Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (3 page)

“So let me get this straight: I come home to find you jerking off to porn like some perv in the middle of the afternoon, and somehow this is
my fault?”

“It’s not like it’s real sex! I didn’t even touch them,”
he whined.

“You know what, Eric? I’m done. Get your shit, and get the hell out of my apartment.” I started throwing his stuff into an empty milk crate he had used to store ha
rd drives.

“I really can’t believe you, Nia,” Eric snorted. “I love you, but you take things way too far. We’ve been together for two years, and you’re throwing me out o
ver this?”

“Did I stutter, Negro? Get your shit and get the fuck out!” He got up from the couch and began to walk out of
the room.

I followed him and said, “You know what? I can’t even stand to look at you, so I’m leaving, and you better be gone when I
get back.”

Eric tried to grab my arm as I rushed past him, but I twisted out of his reach. I grabbed my purse off the couch and left the room, slamming the door for the second t
ime today.

“Don’t stop drinking now, bitch!” MJ said to me as he gestured to the bartender at Coltrane’s to pour two of America’s latest unemployed workers another round of Hennessy. I’d lost count of the number of rounds after I shared my tale of finding Eric with his pants down, especially after MJ started laughing at
my plight.

“I can’t believe you laughed at me. You know I love Eric!” I threw back another glass of the cool da
rk liquid.

“Girl, please. That wannabe Mark Fuckerberg wasn’t never about shit and didn’t deserve you. And deep down you know you were bored with his computer-programming ass, anyway. Look at you! You’re gorgeous and could do so muc
h better!”

I looked into the mirror behind the bar at my reflection. While I appreciated MJ’s sideways compliment, I definitely wasn’t feeling gorgeous today. I was five foot eight with deep honey brown skin, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped dark brown eyes. My perfect rows of white teeth were thanks to the best cosmetic dentist in Hollywood (he hooked me up after I made a call to get his daughter an internship at Paramount). I also had curves Eric joked would make Jessica Rabbit jealous. My short black Halle Berry haircut set me apart in the land of pageant hair weaves, and Eric always said he loved the way I wore it with c
onfidence.

“I mean, damn, could you possibly be with someone any more boring t
han Eric?”

“Shut up, MJ. You just never liked him because of that time he tried to fix you up with his accountant.” I snickered at the blind date Eric had tried to arrange between MJ and the straightest gay guy I had
ever seen.

“You’re damn right I’m mad about that shit,” MJ said, snorting and standing up to give a showgirl-worthy twirl in front of his bar stool. “Look at me, girl. I’m far too fabulous to evah, evvvvvah date an accountant. What the hell was Eric thinking? I mean, I hate when you people try to set us up because you think, ‘I know two black guys who are gay, so I should hook them
up.’ No!”

“ ‘You people’? What do you mean? It could have worked if you weren’t so damn bitchy.” The evening had gone horribly wrong. MJ could barely hide his disdain for the accountant who clearly fell in love with MJ
on sight.

“When I say ‘you people,’ I mean my straight friends. First of all, I’m gay with a capital
G
, capital
A
, capital
Y
, and all of the glitter, leather, and lace-covered fabulousness that entails. The accountant, on the other hand, was a ‘homosexual.’ ” MJ always uses air quotes around “homosexual” to describe uptight men he feels are only gay in the dark and nowhere near as fabulous
as he is.

“OK, well, you could have exercised some home training and at least stayed for the rest o
f dinner.”

“Why? There was no need to waste my precious time when there are plenty of fine and fabulous men out there dying for some MJ in the
ir lives.”

“You are crazy as hell,” I said, shaking my head at the memory of the fai
led setup.

“And that’s why you love me, sister.” MJ leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as he slid back onto the bar stool. “So what us gon’ do now that we ain’t got no jobs? You know I ride or die for you, girl, but MJ isn’t going back to the sham
poo bowl.”

I couldn’t even think about that right now, but I knew we had to find something fast before Kris and
Hollywood Scoop Media
blacklisted me throughout the entire industry. I toyed with the idea of a wrongful termination suit and called an employment lawyer friend who told me I definitely had a case. But I knew even if I won the case, after months of litigation and a six-figure legal bill, no one would ever hire me again and my career would officially be over
for real.

