by Love Belvin
“Any conflict?” We’d just kicked off the first leg of a tour.
Myisha tapped her devices for an answer and my attention briefly went back to the images before me. It was a group of pictures with me wearing all black, including a turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up my forearms. The wool slacks fit right on my thighs, and the shiny black Ase Garbs chukka boots made the look official. My hair was shaped up, but had grown out to a wild state and my tapered goatee resembled more of a full beard. Not my favorite look as far as clothes, but the smile captured on my face was priceless. I sat on a red bar chair with an old fashioned microphone stand between my legs.
I remembered why I was smiling so hard. Myisha told me Heather had just called her and said she delivered their first baby, and the one thing she feared happening during the delivery happened: she shitted on the table while pushing. What made it funny was that was the one thing she obsessed about when talking about having the baby.
But my humor wasn’t malicious. It was an expression of happiness and pride. They—she finally had her first baby. I was proud of her. Now, looking at the pictures, I saw I was able to pull off the image they were going for. I was supposed to be happily performing, singing into the microphone.
Looked that way to me…
“Looks like it’s on a stretch—the night before your Miami show,” Myisha finally answered.
But my head was now somewhere else. I needed to think about it for a minute.
“Yeah.” Getting back to work, I took a deep breath, feeling sleep knocking at my door, but knew I wouldn’t be able to answer anytime soon. I wasn’t even in the middle of my day. My eyes roved between the seven images from that shoot, trying to decide which one. “We can…”—I stalled, mentally narrowing down my picks—“go with—”
A harsh push at the door snatched my attention from the table board. Mike and his crew busted in like they ran shit.
“The room,” he demanded. Seemed like everybody stood still, trapped in their shock. “Now.” Bodies started to move, even Lisa, the owner of the place. I looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. Wisely, he read my expression right and lifted his palms in the air defensively. “It’s important, Raj. Facts.”
His guys, Will and Tim, moved deeper into the small room to give space for my crew and Lisa’s to go. On her way out, Myisha tossed me an annoyed look. She, too, was getting fed up with Mike and his aggressiveness that had been getting out of hand over the past few months. I told her to curb her tongue because I knew dude had been going hard on this movie deal, and it had been stressing him, too. Mike was intense, but damn good at his job. But coming into a mid-town Manhattan studio unannounced could get his body riddled with lead if he wasn’t careful.
I sat against the end of the table, knees spread wide and crossed my arms. “Glad I told my guys to wait out there and not in here.” I scratched my nose. “Coulda been some gunplay poppin’ off in here.”
Mike shook off that low key threat. He tossed a manila file folder on the table. From over my shoulder I could see the impact blew the organized pictures all over, including on the floor. I narrowed my eyes.
“Look,” he ordered. “This shit need to be settled by tomorrow. We ain’t got much time.”
Slowly, I turned to face the table, grabbed the folder and fingered through what was obviously a contract. It was pages long and detailed. While going through it, I had an out of body experience. Everything was signed on both parties’ parts. This couldn’t be happening in my life. But it was, according to this document. It was all here in black and white. Her name struck me as odd.
Wynter Haile Blue.
I found a seat near the table and sat while I read through this. She was twenty-eight and from Garfield, New Jersey. She signed off on three years of matrimony to “Unnamed Client” and to an air-tight nondisclosure and prenuptial agreement. She agreed to protect the confidentiality of private information disclosed during the expressed period of time, or other related types of business transactions as it concerned “Unnamed Client” and or his/her affiliates.
This dude is playing no games…
I didn’t make myself dizzy with the legal jargon on there, but was used to contracts enough to know this one was solid. The girl could be sued up her ass for sneezing a word about the type of toothbrush I used. Still, this didn’t feel right.
I tossed the file back on the table and rubbed my mouth with my full hand.
Mike motioned for his security to leave the room. When the door closed, leaving us alone, he shook his head. “Don’t do this, Raj!” Mike started toward me. “Don’t do it! We talked this shit in the ground and you said if the shit was legit you’d be wit it.”
