Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “Oh really?” he says with a smirk. “And what is that?”

  “You have a problem with me associating with black men. You tripped over Bentley and now you’re tripping over Q,” I say. “You have no problem with me being surrounded by your male friends, but if I make any of my own, there’s drama.”

  Mikhail turns beet red.

  “Are you saying that I am threatened by black men?” he asks.

  “Take it how you want to,” I tell him. “We both know what the deal is.”

  Mikhail is so angry that he doesn’t say anything else. And he doesn’t bring up my association with Q again. But he watches us. I can sense it. He can watch away, though. Nothing’s going on. Q and I are just friends.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE DAY OF THE CLUB’S OPENING, MY BODY IS LIKE A LIVE wire. Excitement flows through my veins like a current as I prepare for the big night ahead. Amara arrives on Dimitri’s G4, and I pick her up from the Tamiami Airport. We head straight to the Agua Spa at the Delano to be primped and pampered. We indulge in massages, bath treatments, body polishes, manicures, pedicures, and the like, and then have a light lunch from the Blue Door Restaurant. We don’t have a chance to talk much; I need extra time to get ready because I am arriving in typical Ms. Bobbi fashion, outlandish as I wanna be. I’m just glad that my girl is able to support me on what is undoubtedly the first night of the rest of my life.

  An artist meets us at the mansion and he paints my naked body (save for a very tiny g-string) with airbrushed tiger stripes, accented with citrine- and amber-colored crystals. My hair is wild and loose, with streaks of black, gold, and orange sprayed in, and gold glitter sprinkled throughout. I rock a pair of black soft leather ankle boots and black leather gloves, and wear a real diamond collar with a chain.

  Amara dresses up like Lil’ Kim, which I find hilarious because there is nothing little about Amara. She wears a purple lace jumpsuit that only covers one boob, a purple flower-shaped pastie over the other boob, and a rhinestone belt with letters that spell out Lil’ Kim. She tops it all off with a purple wig and lots of bling.

  Mikhail and Dimitri are party poops and don’t dress up, but Amara and I don’t let them ruin our fun. We pull up to the club, Dimitri and Amara in an Aston Martin and Mikhail and me in my Ferrari, and immediately the attention of the multitude of people waiting in line shifts to us. The engines of the sports cars roar as we park our cars directly in front of the club. The valets open our car doors and members of the security staff stand by as we cross what would normally be the red carpet. Just for tonight, I’ve got sand spilling out onto the sidewalk from the entryway so that it looks like we’re crossing the desert.

  There are photographers lined up near the entrance, snapping pictures of the club’s exterior, the crowd, and now Amara and me as we make our way toward the door. Amara and I cause quite a stir and we pose suggestively with her holding my chain. I ham it up and act like I’ve gone wild; I bare my teeth and pretend to maul Amara’s dangling breast.

  We enter the club and are hit by a wave of sound. DJ Tracey Young is spinning house in the main room, and her mix is being pumped throughout the entire club. Mikhail and Dimitri bail on us early and disappear into the thick crowd, but for the moment my focus isn’t on them, it’s on myself. People are coming at me from all angles, bussing me with air kisses, admiring my costume, and schmoozing with me as if I can make all their dreams come true. And I have to admit that it feels good. I enjoy the surge of power that I feel when people kiss my ass and try to impress me. When I was growing up, I hated that feeling, but I realize that it was because those people weren’t feeling me, they were in awe of my family. But now it seems that everyone is beginning to realize what I’ve known all along—I’m a star in my own right.

  Scantily clad go-go dancers bump and grind atop podiums and speakers, and swing on perches inside giant birdcages that dangle from the ceiling. Troupes of bellydancers wind their way through the crowds, throwing rose petals and clinking tiny finger cymbals as they undulate in an erotic fashion. Buffed and muscular shirtless men jump on top of the bars at random and breathe violent bursts of fire. My version of Babylon is just what I imagine the ancient kingdom of Babylon to have been like: rich, decadent, and wild.

  There are loads of celebrities in the house. A few of the Miami Heat players are there; Shaq and his wife, Shani, are dressed as Frankenstein and his bride, D-Wade is dressed as Scarface, and Zo and his wife, Tracey, are there as Bobby and Whitney. I see a few renegade Playmates that have foregone Hef’s party and I smile inside. Every hotboy and hotgirl on the South Beach scene is also in the house, the guys subliminally competing to see who has the sexiest and skimpiest-dressed girl. I love that Halloween allows normally prissy chicks to unleash their inner ho. The guys love it too!

