The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  Then Devin took to the stage, looking like he’d wandered out of his bedroom after a nap. He was wearing a sloppy t-shirt that was ripped in places, and a pair of black jeans that were washed-out to a dull, almost-gray. His hair was long, heavy on one side, so that he kept raking it back with one hand. In the other, he held a bass guitar. The way he held it caught Harper’s eye. He held it like it was an extension of himself. And he played it that way as well.

  Once he began strumming, he ignored his long hair when it fell into his face. He closed his eyes and he bopped his head. For a while it seemed like all he intended to do was play. But then he started to sing, and the stirring hoarseness of his voice caused tears to rise to Harper’s eyes. But she was confused, too, because DeJuan led her to believe the music he played would be very different than it was. This wasn’t be bop, or hip-hop, or pop. This was old-fashioned blues. The kind that came from real pain. The kind that couldn’t be faked.

  Devin played, and sang like he was alone on that stage. He made eye contact with no one. He didn’t seem to care if anyone was there to hear him at all. Maybe that was it, Harper recalled thinking. Maybe that was the sticking point. Jamal would have hated that. He loved music, but for him it was very much a business, and one that depended on pleasing the consumer. Having an artist who made a practice of not looking at or relating to the audience would make him insane.

  But even that didn’t make much sense. Because Devin had the kind of talent that would make you overlook the absence of a limb. He was that good.

  After the set, Harper made her way backstage. She’d met Devin before at SE, even worked with him a little as part of the team when they were planning his tour. But she had to introduce herself again, and watched as his eyes closed off when he realized she was SE.

  ‘I’m not here for work,’ she clarified. ‘I just heard some good things and wanted to come listen for myself, that’s all.’

  After that, he warmed up enough to let her buy him a couple drinks, and then they shared a blunt out in the back of the club. He didn’t talk much, and she didn’t try to make him talk. He seemed to appreciate that, and finally started asking her about herself. His questions were asked casually, like throwaways. Harper got the sense that he would forget her responses moments after they were uttered. Devin that night had been pleasant, in the way someone is pleasant when a parent tells them to ‘entertain the guests.’

  Despite the lack of genuine interest in anything she had to say, he invited her back to his place, and Harper accepted. How could she not? He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And besides that, she was now in awe of his talent. That was, and had always been, her key weakness—she was slain by talent, and overlooked a million other shortcomings if the talent was there.

  At his place, they hooked up for the first time. What Harper remembered most clearly about it was that neither of them wanted to kiss on the mouth; and that he fucked her like he was mad at her, like he wanted to hurt her. And it was good, because that was what she wanted from him then, as well.

  That wasn’t what she wanted from him now, though.

  Harper sat on the couch and pulled on her Chucks, tightening the laces, and pausing once they were on. She glanced toward the kitchen where Devin was sipping his coffee. She waited to see whether he would meet her gaze, and when he didn’t, she stood.

  “I’ma take off,” she said, as if he was trying to stop her. “Hit me up later if you plan on stopping through.”

  “Yeah. A’ight.”

  She headed for the apartment door, pausing to grab her bag, moving slowly enough when she opened the door so that he could stop her, or say something else if he wanted to.

  He didn’t.

  ~10~

  “Jackson, do you sleep in that suit?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I told you about that,” Makayla said in a sing-song voice.

  “I mean …”

  “Don’t say ‘miss’ either. Makayla. Just call me Makayla.”

  “No, I don’t sleep in the suit. I take it off, I put it on … you know, like clothes usually work.”

  Smiling at him through the rearview mirror, Makayla shook her head. “Ah, there you go again with the jokes. You’re almost as funny as Jamal.”

  “Almost,” Jackson said. “But not quite.”

  “Yeah, he never stops, does he? So where am I being kidnapped to today?”

  Jackson had once again been waiting outside her last class, but this time, Makayla had jumped into the car without comment. It was hot, and she hadn’t been looking forward to the subway, nor the short walk to get to it. There were worse things than having a smooth ride with a fresh, cool interior waiting for her, especially on a day like this.

  “Just to the apartment.”

  “Home?” Makayla sat up, more alert now. “Why? Is everything okay?”

  “Far as I know,” Jackson said.

  “So, why …?” Makayla reached for her phone and dialed Jamal’s number. It went immediately to voicemail. She looked at Jackson again. “You’re sure everything’s alright?”

  “Yes ma’am. He sounded perfectly fine when he called down to tell me to get you. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “So why does he want me to go home?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I don’t ask questions, I just do the driving.”

  Leaning back in the seat, Makayla exhaled. Sometimes, she felt like a chess-piece that Jamal moved around on the chessboard of his life. Even her moving into his place had been the result of a presumption he’d made, that she would want to move out of the apartment she had shared with her grandmother for as long as she could remember.

