by Shelly Ellis
“Wait . . . who is waiting for me? What the fuck are you talking about?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . I thought they were just going to do it at his house. I had no idea. I didn’t . . .” Her words drifted off.
As she spoke, Ricky looked around the club, watching as a new set of dancers began to strut on stage, as the bouncers returned to their stations after tossing out the rowdy patron. The whole scene looked so mundane—like any other night at Club Majesty—and yet, he could feel something in the air now. Something was about to happen.
“We’re about to get raided, aren’t we?” he asked, feeling his stomach drop. “You told the cops who I was. You told them what I told you. You told them everything, didn’t you?”
She didn’t respond, and he knew then. He knew the truth.
“Are they raiding Reynaud’s too?”
“I’m so sorry, Ricky,” was all she said.
Just then, the front and side doors flew open and more than two dozen police officers streamed into Club Majesty with weapons drawn, shouting orders. The music on the overhead speakers abruptly stopped. The dark club suddenly blazed bright, and patrons started to scatter like cockroaches when the lights are turned on. Most didn’t get far. They were stopped by police officers who placed everyone in handcuffs.
Ricky watched the chaos with a mix of shock, dread, and hurt. He couldn’t get out of here even if he tried. He thought about the stolen goods in the storage room. He thought about the suitcases Dolla Dolla kept in his basement. There was enough shit here to send him away for decades.
“Ricky?” he heard Simone shout. “Ricky, are you still there?”
He had fallen in love with Simone, and she had betrayed him. And she had done it on such a grand scale.
“You did this,” he murmured, slowly shaking his head, watching as everything he’d built was being ripped apart in front of his very eyes. The strippers onstage and backstage scrambled. Most were still in their G-strings and pasties, screaming as the officers lunged and grabbed for them. A few were openly sobbing. “You did this! I helped you, Simone. I risked my life for you! I did all I could for you, and you did this shit to me?”
“I didn’t want this to happen! You have to believe me! I just want my sister to be safe. I didn’t . . . I didn’t want to get you tangled up in this, in any of it. I just wanted—”
“Fuck you! Fuck you, you lyin’ bitch!” he shouted, feeling his hurt flip to rage. “I swear to God, when I get my hands on you, I’m gonna—”
He didn’t get to finish. One of the officers yanked his cell phone out of his hand and shoved him down against one of the tables, pressing his face into the marble tabletop.
“Ricky Reynaud, you have the right to remain silent,” the officer began.
Ricky closed his eyes and accepted his punishment for being so trusting and so stupid.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” a voice laughed in his head.
As he listened to his Miranda rights and was escorted out of the club in handcuffs, he made a promise to himself that if he made it out of jail, if he made it out of this, the first person he was paying a visit to was Simone Fuller.
Chapter 31
Jamal
Jamal sat at his desk, staring out the office window at the busy street below, watching the cars and the metro buses drive by, as pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk and walked through the intersection. This was his town, his city. It had been for most of his life and yet, he felt no more a part of it today than he had when he arrived here from North Carolina when he was nine years old.
He had tried for years to be a part of D.C., to make his mark. It was why when he was eleven years old he had tagged the wall behind his apartment building with spray-paint and wrote in bright white letters, “JAY L IS DA BOMB.” It was the first time he’d gotten caught tagging, and it had landed him a beating with a shoe on his backside from his mama, but it’d been worth it. He’d finally had something tangible to show the world that he existed, that he meant something in these streets. It was why he had gone to law school and gotten a job in D.C. government, working long hours for low pay in the hopes of moving up the ladder. It was why he had eagerly accepted the position as deputy mayor when Mayor Johnson offered it to him. He’d wanted to be something that people could look up to and respect.
I just wanted to be somebody.
But now the whole enterprise felt pointless, like a complete waste of time. His job as deputy mayor was full of obligation, but short on prestige. He’d lost his girlfriend. He was no longer friends with Derrick and Ricky, who he’d damn near considered his brothers. But the hardest blow had to be how things had turned out with Melissa. She’d called him a “low-down shady fuck” and she’d obviously meant it; she no longer wanted anything to do with him either.
Jamal tiredly closed his eyes.
Maybe it was time to stop living for other people. Maybe he should finally put even Melissa’s judgment of him aside. All these years, he had been pretending to be something that he wasn’t, putting on a mask to please and earn the love and respect of those around him. Maybe he should finally just embrace who he really was and do whatever the hell he wanted. If he really was a “low-down shady fuck,” he might as well own up to it and embrace it.
Why the hell not?
He slowly opened his eyes, exhaled, and pushed himself to his feet. He then walked around his desk to his office door, buttoning his suit jacket and mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do next.
* * *
“Yes?” Mayor Johnson called out, slowly raising his eyes from the stack of papers assembled in front of him. When he saw Jamal striding into his office, he raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “Why hello, Sinclair! I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Did we have a meeting scheduled? Certainly not this early.”
