by Tiana Laveen
“No, absolutely not. I like how you look when you blush, so I say things that trigger that. You’re a little modest it seems. I don’t run into that a lot. It’s kinda nice…”
“Is it, now?”
“Definitely. When you blush, you look even prettier. Your cheeks get bigger, tight, you blink a few times, and then you look away. But I can see you in the window reflection, and you’re usually smiling. You like it when I flirt with you, but you also want to still feel like you’re in control. Just keep in mind that you don’t know me. I’m not performing right now. This is who I really am, so try to not make so many assumptions, all right?” She nodded. “That’s what this date is for, so that can change.”
She turned away, hiding her face as she didn’t want to encourage him further. Kool & The Gang’s, ‘Summer Madness’ began to play and she looked out of the window, up at the pretty sky. Shades of tangerine, navy, and champagne blended together, competing with the smog.
“It’s a nice night. Not too hot. Not cold. Perfect.” She removed the gum wrapper from her purse, spit her gum out onto it, then folded it up.
“We’re almost there.”
She hadn’t even noticed that over thirty-five minutes had passed. The time went so fast.
It wasn’t long before he was pulling up to a beautiful brownstone. He pointed at it.
“That’s where we are going. I just need to find a spot first.”
He rode around a bit, found a place to park, then helped her out the truck.
“You good?” he asked as he made her switch sides on the sidewalk to protect her from traffic.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” She readjusted her purse strap. They were quiet for a while, their steps echoing on the pavement. “How’s your mother? Should I not have brought that up? I’m sorry if I—”
“No, it’s cool.” His jaw tightened as he slid his hands in his pockets. “She’s all right.”
“Are you, uh, planning on going back on tour soon? I read about you leaving early. I had no idea.”
He shrugged. “I’m just taking things day by day. My tour would’ve been almost over, anyway. Next week would’ve been the end of it. I’m working remotely right now, got some concerts lined up here and in Jersey, Maine, Pennsylvania, Connecticut… places that are not too far. I’m working—got some collabs ’nd shit scheduled like I told you. Interviews. Some club performances and hosting. The things I do when I’m not recording or on tour, basically. I’ve also got a sponsorship deal with a couple corporations, like Adidas and this one sports drink company, so I’ve got to shoot some ads and commercials over the next few weeks.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Sounds like you’ll be pretty busy.”
“Yeah. My manager is in the process of scheduling a local eastside tour right now as well, but it will likely start a few months from now. It should be pretty good. It allows people from neighboring areas, like in the Midwest, to not have to travel too far to see me on stage if they want to. So yeah, still performing. I just gotta do it closer to home for right now in case something happens.” She nodded in understanding. “Here it is.” They’d arrived at the brownstone.
Cars were parked against the sidewalks lined with beautiful cherry blossom trees, a few changing colors prematurely. Music drifted from the dwelling as they walked up the steps—‘Inside Your Love,’ the Swales’ In Detroit Version which she loved. She moved to the beat as he knocked on the door and was greeted by two guys.
“’Sup, man!” Gutter was now surrounded by a mass of people embracing him, leaning in for half hugs, slapping hands, the whole nine. The home was amazing. The first thing she noticed was the large black and white abstract art hanging on the walls. He pulled her to him then, and her heart began to race as he looked into her eyes. His expression said it all. Protective. Warm.
“This is Promise…” He began to introduce her to people, his arm now around her waist.
Is that Alicia Keys? Oh my God, it is… It seemed everywhere she looked, there was another celebrity. This was insane. Then, a large bald Black man in a dark suit approached her as Shawn Mendes strolled on by.
“May I have your cellphone, please?” he asked gruffly.
“It’s cool, baby. Anyone who they don’t know, they ask for their phone. Some people here don’t want their picture taken.” She nodded in understanding as she rummaged through her purse, turned it off, then placed it in his palm.
“Your name?” The big guy typed into some sort of device that looked like an iPad, but not quite.
