Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  “I was holding on to her arms to keep her from hitting me and I let go and she—” Zander stopped talking abruptly. There was no point explaining. The story sounded convoluted and Jake wouldn’t believe him anyway. Zander had already been worried about his relationship with Jake. He didn’t hear from him nearly as much as he had when he first got signed. And he’d been closer to this man than his own father at times, especially when his father was using heavily. Jake Giles was just a half-step under God in Zander’s world. And his eyes burned with shame and embarrassment that Jake was getting him out of a scrape like this.

  “Unc,” Zander started.

  “Don’t, Zander,” Jake said, not looking up from his phone. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  The dentist held up Bunny’s tooth and moved it back and forth.

  “I can implant this back in,” he said. “It’s in good condition. But I can’t do it here. You’ll have to get her to my office. It’s only three blocks from here. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “How are we getting her out of here?” Zander mumbled.

  Jake went to the window and looked down at the street.

  “Jackson’s down there,” Jake said, motioning to Jackson Figueroa, the paparazzo who had assigned himself to Jake, Bunny, Zander, and Z. Ninety percent of all photos that appeared on the blogs and in gossip magazines of the four of them came from one photographer who had an uncanny ability to know exactly where they were at any given moment.

  “Zander, me and you are going right through the front door. My car is waiting outside. Bunny, put Zander’s baseball cap on. Keep your head low. Boo’s in the hallway. He’s going to take you down to the kitchen, go out the service entrance, and get in the car. Move, people.”

  Zander followed Jake out of the room and into the elevator.

  “This is not cool, Zan,” Jake said, shaking his head. “We can’t have this. Bunny’s the biggest thing we have going on this label. I can’t have her performing with a missing tooth.”

  “This was not my fault, Unc, she’s always—”

  “Did you ever think that maybe—just maybe—your dad is right about Bunny? If y’all can’t stop trying to kill each other, why bother with this bullshit?”

  “I’m cutting her off,” Zander said.

  “No, you’re not,” said Jake. “But you should. Now, when are you going to tell your father what happened?”

  “Never.”

  “He’s gonna find out. Might as well get it over with.”

  The two were silent for the ride to the dentist’s office.

  “Stay with her,” said Jake to Zander. “And make sure she’s okay. Then get to the studio and write.”

  Zander nodded his head and climbed out of the truck. Normally, he would case the area as soon as he stepped out of any car. But this time, he was preoccupied.

  Jackson Figueroa sat in a coffee shop right across the street from the dentist’s office. He trained his lens on Zander and shot a few pictures in rapid succession. Ten minutes later, he brought his camera up once again and got a few grainy shots of a young girl with a baseball cap pulled low over her head. Jackson took his head away from the viewfinder for a brief second. Her hands were covering the bottom of her face. Jackson zoomed in as far as he could and snapped. She was gone in an instant. He looked down and saw what he captured. The picture was grainy, but clearly, she was headed into a doctor’s office for a reason. A clear cut on her bottom lip sealed the deal. And sealed Jackson’s paycheck for the next month.

  Zander came to Bunny’s house as soon as she came home.

  “Look,” said Bunny, opening her mouth wide. “He did a good job, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Zander. “I guess.”

  “It still hurts like crazy and my nose is still swollen.”

  Bunny shook out a few pills from a tiny canister.

  “What are those?”

  “Percocet. Thanks to you, I’ll be on pain pills for a few days.”

  “Bunny, this wasn’t my fault. You love to start shit with me and then put it back on me.”

  “You pushed me.”

  “You fell. And none of this would have happened if you hadn’t kneed me in the nuts.”

  “I’m sorry, Zan,” she whispered.

  “No, you’re not. Everybody and their mother keeps telling me to leave your crazy ass alone. And here I am.”

  Bunny walked over to Zan and kissed his neck softly.

  “Because you know I love you very much.”

  “That won’t mean anything when you get me locked up over some dumb shit.”

