Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  “All right DB, we have a few announcements this morning!” Bridgette piped out, now returned to the office. “If you can gather around the vision board over here, Jackson is in the building and will join us momentarily. Exciting news from what I’ve been told, so let’s get ready to work!” Her brilliant smile couldn’t be missed between her bright red lips.

  The vibrancy of it brought my attention back down to my desk covered in candescent pinks and purples. And the black lace… It all had a theme: the colors were arresting and attractive, the lace was luring with a sexual undertone, and the animation of the book was fascinating for tainted eyes. This gift would be confounding and perhaps offensive to a “normal” being, but for someone with fouled perspective like me, the concept is enthralling. He was referencing the song I sang for Greg Phillinganes and that oddly thrilled him.

  “Everything all good, Elle?”

  That deep lumbering timbre was identified right away. The memory of it growling in my ear while he impelled inside of me played in my mind most of the night. My head snapped up. And there was Jackson, maddeningly handsome, dripping delicious virility in an electric navy blue two-piece wool suit with a peak lapel that begged for me to bunch in my palms, a blue and white checkered dress shirt beneath with merlot oxfords. The dapper contemporary combination pained me.

  “Pardon?” I tried clearing my throat.

  When my sights arrived at him, Jackson’s head was slightly tilted forward and at an angle. I could observe him regarding the gift contents splayed on my desk. His eyes slowly raked up to my face. A knowing gleam sparkled in his eyes and his thin lips twitched into a sleek grin: Jackson’s signature regard for me.

  “Your cheeks are flushed and eyes are wild and glazed over. You look flustered.” He regarded from across the room.

  And that’s when I realized all of my colleagues were congregated over there, around the vision board.

  Shit!

  “I-I’ll be right there.” I found myself rubbing my chin in disarray.

  I cleaned up the contents of his surreptitious gift and grabbed my pad before skulking to my group. I could note Jackson’s deep regard on me, something I refused to acknowledge. We had to keep this thing under wraps. No matter how disheveled his gesture caused me to be, I had to keep it together.

  The meeting started. As soon as Jackson began running down the news and delegating assignments to his troupe, gone was the taunting lover from minutes ago, and here was my formidable leader. Jackson provided the names of the attendees for the J.G., Wizer and Hunter dinner. It was expected to be packed with the firm’s current client roster as well as those we were attempting. The soiree was done annually to create this image of prestige. If we kept our clients happy and celebrated, it would increase our chances of maintaining them and for referrals.

  How Dynamic Branding fit into this event was still questionable. We were new with a different type of clientele that had a different caliber of circle. But Jackson explained he pushed to merge the client list as a bonus, more or less, for Dynamic Branding. Our clients would be impressed at the prospect of linking up with an established and world renowned corporate name. And that’s what J.G., Wizer and Hunter offered: Corporate America, in search of ambassadors of pop culture to help increase sales. It reminded me of the genius of Jackson and his deceased father, Quincy.

  Jackson also announced our provisional deal with Dale and even hit me with bigger news.

  “Elle, I spoke to Trey’s camp as well as Chris’ last night. Their managers are willing to take a minute to listen to our pitch, but it will have to be soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “In two days. They’ll both be in Virginia, ironically, and I’ve set up a meeting at a hotel down there.”

  “And what about August Alsina?” Brad asked. “You said our pitch to Dale included him on the tour.”

  “If we can secure Dale, Trey and Chris, Alsina would sign on for free. He’s made some noise on his own, but coming aboard with the aforementioned will shoot his career to galaxy levels. The only way he’d say no is if he’s an idiot,” I breathed, feeling uneasy about the abrupt news of my traveling and performing.

  Last night, while I turned in for the night—or tried to—Jackson was grinding. Why did I feel like I’d just taken a plunge to Loserville?

  Damn it!

  “Yeah, and let’s not forget the beef between August and Trey,” Bridgette warned.

  I was two steps ahead on that potential setback. Although having August was optional to the success of this type of tour on Dale’s belt, I did promise August’s fan base this tour and I had to deliver.

