by Solace Ames
Miles was almost turned away at the door. He’d dressed himself, and badly, in worn jeans and a mustard-colored T-shirt with a frayed collar that said Fuck Me I’m Irish in front.
Just as the doormen figured out Miles was famous, an entourage burst out of the hotel suite, all large black men in loose, expensive clothes. One of them made a dismissive gesture at us, a flick of the wrist that could have turned into something more specific, but he turned and walked away and rounded the corner before I even saw his face.
“That’s T-Wrecka’s crew,” Xiomara whispered to me. “T-Wrecka’s got some kind of history with Emanuel.”
“He drew a gun on me over a minor disagreement about sound levels during a production session,” Emanuel explained, his hand steady at the flat of my back. “His grip was flawed. I took it away and whipped him with it. He’s avoided me since.”
I wasn’t surprised, and I definitely wasn’t scared. I don’t think Miles or Xiomara were either. We all knew how Emanuel took care of business. Even if we were falling apart. Especially if we were falling apart.
“I listen to some of the music, but I don’t really follow the reputations,” I said. “Is there anyone else to watch out for?”
As we drifted through the crowd to an empty couch, I got filled in. Emanuel had some other business issues with people, nothing as extreme as the incident with T-Wrecka, and Miles didn’t know anyone here and looked out of place. On the other hand, Miles always looked out of place.
Except when he was onstage.
A few older stars recognized him from years ago, and came by to shake his hand or slap him on the shoulder, but they didn’t bother to take pictures with him. Too raggedy, perhaps. I even overhead a woman whispering, “Have you ever seen a white boy so poor?”
“Shit, I thought he was dead,” her companion replied.
The only one who seemed to recognize me was a high-end stripper on the arm of a rapper. She winked and waved discreetly, and I did the same for her. My confidence skyrocketed. Whether it was my man, or my makeup and outfit, I’d flown up into this rarefied space without the burden of self-consciousness. I was myself, not a stranger or impostor or pale imitation. I had nothing to prove or disprove. Fuck being a star, I was a comet, a big blazing ball of myself flying effortlessly through the night.
Emanuel settled into the center of the couch. I sat on his right and Miles to his left. He wasn’t wearing a hat, so his close-cropped white hair stood out like a lighthouse beacon. His plan tonight was to wait for other producers to come to him, gauge their interest, and offer the more rhythmic Avert material for collaboration. I was getting excited to see what would come out of this, excited to the point my knees shook. I glared down and gripped them still, reminding myself to look a little bored and above it all, just so I’d fit in. Pirate princesses didn’t bounce up and down in their seats.
But I wasn’t putting on that role because I had to. I was putting it on because this was fun. So much fun. Like what they promised teenagers in movies, like everything I thought I’d missed out on.
I took a selfie. The flashing lights in the background turned us all into grainy phantoms. My eyes were shadowed black shards, Emanuel’s pupils were blazing red.
“Hail, Satan,” Miles said. “But seriously, you’re a much better-looking couple in real life.”
“Oh, I know,” Emanuel said.
Those were the first words he’d spoken to Miles since the morning of the falling out. I tried not to read too much into those words. Their relationship, or lack of a relationship, was closed to me. Don’t open that door, I warned myself. Don’t be needy, don’t be pushy. You need to prove yourself.
I gestured to Xiomara to take the place next to me, but she shook her head and stayed standing, her hips swaying subtly to the bass-heavy beat. I was glad she stayed apart, so her body heat wasn’t right next to me—sitting next to two men I’d both slept with was exciting and distracting enough. Being close to beautiful women sometimes distracted me even more, given my history.
“Emanuel, from the land of flowers,” I heard from a different direction.
The man who’d spoken was about Miles’s height and build, with shoulder-length dreads and a paisley dress shirt in a hallucinatory shade of fuchsia with orange suspenders. He didn’t just look stylish, he look stylized, as if he ought to be on a tarot card. Don’t bounce, I reminded myself sternly.