“Promise Bradford…”
The guy input her name, as well as the make and model of the phone.
“Please don’t lose it. That’s my new—”
“Ma’am, it’ll be safe. I promise.” The man slid the phone in a purple velvet bag, then walked away.
“You want something to drink? Let me get you a glass of wine,” he offered without waiting for an answer.
She stood there, watching Gutter work the crowd as she took a few deep breaths, calming herself. The place was crowded, but there was still room to move around. A huge buffet spread sat on a table nearby, guarded by two hosts dressed in chef attire. The apartment, the decor, the people, everything and everyone looked incredible. Lobster, filet mignon, a chocolate fountain, the works…
Gutter returned by her side and handed her a beautiful flute glass filled with white wine.
“Thank you.” She smiled before taking a sip. “Mmm, this is good.”
“You’re welcome.” She noticed he didn’t have a drink for himself. He shoved his hand in his pocket, looked around, then pointed to a corner farther away. “Let’s go over there and talk.”
The night is just getting better and better. This wasn’t just some ploy to get in my panties. He really wants to talk to me. Get to know me. Well, well, well, aren’t you full of surprises, Gutter? I’ll be damned…
CHAPTER NINE
Newport Cigarettes, Cigars and Good Vibes
The intimate, semi-circular red booth was nestled in a cylinder-shaped wall, which blocked the space from the main room. Above it hung 1970’s style tapestries, small, fringed rugs with beautiful prints, and a framed gold album with no artist name. Black cushions adorned the seats, and on the table sat a slender black and red lava lamp. The Fugees’, ‘Fu-Gee-La’ now drifted from the speakers.
Gutter waited until Promise was situated in the booth, then slid next to her, wrapping his arm around her and squeezing her shoulder. She took small sips of her wine, cautious like a thirsty bird by a lake full of alligators. Her perfume was sweet, yet airy and fresh. He loved the way she smelled.
“They’re going to bring your food over,” he announced as he leaned back in the seat, taking a load off.
“Oh, they are? We don’t serve ourselves? How do they know what I want though?”
“They’ll bring over a little of everything. Whatever you want more of, they’ll take care of it.”
She took another sip of her wine, then set it down. “Does your friend have parties like this often?”
He shrugged, then waved over a server who had a tray full of hookahs and cigars.
“Let me get two of the Arturo Fuente ones—one for now, one for later.” The server picked his selections with a white-gloved hand and handed them to him, along with a lighter and ashtray he set on the table. “Thank you,” he said, placing one in his pocket, then turned to her. “She has these parties a couple times a year usually.”
“And it’s just because, or is there a reason behind it?”
“Celebrities like me—and I hate calling myself that, but I’ll say it just to keep the conversation simple—want to go to parties too, but if we go to the regular clubs, we have to deal with a lot of bullshit. Sometimes, we want to go and not be bothered, and the only way that happens for certain is if we are around other people in the industry, and rules are established. We need down time, too.”
“Down time meaning parties with no interruptions or intrusions?”
“
Yeah. We don’t want to have to talk business, or engage in a conversation about when someone saw us perform in Vegas. If we run into a fan, we have to perform basically, because if I’m around people who aren’t in the industry, like you, and there’s a bunch of y’all especially, then I have to be careful about what I’m saying, doing, all that shit. People will whip out a phone and videotape you without your consent, so I can’t move how I want to all the time. I don’t have that freedom anymore because I’m a ‘personality.’” He made quote signs with his fingers. “I’m an entertainer. A professional singer and musician. I’ve got company endorsements, contracts. A lot of money and a lot of time has been invested. So, I don’t have the luxury of not considering my surroundings.”
“You seem laid back and nice to your fans, though.”
“That’s a different issue. It’s only tied into this because your original question was about why these types of parties are thrown. I was just trying to explain that I’m not one of these guys who’s out here wildin’ out because it could mess up my business deals, my money, and plus, I don’t see the reason to be disrespectful to a fan unless they’re disrespectful to me first. Like getting in my face, taking a bunch of photos, asking invasive questions or talking shit. Tellin’ me, ‘Your song was trash, but I’m your greatest fan.’ Nasty-nice shit like that.”
