“Can y’all at least act like y’all used to love each other so I can get a good memento for my baby?” Pree huffs when she notices that I am refusing to get too close to Nyce. Tori is standing off to the side looking pissed. I look up at Nyce as he looks down at me and our eyes lock. He cocks his head and smiles and I feel my lips involuntarily turn upward.
“Um…that was real cute but can y’all face me please?” Pree giggles, snapping a few pictures.
We break out of our moment and turn to face Pree. Nyce places his hand on the small of my back as I scoot in and smile for the camera. When Pree finishes taking our picture, I hand her the baby.
“I have a show tonight. I love you,” I hug her.
“I know. Safe travels and I love you too AND by the way, I can still see the love and chemistry you two share,” she whispers in my ear.
“It’s over, Pree,” I whisper back before letting her go. I say goodbye to everyone except Nyce and quietly leave the church.
Chapter Ten
“Hello,” I answer the phone for Chink.
“Why you won’t work with that boy? What’s the issue?” He asks referring to Tron.
“Well for one, I’m on tour and in the middle of filming a movie.”
“Squeeze him in, Aneesah. I think it would be good exposure for him.”
“Huh? Why are you so pressed in trying to pass him to me? His first album was amazing,” I admit. “He doesn’t need my help. Keep the same formula.”
“He has some amazing tracks that your voice will be great on. He says it and now I’m saying it. Y’all two need to work together. I don’t know what the big deal is and why you won’t record a song with him.”
“How about an old fashion, I don’t want to?”
“Why?”
I don’t know. I don’t have an answer at the moment, I stall.
“See. You don’t even have an answer.”
“Whatever.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Turkey now. Will be heading to Paris after tonight.”
“Good. I will put the time in at our studio in Paris and send you the track,” Chink says hanging up before I can even object.
Three days later I am walking into illADELPHIA INTERNATIONAL to do this damn song with Tron.
“Let’s hurry this up,” I tell him walking into the studio. He smiles brightly at me as Serge takes a seat in the far corner.
“Well, hello to you too,” he greets. “Do you like the song? I know with your voice on it, it’s gonna be a killer,” he says with much passion and fire in his eyes.
“You do know that my fee is $150,000.00, right?” I ask ignoring his question.
“Yeah, I know. This song is a hit, so I’m not worried about it,” he says rising from the chair. I watch him dim the lights and light white candles around the studio to set the mood. It’s the end of July in Paris but in true Philly fashion-even though he’s from North Jersey-he’s wearing classic Timbs on his feet with black jeans. His black Hudson graphic print t-shirt with a demon skull head that has fire coming out of its mouth, catches my eye. Not the shirt itself but the silver cross that hangs around his neck, stopping exactly at the demon’s mouth, like it’s about to swallow it.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asks. He places his hand on the brim of his black leather hat and cracks the cutest school-boy smile as I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Oh fuck! Nyce is the only man that has ever given me butterflies.
“I wasn’t staring at you,” I mumble. “Let’s go.” I step inside the booth and put the headphones on.
“Can I ask you something?” He asks stepping to the other mic, twisting his hat to the back before putting on his headphones.
“What?” I reply.
“Why are you so mean and always givin’ me a hard time?” He asks innocently as I find it oddly adorable. I roll my eyes.
“Play the track,” I tell the engineer, ignoring his question. Tron shakes his head and gets into character, pulling up his baggy jeans from the middle like he’s about to grab on to his “man”. The music cues and my body heats up, an unexplainable flame that is burning through my soul as I listen to him spit his bars, feeling like he’s talking about me, staring into my eyes as I hang on to every lyric spewing out of his mouth.
90s Love
OOOO where you goin wit your fine ass
Let me pour another wine glass
Sit back reminisce let the time pass
Tell them other niggahs stop tryin’ wit’ dey tryin’ ass
Talkin’ ‘bout they gonna love you better girl
Tell them other niggahs stop lyin’ wit’ dey lyin’ ass
Tryin’ to flip you like these eggs in this frying pan and serve you what you need…
Okay we really gonna do things
Take that listening to Wu Tang
Waiting for a Martin episode
Lookin’ in ya eyes thinking how a niggah get so lucky
Swear to God I will never let you go
Love struck
OOO baby I’m dumb stuck
And I’ll fight for your love so tell me who want what
I’m tryin to stretch you out like I need leg room
And we won’t even make it to the bedroom
CHORUS
If it don’t feel like that 90s love OOO I don’t want it
If it don’t feel like that 90s love OOO I don’t want it
You never felt this kind of way before
You know you want to feel this way some more
Just give me you-ooo-ooo I want it all
And give me 90s love until no more, and then some more
I stop singing, drop my headphones and walk out the booth.
“What are you doing? There’s one more verse left,” Tron says as him and the engineer look at me in confusion.
“That’s all I say during the chorus, right?”
“Yeah but…”
“And I nailed it?” I ask.
“Yeah but…”
“Then loop it,” I tell him grabbing my purse and walking out the studio.
