Larger Than Lyfe

by Cynthia Diane Thornton

  “Fuck!” Keshari snapped under her breath.

  One of Keshari’s bodyguards appeared out of nowhere, his hand on his jacket as if he were prepared to shoot the man for his mistake.

  Keshari sighed with exasperation as she felt Mr. Apologetic’s champagne trickling between her breasts and down the front of the lace, La Perla bikini she wore.

  “Ms. Mitchell, is everything okay here?”

  “I’m fine. It was just an accident,” she snapped irritably at the bodyguard, waving him off.

  Mr. Apologetic seemed absolutely determined to set the situation right. He grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins from a passing waiter and handed them to Keshari.

  “Thank you,” she said quickly, dabbing agitatedly at her damp chest and down the front of her intricately beaded jumpsuit.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I told you, I’m fine.”

  He reached into the inner jacket pocket of his very nicely cut, Armani suit and removed one of his business cards.

  “Please forward me the bill for your dry cleaning and I’ll reimburse you. Better yet, here. Take this. It should cover the cost of cleaning your outfit. I am truly sorry.”

  He held out two, crisp, new hundred-dollar bills to her. Keshari waved his business card and the money away with growing frustration. If this man apologized one more time, she was going to scream and start scratching at his eyes.

  He stood watching her with genuine concern as she continued to dab at the damp but nearly invisible spot down the front of her outfit. Then, out of nowhere, it finally dawned on him who she was.

  He smiled a sexy, disarming smile. “Keshari Mitchell.”

  “The only one I know,” she replied.

  “Of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment?”

  “YES,” she said, looking off distractedly through the crowd of people for Terrence, ready to brush past Mr. Apologetic before he went into player mode or tried to persuade her to listen to some artist’s CD.

  “I’m Mars Buchanan,” he said. “I’m the new general counsel for the Western Division at ASCAP.”

  Keshari let her guard down a bit, smiled and shook his hand.

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you,” she said, looking down to inspect the virtually invisible champagne damage to her outfit.

  Mars Buchanan went to apologize again and Keshari quickly cut him off.

  “Look, this was as much my fault as it was yours. My mind was someplace else and I wasn’t looking where I was going. Let’s just forget about it. Okay?”

  “Not a problem,” he said with a bit of reluctance. “You know, I’ve read coverage of you in the trade papers and in several of the music magazines. I’ve also met your attorney and several A & R execs from your label at various industry functions, but this is the very first time that I’ve encountered you in person and let’s just say that entertainment magazine photos don’t even begin to have the same…striking…effect as seeing you up close and personal.”

  He was clearly flirting with her. A faint smile seemed to play at the corners of Keshari’s lips. This is definitely not the time, she thought.

  “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Buchanan,” she said, “but if you will excuse me, I’m expected up front.”

  “The pleasure was meeting you,” Mars replied graciously, “despite the unfortunate way that we did meet.”

  Moments later, Mars heard Keshari’s sultry voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope that you’re enjoying yourselves this evening.

  “We are here to give honor and recognition to one of the music industry’s premier artists, one of the most prolific voices in today’s hip-hop.

  “This young brotha, with his extraordinary talent for flipping a metaphor, brings back the days when hip-hop involved knowledge-dropping and was used as a political tool for consciousness and empowerment… the days of Chuck D. and Public Enemy, X-Clan, Poor Righteous Teachers, KRS-One and Boogie Down Productions…”

  Loud applause. Excitement was building.

  “TIME magazine asks if this brotha is a ‘prolific phenom or a threat?’ Rolling Stone calls this brotha ‘Hip-Hop’s Messiah.’ The SOURCE gave him an unbelievable five mics on all three of his albums. And, in my opinion, he’s got to be one of the most AMAZING brothas I’ve ever met in my entire life. Without further ado, let’s give the man of the hour his props. RASHEED THE REFUGEE!!!”

