by Zane
He worked in silence as “Never Make a Promise” by Dru Hill came on. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics. Once it ended, Diederik said, “That good?”
“Perfect, thanks.”
He got up from the side of the tub and was about to leave when he paused in the doorway. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What?”
“What’s going on? Why are we really here in Atlanta?”
“Change of pace. We won’t be here forever. What? You and the other guys don’t like it?”
“Where you roll, we roll. You know that. It’s just that you seem different: like this place is doing something to you.”
“That’s silly. I’ve never even been to Atlanta until we came here,” I lied. “If you’re referring to me seeing Dr. Spencer, that has nothing to do with this city, or the people in it. I’m trying to work through my issues that have been around for a very long time.”
“You’ve been through hell,” he admitted. “We all know that.”
You don’t know the half of it, I thought.
“I want you to know that if you ever need us to do anything . . . anything, if you get my drift, all you have to do is ask.”
Diederik was talking about killing someone for me!
“No one will ever suspect a thing. We’re very good at what we do.”
I sat up further in the tub. “We need to end this conversation right here. I get your drift and I don’t want to know about whatever any of you did before you started working for me. You dig?”
He gazed at me with his ice-green eyes. “I feel you. But remember that we have your back at all times. Nothing’s going to ever happen to you on our watch, especially mine.”
“Thank you. I love and appreciate you for that.”
“I’ll go tell Antonio and Kagiso to be ready to leave in about forty-five minutes. That cool?”
“Perfect.”
When he walked out, I realized that I needed to “find my center.” I wasn’t pulling things off as smoothly as I planned. I needed to calm down and not be so obvious about my animosity toward Bianca and Cherie. Of course, all of that flew out the window the second I laid eyes on them.
* * *
Four forty-four Highland was a nice spot. It was a mixed-use space with a theater and entertainment venue downstairs, and some offices and apartments upstairs. The theater held a couple of hundred people tops. There was not any parking, but of course I was driven there, so it didn’t matter. As always, when KAD emerged from the SUV first, all the women started drooling. No doubt that I had the hottest security team on Planet Earth. Their days off varied, so I am sure they were collecting phone numbers—and pussy—by the pound. Tonight would be no exception. The chicks were thirsty and not even trying to pretend otherwise.
My entrance caused an uproar, as it should have. Being there was out of my element. Bianca rushed forward to greet me and then escorted me over to the step and repeat so people could snap flashes all up in my face. I was perfect, as always, in a Hermès white floor-length gown with my boobies halfway on display. My hair was up in a bun, and I was wearing a couple of million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
“I’m so glad you made it,” Bianca exclaimed. “Everyone is dying to meet you.”
“I’m sure,” I said sarcastically. “I decided to grace you all with my presence, but if too many people get up into my personal space, I’m leaving.”
KAD was not about to let that happen, but I was spitting shit anyway. As soon as I saw her face, I wanted to knock all her teeth out—fake bitch!
Bianca looked ashamed because a few people had overheard my comment.
“So what exactly is this little shindig all about?” I eyed this one chick who was clearly jealous of me. She may have been an aspiring singer or video vixen who wasn’t getting any play. People always want to blame someone else for their failures. I’ve never kept a single fucking person from achieving their dreams by going after mine. “Are these supposed to be the who’s who of Atlanta? I don’t recognize a soul.”
Bianca had to bite her tongue and then she said, “Yes, at least a dozen or so reality show stars are here. This is just a reception to thank my current clients, and I have a display of some of the interior designs I have created right down those steps.” She pointed to a crowded area down a few stairs and I could make out photographs on easels. “In about thirty minutes, Cherie will be putting on a fashion show with some of her designs in the theater.”
I glared at her and grinned. “In other words, you and your road dawg are peddling your shit. I ain’t mad at you.”
That “peddling” implication always got to her. I made a mental note to use it as much as possible.
“As for the reality show stars, I don’t watch train wrecks. What’s so appealing about watching thirsty-ass broads argue and scrap over community dick?”
“That’s not what reality shows are about!” Bianca exclaimed. “If you don’t watch them, how would you know?”
“Did you just break bad with me?” I stared her up and down. She wanted to curse me out but knew better. I would be her biggest accomplishment in her entire pathetic life if I hired her. “That’s what I thought.”
Kagiso was shaking his head, and Diederik looked concerned. They were both probably wondering what my purpose was in even going. I was such a private person. Networking and “being seen” were never on my radar. I was a household name and a household face already.
I smirked at them as I pushed Bianca out of my way, practically knocking her to the floor. “No more pictures. This is beneath me.”
“Well, we have a . . . a seat for you on the front row for the fashion show,” Bianca said, catching her breath.
“I’m not sitting on no damn front row so you all can pretend like I’m a groupie for her shit.” I stopped walking and turned to face her. “Besides, I won’t be here for thirty minutes. You need to be appreciative of the fact that I came at all.”
