Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  Now Jamie, although I find him attractive, isn’t my cup of tea. I’ve gone out with comedians before, and it’s cool for about fifteen minutes, but the jokes don’t stop. In the worst cases, it’s like an improv show that won’t end. No thank you! And there aren’t any vibes between anyone in his crew and me, which suits me fine because I prefer alpha males and not peripheral flunkies. But tonight I’m in a carnal mood, and someone is going to satisfy my desires.

  Luckily, I don’t have to look too far. Strolling up to the cabana we’re chilling in comes platinum rapper and all-around honey, Bentley. Bingo! Bentley is young and fine and paid. He has body, style, and a flow out of this world. Over the past few years, he’s taken the rap world by storm and has also been tied off and on again with his label mate, the model turned rapper, Dez. But at the moment I don’t care who he’s with because he looks even better in person than he does on TV. We can talk a little business and then have a little fun.

  “Jamie, man, you always have all the ladies! I guess an Oscar will do that for you, huh?” Bentley says. Bentley and I lock eyes and I feel my nipples get hard.

  Jamie introduces us.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, standing to shake his hand. I never sit when I shake someone’s hand. It gives them the false illusion of power, and I’m going to be the one in total control. Bentley is the chosen one. “Want to join me for a drink?” I ask him, making room for him on the banquette and motioning for him to take a seat next to me.

  “Sure,” he says, sitting down. I pour him a glass of champagne.

  “I love your music,” I tell him as I hand him the glass. “Cheers!” I say, just because everyone and their mother says “salud,” and I hold up my glass in a toast.

  “Uh, cheers,” he says as he clinks the rim of his glass with mine. “So you’re the Ms. Bobbi I keep hearing about, huh?” he asks.

  “Lies, all lies!” I joke. I smile and ask Bentley, “So I take it you haven’t seen me perform?”

  “No, but I’ve heard you put on quite a show,” he says, smiling back.

  “Well, let’s just say I know my way around a deck. I’m the best. You should try me out.” I toss my hair and let my hand trail from his shoulder down his arm. No sense beating around the bush.

  “Do you spin vinyl or CDs?” he asks.

  I turn up the heat a little. “Mostly I use my laptop. But I can spin anything. I love to get really hands-on, you know? You ought to see how I handle those big, black, twelve inches. Once I get them in my hands, it’s magic.” I lick my lips and purse them slightly in what I like to call my “sexy mouth.” I want him to visualize what my lips are going to do to him.

  “Hmmm,” is all he says while absentmindedly stroking his goatee. Then he stands up and chats with some woman who has the nerve to just walk over and interrupt our whole groove.

  No—this Negro didn’t play me! I think, getting vexed.

  The woman moves on and Bentley sits back down. “My agent,” he says. He helps himself to another glass of champagne. “You know, a lot of females in the game that I know don’t like you,” he finally says.

  “Excuse me?” I ask. I know I sound stank, but he’s tripping.

  “You know, female producers and DJs—they say that you make it harder for them because you’re always naked,” he continues. “They don’t want it to be about looks, they want it to be about skills.”

  “It is about skills. I make it harder for them because I’m better than them,” I say firmly.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m a hypocrite because I want to be taken seriously as a DJ, I’ve got all these big dreams, but I want to sleep with industry guys and perform half-naked. And I have the audacity to expect a man to know which lines to walk when, and not cross those lines. You’re damn straight I do. I’m not a hypocrite, I’m just a brat that wants everything her way. And as I already told you, I’m a slut. It’s not going to change; I’m never going to be a one-man woman. But more than that, I’m a feminist. Not one of those hairy-armpit, man-hating, rhetoric-spouting feminists that is always on the attack, but I truly believe that women can do damn near anything a man can, and men just need to get with the program.

  “I embrace and exploit my sexuality on my own terms. Just because I work in a male-dominated field does not mean I have to look and act like a man, and those chicks who say I make it harder for them can kiss my pretty ass. They’re just mad because they don’t have it like me,” I tell him.

