Jahleel

by S. Ann Cole

“That was JK,” he said to me. “He wants me to stop by his studio to test my dancing skills more. He thinks I got talent, yeah?”

  Amanda slowly turned her head to look at me and cleared her throat, but stayed quiet.

  “Do you like to dance?” I asked him.

  Ferbie frowned and looked perplexed as he answered, “You know I’ve always liked dancing, Ma.”

  The hell? Since when?

  Not wanting to offend him, I asked, “And you want to practice with JK? He cancelled on me, you know.”

  Ferbie suddenly looked frustrated, which shocked me even more. This guy rarely showed any expression of emotion except for a giddy grin.

  “So what, Ma? He dumps you, he wants me. Yes, I want to go because…” He paused and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, turning away from me with a solemn look on his face. “He makes me feel normal. He doesn’t see in me what everyone else sees. He sees talent and purpose and worth. And if that makes someone an arsehole, then, aye, I would love to be an arsehole, too.”

  Amanda’s eyes met mine, wide as saucers. Two chats with Grade-A arsehole Jahleel Kingston and now, all of a sudden he could verbalize his feelings? I’d never heard him speak so sensibly before. Was he just playing fool before or what?

  “Okay, you may go,” I reluctantly agreed. To Thomas, “You, go with him. And if anyone so much as breathes too harshly in his face, knock them the fuck out and bring my brother home.”

  “Sure, Miss Day,” Thomas nodded in acknowledgment as the lift doors opened. “Would you like me to summon Ben here in case we’re not back before you leave?”

  “Ah yes, yes.”

  I turned and hugged Ferbie, letting him know I loved him before stepping off the lift with Amanda, leaving him and Thomas behind. As the doors closed, I sucked in a panicky breath, wanting to call for him to come back, but Amanda touched my arm and assured, “He’s twenty-eight years old, Kia. He might not be as much of a plonker as we think.”

  “I’m just afraid people will mess with him. I don’t want anyone making him feel less of himself.”

  “And JK is obviously doing the opposite of that. So I guess you can trust him, yeah?”

  Then I was angry all over again, Ferbie forgotten. “Don’t even say that wanker’s name,” I hissed and marched off down the hall to the studio door.

  Amanda laughed behind me as I opened the door. “Yesterday you loved him, today you loathe him. I’m having a hard time keeping up.”

  Chillingly cold air-conditioning attacked us as we stepped into the room. Large, luxurious, and designed to make people like me feel as though we weren’t being worked to death when 3am strolls around and we’re screaming our lungs out in the sound room, but to make us feel as though we were enjoying the finer things in life.

  There was a big black leather couch against the wall where Amy and Jamie were sprawled, giggling and blabbing. A bean-shaped glass table was in front of it with an ice-bucket, highball glasses, two bottles of Grey Goose Vodka and four bottles of cranberry juice. They could drink as much as they wanted, I couldn’t.

  Greg, my music producer, a 250pound, bald-headed hothead, pushed himself up from behind the mixing board and came over to hug me. “Sup, Kia?”

  “Nada. Sorry I’m late. I’ll be ready in a min, okay?”

  Greg nodded quickly as if it were no big deal that I was late, even though we both knew it was plenty big deal. Studio time was precious, not to be wasted. “Sure. Do yo’ thing.”

  I heard a giggle with the name ‘JK’ entangled in it come from the area of big leather couch. The masochist in me propelled me in that direction and I plopped down beside the two giggly gals. “So…” I tossed my feet up on the table and leaned back, “How was last night?”

  “Energetic,” Amy giggled.

  Jamie rolled her eyes, seemingly annoyed with her giggling partner. “It was rad. JK took us to the G2K girls’ concert and it was awesome. He choreographed all their performances and they tore the house down.”

  After hearing that, I began to feel a heck of a lot better. “That’s it?” I looked at Jamie, “You didn’t bother shagging him?”

  Amanda cleared her throat and leaned forward to pour herself a drink. It was her way of telling me to stop inflicting pain on myself.

  “Of course she did,” Amy sing-songed in a ‘Silly-Rabbit-Trixx-Are-For-Kids’ tone.

  “We did,” Jamie ground out.