“I get that,” she said with a smile.
“I like interacting with my fans, and to keep ’em happy, without sacrificing myself in the process, of course. It’s just… how can I explain this? I gotta be more considerate, I guess you could say. For example, I rarely refuse to give an autograph unless they’re acting stupid, demanding it, or I’m late and tryna catch a flight, shit like that.”
“It makes sense. I never really thought about the hassles that come along with being a star. I think people usually just think of the perks. The money, the fame, and so on.”
He lit the cigar. “Yeah, and with perks come problems. Fame isn’t free.” He took a drag and exhaled the smoke. “These parties allow us to have laid back conversations, listen to some good music, dance, eat, and not have to explain anything. Nobody is comin’ up to us asking for a damn thing. The hosts take care of our needs, and it’s just real chill.”
Soon, two waiters arrived at their table and placed before them numerous small plates of food, along with napkins, silverware, and glasses of water. He didn’t miss how Promise’s eyes lit up, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard her stomach growl while in his truck. He inched closer to her as they passed the plates back and forth between them, loading what they wanted onto their main plates until they both were satisfied with their selections.
“So, you come here to just chill. Then how—”
“Hold up, baby.” He snapped his fingers. “Yo, my man, can I get an Evil Twin?”
“Of course. We have Michigan Maple and Double Barrel.”
“Double Barrel. Thanks… Okay, you were asking me a question.” He took a bite of some thinly sliced steak that practically melted in his mouth.
“Yes,” she stated around a mouthful of pasta salad. After swallowing, she turned towards him. “I was basically just wanting to know, if you come here to chill and just be with your coworkers, for lack of a better word, then why were you allowed to bring me?”
“Oh, we can bring a guest or two, as long as that guest doesn’t take photos and doesn’t try to engage with the other people. Now, if someone you recognize approaches you, that’s different, and that does happen. At times we even get actors and big-time comedians here, but my point is, the guest we bring has to stay lowkey and not make any waves.”
“Oh, I see.” She smirked before jamming a spoonful of potato salad, then grilled sausage, in her mouth. “How do you know I wouldn’t have been starstruck or acted crazy? As you told me in the car, I don’t know you. Well, you don’t know me either. I could’ve come in here, seen all of these famous people, and embarrassed you to no end.” She snickered.
He pushed his plate aside.
“Unlikely.”
“You didn’t even warn me that I’m not supposed to go up to anyone. I could’ve caused a scene since you didn’t give me the guidelines.”
“Nah, you come off as too classy for that. You didn’t seem like someone who would be acting that way to me. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.”
“So, you do think you know me?” the woman teased as she chowed down on some sauteed pink salmon sautéed with capers and slices of lemon.
“You just don’t have that vibe.”
“And what vibe is that?”
“That thirsty vibe. You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“I sure do. Explain this vibe to me. Thirsty isn’t enough.”
“Those like me who’ve been in this business a long time can feel these vibes. Some people are constantly trying to rub elbows with us, not because they’re fans, want to really get to know us, or love the music. They just wanna be in the spotlight or ride some coattails without putting in any work. They’re always trying to hang around, calling and stalking you. I don’t like that. Crossing boundaries. It’s phony, and those sorts of people are superficial and users. I’m too old to be fucking around with hangers-on, in business or my personal life. You don’t have that feel though, just like I said. That sleaziness is nonexistent in you.”
“Hey, Gutter.”
“’Sup, Jamie.” He and Jamie Foxx waved to one another as the guy walked past with a couple women.
“Can I ask you something and please don’t freak out?” She cut into her juicy steak.
“It takes a lot to make me freak out. Go ahead.” He picked up the cigar and took a draw.
“Have you ever dated a Black woman before?”
“Oh, God.” He rolled his eyes dramatically and laughed.
