by Shelly Ellis
Ricky slowly shook his head, now bewildered. She was still hanging onto the dream that Dolla Dolla would make her famous? After all this?
“None of that shit is gonna happen, sweetheart. You have to know that.”
“Yes, it is! Because when I meet them, I’ll do all the things that Dolla taught me so they can’t say no. They won’t be able to resist me.” She reached out to Ricky and ran her hands over his chest. She saucily licked her dry lips. “You want me to show you what he taught me? Want me to show you what I can do?”
Ricky cringed. He yanked her hands away and shook his head again. “He turned you out. He’s never gonna get you in fucking music videos! He’s just pimping you! He’s going to use you up until there’s nothing left, Skylar. You have to get out of here.”
At that, her face changed. The sultriness disappeared and her blank expression returned. “What do you know?” She reached for the deli meat on the counter and shoved passed him. “You don’t know anything. Just leave me alone.”
“It’s the drugs talking; it’s not you,” he called after her. “Once you get out of here—”
“You don’t know me!” she hissed. “This is where I want to be. Tell my sister to leave me alone. I don’t need her to save me. I don’t need saving. Just leave me the fuck alone!”
He then watched as she strode back down the hall.
Chapter 24
Jamal
The gospel choir, clad in purple velvet robes adorned with gold tassels, reached its booming crescendo and the choir director raised his arms dramatically before clapping his hands over his head, bringing the song to an end. He turned to face the crowd and did a deep bow to a round of applause.
Jamal was one of many in the crowd politely clapping at the performance. Bridget was too.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said dryly as she stood beside him. She leaned toward his ear. “I could have done without all the booty shaking and shouting though.”
Jamal shrugged. “It was meant to be festive.”
They were attending the pre-Christmas celebration held at the Wilson Building. The main gallery had been converted into a party space filled with Yuletide decorations, from the twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree near the staircase to the tinsel and twinkling lights hanging from the banisters and scaffolding near the glass ceiling.
Jamal hadn’t wanted to attend; he hadn’t been in the holiday mood frankly. Whatever Christmas spirit he had toward his colleagues was completely lost a few weeks ago in Mayor Johnson’s office when he realized that, all along, he was being spied on by many of those very same colleagues. It was hard to get excited about the holidays when the mayor basically threatened his life. He had the sinking feeling that by agreeing to keep the mayor’s secrets—even to protect his own hide—he had become part of the conspiracy. He was now entwined with the older man’s twisted lies and corruption. Jamal was no longer an innocent bystander, but an accomplice to a crime.
He was no better than Ricky.
Hell, I practically am Ricky, he thought with disgust.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Bridget asked, taking a sip from her wineglass.
She had worn a deep green velvet gown tonight that complemented her red hair. She looked like an upscale Poison Ivy.
“I’m fine,” he muttered before glancing down at his wristwatch. “I was just wondering how much longer we have to stay here before we can leave without looking rude. I’m just not feeling it tonight.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “Why would I be kidding?”
“Look,” she began, lowering her glass from her lips, revealing a smear of ruby red lipstick on the rim, “I can understand why you’d want to escape my business functions. Professionally, it doesn’t benefit you to be there. But here, it’s a completely different story, Sinclair. You need to get some face time with these people.” She leaned toward him and dropped her voice down to a whisper again. “Who knows what potential donors you could meet lingering near the buffet table.”
Jesus!
Did everything with his girlfriend have to turn into some discussion about strategic career moves or running for office?
Melissa would never talk this way, he thought unhappily, finishing the last of his wine. She wouldn’t give a damn that he might be messing up the chance to hobnob with potential donors. If he said he was tired and ready to go home, she’d laugh and say she was thinking the same thing, link her arm through his, and steer them to the exit.
He had been thinking a lot about Melissa lately. He hadn’t talked to her in a couple of weeks even though they had exchanged a few inane texts. He wondered if she and Derrick were still fighting. He wondered if she was finally ready to throw in the towel and accept that the two weren’t meant for each other.
“So whatever bad mood you’re in, snap out of it.” Bridget then glanced over her shoulder. Her face brightened; she pasted on a grin. “Don’t look now,” she said between her clenched pearly whites, “but the mayor and his wife are headed toward us.”
Jamal flinched.
With a room filled with a few hundred people, he’d hoped to avoid having to talk to the mayor tonight. He had avoided talking to him directly for the past couple of weeks. He knew they’d have to do a few photo ops at tonight’s party, but they only needed to exchange glances—not words. It didn’t look like that would be the case though.
“Vernon . . . Bernice!” Bridget shouted. “It’s so great to see you again!”
The mayor’s wife, a plump woman in a too tight fuchsia gown, air kissed Bridget’s cheek. “Why hello, honey, I thought I saw you standing here from across the room. You’re hard to ignore in such a stunning dress!”
“Why thank you, Bernice! You look amazing too!” Bridget gushed. “I absolutely love you in that color.”
Jamal locked eyes with the mayor, who was gazing at him like a cat watching a mouse skirt around its cage.