  The crowd went wild. The men “let loose their dogs,” whooping it up throughout the packed outdoor living room, and the females screamed in sheer delight as Rasheed the Refugee took the stage.

  Mars Buchanan secured a fresh glass of champagne, then maneuvered his way toward the front of the crowd. He stood amongst the partygoers, his eyes riveted to the stage, not at Rasheed the Refugee receiving his platinum plaque, but at the president & CEO of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment.

  He smiled a very satisfied smile to himself and sipped his drink.

  “Looks like Miss Thing’s got a secret,” Keshari’s assistant said when she arrived at the office the next morning.

  “What are you talking about, T? I am really not in the mood.”

  “Check your desk,” Terrence answered coyly as Keshari passed his workspace and went into her office.

  On the corner of her desk was an exquisite, Baccarat vase filled with three dozen, long-stemmed, hot pink tulips. She pulled the card from the tiny pitchfork sticking from the arrangement. She already knew that her busybody assistant had sneaked and read it.

  “Here’s to the two of us meeting again under much less awkward circumstances. Mars Buchanan.”

  Keshari smiled to herself and rolled her eyes as she thought of the gorgeous, apologetic general counsel from ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers) who’d spilled champagne all over her $5,500 outfit the night before. She dropped the card into the trash.

  There was a small stack of CDs on her desk in an interoffice envelope from the A & R department. A & R received literally hundreds of demo CDs every single month from aspiring artists, hoping to sign recording contracts with Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment. A & R forwarded the most promising CDs to Keshari. When Keshari liked what she heard, A & R would often contact the artist to arrange to hear more of their music. Sometimes the record label requested that an artist go into the studio to lay down another track…a “no strings attached” arrangement to see how the artist worked and if the artist showed consistency in their likability and talent. Ultimately, Keshari decided whether or not LTL would extend the artist a recording or production contract.

  She popped the first CD on the stack into her stereo system. It was a female artist…Tanjika Miles…and she couldn’t sing worth a damn. Keshari already knew what she looked like, the exotically pretty, hot, and tempting video model type whose demo CD had made its way to Keshari’s desk because the girl had been so hungry to get her music heard by the right connection that she’d performed a whole host of sexual favors for the male A & R exec who’d promised her the world. The industry was filled with these young, beautiful, talentless creatures. They fit the sex-driven visual image that record labels generally marketed to the public and their voices were made to sound sellable in the studios via implementation of state-of-the-art recording equipment and techniques. Keshari removed the CD from the system, attached a note requesting that A & R try and find out the particulars of the producer, and then tossed the CD aside. She had no interest whatsoever in the singer. The music industry had overlooked enough true creativity and artistry in music already for these types and Keshari was bound and determined that Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment would never lower its standards to swim around in the cesspool with some of the other record labels, signing talentless creatures who only looked like stars.

  She inserted the next CD. It was a male rapper, “Mack-A-Do-Shuz.” Mack-A-Do-Shuz wove intricate, philosophical, lyrical storylines of an urban gangster and his oftentimes dangerous life in the streets. The total package was impec
cable, impressive creativity in the lyrical stylings and an innovative producer who worked in perfect synchrony with the artist.

  Keshari called Sharonda Richards in A & R.

  “Sharonda, who is this Mack-A-Do-Shuz? I’m listening to his demo right now.”

  “Chuckie Townsend has run into him a few times at The Gate and at Savannah West and he’s been begging Chuckie to listen to his demo. I take it you liked him.”

  “Definitely. Get him into our studios with the same producer who did his demo to drop a couple more tracks. No promises. If we like what we hear, we’ll negotiate a contract. We’ll even work out a production deal for the producer. Touch bases with me in two weeks.”

  “Key, here’s something you’ll really like. Mack-A-Do-Shuz completely produced the entire demo. He’s both rapper…he writes all of his own material…AND producer.”

  “Whoa,” Keshari said. “Get him in here right away. It’s a wonder that no one has snapped him up and signed him already.”

