“He seems nice.”
“Hang out with us tonight. I really want you to like him.”
“Okay, but Erica, I got to go somewhere and change. I feel hopeless dressed like this.”
She insisted we jump in a cab even though she lived only a few blocks away from the hotel. When we walked through her front door, I saw how she could afford to splurge. A white carpet as pristine as fresh-fallen snow lined the four-bedroom apartment under ceilings twelve feet high. The windows in some rooms went from the floor all the way up, the views not fantastic but still impressive enough with their corner panorama of Manhattan. One wall in the living room was completely covered by a shelf unit with a 36-inch-screen television, DVD player, stereo plus sleek Sanyo machines I couldn’t even identify. The pictures on the walls weren’t prints. They were original paintings, chosen carefully to go with tables and chairs in blond wood and the gigantic white sofa. The second bathroom leading off Erica’s walk-in closet held her only ego wall. Here she kept her double-platinum award for “Late Night Promises” and a poster for her first big concert in New York.
“You’ve arrived,” I gasped.
“You like all this?”
“It’s…a grown-up’s place,” I joked.
She laughed, knowing what I meant. I had spent so many summer hours with her in Erica’s room in her old family house, listening to music, trying on clothes and simply talking. When this holiday was over, I was going back to New Haven, Connecticut, to a dorm room or an apartment with roommates off campus. And here was Erica, done already with a twenty-something’s rite of passage as far as apartments go. No more roach-trap dives with a suitcase to rest your TV and pots and pans borrowed from Mom.
“You’re rich,” I said.
“No, not yet. But I’m doing okay. We better get you changed so we can get back.”
She led me into the second bedroom and showed me the en suite bathroom I’d have all to myself. I hurried to open my bag and find the couple of dressy ensembles I’d brought along for nights on the town.
“Mish?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think sex changes when you get a lot of money?”
I had to laugh. “You’re asking me? You’re the one with the cash! You tell me how it is.”
“Hey, I told you I really don’t have a lot of money,” she explained. “I bought this place, and that’s got to be it for a while. I’ll have to work my ass off to hang on to it, you can be sure of that. No, seriously.” She bit her bottom lip and steered us back to the issue on her mind. “You think if you’d got a lot of money, you’d be different with someone?”
I settled on a silk blouse with a leather mini. I could have slipped into my one cocktail dress, but instinct told me that hanging with Erica would mean other chances to impress. Next party I’ll make an entrance, I promised myself.
“Different how?” I asked her. “You mean you’d be actually different in bed?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, and I watched her struggle to put it into words. “Maybe when you can have everything, you think you should…”
I know what you’re thinking as you read this. Those guys she fucked during breaks in performances, the guys she picked up before and after concerts in all the cities along a tour. But success didn’t give Erica Jones a healthy sexual appetite—it was already a part of her.
“What are you trying to say, sweetie?” I prompted, laughing. “You think you’ll come louder on satin sheets instead of plain cotton whites?”
She slapped my arm playfully. “I have got to stop telling you shit. You’re terrible.”
“Hey, I don’t understand, that’s all. This is pretty insecure for you.”
She shrugged, sitting down on the little bench where she could try on a dozen or so shoes. “I know. Remember I told you how I hear the music in my head? I mean, it must be like that for you with writing, isn’t it? You get words or notes or whatever, but you’re happiest when you’re putting it together.”
“Yeah…?” I didn’t know where she was going.
“When you make love, don’t you feel like you’re creating something?” she asked me innocently. “I don’t mean babies, I mean…You’re in the moment, and you want to make music physically. I don’t know how to say it, Mish. I think when it comes down to it, we’re all just ultimately alone.”
“This is good,” I joked, “you’re in the mood for a party, sure.”
“No, no, I’m not depressed, I’m fine,” she told me. “I’m just making a point. You’re with a guy, and no matter how tender he tries to be or, hell, when he’s just giving it to you, and it’s ummmph, good, you’re still so inside yourself when you come. Just once, I want to find a guy who makes me want to write out a chart after he makes my toes curl.”
