The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  Maybe a large wedding was a bad idea. Not to mention, it would mean having to get in touch with her mother, and God forbid, maybe even her father as well, if she could find him.

  Wandering aimlessly by the ginormous arrangements, all of them much too ornate for her taste, Makayla wondered whether she’d made a mistake coming at all. She wanted something minimalist, maybe all in white. Jamal would probably like that too, but she didn’t have a chance to ask him since he was off in one corner of the boutique, his ear buds in, having an animated telephone conversation.

  Almost all his time was on the phone these days. On the phone, in the office, or on an airplane. When he was home, she tried not to pressure him for ‘quality time’ like a nag, but instead gave him wide berth to go let off steam playing basketball, or hanging out with his brothers whom he had recently become much closer to. Besides, once all that male-time was done with, he invariably wanted to be home, and they drowned in each other.

  At least until they had to get ready for some evening outing or other. Jamal almost always had something to go to at night, so the afternoons they spent together were sacred, and almost always just the two of them. But the lolling around in their apartment wasn’t going to work anymore for a while because their wedding date was only five months away and almost nothing had been done since the save-the-date cards were sent. So now Saturdays would have to be about errands and wedding planning.

  Makayla didn’t even know where to begin with organizing an event like this, so she downloaded a wedding planning calendar from the internet and was following it to the letter, hoping it didn’t steer her wrong.

  Across the boutique, Jamal was laughing at something the person on the other end of the line said to him. Almost resenting his happy-go-lucky mood, Makayla rolled her eyes. Men didn’t have to stress over things like weddings. All they did was show up. And in Jamal’s case, pay the bills.

  “What are your colors? For your … wedding?”

  Makayla looked up and into the warm, brown eyes of the boutique assistant, and shrugged.

  “Yes, we’re looking for arrangements for our wedding. We haven’t chosen the colors yet,” she admitted.

  The woman looked over at where Jamal was still talking away, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. “Is that your fiancée?” she asked.

  Makayla nodded.

  “He’s … if you don’t mind me saying … very handsome.”

  Very handsome? Jamal was more than that. Nothing as tame as ‘handsome’ did him justice. Being the woman he was going to marry, on most days, felt like something out of someone else’s life.

  But the way he looked had become one of the least important things about him—he was her teacher, her guide, her mentor, lover, and friend. No one had ever before occupied so many important roles in her life simultaneously.

  “Yeah, he’s cute,” Makayla acknowledged, smiling in his direction.

  “What style does he like? Bold and assertive, or Zen and mellow?”

  “Hmm.” Makayla squinted, thinking about the question. “He can be either, depending on his mood, but our apartment is understated and classic in design …”

  “You live together?”

  Makayla hesitated at the unexpectedly personal question, and the woman flushed.

  “I mean, because if you do,” she added hastily, “you’ve probably had to agree on things like household items, decorative objects. So, you’ll have a sense of his personal taste.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Of course. He likes simple, clean lines, not a lot of prints and never more than two colors at a time.”

  “Warm or cool?” The woman had begun tapping things out on her iPad.

  “Warm mostly.”

  “And when is your wedding?”

  “November.”

  The woman looked up. “Oh,” she said. “Wow. And you’re doing this yourself?”

  Makayla nodded, feeling her face grow warm.

  “Well listen …” The woman looked over her shoulder. “I’m Claire. And …” She put a hand on Makayla’s shoulder and lightly steered her away from the front of the boutique where two other attendants were milling about. “I actually do event planning on the side. And PA work. So, if you …”

  “PA work?”

  “Personal assistant.”

  Makayla laughed and shook her head. “I don’t need a personal assistant. I’m a full-time student. I just need someone to help me with this wedding maybe. But other stuff in my life, I think I have under reasonable control.”

  “Well, let me tell you. For the next few months, there probably won’t be any ‘other stuff in your life’. If your wedding is five months away, your entire life is going to be about fittings and appointments and scheduling, and working with vendors. How big a wedding is it?”

