The Come Up

by Nia Forrester

  In this case, Jamal knew his generosity to Makayla Hughes would pay off a thousand-fold where Devin Parks was concerned. Though he had seen them together for only a few minutes, Jamal picked up immediately on the way Devin’s eyes sought out Makayla’s moments after the introduction was made, seeking her approval, her acknowledgment that he’d done good. Whatever their relationship, Makayla was clearly very important to Devin. That instinct was confirmed a few minutes into his one-sided attempt at conversation when she’d left them alone. Devin’s cellphone had buzzed and he glanced at the face of it, his brow wrinkling for a moment before he returned his attention to Jamal. And when he did, he was considerably friendlier. Makayla must have texted him, and whatever she said had an immediate impact on his attitude.

  But it was clear after the first meeting that Devin Parks would not be interested in having a second. Two unreturned phone calls later, Jamal admitted to himself that if he was going to sign Devin or even meet him a second time, he needed Makayla. But while she could undoubtedly get him a return call, then what? He couldn’t very well call on her every single time he needed to reach the little jerk—he had neither the time nor the will for that crap.

  On the other hand, if Makayla were part of the team …

  A quick gander at her employment application (completely flouting every rule of confidentiality in human resources, but hey, Phyllis one of the HR specialists was still … a friend) revealed that she was overqualified to be an administrative assistant. Her degree from City University of New York was in marketing, and she had more than a few relevant courses on her transcript. More than that, she’d graduated cum laude. Makayla Hughes was smart, and ambitious and working at a job well below her capabilities. Probably bored off her ass most days working as someone’s glorified secretary, she was ripe for the picking.

  On his way down to her department, Jamal realized he couldn’t recall much about what she looked like, except that she had a medium brown-skinned complexion, locs that fell well past her shoulders and was dressed in Brooklyn boho-wear. So he had Serena lead him to her cubicle.

  Makayla had been working with her head down, almost as though hiding from someone. And even when he spoke to her directly, she scarcely looked up. That, and the fact that she led him silently to the conference room with no attempt at small-talk had him thinking she was shy, and would be an easy mark.

  But minutes into their conversation Jamal realized that she realized what he was up to, and wasn’t about to let him walk away with everything he wanted without securing something for herself.

  Yeah. She was smart.

  So he’d made a few concessions. Far fewer than he’d been prepared to make if she proved difficult, but she didn’t need to know that. And now, she was the newest member of his team, and he had a meeting today with Devin Parks in the SE offices. When that meeting happened, Jamal wanted to be sure that Makayla was able to show her friend her new digs—a semi-private office that offered a decent view of the Manhattan skyline which she didn’t have to share (for the moment) with anyone else. To make sure none of his other staff balked, Jamal gave her the office that only temporarily didn’t have another occupant. When he was fully-staffed, which should happen within a matter of months, Makayla would have a roomie, but for now she was alone in one of the offices that abutted the hallway leading from the elevator bank and reception area to his large corner office. Devin would see it and be impressed, and more importantly, he wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his girl’s new status.

  It was just past eight a.m., and he wanted to check things out before she arrived around nine. At ten-thirty, Devin and he would meet for about a half hour and then take the trip up to the twentieth floor to meet with the Boss Man himself. Chris rarely cared to meet the new artists unless he had to, but Devin he was curious about and Jamal was pretty sure he knew why. Though neither of them would admit it out loud, he and Chris were getting a little long in the tooth for recognizing new talent.

  Once upon a time they were the young hotshots, hitting all the clubs and trendspotting. They were the ones who had an instinct for precisely who and what would hit it big. While Chris polished their sound, Jamal crafted their image, created their brand and helped them navigate the rarefied world of entertainment. Together, they were unstoppable, churning out artists who made not just hits, but music culture as well.

  And of course, millions of dollars in revenue.

  But the edge they had was dulling. Chris was now a forty-one year old committed family man who would no sooner hit up nightclubs than he would take a part-time job polishing shoes on Wall Street. And Jamal had just turned thirty-six, and now found himself increasingly erring on the more conservative side of dress, speech and attitude, leaving most of the rabblerousing, carousing and bad behavior to the youngsters. Only when it came to women had he kept to his seasoned playbook. And even that, lately, was beginning to get old.

  But he had no time to think about his personal life at the moment, such as it was. He was working on solidifying his professional stature, and beginning to think—the more he listened to his music—that signing Devin Parks would be a pretty damned good swan song. The kid had the vocals and the look, and knew how to both read and write music the old-fashioned way. He was a find, no doubt about that. Now all he needed to do—and would do with Makayla Hughes’ help—was get him, and keep him.

  _______________

  “That kid’s a little asshole,” Chris said matter-of-factly. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

  The meeting with Devin hadn’t gone well, exactly. But it had gone. Chris had sized him up, and Devin had been predictably obnoxious—saying very little and generally making the conversation as excruciating as possible. Because of his truculence, the half-hour meeting had been cut down to about fifteen minutes and then Chris reached the limits of his patience and suggested that Devin be ushered downstairs to meet some of the development staff.

