“How’s Zander?” Jake finally asked.
“Heartbroken. Pissed off. Hurt.”
Z looked his friend in the face.
“How could you do that to him?” Z asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about? Because I’m done with the whole thing.”
“No. I’m selling my stake in the label.”
“Where’d this come from?”
“It’s been coming for a while. I’m tired of this life. I see why Kipenzi wanted to retire. I thought she was crazy and that I would want to do this forever. But I don’t.”
“So why are you telling me?”
“I just wanted to tell all the artists on the label personally. Don’t want you to hear it in the press.”
Z nodded.
“I’m about to be put out to pasture myself,” said Z. “I think I got one or two albums left before I apply for Social Security.”
Jake tried to smile.
“Okay, so you’re bailing on the label and I’ll probably get dropped,” said Z.
“It doesn’t have to work out that way,” said Jake, his eyes focused somewhere on the wall behind where Z sat.
“But it will work out that way and that’s fine. I’m okay with that. Moving right along.”
“What else?” Jake asked, his eyebrows raised high.
“You know what else,” said Z. “Zander wants your head on a platter. And I don’t blame him.”
Jake just looked at Z blankly.
“Yo, that’s your nephew!” Z said when Jake didn’t speak up quickly enough.
“You think I don’t know that!” Jake said, standing up. “I know the shit was wrong. It happened once. Now it’s over.”
“It’s not over for my son.”
“He’ll get over it,” Jake said.
“I gotta go,” said Z. “I’ll get at you later.”
“What else is good with you, Yoga Boy?” Jake asked.
Z thought about what to say. There were a million things he would have talked about with Jake in another space and time. How deep his disappointment was for Jake, how much he wanted him to stop drinking, his crumbling relationship with Beth, the test results he was waiting for that could change his life . . .
“I’m good,” Z said.
Z left the building feeling empty. He knew his relationship with Jake, his lifelong friend, was changed forever. They’d always be cool. But as far as Z was concerned, Jake wasn’t the man he once was. Like most men, Z compartmentalized his feelings and never gave too much power to his emotions. He wasn’t going to bemoan the end of his friendship with Jake like some lovesick girl. But he had to admit—at least to himself—that it hurt.
Bunny did a thirty-day stay in rehab and called Zander from the car before she even got back home. He came out to the house in Connecticut immediately and stayed there for the weekend. They weren’t back together. But Zander couldn’t exactly walk away from her when she was so vulnerable. The plan was to help her get used to being sober and then move on.
And then he found out about Jake. And instead of wanting to kill her, he wanted to possess her. He wanted to prove to Jake that he could hold on to Bunny. When he confronted her about Jake and she melted into tears, Zander was satisfied.
He knew all the reasons why he stayed. The sex was good. He’d never been in love before. Her stubborn, dangerous side turned him on in ways he couldn’t explain. Zander was embarrassed by his love for Bunny. It was wholly consuming and without reservation. She could have slept with his father and he would have forgiven her. The relationship reminded him of his parents’. His mother had endured countless affairs and kept a stiff upper lip. Because Z always (eventually) came home to her. Zander had often ridiculed his mother for letting Z run all over her. And now, here he was, letting Bunny make a complete fool out of him.
Zander never actually said they were back together, but it was just understood. Bunny started coming by the hotel almost every night when she wasn’t performing. And Zander had started traveling with her again for out-of-town gigs. A few weeks after they reunited, Zander was in Los Angeles with Bunny for a show.
“Slow down,” Zander said, holding on tight to the door handle as Bunny sped down the Pacific Coast Highway.
“Relax,” Bunny said. She took one hand off the steering wheel and squeezed Zander’s leg.
“I’ll be relaxing in a graveyard if you don’t keep your eyes on the road.”
“After the show tonight, we should drive up to Napa Valley,” said Bunny. “It’ll be fun.”
“I need to get back to New York.”
“Forget about NewYork. Why are you in such a hurry to get back there?”
“Because that’s where I live.”
Bunny took her eyes off the road again and glanced at Zander.
“I’m moving, Zander,” Bunny said quietly. “And I want you to come with me.”
“Moving where?”
“Here. LA. We’re here all the time anyway.”
“I’m not moving,” Zander said, as he watched the highway soar by outside his window.
“Can you just think about it? I feel like we need a new beginning. You’re still living in a hotel, for God’s sake.”
“This is because of Jake. You want to start over because of him.”
Bunny kept her eyes on the road and gripped the wheel tight. Whenever Zander mentioned Jake, which was often, Bunny tensed up.
“You didn’t have to take me back,” said Bunny. “You could have dumped me and kept it moving.”
“Is that why you want to move to LA? To get away from Jake?”
“It’s all of that. It’s Jake. It’s your dad. It’s the label. I just want to shed all the bullshit. It’s summer. I’m clean. I’m sober. And I want to go into the new season with a fresh start.”
Zander wasn’t mad at the idea of a fresh start. But LA? What would he do out there? Follow behind Bunny like a lovesick puppy? He could always record in LA. But it didn’t feel the same as being in New York.
“I’ll think about it,” Zander said.
