by M?ta Smith
“I wasn’t aware that I had to check in,” he says nonchalantly.
“It’s not about checking in,” I tell him. “I was worried about you. I called and left messages and you still didn’t call. It’s inconsiderate. You’re a grown man, do what you want. I just think it’s respectful to call me and let me know you aren’t coming home so I don’t sit up worrying all night.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you should,” I say, growing angry. Mikhail hasn’t offered any explanation as to his whereabouts. “You would have a fucking cow if I pulled some shit like that.”
“You’re smart enough to not ever try my patience like that,” Mikhail says, his voice bearing the faint signs of irritation. He’s got some nerve being mad at me when he’s the one who stayed out all night! He’s trying to flip the script. But I know all about those tricks, and I’m not falling for any of them.
“Mikhail, were you out with another woman?” I ask.
“Bobbi, don’t be immature and insecure. It isn’t flattering,” Mikhail says. “Now if this interrogation is over, I’m going for a swim.” Mikhail walks coolly out of the room.
“You didn’t answer the question,” I yell after him.
I pout in frustration. Why is it that men always change up once they’ve won you over? They’re always flowers and candy and candlelight when they want you. Once they’ve got you, that shit comes to a grinding halt. Fuck it, I think silently. Fuck it and fuck him. If that’s the game he wants to play, then fine. As long as I’m getting what I want out of the deal—money, fame, and a world-class nightclub, then that’s all that matters.
THINGS WITH MIKHAIL CONTINUE IN THE SAME DIRECTION. HE begins to spend less and less time at home with me, and more time out at overnight “business meetings.” I’m not stupid; Mikhail is spending time with another woman. If the meetings were all “business,” how come I didn’t need to be at any of them? After all, I am his business partner. I have the suspicion that he’s keeping time with Rebeca. The more I’m around her, the more smug she is; I’m catching a definite “I’m fucking your man” vibe from her. And I’m not sure if Misty is out of the picture. My gut tells me that a woman like her won’t go away quietly, and I’m just waiting for her to rear her ugly head again. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.
I can’t front like I’m not upset. I was so certain that I had Mikhail eating out of the palm of my hand. Now I feel like I’m losing a hold on him, and a little part of me is afraid that the club and all my dreams for it may slip away as well. I go to work every day, tending to the little details that need to be taken care of before the opening. I know that I don’t have to do these things, that they’re just busywork, but I can’t just sit around the mansion twiddling my thumbs and waiting for Mikhail to pay attention to me, nor can I sit idly by and let life happen to me. I intend to hang on to Babylon with all my might. I’ve come too far to let Rebeca or Misty or any other woman run me off.
I find solace from the uncertainties in my life through my music, pounding out my frustrations on the ones and twos. I love spinning in the club and spend most of my free time practicing and experimenting, getting myself prepared for the opening. The acoustics are the bomb, and it just gives me a thrill unlike any I’ve ever experienced.
A couple weeks before the opening, I’m in the booth mixing Wu-Tang with Linkin Park, Eminem with Three Doors Down, the Sex Pistols with Nas, and Bad Religion with Public Enemy. The results are a loud, angry, cutting edge, rap/rock/punk fusion that relieves my tension and frustration.
“Yo, Boss Lady!”
I look up from the turntables to see Q standing below the DJ booth, yelling into his hands that are cupped in front of his mouth. I yank my headphones off and cut the volume down.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.
“A few minutes,” he says. “You were really into your music. You didn’t hear me at all.”
I hold up the headphones and shake them. “Yeah, well, it’s loud under here.”
“Yeah, well, Mikhail left a message for you,” he says. “He said to not wait up for him tonight.”
No big surprise there.
“Hey Q?” I ask him. “Do you know where Rebeca is?”
Q looks a little uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to answer the question.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Well, where is she?” I ask him.
“With Mikhail,” he tells me. My face drops. How embarrassing. I’m almost certain everyone knows Mikhail and Rebeca are fucking; the signs are clear. But couldn’t they at least show some decorum? Couldn’t they at least try to be slick about it? Doesn’t Mikhail realize how disrespectful he’s being, how stupid he’s making me look?
“Boss Lady?” I hear Q shout. I snap out of my daze.
“Yes?”
“That mix was tight,” he says. “I never heard anything like it before.” I look at Q suspiciously; he’s looking at me like I’m a lost puppy dog. Good God! Don’t tell me he’s feeling sorry for me because I’m getting played. How humiliating!
“What? Are you giving me my props?” I ask sarcastically, trying to play things off.
“I never said you couldn’t spin,” Q replies, equally sarcastic. He turns to walk away.
“Q,” I yell at him.
“Yeah, Boss Lady?” he asks.
“Come here for a second, please?” I ask. He looks like he wants to say no, but he comes up the stairs and enters the booth. I’m greeted by his scent and my body instantly responds. It’s Be Delicious by Donna Karan, one of my favorites.
“Can we talk?” I ask him.
“About?”
“About our work relationship.”
“What is there to talk about? I have a job and I do it.”
