“A’ight, y’all. Hit the phones.” He pushed back from the conference table and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
“Well, this is going to be a shit-show,” Harper announced.
Dean laughed. “I know, right? Like how the hell are we supposed to breathe life into a corpse?”
Dean Rosen had curly dark hair and though a little on the skinny side was cute, with beautiful brown eyes and lashes that almost looked fake. His intonation when he spoke was like a Queens rapper, instead of a Jewish kid from Long Island. Makayla assumed that a few too many rotations of listening to the Beastie Boys while growing up was to blame for that.
“She can still pull it out,” DeJuan said. “Especially if she doesn’t show her ass tonight.”
“Like when does Shantez not show her ass?” Harper said. “I mean, that’s become her thing. If anything, people will come just to see her show her ass.”
“Apart from this last CD, I thought she was still up there,” Makayla said. “You’re talking like her career’s over.”
“Not over,” DeJuan explained in his usual condescending tone. “But if she knows what’s good for her, she better pull a Braxton.”
“A Braxton?”
“Yeah, y’know when Toni Braxton took that gig playing Vegas, exclusively for the Flamingo … Shantez needs to be thinking along those lines right about now,” Harper said. “Because as much money as SE pumped into this release already … I think people just ain’t feelin’ her no more. Doesn’t matter how many ways we package her crazy-ass, she’s still just that. A crazy-ass.”
“Did you see at that last ..?”
“Oh yeah, that was some embarrassing shit …”
“Embarrassing? Ratchet-shit. That’s what that was.”
Makayla looked back and forth at her colleagues, struggling to keep up. They had dozens of shared experiences and references she didn’t know anything about, so it wasn’t unusual for conversations they had to go over her head, like this one was.
“Last party she was at, she walked right up to Chris Scaife while he was holding his wife’s hand, mind you, and basically shoved her out of the picture and took her place. On the step-and-repeat, in front of photographers and everything,” Dean explained.
Harper laughed. “I thought Chris’ head was about to explode. I mean, you could just see it in his eyes …”
“He never explodes though,” DeJuan said. “That’s one cool motherfucker. I would’ve …”
“You wouldn’t have done shit, DeJuan,” Dean said. “Except smiled in her face and called her ‘Ms. Page’ like you always do.”
“Hey, she ain’t a has-been yet. I better call her Ms. Page. And you better call her that too before she let you know. She still a hood-rat from Yonkers. I don’t care how much Balenciaga that bitch be totin’.”
Everyone laughed.
Dean stood and looked at Makayla. “Hey,” he said. “You want to start making those calls? Only six hours till go-time.”
Makayla nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
_______________
Shantez Page’s not-release party was held at Lounge Two-Twelve in the heart of Manhattan, the glitzy club co-owned by K Smooth and his former manager Brendan Cole. The silver and white décor added a sense of glamor to any event, but particularly to this one since Makayla and the rest of the development team had been there since six o’clock that evening getting things set up. Even set designers and photographers had been pulled into the preparations, so that it quickly became clear to Makayla that the party was every bit a production as a music video might have been.
After an afternoon spent on the phone with managers and publicists, bloggers and even a couple of artists personally, Makayla realized she was the only person on the team who’d been stupid enough to believe there would be time to go home to shower and change. If it hadn’t been for Harper who took her to the onsite wardrobe department, known around SE as “the closet”, she would have had to pop out and buy an outfit. Instead, she scored a sleeveless black Alice & Olivia jumpsuit with a cowl halter neckline and wide legs, and a pair of black stiletto sandals. After a quick shower in one of the executive bathrooms, she was able to change and head out in a cab with the rest of the gang.
Two-Twelve was amazing, just like all the places she’d been to in the last few weeks were amazing. All this time, without her knowing it, people were living lives like this parallel to hers—theirs marked with opulence and excess, glamor and bling; hers marked with grit and hard work, exhaustion and sometimes squalor. She thought of Devin’s crappy little apartment, and the neighborhood he lived in, and it made her even more determined to do well by him and for him. He was so talented. He deserved some of this life, and she was going to do her best to see that he got it.