  Q’s eyes nearly bug out of his head when he sees me.

  “Damn, Boss Lady. You killin’ it tonight,” he says, his smile a mile wide.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You too,” I tell him.

  “I’m not wearing a costume, Boss Lady,” Q says.

  “I know,” I say with a wicked grin.

  “Who was that?” Amara asks, once Q leaves.

  “Oh that’s just Q, the head of security.”

  “The one you were having trouble with?”

  “Nah, we’re cool now,” I say.

  “I see you’re cool now, baby. You’ve gone from being enemies to making goo-goo eyes at each other,” she says.

  “Are you kidding? We were not making any kind of eyes at each other. That’s my dog.”

  “Oh, you were making eyes. You were definitely flirting with each other, and I don’t blame you. Ooh, baby, he’s delicious,” she says, smacking her lips.

  “He’s all right,” I say, playing it cool. But she’s right. He is delicious.

  “Amara, he was cool with my ex that died a few years ago. It’s really not like that,” I say.

  “You’re a fucking party pooper, you know that? Bringing up the dead,” Amara says with a pout. “This is a happy occasion.”

  “No, Amara, it’s all good. I’m still happy. Kaos was my heart. I miss him like crazy, but he’s always with me. He’s the one who taught me how to DJ. There’s no reason to pretend he didn’t exist.”

  Amara smiles at me. “Well then, to . . . What was his name again, baby?”

  “Kaos,” I tell her.

  “To Kaos,” she says, grabbing a champagne glass.

  “To Kaos,” I say, raising my glass. We take a sip.

  “Ooh, and to great asses,” she says as we watch Q walk across the VIP section.

  “Amen to that,” I say.

  At the stroke of midnight, Guns N’ Roses’s “Welcome to the Jungle” plays, right on cue. I step inside a giant cage that is wheeled into the party. I prowl my confines like a sleek jungle cat, clawing at the air and through the bars, growling as I crawl along the velvet-lined floor. The men that wheel the cage into the room brandish long whips that they crack in the air in an effort to subdue and contain me, but with one well-rehearsed motion, I cause the walls of the cage to fall around me, and my “trainers” bow down in submission and fear. The room is pulsating; my guests stare in amazement.

  Lights and lasers flash around the room and sirens blare. “Welcome to the Jungle” fades into a recorded intro that one of my favorite DJs from the crib, Boolu Master, has done for me. I slink my way over to the DJ booth, and make my way up the stairs and to the turntables. I yell into the microphone, “Yo, yo, yo. For those of you who don’t know who the fuck I am, I’m Ms. Bobbi. Welcome to my brand-new nightclub, Babylon. So now that we all know each other, let’s set this motherfucker off right!”

  The crowd responds enthusiastically as I play banger after banger. Everyone is dancing and having a good time. The opening is a smashing success, and I couldn’t be happier. When I finish my set, my replacement, a New Yorker named Mixtress Betty, takes over. I search the crowds for Amara and the men, who are nowhere to be found.
It’s pointless though; the club is so huge and the crowd is so thick that finding them would be like finding a needle in a haystack. I decide to go to my office to have a celebratory drink in relative silence.

  I have a bartender fix me a large glass of Jack on the rocks, and punch the keycode into the security door that leads to the offices. As I walk through the maze of storage closets and offices, I pass Rebeca’s door, and I hear the sound of muffled voices. It sounds an awful lot like someone is getting their fuck on. She can’t be in there with Mikhail, I think. He wouldn’t be that disrespectful. Curious, I test the door handle to see if it’s unlocked. It is, and I grin in the anticipation of catching Rebeca screwing around with someone else while on the job. I can’t wait to see the look on Mikhail’s face when he finds out his chick on the side is fucking someone else on his dime. Slowly, I turn the knob and pop my head inside.

  Rebeca is sprawled out on her desk with her legs wide open and her skirt bunched up around her waist. Her eyes are tightly squeezed shut as she throws back her head in sheer ecstasy. All I can see is a thick mess of dark hair grasped between her fingers; her lover’s face is buried deeply in her pussy. But that’s all I need to see. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. I’ve even seen it plenty of times from the exact same vantage point Rebeca is in right now. It’s Mikhail’s.