“Sinclair,” Mayor Johnson said with a slow nod.
“Mayor Johnson,” Jamal replied, dipping his chin stiffly.
“So how are you two enjoying the evening?” the mayor asked, turning to look at Bridget. “Having a good time?”
“Oh, we’re having a fabulous time!” Bridget said.
“What did you think about the choir?” Bernice asked. “They’re from our church. The choir director has been working with them for weeks to perfect their performance.”
“Oh, it was amazing!” Bridget gushed. “I was just telling Sinclair that I haven’t seen something so . . . so uplifting!”
Jamal side-eyed his girlfriend. Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we, sweetheart?
“You two should come to our church,” Bernice insisted, gently patting Bridget’s arm. “See the choir perform again. And our minister is one of the best. He just fills you up with the Holy Ghost with his sermons! Why don’t you come with us this Sunday?”
Bridget’s green eyes widened eagerly. “Oh, we would love to—”
“I don’t think we can make it this weekend,” Jamal interjected, cutting off Bridget. “We’re . . . uh, meeting up with my parents,” he lied.
“Oh,” Bernice said. The smile on her round face disappeared. “Maybe . . . some other time then.”
“Absolutely. Thanks for the offer though,” he added.
Bernice nodded and turned to her husband. “It was lovely catching up with you two, but we should probably circulate around the room, shouldn’t we, Vernon?”
The mayor nodded. “You’re right, honey. I’ve been meaning to catch Harry before he leaves.” He thumped Jamal’s shoulder then shook Bridget’s hand. “You two enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Th-thank you, sir,” Bridget called out weakly just as the mayor and his wife turned away.
* * *
When Jamal settled behind the wheel of his Audi less than an hour later, he could practically feel the anger radiating off of Bridget’s petite frame.
“I’m sorry,”
he said as he shifted the car into drive and pulled onto the roadway. “I know I rushed you out of there. I just want to head home. I’m just . . . I’m just tired.”
She didn’t respond but instead glared out her passenger window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk.
He loudly exhaled. “Honey, don’t give me the silent treatment. Not tonight, okay? I said I was sorry.”
She mumbled something in reply.
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re always sorry, Sinclair. You always do this. We go to these events and you completely blow it and humiliate me—”
“Humiliate you? How the hell did I humiliate you?”
“We went there to help your career!” she shouted, making him wince. “The mayor’s wife was nice enough to invite us to their church and you were so . . . so rude. You actually turned her down! Who does that?”
Jamal lurched to a stop at the stoplight and stared in shock at his girlfriend who was fuming beside him.
“First of all, you’re not religious. You don’t even fucking go to church! Secondly, if we were there to help my career, then what the hell do you care if I turned down Bernice’s offer? What does any of that have to do with you?”
Bridget blinked. “I care because . . . well, because I can’t believe you would waste this opportunity to get closer to Johnson. I want to see you succeed, Sinclair. As your girlfriend, I have a right to be mad!”
“And thirdly,” he continued, accelerating through the green light, “I didn’t want to go to church with the mayor and his wife because I don’t want to have anything to do with him outside of city hall. He’s a corrupt asshole, Bridge!”
She loudly grumbled. “Oh, you don’t know that for sure! Just because you saw him with—”
“I know it! I confirmed it and he confronted me about it. He practically threatened my life and your life if I didn’t keep what I knew about him to myself.”
The car compartment fell silent. Only the drone of NPR on the car radio filled the space. Bridget shifted in her chair so that she could look at him.
“What do you mean he threatened you? When the hell did this happen?”
“A few weeks ago,” Jamal murmured. “I saw him in his office with Dolla Dolla’s men and he knew that I realized who they were. The mayor also knew that I’d been . . . I’d been . . .” His voice drifted off.
“You’d been what, Sinclair?” she asked impatiently.
“That I’d been asking questions about him and his business dealings. Someone told him I’d been asking around. And he saw . . . he saw some papers that I had planned to send to the press.”
“You were going to talk to the press?” she screeched. “Are you fucking insane? Why would you—”
“Look, none of that matters now! What matters is that he knows that I know how corrupt he is, Bridge. He knows and he’s going to have me fucking killed if I tell anyone.”
“Goddamnit,” she said through clenched teeth, balling her fists in her lap. “Goddamnit! I told you to leave it alone. Didn’t I tell you? I told you to mind your own fucking business!”
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t, and this is the situation that we’re in. So what the hell do you want me to do about it?”
“After we worked so hard,” she mumbled, like she hadn’t heard him, “after all this time . . . I can’t believe you would completely destroy what we’ve built by being so . . . so stupid. Mayor Johnson could’ve been a huge asset!”
“An asset? Didn’t you just hear what I said? He threatened to kill me . . . to kill you if—”
“Oh, stop being so fucking melodramatic! You’re from the ghetto, aren’t you? You’ve had people threaten you before.”
Jamal was struck speechless.
“Besides, I don’t care what threats he made. I only care about how much of my time you’ve wasted! I cannot believe this. Blake was right,” she snapped, making him squint at her.
“What did you say?”