Once at the lounge, they were met by Brendan Cole himself, who showed them around and let them know which parts of the interior they were free to alter for the event, and which they should leave alone. Tall, and handsome, he was a man of easy smiles, just like Jamal. And like Jamal, he seemed like the kind of man who would easily induce a woman to abandon all common sense. Harper obviously had a crush on him, because each time he smiled—his eyes crinkling shut and the tiniest tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth—she practically swooned.
By eight-thirty, everything was in place and Makayla was feeling a little wilted. DeJuan, Harper and Dean had all gotten frozen mojitos and were sitting around waiting for folks to arrive, but Makayla passed on a drink, wondering where Jamal was and why he hadn’t even dropped by to check in on their progress. But he probably didn’t need to—everyone else in development had worked with him for years and were probably well familiar with his high expectations. And truth be told, she wasn’t as concerned with him checking in on her work as she was eager to have him check in on her. Not that he’d showed any inclination to do that over the past two weeks.
By nine p.m., when everyone—again, except for Makayla—had had their fill of mojitos and the lamb sliders they were snatching out of the kitchen, the guests started to arrive.
“Girl, you better eat something,” Harper warned her. “You’re not going to have a second to yourself later on.”
“Not hungry,” Makayla mumbled.
“You will be, believe me.”
And she was right. By ten, Makayla’s feet were killing her in the high stilettos, she was famished and felt less than fresh as a daisy under her arms. As artists arrived, there was a lot of crowd management to be done, and a fair amount of celebrity politics as well. Under Harper’s tutelage, she learned how to time the appearance of one performer on the step-and-repeat to avoid another artist who they had beef with. And how to make the more egocentric rappers feel important by buzzing around them with a two-way radio in hand, ushering them directly to the bar and having food sent over to their entourage within moments of their arrival.
What Devin called “all that bullshit drowning out the music” was even more apparent tonight than it had been in all the time she’d been working in development thus far. It was just past eleven and Makayla was ready to pass out on the nearest sofa when suddenly there was a flurry of activity, and camera flashes began going wild out front.
“C’mon!” DeJuan said, grabbing her arm. “We need to be out there!”
Makayla followed, almost tripping over the billowy legs of her pantsuit. Once outside, she saw what all the fuss was about. Standing on the step-and-repeat, his arm about his wife’s waist, scowling at the cameras as though irritated that they were taking his picture, was K Smooth. Wearing a beige suit and white shirt with no tie, he was gorgeous beyond all human understanding, his skin smooth and honey-brown.
His wife, Riley Gardner, was dressed in white, a long sleeved loose-fitting dress that on most women would have resembled a bathrobe, but which suited her slender physique perfectly, giving her an ethereal allure. She turned her long neck this way and that, allowing her picture to be taken and then leaning in to whisper something to her husband. Whatever
it was, he dropped his hand from her waist and instead held her hand, and they both drifted toward the entrance, Riley Gardner offering a brief parting smile and wave.
They had to walk right by Makayla as they entered. They smelled like money. Just inside the door, Riley Gardner leaned in and kissed her husband on the cheek.
“Stop looking so put-upon, Shawn,” she chided him playfully. “The photographers love you.”
He snorted in response and leaned in, briefly nuzzling her neck. “Yeah, well, I don’t love them back,” he said, and she laughed.
Next up was Chris Scaife. He looked even less excited than K Smooth had, and his date was not his wife but his son, Deuce. Just a hair taller than his father, Deuce looked to be enjoying the attention in equal measure to his father’s apparent lack of enjoyment. Photographers shouted his name and he grinned even wider, once nudging his father hard in the side as though telling him to lighten up. In the end, Chris left his son to bask in the attention by himself, pausing at the door to nod tersely to the development team.