  I shut the door and go flying into my office. I toss my drink back in one gulp and feel the effect of the whiskey burning in my chest. I stamp my foot in frustration. I pace back and forth. This is not good. Mikhail and Rebeca’s extracurricular activities seem to be more serious than I thought. I sit in my chair and swivel it from side to side until I start to feel dizzy. I can’t tell if I’m dizzy from the Jack or from the swiveling or a combination of both, but I don’t want to hurl, so I stop swiveling and start rapping out a beat on the desktop with two pencils. I’m so full of conflicting emotions that I’m all fidgety. And I’m so distracted by my drumming that at first I don’t realize that someone is knocking on my door, but it gets louder and more persistent until finally I get up and stagger toward the door. I fling it open and Q is standing there.

  “Hey, there’s some woman named Julia outside. She’s from Ozone magazine and says she wants to talk to you,” he tells me.

  “Oh, okay,” I hiccup.

  “Boss Lady, are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m great,” I say. “Don’t I look great?”

  “Yes, you do,” Q says, and then he starts laughing. “Are you drunk?”

  “You betta know it,” I tell him. “Drunk as a skunk.”

  “Oh my God,” he says and keeps laughing. “Girl, you better straighten up if you’re going to be talking to anyone from the media. Do you have a coffeepot in here?” he asks.

  “Not just a coffeepot, but an espresso maker,” I say.

  “I’m gonna fix you some, okay?” he says.

  “Why do people in Miami call espresso Cuban coffee? I’ve always wanted to know that. I mean, espresso is Italian. Is it because a Cuban person is making it that they call it Cuban coffee?” I ask with a giggle. I check out Q’s ass while he makes the coffee.

  “Damn! You got a nice ass,” I slur.

  “Uh, thanks, Boss Lady,” he says. I can tell he’s a little embarrassed, which makes me giggle. I’m still giggling when Q hands me a cup of steaming hot espresso minutes later. “Drink it all,” he orders.

  “I’m not that drunk,” I tell him. “I don’t need no coffee.”

  “Well, just in case,” he says, making me drink.

  I gulp down the coffee, inch closer to Q, and ask him, “Do you think that if we met under different circumstances, if you never knew me as Kaos’s girl or Mikhail’s girl, do you think you would have been attracted to me?”

  Q looks really uncomfortable, which just spurs me on. “Sure,” he says. But even though he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t budge an inch. And why should he? I’m naked save for some strategically placed body paint and crystals, and I’m pressed up against his body. He may have integrity, but he isn’t dead.

  I lean forward and part my lips. Q pulls away. I grab him by the sleeves and pull him toward me again. Q pulls away again but it takes him longer to do it.

  “Don’t you want me?” I whisper.

  “Boss Lady . . .” Q begins.

  “Hmm,” I say as I keep leaning closer and closer to him and wrap my arms around his neck.

  “This is not the time or place,” he says.

  “When?” I ask. “Where?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. When the time is right, if the time is right, we’ll both know,” he says. “But for now you need to go talk to this lady, Julia, okay? Get out there and handle your business, Ms. Bobbi.”

  I feel like a fool for throwing myself at Q. He’s right; this is not the time or the place. I straighten Q’s tie for him and kiss him on the cheek.

  “One day,” I tell him with a smile. “Maybe.”

  He smiles back at me and kisses me on the forehead. “I hope so.”

  We step out of my office together and smack into Mikhail and Rebeca, who are hand in hand and heading back out to the party. This is a truly awkward moment; we’re all waiting for someone to speak first. Rebeca doesn’t look guilty. She looks smug, but I’m sure I look like I just got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Q, however, is as cool as the breeze.

  “Good evening, Mikhail. Evening, Rebeca,” he says.

  “Good evening,” Mikhail says, eyeing us suspiciously. I give the look right back to him.

  “Ms. Bobbi, that magazine publisher is waiting,” Q says to me. “If you just follow me, I’ll take you to her.”

  “Magazine publisher?” Rebeca asks. I want to scream at her that this is none of her business, but I don’t.

