Authors: Niobia Bryant
P
rofessional but sexy. Respectful but attractive. Noticeable without appearing to want to be noticed. A perfect selection.
I knew from the once-over Mr. Sahad Linx gave me when I walked into his office that morning that the smoky lavender Lafayette 148 wrap dress was an excellent choice. The V-neck top and just-below-the knee skirt perfectly accentuated all of my attributes.
My infusion weave looking glossy and perfectly coiffed in a straight style that was sleek and well suited to my round face, I was looking good, feeling good, and ready to finally catch that man.
“Good morning, Mr. Linx.” My heart pounded just from being in his presence.
He cleared his throat. “Morning, Danielle.”
“Your car will be downstairs in twenty minutes to take you over to the video shoot at Madison Square Garden,” I told him, looking down at his schedule for the day as I closed the agenda Alyssa left for me to stay abreast of his swamped schedule.
He was busy scribbling something into his own agenda, so I took the time to look around his sprawling office. I liked the masculine black, gray, and maroon tones with chrome furnishings. The framed platinum-and gold-selling albums on the walls were testaments to his success and power in the music industry.
Everything spoke of all the trappings of wealth.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Linx?” I asked, wanting his attention on me.
Sahad looked up in surprise like he forgot I was standing there at all.
I wanted to shoot him my “I want you” look, but I kept my face composed and cool. I was not a groupie.
“I’ll need you to go with me to the shoot.”
I nodded, even though my stomach did a flip-flop. Alyssa had explained that she did accompany him to a lot of his appointments. Assuming that was all, and not wanting to seem eager to be in his overwhelming presence, I turned to leave.
Snagging a man like Sahad was about playing it cool.
Call it ego—call it whatever you like—but I had the feeling that his eyes were definitely on me as I left. Back in Alyssa’s office, I double-checked my makeup in the portable mirror she kept in her desk. Needing only another light coat of my Chanel Glossimer lip gloss, I put the mirror away. I lightly sprayed my wrist and cleavage with my favorite perfume, Glamour by Ralph Lauren, hoping to finally have the glamour and the man I craved.
Of course, if he did make a sexual advance, I would politely resist with just enough interest to let him know I was attracted to him…but not easy. You must remember that every man kept one notion in his head when it came to women: you can not make a whore a housewife. Ahem, Rule #1.
And that was my goal: marriage. Period.
“All set?”
I looked up, and there he stood looking quite handsome in a very casual plaid shirt and khaki shorts. I liked the ensemble. Casual but not thuggish. It was something a successful Black businessman could easily wear to the Hamptons or Harlem.
I grabbed my Ria handbag and my Fendi rimless shades. “Ready.”
Sahad, his publicist Savionne, and I rode his private elevator down to the underground parking lot. We exchanged no words because he was busy on his steadily ringing Blackberry. In the back of the limousine the calls continued, but I did not mind. Just being in his presence as the limo sped through the congested New York streets was enough.
“No one was able to reach Dom?” I asked.
“Not me,” Alizé yelled from my bathroom.
“I tried to call, but all I got was her voice mail, and Diane said she hadn’t seen her. I left a message.”
That was Mo, looking quite stylish in a peach drape-front tank and stretch sequin jeans of the same hue. The color looked fabulous against her tanned skin and minimal makeup.
My first two days working as Sahad’s assistant went so well that he rewarded me with four VIP passes to one of the artists’ release parties. Of course, I was taking my girls. I just wished that Dom could have made it as well. Her raw energy would have made it even more fun.
“Tah-dah.”
Alizé walked out looking like the true hip-hop diva she was dying to be in Gucci logo hot pants and high-heeled sandals. She did have the legs.
“Wonder what your Madison Avenue bosses would say if they saw you in that outfit?” I teased, because it was so different from the professional image she presented at her internship.
“I’m like a chameleon. I adapt to my environment, thankyouverymuch,” she informed me with a ballerinalike spin and a kick of her leg.
“You ever thought about auditioning to dance in a video?”
Alizé pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears, showcasing her retro door-knocker earrings. “You see all that rump shaking those girls do? And the clothes? Have you seen the clothes they wear?”
I looked pointedly at her shorts which were a designer logo away from being stank. “Yes, we have seen the clothes they wear. They look like what you are wearing.”
Mo laughed. “Yeah, don’t bend over, Ze, or we’ll see all of your business.”
Alizé flipped us both the bird. “My dance instructor said I was good enough to audition for the Dance Theatre of Harlem, so picture me having my ass up in a video, leaning wit it and rockin’ wit it.”
First off, I was shocked for more than the obvious reason. Who knew Alizé was that good? She never invited us to any of her sacred dance classes. She hardly even talked about dancing. It was one thing about herself that she kept to herself. I had always respected her privacy.
“Come on. Let’s roll. I want to see your Mr. Linx and your Bones face-to-face.”
Mo and I exchanged a look at the way Ze changed the subject, but neither of us said a word.