All night, this was the least busy they had been, so Makayla wasn’t sure what the urgency had been about to get out front, except that maybe it was important for them to be seen by their bosses. On his way in, Deuce stopped to bump fists with DeJuan and kiss her on the cheek, and then followed his father.
“You know him?” Harper asked her, envy dripping from each word.
“Met him when we were promoting Devin,” she said. “Nice kid.”
Harper twisted her lips. “Yeah, he is kinda young, huh?” She sounded regretful.
Before Makayla could respond, there was another round of flashbulbs and cameramen surged forward, closer to the barrier, holding cameras aloft, shouting and whistling.
“Shantez! Shantez!”
Makayla looked up. The woman of the hour had arrived. Wearing a daringly short red dress that was close at the bodice and flared dramatically at the skirt, Shantez had taken the red theme all throughout her look, with bright red lips and candy-apple red show-stoppingly high shoes.
“Can’t stand her ass,” Harper murmured.
But Makayla wasn’t listening because Shantez, smiling from ear to ear, was extending a hand and pulling someone into the limelight next to her. Turning to her date, she shot him one of her famous come-hither looks and got on her toes to plant a kiss directly on his lips while the cameras went wild. And maybe that was because the man she was kissing wasn’t her rumored-to-be-estranged husband the NFL player.
It was Jamal.
15
This chick was a piece of work.
Jamal stifled a yawn and tried to look interested in what Shantez was babbling about. Right now it was about “sorry-ass Donte” her husband who on the quiet had been sleeping with his trainer, a former female Ultimate Fighting champion who had, according to Shantez, “more muscle than his tired-butt.” And now Shantez was considering whether to leave him, or whether to try to salvage the relationship. There was no doubt that Donte had been good for her image—he was a leading blocker and very popular with football fans. If they hadn’t heard of her before, some of them became acquainted with Shantez’s music after she and Donte married. And she definitely needed the boost, wherever she could find it.
The last two weeks had been grueling. After spending God knew how long lecturing him about not neglecting his obligation to make Devin Parks a star, Chris had called Jamal to the carpet about Shantez. Complaining that her numbers were looking a little feeble, and that she wasn’t being talked about enough, Chris told him he needed to “pull a rabbit out of a fucking hat if you have to” to get Shantez back on top again. So Jamal had been squiring her all over town to parties and clubs, getting her out there again and making sure she didn’t drink too much or start any brawls.
Shantez was the kind of star he couldn’t entrust to anyone else. She needed attention from the highest levels of the organization, not just because she was still—for the moment —an A-lister, but because she had a tendency to get off the chain a little bit. Actually, not a little bit—a lot. While she was at Virgin, there had been no fewer than three payoffs of women Shantez had scratched, smacked and in one case, clocked over the head with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. In that last case, the poor girl had to get stitches because though the bottle didn’t break, apparently her scalp had, bleeding all over the VIP and Shantez’s ten thousand-dollar gold Gianni Versace dress.
Pictures of a very drunk Shantez, garments covered in someone else’s blood, being ushered out of the club on unsteady legs, had made the rounds on the internet for weeks, along with the inevitable speculation about whether anger management and rehab might be in order. When he signed Shantez, Chris made it crystal clear that he wasn’t standing for any of that “messy shit”, and it was Jamal’s job to make sure she only showed up in the press for singing the hell out of some songs, and looking beautiful. But Jamal had been neglecting her. Spending way too much time thinking about, and working on Devin Parks’ future.
So to make up for that, these last couple of weeks, it was all Shantez, all the time. And he was exhausted. Keeping her out of trouble was a full-time job and a half.
“I see Chris ain’ bring his wife tonight,” Shantez mused aloud. “You know she can’t stand me because me and her man used to be tight.”
“I wouldn’t care too much for you either, Shantez. Every time she’s around you’re all up in his face like …”
Shantez laughed. “That’s what her ass get. Marry someone like Chris Scaife, you better be ready for a whole rack of baggage. Not to mention all those babies he got.”
“I think she’s cool with the babies. It’s women like you she might not be into so much.”