  Once he was gone, Jamal came back up so they could debrief. “You ain’ lyin’. But it’s all for show. He wants this. He just doesn’t want us to know how much he wants it.”

  They were sitting in Chris’ office, the largest one in the building, and a room that most employees of the company would never lay eyes on. His workspace was also his sanctuary, outfitted with a comfortable sitting area, mini-bar, and expansive views on three sides. Shortly after his wedding, his wife Robyn had been up to have it redecorated, using warmer tones and the occasional splash of color, managing to make the expansive space feel cozy. She’d installed a fish tank in one wall, with rare, colorful tropical fish and the gurgling sound of the pump providing a new relaxing soundtrack to business meetings.

  Chris sometimes half-heartedly complained about it, but Jamal happened to know that Robyn had carte blanche. In everything except business, Chris allowed his wife free reign to run their lives and seemed much happier for it.

  If he had a woman like Robyn Scaife, Jamal would have done the same. She was a powerhouse in her own right, managing to move up to the position of Assistant General Counsel in just two and a half years, all while having two babies and recovering from a life-altering car accident in France. If he’d had his wits about him when they first met, Jamal would have seen her for what she was. But Chris had, which should have been no surprise since he was generally two steps ahead of everyone else anyway.

  “You sure about this strategy of yours, pouring all this money into working with him with no commitments from his end?”

  Jamal shrugged. “Ultimately, we never know whether a deal’s going to pan out anyway. Artists drop out, burn out, find Jesus, or drugs … you know how that goes. And we can’t make them do anything they don’t want to do. The paper we have on them is only ever an illusion anyway unless we’re willing to go to court.”

  “Yeah. True.” Chris’ brow furrowed. “But a year though? You have that kind of time, man? And more to the point, do you have that kind of money in your budget to throw after something
that might to come to nothing?”

  “Nah. Not really. I have a little secret weapon though. His home-girl worked in our communications department. I bumped her up into my shop to help work with him. I think if she’s part of the development team, he’ll fall in line.”

  “What’s her background? You don’t need dead-weight.”

  “Marketing degree. Smart. I think she’ll do fine. I just need to work with her.”

  “Work with her?” Chris’ eyebrows rose a little bit. “Man, don’t make this messier than it needs to be with your Casanova routine. Bad enough the talent is unmanageable …”

  Jamal laughed. “Boss Man, you got to show a little faith! I l know when to stand down. And besides, this chick is … you can tell she ain’t about all that. She’s here to make some moves for herself. You should’ve seen how she tried to work me.” He laughed again, recalling Makayla’s heavy-handed negotiation skills. “I was so impressed, I even let her think she won.”

  “So you like her.”

  “I like her.”

  “Good.” Chris nodded. “Just don’t like her too much. Now tell me what you’re thinking about with this Devin kid.”

  “He’s riding this whole indie wave right now, so I’m thinking we let him ride it. Kids out there, they’re eating that whole anti-establishment, Occupy Wall Street shit up right now. So that’s how we play it. That’s how he sees himself anyway, so it’ll make him easier to work with.”

  “Dress him up in designer grunge, that kind of thing?”

  Jamal nodded. “Exactly. Eight hundred dollar distressed jeans … thousand-dollar boots that look like they just came right outta the Salvation Army Thrift Store …”

  He and Chris laughed together for a few minutes more, enjoying a few observations about the more ridiculous side of their business. Star-making was a very cynical and calculated process. And if you did it well, the public didn’t even realize they were being mind-fucked. It was an art and a science at once, learning the psychology of your public. Jamal had studied it, and never stopped studying it. Popular culture provided plenty of lessons, that was for damn sure.

  One of his boys who worked out in LA with the movie studios had told him about Angelina Jolie’s PR machine’s strategy after she busted up Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston’s marriage. It was a simple formula—make sure she was never photographed without her children. Never.

  Jennifer Aniston was an American sweetheart, the attractive though far from pretty girl next door, and Angelina Jolie was the vampish intruder into her marriage with the world’s hottest man. It didn’t take a genius to see how that might spell potential nuclear level damage to a career. More women in America related to Jennifer Aniston than to the enviably beautiful Jolie. Hell, even her last name meant “pretty.” The feat was to make her relatable, to make women not hate her as most of them were inclined to do. It didn’t help that Jolie was on record as saying publicly and often that she had difficulties in her relationship with her father in part because he’d been unfaithful to her mother.

  Yup, beautiful and a hypocrite. Tall order for any image consultant.

  So they brought on the baby parade. It helped that she’d adopted a few. And they weren’t just cute babies, but babies from troubled parts of the world—brown babies. Which made her a humanitarian as well as a mother. Score. Over the course of two years, Angelina Jolie was scarcely ever photographed without one of those kids, and hardly ever dressed up as other than a harried working mother. It worked. By the time the PR offensive was done, American women were telling Jennifer Aniston to “get over it already” and move on with her life.

  Jamal had no doubt he could similarly work on minds of the music-listening public by fine-tuning their perception of Devin Parks as an anti-corporatist rebel, even as he climbed cozily into bed with one of the biggest music machines out there. And while he did that, Jamal would broaden the youngster’s audience and his appeal; and at the end of the day, sell a whole crap-load of music.