Bunny put her right hand on top of Zander’s and pushed on the gas. As soon as she passed a rest stop, the whirring lights of a police car came up fast behind them.
“Shit,” Zander said. “You see what I’m talking about?”
Bunny put her hand to her chest and tears welled up in her eyes.
“Zander, oh my God.”
“It’s not that deep. You’ll get a speeding ticket and keep it moving.”
Bunny faced forward, keeping her head stiff as she waited for the officer to approach.
“License and registration please,” said the officer.
Bunny reached over and popped open the glove compartment. She took out her registration and handed it over.
“License?”
Bunny turned to the back seat of the car and rooted around for her purse. Zander exhaled. She had so much stuff in the back seat of the rental that it looked like she lived in there. It was no wonder she couldn’t find her license.
“Here you go, officer,” said Bunny, her voice breaking.
“Are you okay, young lady?” the officer asked.
Zander had been wondering the same thing. Bunny was sweating bullets and her hands were shaking. Zander noticed her jaw was clenched tight too. And she looked like she was about to burst into tears. All this for a speeding ticket? Zander sighed.
“I’m . . . I’m fine, officer.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car,” the officer said. “Both of you.”
“Bunny, what the hell is wrong with you?” Zander whispered as he opened his car door.
In minutes, three squad cars had squealed up to where Zander and Bunny sat. The officers joined the first cop in searching the car thoroughly.
“Whose bag is this?” said one officer. He held up the Louis Vuitton bag Zander took on every trip as his carry-on.
“It’s mine,” said Zan
der.
“Does this bag belong to him?” the officer asked Bunny.
“Yes,” said Bunny, nodding.
The officer stepped to Zander.
“Please turn around.”
“What?!”
One of the officers turned the duffel bag over and dumped it out. On top of the underwear and tube socks was a small plastic baggie.
“Oxycotin, marijuana, heroin, ecstasy, Percocets, and a gram of coke.”
Zander’s jaw dropped and he turned to look at Bunny. She had her head down, her eyes on the ground.
“You’re under arrest,” said the office, clicking the handcuffs onto his wrists. “For possession of controlled dangerous substances.”
“That’s not mine,” Zander said.
“I know, son,” said the officer. “It’s your bag, but it’s not your drugs.”
“Ma’am, we’re transporting him to central booking,” the officer said to Bunny.
“His bail will be set by ten p.m. if you want to bail him out.”
Zander’s heart beat wildly in his chest. He’d had a chance. He’d had a chance to leave Bunny. To be rid of her forever. His father had told him to get rid of her. Uncle Jake had warned him. Even his little brother told him that she wasn’t to be trusted. But Zander went back every single time.
The first officer who arrived was the one who put his hand on Zander’s head and guided him into the car. A bright bulb flashed and Bunny ran back to the car so she couldn’t be seen.
The photographer got a shot of Bunny’s leg. But the real money shot was Zander, the R&B star, son of one the greatest rappers alive, with his head just visible above the car window. It was a crystal-clear shot and Zander knew with no uncertainty that those pictures would be published before he could even make it to the station.
As the police car began to cruise down the highway, the car approached Bunny’s car. Bunny was talking to another officer and nodding her head slowly. The cop driving Zander slowed down to talk to the officer standing next to Bunny’s car. Zander and Bunny could see each other clearly.
Bunny opened her mouth to speak. But she only mouthed a few words.
I’m so sorry.
Before he could even process what she said, Bunny was gone, driving down the Pacific Coast Highway without him.
At the station, a throng of photographers waited and the officer who arrested him put a jacket over his head and slipped him in through a side door.
“Thanks,” Zander said.
“No problem,” said the officer. “Have a seat.”
They started to process Zander and he felt numb. All he could think about was what exactly happened in that car. He played everything in slow motion from the moment they got pulled over.
Bunny had been a nervous wreck and Zander didn’t know why. She went into her glove compartment and got her registration. She reached back into the back seat to get her bag . . .
It all finally dawned on him. Zander shook his head and smiled. She’d taken her baggie out of her own bag and put it in his. It had only taken her three seconds while she was pretending to root around for her purse.
Zander instantly thought of Marion Barry. Years before Zander was born, Marion Barry, the mayor of Washington DC, had been caught smoking crack in a hotel room with a prostitute. The grainy video had an image of the man running down a hallway, pipe in hand, screaming, “That bitch set me up!”
Jake and Z had shown the video to Zander when he got older and the three of them would fall out laughing every time they got to the part when he shouted out, “That bitch set me up!”
Sometimes, for no good reason, they would say it at odd times for laughs. Like in a bathroom stall at a restaurant or while waiting on a ride at an adventure park. It got old quickly, but they never stopped doing it.
Zander shook off the memories as the officer pulled him up by the arm and led him to a cell.
Zander surveyed the other guys in the cell, figured out the hierarchy, and took his place on the floor in a corner. He fixed his face tight. His mind instantly went back to something his father told him in Jake’s apartment.
If she’ll do this. She’ll do anything.
Birdie put one hand on his forehead and tried to explain himself one more time.