“Yeah, but what’s your beef with me? I’m not trying to stop you from doing your job. I never have. But you’ve never given me a chance. You always act so foul towards me.”
“There’s no chance to give. I work security. I don’t get paid to be friendly,” Q tells me, echoing Mikhail’s earlier sentiments.
“You don’t get paid to be rude either,” I counter.
“Are we done?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. Q turns to walk away.
“Why have you been spying on me?” I blurt out. Q freezes.
“Excuse me?”
“I know that you’ve been spying on me,” I say. “I saw the folder.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says coolly. But his eyes and body language betray him. I’ve caught him off guard.
“The background check. All my personal info. I saw it. The folder of files had your name on it. I want to know why. I know it wasn’t your typical pre-employment screening.”
Q gauges his words carefully.
“I’m just doing what I’m told,” he says. “I can’t divulge any more.”
“It’s like that, huh?” I ask, pissed off. “Fine, brother,” I say, pulling the race card. It’s a cheap shot, but I’m taking it. “Got no love for a sister, huh? It’s fucked up that I get this opportunity of a lifetime, and the only brother onboard gives me shit and spies on me. This is just what I thought. You work for Mikhail; you’re one of his flunkies. A fucking do-boy!”
“I’m not a fucking do-boy!” Q spits at me. He takes some deep breaths and speaks again. “Look, Ms. Bobbi,” he says.
“Just Bobbi! Damn, do you have to be that formal?” I yell.
“Look, Bobbi. It isn’t like that,” he says.
“The hell it isn’t,” I say. I feel my eyes start to water. I’m partly mad, partly frustrated. It seems as if the entire world is against me. I feel a wave of emotion building up within, and I can’t contain it. I do the unthinkable. I start to cry.
“Shit, Q. You can see with your own eyes that Mikhail and Rebeca are fucking. Do you have to be so smug when you bring me fucked up messages? I know that you work for Mikhail, but do you have to do your share to
make me miserable? Do you have to bring me the fucked up message and attitude too?” I’m embarrassed to be crying in front of him, but I’m so frustrated that I don’t know what to do. Q’s expression softens a little.
“Stop crying,” he says. “What are you crying for? Mikhail is with Rebeca. So what? What difference does it make? You’re getting the money. That’s all you’re in it for, right?” I don’t answer, I keep crying. Q looks around nervously.
“Shit! The last thing I need is for someone to come in here and see us here together with you crying like that. Let’s get out of here until you calm down,” he says.
We walk outside the club and get inside his truck, a white Explorer that is parked up front. A blast of cool air hits me and I inhale deeply as he starts the engine and the sounds of Bob Marley pump through his speakers.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asks. I nod yes.
We head for the causeway and Q drives toward the city.
“You like seafood?” he asks.
I nod yes. I stop crying and stare out the window as we leave the turquoise waters and art deco buildings behind and the scenery changes to a darker, grimier backdrop. We roll through Liberty City and head to a spot called Jumbo’s.
“You ever been here before?” he asks me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What? A princess like you?” he teases. He takes the liberty of ordering fried shrimp and conch for both of us.
“I’m no princess, Q. I see you only scratched the surface when you did your spying on me,” I tell him, dryly.
“Bobbi, I don’t know what to tell you about that. It was business, not personal,” Q says as we sit down. I take a sip of my sweet tea.
“You’ve been making it personal,” I say. “What do you have against me? From the looks of that folder, you’ve been watching me a long time. You’ve got to be able to tell that I’m not that bad a person,” I say.
“I think you have the wrong idea about what you saw,” Q tells me.
“Then set me straight,” I say.
“You’re making more out of this than what it is. Yes, I pulled some public records of yours. I work for Mikhail. He asked me to do it and I did it, and I really didn’t think anything of it. He does that kind of thing with everyone he does business with. Then Mikhail told me to come to a couple of clubs and keep an eye on you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“I don’t know. He just said to observe you. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. But he pays me well, so I did what he asked. I saw you come to Mansion alone, work, and leave with Mikhail. I saw you come to Nikki Beach Club alone, and leave alone.” I wonder if Q caught my interlude with Bentley.
“Is that all you saw?” I asked.
“That’s all I reported,” he tells me.
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “I saw clippings from magazines and my yearbook photo in that folder. There was even a picture of me and my dead fiancé, Kaos, in there. It looked like it was taken by a spy camera or something, you know what I mean? It was from far away. You mean to tell me you didn’t do that?”
“No, I didn’t do that. Mikhail has lots of people working for him. It could have been anyone,” Q explains. I’m still not buying it.
“Kaos has been gone a few years,” Q says. “When he was alive I was just getting involved with Mikhail.” The statement arouses my suspicions. I cock my eyebrow at him.
“Bobbi, I’m telling you the truth. I won’t deny that I knew him. I did. We worked out together; we had the same personal trainer. We were cool. I wouldn’t have done him like that.”
“You knew my Kaos?” I ask him.
“Yes, Bobbi, I knew him, but just in passing, you know? Nothing deep. But he used to talk about you all the time. I guess that’s why I didn’t care for you much when I met you. In my mind you’ll always be Kaos’s girl. And I don’t think he would be happy with you dating a guy like Mikhail.”