  She hung up and began going through the stack of documents that had also been delivered to her that morning. Some of them were very time-sensitive. She had checks to sign and return to accounting, a couple of artist management contracts to review and sign and return to the legal department, several video budgets that required her review and approval, and finalized invoicing from The Mondrian Hotel for the platinum party had been faxed over to Andre’s attention just that morning. Andre forwarded copies to her for her review and signatures before he submitted the invoices to accounting for payment.

  Every penny that was spent at Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment had documentation to come across Keshari’s desk. Projects with large budgets always required Keshari’s signed approval before they commenced; and she and her accounting department always kept a watchful eye on everything so that projects did not wind up going over budget. She ran a very tight ship.

  As she sat there at her desk signing documents, taking phone calls, and considering taking a ride up to the Malibu mansion where a music video was being shot for LTL’s girl group, Cashmere, she glimpsed the heavy, cream-colored, parchment card that had been attached to Mars Buchanan’s flowers to her. She lifted the card from the wastebasket and smiled to herself at its message. Then she dropped the card back into the trash.

  Moments passed and, as she was checking her voicemail and e-mail messages, something compelled her to pluck the card out of the trash again. She gazed at it for several moments, then rang her assistant.

  “Terrence, get me Mars Buchanan at ASCAP on the line. He’s in Legal Services.”

  “No problem,” Terrence replied.

  A couple of minutes later, Terrence buzzed Keshari back.

  “Keshari, I’ve got Mars Buchanan on the line.”

  “Thanks, T. Put him through.”

  “Well, hello, Keshari Mitchell. What can I do for you?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Buchanan. I received your flowers. They’re beautiful. Thank you. But you really didn’t have to do that.”

  “It was the least that I could do to compensate for our initial meeting…and since you liked the flowers enough to call and thank me for them yourself, perhaps I can persuade you to have dinner with me…tonight.”

  Keshari was already backpedaling away fast from her impulsive notion to call him.

  “I don’t think that that would be a good idea,” she said.

  “I strongly disagree…unless you’re married or otherwise involved. Are you married or otherwise involved?”

  “I don’t think that my personal life is any of your concern, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “Please…call me ‘Mars.’ ‘Mr. Buchanan’ is my father. Is seven o’clock a good time to pick you up? And would you prefer if I pick you up at your home or at your office?”

  Keshari laughed. “Mr. Buchanan…Mars…random drug testing of the legal counsel over at ASCAP might not be a bad idea. But, on a serious note, I really don’t think that it would be a good idea for the two of us to go out. I only called to thank you for the beautiful flowers that were delivered this morning.”

  “Why don’t you think that it would be a good idea for me to take you out?” Mars asked. “I’m a good guy.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Keshari smiled. “I just have a lot on my plate, that’s all, and I hardly have the time for any…entanglements.”

  “I expected that you would have a full plate, Keshari, but even the most powerful people have to set aside little blocks of personal time to eat. Look, I met…by accident…an extraordinarily beautiful woman last night and I want to get to know her better and, just for a split second, I saw a little glint of something in your eyes, felt a tiny bit of chemistry, giving me the impression that you might like to get to know me, too. You and I both know that you didn’t call my office just so you could thank me personally for the flowers I sent to you. Your assistant could have left that ‘thank you’ with my secretary or mailed me one of those generic ‘thank you’ cards and we both could have gone on with our respective days without a moment’s direct contact. So, stop fronting. You like me. Admit it.”

  Keshari smiled to herself. She had to admit that she was both intrigued and amused by the relentless and extremely attractive attorney.

  “You really don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not when it counts,” Mars answered. “Come on. Have dinner with me tonight. If we don’t click…which, in my belief, is highly improbable…you will never have to be bothered with my presence again. My word is bond.”

  Keshari didn’t say anything.

  “HEL-LO?!” Mars said, loud enough to cause Keshari to hold the telephone receiver away from her ear. “Give me an answer. I feel pretty damned certain that you’ve closed major business deals in less time than this.”