  “Well, I do think you make it harder for them,” he says. “And you make it harder for brothers like me too.” Bentley flashes a wicked grin and leans in so close to me that I can smell the Altoid he has in his mouth. It’s a cinnamon one and I want to taste it on his lips. “Do you want to feel how hard you make it for me?” he asks.

  He smiles and places my hand on his inner thigh. I slide it up to his crotch and squeeze gently. I’m sure the look in my eyes speaks volumes. And then wouldn’t you know it, just when things are about to get hot with Bentley, and after two weeks of being M.I.A., here comes Mikhail’s short ass with some big blonde glamazon with huge silicone boobs and fishy-looking, collagen-injected lips. I know her boobs have to be fake because they jut out from her chest like twin rockets and do not bounce or jiggle, even though she’s clearly not wearing a bra underneath her cheap scrap of a dress.

  “Hello, Bobbi,” he says to me.

  “Ms. Bobbi,” I say, correcting him. “Hello.”

  “I thought we were beyond formalities, Bobbi,” he says with a crooked grin. I smile a fake-ass smile.

  “Mikhail Petrov, meet Bentley. Bentley, meet Mikhail Petrov,” I say in a voice that screams you peasants bore me! I’m determined not to let Mikhail know that I’m affected by his appearance with some blonde bimbo. I turn my attention back to Bentley, stroking his thigh and nestling in closer, determined to beat Mikhail at his own game. I want Bentley and me to look as cozy as Mikhail and his skank.

  “I’m a fan of your music,” Mikhail says to Bentley. Bentley nearly knocks me over as he stands to shake Mikhail’s hand. He pumps it up and down, but the whole time his eyes are glued to the cheap blonde.

  “I just bought Babylon. You’ve had a party there before, but when I reopen I’d love to have another event for you,” Mikhail says. No he isn’t turning this into a networking session with Bentley when we still have unfinished business!

  “No doubt,” Bentley tells him, giving him some dap. “I like that spot. I’ve got a lot of good memories there.”

  The blonde tosses her hair in what is clearly an attention-seeking move.

  “My apologies,” Mikhail says, taking the bait. “This is Misty Blue.” Mikhail introduces us to his date. She sure has some nerve to choose a classic soul song by Dorothy Moore to name herself after. I figure she’s probably some wannabe singer who thinks she’s the next Teena Marie.

  “I know,” Bentley says, smiling. “I’m a fan!” He shakes her hand and is beaming at her like she’s some kind of royalty.

  My neck snaps back so fast it feels like I have whiplash. “Hmph! A fan of what?” I ask sarcastically, curling my upper lip in disgust. Who the hell is this bitch that Bentley knows who she is? He hasn’t even seen me perform, but he’s a fan of her work? She was cute if you liked the plastic look, but she wasn’t all that.

  “I’m an actress,” Misty answers in a breathy Marilyn Monroe–type voice that I know is fake, because nobody really talks like that. “In adult films,” she adds. It figures. Now, I know I can’t talk about anybody being a ho, and I’m not even mad at her for her choice of work. I mean, if that’s all the talent she has, then oh well. I am, however, pissed that she’s hogging all the attention from both Mikhail and Bentley.

  “You mean a porn star?” I say with a sneer.

  “Well, yes,” she says with a giggle.

  “Well, Bentley, it seems like she’s just your speed,” I say. Bentley’s girl Dez had been involved in a scandal over a sex video
she made when she was still underage. It was in all the tabloids and word on the streets was that the tape had always been a bone of contention in their relationship. I know the comment is a low blow, but I don’t care. I am not about to allow myself to be upstaged by some freak who is probably an idiot to boot.

  “Perhaps, but Misty is all mine for the evening,” Mikhail says with a laugh. He extends his fist and he and Bentley give each other a pound. I give Mikhail a look that could send him straight to his grave, and I’m hoping that it does.

  “That’s right, Mikey!” Misty coos in Mikhail’s ear.

  “Mikey?” I cluck.

