by Zane
I struck a big-ass nerve with that one.
“So where’s your man?” Cherie asked with heavy acerbity. “I’ve never seen you tied to any particular man in the press.”
“And you likely never will,” I replied. “I don’t have to put my business out in the streets to get attention from the media. My talent trumps everything else. But it’s interesting to know that you’re clocking my comings and goings like that. What color panties do I have on?”
Bianca’s mouth flew open, but no words came out, and Cherie had to make a drastic move to hold her tongue.
“Trust and believe,” I added. “There are very few straight men on this planet who would not fuck me if given a chance. That includes both of your men. Look at me and look at the two of you. Be for real.”
The tension was getting thick and I seriously wanted to hurt someone at that table. It was time to end the farcical luncheon meeting.
I stood up abruptly. “Thanks for the meal. Nikki will be in touch once you send whatever it is that you’re . . . peddling.”
With that, I strutted out the front door like the queen that I was, with Diederik straight on my tail.
“You really went in on them,” he said as we met up with my other two bodyguards outside and headed to the limousine curbside.
“I hate fake bitches!” I replied and climbed into the backseat.
I could make out Bianca and Cherie through the pane-glass window. Cherie was going off and pounding her fists on the table, surely calling me every venomous term she could come up with. But would the hooker ever be bold enough to say it to my face? Time would tell, and I planned to enjoy every second of it. They had an option to walk away and never contact me again. Greed and a desire for a bigger social status would never allow them to do that, though. I was the closest that they had ever been, or would ever come, to actually being significant in society, and neither one of them would risk fucking it up. I was banking on that, and I was never wrong.
Chapter Eight
After spouting all of that shit about not claiming something as a career if you have not done it in years, that was my cue to get back to working on my next album. Operation Vengeance in full effect or not, the rest of the world still highly anticipated the release of Impulse, my ninth album. I had at least three or four more tracks to lay out but had already recorded an EP in case I did not complete the rest of the songs by my deadline. An extended-play album contained more than one song but not as many songs as a traditional, full-price album. It was the latest craze for newer acts who could not afford to go all-out with at least eight tracks. Even if they landed a deal, record labels were reluctant to fund longer albums for fear that they may do a major belly flop upon release. With the digital age of music taking over, the true money was in touring and being the ultimate entertainer. That was why I was who I was. Outside of talent, it was like playing a game in someone else’s body. No one knew that I was Caprice Tatum. Caprice Tatum disappeared off the face of the planet and, just like I had assumed, no one ever even gave a damn.
As I waited for my recording engineer to get everything together to do a take of “Shame on It All,” I could not help but chuckle at the irony. Here I was enticing the world with love ballads about sex and being in great relationships, or club tracks about how to get your freak on, and I was doing none of the above. I will admit that I went for the jugular when Cherie inquired about my nonexistent man. Granted, even if I did have a man, I would not have wanted him splayed across every magazine cover with me, or being featured weekly on TMZ when we walked out of restaurants. It would be difficult enough to simply get to know a man, rather less have the entire world scrutinizing everything about him concurrently. What man would want to deal with such madness? He would have to be someone already used to the limelight and I had yet to meet a celebrity male who I would have fucked with someone else’s pussy. Most famous people traded lovers all over the place, mostly to remain newsworthy. Or both parties would actually be gay and putting on pretenses to cover up the truth. No sir, none of that was for me. All of that was besides the fact that I was incapable of feeling those kinds of emotions in the first place.
I had done a very bad thing when I left the restaurant that day. I wanted to hurt someone so much that I hurt myself. I had not resorted to cutting in well over a decade. Yet, I found myself that night in my Jacuzzi making slight slits under my knee, where they would blend in and look like the normal folds on my legs.
“Ready whenever you are,” Brian, my engineer, said, breaking me out of the zone of deep thought that I found myself in. “By the way, ‘You Can Lick Your Breakfast’ is on fire. I predict it hits number one on the Billboards the first week.”
“Thanks, Brian. We think alike.”
We both laughed. Brian was cute: Irish with red hair and freckles. He had a boyish look and I often wondered if he had freckles on his dick. I started to ask him to masturbate with me one night while we were working late, but he seemed like a blabbermouth or the type that would try to sue the label if I even mentioned it.
Suddenly, a feeling came over me, so I excused myself. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” Brian started messing with and adjusting buttons on the console while I headed to my private bathroom.
Once inside, I stared in the mirror for a few seconds. “You really have a problem.”
I opened up the medicine cabinet and removed my battery-operated toothbrush. I had on a dress—easy access—so I slipped off my sandals and placed my right foot up on the sink counter. I moved my panties aside and put the toothbrush inside of me, inverted, but not before I pushed the on button. The bristles of the brush bounced back and forth over my thick clit while the bottom part shivered inside of me.