I wasn’t watching where I was going as I started walking backward. I bumped right into Jonovan. He was standing beside Antonio—and some chick.
Antonio pointed at Jonovan. “He’s the one who came to interview that day at the house. He saw me outside and asked if you were here.”
“Mr. Davis,” I said, taking in all his fineness. “Nice to see you again.”
He frowned. “I thought we were on a first-name basis, but good evening, Miss Wicket.”
Jonovan had on a black tailored suit with a russet tie, and his date had on a dress that matched his tie. She was light-skinned with a weave on fleek and had a pretty smile. She still couldn’t hold a candle to me, though.
“Is this your little friend?” I nodded toward the woman. “You two look adorable together.”
“I’m Marilyn.” She reached out a manicured hand to shake mine. I barely touched hers but made a slight gesture of a handshake. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
I wanted to say, Of course you are, bitch, but instead I replied, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She eyed Jonovan, who had all eyes on me. “Baby, I’m going to find the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” he said, still looking at me.
“Why are you staring at me?” I asked, after Little Miss Marilyn had scattered away to take a piss. “You didn’t even look at your woman when she walked away. Just a word of advice: most females are offended by that kind of thing.”
“I’m sorry.” He broke his stare and looked in the direction where she had headed. “It’s just that . . . that . . .”
“That what?”
“There’s something about you that seems so familiar.”
My knees almost gave out.
“It feels like we’ve known each other for a lifetime. I felt that when I left your house that day, too.”
“Some people say that I’ve never met a stranger,” I lied. “I have that kind of personality but only with certain people.”
He started
staring at me again, gazing in my eyes. “You remind me of someone I used to go to school with . . . here in Atlanta.”
Oh no! He recognizes me! How?
“Well, that would be an amazing feat, since I grew up in New York and was homeschooled my entire life.”
“I realize it’s silly. It’s just that I often wonder what happened to her.”
The logical thing would have been for me to ask questions about her, but that was not going to happen. He was talking about Caprice Tatum, and that was not a conversation that I wanted to have—ever.
“It must’ve been cool to actually have classmates and a lot of friends,” I commented.
Then it dawned on me why he was even there. We had all gone to school together and he was still connecting with the rest of them. But why, if he knew what they did to me?
“What brings you to this event?” I asked. “Covering it for G-Clef?”
“Pretty much. There are a couple of local singers here tonight, and one of them invited me. I actually know the hostess. We went to high school together, ironically.” He paused. “We don’t really speak like that, though.”
“You mean Bianca Lee?”
“Yeah, Bianca.”
I saw his eyes become dark and realized that he wasn’t feeling her after all. It was just business for him.
“She’s sweating me about decorating my house, so I stopped by. I’m not sure that I’m vibing well enough with her to utilize her services.”
“You may want to look elsewhere,” he said. “There are a lot of designers here in town.”
Good! He’s not trying to get her any business because he knows she’s a fucking liar!
“Miss Marilyn’s coming back for you.” I spotted her headed in our direction. “I’m about to roll, but have a good night.”
“She and I are not serious,” he made sure to tell me. “She’s actually more like a friend.”
I giggled. “Does she know that?”
I walked off before she got back to us. KAD followed as I searched for that other whore. I found her with her asshole of a man, Michael, cheesing for photos on the lower level.
She spotted me and rushed up to me. “Wicket! I’m so glad you’re here! I have a seat for you in the show!”
“I’m not staying for the little performance,” I said with disdain. “I’m on my way out.”
Cherie’s face almost dropped to the floor. “But I wanted you to see my fashions, and then I have some media that wanted to ask for your opinion afterward.”
“Unless you’re paying me five hundred grand to peddle your shit for the evening, I’m not giving any opinions. You do realize that people of my stature get paid to show up at events, to tweet or post status updates, and whatnot?”
“I realize that it could work that way, but—”
“And actually, I don’t even do any of that. Those are the ones stressing over exposure and who need the money.”
Michael walked over to introduce himself. “Hey there, I’m Michael Vinson.”
He reached out his hand and I just stared at it until he pulled it back.
“You must be the actor.” I smirked. “Cherie said you were in New Jack City decades ago, but I don’t remember your face.”
Kagiso and Antonio chuckled. Diederik didn’t get the joke because he had likely never heard of the Wesley Snipes movie about the crack explosion in NYC.
Michael seemed ashamed. “I’ve done some things since then. I’d love to be in one of your music videos, if you have any about to go into production.”
“And what could you possibly do in one of my music videos?”
He shrugged. “Play one of your love interests or something. We’re about the same age.”
I laughed and pointed at KAD. “Do you see my bodyguards? I mean, do you see them? It takes more than good looks to be in one of my videos. They’re a walking video.”
Michael was getting upset. Poor Little Tink Tink.
“Well, maybe I can have my agent submit my information just in case something comes up.”