That statement feels like a kick in the gut. The tears start rolling again.
“I don’t think he’d be too happy about someone he was cool with giving me such a hard time either,” I say.
“I’m sorry if that upset you. And you’re right, Bobbi. I should be looking out for you instead of hassling you. But I felt like my loyalties were divided,” he says. “I work for Mikhail and I’ve got responsibilities.”
“Your loyalties don’t have to be divided,” I say.
“They’re not anymore. I’m sure I can do my job and go a little easier on you. I’m sorry, Bobbi. Let’s start over, okay?”
I look in his eyes to gauge his sincerity. I know that I can’t trust anyone, but I’m happy that Q has at least stopped being so antagonistic.
“Sure, let’s start over,” I finally say. Q extends his hand and I shake it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bobbi. I really hope we can be cool now, but I just don’t see what you see in Mikhail. How could you get caught up with him?”
“I’m sure it’s the same way you got caught up,” I tell him. “I see the same thing that everyone else sees. Dollar signs,” I say.
“Is that all?” Q asks.
“Not really. I mean, I liked him. In the beginning he was cool. I liked his style. He was a mentor. Mikhail offered to take my career to the next level. It was too good of an opportunity to turn down. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to feel the money and the power that he offered. That was until I got to know more about him and got to know him better. Lately, he’s been treating me more like his employee than his girl, and I realize that he sees everyone as a subordinate. I’m also finding out that Mikhail is a little bit unstable. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but there’s a darkness to him that goes beyond any shady business dealings he’s involved in.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Q says.
“Are you going to tell me?” I ask.
“If you really need to know something, I’ll let you know,” he says. That, I figure, is better than what I’ve been getting.
“Just tell me one more thing?” Q asks me.
“Sure,” I say.
“Is this worth all the trouble?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
FROM THEN ON, THINGS ARE COOL BETWEEN Q AND ME. A couple of times we even grab a bite together and just chop it up about whatever’s going on in Miami that day. I even gave him a DJ lesson once, and he isn’t half bad. He’s a quick study with anything technical, he says, and it shows, because he gets the hang of my Scratch Live software in no time. I get to know Q more, but in doing so, I learn more about Mikhail. Things I don’t necessarily want to know.
“How did you meet Mikhail?” I ask Q one night. We’re the only people left in the club and we’re gathering our things, getting ready to walk out.
“You don’t want to know all that,” he says.
“Yes I do,” I tell him.
“Well, I played football at UM. I used to meet a lot of hustlers and gamblers who liked to bet on the games and stuff. When I got injured senior year, my life changed. I wasn’t going to the draft. I had to get a regular job. My major was criminal justice and there’s nothing I could do with that except become a cop or a lawyer. I’m not smart enough for law school and cops don’t make shit.”
“So then what did you do?”
“I started hustling. I already knew all the players in the game, and I had knowledge of the law. I know how cops think. It made me a better criminal,” he admits.
“And you’re some kind of drug dealer?” I ask him.
“Not at all,” he says. “Not anymore. Now I negotiate and broker deals. I make introductions. I scope things out and measure risks for both sides involved. I don’t touch any drugs.”
“But you do something illegal?” I ask.
“I do security, Bobbi. I deal with problems and problematic people. My size is intimidating. My demeanor scares people. Security comes natural to me. I make sure that Mikhail is taken care of.”
�
��I thought that was Dimitri’s job,” I say.
“It is.”
I ask the inevitable question. “What is Mikhail involved in that he needs so much protection?”
“You mean you don’t know?” he asks in disbelief.
“No, I don’t.”
“Come on, Bobbi. You don’t know what’s going on around here?”
“Well, I know there’s something, but I always figured the less I knew the better.”
“So then what’s changed?”
“I don’t know. Mikhail, I guess. I used to think I could trust him, that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. Now I’m not so sure. I’m clearly not the only woman in his life, and I feel like I ought to watch my own back a little more.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he says.
“Yes. Are you going to tell me anything?”
Q looks reluctant. “I don’t know. Maybe not knowing is better for you,” he says.
“You know, I’m tired of other people all getting a say in what goes down in my business while I don’t know shit. This is no better than it was when I was growing up. I’m not a little girl, I’m a woman. I deserve to know what’s going on!” I say.
“Bobbi, you’ve got to trust me on this,” he says.
“I don’t trust anyone,” I tell him.
“You’ve got to trust somebody sometime,” he says, leaving me frustrated.
MIKHAIL DOESN’T SEEM TO APPROVE OF Q’S AND MY BUDDING friendship.
“I think that maybe you’re getting a little too friendly with Q,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I just think that the two of you should spend less time together. It isn’t professional,” he tells me. Like you and Rebeca? I think.
“It’s totally professional. I don’t hang out with him any more than I hang out with Sascha or Jimmy J. I’m just kicking it with my coworkers.”
“It’s different, Bobbi,” he says, “and you know what I mean.”
“Mikhail, I’ve noticed something about you,” I tell him.