“Stop. It’s an honest question. I looked online, and most of the women you seemed to date in the past were either White or Latina.”
“See, that was your first mistake, looking online and thinking you’re going to get correct information. Why would you ask me some silly shit like this?”
Her eyes widened. “That’s why I asked! To get the answer!”
“You can’t believe everything you read, Promise.”
“I know that. Again, that’s why I asked, but I find it strange that you haven’t answered the question directly, and how they managed to get photos of you with every type of woman but a sista.”
Why do so many Black women ask me this? Perhaps she believed she was some experiment. Something fun to try out and play with?
“First of all, you can drop the attitude and accusations.”
“I don’t have an attitude. YET.” She practically snarled, looking disgusted.
“I dated all kinds of girls in high school. If I thought someone was cute, that was good enough. White girls, Asian girls, Mixed girls, Black girls, Latina, whatever. My personal dating preferences as far as appearance—and yeah, I have some—have nothin’ to do with race or complexion. I’ve been linked to women I’ve never even kissed, let alone had sex with or dated. The media gets a hold of a story from so-called informants or eyewitnesses, or an allegation based on a half-truth, and runs with it. Like, I could just be having lunch with someone, or a business meeting, and then the next day there’ll be a story about how that’s my woman and we’ve been dating for two years and are expecting our first child. A bunch of bullshit. Search engines are not the gospel.”
“Google is my best friend.” She snorted.
“Really? Don’t quit your day job and try to go into journalism. I wouldn’t trust you to be a reporter or find the latest scoop. Your research ability isn’t that good apparently, C.B.”
“How do you figure?” She smiled and chewed at the same time.
“For instance, you missed a story from three years ago when I dated Jalanda Rickson. That was real.”
“Wait, what? You and the singer Jalanda dated?”
“Yeah. We were together for like five or six months
. And then before that, I dated the rapper, Debbie Snax, for a couple of months.” Debbie Snax was an African American artist out of L.A. and had won her share of music awards for several hit songs.
“You dated Jalanda and Debbie Snax? Okay, that’s interesting, but I didn’t see it, and trust me, I tried to find all the stories I could.”
“It’s not hard to find. There are pictures and everything.” He tapped his cigar into an ashtray. “But most of my romantic relationships aren’t discussed online. You won’t find shit about them. I don’t tell people my business and usually the person I’m with doesn’t run her mouth, either. When asked in interviews who I am dating, I refuse to answer and say straight up, ‘Who I’m plowing is a private matter. Keep it moving.’”
“I understand that. It seems when the outside world gets involved in people’s private affairs, it makes the relationship harder. Strained.”
“Precisely.” He nodded and smoked a little more. “In public, I don’t try to necessarily hide who I’m with, nothing like that. We go out to regular places, no ducking and dodging, but who I’m fucking, dating, in love with, all that shit is nobody’s business but mine and hers.”
She sat back with her glass of wine, crossed her legs, and gave him a candid look. She seemed satisfied with his response.
“What’s your type?” she asked.
“I date whoever I vibe with and am attracted to. She could be a celebrity or just an ordinary person. I’ve dated high-profile attorneys and waitresses. Grocery store cashiers and famous dancers. A pretty face and tight body aren’t shit if the mental isn’t right.”
“True. A mental connection is also crucial.”
“They say smart people ask a bunch of questions. Are you smart?”
“Obviously not if I’m allowing you to call me C.B. all damn night.”
He burst out laughing. “I like your mental.” He grinned at her, falling deeper in lust, and she smiled back. Leaning close, he deposited a soft peck on her mouth. Her lips were so damn warm. He pulled away and licked his mouth, tasting a bit of her wine and the saltiness from her food. Getting closer again, he delivered another kiss, and then another until he was reaching for her glass, placing it down on the table, and cradling the back of her neck. Drowning in her scent, he slid his tongue inside her mouth for a deeper kiss to the tune of Ginger Root’s, ‘Loretta.’ He rubbed her back, up and down, and squeezed her to him.