“Markov,” said Emanuel. “Congratulations on your award.” Something about the way he shaped the words and tipped his head implied he didn’t give out compliments easily, so the ones he gave mattered.
“I’ve won grade-school poetry contests with more integrity,” Markov said, sounding smooth as satin despite the cynicism.
“If you don’t have anything good to say about anyone, you can sit next to me,” said Miles. Miles just sounded like trouble. Miles always sounded like trouble.
Markov took up the invitation and slung himself across the arm of the couch next to Miles. “I stay surrounded by fuckboys,” he announced. I could tell from his unfocused eyes and mystical smell that he was at least mildly high on weed.
“What’s a fuckboy?” Miles asked. “I like the word. It’s got a resonance.”
“Not you, Miles Morrison. I signed some contracts I shouldna signed, got mixed up with the wrong crew. The kind, they think rhyming Hennessy with Tennessee is like the apex of the game. You gay?”
I covered my mouth with my hand. Emanuel laughed softly, so I took his cue and didn’t get worried. Xiomara stood by my side, tipping a flute of champagne to her plum-colored lips, looking as iconic and stylized and stunning as Markov.
I thought Miles was about to launch into his no-labels speech. He seemed strangely uncertain, open, even lost, but then he’d turned into a new person this past week, a person I didn’t understand anymore. “Gay? Well. Not really, but sort of. Why?”
“Gay enough, then. I got a proposition for you.”
“Buy me a drink first.” Miles grinned broadly now. He’d found himself. This kind of sexual chaos was right up his alley.
“I thought you weren’t drinking anymore,” I reminded him, goddamn my leftover sense of duty.
“Amy’s right. Fetch me a virgin screwdriver or something—that’s the bare minimum to get me on my knees.” He waved imperiously at Markov.
“Let me introduce my more civilized companions,” Emanuel said, with a touch of laughter in his voice. “Amy, my girlfriend. Xiomara, my cousin.” God, I loved how impossible he was to shake or shock. And I loved that silly word girlfriend too—as much as I was aiming for razor-edged pretty, a helpless soft smile still curved on my lips.
“That wasn’t your best song, the one that you won the award for,” Xiomara said. “But you deserved it for the song about the dry river.”
I remembered Markov’s song, the one she was talking about, and how it linked the stories of people who’d crossed the dry concrete river that ran through the center of Los Angeles over the span of one night, why they ran, what they were running from, what they thought they were running to. I didn’t understand all of it, but it was the kind of song that made you want to understand all of it. Now that I’d put the face to the song’s evocative bars, my fingers were already itching to internet-search the annotated lyrics.
“A pleasure to meet you, ladies.” Markov tipped his head to us. Gleaming gold wires banded some of his dreads, and his cuff links were miniature golden circuit boards. “Mucho gusto,” he repeated to Xiomara. His cool dark eyes stayed fixed on her even as he angled his body toward Miles. “And you? Before I buy your honor with an orange juice, you’d best hear my proposition.”
“I’m all ears.” Miles rested his sharp chin in the palm of his hand.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave,” muttered Xiomara, sotto voce, and drained her champagne. I wasn’t sure if she was quoting
Shakespeare or Wu-Tang Clan.
Markov wasn’t too high to lay out, in simple words, his action plan. He’d been absorbed into an up-and-coming crew, pressured to change his rap name, currently a complicated mathematical pun, and pushed in unwelcome artistic directions. T-Wrecka was in the same crew, T-Wrecka hated Emanuel like poison, and best of all for Markov’s purposes, T-Wrecka was pathologically homophobic. He’d even storm offstage if he saw men wearing nail polish.
“Are you gay? Or bi?” Emanuel asked, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back. He was obviously amused. So was I. This shit was bananas.
“I don’t believe in labels, man,” Markov said. “But nah.”
“You do understand the consequences?” Emanuel asked. “Your reputation, your potential sales...”
