Price of Fame

by Amaleka McCall

  Casey looked at all of the designer dresses that had been sent to her for her appearance at the awards show. Designers treated the event just as importantly as the Hollywood-style awards shows, hoping that the biggest porn stars chose their outfits to wear for the night. Casey had never really been into fashion. She usually let Dominique pick out her outfits. Lately, it had been Jordan who dressed her. She slumped down on the bed and put her fist up to her cheek. Where was Diamond when she needed her?

  Jordan had told Casey that Dominique was away filming, but Casey hadn’t seen her in weeks. Whenever she wasn’t too blitzed to walk after a party or some appearance, Casey would check Dominique’s bedroom for her and it was always empty. Casey decided to call Dominique’s cell phone to invite her friend to the AVNs just in case she won. Casey dialed Dominique’s number but it was disconnected. Casey didn’t understand how this came to be, since Jordan paid for their phone service. She threw her cell phone on the bed and promised that she would make Jordan find Diamond for this special event. It would be Casey’s first time in Las Vegas and she couldn’t go without Diamond.

  “Casey! You ready to go?” Jordan called out. Casey came out of the bedroom half dressed, giggling and walking seductively.

  “What the fuck you doin’?” Jordan barked, looking her up and down.

  “I’m not going until Diamond gets here,” Casey slurred, a stupid, lazy grin on her face.

  “I told you Diamond is filming, so let’s go!” Jordan barked.

  “I’m not going without Diamond,” Casey insisted, the pills she had swallowed fifteen minutes earlier giving her courage. Jordan’s eyes hooded over and he grabbed his bottle of Mylanta and took a swig.

  “I’m not fuckin’ around . . . Let’s go,” he growled, the white ring from the medicine on his top lip making him look like an evil version of a “Got Milk?” ad. Casey busted out laughing.

  “Or else what?” she teased, lifting an unsteady finger to wipe his lip. Jordan rushed into her with the might of a bulldozer, backing her up against the wall. He grabbed her neck and squeezed, fire flashing in his eyes.

  “You will get ready now. You won’t fuck this up for me,” he huffed like a crazed madman. He released a gagging Casey before he could leave rings on her neck. She held onto her neck and raced into the bedroom, tears streaming down her face.

  “Diamond where are you?” Casey croaked in despair.

  Dominique walked up and down Sepulveda Boulevard barely able to attract a five-dollar trick. She sauntered like she still had that umph to make a cool G in one night. Dominique hadn’t really taken a good look at herself lately. She had aged ten years in her face and the few clothes she had hung off her skinny frame like oversized rags. She dipped and dodged, careful to make sure none of the ruthless Boulevard pimps spotted her infringing on their tracks. Dominique refused to get involved with another pimp. Every day she told herself she was just trying to get up enough money to make it back to New York. Dominique had decided that L.A. wasn’t for her and she had already paid a steep price for her fifteen minutes of fame. She hadn’t saved up her plane fare yet, but she usually made just enough to cop her drugs.

  A car finally pulled up. Flashing an ashy-lip smile, she jumped in. “Whatchu want, fuck or suck?” she said dryly. The old white man signed and pointed to his crotch. “Ain’t this about a bitch. This muthafucka is deaf!” Dominique growled, lowering her head into his lap.

  After a few hours out on the track, exhausted and damn near broke, Dominique went back to Carissa’s house where she had been holed up for weeks. When she got inside, Carissa was sitting on the couch smoking her crack-laced blunt. That was the difference between them–Carissa liked the upper and downer effect of the weed and rock cocaine mixture, and Dominique got hers right from the pipe. These days she left the expensive-ass heroin alone.

  “What’s up, girl?” Carissa asked. “You look like shit,” she commented.

  “Well, I’m not in a bed fuckin’ for the cameras no more,” Dominique grumbled, referring to the fact that Carissa was still allowed to work at Sunshine Productions even though she had a habit too.

  “Hey, I saw that your friends are going to be at the AVN awards in Vegas,” Carissa told her.

