God Don't Like Haters 3

by Jordan Belcher

  "I said close your eyes. I'm the professional here. I know what's best for you. I've done this a thousand times."

  I bet you have.

  "And I know me," I said with a smirk, trying to throw a playful spin on my sudden assertiveness. "I'm ready to sing."

  "Close your eyes and take your hands off of my wrists. Let me finish, Kirbie. And then you sing." It sounded like a threat.

  I had been in situations in the streets where I felt unsafe, but nothing compared to how I felt now. I had been robbed at gunpoint with a workboot crushing my face, I had sat in a restaurant blindfolded with a notorious Mexican Mafia boss and had more trust in him than I did in Timbuck. This wasn't right. And if Timbuck had been somebody I sold pills to, I would've already put him in his place.

  But since that life was behind me, I closed my eyes and let my hands fall into my lap.

  I heard Timbuck take a deep breath, then his strong fingertips plied into me again. It seemed to hurt this time, and I wasn't sure if he was pressing harder or if I was just annoyed.

  "You got tense again," he said.

  "I think you went past your mark. You might be overdoing it. You can stop."

  "No, you just need more relief."

  His cool minty breath against my neck alerted me that he'd leaned in close. My eyes popped open and I pulled away, but not before he planted a kiss on my jawline.

  I stood up. "Nigga, I have a fiancé—!"

  He stood up and, before I could finish my sentence, grabbed me by the face and forced another kiss on my mouth, mashing my lips painfully against my teeth. I tried to push him away but his huge arms were overwhelmingly solid and thick. The more I tried to pull away, the harder he squeezed my face together between his clawing hand. I literally thought he was going to crush every bone in my face one-handed.

  Just when I realized I couldn't breathe, he broke the kiss. And I didn't think he did it for my sake; he probably hadn't been able to breathe either.

  "Why are you fighting me?" he asked through heavy panting.

  "Because I want you to get your fucking hands off of me!" I screamed at him. The real Kirbie had come out of me. I could give a damn about saving face for my career in this industry. This man was out of line, and I had hurt people for far less shit. "I'm not gonna tell you again, nigga!"

  He grinned. "Or what?"

  I struggled with him but he was just too damn strong. He ended up folding me backwards on his digital mixing interface. The knobs pressing into my back, all up and down my spine, felt like spikes.

  "I'm not the person you wanna say no to," he hissed. "This industry is about give and take. You give ... and you take. I'm not getting paid for this session. La'Renz didn't give me a damn thing, and I don't do SHIT out of the kindness of my heart."

  I wondered, Is he implying that La'Renz expects me to spread my legs?

  "I'll pay you!" I blurted. One of his large hands covered my whole jaw from side to side. The fleshy meat between his thumb and forefinger sat on my bottom lip. I was tempted to bite but didn't.

  "You think you can afford me? La'Renz can't afford me but you think you can?"

  "I'm not broke. I really have the cash. I can wire it to you. I was a hustler way before I took singing seriously. I don't want a hand-out from you. I'll pay my own way."

  "So now you want me to believe that the pills and drug-dealing you sing about is fact?"

  "It is!"

  He laughed. "Y'know, Jazzmine Short didn't put up nearly as much fight as you. And that's because she knew the importance of give and take. Producers run this industry now. You need me. I don't need you—or your money, even if I did believe you had it. I want this pussy."

  "No!"

  He screamed back at me mockingly. "No!"

  "I swear to God, nigga! If you don't stop ...!"

  "I swear to God, nigga," he parroted, as his free hand went under my shirt. He chuckled. "You're gonna thank me for this. After it's all said and done you're gonna be topping the charts, and then you're gonna come back to me begging to suck my dick for another hit song."

  He nodded at me suddenly, as if he was agreeing with himself. I thought he was crazy—or crazier!—until he turned his head and I saw blood in his hair. Then I watched La'Renz swing another fist that caught Timbuck off guard again. The hulking producer released me to defend himself against my boss.

  "What was you tryna do to my artist, muthafucka?!" La'Renz roared. He was unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling the sleeves up on his athletic-cut Prada dress shirt. He loosened his tie and snatched it off. "Try doing that to me!"

