“Yeah.” And then a pause. When she heard his voice again, it was even deeper, lower. “You know I love you?”
“I know.”
“And I’ll call you again later when I get to the room.”
“If you want. Just … finish whatever you’re doing there and come home to me. As soon as you can.”
~17~
“Okay, Kendrick, I’m listenin’. You better say somethin’ that makes sense.” Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms.
“Don’t matter to me if it makes sense to you, Jay. It makes sense to me. I need to work on my marriage, man. I can’t go off for another six months, and …”
“Take her with you,” Jamal said. “She’s a nurse, right? If she takes six months off, she can pick up exactly where she left off with no damage to her career.”
Kendrick Cruise was slouched on Jamal’s sofa, dressed in baggy basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. He had propped his feet on the coffee table, on them, were sparkling-white Maison Margiela high-tops. Whenever Jamal wanted to remind himself just how young and dumb some of his artists were, all he had to do was look at their feet.
Maison Margielas cost, on the low end, somewhere around eight-hundred dollars. These, he would guess, were custom-made and could have set Kendrick back as much as fifteen-thousand dollars. That was the nature of the youthful minds that Jamal dealt with on a daily—the kind that could sit casually in shoes that cost almost a quarter of the annual salary of the average American family of four, and say with a straight face that he was opting not to go to work.
Now what right-minded adult would do some dumb shit like that?
“I don’t know. I’m not tryna ask her to do nothin’ she don’ wanna do right now.”
Jamal sighed.
Kendrick was skating on thin ice. Personally, and professionally. Personally, because his wife had served him with divorce papers but was entertaining the possibility of a reconciliation, pending him acting like he had some sense. According to Kendrick, that meant she was letting him ‘date’ her again, taking things slow, and allowing him to prove himself until she was comfortable that he was really and truly committed.
After she found out about him stepping out on her, she had moved back into her parents’ house, taking with her only the belongings she had when she met him, and immediately hiring an attorney. Kendrick said she hadn’t even been spending his money. Jamal could see why a woman like that might be worth pursuing and keeping, but that was Kendrick’s job.
His job was to make sure that the thin ice Kendrick was on professionally did not crack, and shatter altogether. After the cancellation of his tour, there was a massive amount of ground to be recouped, both in earnings and in good will from the promoters, venues and the public. Jamal had gone out on a limb and leaned on a few people he’d built relationships with over his career, persuading them to allow Kendrick back into their good graces.
The price of that would be for Kendrick to salvage some of the remaining dates. Except, he wasn’t sounding like he was down for that.
“What if I talk to her?” Jamal asked, against his better judgment.
“Oh wow! Look at you, Mr. CEO. You willin’ to get your hands dirty like that? I thought you told me you don’t do shit like that no more,” Kendrick said in mock-surprise.
“Look at this right here,” Jamal said, lowering his voice and leaning in. “You’re not as rich as you think you are, man. And not nearly as indispensable as you’d like to believe. So, either you talk your wife into going with you on this tour, or let me give it a shot. Because a year from now, I make no guarantees about how much currency the name Kendrick Cruise will have. Not in this building, nor out there in the music world.”
Kendrick’s face fell and he looked, for the first time since the meeting had begun, just a little scared. He ran a hand over his face and heaved a deep sigh.
“I cannot lose this woman. I mean it. I …”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. But you listen to me …”
“I’m tryna talk to you, Jay!” Kendrick said, raising his voice. Jamal’s eyebrows lifted in warning, and the singer lowered his voice again. “Me and her? We ain’t on some average shit. This is the woman I want to bear my seed. The one I want to grow old wit’. And you tryna make me fuck that up over some concert ticket sales!”
Exhaling, Jamal leaned back again and shook his head.
“I’m saying it doesn’t have to be all that,” he said. “Let me talk to her. You talk to her. But you have to make those dates. I staked my reputation on it.”
“Well you shouldnta done that, Jay. Because if I have to choose between her and my career, I choose her. Every time. Hands-motherfuckin’-down.” Smoothing his hands over his thighs, Kendrick stood. “I’ma shoot you over her number so you can call her. But I’m tellin’ you right now. If she say she ain’t comin’, I ain’t goin’ either.”
“Claire!”
Makayla dumped her bag by the front door and headed in the direction of the kitchen, where she and Claire customarily met. But all she found there was the open wedding planning binder, and Claire’s iPad. Next to both was a still-steaming mug of tea.
Realizing that she was going to be late coming home from school, Makayla had instructed the concierge to let Claire into the apartment, so she wouldn’t have to wait in the apartment lobby. And it was a good thing, too, since she had been even later than she thought. First stopping to make small talk with her friend, Drina, then on the drive home having Jackson stop so she could grab a few things to make a quick meal for later.
Tonight, Jamal was home early—or supposed to be anyway—so they could go to another of Devin’s gigs, this time at a nightclub. Makayla wasn’t sure what was behind all the sudden interest in Devin’s gigs, but she didn’t want to look a gift-horse in the mouth. Jamal suggesting that they go to the club meant she didn’t have to go without him, and risk the uneasy peace they had established since he returned from Atlanta.