I started feeling my own breasts and rubbed my nipples through my dress until they were rock hard. I managed to get myself off in a matter of minutes and then went back out into the studio to get busy. One day, I yearned to feel what actual intercourse felt like, outside of being brutally raped, but it would not be that day. And the question remained: Who could it possibly be with? There was no man who I felt like I could be completely transparent with, no man that I felt would even understand what I had been through. Instead of crying my eyes out, I did the next best thing; what I always did. I went into that studio and left it all there in my music. Everything I ever desired, wanted, or needed.
* * *
The next morning, I was scheduled to do an interview with G-Clef magazine. I would have preferred to run with the bulls than do it. Sometimes interviews became so redundant that I struggled to find innovative responses to the same damn questions the last five reporters had asked me. At least there was no photo shoot involved. I had done one recently and the label was going to give them exclusive use of some of the images. I had to start promoting the new album, even though it was not scheduled to drop until the end of the year. They were apparently a smaller magazine, but it was recommended that I do the interview.
Nikki came into the theater room to tell me that the reporter was waiting outside on the veranda. She also added, “He’s some serious eye candy. Just a heads-up.”
I smirked. “I’m surrounded by eye candy, Nikki. Speaking of which, where are KAD?”
“Diederik and Kagiso are off today since you have no plans to go out, and Antonio is in the garden posted up where he can see you without being intrusive.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. “Might as well get this over with. What’s the writer’s name?”
Nikki looked down at the legal pad she had in her hand. “Jonovan Davis.”
I froze in place, like I had seen a ghost.
“Are you okay, Wicket?”
“Wha . . . what did you say his name is again?”
“Jonovan Davis. J-O-N-O-V-A-N. You know him or something?”
I quickly gathered my composure before Nikki saw right through me. “No, never heard of him. I thought you said Jonathan Davis at first. I’ve run across someone by that name, but it’s a
common one. I don’t know any Jonovan.”
“Oh, okay.” Nikki stood there, hesitating. “Are you still coming now?”
“Actually, I need a few minutes. I need to shoot a couple of e-mails out before noon. Tell him that I’ll be right out.”
“Cool beans.”
Nikki left the room and I almost collapsed on the floor. I had not heard the name Jonovan Davis in decades. It seemed like several lifetimes ago.
Jonovan Davis saved my life the night that everyone else was seemingly determined to take it. He had always been nice to me at Powers High School, but I was too shy to ever take his kindness for genuine interest. Besides, he had back-to-back girlfriends all throughout school. A lot of it had to do with his incredibly good looks and charm, and the fact that he had a 4.0 GPA. He was voted the most likely to succeed as well. So he was a reporter now? Interesting! I wondered if he was still as attractive. Nikki had made it obvious that he was fine, but was he still that fine?
Suddenly, I was concerned about my appearance. I ran upstairs to my bedroom and threw open the doors to my humongous walk-in closet. I picked out a red skintight pantsuit to slip in and opted out of a blouse so I could show off my cleavage. Then I slipped into a pair of five-inch black pumps and a black jade necklace and bracelet to adorn the outfit.
I hightailed it into my bathroom and took about five to six minutes applying makeup. I was not going to put on any powdered foundation that day at all, but I made myself up to look like I was about to do a photo shoot. Actually, my dermatologist told me that I should always protect my skin with makeup. That way all the germs and elements from the day get washed off at the end of the night instead of seeping into my pores.
When I was headed back down the steps, I almost fell when I got near the bottom. My nerves were shot.
“Get it together,” I whispered to myself. “He doesn’t know who you are.”
My heart felt like it was about to hop out of my chest, it was beating so loudly. I took in three deep breaths and headed outside.
When I saw him, it was like time had stood still. He was sitting there spreading orange marmalade on a croissant as one of my maids poured him some coffee and orange juice. His dark-chocolate skin glistened in the sunlight and he was now bald. Damn! There was nothing that I was more attracted to than a baldheaded man. Back in high school, he had sported cornrows most of the time.
He spotted me and stood up as I walked toward him. “Good morning, Mr. Davis.”
“Good morning, Ms. Wicket.”
We shook hands and smiled at each other. I was likely to faint at any second.
I pointed toward the chair from which he had arisen, all six foot four of him. “Please, sit back down and enjoy the meal.”
“As long as you join me.”
“My pleasure.”
After we both got settled at the table and my juice and coffee were both poured, the maid left us to some privacy. Antonio was surely in a spot to see all, but at least we could speak without him overhearing.
“So you’re with G-Clef?”
“Yes, have you read any of our issues before?”
“Can’t say that I have. You’re local?”
He shrugged and fiddled with the recorder app on his iPhone. “Actually, regional. We’re up-and-coming. Right now, outside of a budding subscriber base of about eight thousand, we’re circulated in Georgia, the Carolinas, Alabama, Tennessee, and some parts of Mississippi and Florida.”
“That’s cool,” I said, picking up a mimosa that had been prepared for me before I sat down. “So how long have you been working for them?”