A lightbulb went off in my head. “Tell you what. Give me your cell number and I’ll be in touch personally. Now that I think about it, I may have a role for you. I’m cutting my new album and soon I’ll be working on the title-cut video.”
The expression on his face went from disappointment to euphoria. In his mind, he was thinking that he might be able to resurrect an acting career that was never breathing in the first place.
“Sure, let me give you my card.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a tan card. “My cell’s on there, and my e-mail. Whatever works for you.”
Cherie was starting to get uncomfortable about her man giving me his personal information. “Michael, she really could contact you through me. We’re already friends.”
“Friends?” I rolled my eyes at her. “Yeah, whatever.”
Diederik was eyeing me suspiciously again. I was doing the most and decided to cut it out.
“I’m ready, guys.” I started walking toward the stairs that led up to the entrance. “We need to get to the studio.”
As we were leaving, I spotted Jonovan and his friend. Once again, he forgot all about her and started staring at me. It was all so confusing. He thought I reminded him of Caprice and it felt good to know that he had never forgotten her. I was still attracted to both his looks and his spirit, after all that time. But what could become of it? There I was, hell-bent on getting revenge on people for being wolves in sheep’s clothing, but what the fuck would that make me?
Chapter Thirteen
Brian and I were in my new studio. Instead of continuing to rent one in the Atlanta area, I had one built on my own property. It was finally ready, and I was loving it. I had it completely decorated in white. Something about white calmed me when I was singing. I also slept to white noise most of the time. The blankness of it all helped me zone out everything and everyone else. I spent a lot of time meditating as well. Sometimes it helped; sometimes I had problems relaxing and controlling my breathing and thoughts.
I used to think that meditation was complicated, and while some people do make it that way, the overall idea is to sit still for at least twenty minutes—I tried to do it both in the morning and the evening—and control your thoughts. Obviously you will not be able not to think or worry—especially when you are going through a lot of shit—but you put your thoughts and worries into compartments and analyze them one by one. Tons of meditation music was available right on YouTube if you didn’t want to pay for it.
That night, after seeing Jonovan, I decided to work on a new song impromptu. I was going to call it “Surge” because that was how I had felt the two times I had seen him. Just seeing him brought out something powerful in me, in my soul. The sad part was that it was as plain as the nose on my face that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
One of the things that I had learned in therapy when I was younger was that being delusional was very damaging to me. Over the years, I had fantasized about being in normal relationships with various men. I had detailed, vivid dreams about our lives together. Cooking and eating dinner together via candlelight; curling up and watching movies on the sofa or in the bed; making love all night until the break of dawn; celebrating holidays together, especially Christmas, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day.
There was only one thing that I never fantasized about when it came to men. I never dreamed of having children. A few months earlier I had come across an online survey—I spent a lot of time alone, so I read a lot on the Internet—where they had interviewed about three hundred women regarding why they had made the decision to never have kids. I read through each and every one of them. The list included:
Concentrating on their careers
Not having financial stability
Their man already had kids and had a vasectomy
They’d rather have pets
Too scared to carry a baby in their bodies
They have an illness
They
don’t like kids
They haven’t met a man they want to have kids with
The world is too fucked-up to bring a child into it (I totally agree.)
They were stuck raising siblings and didn’t want to raise their own
They didn’t believe it was in God’s plans
They have never married and don’t want to have kids outside of it
They are lesbians
They are too selfish to be mothers
All the work falls on the women
Too much responsibility for them to handle emotionally
The list went on and on, but what I found fascinating is that none of them said because their own mothers were bat-shit crazy. Surely there were women on that list who had been abused. A few made note that they grew up in a dysfunctional home but did not go into details, even though everyone was kept anonymous. All I saw was denial, denial, denial. I recognized it because I was the same way.
I often wondered what would happen if I ever told the truth. No one had a heaven or a hell to put Caprice Tatum in. What would have been the reaction if I held a press conference, or wrote an open letter to the world, and confessed who I really was? How would my fans have reacted to me? Would they look at me differently if they knew that I was the by-product of incest and rape? If they knew that my sick-ass uncle was my father and possibly my grandfather? If they knew that I was ugly and disfigured as a child? If they knew that several boys had run up in me raw dog after my homecoming during my freshman year in high school? If they knew that instead of facing them, and pressing charges, I ran away in a suicidal state?
I really hated living a lie. Even though I had it all—based on societal views—I was lonely, depressed, and the only thing that made me happy was my music. I didn’t and couldn’t truly trust anyone. That would have been the case if I wasn’t a celebrity, but being a celebrity made it a hundred times worse. It never escaped me that there were strangers who wanted to see me fail, for no other reason than they couldn’t stand a black woman being successful. Yes, there were some famous white female singers in the same boat. It was part of the industry, but the hatred was always worse when it came to celebrities of color. If we made mistakes, or nasty rumors started about us, people were ready to rejoice in the streets like they had gained something from it.