  “Making my work cut out for me,” I exhaled while I stood, taking to my desk to book my hotel and flight and prepare for the firm’s dinner party for the following night.

  nine

  “TMZ is saying the girl is willing to interview about the picture,” Bridgette announced to the room, her usual pale face now cerise.

  “Shit just got real,” Jamie mumbled, staying near the tall picture window.

  Brad exhaled his anxiousness.

  “Fuck!” Marie screamed.

  Jackson stood, pacing the floor in the middle of his family room in Long Island. We’d been at this for hours on a Thursday evening—well, we started on Thursday evening. It was almost 2 a.m. and we were troubleshooting a major PR quagmire. A lewd photo of Todd Limp’s, Blackboard Scratchers’ drummer, bare pelvic area, exposing his ice cream cone tattoo, including pubic hair and the base of his erect penis was released on TMZ’s website that Thursday afternoon causing a media frenzy. Scandalized behavior like this in the world of Rock and Roll would normally be glorified, but not for this band of rockers. They’d just signed a rather sweet endorsement deal with Coca Cola six months ago and reckless actions like this could terminate their contracts within a blink of an eye. Of course the band’s record label had PR built into their package, but according to Bridgette’s connect, the label had yet to release a statement because they didn’t know what to do. The label did, however¸ suggest Todd release a statement of apology. That would be endorsement suicide.

  “We can’t start buckling,” Jackson snatched the room’s attention. “Our contract with them, like with all of DB’s clients, is provisional. This is our opportunity to make it permanent. We will stay at this all night until we come up with a solid plan to maintain the band’s relationship with Coca Cola.”

  “Damn! Why couldn’t his dumbass use the fade app!” Jamie kicked the air.

  “Fade app?” Brad inquired.

  “The fade app is one of a few that erases your text message image seconds after the receiver opens it. It fades away,” Jackson mumbled.

  Hmmmm…

  “Wish there was an app to fade away horrible fucks. I’d use it for at least two I’ve had recently,” Brad groaned into his hands as he stretched in his seat.

  He was dozing. In fact, I didn’t think anyone in the room besides Jackson would make it the next hour without crashing.

  “Just deny it. Just say it’s not him.” Brad slurred.

  “Can’t do that, playa,” Jamie advised on a stretch. “If it ever came down to it, it can be proven that Todd does, in fact, have a tattoo in his pelvic area.”

  “We release a statement that someone took advantage of Todd by taking the photo while he was sleep.”

  “It was a selfie. That’s clear from the angle and what’s caught in the mirror,” Jackson quantified with incredulity.

  “Why can’t we just say someone hacked into his phone and extracted the racy photos?” Jamie chimed in.

  “Because it doesn’t matter,” Jackson sighed. “Coca Cola doesn’t care. The fact that the photo was taken in the first place makes his behavior risky. Major corps don’t relish taking on high risk ambassadors. It’s not a good look to have naked pictures of yourself lying around.”

  This was taking a nosedive by the second. These were not viable solutions.

  “Marie, call Richie and have him get T
odd on the phone. We need to get his complete account of the situation.”

  Richie was the band’s manager and could get us quicker access to the band members than we could calling direct. They changed their numbers that often.

  Damn difficult group of rockers!

  “But he’s unofficially admitted to sending the picture,” Marie countered.

  “Honey, it ain’t over until Coke says they’re shredding that contract. Blackboard Scratchers is your client. You find a way or make a way to promote their brand or clear their name. That’s our business.” My tone was sharp and I didn’t give a damn. Jackson mandated our assembly here until we either came up with a solution or Coca Cola released a termination statement. I liked Marie, but I loathed defeatists. Pain began to upsurge the back of my skull. I knew what would be coming for me and had no patience for pessimism. I exhaled. “Any small detail can be spun. We just need as many as he can recall. We still have an opportunity because we still have time.” I tried reining in my annoyance.