  “Medium-sized. About a hundred and seventy-five people.”

  Claire shrugged. “I could do that in my sleep. Do you have your dress yet?”

  Makayla shook her head, seized by a feeling close to panic.

  “Well, that alone can take forever. Are you doing something custom, or …?”

  “Off-the-rack, I guess?” she said.

  “Either way, it can take some time for alterations, and finding the right accessories. It can be a real project.”

  Makayla considered for a moment, twisting one of her locs around her finger and chewing on the corner of her lip. She hadn’t given much thought to a dress. All she knew was that she didn’t want anything too traditional.

  “And if you don’t mind my asking, what’s your budget for flowers?”

  Budget? What budget? Jamal hadn’t given her a budget. He’d given her no guidance whatsoever. But of course, what guidance could he give since he’d never planned a wedding before either?

  “How much do you … like, what would it cost if I wanted to hire you?”

  “I’m sure we could work something out that makes sense for you.”

  Claire smiled. She had a smooth, pleasant, pecan-colored face, and jet-black hair that she had slicked away from her forehead and knotted at her nape. The boutique’s staff of three all had the same hairdo, and were all dressed the same way; in pale, pastel blouses buttoned to the neck and knee-length skirts with low-heeled pumps. The idea was probably that they not detract customers’ attention from the floral arrangements. Except here they called them “botanical sculptures.”

  “I’ll give you my number when we’re done and you can talk it over with …” She glanced in Jamal’s direction.

  “Jamal.”

  “With Jamal.”

  She would talk it over with Jamal, but all he was likely to do was nod, pretend to be listening and go along with whatever she wanted. And where the wedding was concerned, he was even more likely to go along with anything that would mean he wouldn’t have to spend his Saturday mornings in flower shops.

  “Kayla.”

  Makayla spun toward the sound of his voice. He was beckoning her and, at the same time, walking toward the exit.

  “We’re leaving?” she asked, exasperated. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes.”

  “I know, baby, but something’s come up, so …” He inclined his head in the direction of the doors.

  Something was always coming up. Even though Jamal was now CEO, the artists still reached out to him routinely, reluctant to accept that he was no longer their problem-solver and go-to guy when they found themselves in one of their little scrapes. And Makayla had a feeling he was having his own problems adjusting to his new reality as well, sometimes missing the personal contact he had with the temperamental and talented people who had for so long been his bread-and-butter.

  Since many had been his friends too, Makayla tried to be understanding when their personal time was intruded upon by some megastar who had maybe accidentally discharged his unlicensed firearm in his quiet suburban neighborhood, or some such nonsense.

  “What is it now?” she asked. “Or should I say, who is it now?”

  Before she walked away
from Claire, the woman slid a card into her hand, which Makayla shoved into the back pocket of her jeans without looking at it.

  Makayla met Jamal at the door, and he reached for her hand as she followed him back out onto the sidewalk. They were parked on Fifth Avenue, and the streets were teeming with weekend shoppers, over-privileged New Yorkers, and tourists. It was easy to forget that they were among the over-privileged; it still didn’t feel that way.

  “Don’t act like you wouldn’t be shovin’ me out the door if your boy called with one of his little …”

  “Don’t start with that. Devin’s been doing okay for a while now. I wish you’d stop bringing all that old stuff up.”

  “All I know is, you still run when he calls, so doesn’t much matter to me why you’re running.”

  “Don’t try to turn this around. We’re leaving right now probably because of one of your nutty artists, not Devin. And as a matter of fact, I blew him off because of you, so it’s kind of messed up that now you’re blowing me off.”

  Jamal abruptly stopped walking, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, so people had to dodge them to avoid colliding into their backs. He pulled her closer, and tipped her chin upward, his dark eyes meeting hers. And of course, it was pretty much a wrap. She couldn’t stay angry at him when he looked at her like that.