  “I could give a fuck less,” Dominique spat, rolling her eyes and frantically fishing around in her purse for her stem. She needed to get her mind right.

  “I hear you, but maybe now you can go get the rest of your shit since crazy man ain’t gonna be there,” Carissa reminded her. Dominique had bragged about her fur coat, diamond bracelets and hundreds of shoes. Judging from the way Dominique looked, Carissa just thought Dominique was delusional over the little bit of fame she got while working with Casey.

  Carissa’ s words took a minute to process. Through the haze of the smoke cloud that surrounded her face, a light bulb went off in Dominique’s head. She still had a key to the condo. Unless Jordan had changed the locks, she could get in and out with her stuff in no time. Dominique blew out her last bit of smoke, her heart racing and palms sweaty with anticipation. “Come with me and I’ll make it worth your while,” Dominique said as she reached for her purse.

  When Dominique fit the key into the condo’s front door and heard it click, her heart skipped a beat. She raced inside like a cat burglar with Carissa on her heels.

  “Go in that room and get some of those clothes and shoes out the closet,” Dominique instructed, her hands trembling like a real fiend. When Carissa was out of sight, Dominique ducked into Jordan’s closet. She prayed silently that the safe was still there. She maneuvered her skinny body around all of the new designer threads Jordan and Casey had collected in her absence.

  “Fuckin’ traitors,” she mumbled. She twisted the combo wheel like a careful jewel thief, and when the safe popped open, so did her eyes. Dominique felt a little trickle of urine wet her underwear in her excitement. “Bingo, hot damn,” she sang to herself.

  She contemplated leaving a few dollars and some jewelry behind, but memories of how dirty Jordan had done her left Dominique without a conscience.

  “Muthafucka, you shoulda changed the locks,” Dominique giggled as she stuffed the rubber-banded stacks of money, both guns, a box of ammunition, a diamond bracelet, a Breitling and a stack of Treasury bills into a tote bag stolen from Casey’s closet.

  Smiling from ear to ear, Dominique called out to Carissa who was still raiding Dominique’s clothing and accessories.

  “C’mon, girl, let’s go,” Dominique said. Carissa had the chinchilla draped over her back as she dragged a bag full of newfound treasures.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Revenge

  Brice sat outside of Jordan’s mother’s house in Harlem every day after he received the information from Casey. He had watched the door like a crazed stalker, not really sure what he would do if he saw Jordan with his sister. Jordan had never shown up, and when Brice finally knocked on the door and encountered Trina King, he realized why her son was probably so fucked up.

  Today, Brice sat nursing a drink inside of the crowded Sugar Hill restaurant/club on Dekalb Avenue waiting for the dude to show up. Brice had all of the information he needed on Jordan Bleu, thanks to Casey and Dominique. He had looked at his sister’s naked test shots over and over again. The thought of her being touched by a man made him grind his teeth almost to crumbs. Brice studied the addresses where Ciara might be holed up. He had mapped out a few routes in and out–side streets, determined whether there was high traffic, what the night life was like. He played out in his mind the scenarios of when he met Jordan face to face. Brice knew he only had one shot at this and he planned on walking away with his sister healthy and alive. During their meeting, each time Casey and Dominique told him another story about Jordan, Brice saw himself adding one more bullet to Jordan’s dome.

  Brice wanted this plate of revenge to be served ice fucking cold, just he and Jordan’s punk-bitch ass. No cops, no gangstas, nothing but the two of them like cowboys at high noon. Brice tri
ed to be patient searching for his sister, but the legal way wasn’t fast enough. He could’ve given the information to the crackpot missing persons detectives but he knew they would just tarnish his sister’s reputation even further and make them think she was some kind of street slut runaway. In his assessment, justice didn’t exist for his people–not even for a cop’s sister. Brice immediately took to the streets to find some of his old cohorts so he could get his hands on a gun and bulletproof vest, since he’d had his taken away when he was suspended. Brice had officially said “fuck the police!” Doing shit the right way wouldn’t save his sister from an uncertain future.