“I said Blake was right! He told me I had way too much confidence in you, that you probably weren’t up to snuff. He said you weren’t my equal. I just thought he was touting some racist shit—or he was jealous I’d moved on from him, but now I realize he was telling me the truth. We aren’t equals, Sinclair! And I can’t keep dragging you along. I need a man with goals and follow through, and frankly, you’re not it!”
Jamal’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Part of him was stupefied at what had just come out of Bridget’s mouth, but the rest of him wasn’t really surprised. He realized now why Bridget had hooked up with him in the first place. He was her little project she could show off to the world, the ghetto boyfriend who cleaned up nicely whom she could nurture and fuck on the side. She didn’t love him as much as she loved the man she wanted him to become. And in the course of their relationship, he had changed nearly everything to be what she’d wanted. He had busted his ass to get the appointment to deputy mayor. He’d changed his clothes, dropped his friends, and had even changed his name.
How could he have been deluded for so long? Why should he stay with a person who only loved everything he wasn’t—not what he was?
“Get out,” he said as they drew to a stop at another red light.
“Ex-excuse me?” she sputtered.
“I said get the hell out of my car! I’m not listening to any more of your shit. You consider me a deadweight you’ve gotta drag along? Well, I’ll make it easy for you—we’re over! You don’t have to drag my ass around anymore.”
“You can’t kick me out of this car, Sinclair!”
“I just did,” he said icily, glowering at her. “And my name is Jamal, not Sinclair.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Fine! Fine, I’ll get out then. Have it your way!”
He watched as she shoved open the car door and stepped onto the nearby sidewalk, almost tripping in her stilettoes. She leaned down and shoved her hair out of her face.
“By the way, that night that I came home late after having dinner with Blake wasn’t because of a car accident near Union Station like I told you. It was because I had too much wine, and let him fuck me! I felt guilty about it, but not anymore, you fucking asshole!”
Jamal turned away from her. “The light’s green. Could you please shut my door so I can drive?”
At first, she didn’t respond. Out the corner of his eye, he could see her face go from pink to almost a bright shade of red in a matter of seconds. Veins bulged near her temples. “Fuck you, Jamal! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” she yelled before slamming his door shut.
She was still screaming at him as he drove down the roadway.
Chapter 25
Derrick
I am not cheating on my girl.
Derrick repeated it like a mantra to himself almost daily. He did it when he and Melissa stood in front of the bathroom mirror every morning: she doing her hair or applying her makeup, he brushing his teeth or shaving—and both pretending like they didn’t notice the other. He did it when he went out to dinner or to bars with Morgan at night. Every time he heard Morgan’s laugh, gazed into her big green eyes, or tried not to stare at her breasts or her ass when she walked, he told himself that his feelings for her were completely platonic.
Cole had been wrong. Mr. Theo had been wrong. There was nothing going on between him and Morgan.
No, he still hadn’t mentioned his friendship with Morgan to Melissa. And sure, he did lie occasionally and claim he was doing something else when he was really hanging out with Morgan after work, but that didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean he was cheating. He just didn’t know if Melissa would understand the situation. He and Melissa already were going through some stuff. Why make it worse by giving her a reason to be suspicious or jealous of his relationship with Morgan?
That evening, he and Morgan decided to try a new place, an Italian restaurant in Northwest with soft lighting and leather booths. After they gave their orders to the waiter and asked for a bottle of B
runello, Morgan’s phone buzzed. She looked down at her screen and sucked her teeth in disgust.
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” she mumbled before her fingers started flying. She furiously tapped the screen, making Derrick stop mid-chew.
“What’s up?”
“My ex,” she snapped, slamming her phone down on the tabletop. The table wobbled slightly as did the wine inside their glasses, swirling around and around. “He was supposed to come by last week to get the last of his shit, and now he’s saying he wants me to bring it to him. Like I’ve got nothing better to do! He’s lucky I don’t just chuck it out my apartment window!”
“Didn’t y’all break up a few months ago?”
“Yeah, but he keeps trying to drag this shit out. It’s annoying as all hell!” She grabbed her glass and took a drink.
Derrick leaned back in his chair and gazed at her under the low lights of the restaurant. He cleared his throat. “So how did you . . . I mean . . . when did you . . . you know . . . when did you know it was over?” he asked, making her lower her glass from her lips and frown at him quizzically.
The question was out before he could take it back. Part of him wondered why he had asked it, but then the other part knew damn well why he had. It was a dilemma he also faced, one that he still didn’t have the answer to.
“What do you mean?”
“When did you know it was time to break up with your man . . . that it was time to go your separate ways?”
She shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was one moment or one day when I suddenly woke up and decided the shit wasn’t working anymore. It just . . . well . . . built up over time. I knew it. And I’m pretty sure he knew it too, but one of us had to have the balls to say it out loud.”
He nodded thoughtfully and took a drink too.
“Is there a reason why you’re asking?”
He looked up from his glass, startled. “Huh?”
“Is there a reason why you asked me that question?” She tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. “You and the bride-to-be having issues?”