My brows went up. “I said I’d consider it. That means think about it.”
“I know you like to use those words when it suit you, homie, but right now ain’t the time to get all educated with me. We went over it. Don’t flake on me now; there’s too much work to do after we make this shit official.”
“And what about an alternative plan?”
He laughed, his Dame Dash sarcasm coming to life. “Here he go with the alternative bullshit,” Mike spoke to the air. “Look, man. I know that’s what you like for us to do when we do normal business, but right now, my nigga, this the business of the day…and tomorrow and next year…and fiddy years to come when our grandkids old enough to make power moves off our paper.”
He pulled up a seat next to me, leaning over to try and reason with me. “Raj, what the fuck I say to you when you came to me with that beat up ass guitar back in the day when nobody was checking for a corny ass acoustic musician?”
I chuckled, eyes going out the window. “Let’s not go there, man. Mike B., you might have a growing client list, but let’s not get it twisted: I’m your first and only successful client. When I met you back then, you was staying with ya kids’ mom—in her mom’s basement. Yeah, you had the Cuban links with the sparkling Jesus piece and a shiny Lex, but I’m that nigga who paid all that off. I’m that dude that worked his ass off, so you could open an office in Maplewood even though it’s in a small business lot. So, you telling me back then, ‘I believe in you so much, I’mma help you change ya vision level of the world,’ was a boomerang effect. You’ve eaten and been eatin’ well. Only one in this room with the belly to prove it is you.”
Mike sat up eyes rolling toward the ceiling as he laughed. “So it’s only been you bustin’ ya ass—”
“Not my words. What I’m saying is I’m the talent. In this case”—I swung my two fingers between us—“grindin’ don’t beat talent; it only assists it.”
“Yeah, until that grindin’ mean digging graves to keep mufuckin’ demons away from the talent.” My head swung over to him to find Mike eyeing me intently. “Yeah, nigga. My talents done brought us far.”
Taking a breath, I looked away, not wanting to lose it on dude. Mike had been my partner for almost seven years. We’d seen green days with stacks of cash and bloody days where we had to defend the lifestyle we worked hard to get. We were bonded by secrets—front page scandals that were far deeper than taking on a fake wife. I felt trapped. There was no way out of this. Mike was playing ball and I had to go hard or possibly kiss goodbye all the rewards of the hard work I’d busted my ass to get for me and dudes coming up behind me. I’d busted down doors and demanded opportunities your average black R&B singer hadn’t. Mike here had been right by my side, kicking down doors with me. We couldn’t let Hollywood’s fickle and arbitrary system block me from what was rightfully mine. I had to level up.
“Look man, I ain’t ‘bout to explain how we—”
“October eighth.”
“What?”
“October eighth.”
Mike shook his head, confused. “That some cryptic way of saying fuck off?”
I stood from the chair and grabbed his file. “It’s the day this marriage bullshit’s gotta go down.” I handed him the file, unable to look at him because doing so would force me to f
ace I’d just sold another chunk of my soul to the enemy for fame. What I was doing wasn’t right, but I was so desperate, I couldn’t think of a better way to go about this. Doing this movie would shoot me into the stratosphere I belonged in. “It’s also a non-show date. Guess somebody ‘round here gotta remember the business while we tryna make shit happen for the business,” I lied.
“Raj, man…,” Mike started.
“I’m good.” I dismissed him.
Mike stood there for a minute, probably stumped by my abrupt decision, but there was nothing more to say. I didn’t dither. Hated it. There was only one area of my life that I struggled in. The one area that got me in this…unreal situation in the first place.
Mike had just touched the knob when a thought occurred.
“Yo…”
He turned from the door, tossing his chin at me.
“How much I gotta cut this check for?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. This ain’t no come up deal.”
“What’s her cut of the deal then?”
“Nothing that ain’t in my back pocket. It’s on me.”