  “That’s my nickname for him,” Misty explains. I want to strangle her because she says this to me as if I’m too slow to understand, like I’m one of her dimwit buddies. “His name is sooo hard for me to say.” All I can do is shake my head. If that’s what he wants, then more power to him.

  “Well, it was good seeing you again, Ms. Bobbi,” Mikhail says, winking at me. “We’ve certainly got a lot to talk about. Let’s do lunch or something?”

  “Yeah sure. Buh-bye, Mikey.” I give a phony smile and nod, and wave the two of them off. What I really want to do is slowly and painfully choke the life out of Mikey, and pull Misty’s hair out by the roots.

  “I’ll give you a call soon,” he says. “Don’t disappear on me,” he says as he and Misty walk away arm in arm. That asshole! Mikhail has something that I want and he knows it, and not only does he know it, it seems like he’s going to make me play games to get it. Well, if it’s games he wants, it’s games he’ll get, but I’ll be the winner. I want that residency at Babylon: it’s the perfect spot for me to take my career to the next level, and I’m going to get it.

  I sit there fuming while Bentley looks at me smiling.

  “Why is it that pretty girls are always so insecure?” he asks me.

  “Man, fuck you,” I say bitterly. I’m already feeling shitty enough, I’ll be damned if I sit there and let him rub my face in my humiliation.

  “I was hoping you would. But you being jealous that the Russian you’re fucking is fucking around with Misty Blue isn’t helping things,” he says with a grin.

  “First of all, I’m not fucking Mikhail,” I lie. “We’re supposed to be working on a business deal, but I haven’t heard from him in, like, almost a month.” I toss my hair and try to make everything seem casual.

  “Sure you are,” he says sarcastically. “I didn’t expect you to be the type of chick that was into white guys,” he continues.

  “Fuck you,” I repeat. I’ve had enough of Bentley. I just want to go home.

  “You mad now?” he asks.

  “Excuse me!” I say, trying to wriggle my way past him.

  “Sit down,” he says kind of forcefully, which turns me on. I know I can’t get past him so I plop back down on the banquette. He just sits there smiling at me. Damn him! He’s so fine and I’m so horny. I turn my head away from him. I feel his hand on my knee, and although my body is begging for more, I sit there pretending to be unaffected. But that doesn’t last long. Pretty soon, Bentley’s hand is far beneath my skirt, unobstructed by the fact that I don’t wear underwear, and I can’t stifle the moan that escapes my lips as he begins to stroke my clit.

  “You’re feisty, aren’t you?” he whispers in my ear. “I like feisty women.” I squirm beneath his touch, but my face maintains its calm demeanor.

  “Look at your stubborn ass,” he teases me. “You want to sit there like this isn’t even getting to you, but you know it feels good, doesn’t it? You like the way I play with that pussy?”

  “Yes sir,” I say as I nod to the beat of Gwen Stefani’s “Holla Back Girl.” I open my legs wider to accommodate him. The rush I get is amazing. I know I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing for a myriad of reasons, but it feels too good to stop. I can’t hold back any longer. It’s exquisite torture. So I put my champagne glass down and wave my hand in the air, bouncing and rocking to the beat to cover up the fact that I’m grinding against Bentley’s hand. He throws his head back and laughs as I come against his hand singing “Ooh, that’s my shit! That’s my shit!” with no one the wiser.

  There’s no reason for me to go home with Bentley. He knows that I’m digging on Mikhail, no matter how much I try to hide it. And I know he has Dez and probably an army of groupies that I don’t want to join. Maybe one day we’ll hook up if fate allows it. But for the moment, I have everything I need.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  June 2006

  THE NEXT MORNING MY PHONE RINGS BRIGHT AND EARLY, jarring me out of my slumber. I don’t answer it though; I can’t imagine who could possibly be calling me before noon because everyone knows I work nights. The early bird might catch the worm but in my eyes, there’s nothing that can be done before noon that can’t be done after noon so this little bird is going to catch some more z’s. I figure it can’t be anyone that I want to talk to, so I pull the pillow over my head and try to get back to sleep, but the phone rings again! The only person who would be so persistently irritating is my mother, but only if she has a damned good reason like the death or illness of a relative, so I reach over and check the caller ID on the nightstand to see if it’s her. It reads Unknown. I hate blocked phone calls so I am definitely not going to answer. I turn off the ringer so that I won’t be disturbed again, and settle between the sheets.

