Not like these two. Nah.”
“So I sold out?”
“Shawn, you were never about all that. Why you so paranoid? These kids don’t appeal to the same demographic as you. All hip-hop ain’t the same. You know that.”
“So I should let them open for me on the tour?”
“Yeah. I mean, what the . . .”
“But I can’t get upstaged on my own tour, B. I don’t want to come back and start reading shit about how Glock out-performed K Smooth on his own motherfucking tour.”
“Relax, man. That’s not going to happen. They already opened for you before and it didn’t happen then.”
“They didn’t have Chris Scaife then.”
Brendan shook his head. “Man, you forget who the fuck you are?”
Shawn sighed. He knew who he was – a twenty-eight year old in a game that was dominated by performers between eighteen and twenty-three. He was riding high right now, but what about next year? And the year after that? And sure, Glock had opened for him before, but truth be told, that was because he hadn’t been paying attention. That was when he was in the thick of Operation Get Riley and had spent very little time thinking about much else.
“Call Chris up,” Brendan said. “Tell him Glock can open on the tour. Handle your business, man.”
Shawn nodded and chewed on his lower lip, brows furrowed. “A’ight. Let’s do it.”
He was still in the den listening to the CD when Riley got home. With headphones on and eyes closed, he didn’t even realize how late it had gotten until she lifted them off his head and turned the light on in the room. Outside, the sky was a dark, inky blue.
“Have you been in here all day?” Riley asked, turning off the CD player. “Did you eat anything?”
“Yeah,” Shawn said absently, reaching for the headphones. “Riley, I want you to listen to something. Tell me what you think.”
“Shawn,” she groaned. “I’m exhausted and you know I don’t know anything about sampling and all that stuff.”
Commitment Page 25