  “Look at me.” He lowered his voice in that way he had that made her weak at the knees. Still, after all this time. “We’re not going to do this right now, okay? You tell me what you need, and it’s done. Do you want me to not go?”

  Yes! She wanted him not to go. She wanted him for once to choose not to, instead of putting the onus on her to say so. There was no such thing as forced quality time.

  “Whenever you take this tone, it makes me feel like you’re trying to handle me,” Makayla said, already beginning to feel less annoyed than she was pretending to be. At least he would stay if she asked him to. There was that small consolation at least. “Like I’m a kid having a tantrum and you’re pulling out a pacifier.”

  “Don’t act like a kid, and I won’t treat you like one,” he said reasonably. “You know I have to work. Don’t act shocked every single time.”

  “Not on Saturday. Saturdays are mine. Besides, you have about two dozen people who work under you who could handle this so-called emergency. But you enjoy the crises… And I hope you know that I’m not planning this wedding on my own anymore.”

  “Saturdays are not yours. Saturdays are work days, and they always have been. Sundays are yours. But tell me what you need, Makayla. Do you need me to stay?”

  Makayla. He hardly ever called her that unless he was losing patience. And, need him to stay? How clever to phrase it that way. Of course, she didn’t need him to stay. She wanted it, but that wasn’t enough. Not to mention, he sounded exasperated now, and Makayla could tell from his posture that he was eager to get going to wherever it was he had to go, and she was the only obstacle. But he wouldn’t leave. Not until he was satisfied that she was satisfied. It was Jamal’s nature—to solve the problem.

  She hated when she was the problem.

  “What I need is for you to be present when you say you’re going to be present. And if not, I need … a wedding planner,” she said impulsively. “Someone to do all of this stuff when you’re not here to help me. Someone to do it with me when I can’t do it by myself.”

  His eyebrows lifted a little and he waited for more. “That’s it?” he asked finally.

  Was that not enough?

  “And … and a personal assistant,” Makayla added, upping the ante.

  Jamal narrowed his eyes a little and she knew what he was thinking. He was thinking the same thing she thought when the woman in the flower shop mentioned the idea. What the heck would she need a personal assistant for? She was a full-time student, living in a building with a concierge; and she had no kids, and no real responsibilities except coursework, and cooking occasional meals for a fiancée who was scarcely ever home to eat them.

  “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Done.”

  Then he leaned in and kissed her briefly on the lips, pulling her back into the stream of pedestrians, and hurrying her toward the car.

  ~3~

  “What’s the damage?” Jamal asked.

  “The room is, well … it’s trashed, sir. It’s going to be out of commission for a least two weeks while we redo it,” the manager said.

  Jamal grimaced and gritted his teeth to prevent himself from cursing aloud. The Mandarin Oriental Hotel was no cut-rate joint. Even the ‘cheap’ rooms ran about nine-hundred per night. The one that Kendrick had wrecked was far from cheap. In fact, it was a Premier Central Park View Suite that ran close to three-thousand per night.

  While Jamal was in the flower store with Makayla, waiting for her to pick some peonies or something, he’d returned a few phone calls; nothing too urgent, just the ones he needed to cross off his list so he could enjoy the rest of the Saturday afternoon uninterrupted. And then the call came in from Gayle, his assistant, telling him he needed to call the Mandarin because Kendrick Cruise, one of his most valuable and lowest-maintenance artists was about to be arrested for disorderly conduct.

  ‘Kendrick?’ he’d echoed.

  That didn’t even sound right. Kendrick was a smooth R&B crooner, who acted like he was the Black Frank Sinatra. Always soft-spoken, wearing a suit, and with impeccable manners.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what happened, but I’ve been told he asked for you.’

  ‘Where’s Bryant?’ Jamal demanded.

  His new A&D guy was supposed to be on top of stuff like this. And with him, their publicity folks, who lately had taken on the role of “fixers” as well.

  ‘He’s over there,’ Gayle said. ‘But Kendrick is insisting that it needs to be you.’