  In that case, Jamal’s presumption had been correct, she’d been grief-stricken, and bruised, recovering from her grandmother’s death; but at the same time, giddy and in so in love with Jamal she couldn’t even see straight. She was still giddy, but now no longer sad or bruised. She could see more clearly now, and had begun to want things, do things … and be things that weren’t all so inextricably linked to him.

  For one thing, she hadn’t even told him that she now no longer had even the slightest interest in being in the music business. Since starting school full-time, she was more focused now, and considering other career-paths, most that had nothing to do with entertainment. Jamal wouldn’t take that personally. He would be supportive, the way he always was. But it was still strange that she hadn’t found the time, the space, or even the will to share these changes with him.

  “Your suit looks ridiculously well-pressed,” Makayla told Jackson, returning to her original train of thought. “I mean, like, all the time.”

  “That’s how you know I don’t sleep in it,” Jackson returned.

  She laughed. “Ah. Touché.”

  They were almost at a standstill, languishing in traffic on Columbus. Cars with impatient drivers maneuvered their way forward, blocking that pesky intersection at W. 81st, near the Natural History Museum. From inside the plush vehicle, the blaring sounds of horns was muffled, and Makayla could see, but barely hear the chaos of the city all around them.

  “What was your training?” she asked Jackson. “To do this work.”

  “A driver’s license,” he said.

  “I know you’re not just a driver,” Makayla said.

  Jackson glanced at her in the rearview mirror, but said nothing.

  “I overheard Jamal talking to someone,” she explained. “Did he tell you not to tell me that you’re also a bodyguard?”

  “Sometimes people get a little skittish if they think there’s a reason they might need extra protection,” Jackson said, sidestepping a direct answer to her question.

  “I guess I could see that.”

  “And I’m not really a bodyguard. I’m just … trained in certain techniques. Mostly to do with evasion, and de-escalation.”

  “Hmm. What would you de-escalate?”

  “Exuberant fans. Angry women.”

  Makayla laughed. “Oh, o
nly the women who’re angry? What about angry men?”

  “Those you don’t de-escalate. Those you neutralize,” Jackson said.

  “Neutralize?” Makayla echoed. “That sounds intense.”

  “It can be. “

  “Are we talking like … lives-will-be-lost kind of neutralizing?”

  “Nah. Usually more like temporarily incapacitating types of stuff.”

  “Military!” Makayla said triumphantly. “You were in the military, weren’t you? That’s the training you have.”

  She saw Jackson smile.

  “Did you see active duty?”

  His smile dissipated. “One tour,” he said, his tone short.

  Makayla knew better than to ask anything further. He was young, so if he’d seen only one tour, in a time of live conflicts around the globe, and was no longer in uniform, something had to have happened. Something likely to be unpleasant, and unfit for casual conversation while sitting in traffic.

  “Do you like this work?” she asked instead.

  “I like working with Mr. Turner. He’s cool people.”

  “He is.” Makayla said thoughtfully. “But what about the work? Isn’t it kind of boring?”

  Jackson laughed. “It’s anything but.”

  “Really?”

  “You’d be surprised the things you see and hear when people get so used to you being there, that they stop noticing you.”

  Makayla thought for a few moments. “Oh. Ohhhh …”

  “Not just that. I mean, just in general. Seeing people how they are, when they don’t think anyone’s watching.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “No, seriously. Gimme some examples.”

  “Can’t,” Jackson said. “Confidentiality agreements.”

  “Okay … so what about me and Jamal? What do you see us do differently, when we think no one’s watching?”

  At that, Jackson’s eyes met hers through the rearview mirror once again. “Same rule applies,” he said. “I can’t talk about anything Mr. Turner does when …”

  “No, I don’t mean tell me what he does. I mean, what differences do you see between the way we both are, like together, when we’re out in public, and when we’re in here with you, and don’t think anyone’s watching?”

  Makayla waited through the silence while he seemed to be thinking about how to answer the question. Or maybe he was thinking about whether to answer the question.

  After a few moments, Jackson gave a quiet chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “It’s just …” He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “I realized that … you and Mr. Turner, y’all are almost exactly the same. In public, when I’m out with you, and when you’re alone in the car. There’s hardly any difference,” Jackson said, with a slight note of wonderment in his voice. “He’s definitely more social when he’s out there. And you’re a little less social. But towards each other? You’re …” Jackson shrugged. “You’re the same.”

  Makayla smiled. “That’s a relief.”

  Jackson gave her a glance over his shoulder. “Why? Did you think otherwise?”

  “No, I don’t know. It’s just … the world Jamal lives in? Sometimes things aren’t what they seem to be. And it can be …” She let her voice trail off.

  “Difficult,” Jackson ended the sentence for her. “But it’s the world you live in too.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “I know people look at it from the outside in, and probably think it’s the best deal ever, being around people who are rich, famous, getting to see and do things, to go places most people never get to go to. But sometimes it’s just …”

  “I understand,” Jackson said.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  Makayla shrugged. “I keep forgetting that you get to go to the same places. That even if you hang in the background, most of the time, you’re at the same clubs and parties and places we’re at. So, you do understand.”