  Bunny backed away to look Zander in the eye.

  “I’m done, Zan. Tonight was really scary. I actually lost a tooth. I’m not gonna play around like that anymore. No more kneeing you in the groin, no more hitting you to see if you’ll hit me back. I swear, I’m done with all that.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” Zander said, trying not to be affected by how close Bunny was to him.

  “You can believe me,” said Bunny. “I would never lie to you.”

  Zander leaned in and kissed Bunny, feeling tiny explosions from his mouth to his feet. Within minutes, Bunny was naked before him, getting down on her knees, and slowly taking him into her mouth. She had been the first woman to give him a blow job and she still hadn’t been topped by anyone else.

  Zander came violently and collapsed onto the bed. She stood up and climbed into bed with him.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I can’t believe you did that with a busted mouth.”

  “I’m hopped up on drugs,” said Bunny. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

  Zander turned over to take Bunny into his arms. She fit perfectly.

  “You got me ready to go write a song or something,” Zander said.

  “Yeah, you better start writing something.”

  Zander leaned back.

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “I’m just saying. Your album is moving slow. It might be time to move on to the next album before Jake . . .”

  “Before Jake what?” Zander said. “He would never drop me from the label. We’re practically family.”

  “I just know he’s pissed at you for this tooth drama. And they spent a lot of money marketing and promoting your album. Just be on the lookout.”

  Zander held Bunny tighter and smelled the inside of her neck. He rolled her over on her back, spread her legs wide, and pushed inside her roughly. She pushed back and they rocked the bed until their bodies were half on and half off.

  Afterward, as he held Bunny in his arms, Zander thought about what his father said about treating Triumph and Disaster just the same. And he finally knew exactly which category Bunny fell into.

  It all started with the towels. Birdie had never been particular about what he used to dry himself off. If it was clean, or clean enough, he’d whisk it over his body after a shower and throw it in a hamper.

  But then, at a show in Miami, Birdie saw the production assistants grabbing dirty towels from a laundry bag, folding them, and then passing them off as clean towels in his dressing room to use after the show. If he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes, he would have never believed it. From then on, he asked Dylan if he could have white towels in his dressing room. At least then he might be able to see the dirt if they were used. Then came the soda. Whenever Birdie performed, he came off stage with the worst pain in his chest. It felt like he had a massive burp that just wouldn’t come up. A hit of an extremely icy Coke always helped him. Dylan started to make sure that as soon as he got off stage, she had one waiting for him.

  “What’s next, superstar,” said Travis, as he watched Birdie gulp down his postshow soda in Los Angeles.

  “Are you going to make Dylan take out all the blue M&Ms from the candy dish?”

  Birdie laughed.

  “A white towel and a soda! Is that too much to ask?”

  Travis and Daryl began to shuffle and bow down to Birdie.

  “Naw su
h, we just here to please you, superstah, suh.”

  They all laughed. But Birdie still felt uncomfortable. He did want certain things. There were certain hotels he didn’t want to stay in and certain tour bus companies that he didn’t like. Did that make him an obnoxious entertainer? Birdie decided he was still safely in the normal zone. Except when it came to women. They were getting harder and harder to resist.

  Birdie had been unfaithful to Alex in the past. There were a few one-offs when he was on bootleg college tours with other unsigned acts. He’d never felt guilty. It seemed like a natural part of a man’s life. As long as he wasn’t disrespectful and he didn’t get caught, he was always able to justify it in his mind. It wasn’t love. Nowhere near it. It was lust, pure and simple. He knew it was wrong. But he liked to pretend he wasn’t hurting Alex if she didn’t know.

  But the blow job from Cleo changed all of that. A year later, the intense shame was still there. And the pain in Alex’s eyes when she confronted him had never fully melted away. She forgave him. That much was clear. But he knew she hadn’t forgotten. And never would.