  Casey had told Brice that Jordan was probably still right there in New York, hiding out with Ciara. She told him that Jordan’s primary method of making money was putting young girls on the streets. His other avenue of income was the porn industry. Brice cringed thinking about his sister involved in either activity. He would fucking kill Jordan with his own hands when he found him. What difference did it make now? His reputation had already been tarnished in the department.

  Brice hadn’t gotten much sleep, nor had he eaten a decent meal in the last few days. He had lost everything that meant something to him. He couldn’t help but feel like he deserved it for what he had done to Earl. In the end, it had been a hefty price to pay to protect his dirty past. Listening to Casey and Dominique speak about their struggles had done something to him inside. He realized how much he had taken away from his rape victim’s life. Brice could picture her contorted face, smell the boys’body fluids on her, feel the resistance of her body saying no. He threw his head back and took a swig of his Hennessy.

  “B-Boy, my nig, is that you?” Brice heard the familiar voice from behind and felt a pat on his shoulder. He turned around slowly.

  “Pop! My old dude. What’s good man?” Brice said, exchanging a hand slap and shoulder bump with the man. Pop was one of the street dudes Brice and Earl had grown up with. While Pop and Brice were not as close as he and Earl, Pop was around enough when they were younger to get into several mischievous capers with them. Unlike Earl, Pop was always a smooth dude. Even as a kid, he did his dirt on the low-making all the parents in the neighborhood refer to him as the “good one.” Pop wasn’t into the fifteen-minutes-of-fame thing. He didn’t commit blatant and brash crimes like Earl did. Pop was more of a behind-the-scenes type of dude. Pop had made his living on the streets but had turned his dirty money into legitimate investments. Pop also didn’t know until Earl’s funeral that his old friend B-Boy was a cop. Although he knew the story surrounding Earl’s death, it had been spun that Earl had tried to mirk Brice. Pop knew that Earl could be a wild boy, but even though he was skeptical of all cops, he didn’t hold Brice responsible for Earl’s death. Pop figured one day he’d have to call in a favor. It just so happened that right now, the tables were turned.

  “I’m chillin’ , man. I saw the news. That shit is crazy,” Pop said, offering his sympathy.

  “I got some information. I might know where she is holed up,” Brice told him, leaning in so no one else could hear over the blaring music.

  “A’ight, so whatchu need, my dude?” Pop asked. Brice laid it out for him. He needed some heavy artillery and some body armor. Brice wasn’t trying to use his own personal off-duty weapon for this job.

  “You need some back up?” Pop asked. “Because from the sound of it, you planning to go Rambo on a niggah,” Pop commented.

  “Nah, this is my fight. I’m not hiding behind a gun and shield. I’m taking it back to the streets. This muthafucka is as good as dead, Brice said, holding his glass so tight his knuckles paled.

  “I feel you, my nig. Real talk, I hope all goes well with your sister and shit. Meet me tomorrow down Broadway and Halsey. I gotchu,” Pop assured him. Brice was grateful that he could rely on his old friend for help.

  “Yo, let me get a round of Hen . . . one for me and one for my manz,” Brice told the bartender. Pop pulled up a seat next to Brice. They had a bit of catching up to do.

  Brice had turned his back on the one place that had his back–the streets. But right now, that was the only thing he could rely upon. The NYPD certainly was not looking out for his best interests.

  Alton watched as the little girl undressed, her little flowerbud breasts making him sweat. He closed his eyes and prayed over and over again. “Our father, who art in heaven. . . .” He had to ask God’s forgiveness for his sins. Things had gone over the top. The sensations and urges just wouldn’t go away. The thoughts had kept him up all night. They had made him angry and ashamed. As always, Alton took it out on his wife. He didn’t know how to tell her that he had a sickness. He had never told anyone how he had molested his own sister as a child and that his overly religious parents had hidden it and made the subject taboo in their home.

  Alton had decided to just try it with a girl, since adult women didn’t satisfy his insatiable urges. He told himself, Just this once. He was really afraid because at church on Sundays he was surrounded by them. Hundreds of beautiful little teenage girls that he constantly fantasized about. Alton was afraid if he didn’t get it out of his system, he’d have the urge to touch one of them again.