Jamal shook his head. “No, no meeting. I’d like to talk to you though. I know you’re an early riser like me and I wanted to talk to you when no one else was around.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
Jamal closed the door behind him and strolled toward the mayor’s desk.
“I want to talk about the little conversation that we had a few weeks ago,” Jamal said, lowering himself into one of the chairs facing the mayor’s desk, “when you asked me what I planned to do with the information I gathered.”
The mayor’s polite smile disappeared. His bushy gray brows drew together. “And what exactly did you want to discuss regarding that conversation?”
“Look, you saw what was in that envelope. I know about the hundreds of thousands of dollars in campaign contributions Dolla Dolla had funneled to you. I know for the past five years you’ve been getting kickbacks for building contracts.”
The mayor barked out a caustic laugh. “You don’t know a damn thing! I don’t care who you talked to or what they told you, but you can’t prove any of it. And if you even breathe a word of this to the press, it’s your funeral! Do you understand me?”
There he was, threatening his life again. But Jamal wouldn’t be scared off this time.
“Even if you kill me, you can’t kill every reporter in town. And they’ll all pick up the story. You know it, and I know it. The mayor who claimed to be anti-corruption is really working with a dude like Dolla Dolla? They’ll be salivating over it, and my paper trail shows—”
“I don’t give a shit about your paper trail! No judge or jury in this town would ever find me guilty,” Mayor Johnson said, leaning forward in his chair. “But you can be sure that you won’t have the same luck if I decide to sue your ass for slander. When I’m done with you, you won’t have a dime left to your name! You’ll wish you were dead—if my partner hasn’t killed you already!”
“And everything I can already prove about your dirty financial dealings . . . your questionable business relationships, there’s probably twice as much that an industrious reporter or the FBI could discover,” Jamal c
ontinued, undaunted. “That’s the stuff that could land you with those scary federal charges. That’s the stuff that could put you in prison for a very, very long time.”
The mayor quieted.
“But,” Jamal said, inclining his head, “I’m a reasonable man, Vernon. You mentioned before that if I kept your secrets, if I was willing to work with you, there could be something to benefit me in the end. So . . . I have a proposition for you.”
The mayor’s stony visage softened. He sat back in his chair, narrowing his eyes with interest. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t want any part of your side businesses—whatever it is. But I do want a pay increase by about thirty percent. . . no, make that fifty percent.”
“Sinclair, I can’t just arbitrarily decide to—”
“I don’t care how you do it; just do it,” Jamal said firmly. “Get it from your dirty kickbacks, for all I care. And I’m tired of toiling in the shadows. No more grunt work. No more bullshit. I bust my ass as deputy mayor. I want to be more at the forefront from now on. When you get invited to New York or overseas or Congress to represent our fair city, I want to be at your side. I want my face in front of those cameras. The people of this city are going to know who the fuck Jamal Sinclair Lighty is from now on.”
“So money, power, and fame,” Mayor Johnson said with a chuckle. “That’s what you want?”
Jamal nodded. “That’s what I want.”
The mayor’s chuckle became a full rumbling laugh that made his chest shake. “Well, if that’s your price of cooperation, I believe it can be arranged, Sinclair.”
“Please, Vernon . . . call me Jay,” he said, his face widening into a Cheshire cat grin. “And I’m glad we could reach an agreement.”
Chapter 32
Derrick
It had been a sleepless night like he’d thought it would be, though Melissa had slumbered contentedly beside him. Her soft breath—its rhythmic inhale and exhale—had been the symphony he’d listened to during the most of the night as he stared into the darkness.
He’d thought he was going to break up with Melissa, had even promised Morgan that he would, and now the situation had flipped. He faced the task of ending things with Morgan instead, and the prospect felt even worse.
At least with Melissa, he had felt justified in walking away. They had been fighting for months. Though they had known each other for decades, she’d been treating him like a total stranger; she’d behaved like a woman he no longer recognized. But Morgan had done nothing wrong. She had offered him friendship and affection. He could find no justification in what he was about to do to her besides the fact that he was still madly in love with Melissa and wanted to make it work now that she was willing to do the same. They were going to start all over again, and he couldn’t let this chance pass him by.
When his alarm clock sounded, Derrick felt like he was recovering from a hangover. His head was pounding. His muscles felt tight and worn. Even his stomach hurt.
“You okay, baby?” Melissa asked him worriedly as she put on her bathrobe. “You don’t look well.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m just . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m catching a cold or something.”
She looped her robe belt around her waist and knotted it. “Well, if you don’t feel good, then stay home. Call in sick.”
He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, listening to the crack of his muscles and joints in his back. “I can’t.”
She laughed. “Why not? You’re allowed.”
“I just can’t,” he said firmly, and then looked up at her.
She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her brows were furrowed.
He rose to his feet and hugged her, not wanting to argue—not after they finally seemed to be back on track after all these months of being derailed as a couple.