  He vowed, not just to Alex but himself, that once he said “I do,” that would be it. He’d be 100 percent faithful to Alex for the rest of their time together on Earth.

  So why’d he get the itch as soon as he went on tour? It was the distance, first of all. Alex was in New Jersey. There was (almost) no way she could find out if he did stray. And then, it was the sheer headiness of realizing that women actually wanted to have sex with him—with no strings attached. Travis, Daryl, and Corey were getting more ass than they could handle just from being affiliated with Birdie. And as the tour progressed, Birdie came to a sad conclusion. It was going to happen. He didn’t know when or with whom. But his resolve had weakened. He was now one of them: a predictable rap artist who couldn’t resist free pussy—especially on the road. He hadn’t given up entirely. But he knew the possibility was there.

  Years ago, slipping into something new and different was thrilling. The circumstances were always more exotic. A hotel shower instead of the same bedroom where he slept night after night; loud and rowdy sex, instead of the rushed, furtive, don’t-wake-the-baby episodes at home. And of course, there was always alcohol involved with groupie sex. Something that never happened at home.

  Although Birdie knew cheating with a groupie could be pleasurable, he’d avoided it throughout the Black Eyed Peas tour. There were girls everywhere, of every possible nationality. There were thick girls, thin girls, and straight-up fat girls. Girls with freckles and red hair, girls with blond hair and blue eyes, jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. Small breasts, oversized implants, firm butts, sloppy asses. Each city brought more girls backstage, until they began to blur into one Girl in Birdie’s eyes. They all had the same body language. I’m available. To you. Because you just performed before a sold-out crowd, and I want to be close to that.

  When word got around that Birdie didn’t mess with groupies, the women became even bolder.

  After a show in Brisbane, Birdie came backstage, peeled off his sweaty T-shirt, slipped into the clean one Dylan held out, and then went back to his dressing room. Daryl was already there with the promoter, who was peeling off bills from a huge roll of cash. The promoter had two people with him. And there were two women sitting together on the couch, speaking to each other in hushed tones.

  Birdie did hand slaps with his manager and then flopped into the closest chair and guzzled a bottle of ice cold soda. One knock and the door opened; Dylan peeked her head in and Birdie waved her over.

  “Just need you to sign these release forms,” Dylan said, handing over a clipboard. “And here’s the rest of your itinerary.”

  “When do we wrap up?”

  “Two more weeks. Then you’re home for a week. Then we go back out again.”

  Dylan moved her head closer to Birdie and whispered. “Who are the two girls?”

  “Don’t know,” Birdie said, stealing a glance in their direction. “Think they came with the promoter.”

  “Find out,” Dylan said. “You should never have anyone you don’t know up in your space.”

  Dylan walked to the door, raised an eyebrow, and then raised a pointer finger in warning.

  Birdie crossed the room to where the women sat. He saw the first girl turn around. Her face was round, pale, and plain. She was obviously the Friend. Which meant that the other chick was probably . . .

  “Hi, Birdie. I’m Cheka.”

  She was tall. Almost as tall as Birdie. And the first thing he noticed was that she wasn’t dressed like a groupie. No Lycra, cleavage or skin. She had on jeans. They were low rise but not too much. And she was wearing a plain, heather-gray henley with white Chuck Taylors and no socks. Birdie knew in that split second that he was going to have sex with her. The same way he knew he was going to have sex with Alex the night they met at the House of Blues. He pushed his guilt to the back of his mind and envisioned himself inside this woman. She would be on her stomach, he would be behind her, holding her up. She would arch her back—she looked like the back-arching type—and she would moan. Then, right before he came, she would . . .

  “Hi, Cheka. It’s nice to meet you,” Birdie said, trying to think of something to keep his dick from getting hard. “Are you with the promoter?”

  “He’s my brother,” said the woman. “I come along as protection.”

  Birdie laughed, but Cheka did not.

  “And you are,” Birdie asked, gesturing to her friend.