  Biting her bottom lip, she nodded as she grabbed her phone and then trekked out into the dining room with a pen and pad.

  My head dropped to the back of the couch and I sighed, “Bridge…”

  “Yeah?” she yawned loudly.

  “Richie, sent over the name of the woman Todd said he sent the picture to. Please search her social networking profiles and see if there are any clues of her promiscuity, dishonesty or previous accusations—basically anything we can use to navigate this.”

  “Going to Facebook,” Bridgette informed in her Scooby Doo voice.

  I was right. Twenty minutes later, Brad was out. Marie returned from speaking with the band’s manager about Todd’s account of the story yawning. She handed me her notes from their conversation as she collapsed next to me on the couch.

  “Doesn’t seem like much changed from what Richie told us earlier—” she barely caught her next audible yawn. “All he kept saying was he wished he and his cousin never got the matching tattoos in the first place. And I agree. How gay is getting a tattoo of an ice cream cone in your pelvis with another dude…” her word dragged as she dozed.

  Jackson finally sat down across from us with his laptop. I had no idea what he was up to, neither did I have the capacity to ask. I began going over the information, trying to decipher Marie’s chicken scratch. Jamie stretched his long limbs out on the floor near the window, with his phone to his ear, awaiting a call from his connect over at TMZ. The room went quiet but for the television, hanging above the mantle, playing in the background.

  Everything was black…and quiet. I knew right away my lids were closed. I had no idea where I was at first. I started to recount my last memories of consciousness. I recalled rock stars, cell phones, groins, and tattoos. Okay, I was at Jackson’s. But then I couldn’t recall if someone had brought me home. Then I felt the sharp pain flash my posterior lobe. It was my impending migraine, and seemingly in full bloom.

  Shit!

  That’s what had awakened me in the first place. Slowly, I lifted my heavy arms to release my curly mane from the small scrunchy that held it up and began rubbing my scalp in an effort to ease the ache. Refusing to open my eyes and collide with the onslaught of pain awaiting me, I realized I was in a sitting position so there was no way I was home because I’d be in bed, not on my couch. Damn it! I’d fallen asleep at Jackson’s place again.

  But where’s everyone else?

  I braved the cracking of my left lid, just slightly. Immediately, I saw Marie to the left of me, her mouth agape in her deep slumber. Then I scrolled further to find Jamie, sprawled on the floor leaning on the sofa chair Bridgette was passed out in, hurled into siesta himself. Bridgette snored loudly, her laptop still open on her lap while her feet were stretched onto an ottoman. Next, my eye ventured over to Brad whose light wheezing wasn’t as audible as Bridgette’s. Then the exact moment my brain recalled his proximity to Brad before I apparently fell asleep, my other eye flashed open and quickly Jackson’s penetrative gaze came into focus. My body steeled as I became aware that he’d possibly been watching me sleep.

  “How long was I out?” I whispered, my voice raspy.

  Jackson glanced down at his wrist watch. “One hour and forty-three minutes.”

  I swallowed hard. “How long were you out?”

  “Haven’t slept a second,” he spoke stoically, but the muscles around his eyes were relaxed.

  “I like the curls,” he murmured, timber sensually thick. “It softens your appearance.”

  Jackson didn’t move an inch while paying that compliment. And helplessly, I careened into an aroused state. My nub throbbed and my pulse tripled in rate during the span of recognizing the words he spoke. Cognizing them while observing the carving of his chest through the thin fitted gray t-shirt he was wearing made my already aching head spin manically. I licked my dry lips nervously, thinking of a quick escape of this libidinous zone Jackson and I found ourselves in without effort and ended up quelling it by humping on each other like rabid mammals.

  “You always play peeping Tom to your staff?”

  “Only the ones who snore as loud as you.”

  I gasped. Jackson chuckled quietly.

  “What time is it?” I asked while looking for my phone.

  “Almost four-thirty,” he answered before I could grab it.

  “Last I recall it was just before two-thirty.”

  “Yup. That was a little after you conked out.”