Jonovan chuckled. “Since its inception.” He paused. “Oh, I forgot to mention that we have a pretty huge digital following . . . to make up for our smaller circulation. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re wasting your time granting me an interview.”
“It’s fine. And I get it; everything worth knowing is primarily in the digital space these days. I’m surprised some of the dinosaur newspapers and magazines are even still around. Some that used to be considered credible, intelligent sources of information have converted into thinly masked tabloids to try to keep readers at all.”
Jonovan agreed. “Exactly! That’s why I started . . .”
I stared deep into his eyes—those sexy-ass eyes. “Aw, so you’re the publisher of G-Clef?”
Jonovan put his index finger up to his lips. “Shh, it’s a secret.” He appeared genuinely concerned. “I can’t believe I let that slip.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that when some people, especially those on your level of the music industry, find out that the owner of the magazine is basically the entire magazine, they tend to feel G-Clef is beneath them and their brands.”
“That is true, but I beat my own drum at the end of the day. I appreciate all my fans, and especially those in the ‘Durty South.’ I needed a break from the studio this morning and I don’t have to do a photo shoot, so it is a win-win for me.”
He actually blushed when I said that. Good!
“Wow! You’re amazing,” Jonovan said. “I was waiting for you to toss me out of here any second.” He surveyed the area. “I have to say, this estate is the most glamorous one that I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. What made you decide to purchase it?”
“Is this the beginning of the interview?” I asked playfully. “I want to know when I am on the record and off the record.”
He pressed the record button on his phone and said, “This is Jonovan Davis, G-Clef magazine and I am here in the A-T-L with none other than the world-famous singer and performing artist Wicket. Thanks for granting me this interview today, Ms. Wicket.”
“Just call me Wicket and you are very welcome, Jo-no-van.”
He shifted in his seat after I took my time pronouncing each syllable of his name. “So let’s dive right in. You recently made the decision to relocate from New York City to Atlanta, Georgia. Could you explain why you made that decision?”
“Technically, I’m still a legal resident of New York State and, of course, I own properties all over the world. However, for the time being, I will be chilling in Atlanta. I like the vibe here and even though I don’t socialize much or do a lot of networking, the people who I have met seem down-to-earth and that is a good thing. Most people tend to be intimidated by me.”
Jonovan cleared his throat. He was definitely one of the intimidated ones. “Do you think it is intimidation or reverence? You have tens of millions of devoted fans and I would presume, if they actually have the opportunity to be in your presence, that they would be overwhelmed with admiration and a feeling of worship.”
I giggled. “ ‘Worship’ is an interesting term. Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to be able to do what I am passionate about for a living, but I have no desire to be worshipped.” That was a lie, because I made Glaze and Piece of Shit worship me—their mistress—on the regular. “When I was younger, some friends of mine told me that I was talented and I was blessed enough to have a father who believed in developing it into something unique. If anything I was blessed with a talent from God, the finances to pay for formal voice coaching and the amount of studio time it took to make my first album, and I came into the music industry at the right time with the right sound.”
“Speaking of Mr. Sterling, Richard Sterling, your adoptive father,” Jonovan said. “There has never been a lot of information provided about how that entire thing happened. He adopted you when you were how old again?”
“Six, and there is not a lot of information out there because neither he nor I consider that part of my journey to be anyone’s business.”
I glared at Jonovan, making it obvious that he needed to move on from that topic. Even though Daddy had managed to fabricate one hell of a story, and all the legal paperwork to back it up, the fact remained that all of it was a lie. I had an exotic enough look for him to tell the world that he had adopted me in Guyana from an orphanage he had visited on a busines
s trip. He picked there because he had actually been to Guyana about a decade prior. He was a single billionaire and all his staff and close associates had nondisclosure agreements in place, and he told the lie that he had sheltered me from the madness of his life until I became sixteen and decided to venture into the limelight in the musical space.
It sounded crazy but also plausible because most celebrities allowed little to no access to their kids, or even photographs of them. They were generally homeschooled, which was the story with me, and the truth after he did actually adopt me. I never returned to a school setting, for a few reasons, including the fact that I was not emotionally capable of dealing with being around other teenagers on a regular basis. I never established any true friendships with those my age, nor did I have the desire. My two best friends, Bianca and Cherie, had betrayed me in the worst way, and there was nothing that would make me take that kind of risk ever again. People were simply pawns in a game to me. They all served a purpose to get me what I wanted. Sure, I liked my bodyguards and my assistant, my band members and engineering team, and even a few people at the label, but trust was a different matter.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I returned from my thoughts to find Jonovan halfway out of his chair. He must have assumed that I was about to toss him out for real.
“It’s okay. No need to slide out your seat. You’re not the first person to go down that road with me, and you won’t be the last. It’s simple. I only discuss what I care to discuss and if people want to take it upon themselves to speculate or make up things about me, they can do them. I won’t be forced to feel a need to reply to foolishness.”