  “So, both of you…?”

  “Yeah,” Amy piped up. “We got wasted, he took us back to Jamie’s place and we banged until the sun came up. Dick? Huge. Ohmigod, I want more!”

  “Well, you’re not getting ‘more’,” Jamie snapped. “It was supposed to be just me, not me and you.”

  This was hilarious. And painful. “So, how did you and her happen?”

  Jamie pointed an angry thumb at her friend. “She was trying to get Chad to fuck her. But he wasn’t interested. JK explained Chad’s pretty selective when it comes to his women—he’s hot, but he only beds those he feels chemistry with. Unfortunately, there was no chemistry with this bitch, so she felt the need to sandwich herself between me and JK.”

  Amy flipped up her ‘whatever’ hand. “Why wouldn’t I? He was more than willing.”

  Her eyes narrowed at Jamie as if remembering something, then she pointed at her and started laughing. “I forgot this drama: the lead singer of G2K got up in this one’s face when JK wasn’t around and demanded to know if he was fucking her.”

  “Lead singer Tiara?” I asked. “He’s with her?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Seems so. She was all catty and possessive and shit.”

  Tiara was a good associate of mine. She was flawlessly beautiful. Now I hated her.

  Jamie and Amy started talking about the G2K concert, but I wasn’t listening anymore. Dropping my head back on the couch, I blew out a puff of breath. I was obsessed with a man who was a major arse and a shameless womanizer. And even with that rep, he still didn’t want me.

  Amanda leaned over and whispered in my ear, vodka strong on her breath, “Chad.”

  I turned to her. “What?”

  “You’re in love with the wrong one. Chad’s the one for you. Not JK.”

  “Forget both of them,” I dropped my feet off the table and stood up. “I’m Saskia fucking Day.”

  It was 2:37 in the morning when we returned from the studio. Amanda wearily made a beeline for her bedroom, but before I could do the same, I had to take care of my throat. I really worked it in the studio and knew it would be hoarse in the morning if I didn’t take precautions now. I headed to the kitchen to mix a concoction of honey and lemon juice—pre-medication.

  My cellphone hollered from within the depths of my messenger bag, and I sighed. Only one person would ring me at this hour. Setting my cup down on the kitchen counter, I retrieved my cellphone and answered, “Lion.”

  “Why the fuck you been avoidin’ my calls?”

  “I’ve got a life to live, you know?” I smarted, releasing the phone and keeping it to my ear with my shoulder so I could grab the honey jar.

  “And I’m a significant part of said life! The one who makes your life happen,” he snapped. “Two calls you never send to voicemail: mine and Lydia’s. We should never have to talk to your assistant. It’s just us, you ain’t got no one else. Always ‘member that, Kia.”

  I knew that, and I never forgot it. It’s just that Lion had become such an avuncular figure in my life, I had a hard time being dishonest with him. He could see right through me with this eye that could tell counterfeit from authentic. No man is an island. Everyone in life needs support, and Lydia and Lion were my rocks that would forever be there and never erode. I needed them just as Timberly and Ferbie needed me.

  “My head wasn’t in the right place, okay?”

  Lion made a noise between a grunt and a chuckle, “Went by his studio, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I confessed as I stirred the honey and lemon juice, trying to get them to blend together.
>
  Lemon and honey usually took a good, determined whisking for the two to come together as one. Honey was thick and stubborn, wanting to flow at its own slow pace, in its own form, while lemon juice was without form, ready and willing to be used however one pleases—submissive. The sweet flavour coming together with sour, two complete opposites. But when the two coalesce, the ultimate taste was one that could never be replicated, not with any other ingredients. Because only extremely sweet, mixed with extremely sour gave that inimitable taste. Together, they provided a powerful healing.

  “Judgin’ by your tone, I’ll take a wild guess that JK was his usual self.”

  “He cancelled on me.”

  “And he hasn’t fucked you yet?” He sounded shocked. “That’s…kinda off pattern for JK.”

  “Yeah, well, he shagged Amy and Jamie.”

  Lion laughed out. “Those two…”

  Then he spoke so quietly, I believed it was a thought spoken out loud, not meant for me to hear. “He’s still afraid…”

  I stopped mixing. “What? What does that mean?”