“You’re talking about love,” I said somewhat dismissively. “You’re only dressing it up in different words.”
“No, it’s not just love,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, it is, but…Look, I know creative people are selfish. You have to claw and fight your way to steal somebody’s time to listen to your demos, and that means somebody else loses, and you miss dates and friends’ birthdays because you’re trying to get there. You’re climbing and climbing, and you think just a little bit further. So now I’m almost there, and…”
I thought I understood. She wasn’t worried about being alone at the top. She was worried that this was who she was. This is what she did. She made music. She would go on making music, and any man who wanted to be with her had better accommodate her. Erica Jones, force of nature. And how did she get the man who would make her happy? Of course, she had the regular concerns—finding a guy who wouldn’t be a submissive doormat but not a control freak either, one who let her breathe. She knew already you could have great sex without love, but she was beginning to wonder if she could find a great muse, and what’s love got to do with it?
All I could think was: you need a good woman, darling.
Parties. You never notice how the steady arrival of people increases the pitch of everything. The music, the air, the reflexive increase in the stereo volume, even the crash of the ice as the bartenders fix a new drink. That afternoon in the hotel, I had been in my jeans and tank top, and now I was here again, looking around in a tan silk blouse and a short black skirt, and I heard voices layered over each other. I found Erica in the room with the billiard tables and the pinball machines, her arm wrapped around Sheila Tammany of the group Black Canaries, both of them singing along melodramatically to “I Have Nothing” from The Bodyguard. Erica was hilarious as she parroted each one of Whitney Houston’s gestures: Stay in my arms if you daaaaaare, or must I im-ahhh-gine you there…
We burst out laughing when Steven made his entrance. He was carried like Whitney in Kevin Costner’s arms, only the arms holding him in this case belonged to a tall muscular black guy. As Steven got down, he introduced his “rescuer” as Odell, the lead dancer for his upcoming concert tour. He had a dark complexion and his head was shaved, which helped deflect attention away from how long his face was, but it was a nice face. He was reasonably handsome. You could see he had a dancer’s vanity, standing in a way that showed off his arms and chest. Sheila was suitably impressed. Erica was polite, having met him before. Odell made me a bit self-conscious, focussing all his attention on me. I felt distinctly set up.
“Steven’s heavier than he looks,” said Odell. “Now you…You’re so petite, I’ll bet I could lift you over my head like a feather.”
“Bet you can’t,” Erica put in quickly.
I gave her a look: Don’t encourage him.
“I believe you,” I told Odell.
“No, you don’t,” he said with a grin. “Come on, I’ll bet you were a dancer in school, too, weren’t you?”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“She was a singer,” Erica volunteered.
My eyes were pleading: Will you stop. Erica mischievously shook her head: Nope.
As he gripped me by my
hips, I sprang off the balls of my feet so that I wasn’t deadweight for him. He lifted me high in the air, and my squeal was lost in the cheers of the others below. As he brought me back to earth, I had to slither down his chest, staring into his eyes.
“Told ya,” he said, as if it were me who had contradicted him.
I said I needed a drink after my “latest flight,” and he rushed off to fetch me one, saying don’t go anywhere. Erica linked her arm through mine and led me away, assuring me Odell would find us no matter where we were on the floor. “Didn’t think you’d go for a guy like that,” she teased, “but he’ll be good for warm-up action. I’ll find you a better one, I promise.”
“He seems nice,” I said. “Comes on too strong, but…”
“You can do better. Odell’s the kind of guy who if you’re doing it in front of a mirror, the man’s watching himself. Oh, shit, there’s Easy. I better go do some baby-sitting before we have a real scene on our hands…”
She was off. I didn’t know all the politics of their relationship yet, not then. When Easy Carson had arrived with Erica, I had watched his baby face light up for a couple of friends then shyly look away as he lumbered in. He and Steven Swann gave each other the barest of nods. Spotting Luther, I drifted over to him to ask what the friction was all about.