“I prefer to think of them as prosequences. I get dropped without breaking contracts, go back to my less commercial work, reconnect with my local crew, sever myself—” that last with a neat scissor motion of his fingers, “—from an audience base that won’t nurture my long-term artistic vision, know what I’m saying?”
Miles massaged his throat and bit his lip, showing Emanuel’s level of amusement but in a slyer, slinkier way. “So you’ll commit career suicide on a pyre of manlove and rise like a phoenix from the fucking ashes. You’re like a young version of me! Well, without the heroin. And with better hair. I love it. I love you. I’m very excited about this proposal. Do you need a fake blowjob or a real one? Or a sloppy kiss with lots of tongue?”
“I think a little tongue would be enough,” Markov said diplomatically. He might not have expected Miles to be quite so enthusiastic.
“I could choreograph and video it,” I offered, and wiggled my phone. “We’d have to move somewhere with better lighting, though.”
“We could be Amy’s directorial debut,” Miles said, almost purring. It didn’t matter what ratty clothes he wore, underneath he was pure naked sex. I could appreciate that quality more than most.
And I knew Emanuel wouldn’t blame me for it.
I looked to Emanuel. He tilted his lips down to my ear, his breath tickling the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck. “I hate to send you away at such an interesting point, cariño, but Xiomara walked away upset. Can you...”
“Of course. I’m on it.” I raised my voice. “Have fun without me, boys.” I got up and walked away, already searching for Xiomara’s purple dress in the noisy crowd.
I found her two rooms over. She looked like she was searching for an exit. Everyone else here tonight wore cool-mannered masks over a fiery passion, but her pain and her passion were right there on the surface, twisting her lips and shining bleakly through her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel guilty. I wasn’t thinking about how all of this affects you. I got caught up in the crazy.”
“He forgot about me. He forgot I even existed. Either that, or he’s doing it on purpose. I don’t know what’s worse. I thought he’d changed.”
“As far as I know, he’s still planning on leaving it all behind and heading east.”
“I wish I could do the same. I can’t let go. I can’t move forward. I’m trapped.” Her hands hovered around her waist, molding the air, fingers spread apart and trembling as if she couldn’t bear to touch herself. “I’m trapped, because of him.”
“Do you want to leave? I’ll go with you.” I didn’t mind. I loved being here tonight, but there’d be many more nights spent with Emanuel, and Xiomara was like family. If she needed me, I’d go.
“No. I don’t want to leave, and I don’t want to see him go through with that—that parody with Markov. I respected that guy. Just like I respected Miles once, before I found out how hollow he was inside.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to live.” She laughed bitterly and touched her cheek, steadying herself. “I want to break out of suspended animation. You might not understand it, Amy, but you know what? I don’t understand it myself.”
“Love can really fuck you up,” I said by way of consolation. It was about the only advice I was qualified to give.
“It’s love, and it’s more than love. I thought I wanted a steady job, a regular paycheck, a little music on the side to brighten my life. But it’s taking me over.”
“So you don’t want to go to grad school,” I said, filling in a few gaps. There’d always be a huge gap remaining between us, because music didn’t live in my hands, itching to get out. I could see it, hear it, but never comprehend how fully it ruled over her.
“I’m going to do something, Amy. Take care of Miles, send him off, and tell him I hope he makes it.”
“What?” I steadied myself against the wall and blinked rapidly, flashing lights and thick cross-gusts of secondhand marijuana smoke ruining my mental clarity. This wasn’t a suicide threat, was it? I swallowed down my panic when Xiomara smiled. She didn’t look desperate or lost anymore. Just the opposite. “You’ve got something stuck in your eyes,” I warned her. “It’s like a manic gleam.”
“I’ll see you around later. Until then, thanks for everything, babe.”
She hugged me, a nice quick hard hug that didn’t trip any danger signals, and set off through the crowd.
I had no idea what the fuck was going on.