  Keshari laughed. It felt good to laugh like that.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you tonight.”

  She could feel Mars smiling triumphantly through the telephone.

  “So, how are we gonna do this?” she asked. “I’m really not in the mood to do the…you know…the ‘public’ thing. I’ve had a tremendously busy week…plus the party last night…and I’d just like to kick back and relax. Why don’t you drive up to my house and I’ll have my cook put something together for us?”

  “Nah, tell you what,” Mars said. “If you don’t want me to take you out for dinner, why don’t you come to my apartment and I’ll cook for the two of us?”

  “Oh, you cook, do you?” Keshari asked, impressed.

  “I dabble a bit,” Mars answered.

  “That settles that, then. We’ll have dinner at your place. I have only one, small request. No pork or red meat.”

  “Not a problem there, my queen. I don’t consume the stuff either. Seven o’clock?” Mars asked.

  “Seven o’clock’s fine,” Keshari replied.

  “Would you like me to pick you up?”

  “I’ll drive,” Keshari responded.

  Mars gave her directions to his condominium and they hung up. Keshari buzzed her assistant again.

  “Terrence, run a full background check on Mars Buchanan.”

  “Hmmmmm,” Terrence said coyly, “bouquet of flowers…background checks. New love interest on the horizon? It’s about time.”

  “Don’t be silly, T. Get back to me with the findings of that background check in a couple of hours.”

  “No problem,” Terrence said, chuckling and clicking off his extension.

  Terrence got back to Keshari in just over an hour with the background information that she was seeking. Keshari regularly used a Los Angeles intelligence agency that was able to provide fast, accurate and extensive details, from medical histories to criminal backgrounds and credit profiles, on anyone. She read the findings of the background check that Terrence had printed from his e-mail and smiled to herself. Mars Buchanan’s background couldn’t have been any more spotless.

  Keshari wasn’t naively deluding herself into believing that nothing could or wou
ld happen to her in regard to her current predicament with The Consortium, particularly after Marcus Means’s entirely unexpected visit at the party the night before, but she certainly wasn’t going to be fearfully crawling under any rocks either. It was time that she started living her life COMPLETELY on her own terms, from running her record label to getting up in the morning fully able to face herself in the mirror without having a constant, moral tug-of-war taking place in her head and maybe…just maybe meeting someone fun and smart and sexy and worthy of her and, as her best friend constantly admonished her, getting herself laid.

  For the time being, at least until Ricky’s trial wrapped, she would not deviate from the regular program of her obligations, including her obligations to The Consortium. But her mind would not be swayed in terms of her ultimate intentions.

  She had a date that night…a real date…for the first time in she didn’t know how long.

  Keshari had no idea why her heart was racing a mile a minute as she rang the doorbell outside Mars’s condominium in the posh, Los Angeles suburb city of Marina Del Rey.

  “I bet you could make wearing a Hefty trash bag look like a fashion statement.” Mars smiled when he opened the door.

  “That’s cute.” Keshari smiled back. “That’s really cute.”

  Keshari was very casually chic in skintight, cuffed Roberto Cavalli jeans and fire engine-red Jimmy Choo sandals. She walked into Mars’s huge apartment and looked around, thoroughly impressed. Mars had a table set on his terrace complete with linen tablecloth, matching napkins, and floating candles. There was a gazeboed Jacuzzi at the far end of the terrace just begging for a middle-of-the-night rendezvous with chilled champagne and strawberries. Ceiling-to-floor windows gave a spectacular, 180-degree view of the marina from the huge, sunken living room.

  “Who did your decorating?” Keshari asked. “Your apartment is beautiful.”

  “A friend of mine is an interior decorator. She owns the PFI Firm in Beverly Hills. She did it.”

  “She did a great job. The soft grays and black leather are very tastefully masculine and you have a very substantial African art collection. That large, Yoruba fertility statue is one of my favorites.”