“I just . . . I’ve got something important to do. I gotta go in today, even if I don’t feel up to it. It has to be done.”
She leaned back and raised her hands to his face. She ran her nails through the hairs of his goatee, rose to the balls of her feet, and gave him a lip-smacking kiss.
“Okay, Mr. Miller, do what you have to do. But if you still feel shitty after you get there, just leave early. I’ll make you some soup when you get home, and, if you’re strong enough,” she wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him another kiss, “I’ll have something else waiting for you when you get back home.”
He smiled. “I’d like that.”
She took a step back and walked into the bathroom. “Gotta go take my shower. You can hop in with me if you want,” she called over her shoulder to him.
It was an offer she hadn’t made in months.
“I’ll join you in a bit,” he said.
When she strolled into the bathroom, he reached for his cell phone. On the screen was another message from Morgan. He didn’t even read it; he instantly deleted it.
“What the fuck am I doing?” he whispered
“You comin’, Dee?”
“Yeah, I’m comin’, baby,” he said, before lowering his cell back to his night table and yanking off his boxer briefs. He then strolled into their bathroom.
* * *
An hour later, Derrick walked down the hall toward his office.
“Derrick!” he heard Morgan call out.
He saw her waving and striding toward him, hallowed by the light from the other end of the hall. Even from this distance, he could see the adoration in her eyes. He halted in his steps, took a deep, fortifying breath, then continued in the direction he was headed.
Of course, he had to bump into her as soon as he arrived at work, or maybe he wasn’t bumping into her. Maybe she had been lingering near his office door, waiting to hear how this morning had gone when he told Melissa that they were breaking up. He was about to disappoint her.
“Good morning,” she said when he finally stood less than a foot in front of her. She made a quick glance over her shoulder and his, as if to see if anyone else was in the hallway with them. She raised her lips to his, as if to kiss him, but he pulled away before she could, making her squint.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Don’t do that, okay? Especially don’t do it here.”
“Don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “I checked. No one saw us.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She took a step back, now frowning suspiciously. “Then what did you mean, Derrick?”
“Look, Morgan, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“I fucked up. I . . . I lied to you.”
She took another step back from him, then another.
“I told you that it was over between Melissa and me,” he pressed on, “and I . . . and I thought it was but, last night . . . last night she and I—”
Morgan shot up her hand, stopping him midsentence. She shook her head, sending her curls whipping around her shoulders. “Stop! I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you. I really—”
“I said, shut up!” she yelled, then caught herself when she realized her voice projected down the length of the hall. “I should’ve known something was up when you didn’t answer my texts. I thought maybe you wanted to be alone for a bit and didn’t wanna talk. I thought you were working through some shit. You’d just broken up with your girlfriend, so you needed some space. But I gave you too much credit. Didn’t I, Derrick?”
He dropped his eyes, unable to bear the look of hurt and anger marring her face.
“So what was all that shit you were telling me about, how I’m too good to be somebody’s side chick? Huh? Because that is exactly what you fucking made me! I was the rebound bitch who patted you up and flattered your ego until your ball-busting fiancée was ready to give you your nuts back!”
She was going below the belt now, but Derrick accepted it silently. This was his punishment for how he had treated her, for what he had done. She w
as using her words to whack at him like a piñata. He’d let her get her hits in. He wouldn’t fight back. He wouldn’t say a word.
“Fuck you! Fuck you and your lies!” She turned away from him but then paused and faced him again. Her eyes were red and bright, threatening to spill over with tears at any second. “You know I was with an asshole for almost three years. I thought I could spot one from a mile away, but turns out, I can’t. You fooled my ass, Derrick Miller. You fooled me good!”
She then stomped away from him.
“Morgan!” he called. He started to follow her, but then stopped.
He wanted to defend himself, to explain why he had done what he had done, but there was nothing to explain. He had lied to her like she’d said, though he hadn’t meant to do it. He had behaved like an asshole. Everything she’d ranted about was true.
One of the stairwell doors swung open and the hallway filled with a stream of boys headed to their morning classes.
“Hey, Miss Owens!” a few of them called to Morgan as she walked by.
She didn’t respond but instead dropped her head and sniffed, turning away from their eager gazes and ready smiles.
“What’s up, Miss Owens?” Cole said, holding the stairwell door open for her as she approached him. When he saw her face, he stared at her with concern. “Hey, are you all right?” Cole asked.
Morgan gave one last glance over her shoulder at Derrick who stood mutely several feet away. She quickly nodded at Cole before a lone tear spilled onto her cheek. She then eased past him into the stairwell, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Cole stared at the closed door for several seconds. He turned around and looked at Derrick. “Why was she crying? What happened?”
Derrick began to tell him that it was not his concern and to just head to class when Cole charged at him. Derrick barely had time to brace himself before the young man gave him a hard shove, almost sending him flying into the wall behind him.
“What did you do to her?” Cole shouted.