  Timbuck touched the back of his head, caressing the blood there that was caused by La'Renz's diamond pinky ring. I thought the madness was over, but Timbuck shocked me and apparently La'Renz too when he charged at La'Renz like a linebacker. The booming thud I heard when Timbuck slammed into La'Renz must have knocked the wind out of him.

  They hit the ground, Timbuck on top.

  But La'Renz had enough remaining strength or adrenaline to grapple with the producer's arms, managing to lock onto his head, trying to snap it off it seemed like. But Timbuck's head was too big, his neck a tree trunk. I feared if Timbuck straddled La'Renz, as he was clearly trying to do, then the fight would get ugly. So I stepped in, just like I would have done for Archie or my dad ... or Coras.

  I ghetto-stomped on the back of Timbuck's head, then flopped on his back and wrapped my arms around his big-ass neck. He rolled over and I ended up under him. I nearly suffocated, but La'Renz was right there again to save me. The three of us were fighting on the floor for what seemed like hours but could have only been minutes—or even seconds. I sustained a brutal elbow to my forehead but got my legs locked around one of Timbuck's arms, allowing La'Renz to pound him almost without any repercussion. When Timbuck finally got free, he scrambled across the floor on all fours, to the other side of the room. He rested against the acoustic foam on the far wall.

  I pulled myself up on a chair.

  La'Renz stood up and flicked open a pocket knife.

  "I'm done," Timbuck moaned.

  "Says who?" La'Renz closed half of the distance between them. "I ain't seen enough blood yet."

  "La'Renz, chill. I'm done. Yall win."

  "I'm still wondering what the fuck you were trying to do to my artist."

  "Nothing." Timbuck was heaving, his breath not coming fast enough. "We just had a misunderstanding."

  "Really?!" I shrieked. "A misunderstanding? You tried to rape me!"

  "Just get out of here," Timbuck said, waving us off, "and let's act like nothing happened here. Just go."

  "We're not going nowhere until you produce her a hit," La'Renz said adamantly.

  Timbuck stared at La'Renz in disbelief. And so did I. I wanted to get out of here just as bad as Timbuck wanted us to.

  "Get'cho big-ass up and sit down at your mixer and start mixing!" La'Renz ordered, pointing with his knife. "Kirbie, get back in that goddamn booth and sing."

  None of us moved for a moment, then Timbuck slowly got to his feet and eventually seated in his chair; it squeaked under his weight, a sound that broke the heavy silence among us. He peeked over his shoulder at La'Renz as if still wondering if he had to go through with this. La'Renz fixed me with a look and pointed with his knife for me to get moving also. Reluctantly, I waltzed in the booth and put the headphones on.

  I would've never imagined that we'd turn out a hit song after that fight, but we did. Timbuck even smiled at me a few times and gave me a couple thumbs-ups through the soundproof glass when I was recording my ad-libs. I actually felt real confident about what we were creating.

  After the session, after I was out of the booth and putting on my jacket, La'Renz sort of forced me and Timbuck to pose for a quick picture. He told Timbuck to edit out any noticeable bruises and cuts and post it on his Site page.

  I didn't think he'd do it.

  But I was wrong.

  TimbuckGrammyGangsta posted a photo

  TimbuckGrammyGangs
ta: Had a BANGING session with newcomer Kirbie Amor! Yall won't believe what we just put down. She's the real deal! And I cosign that! Wait till yall hear what we crafted! Classic shit!—with Kirbie Amor.

  Chapter 3

  Sammy "Hitman" Russtrip

  Manhattan, New York

  Me and my son were eating dinner at a tiny diner across the street from Timbuck's studio, waiting on La'Renz and his artist to come back out. An hour ago we watched him run in to get her.

  I didn't know how much longer they'd be so I ordered another coffee. Dark roast, three sugars, three creamers. Here, they made you add the extras yourself, which I preferred.

  My son was sitting across from me. He was on his phone, again.

  "If they walked out of that studio right now, you wouldn't even notice," I said to him.