  He had found this guy online. When he met up with him to pay him for the girl, Alton immediately became spooked because the man’s face was battered and bandaged. The man took the money and turned over the girl. Alton brought her into the cellar of the church through the back. He could not take a chance with going to any hotel. He was too famous for that. The little girl barely spoke English, so it was more hand motions than verbal communication. Alton wanted to play his new movies while he did the act. He clicked on the computer as the girl touched his body. When he put on Denver’s old movie, he was immediately turned on . . . until his wife’s face came on the screen.

  Alton had told Dominique that he would be doing his sick and shut-in visits all day. She decided that it would be a good time to go to the church office where he kept all of their financial paperwork. Dominique wanted to leave. After the last beating, she had decided that, like Mama Grady said, “evil is evil,” and Dominique had had enough. Although to her knowledge there was no one at the church, she was so conditioned to sneak and be wary of Alton, that she crept like a mouse through the church’s hallways. Dominique had lifted Alton’s spare keys. Just as she passed the door to his office, she heard the moaning. Startled, Dominique stopped dead in her tracks. She was so afraid, she temporarily lost her breath. When she finally recognized Alton’s voice, she almost fainted, but was unable to move.

  Dominique swallowed hard, and her legs felt like someone had weighed them down with lead. She was finally able to compose herself. She crept toward the sounds. Dominique blinked rapidly as she peered through the small crack in the door. She threw her hand up to her mouth to muffle her labored breathing. Tears immediately burst from the corners of her eyes. She had to get out of there before she did something she would regret.

  Dominique stumbled back up the steps and outside to her car. Feeling like she would hurl, she slid into the driver’s seat. Betrayed again, she rocked back and forth and slammed her fist against the steering wheel. Dominique had really finally had enough. What she had seen was enough to send the sanest person into a psychiatric ward. She thought about going home, digging up the carpet and coming back with her gun, but that would be too easy for evil husband.

  “Another no-good man,” she whispered out loud. She refused to let another tear drop. Dominique was tired of being sick and tired. She was tired of being abused. She would wait, plan then execute.

  Dominique pulled her car off the street and began driving toward her home. Her cell phone rang . . . It was Casey.

  “Hello,” she answered, barely able to speak with so much running through her mind.

  “Diamond, I want you to do the interview with me,” Casey blurted out.

  “I can’t,” Dominique told her. She had finally agreed to help the detective and that was enough.

  “I want p
eople to know your story. I want them to know how strong you are and I need you there,” Casey cried.

  “I don’t think you understand. You didn’t go through what I went through. You didn’t have to rebuild your life from absolutely nothing. And call me Dominique!” she screamed and cried at the same time, disconnecting the line.

  Dominique pulled her car over to the side of the road and closed her eyes. She knew the reason she was hesitant was because she had immediately been thinking about her husband. She had conditioned herself to take care of everyone else but herself. Maybe Casey was right. Maybe this was what Dominique needed and deserved–a chance to tell her story to the world. A chance to heal all of the emotional wounds she had buried. Another shot at fame, but at a price that was on her terms–terms she could afford.

  Jordan answered his phone in a huff. He had been so busy getting his movies done that he rarely ever left Mikey’s studio. “Wait . . . calm the fuck down!” Jordan barked into the receiver. “The sister of a cop? What the fuck are you talkin’ about, D’Guilio?”Jordan asked the man on the other end. His stomach began roiling and his palms got sweaty. “Media coverage?” he grumbled as he looked over at the girl. She lay in a fetal position too high to move without prompting. Jordan had brought out the heavy duty shit to keep her in line–Rohypnol, a.k.a. roofies, the date-rape drug. She was easier to manage that way. Jordan looked over at her, a feeling of disgust washing over him. A brother who was a cop, who was also actively searching for her, was definitely not part of the plan. Jordan sucked in his bottom lip. She was no longer an investment, she was a definite problem. Jordan cracked open a fresh bottle of Mylanta and downed the entire thing in one swallow. He had to make a move . . . and fast.