“You nervous?” he asked her now, as they waited out front for Brendan to bring the car around.
“What for?” Riley shrugged. “I just need to stand there and smile, right?”
Shawn looked at her as though trying to read her face. “Thanks for doing this,” he said finally. “I know you hate this shit.”
“Was there ever any question that I’d do it if you asked?” she asked impatiently.
“No, but it’s not like we’ve been talking every day. Or talking at all . . .”
Just then Brendan pulled up and they climbed into the SUV. Shawn sat up front with Brendan and Riley in the rear, staring unseeingly out the window at the ugly L.A. freeway. They said nothing for the ten-minute drive. When finally they exited the vehicle they were greeted by flashbulbs and a wall of photographers. Behind the photogs and two barricades that had been erected, were fans, screaming Shawn’s name. Brendan shielded them as they headed for the entrance and Shawn reached out to Riley, gripping her hand and pulling her close so that she was walking just ahead of him, his arm encircling her waist. Almost as soon as he was inside there were industry people pulling him away.
There was an enormous poster against one wall with the name of Shawn’s new label, and a table with press kits. He stood in front of the poster and shook hands with record executives posing for photos from different angles. Occasionally, photographers would shout out instructions, asking him to turn this way and that and Shawn would oblige.
Riley stood to the rear of the room watching, marveling at it all. Shawn’s eyes found her but he kept his tough guy face intact. Then something in his eyes changed just enough for several in the bank of photographers to turn to see who he was looking at and then begin taking pictures of her. Brendan shoved her to the front of the room and Shawn pulled her up onto the dais. More out of shyness than anything else, she leaned back into him. Shawn placed his arms over her shoulders and clasped at her waist.
Riley squinted at all the flashbulbs, tried to focus on a spot above everyone’s heads. It was strange, heady stuff, to be the focus of all this attention. She smiled until it hurt and soon the clicking of the cameras, the flash and the people all seemed to disappear. Now she understood a little of what Shawn meant when he talked about going into a Zone. You had to; otherwise the sensory overload would drive you insane.
When there were no more pictures to take, the record executives began mixing with the press, answering questions, distracting them so that Shawn could be spirited out a side door and back into the car. The whole thing had taken no more than thirty-five minutes. It seemed incredible that those few minutes were worth millions in sales and publicity.
“I was starting to get vertigo from all those flashbulbs,” Riley said as they pulled away.
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t think I ever would,” she said.
“He loves that shit,” Brendan said. “The first time he did one of those, you should’ve seen him.”
Shawn laughed. “I was seventeen. I never got that kind of attention before.”
“Yeah, but you still get a high off all that, admit it.”
“A little high,” Shawn said. “But just a little one.”
Something about the way he said that reminded Riley of that time, what seemed like millions of years ago, when she’d interviewed him and got him to admit that he liked parts of his celebrity lifestyle.
Brendan grinned. “How ‘bout you, Riley? You get a contact high?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Sorry. Not even a little one.”
“Well, you get to skip out on the next thing,” Brendan said. “I’ll drop you off before we go over to the . . .”
“No, I want to come.”
“He’s just looking at storyboards for the video,” Brendan warned her. “It’ll be boring.”
“Still. I want to come. Just to see what it’s about.”
A boardroom had been reserved in Arista’s downtown offices for the meeting and when Riley walked in with Brendan and Shawn, the six or so people waiting already had copies of what looked like a comic strip in front of them. Shawn introduced her around and Riley smiled, barely processing the names. Someone handed her a copy of the storyboard and she sat next to Shawn, listening as they discussed the sequence of the shots, the lighting, how many wardrobe changes he would have and, how many hours they estimated the shoot would take.
It was all so technical; every miniscule detail seemed to be planned. One shot that seemed like it would be impossible to orchestrate would be of a bead of sweat rolling down Shawn’s brow. Riley had always seen music videos as a kind of catch-as-catch-can enterprise, but it clearly wasn’t that at all. Everyone in the room was taking extremely seriously something she had always considered trivial. One of the reasons she wasn’t previously interested in his work was that she’d never quite believed that it was work. Had he suspected as much?
She listened as Shawn critiqued some of the shots and changed a few, cutting out a couple “booty shots” as he called them, which Riley suspected was done partly for her benefit. A couple hours into the session, they ordered out for Chinese food and took a break to await its arrival. Shawn pushed his chair back from the table and pulled her away from everyone else to a far corner of the room where they sat by themselves on a table.
“I didn’t know,” she admitted. “How much painstaking detail went into this stuff.”
“It’s not work if you’re having a good time,” he said.
“And you’re having a good time.”
It wasn’t a question. He was obviously in his element here, completely in the driver’s seat.
“Yeah but you don’t have to stay for the whole thing if you don’t want to. These things can go on forever.”
“I want to see everything. I wish I could be here for the shoot, to see how it all comes together.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Work on Monday.”