  Jarvis looked out the window, past our silver Yukon. When he didn't see our little birds, he went back to his phone. "I'm paying attention. But you're the lookout, I'm the researcher," he told me.

  "Since when did you get the authority to assign job titles?"

  "Look at this, daddy." He showed me his phone.

  "I told you to call me Sammy on-duty. Might as well call me Sammy off-duty too to minimize mistake."

  "Sammy, look."

  I looked at his phone and saw a picture of our target's young recruit, Kirbie Amor, smiling with super-producer Timbuck. "Okay, whoopty-do. Why is this relevant?"

  "This picture was posted to The Site a few minutes ago."

  "And?"

  "And you keep complaining about me being on my phone but I'm doing us both a favor by keeping eyes on our birds. Digitally."

  "La'Renz isn't in the picture. He's our target, not her."

  "But wherever she is, he's never too far away. The Site helps us locate 'em. It's easier than following them everywhere they go every day."

  "Easier is not always better."

  "In who's book?"

  I pounded my fist on the table, not that loud but hard enough to rattle the cutlery. "We are not gonna rely on your phone to tell us where they are. We practice old-fashioned, tried-and-true investigating. You have to have eyes on who you plan to murder."

  "We're wasting time. It's getting boring. We could be sitting at home or with some bitches, following La'Renz's moves through social media. When Eliyah gives the word, then we can go hard on the investigating."

  "It'll be too late then. When Eliyah calls, we already have to be in place. And social media wouldn't have told us that La'Renz is staying with Sundi Ashworth. Did he post that?"

  Jarvis scratched his head. "No. But I'm just saying ... my phone helps."

  "Your phone is making you lazy."

  "You're set in your ways, daddy—uh, Sammy."

  "I am. And you need to be set in my ways too if you plan to survive in this field. Pulling the trigger is the easy part. It's what you do before and after that counts. Did your phone just alert you that our birds are leaving the building?"

  He turned and saw La'Renz and his female singer across the street climbing into the back of a non-descript Lincoln Town Car. This Lincoln, I knew, was a hired driver from a Manhattan company with a fleet of cars used to chauffeur the rich around the city clandestinely.

  Jarvis shot out of his seat, heading for the door.

  I caught up with him quick and grabbed his shoulder from behind. "Forgetting something?" I said.

  He looked back to where we were sitting and saw his coat laying in the booth seat. He went to grab it, and when he came back I stopped him again.

  "Forgetting something else?"

  "What?" he said, irritated.

  "I guess you want us on the news for a dine-and-dash, huh?"

  "Oh shit. My bad, Sammy."

  He dropped two twenties on the table, overpaying by at least fifteen bucks.

  "Now get the door for me," I said, shoving him ahead of me. "Hurry up, knucklehead."

  I was on his ass.

  Chapter 4

  La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor

  Brooklyn Heights

  I poured Kirbie a glass of Bacardi. "I'm so sorry about that. Fuck, if I would've known that nigga Timbuck was a creep I would've took you to another producer. He's not the only hotshot in town."

  "There's no way you could have known he'd do that," Kirbie said, as she took a sip of the liquor. She set the glass down on one of Sundi's Long Live Happy Hour coasters, keeping the moisture off of the cherry veneer tabletop. She had been respectful of Sundi's home, in every way, since she got here. This little girl had manners. She added, "Nobody would've saw that coming. Timbuck just came out of nowhere with that shit."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

  But it was my fault. I knew Timbuck would try to work his way in between Kirbie's legs. Sleeping with young talent—it was what he did, what he thrived off of. It was an industry hush thing that, if you didn't want to pay Timbuck's exorbitant studio fees, then just send him ripe potential in the form of the opposite sex. I didn't think Kirbie would say no. How many 19-year-olds would turn down an athletic, multi-millionaire music icon? However, the last thing I expected was for Timbuck to try and take it from her ...

  Kirbie was supposed to fuck him willingly.

  Just like Jazzmine had.

  "Do you think he's gonna tell people what happened?" Kirbie asked.