  “Except, like you said, I get to hang in the background. No one expects me to participate.”

  “True.”

  “Do you hate it?” Jackson asked unexpectedly.

  “Hate …?”

  “Being expected to participate. To be a part of that world.”

  “No …” Makayla thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say all that. But sometimes I feel like you feel like an observer. It’s hard to believe sometimes, that I’m living it. I mean … I have someone planning my wedding for me. Someone who shows up at my school to drive me to my fancy apartment in Midtown. I mean …” She stopped and shook her head. “If you knew what my life was like just a year ago.”

  “What was it like?” Jackson asked.

  “Different.”

  “Different, how?”

  Makayla laughed. “You seriously want to hear it?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “This is a lot of traffic. We ain’t gettin’ to the apartment for a minute.”

  “Okay. So, I may as well tell you. For starters, a little over a year ago, I lived with my grandmother …”

  Makayla opened the door and looked around as soon as it was shut behind her.

  If he sent Jackson to get her, and bring her home yet wasn’t home himself, she was going to lose it.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Makayla let out a ‘whoop’ and spun in Jamal’s arms, which he’d wrapped around her waist from behind.

  “You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Did I?” Shoving her locs out of the way, he kissed her neck wetly and then nibbled at it in a way that made her squirm, and giggle.

  “Stop … that’s ticklish.” She swatted the top of his head, and wriggled free of his embrace. “Now, why am I here? Why are you here? It’s the middle of the day.”

  “I know.” Jamal walked toward her, forcing her to take corresponding steps backward until she collided with the foyer wall. He loomed over her, resting his forearm just above her head, leaning forward so their faces almost touched.

  Makayla smiled at the feeling of déjà vu that washed over her. This very wall, in this very entryway, had seen much more action than most people would believe. But while she was smiling, Jamal’s face had turned serious.

  “Hey,” she said, putting a hand at his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me.”

  Makayla squinted. “Noth…”

  “Don’t say that. Something’s wrong. I feel it. When we’re not good …” He gestured between them. “I feel it.”

  Shrugging, Makayla tried to look down, but Jamal tipped her chin upward once again so they were maintaining eye contact.

  “What makes you think …?”

  “Kayla.”

  “Nothing’s wrong … exactly,” she began. “I just …”

  He waited. And he stared, dark eyes piercing, searching hers.

  She shrugged again. “I miss you,” she said.

  Gradually, Jamal smiled.

  “Why’s that so funny?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s not funny at all. I miss you, too.”

  “Then why’re you smiling?”

  “Because I knew something was off. And I even knew what it was. But I wanted you to tell me. I’m just happy you did.”

  “I thought it was just that I needed your help planning the wedding, so I hired Claire and it’s still not enough. And you’re busy all the time, and I feel stupid wanting you to take time to look at place-settings with me, and choose colors, but …” Makayla shook her head, “it’s what I want. I want us to do those things together. Not have me do it with someone who’s hired to care.”

  Nodding, Jamal looked solemn again. “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. You’re right. It’s our wedding, so we should be doing those things together.”

  Makayla exhaled.

  “Is this why you’ve been avoiding me? Staying out
late with Devin, and …”

  “I haven’t been …” she began, then stopped when she saw the look of skepticism on his face. “Okay, so I was a little pissed, okay? And so, I was avoiding you a little bit. Because you gave me exactly what I said I wanted when you let me hire Claire, and so I felt silly to be pissed, and …”

  “Decided to hide from me instead?”

  “I wasn’t hiding from you.”

  “C’mon. I mean, I come home and you’re not here. I have to call you to hunt you down, and then …”

  “Well, welcome to my world.”

  At that, he had the nerve to look surprised.

  “Is that what it’s like?”

  “That’s what it’s like.” Makayla nodded, looking him in the eye.

  His brows knitted, and he said nothing for a few moments, then finally he nodded as well.

  “How ‘bout this? I can’t promise that I’ll make it to all the wedding appointments. Most of them are during the workday and you know that it’s tough for me to get away then. But what if I can commit to something else? Dinner together, every night.”

  Makayla was shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “You can’t promise that.”

  “I can. And I am. Every night, I’ll be here for dinner. Unless I’m traveling.”

  She was afraid to hope for it. Afraid of making herself believe it would actually happen. But Jamal didn’t make empty promises, so she permitted herself a smile.

  “How about three nights a week?” she offered instead. “I wouldn’t want you to slack off on work entirely, or feel stressed about what you’re not doing because you’re with me. Just … sometimes, let’s make dinner together a priority.”

  Jamal nodded. “Bet.”

  “And I’ll even do you a solid, and we can count tonight as one of the nights for this week.”

  “You’re doin’ me a solid?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Yes. Call this your grace-period. But after this, we’re doing this wedding thing together whenever you can get away, and dinner for sure three nights a week.”