“Yeah, but you’re in L.A. There’s got to be a good story around here somewhere, just waiting to be written.”
Riley chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. “Maybe.”
“I want you to stay,” Shawn said.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and Riley felt a longing twist in the pit of her stomach. He brushed a finger lightly against her nose-ring; a gesture which between them was almost as intimate as a kiss. When they first met, apart from their handshake, that was how he’d first touched her.
Almost against her will, her anger was receding the more time they spent together. Holding onto it now seemed to consume more of her energy than it was worth, but they had never talked about the underlying problems. It would be foolish to pretend everything was resolved just by time apart. They’d missed each other, that was all; but it didn’t fix anything.
“Shawn.”
They both looked up. It was one of the two narrative directors—a young woman named Dana. She had a bushy ‘fro held back in a headband and wore a Nehru jacket with faded jeans. She wore no make-up, but the one clue that she wasn’t entirely unconcerned with her appearance was her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. They were arched so high they gave her an air of semi-astonishment.
“About the shot of you onstage,” she paused, looking at Riley. “I hope you don’t mind.” But there was an edge to her voice that signaled that she didn’t actually care whether Riley minded. “I know you want the stage to look slick but . . .”
“Can we talk about this in a few?” Shawn said. “After we eat?”
Dana pursed her lips. “Sure, but . . .”
“I understand,” Shawn said pleasantly. “After we eat, okay? I can’t think straight when I’m this hungry.”
Dana gave up and walked away and Riley looked at Shawn, her eyes silently questioning.
“Long story,” he said.
“Tell me,” Riley said firmly.
“This was long before I even met you.”
“And I’m guessing it didn’t end too well.”
“It was just a one-night thing.”
“Your specialty,” Riley said before she could stop herself.
“Riley.”
She looked away, trying to rein in the green-eyed monster that had awakened. The streets were practically littered with his conquests. Nadine had worked with him for three years, she said. Was she one of them too? Was she even his type? Come to think of it, what was his type? No one could be as unlike her as that dancer, Keisha. And they were both unlike Dana.
“Hey,” Shawn held her chin and turned her so she was looking at him. “You still with me? What’re you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she smiled to give him a sense of ease she didn’t quite feel herself, but by the look on his face, she could see he didn’t buy it either.
When storyboards were finalized, they drove over to a local studio where Shawn was recording promos for several local radio stations, reading their slogans off a sheet that was prepared for him. After his fifth take doing one radio station’s spot, Riley signaled to Brendan that she was leaving and took a cab back to the hotel to meet Nadine’s person who was supposed to help her dress for the event that night.
g
A car was downstairs waiting for her precisely at ten-thirty, and Riley got in, wondering who would be there to greet her when she got to the party. It was going to be weird pulling up in a big Lincoln and getting out on her own, especially in an unfamiliar city. She’d chosen a black halter with a black skinny pant and gold Manolo Blahnik heels that were obscenely expensive.
The party was at a spot called The Cat Club. There was a velvet rope across the doorway, flanked by two sizeable men in black suits and a banner with the name of Shawn’s new label. Brendan was standing out front, talking to a couple of rappers Riley recognized even though she was drawing a blank on their names. And a familiar and welcome face—Chris Scaife. He was all dressed up for a change, in a soft white suit and beige shirt. He was handsome without his baseball cap and sagging pants.
When Riley got out of the car, they all turned to watch her make her way toward the door. She hugged Chris first and he held her at arms’ length, looking her over.
“Whassup, girl?” he said. “You look good.”
“You too. You never told me you were coming,” she scolded.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. “Smooth getting his own label—that’s huge.”
“Is he inside?” she looked for the first time at Brendan who was watching her interaction with Chris with particular interest.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “C’mon.” He took her arm and led her away from the others.
“You’re just as bad as Shawn,” she said to him as he guided her through the entrance to the club.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brendan said.
Once inside, Riley was too overwhelmed to speak. First of all, it was far larger than the exterior would have led her to believe. It was a warehouse, with high ceilings, exposed duct-work and unfinished walls for an industrial look. And there had to be about five hundred people there. She could have sworn Brendan had told her it wouldn’t be that big a party.
All over the club, unseen equipment projected the new logo for So Def Records and Shawn’s image onto the walls. In some, he was overblown to superhuman proportions. Waiters and waitresses in black tie were serving champagne and finger foods expertly weaving in and out of the crowd. Otherwise, the décor was sparse and ultra-modern—silver chairs with spindly legs and tables only just big enough to hold about half a dozen wineglasses or so—were dispersed all about the room.
Four elevated bars glowed neon green in each corner of the club, so that the center of the room was reserved for dancing. Silver cages in which women dressed in cat suits moved sinuously to the music were suspended from the ceiling and hung about ten feet above the dance floor.