  Just as I’m about to drift off, a loud buzz goes off in the far corner of the room. I left my BlackBerry on vibrate, and now it’s buzzing away on top of my dresser. Whoever wants to reach me doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop trying anytime soon, so I kick the covers aside and stomp over to my PDA to see what the big emergency is. A number with a 305 area code is listed under missed calls, but I don’t recognize it. I check the voice mail.

  “Hello, Ms. Bobbi. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. This is Mikhail. I’d love for you to join me for breakfast to discuss our business matter. Please call me at 305-555-9111.” Bullshit. I know that the only reason he’s calling so early is to see if I’m sleeping alone. I debate whether or not to fuck with him and pretend that Bentley is here just to see how much he’s really about business. I decide to call and be cool and detached; I’ll be professional.

  I dial the number he left, and he picks up on the first ring.

  “Hello, may I please speak with Mikhail?” I ask, although I know it’s him.

  “Hello, Ms. Bobbi. Sorry to wake you,” he says.

  “No you aren’t,” I say, cutting him off.

  “Okay, so I’m not,” he admits. “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Well, is this a good time? If you’re preoccupied, perhaps we can meet at another time,” he suggests.

  “If I were preoccupied I wouldn’t have called you at all,” I say. Kinda like you did with me, I think.

  “Well, if you have company . . .” Mikhail says.

  “That’s not really your interest or concern,” I say.

  “And why is that?” he says.

  “Look, Mikhail, I don’t want what’s happened in the past between us to get in the way of business. So going forward, let’s just keep this relationship on a professional level, okay?”

  “Hmm, and I was looking forward to having so much fun mixing business and pleasure,” he says. He doesn’t believe that’s what I want; I can hear it in his voice. I don’t believe myself either. But I’m going to make him work if he wants any part of this pussy again.

  “I’ll bet,” I say.

  “Is this about Misty?” he asks me.

  “Is what about Misty?” I ask, pretending to be innocent. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your change of heart,” he tells me. “You’re so cold. We both know that you’re hotter than that.”

  “How do you know it’s not about Bentley?” I ask. You want hot? Feel the burn, I think. I know you’re jealous.

  “Misty and I are just friends,” Mikhail says. I wonder i
f he’s going to react to my insinuation about Bentley, but he doesn’t. There’s just dead air buzzing in my ear. Bastard!

  “So would you care to join me for breakfast?” he finally asks. “To talk business, of course.”

  I look at the clock. It’s 9:30 AM. I’ve only slept for about four hours.

  “What time?” I ask.

  “In about an hour,” he says. “It’s a perfect day, and I was going to have the chef prepare something on my ship. Meet me at the marina?”

  My ears perk up. A chef-prepared meal on a yacht would be tight. I know it’s a yacht because he’d said his ship and not his boat, and there is a big difference. My curiosity is getting the better of me so I accept his invitation. Suddenly energized, I pop out of bed and into the shower. Then I wrestle my thick hair into a smooth bun at the nape of my neck. I keep my makeup simple, just a couple coats of mascara and some red lipstick, and throw on a sexy black monokini, a one piece swimsuit with the same effect as a bikini. From the rear view it looks like any other Brazilian-cut bikini. But in the front, the top and bottom are connected by a wide band of rhinestones. I put on a black skirt, diamond studs, two black enamel cuff bracelets, and simple black high-heeled sandals. Black Chanel shades complete the look. Not your typical breakfast outfit, but I’m not a typical girl.

  I walk leisurely over to the Miami Beach Marina on Alton Road, glad that the morning sun’s rays aren’t very intense. It really is the perfect day to go boating. When I reach the marina, I look into my handbag to find my cell phone so I can call Mikhail, but before I can do it I see him walking down a narrow walkway leading from what has to be a three-hundred-foot yacht!