  “Okay, so go ahead and do your thing,” Chris said. “But keep a careful eye on the bottom-line on this one. The last thing we need is to invest a lot of time and money just to have someone else yield the benefits.”

  “Yup. No doubt.”

  “Oh, and Robyn wanted me to tell you to call her,” Chris added almost apologetically as Jamal began pushing up from his seat.

  “A’ight. What abo …”

  Chris held up his hands. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Oh. Another one of those calls, huh?”

  “Sorry, man, I tried.”

  “Who is it this time?”

  “Some chick she met at a conference I think.”

  “You met her?”

  “Nope. But I think she’s coming for dinner tomorrow night. And from the sound of it, you are too.”

  Jamal sat once again and shook his head. “You can’t call her off, Boss Man?” Chris shot him a look as though that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “I told her like a million times, I can choose my own women. I don’t need …”

  “It’s dinner,” Chris shrugged. “Humor her.”

  “Like you do?” Jamal laughed.

  “Happy wife, happy life.”

  “That’s not my wife though.”

  Chris shrugged and then grinned, something he never used to do much of. “Yeah, that’s right. Lucky me. But from the look of it, Robyn’s on the hunt for your wife. So man up and call her. Who knows? You might like the chick.”

  4

  “What you up to tonight, Hughes?”

  Makayla looked up from her desk and toward the doorway to her office which was fully occupied by her new boss. Jamal Turner seemed to crowd everything and everyone else out of a space when he was in it. It was impossible to look elsewhere when he was around. Today, in a change-up from his usual light colors, he was wearing all black, and damned if that didn’t look just as amazing with his complexion.

  “Nothing special,” Makayla said shaking her head. “It’s Thursday.”

  One corner of Jamal’s mouth lifted into a grin. “What does that mean, ‘it’s Thursday’?”

  “It means there’s work tomorrow, so … I didn’t plan to … to go out.”

  Makayla blushed, feeling foolish, which was pretty much par for the course since she’d started working in this department. It had been just under three weeks, and every single day, she learned what she hadn’t learned when she got her marketing degree. Jamal was still smiling at her as though she’d said something cute which made her shift around in her seat, finding it impossible to keep still while he looked at her that way.

  “That’s why we’re going out tonight. Most of your work ain’t happenin’ behind that computer. Meet me tonight at Onyx. Eleven o’ clock. Wear something nice.” Jamal pushed himself up from his position leaning on the door jamb.

  “Should … am I bringing Devin?” Makayla called after him as he walked away.

  “Nope. Just you. Just me.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, Makayla opened another tab on her browser and typed in the words ‘Onyx’ and ‘New York City’. She’d been too embarrassed to ask, but she had no idea where or what the place was. Nor did she understand why she would be going with him, but clearly it was just about work, so there was no reason for her to be feeling all jittery and overexcited.

  “Hey.”

  Makayla jumped, her head jerking up at the sound of his voice.

  “Gimme your phone,” Jamal said.

  Hesitating, Makayla pulled out her Blackberry and handed it to him.

  “What the heck is this old thing?” He shook his head. “We need to get you an upgrade. We’ll cover the cost. Tell Karlie I said to set that up.”

  Karlie was his personal assistant, a busty, yet skinny blonde who behaved in a manner that Makayla thought was a little overly familiar toward her boss. But considering Jamal’s reputation, she wouldn’t have been too surprised to learn that his relationship with Karlie wasn’t entirely
professional.

  For a minute or two, he messed around with the keys on her phone then handed it back to her.

  “I put in my numbers, so you can find me tonight,” he explained. “Seeing as how you have a problem being on time.”

  Opening her mouth to respond that on the contrary, she was always at work half an hour early, Makayla realized he was referring to the night she’d made him wait when he showed up to meet Devin. In any event, by the time she’d gathered her thoughts, he was long gone.

  _______________

  Checking one last time to make sure her grandmother was asleep, Makayla slipped the note under the tub of Icy Hot on her dresser then grabbed her keys. Over dinner she’d explained that she was going out and why, but there was no telling whether—if she woke up in the middle of the night needing the bathroom—her seventy-eight year old grandmother would even recall the conversation. And even if she did remember, she was sure to be anxious since she had been a little leery of the idea that Makayla’s new job required her to dress up and go to a nightclub on a work-night with the boss.

  Make sure he don’ try to touch your titties or nothin’ like that, her grandmother had warned, perfectly seriously.

  Makayla nodded and tried not to smile. I’ll make sure of that, Nana. I promise.

  Her grandmother thought it suspicious that one day she was practically a secretary and the next, she was given a twenty-thousand dollar salary bump with a bonus structure just to babysit “little Devin” and, in the process, learn a job she’d been pining for ever since she was a high school senior. In Nana’s world, dreams didn’t come true, and if they did, one should beware because it was likely to be no more than a Trojan Horse—untold misery wrapped up in a pretty package. And Makayla was inclined to believe her, since for a fair amount of her life that had been her experience as well. But now, she was sure things were taking a turn for the better.