  “ Ozone magazine,” Q says to Mikhail. “They want to talk about a feature. I’m going to make sure Bobbi gets through this crowd undisturbed.”

  “Good idea,” he says, but he still doesn’t drop Rebeca’s hand. I’m so tempted to say something, but before I can, Q ushers me out of the hallway and back into the club.

  THE NIGHT ENDS AT 5:00 AM. MIKHAIL, DIMITRI, AMARA, AND I head home while Q, Rebeca, and the rest of the staff tend to closing things up. I want so badly to confront Mikhail, but I don’t know where to begin.

  “Well how do you feel?” Mikhail asks as sweetly as if nothing had happened between him and Rebeca earlier.

  “Great. Just a little tired is all.”

  “Well, you’re officially South Beach royalty,” he tells me. “And this is just the beginning for you.”

  “You think?” I ask.

  “I most certainly do. I never invest in anything that fails,” he says.

  “So is that what I am to you?” I ask him. “An investment?” I wonder what the return is that he’s hoping for.

  “Of course not! You are that and other things,” he says with a wink. “You’re my sweet angel.” Bullshit, I say to myself. You spent the night searching for buried treasure between Rebeca’s legs.

  Everything is business for Mikhail. Everything. That’s what Amara told me aboard Krizia. I wonder just what business Mikhail has with Rebeca that he has to eat her pussy to accomplish.

  “And what is Rebeca to you?” I ask brazenly. Mikhail doesn’t seem to get the hint.

  “Why do you ask that? You know what she does,” he says, innocently.

  “Do I?” I ask, testing him. “What I know is that she’s a nasty little bitch,” I sneer.

  “Rebeca isn’t a warm fuzzy person. She takes some getting used to. But she’s very good at what she does; she’s very efficient,” Mikhail replies. “I don’t know where I’d be without her,” he goes on. “She’s an integral part of so many of my businesses.”

  “I’ll bet she is,” I say sarcastically, but it’s lost on Mikhail.

  When we arrive at the house the sun is coming up. Mikhail doesn’t get out of the car. He just pulls up to the front door and tells me that he’s meeting Rebeca for br
eakfast.

  “This early?” I ask. “The sun isn’t even up. And haven’t you spent enough time with her? Damn, Mikhail, I’d think you were fucking her from the way you two seem joined at the hip,” I say. Surely Mikhail will notice that I’m on to him now and confess. But what will his knowing accomplish? I’m not sure what it is I expect to gain from busting him. A tear-filled, heartfelt apology perhaps? Promises to get rid of her maybe? But it doesn’t matter what I expect. Mikhail just laughs at me.

  “Get some rest,” he says. “You’re sleepy and you’re getting cranky. I’ll be back shortly, and I’ll make up for lost time.” He flashes me a smile and rolls down the long driveway and off the estate, as I stand there and watch his taillights disappear into the dawn. I have no intentions of letting him make anything up to me. I just want to know what Mikhail is getting out of all of this, and why he even needed me in the first place, because Rebeca seems to be all the woman Mikhail needs.

  SASCHA THE PUBLICIST IS EARNING EVERY DIME WE’RE PAYING her. She scored me a photo shoot at the club for Ocean Drive magazine! They’re doing a profile and photo spread on the renovation of Babylon and little old me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be modeling anywhere for any reason whatsoever. It’s not that I don’t have the looks because, if I say so myself, I’m a cutie. But does the world really need another child of someone famous strutting the runway? I’ll leave that to Paris and Nicky Hilton, Ivanka Trump, and Brittny Gastineau. I don’t knock their hustle at all, but I’ve got more going for me than good looks and famous DNA, and I intend for the world to know it. Plus, I’m kind of thick and I like to eat. I’m not starving myself to look all “ana” for any reason.

  I watch America’s Next Top Model and see those girls going through so much just to get other people to say they’re pretty and I’ve just never wanted to be a part of it. They all seem so insecure. If that had been me, annoying ass Tyra Banks and that old bitch Janice Dickinson would have gotten the smack down the first time they said something out of pocket, because they might be nice looking, but they are far from perfect. I’ve seen girls in the hood in Miami that run circles around those broads. Still it’s going to be fun to pretend to be a supermodel just for a day. Just as long as no one says anything stupid, like my face isn’t exactly symmetrical or that my forehead is too short or that I should lose twenty pounds.