I had no clue what that meant, but didn’t care to question him more on the topic. Mike left with his pre-signed contracts and my consent in his “other” back pocket. It was a done deal from here. My spirit told me my life would be forever changed after having made another deal with the devil.
3
The knock at the door startled me as though it wasn’t expected. I didn’t want to do this here, but she insisted my apartment was a private place where we could speak candidly.
I almost skipped to the door, opening it without preamble. A mahogany beauty stood on the other side. She wore a red tank top, ripped blue jeans, a plaid shirt wrapped at her waist by the sleeves, and blue pumps. Her right arm rested horizontally with a Chanel bag hanging from it. A cell phone was clutched in her left hand. Her lashes were long—dark and long—as she paid me the longest and hardest inspective gaze from head to toe.
My hand instinctively went to my hair that was flat to my head. I wore blue jeans and a black tee-shirt, nothing half as fashion worthy as this mahogany diva presented.
“If I knew I was shooting for Taking Tips from Tynisha I would’ve curled my hair and threw on mascara,” I tried for humor then smiled. “You must be Myisha.”
Her head fell to the side as her eyes focused on my head. “You actually need a new unit installed. Whoever did that one should be ashamed of themselves. And yes, I’m Myisha. Ready to get started?” My fingers raked down my head, combing over my tracks.
I’d just gotten this weave put in two weeks ago. I thought it was…nice.
With wide eyes, I moved to let her inside. Mike Brown told me to expect a call from Ragee’s assistant. Fucking Ragee! I knew this had to do with him. I still couldn’t get over this wild ass deal I’d agreed to. If I wasn’t confident about agreeing to marry a stranger in exchange for help, I was sure about it yesterday when I visited Van for the first time at the county jail, where they were holding him until further notice.
Myisha paid my place the same scrutiny as she did me. There were family photos on the wall along with my degrees and a little black art, but nothing fancy at all.
“Which one of those vehicles out there is yours?” she asked without looking at me.
My lips poked and forehead wrinkled as I considered answering that. It was late morning and most of my neighbors in my small garden complex were at work. In front of my particular unit was likely four. Suddenly, I wondered what Myisha drove. Was she judging me?
What the hell?
“The Civic.”
“Ewww.” Her nose curled.
My neck rocked. “Ew?”
“That won’t do. Even if it was a recent year model—which it ain’t—I couldn’t live with it. You owe money on it?”
My eyes blinked, baffled by the speed of this conversation about something so personal.
“No. It was a late graduation gift.” From Van.
Her hand swung dismissively. “It has to go.”
Okaaaaay…
“At whose expense?” I needed to know.
“So, you know you have to move in. Right?” she asked with her back to me.
My brows hiked. “Move in where?”
She turned, her chestnut waves flying agreeably in the air as she faced me. “Into his place. You can’t stay here.”
I rubbed my sweaty palms on the fronts of my thighs. “Mike mentioned that.”
Myisha’s gaze whipped to the other side of the room as she whispered something in response to that. I think I picked up, “Don’t even mention that motherfucker.”
When her dark orbs met mine, I saw a conflict in them. “This isn’t business as usual for us.”
“Neither is it for me.”
“I didn’t think so.” Her gaze went to my family pictures. “My gut and heart—something I’m often a victim to—tells me it isn’t. I just don’t know how one gets involved in something like this.”
I crossed my arms defensively. “You can start your research with your employer. As far as me, I have an extreme situation on my hands. The tradeoff makes this fake shit a cakewalk.”
“He’s a private man. Christian man, you know.”
My research yielded that. After I’d agreed to this, Mike called up a lawyer, Marcus Greene out of Manhattan, who agreed to take on Van’s case. When I left Maplewood that day, I came home and googled the hell out of Ragee—the person my gut told me this was about. Mike Brown hadn’t mentioned his name that day. He said I’d find out who, and what would be next when I received a call. The call came yesterday when Myisha, here, introduced herself as the executive personal assistant to Ragee McKinnon. I had no idea of his last name because his stage name was singular, and again, I was never a particular fan outside of what I’d heard on the radio over the years.