“Carson thinks that Brown Skin Beats wants to lure Erica away from Easy Roller Records,” explained Luther. “And he’s right.”
“He is?”
“Mmm-hmm. Carson only signs his artists to two-album deals. His ‘short leash’ policy has meant that his rappers, his singers, his producers all got to worry about job security. But it’s a double-edged sword. He’s never had a star break into the top ten before. The distributors aren’t going to love him—they think it was pure luck he found Erica. They don’t want to buy in with him, and that means he can’t throw cash and goodies at Erica to keep her happy.”
“Erica cares about other things besides money.”
He wore this look of patience on his face as if I were hopelessly naïve. “All right. I’ll put it another way. Forget the perks and the trinkets, Easy doesn’t have the cash to back her as a star. To keep her on top, he’s going to need to spread around the green for the image consultants, the producers, the tour machinery, all of it. Easy thinks if he just hangs on to her, he’ll get the investment somehow, and he’s jealously guarding his stake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Steven offered to sing backing vocals on ‘Pariah’—title track of the second album. That little cameo alone can shoot an artist into the top twenty or thirty on the charts. Keep in mind, all this was being talked about a while ago—nobody could be sure how well ‘Late Night Promises’ would do. Easy gave Steven a flat no. Didn’t matter his voice would be perfect for the track, or it would help Erica, or even that she wanted him on it, Easy interprets the help as the label wanting to swoop in. And he doesn’t want to owe Brown Skin Beats any favours.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“Not at all. Steven sang the vocals anyway.”
I looked at him and burst out laughing. “How…?”
“I produced that song,” said Luther. “Maybe Carson’s bullshit works on other people, but I’m not going to have that asshole march into a studio and tell me how to put together a track.”
“Won’t he recognise…?”
“Uh-uh. I told him I’d get a sound-alike session vocalist. No contract involved, nothing legal, and I have sign-off authority under my contract for how the job’s done. This is all about publicity anyway. The label execs can act coy when they’re asked, and when the time is right, they’ll confirm it. There’s not much Easy can do now anyway. He went ahead and released the single, and there’s how many thousand units pressed and hitting the stores on Monday…? Tough luck, sucker. He’ll look like a fool if he wants it remixed for the album.”
Someone dimmed the lights, and the towers beyond the dark expanse of Central Park shone through the windows. Then the stereo cut out, and there was the unmistakable squelch and ooooooo of a microphone turned on for an amplifier. I hadn’t even noticed the DJ’s board and gear being set up in a corner. Luther and I politely turned to see our host’s entertainment.
Steven had everyone’s attention, Erica already hovering like a presidential wife off to the side. I noticed he’d changed, too. No more T-shirt with ripped sleeves, patched jeans and Nikes, now he was in what looked like Jean Paul Gaultier stuff, neon purple tie over crisp and very loud button-down purple shirt, a diamond ankh pin glinting in his lapel. Erica’s pretty white boy was a hell of an actor. Because I watched him walk like a panther in that suit over to whisper something in his bodyguard’s ear. A pat on the fellow’s arm, a nod that said: Get it done. Steven the boss. Then, as he picked up the microphone and began to speak, he fell right back into the nineteen-year-old’s head bob and tug at the collar, as if this was the teen dream’s first necktie.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Steven.” Nervous eyes down. You could almost hear him counting the pause—two, three, four, look up. “Hope everyone’s having a good time. And thanks for coming out to celebrate my second birthday of this year.” Laughs and applause, a couple of hooting whistles. “We thought since you’re all here, we’d make you our ‘victim test market.’ We’re releasing two versions of the ‘Skankin’ Around’ video next week, and we thought we’d show you the, uh, director’s cut.”
The tuxedo and designer dress crowd gave out a big frat-boy cheer. “Whaaaa-heyyyyyyy!”