Sucking her teeth, Shantez rolled her neck. “Whatever-the-fuck-ever. If I ever tried to take her man …”
You’d fail.
“Let’s go talk to some folks,” Jamal suggested. “Lots of people came here tonight just to see you.”
At that, Shantez smiled and stood a little taller.
Notoriously insecure, she was made even more so by her husband’s infidelity and the waning support of the fans. It was his job to prop her up, and thank God his team had come through for him. Even Shawn had agreed to put in an appearance as a personal favor (“you gon’ owe me big-time for this one, man.”), though Jamal doubted he and Riley would stick around too long. They were both just self-aware enough to know that the occasional appearance at parties were necessary to keep them both relevant, but they kept it very occasional. The funny thing was, their tendency toward privacy only made the public thirstier when it came to Hip-Hop’s Golden Couple. K Smooth … tamed. Jamal would never have believed it if he didn’t see it with his own two eyes. Dude had been off the chain his damn self at one time. Jamal still recalled the stories … and of course the scandal.
“Who we got up in here?” Shantez was scoping out the room.
“Everybody,” Jamal said. “No one who matters missed this party. Believe that.”
Shantez looped an arm through his. “A’ight, let’s go then.”
Once he pried her from his side, Shantez actually started to loosen up and enjoy herself a little bit. Most of the people there she knew well, and some she had even collaborated with. But if artists were insecure about what fans thought, they were even more so when faced with the judgment of their peers. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be playing nice tonight and Jamal was able to go stand at the bar, order himself a drink and survey the room.
Two-Twelve was packed to the gills, and everyone seemed to be having a drama-free good time, and occasionally, when he spotted a member of his team, they looked appropriately busy. Except … where was Makayla?
Scanning the room again, he saw Harper, Dean … and there was DeJuan. But Makayla …
Pushing away from the bar, Jamal stood up straight when she came into his line of sight. She was there alright. She had a drink in hand—what looked like a mojito—and was smiling and talking to Kendrick Crusie. Kendrick was an
R&B crooner that Jamal had personally developed, giving him a much smoother look and convincing him to change his professional name from ‘Crusie’, to ‘Cruise’. Crusie was an unusual enough name that people were bound to make the mistake anyway, and besides, Cruise sounded way cooler.
Anyway, Kendrick Whatever-the-hell-his-name-was definitely over there turning up the wattage on his porcelain veneer smile, staring dead in Makayla’s face. And come to think of it, she was exactly what the singer liked. Although his sound was more old school Guy and 112, he liked his women on the Erykah Badu, Brooklyn-Heights-Pre-Gentrification-Era side. And at just that moment, while Jamal watched, Kendrick reached out and tugged on one of Makayla’s locs, which she let him do without even flinching.
Jamal moved around the crowd between them, until he was standing right in front of Makayla and Kendrick.
“’S’up K-Dawg,” he said.
Kendrick turned. “The real Jam Master Jay! My nigga. Whassup?” He gave Jamal some pound and grinned at him.
“Not much. I see you over here monopolizing my staff.”
“Oh … word?” Kendrick looked at Makayla. “You work for this fool?”
“Yeah. I do.”
She was looking really good in that black pantsuit, and was wearing a very dark wine-colored lipstick that brought out the bow-shaped perfection of her lips. Full, and luscious and just … kissable as all get out. And had she further arched her eyebrows or something? Because her eyes just …
“You ain’ gon’ steal her from me are you?” Kendrick said laughing.
“’Fraid so. She’s on the clock. And so am I, so …” Jamal glanced pointedly at his watch.
“Damn. A’ight Makayla, lemme have your phone right quick.”
She handed it over. Not even a second’s hesitation. It was the brand new one that he’d arranged for her to get, to replace that old piece of shit she used to have. And while his eyes bored into hers, Kendrick made an entry and handed back to her.
“You better get a password on that, sweetheart,” he said. “Lots of folks would pay good money to get the digits I just put in there.”
The Come Up Page 17