  “Look, I didn’t call you to talk about JK. Wanna chit chat about your five-year obsession, do that with Manda. I called to let you know I’m comin’ to SF tomorrow. Apparently the G2K girls’ concert was through the roof. So their record label is throwin’ a celebratory party. Not red carpet, I know you hate those. But just by invite, and we’re caught up in the mix.”

  “Boo! Who cares?”

  With the new knowledge that lead singer of the group, Tiara, was shagging Jahleel, I no longer cared about the G2K girls.

  “I don’t really care either, Kia. But they’re on the top right now, and these are the invite-only’s where we should show up, if nowhere else. Smilin’ and congratulatin’ like we give a shit. You’re a Brit, Kia. Always ‘member that. These fuckers can turn on you in a second for no reason. You gotta work twice as hard as anyone else to keep yourself up there. So put on one of your kickass outfits, slap a smile on your face, and be ready by eight tomorrow night.”

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  I pressed off the call and looked down at my sweet and sour coalition.

  If only…

  Bringing the cup to my lips, I drank it all down, my lips puckering at the taste.

  The inimitable concoction that could heal a throat that wasn’t even sore yet.

  Chapter Six

  There were a heck lot of invitees at the so-called ‘invite-only’ celebratory party when my usual party crew and I arrived: Lion, his big butt girlfriend Twana, Amanda and Ferbie. Neither of the giggly twats were welcome.

  The venue was on the rooftop of Viscas Hotel and was surprisingly ace for being planned in haste after the concert’s success. How they managed to get this many celebrities to fly in from wherever to SF on such short notice was beyond me. Unless this was covertly planned before, with optimistic hopes that the concert would be a success—another step to push the G2K girls higher in their fast climb to stardom. Their record label was real shrewd.

  As usual, we arrived late, so the party was pumping when we arrived. All-white decor, high-tables and cushy stools, illusory purple flames flickering in large clear vases, potted palm trees in corners, purple cushions and purple psychedelic lights glowed on everyone. Lots of chattering, congratulations and it’s-good-to-see-you’s behind fake smiles, the usual.

  For this event, I got dressed in skin-tight high-waist black jeans, a black bustier bra cropped just below my C-cups to show off my ‘Fuck D’ Werl’ tattoo on my left side, a studded black leather jacket, and black thigh highs—yes, heels. Ugh. Six goddamn inches, too. Curse my stylist.

  My hair, of course, was its usual mess of wild raven curls.

  Tired of smiling and engaging in meaningless conversation with people fawning over my accent, or how “rad” and “badass” my outfit was, or how much they liked my hair, blah blah blah, I left Lion in the midst of the all the mindless blabbering and found myself an empty table and a stool.

  Hating these pretensions as much as I did, Amanda was there with me in the next minute, plopping down on a stool, sipping a Nuvo straight from the bottle as I was. Ferbie had disappeared somewhere, but I knew he was safe here.

  Even though we were in this lifestyle, we weren’t exactly of it.

  We were more laid back people who’d rather get loose with a handful of people we knew and were comfortable with, preferably within the confinements of our home. I attended red carpet events because I had to. But parties, such as this one, usually took a lot of convincing on my manager’s part.

  “Ugh. Lawd,” I grunted when I spotted Tiara making a beeline to our table.

  Tiara Minott—nigh six feet tall in heels. Long, platinum-blonde hair with not a strand out of place. Big, bright blue eyes, and an impeccably white, L.A. girl smile.

  In a sparkly silver dress that stopped mid-thighs, showing off her toned, tanned long legs, she was stunning. I used to love how impeccable she was, and I never went without complimenting her. Now, I wouldn’t, because she’d given me reason envy to her.

  She had what I wanted. Craved.

  Laughing into her drink, Amanda mumbled, “What did the poor girl do to you? Except sleep with a man who’s not, I repeat, not into you? Don’t be mean to her, Kia. Tiara adores you.”

  “Blah.”

  Tiara approached with her blinding smile. “Saskia, you came!”

  My manager forced me. “Wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Tiara. I heard the concert was a bang, yeah? Congrats!”