Steven coyly protested his innocence. “Don’t y’all be like that! I’m a decent guy. Ahem. Anyway, there are two versions. And we’re going to play the hot one for you tonight. A special video that’s only going to show in the clubs. Now I know you guys didn’t come out here to watch a screen. So I thought if I asked our choreographer, Luba Kauffmann, very nicely—naw, shit, I begged her—to round up some of the dancers, they could give us a live demonstration tonight!”
And the howling and clapping became thunderous.
“Give it up for Luba, people!” shouted Steven, pointing to a small skinny woman in black slacks and a zipped-up leather jacket. “She’s worked with and learned from the hottest ones in her trade, man—Marty Kudelka, Travis Payne. Send her some love, folks!”
Polite enthusiastic cheer for Luba, and you could just make out Steven shouting to kill the overheads. One of those enormous television projection screens for lectures came down, while all at once we saw a row of scantily clad dancers posed in the glow of red and blue spotlights. Boom, bidda-boom-boom, boom-bidda-bidda-bidda as the percussion for Steven’s new single roared out of the speakers, and the dancers snapped into action. If I had to describe Luba Kauffmann’s style of choreography, it had those impossible athletic moves that Justin Timberlake used in “Like I Love You,” only more sexed up, far more suggestive—
Steven was on the projector screen, nude on a king-size mattress with a brass rail headboard, fan blades spinning lazily overhead for the shot down as he sang out his angst. And, yes, a woman’s head obscuring his privates as she mimed fellatio. Clever boy that he was, he didn’t divide the attention of his audience, singing live in the shadows while people took in the raunchy image of him on the screen.
You’re just skankin’ around—
Image upon image upon image, no attempt at narrative, the director doing a couple of tribute shots to Madonna’s “Express Yourself” with guys wrestling in a downpour and Steven walking over to a blonde girl bathed in blinding white light on luminescent sheets. And then no-name actors were penetrating the girls in quite graphic displays. Back to Steven, walking away from the camera nude, girls in the audience squealing over his little ass as he went into a washroom and acted out shaving.
On the beat, the female dancers tore away crotch patches on their male partners—doing a Super Bowl Janet. Every one of the guys a hung horse. Back to the main theme as our live Steven marched into view at last only five feet from the impromptu circle of gue
sts, his necktie gone, shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Just skankin’ around… And I have to admit there was something sexy about that white, immature flat chest with low pecs, his physique almost androgynous.
People couldn’t believe the spectacle. They stared open-mouthed. The girl dancers were shedding more clothes until they were completely naked, and the guys mimed stroking their pussies. On the screen, we were already into soft-core territory. Steven danced out of the spotlight, now in shadows but still identifiable as the naked dancers moved from the Timberlake staccato poses to more fluid, almost Spanish-style movements, bodies dipping and arching, writhing and breaking apart only to come together again.
It was a club video, so I knew it was going to go on this way for about ten minutes.
I took a walk.
I found a small area that looked like a “green room” with a couple of plush chairs and a television. This one was set up with a multiple DVD player, and there was a bookshelf stacked with videos and movie boxes instead of bound volumes. I found the remote and clicked on a video of Mya doing her little striptease and tap dance show.
I hope—you have—an appetiiiiiiite, she sang. So baby, will you come and spend the night!
Odell found me.
“If you’re the lead dancer for the tour, why aren’t you out there?” I asked.
“That one’s a little too rude for me,” he said. “I get to do a much more toned-down version when we hit the road.”
I smiled. “Lucky you.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Thinking,” I answered.
“Oh? ’Bout what?”
“How Brown Skin Beats and Steven wasted good money. Because that video director doesn’t have a clue what sexy is.” I pointed the remote at Mya on the screen. “This—this is sexy. There are some classic videos that are sexy as hell, and they beat anything going on out there.”
Odell came over and sat down on the arm of the chair. “Well, a few in the crowd seem to agree with you. Luther split.”
Soul Siren Page 9