  “There’s no need to know my name,” the woman said, standing up. “I’m not the one you’re taking home tonight.”

  Birdie made a face.

  “Excuse me?”

  The friend turned to Cheka.

  “Enjoy,” she said, bending down to kiss Cheka on the cheek and then standing up straight again. “He looks delicious.”

  The friend left the room before Birdie could say anything else. He sat down next to Cheka.

  “What is she talking about?”

  “I came to the show at the very end. You had already performed.”

  “So you didn’t see my show.”

  “I saw you in London. But no, I didn’t see you tonight. I just brought the money straight from the bank for my brother.”

  Birdie nodded.

  “When you walked in, I told my friend that it was on.”

  Birdie laughed.

  “How did you know that?”

  “The same way you did.”

  Birdie glanced over at his manager. He was leading the promoter out of the dressing room. He looked back at Birdie, nodded once, and followed the promoter and his two assistants out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “How does your manager know I’m not a murderer?” the woman asked. “Why would he leave me alone with you?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “How long are we gonna do this back-and-forth talking thing?” Birdie asked.

  “Birdie, are you involved?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At home, in the States, are you involved with someone?”

  Birdie hesitated for only the briefest of seconds. He would never deny his wife to get some ass. That would be worse than cheating.

  “Yes, I am,” Birdie said. “I’m married.”

  Cheka stood up.

  “That’s too bad,” she said, pulling her purse onto her shoulder. “I don’t mess with married men. And I definitely saw myself being very naughty with you tonight.”

  Birdie felt himself straining against the zipper of his pants. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her nipples were clearly outlined in her shirt. Birdie stood up, held Cheka by the waist, and pushed her up against the wall of the dressing room.

  “Don’t worry about what I got at home,” Birdie said, slipping his hands inside the back of Cheka’s jeans. Cheka put her arms around Birdie’s shoulders and then pushed him back just enough to look him in the eye.

  “Here?” she asked. “I can�
��t even get a proper bed?”

  Birdie answered by unbuttoning her jeans, yanking them down to her ankles, turning her around, and bending her over the sofa.

  He was right. She was a back archer.

  The whole thing was over in ten minutes. Cheka scribbled her number on the back of an envelope and slipped out of the door. Birdie zipped up, went into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and then brushed his teeth. It almost felt like it never happened. An intense pang of guilt shot through him. Alex was at home. Worrying about him cheating. And he hadn’t been. Until today. He mentally folded up the guilt and placed it in the far recesses of his mind. Alex would never have to know. Never. And if she didn’t know, then it didn’t really happen.

  There were only two people in the room who could say they saw them talking together before the room cleared out. Cheka’s friend could call Life and Style. The promoter could tell his friends. Even if he and his manager started beefing and he ratted Birdie out in revenge, no one would be able to definitively say what happened in that room with Cheka. He could and would deny until he was six feet under.

  And yet Birdie still couldn’t sleep that night. In his hotel room, he stared at the ceiling for an hour, replaying the episode with Cheka. Except in his imagination, Alex was somehow watching the whole thing on television. She was at the house in Jersey. She had just put Tweet to bed. And she sat on the couch, turned on the television, and saw Birdie hitting Cheka from the back.

  Knowing that this was impossible did not help Birdie get to sleep. He forced himself to shut his eyes tight. They popped open again and he flopped onto his stomach. Then he rolled over to his back. He got up and looked for something to put him to sleep. The alcohol in the minibar was the only option. He washed down two Tylenol PMs with a mini bottle of vodka. Within minutes, his heart had stopped pounding and he felt at ease. Alex wouldn’t know. That’s all there was to it. She would not see him on television with Cheka. Birdie smiled at the silly thought. She’d never find out. And that was okay. Alex would never believe that having sex with Cheka did not change that one iota. She would think Cheka represented everything she wasn’t. And maybe she did. But that didn’t change the fact that Birdie believed Alex was perfect.