Go with the flow. And everything was flowing, everything was in flux. At least that’s what they told us in my grandparents’ Buddhist temple, even though my Catholic mother later tried to convince me that the kingdom of heaven was truly unchanging and eternal.
I shook my head free of religious memories, wove my way out of the gusts of marijuana smoke and decided I’d better tell Emanuel what was going on, at least. He’d know what to do and how to talk to Xiomara.
The crowd was thick. I had to elbow and excuse me through the press. The stripper I’d seen earlier danced superbly in the center of the largest room, standing one-legged on a chair with her other heel pressed to the ceiling, an effortlessly graceful, glittering butterfly surrounded by a whirlwind of dull green dollar bills hurled by the crowd. I had to stop and gawk. I couldn’t dance like this myself, I just wiggled a bit and felt myself up onstage, but I loved watching the champion level stuff.
I tore myself away after the song ended, wondering if Emanuel liked that kind of dancing too. I imagined he did. His tastes were fairly broad, after all.
There he was on the couch, unmistakable and unrelentingly monochrome: smoky gray glasses, gray suit, black shoes. He probably didn’t see me, but I couldn’t help smiling and waving at him.
I couldn’t see Miles, or Markov, or Xiomara.
Lightning flashed.
I searched for the source. Was it the staged Machiavellian kiss? Yes, someone was bent back under the foyer chandelier, where the lighting was better. Most people held up phones around the couple. At least one had a big lens with a flash.
“Hey,” Miles said, and tapped me on the shoulder.
I startled. “What the fuck is going on? Who’s that with Markov? Oh—”
Markov was kissing Xiomara under the chandelier.
Her purple dress glowed fiercely, like flowers under ultraviolet, and her fingers wove into his gold-banded hair. They looked good together. Stunningly good. I wanted to take a picture myself and become a part of their moment.
“She cut in on you,” I said.
“I don’t care about that. The whole thing was just a fucking joke to me. I’m worried about her.”
“You can’t do anything about it,” I warned him. I had the horrible thought Miles might flip out and tell Markov she was trans. I didn’t see how any good could come of that. “You have to leave it up to her. You don’t own her, and she doesn’t want to be protected right now. She told me as much. Please.”
He didn’t say a word.
I took his hand and led him back to the couch, p
ut him back in his place at Emanuel’s left, and sat to Emanuel’s right. I held Emanuel’s hand and stayed silent. If I picked up my phone and started doing social media searches on Markov’s name, I was sure I’d see their kiss collecting gossipy captions like a magnet dragged through iron filings.
I kept my phone in my purse for now.
“She’s going home with him,” Emanuel said in a neutral voice, regulating the emotional temperature as always. “We’ll leave as well, in ten minutes. I settled the collaboration.”
“With Markov?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I stole a glance at Miles. Still stone-faced. Quiet despair was a good look on him. Gothic, romantic, tragic, all those heavy words. But even as his profile took my breath away with its painful perfection, I remembered that Xiomara wanted to live, and Miles was oriented toward death. She’d made the right choice, and done it with flair. Whether her night with Markov was just a kiss or would end up becoming more, they flowed well alongside each other, made Afrofuturist visual poetry together.
Miles would only drag her down.
“She said to take care of Miles.”
“Miles needs to take care of himself.”
“Do you think he will?”
He sighed and looked away.
Chapter Sixteen
The back of the limousine, our bubble, floated homeward through the streets. I imagined we were in a real bubble, a champagne bubble, fizzing upward in the aftermath of a celebration.
I crossed my silvery pirate princess legs and leaned my head against Emanuel’s shoulder. I was relaxed, peaceful, but not at all sleepy. Miles was miserable on the other side of the car, but Miles was usually miserable, and I knew from the beginning that my happiness couldn’t depend on his.
“Markov doesn’t look like the type to beat a woman,” Miles said suddenly. “But then, they never do, I guess. If she gets outed—”
Emanuel cut him off. “He already knows. And Xiomara can take care of herself. The worst that would happen is unkind comments, not assassination attempts.”