Later that night, I walk out on the terrace of my hotel room. Serge is sitting quietly at the table sipping on a glass of iced-tea and reading a book on his kindle.
“Have a drink with me, Serge.”
I don’t drink.
I think about it for a moment and realize that I have never seen this man enjoy a drink before.
“Why? Do you hate the taste or are you a recovering alcoholic?” I pry.
Neither. In the past, I may have indulged a time or two.
“So. We all have. You’ve seen me intoxicated before,” I chuckle.
Bad things happen when I indulge. I become a person I don’t recognize or like.
“A violent drunk?” I ask. Serge stares at me in a way that lets me know that he’s done talking about it.
“It’s okay big guy. I still love you,” I smile, giving him a hug and kiss on his cheek. He places his soft hand on top of mine and stares at me. He doesn’t stare in a lustful way but in a way like he’s in deep thought about something.
“Don’t stare at me like that, Serge. It’s creeping me out,” I laugh. He smirks. “It’s such a beautiful night out,” I exhale, looking up at the Eifel Tower with the full moon shining brightly behind it. I check my phone and notice that I have a missed call and voicemail message from Tron.
“Aneesah, I don’t know what I did to you but if you are still upset about the Grammy’s and if I offended you in some way, then I really am sorry,” Tron says in his message. He also advises that he has emailed me the final file for “90s Love”.
“I know I’m an asshole,” I huff looking at Serge.
Why are you scared of him? He signs.
“I’m not,” I reply with a sigh. I look down at my phone and see that the track is finally finished loading. I press play and listen. It’s another panty dropper for him. A lot of accidental pregnancies are sure to happen. Tron has the
gift. I knew it from the moment Chink showed me the YouTube clips and I knew exactly why Mr. J dropped everything he was doing to go sign him. He has the potential to bring hip-hop back to its original form. Fun, feel good songs and not this riff-raff they play on the radio.
“Something happens to me when I’m with him and I’m not sure what it is. I don’t know if it’s the music that draws me to him or… I don’t know,” I laugh talking to Serge.
It’s okay if you like him, he smiles.
“But I don’t like him. He’s a child,” I giggle.
He’s twenty-six, Serge reminds me.
“You think I owe him an apology? I guess I acted unprofessionally today.”
Serge cracks a smile and sips his drink.
“Thanks for nothing,” I mumble, throwing a pillow at his head.
I wake up early the following morning relieved that nothing is on my schedule for the day. No interviews, no press releases, no filming and my show isn’t until tomorrow night. After getting dressed, I grab my MacBook, call a car service and head to the studio. I look at the schedule and see that Tron never left.
A workaholic just like you, Serge signs.
“Nobody is worse than me,” I laugh while proceeding to the studio. We step inside and Tron is in the booth with notebook in hand, beat blaring through the speakers, humming in the microphone, before dropping some metaphors. I smile as I listen to him go. He pauses abruptly and starts to write in his notebook as the track plays on. I cut it off and he looks up, noticing that I am in the room. I watch his lips spread up into a smile as he adjusts his hat and slides off the stool. Stepping out the booth, wearing gray sweatpants with black Jordan’s and a white tee, around his neck are wooden beads with a cross hanging off it.
“So, you been at it all night?” I ask noticing pizza boxes and junk food wrappers scattered on the floor. I start picking up the trash.
“You don’t have to clean up my mess,” he says helping me.
“Did you at least shower,” I laugh.
“Yeah, around four this morning.”
Silence
“Well, to make up for being a dick, I’m here to help you. Come here,” I tell him motioning him with my finger. I sit at the board with him taking a seat next to me.
“Smile,” I say, taking a selfie and posting it on Instagram captioning “Studio Time”.
“That’s helping me?” He questions.
“How many followers do you have?”
“About 5.3 million.”
“Well, I have 103 million so…”
“And that’s helping me? I thought you was about to throw me a beat or something,” he laughs.
“Maybe. How much you willing to pay?”
“I already exhausted my budget paying you to be on my track.”
“The money goes fast, right?”
“Tell me about it,” he shakes his head.
“If I throw you a beat, you have to give me credit for it.”
“Of course,” he says pulling his chair closer to me as I plug in my MacBook. We go through my files making small talk in between. There is an accent in his voice sometimes. It’s weird. I know he’s from Jersey but sometimes he slips up in this country twang when he says certain words.
“What part of Jersey are you from?” I ask.
“Brick City,” he replies. “Do you know anything about it?” I shake my head no.
“It’s pretty shitty; tucked away in Newark. My father was a pimp and my mom was one of his hoes. She killed my father right in front of me when I was seven. Fucked me up. I can still feel his blood on my face,” he says wiping his cheek as my eyes balloon in shock. I had no idea. My heart begins to ache in his pain as I search my mind trying to think of the right words to say.
He looks at me before bursting out in laughter.
“I’m just fuckin’ wit’ you,” he laughs. “I appreciate your sincere look of sorrow though.”
“You asshole,” I laugh hitting him in his arm. “I fuckin’ believed that shit.”