“I know my wife hired you to decorate the tree,” said Birdie. “But Christmas is still six months away.”
Leslie flittered around the living room, throwing white tinsel on a twenty-foot tree in the corner of his living room.
“Your wife paid in advance for my services, Mr. Washington. And she had strict instructions. She wanted a full dress rehearsal for Christmas in summer. And then, no matter what, she wanted the tree up before Thanksgiving.”
Birdie slumped on the sofa and threw his head back.
“That’s because she thought we would be spending the holidays together,” said Birdie, his eyes closed.
“I’m just following orders,” said the designer, setting up a ladder to get up to the top of the tree to place the star.
“Look at that,” said Leslie, from the top of the ladder. “I must say, I do good work.”
Birdie opened his eyes.
“It’s . . .”
Leslie came down the ladder and looked over at Birdie.
“You like?”
Birdie’s eyes wandered up to the top of the tree. Every single ornament was white. It looked as if there had been a massive snowstorm right there in his living room.
“It’s . . . interesting.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow to dismantle it. I need to take pictures first and make sure everything is in place. Live with it for a night. Let it marinate. Tell me if you want any changes in the morning.”
Leslie packed up and left Birdie alone in the house with the tree. Birdie felt like it was mocking him and letting him know just how lonely he would be when the holidays finally did roll around. It was easy to be single in the summer. It was warm outside and he hung out at the pool in his backyard all day. But who was he going to celebrate Christmas with? His parents would be in the Caribbean, where they went every year. His siblings were scattered throughout the country. And he was married. He was supposed to be with his wife and daughter. Alex was still in Brooklyn and it didn’t seem likely that she would magically forgive him and come back before Christmas. Birdie shuffled up the stairs and went into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. No matter how melancholy he was feeling, he had to get to work.
Birdie was antsy. The studio was the one place where he always felt at peace. But this time it wasn’t happening. In fact, nothing was happening. He’d come into the studio with all kinds of ideas for songs he wanted to write. But now that he was in the booth and the engineer was playing the beats, nothing was coming out.
“Turn up the beat again,” said Birdie. He flipped his notebook to a fresh page. He tapped his feet and nodded his head with his eyes closed. The beat was fast-paced, he’d have to rhyme twice as fast as he usually did to catch it. But what to rhyme about: His wife leaving him? Not seeing his daughter in weeks because Jen was bugging out? The all-white Christmas tree the interior designer had just trimmed? The checks getting larger and larger with the more albums his debut sold? None of that felt right. It was the first time in his life that what he was experiencing in the real world didn’t feel like it would make a decent record.
Birdie saw Travis, Daryl, and Corey through the glass and waved them in.
“Let’s hear some new shit, superstar,” said Travis, rolling a thick blunt packed with weed.
“There is no new shit,” said Birdie. “I’m blocked.”
Travis clapped him hard on the back.
“There’s no room for being blocked,” he said. “You’ve got one album under your belt. You can’t wait to get started on the next one. And then the one after that . . .”
“Thanks,” Birdie said, rolling his eyes. “That’s exactly what I need to hear right now.”
“This happens all the time on that second album,” s
aid Corey, taking a drag on the blunt. “You don’t have the same hunger you had the first time around. And don’t forget, you worked on the first album for years. A lot of time to get your material together.”
Corey leaned over to pass the blunt to Daryl, skipping Birdie, who didn’t smoke when he was working.
“Let me hit that,” Birdie said suddenly.
Travis and Daryl exchanged a glance. Corey shrugged and passed it over. As soon as he inhaled, Birdie’s eyes dropped to slits and he felt a warm tingling sensation spread out from his lungs to his hands and feet.
“I gotta get my wife back,” Birdie said, his words slurred.
The guys exchanged another look.
“I don’t see that happening,” said Travis.
“I don’t see me finishing this album if it doesn’t happen.”
“Since when you need a woman to write rhymes?”
Birdie shrugged.
“Besides y’all, Alex is really the only person that’s been down since day one. With her out of the picture, it just feels weird. I don’t need her to write rhymes. But the fact that she’s gone feels like a sign that I’m off track. Next thing you know, the four of us we’ll be going our separate ways.”
Travis blinked.
“You just need a break, superstar. Take some time off and it’ll come back to you.”
The blunt came back around to Birdie and he inhaled again. He closed his eyes to steady himself and not end up falling over onto the floor.
“You better take it easy, Birdie . . .”
“I’m good,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
Travis leaned over the mixing board with a notebook in hand.
“I wrote a rhyme about all the women we met on tour. Something light. Maybe you can build off this and add on to it.”
Birdie tried to focus on the writing on the paper. He read it through twice. It was good. Better than anything he’d been able to come up with in weeks.
“This could help,” Birdie said, holding on to the notebook. “Thanks.”
Birdie stood up and threw his headphones on the mixing board. He packed up his knapsack and headed toward the door.
“I still feel like I need something to happen in order to write,” said Birdie. “My life is stale right now. I’ve never been into lyrics that talk about how much money I got or the cars I drive or any of that.”
Diamond Life Page 29