  And with that, Jamal’s quiet Saturday with Makayla was done for. Now, he was in the private office of one of the Mandarin’s managers, trying to assess the scale of the problem.

  “I can take you up there to show you what was done if you’d like.”

  Jamal got the sense the man wanted to show it to him. Wanted to be there to witness the look of shock that would undoubtedly cross his features, and ensure that someone felt shame for what happened, since Kendrick was both drunk, and unrepentant. And Jamal also knew he should go see it, if only because he needed to make sure the bill would be proportionate to the repairs that would be necessary.

  “That’s okay. I’ll have my colleague go up with you in a few minutes and do a walkthrough. I just wanted to stop in and personally apologize for …”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. But you do understand that we won’t be able to host Mr. Cruise here in the future.”

  Jamal nodded. “I understand.”

  A few feet behind him, Bryant stood, waiting, arms folded.

  “And the costs, both for the repairs and the time the room will be out of commission will be considerable, I’m afraid,” the manager continued.

  He was a small owlish-looking man, wearing an expensive suit, and a tasteful tie. The staff at the Mandarin were always difficult to distinguish from the guests. Everything about the place reeked of opulence.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Jamal held out a hand, which the manager took briefly. Behind his obsequious smile was a little judgment, a little contempt. No doubt, he wished there was some way he could bar all entertainment types from the Mandarin.

  Turning to nod at Bryant, Jamal took his leave. In the anteroom, Kendrick was slouched on a sofa, flanked by hotel security. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt untucked, his pants rumpled. He had played a show the evening before, and from the looks of him had neither changed, showered, nor slept since.

  Without a word, Jamal jerked his head in the direction of the door, and Kendrick stood, following him out of the room, his head bowed. The security guards followed them all the way out and through the lobby, and waited until Jamal’s car was brought around and Kendrick had gotten in. They had only
driven a half a block before Jamal’s will broke.

  “The hell is wrong with you?”

  “Jay, man, you know I …”

  “Shut up! You know how much all that shit you caused is gon’ cost? And I don’t even mean just the damage to the room. Everybody in that joint is gon’ expect a gratuity just to keep their mouth shut.”

  “I know. I know. But …”

  “Were you high?” Jamal demanded.

  “No. You know I don’t mess with …”

  “I can smell you, Kendrick. You been into somethin’.”

  “Drinkin’. Just drinkin’. I swear.”

  Glancing over at him in the passenger seat, Jamal saw that Kendrick was slumped over, face in his hands. And he did smell. In fact, he reeked—of perspiration, booze, and God knew what else.

  “What happened?”

  “My wife, man. She’s leavin’ me. She found out about this trick I messed with in Miami, and …”

  Jamal tuned the rest out.

  Kendrick had been married for only about eight months. But that didn’t make any difference. Not in this business. The problem was what it always was in these situations. Some dudes like Kendrick, even though they were stars, maintained a tiny streak of normalcy in them. And that streak made some of them smart enough, when looking for a spouse not to choose some star-struck, gold-digging groupie, but a regular chick with a regular job. A woman who, against all the odds, loved him for who he was and not what he had.

  But the traveling, the shows, the hordes of pushy and often beautiful women could test the will of most men. And most men failed the test. Miserably. And when they did, their “regular chick” wives were one of two types: the types who were willing to forgive the transgression as an occupational hazard and hope it never happened again; or the type who believed that the monogamy clause didn’t get suspended just because your husband was famous.

  Apparently, Kendrick’s wife was of the latter variety.

  “She had her lawyer come serve me the damn papers while I was in the hotel room, man!” Kendrick was sobbing now. And there was nothing more pathetic than listening to a grown man sob. “Here I am thinkin’ she about to come spend the night with me before I have to make it to Chicago and instead here come this nigga talkin’ ‘bout I been served! You know how that … I love that girl, man! I shoulda known when she missed the show! And that shit in Miami was just …”