Deciding that Claire was probably in the bathroom, Makayla sighed and wandered over to the binder, idly flipping the pages of samples she had already reviewed. It was incredible how much more she had gotten done with Claire helping her. A November wedding was now looking logistically possible, even if she and Jamal hadn’t resolved their conversation about postponing.
Even if they did, there would be no venue fees to worry about forfeiting, since they were doing the wedding at the Scaifes’ house. Robyn had insisted, according to Jamal. She said she liked that it was becoming a tradition among their friends, to use the Scaife family home for momentous events, and milestones.
Later, after had already Jamal agreed to it, Robyn had called Makayla to confirm that it was okay with her.
‘You know men,’ Robyn said. ‘They make impulsive decisions without consulting us sometimes, so I wanted to make sure he hadn’t railroaded you into something you don’t want.’
Makayla didn’t know what she wanted back then. She had no idea about planning weddings, so the Scaife family home—which was more like an estate, actually—was just as good a place as any. It was the most beautiful home she had ever been to, so who was she to complain?
True, she had no emotional attachment to it, and it would have been nice to choose a place where there were some memories of hers and Jamal’s. But at the time, Makayla hadn’t had any better ideas, so she’d gone along with it. And besides, she really wanted Robyn to like her.
Looking away from the wedding binder, Makayla’s eyes glanced across the iPad and then returned when she spotted a familiar face.
Madison. Why was Claire looking at pictures of Madison Palmer?
Reaching down to touch the screen, Makayla realized that it was a magnification of a picture in which Madison was just one subject. The other, was Jamal.
Leaning in even closer, she saw that the shot was posted on a popular celebrity blog site. The site, unimaginatively named BlackandFabulous.com, had been the bane of Makayla’s existence when she and Jamal were bro
ken up. She had scoured it for long hours, agonizing over shots of him with Madison. But this one, she didn’t remember having seen before.
Nothing particularly weird about that, since this blogger was something or a Scaife Enterprises devotee, following the comings and goings, the births, and the love lives of everyone in that circle. She even included occasional shots, and stories about Chris Scaife’s eldest son, Deuce, who was a senior in university, and dating a striking young woman who was a tabloid dream to photograph.
Narrowing her eyes, Makayla realized something. The date above picture, near the byline. It was just a week ago.
Heart pounding, she let her gaze fall to the caption.
The Real JT (and the only one we care about), spotted outside ATL nightspot, Close, with old flame Madison Palmer.
“Hey!”
Makayla spun at the sound of Claire’s voice.
“Hey,” she returned. “What’s this?” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen surface.
“Oh, I just made myself a cup of jasmine tea. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I meant this.” Makayla lifted the iPad.
Claire looked confused for a moment, then took two steps forward and looked at the screen. Blushing, she looked up at Makayla apologetically.
“I should have waited till you got here so you could just tell me, but since you were late I decided to do a little research.”
“What kind of … research?”
“Well,” Claire reached for her mug of tea. “We’re coming up on the time when we need to think about tuxes, and dresses. And for Jamal’s tux, I thought it might help to poke around on some websites and see pictures of what he likes to wear out. To get a sense of his style.”
Makayla looked at her, and Claire met her gaze with a steady one of her own over the brim of the mug.
“I guess that makes sense,” Makayla said. “It’s just … I don’t like these tabloids. Most of the crap is made up, or out of context, anyway.”
“Of course it is,” Claire said with a shrug. “I wasn’t paying any attention to any of the stories. I just needed to see the pictures. But now that you’re here, we can move on to the more fun stuff—looking at dresses.”
Forcing a smile, Makayla pulled up one of the stools, preparing to look at frothy wedding stuff, while her mind searched for any possible acceptable ‘context’ that explained why Jamal was in Atlanta with Madison a week ago.
Maybe she didn’t want to know.
That was the only explanation for why, when Jamal came home, Makayla had gone through the motions of sitting and eating dinner with him—steaks and a spinach salad that he seemed surprised she’d prepared—without breathing a word to him about the picture of him with Madison.
He was pensive as well, eating while sitting across from her, but saying nothing. When he was done, he scraped his dish, put it in the dishwasher and asked her whether she needed anything from the fridge when he grabbed a bottle of water. Then he said he had some email to respond to before he took a shower, and asked did she mind if he took care of that before they got ready to leave.
“It’s early,” she said, not looking up from her plate. “You have time.”
“No, I meant does it bother you, if I work a little, instead of …?”
Makayla looked up.
Instead of what? Talking to her? They hadn’t been doing too much of that lately, so what was the difference?
Even after that sweet interlude on the phone, remembering one of the best times they’d ever had as a couple, things had been strained when he got back home. And maybe now, she knew why. He’d seen Madison while he was away. Maybe he’d been with her even while they were on the phone that night.
“No, it doesn’t bother me,” she said, shoving aside a piece of meat with the side of her fork.
Jamal paused, studying her for a moment.
He was shirtless, as was his preference when he was home. His smooth, dark chest, and the ripples on his abdomen were like something out of the seminal medical textbook, Gray’s Anatomy—the very picture of what the male physique, in peak form, was supposed to look like.