  She swung her arms around me and hugged me tight. “Awe, thanks. Never in a million years… It feels so good to be this high.”

  Don’t flatter yourself, it was only a concert. The real, stressing work is yet to begin. “I know right? You girls are fucking incandescent. No worries, it only gets better, trust me.”

  She pulled from the embrace, grinned at me then drew me in for another tight hug. “I so totally adore you. You’re awesome, Saskia.”

  Amanda cleared her throat, and I knew she was laughing at my expense, but Tiara took it differently, thinking Amanda felt neglected.

  Turning to her, Tiara gave her a hug, too. “Amanda, I’m so sorry!”

  “Not a problem,” Amanda squeaked.

  “Love your new haircut, by the way,” she complimented.

  “Thanks!” she squeaked again, peering over Tiara’s shoulder. I wondered why in the world she kept squeaking. It was so unlike her.

  A passer-by stopped and touched Tiara, congratulating her. Amanda took the opportunity to lean over to me, whispering, “Twelve o’clock. Ohmifuckinggod…”

  Glancing in the direction she indicated, my gaze immediately clashed with Chad’s. In all-black again, he was rather casual for the event, in close-fitted jeans, plain V-neck tee, and a cross pendant chain around his neck. His hair a wild, wild, but sexy mess.

  Bloody hell, he was scrumptious.

  One elbow on the counter, feet crossed at the ankles, he was leaning against the circular stainless steel bar right across from where we sat. He kept his head down, creating the illusion he was looking into the brandy snifter in his hand, but his eyes were raised and staring straight at me.

  “Shite,” I whispered. “What’s he doing here?”

  Before she could answer, Tiara spun back around from her conversation, caught us staring and followed our gazes. “Chad,” she breathed. “Freakin’ hot, isn’t he? Don’t bother looking, though. He’s a hard one to catch. Way too picky.”

  Now, this, this irritated me. Turning to her, I tried not to sound acerbic, “Heard you’re with his best friend, yeah?”

  “JK,” she whispered to herself, almost like a prayer. Then she spat, “He’s an asshole. Fucks around. Total commitment-phobe.”

  Taking a deep breath, she blinked rapidly, looking upwards as if fighting to hold back tears. “Excuse me,” she croaked out, then turned and broke into a jog, disappearing through the crowd. No doubt about to go lock herself in a bathroom to b
awl her eyes out.

  “Soooo glad I’m over that dude.”

  Amanda scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I said, “I’ll prove it”, then slid off the stool and started over towards Chad, leaving Amanda with an amused smirk on her face.

  Chad kept his eyes on me as I sashayed over to the bar, pulled up a stool next to him and sat with one leg crossed over the other, hip provocatively jutted out. The ole flirt pose.

  Chad watched me with a slightly raised brow, gaze traveling from my legs straight up, landing dead on my face. Bringing his snifter of amber liquid to his lips, he took a slow sip, peering over the rim. Then, lowering the glass, he licked his lower lip and asked, “You came over here to flirt with me, Saskia?”

  Tossing my hair again—which was so unlike me, by the way—I peered at him from under my lashes. “Maybe.”

  With a slight shake of his head, he made a disappointed sound and turned his gaze from me, out to the crowd. “You might wanna go back over there, then, because I hate women who flirt.”

  Splat. I felt as if he just took my head and shoved it into a pile of cow dodo. “What?”

  Turning to face me, he dipped one long finger into his drink and absentmindedly began circling it, the cubes of ice clinking against the glass. And I imagined that one long, wet finger moving in that same circular movement over my clitoris…

  “Flirting is an act,” he said, breaking through my inappropriate thoughts. “It’s not real. I’m attracted to real. Very attracted to women who keep their mouths shut and allow me to read what they want on their faces, in their eyes. Because that’s where the truth lies.”

  Removing his wet finger from the glass, he slipped it in his mouth and sucked it off as if it was nothing. As if women who were watching from afar wouldn’t faint at the mere act, wishing it was their finger between those shapely lips. Did he have any idea how hot he was?

  “I thought you were real, Saskia,” he continued in that disillusioned tone. “Guess I misread. Sorry.”

  He turned and redirected his attention out to the crowd, as if dismissing me.