“Nah, for real though, my mom died before I could create any real memories of her and my dad and grandparents raised me. I was shuffled between Jersey and Tennessee for a good portion of my life. Tennessee is where my grandparents live. That’s where I spend most of my time. My Pops is by himself now since my grandmother passed and you know, I gotta look out for the old man,” he shrugs. “Plus, Tennessee is my mom’s side of the fam. Being with them makes me feel closer to her.”
“So that’s where the accent I hear you slipping in is from.”
“What accent?”
“When you say certain words, you sound like a niggah named Zeek from the farm,” I laugh. He chuckles.
“I mean, I was raised on a farm; me and all of my 28 first cousins. I gotta big family.”
“That’s what’s up. I envy people with big families. It’s just me, my mom and sister but my adoptive family…if that’s what you want to call them, are pretty dope,” I smile.
“So, which do you like better? The city or the country?” I ask before he gets a chance to ask me questions about my non-existent immediate family.
“I love the farm life and the country provides a certain peace that I can’t explain but the city has that hustler vibe that I like.”
“A farm boy,” I smile. “That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah. I used to want to be a veterinarian,” he chuckles.
“Now that’s something you don’t hear every day.”
“What?”
“A black man saying that he wanted to be a veterinarian. A veterinarian turned rapper.”
“I’m actually a singer first. It’s how I got started. Pops trained me and my cousins. We were part of an all boy band, but my cousin Steve wanted to be a bull rider and my other cousin wanted to chase girls so,” he shrugs. “But yeah. I got the degree, just never pursued it. By the time I graduated, I started chasing another dream.”
“So, you’re an animal doctor?” I laugh.
“Yeah. Something like that,” he states, opening his wallet and handing me a laminated card. It’s a copy of his diploma from Harvard University School of Veterinary Medicine. Damn!
“You should come to the farm with me someday. See how the rest of the world lives without all the luxuries, city girl,” he laughs, interrupting my thoughts as I hand him his card back.
“Whatever big head,” I giggle, moving on to the next file. “I’m sure your little girlfriend wouldn’t like me going home with her man,” I laugh, referring to him dating actress Kai Harris from the CW teen series Birthright.
“Oh, so you keepin’ up on a niggah, huh?” He smiles.
“Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I own a TV too niggah,” I laugh. “Nah! Real rap though, y’all look cute together. I thought you going with her to the People’s Choice Awards was a good look.”
“Uh-huh,” he smiles, staring at me.
“What? Is the topic of us talking about her off limits or something?”
“No. I’m just not interested in discussing my relationships with you.”
“I didn’t ask you anything. All I said was…”
“I’m about to smoke. Do you mind?” He says cutting me off.
“Smoke what?” I ask curiously, forgetting about Kai. He pulls out a zip lock bag of weed.
“As long as you’re sharing,” I reply.
“You get down?” He asks in shock.
“You have no idea,” I laugh.
“This is special ghanja. Straight from Tennessee.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
We sit in the studio, passing a blunt around, laughing and getting to know each other a little better but now that we are hitting hour 3 and I’m not any closer to developing a track that he wants, I’m starting to get agitated with his ass.
“This?” I ask pressing play as smoke seeps out of my mouth. I pass him the blunt. He sticks it into his mouth before looking at me with low, glossy red eyes.
“No,” he shakes his
head. I roll my eyes and let out a breath.
“How about this?”
“Nah,” he shoots down, inhaling the smoke.
“Are you even listening?” I snap. “You’re high as fuck,” I say annoyed.
“I’m listening,” he chuckles. “I know what I’m looking for.”
I go through some of my older files as he continues to smoke and toy around with the boards.
“This one,” I say pressing play. He shakes his head no.
“OH MY GOD. PICK A FUCKIN’ SONG,” I yell in frustration.
“Yo, shut-up. This is my career.”
“This is my career too,” I roll my eyes. I play a couple more beats as he shoots those down as well.
“Man, you got about twenty minutes left of my time,” I tell him.
“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” he sucks his teeth pressing buttons, passing me the blunt back.
“Fuckin’ midget,” I whisper under my breath, hitting the blunt.
“Fuck you. I’m 5’10. Why you tryin’ to play me? That’s why you got a boogie hangin’ in ya nose,” he laughs.
“Oh my god. Do I?” I ask embarrassed, handing him the blunt and covering my nose.
“Nah. I’m just playin’,” he laughs.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” I giggle, going through my files again.
“Wait…wait…what was that?” He says.
“What?”
“Go back, go back,” he demands as his face lights up.
“This?” I ask pushing play.
“Yeah, this,” he bobs his head. “Awww shit. I’m about to be on my Kanye wit’ this jawn.”
“Your what?” I ask. Tron smashes the blunt in the ashtray and jumps out of his seat, rushing inside the sound booth. No phone, no pad, no pen. He gives me the cutest smile before telling me to press play.
KANYE (HEAVY)
All I hear is niggah’s laughing
Take off without landing
Fall back when I’m spazzin’
No suggestions I ain’t askin’
Unveiled Page 16