She was staring at him too, and for a moment, the simmer that was always between them increased slightly in temperature. He hadn’t touched her since he’d been home, and Makayla knew he wouldn’t now, even if he was thinking about sex. She knew him. She knew them.
They were not one of those couples who could work their way back to each other through screwing. Sure, they could have sex, and it would be better than good, maybe even amazing. But it wouldn’t smooth out the hard edges at all, not for them. They had to talk it out. And right now, neither of them was talking.
“Won’t be long,” Jamal said, turning. “Couple hours max.”
Makayla watched him leave and looked back down at her food. The grease from the steak had begun to congeal on her plate. She pushed it away.
When she was a rookie, working as the newest member on Jamal’s team in development, she’d helped him hide a rap star’s infidelity from his wife. Makayla remembered looking into the wife’s face and knowing that she knew her husband was cheating.
‘But she doesn’t want to know,’ Jamal had said later. ‘Because if she knows, then she might have to do something about it.’
At the time, the woman—the whole situation—seemed so pathetic. Makayla could only hope that she, and her situation, hadn’t come to that.
Jamal’s fingers, grasping hers tightly as they entered the VIP section at Onyx felt good. And the music, loud enough to crowd out all troubling thoughts, sounded good. What felt even better was that while they shoved their way through the crowd, Jamal had pulled her close, as was his habit when they were in venues like this. His arm was hard and firm, looped about her waist and Makayla noticed the eyes of other women skating over them, noting his possessive hold.
Jackson was with them, walking a few feet ahead, helping to make a path until they got to their destination. Once they did, he stood like a sentry at the entrance to the section, his expression forbidding, putting potential intruders on notice.
Jamal released his grip on her waist only once she was about to sink into one of the black velvet sofas, and Makayla saw his eyes drift along the length of her legs. Tonight, for a change of pace—and yeah, also because she wanted to torment him a little—she had chosen a white romper with very short shorts, a deep low-cut neckline and long balloon sleeves.
The contrast, between the sleeves that concealed her arms, the low neckline, and the bottoms that showed just a hint of where her butt met her thighs was exactly the kind of thing she knew made him crazy. He loved her legs, and she knew they were one of her best features, long and shapely, though she wasn’t particularly tall. Now, with the high pewter sandals she was wearing, Makayla knew they looked even longer.
Her hair, she had piled on top of her head in a large, dramatic bun. It was the most effort she had put into her appearance in a long time, and she was happy with the results even before she realized the effect it had on Jamal. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and had stood strategically behind her to conceal the view when at the apartment, Jackson held the door open for her to climb into the backseat.
It was just eleven and Devin was set to go on at midnight, but he’d promised to come sit with them for a few minutes before he did, so Makayla was scanning the club, searching the faces for his.
“Want something to drink?”
Jamal’s breath on her ear made her shiver a little. And she could smell him. He was wearing that scent she loved—the one that was so subtle, she could almost be fooled into thinking that it was the natural aroma of his skin.
She nodded.
“White wine?”
She shook her head. “Mojito.”
Jamal’s eyes narrowed slightly.
She rarely drank at all, and when she did, she stuck to the lightest of whites. Mojitos weren’t exactly hard liquor but Jamal knew what was typical of her, and what wasn’t.
When their drinks arrived, and Makayla took the first sip, she felt the warmth of the alcohol as it went down her throat, and its immediate mellowing effect. The song playing was one she liked, so she sat forward, beginning to move her shoulders to the beat, resting her drink on the nearby table.
Then, out of seemingly nowhere Devin had emerged from the crowd and was dancing into the VIP area, extending a hand to her. Grinning, she stood and took it, allowing him to lead her out to the dance floor.
His eyes were almost bloodshot, and he was clowning, mouthing the lyrics to Fetty Wap’s ‘679’ as they moved to the beat. ‘Baby girl you so damn fine, though … I'm tryna know if I could hit it from behind though …’
“Are you drunk?” Makayla asked laughing. She pulled him in closer so she could yell in his ear.
In response, Devin only grinned, and with hands on her waist, still singing, started grinding against her, as if enacting the lyrics he’d just been singing.
‘I got a Glock in my 'rari, 17 shots, no .38 …’
“You’re stupid,” Makayla laughed, feeling her mood lift. Seeing Devin like this—unfettered, and feeling no pain was plenty to make her entire night.
“I might be stupid, but your ass is hanging out of that little thing you got on. Can’t believe he let you out the apartment wearing that.”
“It wasn’t up to him,” Makayla said.
“Yeah? Well you should see how he grittin’ on me right now.”
Makayla wanted to look but didn’t. Instead, she danced.
When finally, they stopped, it was because Devin had to go back to get ready for his set. He was only going to be onstage for about fifteen minutes, and then he’d join her and Jamal afterwards. He ushered her back to the VIP area, and Makayla collapsed on the black velvet sofa, reaching for her glass with the now-tepid drink. Though he didn’t say anything, Jamal’s posture was rigid and he wasn’t looking at her. He was angry.
Good.
The Takedown Page 17