“I read that somewhere along with other interesting tidbits.”
“Such as?” The sass in her tone couldn’t be missed as she rested her weight on one hip.
Let’s just put it out there…
“The gay rumors. That’s the only thing I could think of that would make him want to marry a stranger. Out of all the other gossip-worthy pieces I googled, the rumors and how he is unapologetically a Jesus freak were the only two glaring facts of him. Oh! And he’s Michael Jackson level private. That’s a bit weird in this day and age, too.”
“Funny. What I find weird is that a millennial your age appreciates the personality traits and phenomenon of Michael Jackson. I’m only thirty-five, considered one myself, but this generation thinks Dale was the original Mr. Entertainment.”
I snorted, shaking my head at that culture jab. “I’m sorry. Your point is?”
“My point is believe none of what you hear and a tenth of what you see when it comes to Ragee.”
I changed stances, crossing my arms. “I don’t think I can believe anything you industry people say or do when you’re out here faking marriages.”
“I’m—Ragee’s not out to fake shit.”
“But your thug-a-boo boy, Mike is.”
“You’re the one signing a murky deal with the thug-a-boo.”
I took a mental step back, trying not to get into it with a stranger in my apartment, of all places. “Look. Let’s make one thing clear: Mike ain’t shit to me but a considerable solution to a nightmare of a fucking jam.”
“Well,” she turned, almost tossing her nose in the air as to say that’s good for you. “I’m sure you knew who you were climbing into bed with before you signed on the dotted line.” One sculpted shoulder lifted. “Birds of a feather…”
“Oh,” I jumped excitedly to correct this prissy bitch. “In case I haven’t made it clear, I don’t know Mike Brown outside of him being Ragee’s manager and frequenting Checkerboard every now and then. I can count on my hands how many times I’ve seen him and can say with confidence the first time he’s ever said anything to me outside of, ‘Yeah. I gotchu’ was the oth
er night when he said he had a way to help me out of the trouble he witnessed. I don’t keep Suge Knight type motherfuckers near me. He’s a kind I fucking detest!”
Myisha’s eyes grew wide and wild and I could see her suck in a breath. Humor and something more blazed in them, but I was too worked up to figure out just what it was.
She backed up, palm to her chest. “Did you just use the name Suge Knight and the word detest in the same breath?”
My face fell, brows hiked as I nodded my head.
A long audible breath left her mouth and her shoulders dropped. “I think I can work with you.” She grabbed her phone and stabbed into it. “I have my assistant and an exclusive boutique owner waiting for me outside. They don’t know about the contract, fake marriage, or that you and Raj have never even met. In fact, it’s safe to assume the only people who know are the four of us. Okay?”
“Me, Ragee, you, and Mike?”
She nodded while going to the door. “Another thing: Raj isn’t happy with this setup. At all!”
“That makes two of us,” I blurted, feeling she wasn’t done with her last point.
“All I’m saying is, keep that in mind moving forward. He can be a brutal bitch when he ain’t feeling somebody.”
“Then he should start with his shady ass manager.” I couldn’t filter my tongue to save my life.
“My sentiments exactly, but I have no control over it.” She opened the door, waiting for her associates. “Right now, I have to get you sized for a new wardrobe, including a wedding gown”—Wedding gown?— “and figure out my underwear set for my date tonight.” She winked. “Black lace or silk magenta. Gotta keep it saucy.”
Before I knew it, while I stood there in a stupor, my small apartment loaded with two more people, making it feel sardine packed type of tight. Not only was I sized from my head—for hats—to my breasts, embarrassingly wide waist, hips, calves, and feet, but my weave was “uninstalled” as an appointment was being made with a celebrity stylist in the City for tomorrow morning. Some ShawnNicole, who was known for her eye at coloring and cuts. Apparently, Myisha didn’t want to send me there with my current weave.