  "No. It would work against him if he did that. Who would broadcast to the world that you got your ass beat? He's probably more worried about us telling the tabloids what went down." I gave Kirbie a look that said, You're not gonna report this, right?

  "Nobody has to worry about me saying anything. I don't want my career to start off with a scandal."

  "Exactly. Because that's just the type of publicity that our enemies would use against us. I'm sure Eliyah would have his PR attack dogs feed more bullshit into the story. He'd find a way to turn it around and say me and you are liable, we're the criminals. He's done it before."

  Kirbie looked hesitant, and I wasn't sure why.

  "What is it?" I pressed. "Did you already tell somebody what happened?"

  "No ... umm ... I got a friend request from Eliyah Golomb on The Site."

  "You didn't accept it, did you?"

  "... Yes."

  "Dammit!" I stood up fast, putting my hands on my hips. I glared at her. "Do you know what you just did? Now he thinks he has a chance of stealing you from me."

  "That's not gonna happen. I'm a loyal person. I accepted it because ... it was just social media. Caylene Hope friended me too. They both did, right after our radio interview at Revolt."

  "Eliyah is the enemy. You were wrong for that, Kirbie. Common sense should've told you to ignore him."

  "I can unfriend him."

  Sighing, I said, "No. Then he'll know I told you to do it and he'll really know he got to me." I sighed again. "We're gonna keep it like it is. Maybe he'll think I authorized you accepting his friend request. But from here on out, if it has anything to do with Eliyah Golomb you let me know, before you make any sudden decisions. Is that clear?"

  She nodded. "Yes. Crystal clear."

  ***

  When I saw Sundi pull her Volvo truck in the driveway earlier than normal, I got even more anxious about knowing how her day went. She was supposed to have had lunch with Thomas Dyer and planted the seed of unrest and dissatisfaction in his head.

  I held the front door open when she walked up.

  "Hi, honey," I smiled, exaggerating the politeness. It felt good answering the door for a beautiful lady and not a correctional officer. "How was your day?"

  She didn't smile back. Her hair was all in her face in strands of distress. And when I tried to help her out of her coat, she nearly shrugged it off onto the floor. I caught it and hung it up and then followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed the bottle of Bacardi that me and Kirbie had been drinking on a couple hours ago.

  Sundi poured the alcohol into a large wine glass. I was worried because she h
adn't said a thing to me yet.

  "It didn't go as planned?" I asked.

  "Fuck no." She tucked some of her hair behind her ear and I noticed that she'd been crying. Then she covered her face with the see-through wine glass for a whole half minute as she gulped down the liquor. "I got fired," she announced.

  My heart started beating fast. I already knew what this meant. "Eliyah knows you're working for me."

  She shook her head no. "That's what I thought at first. But I got fired because the A&R position has been less and less needed over the years. With the internet, you don't have to go out and find talent anymore. To be honest, for the last year or so I thought Eliyah was keeping me around just so I'd have a job."

  "That's not why you got fired. He knows, Sundi. The muthafucka knows!"

  "How would he know we're working together? We're always covering our tracks and we barely ever go out in public together. Plus, I talked to Thomas after I found out I was terminated and he looked into it immediately. He told me the A&R position is being replaced by a computerized algorithm that searches the internet for substantial Likes and video hits on its own. A robot took my position."

  "Thomas lied to you," I said.

  "Thomas has never lied to me in his life. He's still the same Thomas we both used to know."

  "What did he say when you asked him if he'd ever work for me again?"

  She paused, blinking twice. "He said he wasn't sure. It was something he’d have to think about."

  I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. For some reason I didn’t think Thomas said that. "Eliyah knows you’re on my team. I know he knows. I can feel it. He has someone watching us, someone following us."

  "How do you know that?" she asked, still unbelieving.

  "Because I used to have watchers."

  In my glory days, I learned that in order to stay ahead of the game you had to have inside knowledge on your competition. I had people—spies, really—who would report to me on a weekly and sometimes daily basis, informing me of new musical acts and other labels' secret marketing strategies. I even had one spy who would break the law for me.