“A’ight, bitches. Let’s do this shit,” Moët said suddenly as she stood up, sounding like our crazy-ass Dom.
We all walked out of the door laughing.
Music was thumping against the walls of Jay-Z’s 40/40 Club, and a mass of bodies was gyrating on the dance floor. With our glossy VIP passes in hand, we headed straight through the crowd swarming around the burly bouncer at the foot of the staircase behind the velvet rope.
Just as we all walked up, a scantily clad woman boldly pulled her shirt up and shook her breasts at the bouncer. Nothing but a groupie willing to do anything, or rather, everything, to get past that rope. These women made it the main priority to chase celebrities, be it athletes or musicians. They were as much a part of the music and sports industries as flashy cars, clothes, and homes. They journeyed to nightclubs, parties, hotels, parking lots, and any other event sure to pull the well-known in the hopes of meeting the celebrity of their choice. Each groupie’s goal could be different, some just to be able to brag to their friends that they slept with a famous rapper, others were looking to snag a celebrity as a husband, and some still yet saw it as their own claim to fame and celebrity.
Oh, we celebrity watched with the best of them, but we were not groupies. Yes, I desired to marry well, but I was not going to sleep with the security personnel of a famous person just for him to allow me a chance to then sleep with the actual celebrity. I had standards.
Reaching around the shirtless wonder, I flashed my laminated VIP card, and the velvet rope was immediately removed. “Right this way.”
Smiling sweetly at him under the colorful flashing strobe lights, I pulled first Alizé and then Moët forward to head up the stairs. “Thank you,” I mouthed to him, following behind my girls as the people at the bottom of the steps clamored to squeeze past him.
The bouncer held them off, and the rope was replaced.
We all held our heads high, knowing that all those left behind were jealous of our immediate entry. And we did not have to show a breast or promise some man sex. Like I said, we were not groupies.
I looked around at some of hip-hop’s Black elite, and I was not ashamed to admit that I was impressed. Russell Simmons, Damon Dash and his crew, P. Diddy, and Andre Harrell, just to name drop a few. And there was Sahad, looking sexy as hell, even though he had Tyrea draped around his arm like a bad accessory.
He looked in our direction and did a double take. I had a feeling he was about to invite us to his already crowded table. I waved and quickly turned my back. The last thing I wanted to do was spend time in Tyrea’s company. One hit record and the woman thought she was Aretha the way she strutted into the office. She was a diva before her time.
Moët wanted to find Bones, and Alizé left to find a quiet spot to call Rah. That left me standing alone.
“I’m paying you too much, Ms. Johnson.”
My nipples hardened in a heated rush at the very sound of his voice, and I took a calming breath before turning to face him. “Why do you say that, chief?” I asked, looking up at him with a soft smile.
“You dress better than the wives of some of the record execs.”
I was pleased by his compliment. Pawning another of Winthrop’s platinum trinkets had made it possible for me to wear the melon, white, and gold stretch halter top with a plunging neckline and print stretch pants, all by Roberto Cavalli.
Now, a wealthy man who was possible husband material would feel somewhat less on guard if you appeared confident, attractive, and already well off and put together before you met him. Ahem, Rule #2.
“Just a little something I threw together.”
“Well, you look beautiful.” His eyes traveled up and down my body, and I felt this energy pulse between us. There was no denying his interest.
“Thanks, chief,” I responded, keeping it light.
“Enjoying yourself? Need something to drink?” he asked, his eyes intense.
“I was going to call it an early night. I’m not really a club girl. I just wanted to show my support for the label.”
“I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent over for you and your friends,” he told me, reaching for the cell phone on his hip.
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, now smiling as he held the vibrating cell phone in his hand.
“Nothing. My friends and I all have the names of champagnes as nicknames. Mine is Cristal. It is ghetto, I know—”
He laughed as well, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in the most delicious way. “No, no. It’s cute,” he said. “Hold on one sec.”
Sahad turned away a bit as he placed the phone to one ear and his finger to the other.
“What’s cute?”
I turned as Tyrea walked up and draped herself around his bent arm.
I did not even bother to answer her. “Excuse me,” I said, walking away.
I was not in the mood for a cat fight, verbal or physical.
Besides, Tyrea was insignificant because Sahad’s ebony eyes stayed on me all night.
P
ostponed until further notice
.
“W
hat the hell?” I snapped as I jiggled my keyin the lock again.
Nothing.
My key to Rah’s apartment didn’t work.
I carelessly dropped my Louis Vuitton duffel onto the floor and dug into my purse with both hands for my cell phone. My heart was racing as I dialed.
“Whaddup?”
“Rah? Where you at?”
“In New York at the store. Why? Where are you?”
“At your apartment…locked the hell out,” I screamed, kicking the door in frustration with my sneakered foot. “Why my key don’t work?”
The door across the hall opened a crack, and I turned my back on Rah’s nosy neighbor.
“Oh, I had the locks changed ’cause I lost my keys.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “When?”