  My brows creased. “And you didn’t?”

  Jackson’s head cocked to the side. “We have a dilemma on our hands. Sleep isn’t an option. I have a business to run. ”

  Out of nowhere, I cringed. The throbbing radiating from the back of my head intensified.

  “Mind if I get a bottle of water.” I cringed as I tried sitting up. “I need to take something for this headache before it turns into a full blown migraine.”

  Jackson pushed up in his seat and stood. “I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

  I grabbed my bag and followed him through the palatial house and sat at the island—the island that could get me thrown out any moment his mother wants to recall that god-awful episode from weeks ago. Jackson pulled out two bottles of Evian and opened one for me right away. I pulled out a bottle of medication used for small headaches, thankful I didn’t need the one for the migraine I was anticipating. I threw back two white pills and chased them with water, downing half the bottle.

  Damn, I was parched.

  I noticed Jackson’s head tossed back and his Adam’s apple lobbing as he drank the other bottle. I diverted my eyes massaging my scalp again.

  “How could you not sleep?”

  Jackson paid me a glance for seconds long. “When something is roaming in the dome, sleep is nowhere to be found.”

  “You do this often?”

  “I’ve gotten better with it.”

  “I have my bouts with insomnia,” I insinuated. Jackson was being invasive, but not in an unwelcoming manner.

  He took another gulp of his water and swallowed on a stretched face. “You never know what’s going to trigger the recurrence. Trauma is what I’ve been told caused mine.”

  Whoa! I wasn’t expecting that disclosure. Just when I thought he was shutting the conversation off. Lavishing in hypocrisy, I pushed.

  “Your dad.”

  He didn’t answer and that break for silence communicated his answer clearly.

  “You said you’ve gotten better with it. What did you do to cope?”

  After another swallow and without eye contact he breathed, “What I used to do before moving into Trump was—well, when the weather permitted—go out to the back patio and… Nah,” he snorted, shaking his head, apparently embarrassed.

  Abnormally desperate for small talk, I blurted, “No! Tell me!”

  Still without the benefit of those searing orbs that ordinarily annoyed me, he continued, “I would go out there and try to find a…cosmic way to connect with him. So, I’d sit out th
ere for hours, looking”—he shook his head—“for some sign of a response from him in the sky.” Finally, his eyes met mine. “Silly, right?” Slowly, my neck swayed, dispelling his assumption. “Now those adolescent jokes you like to throw at me are going to come in spades.”

  He waited for my response or perhaps a kiddie joke. Instead I requested, “Take me out there.”

  “It’s about fifty-five degrees out there right now. Not exactly summer temperatures.”

  “I don’t think insomnia is limited to seasons, especially when caused by trauma. What did you do when the weather didn’t cooperate?”

  Jackson eyed me with suspicion. I couldn’t be offended as a woman who always questioned people’s motives when they tried to get me to open up. This went on for countless moments.

  Just when I thought he’d find a way to decline my request, he screwed the top on his bottle and murmured, “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  Jackson gaited out of the kitchen and returned minutes later wearing a Howard University sweat hoodie and carrying two plush chambray blankets with a white fleece on the reverse. He motioned with his head for me to follow him and on a leap, I did. We strolled out to the veranda, just off the lawn. It was on the opposite end of the house from the lounge where we had lunch on my first visit. This area was smaller, more intimate with an attached outdoor grill, sink, and a peninsula bar to seat three. Adjacent was a lounger with an “L” shape sofa with padded seats facing a fireplace underneath a mounted flat screen television. I took a seat, tucking my feet underneath me on the sofa and Jackson layered me with the plush blankets, affording me a waft of his cologne. He then went to light a fire. I watched raptly as he built the flames like a practiced camper. When he was done, he sat on the opposite end of the sofa.

  “You didn’t come underneath here to communicate with him,” I charged, but pleasantly.

  We were underneath his home, not out on the green where there was an unobstructed view of sky.

  “Only when it rained,” he confirmed. “Thought this would be more hospitable for you.”