Brendan led her to one of the bars that had been cordoned off as a VIP area and outfitted with much more comfortable sofas and plush chairs. Shawn was sitting with someone Riley didn’t recognize, talking and drinking an amber colored liquid. When he saw her, he extended an arm and she went over to him, allowing him to pull her onto his lap, arms wrapped about her waist. It felt like old times, having him hold her like this, absentmindedly but securely. They were enjoying each other but only because they were carefully avoiding the reasons they’d been separated in the first place.
“This is my wife Riley,” he said to his companion. “Riley this is John Sampson.”
Riley shook John Sampson’s hand and offered him a brief smile.
“I enjoy your work in Power to the People,” he said unexpectedly.
“Oh, thank you,” Riley said, pleased.
“But I noticed they’ve got you doing something different now? I read that piece on women producing hip-hop. That was on point.”
“So you really do read my stuff. You weren’t just being polite,” Riley joked.
“Not at all. What’re you drinking, Riley? He turned to call one of the waiters.
“Pinot grigio would be great. Thank you.”
Shawn pulled her closer so that she was leaning against him. Riley took a sip of the wine John Sampson handed her.
“I was just telling Shawn how since I’ve been in this business, I haven’t seen as much of a merging of sounds as there is out there now. It used to be that his sound wouldn’t play—and wouldn’t sell —on the West Coast. But not anymore. Might be a story in there for you.”
“What do you do?” Riley asked him.
“John’s a VP at Virgin,” Brendan said.
“I tried to get your husband to sign with us,” he said. “But he didn’t feel we had enough of a track record with rap . . .” John shrugged. “. . . and he’s right. But just don’t tell anybody I said so.” He grinned and emptied his glass.
Riley was smiling back at him when she spotted a familiar face just outside the VIP area. She squinted in disbelief, but it was true. It was the girl from Xander’s.
Keisha.
Her heartbeat accelerated and her temples throbbed.
Why was she here? All the way in California? After everything that had happened, did Shawn still allow her to dance in his shows? Or were they still . . ?
She couldn’t even allow herself to complete the thought.
If she’d had any doubt at all that this was the same girl, the way she was staring, no, glaring, at her effectively eliminated every ounce of it. Keisha’s eyes were directly on her and did not waver though it was clear she’d been spotted. Riley turned around to face Shawn.
“I’m going to the Ladies Room,” she said.
“You okay?”
For him to have asked the question, there must have been something on her face, or in her eyes, that clued him in that everything was most definitely not okay.
“No,” she said.
Behind them, John and Brendan had sensed that something was afoot and had discreetly turned away, talking about Mike and Darryl’s settlement.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“An old friend of yours is here,” Riley said.
“Who?” Shawn looked puzzled.
“You should know.”
He narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Old frien . . .”
“Keisha.”
A series of looks crossed his face—surprise, confusion, anger and finally comprehension.
“Mike must’ve brought her out for the party, Riley, I swear.”
She sighed, wanting to believe. Not knowing whether she should.
“Riley, look at me. I didn’t bring her here.” Shawn held her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s my word.”
Riley twisted free. “I have to go to the Ladies Room, I’ll be right back.”
“Riley . . .”
“I’ll be right back!”
She wrenched away from him and pushed her way through the crowd, not knowing where she was headed. She wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes until finally she saw the neon si
gn lighting the way.
She was halfway there when someone touched her shoulder. Thinking it was Shawn, she spun around to tell him again that she’d be back. But it was Keisha.
She was shorter than she appeared from a distance, and had a combative and determined look on her face. Riley stared at her impassively, waiting. If Shawn was still sleeping with her, this girl did not look like the type who would be anything other than proud of that fact and more than willing to share it with whoever would listen. And god, Riley thought, she was beautiful. There was no getting around that.
“You Smooth’s wife, right?”
“And you are?” Riley said coolly.
“Keisha. I know you prob’ly ain’ even heard of me. But I have something to say to you.
“Go ahead,” Riley prompted, trying to appear only mildly curious.
The music was loud, but not so loud that they needed to raise their voices to be heard. Keisha’s hands were on her hips, and legs planted apart. No doubt she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
“When we was in Houston, during the Strictly Ol’ School Tour?” She paused for effect, swallowing and then licking her lower lip. “Me and Smooth? We was . . . intimate. And I just thought you had a right to know ‘cause. . .”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Riley cut her off. “To think of my rights.”
Keisha’s face fell a little, but she did a good job of keeping it almost immobile as Riley spoke.
“But here’s the thing, Shawn already told me.”
A look of complete and utter shock crossed Keisha’s face, and was quickly replaced by defiance. “Yeah, well did he tell you he was sweatin’ me for weeks before that? That he was the one what sent me the plane ticket? He was . . .”
“Was,” Riley emphasized, staring the girl right in the eyes. “But maybe now it’s time for all of us to move on.”
Keisha blinked and appeared to be thinking of something else to say. “Well,” she said finally. “Your man ain’t about shit. He did it once, he’ll do it again.”
Commitment Page 41