“Huh?”
My attitude shot up a notch. “When?”
“The super changed it for me this afternoon.”
“You couldn’t call and tell me that?” I snapped, glaring over my shoulder as the nosy neighbor opened their door a little wider.
“I know, baby, but I didn’t know you was going to the apartment tonight. You got my car, right?”
I was pissed off. “Yes,
and?
”
“Go on home and I’ll call you when I get there. Cool?”
“Whatever, Rah,” I mumbled and then hung up the phone straight in his damn face.
I reached down and pulled my duffel over my shoulder, gave the nosy neighbor a glare, and stormed to the elevator. Something smelt fishy, and it damn sure wasn’t me.
I didn’t love Rah. I don’t even think Rah really loved me. But we said the words. Went through the motions. I was not about to be played by some thug whose shoe size was higher than his level of education. Aw no, hell no. This sistah definitely was not having it.
On the ride down in the elevator, I was busy thinking like Angela Lansbury on
Murder She Wrote
. I tapped my foot and watched the lit numbers decrease.
Oh, I was getting in that apartment. Tonight!
Think, Alizé. Think, girl
.
The elevator reached the ground level. I smiled as the doors opened and my gaze fell on the security booth near the front entrance of the building. If Rah had been in New York all day getting ready for their grand opening, he was not here when the lock got changed. His copy might be waiting at the security desk for him.
A brotha was sitting inside the glass office in his generic rent-a-cop uniform. The same brotha who had tried to tell me how fine my behind was looking in my pale pink JLo velour shorts when I first walked in the building. Too bad I gave his butt a nasty-ass eye roll like I was Miss America. That’s cool, just a little extra work to do.
Smoothing back my already slick edges with my palms, I dropped my bags outside the elevator and made my way over to him with a big Kool–Aid grin. “Hey, Brian,” I said, after quickly checking out his name tag.
He looked up at me in surprise and then pleasure.
Got him.
He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He kinda resembled an even lighter skinned Ludacris. But I just knew that with his little job he wasn’t pulling but eight, maybe nine dollars an hour tops. Chile, please.
I wasn’t up in his face to make a love connection. All I wanted was that fucking key.
“Brian, I need a little favor.”
This time when I stood before Rah’s locked door the new key was glistening like gold in my fingers.
I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and strolled in like I owned the joint. I didn’t know what I expected to see or find out, but a sistah had her eyes on everything like an eagle even before I shut the door behind me.
Rah was hiding something. I was sure of it, and I was going Inspector Gadget to find out what. I headed straight for the bedroom and hit the lights once I walked through the door. Four large steps had me standing by the bed, and just that quick his ass was busted.
For one, whoever made the bed did a shitty job at it. Even Rah was anal enough that he made his bed every morning.
Two, my picture that usually sat on his bedside table wasn’t there.
Three. Some perfume that wasn’t mine clung to the covers. I couldn’t quite name the scent, but I knew it wasn’t mine because I only wore Happy by Clinique.
I snatched back the covers, flinging them to the floor in one swoop. Okay, there wasn’t none of the telltale crusty spots on the sheets from love juices, but that didn’t mean shit to me. I fixed the covers back, checked out the bathroom, and then left the room to snoop through the rest of the apartment.
No extra dishes in the sink. No female hairs in the bathroom. No odd phone numbers or messages on the answering machine. So what? I had seen enough to be suspicious but hadn’t found anything to say I put my hands on him.
I turned out all the lights in the apartment and locked the door behind me. On the elevator ride down I was busy trying to picture who the little heifer could be. Everybody knew Rah was my man; thus, whoever she was knew she was stepping on my toes and f’ing with my money.
I was gonna drain his ass before I kicked his ass to the curb. Oh, he was going to learn a lesson for trying to play me. Disrespect
me?
I did my dirt, but I gave him his respect. I would never have another man in the bed we shared.
This was about my respect and money, not love.
But still it hurt.
I thought my juicy had his ass crazy. I never thought he would cheat on me. I honestly didn’t believe any woman could outdo me.
Just imagine if I
had
let myself fall in love.
See the main reason why I don’t mess around with loving no man? I learned a long time ago that love don’t love nobody.
I put the disc inside the CD player in the corner and then strode over to take my position in the middle of the floor in front of the mirrored wall. And those mirrors might as well have evaporated, because as soon as the first sweet refrain of Stevie Wonder’s “Ribbon in the Sky” floated into the air, my eyes drifted closed. In my mind I entered my own little paradise.
Nothing mattered in here. Nothing but the music and me. Not Rah’s funky attitude lately. Not even my worrying about Dom. Nothing.
This was my therapy, my remedy, my one love.
Each turn, every twist, was like a drug to me as I tried so hard to recreate the steps I choreographed in my dreams. I hadn’t come up with the ending yet, but every minute up to that point was absolutely divine.
During the hour I rehearsed my dream dance, or just practiced my reggae grinding in the mirror, it was all about enjoying myself. Just me and the music.