Even though I couldn’t process the idea of finding a new job, I knew I’d need to get my act together quickly, because with Eric moving out, I needed a new gig ASAP to keep a roof over my
damn head.

“Bartender, keep ’em coming.” I raised my glass, waiting for
a refill.

The persistent and annoying vibration of my cell phone was what finally woke me up. I rolled over in the queen-size bed Eric and I used to share, still dressed in the suit I had worn yesterday—the shittiest day o
f my life.

MJ and I had drowned our collective sorrows in endless rounds of Hennessy and mojitos and bad karaoke at Coltrane’s. I had managed to stumble home at some ungodly hour and had fallen straight into bed. I now tried to raise my throbbing head up from the pillow, but it was too heavy. I blindly felt around with my hand to grab the phone off the dusty nightstand. I could only manage to open one eye to squint at the flashing number on my phone. I saw a New York area code, but I didn’t recognize the rest of the numbers, so I let the call go to voice mail. The caller didn’t leave a message, choosing instead to call back less than a minute later. I answered, figuring whoever it was wouldn’t do anything but keep calling un
til I did.

“Hello?” I mumbled hoarsely. The scratchy sound of my own voice made my head throb even harder.
No more mojitos. Dam
n you, MJ.

“Hey, girl. Wake up. It’s Vanessa,” said a much-too-cheery voice on the other end of
the line.

“Hey, V.,” I said. My voice cracked as I registered that the happy tone from another planet was that o
f
Vanessa King, all-around homegirl and my former college roommate. We both earned our stripes growing up in rough neighborhoods, me on Chicago’s South Side and Vanessa in Compton, and we became fast friends the moment we stepped on Harvard’s campus freshman year with the same inner-city chips on our
shoulders.

I sat up in bed, raking my hand through my short matted hair, mad at myself that I hadn’t tied it up with the scarf last night. As the memories of yesterday’s firing and last night’s breakup rushed into my consciousness, I fell back into the pile of pillows on my bed, groaning. “Oh,
my head.”

“Damn, girl. Aren’t you too old for hangovers?” Vanessa chuckled. “Wake up, heffa. I need to tal
k to you.”

“Girl, if only you knew. I just had the day from hell.” I slowly recounted the past twenty-four hours to Vanessa. As I repeated the details of the single worst day ever, I tried to quiet the rising nausea in my stomach with a swig of the Pepto-Bismol I kept in the nightstand drawer. I placed the bottle back in the drawer stuffed with travel brochures, home decorating magazines, and real estate listings. This drawer might as well be called the drawer of lost dreams. I’d always loved to travel, and I collected travel brochures about all the places I dreamed of going with Eric. The magazines were dog-eared with furnishings and paint colors for the dream home Eric and I said we were going to buy for our family one day. Buying a home for my family would also be a part of a dream I’d had since I was a child who grew up bouncing from apartment to apartment when my mom couldn’t pay the rent. I had always wanted to be the first in my family to own a home. But what family? What home? I’d been busy giving my life to
Hollywood Scoop!
for the last five years, and now that Kris has tossed me out on my ass, I had nothing to show for it. No family, no man, no
memories.

As I heard my seven-year-old godson, Damon, laughing in the background, my stomach clenched. Would I ever have children of my own? Or had that possibility died along with my journalism career and my relationship
with Eric?

“I’m so sorry,” Vanessa said. “Why didn’t you
call me?”

“I should have. That certainly would have been better than going out with MJ’s crazy ass. MJ, who made me have another drink every time I mentioned Eric’s name because he said he was officially black history. You know he never liked us
together.”

“MJ’s possessive ass never likes you with anyone,” she snorted, laughing. “He’s like a jealous boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else to have you. Excep
t no sex.”

“Stop playing. You know there’s no one for MJ but Ms. Beyoncé. I do believe that boy would go straight
for her.”

“I know that’s right.” Vanessa giggled. “So what are you going to do about a new gig? You should come out here to New York and find somet
hing new.”

Vanessa had been saying this to me for weeks, ever since she and her husband, NBA All-Star Marcus King, was traded to the New York Gladiators. I’ve sat through enough teary phone calls over the years to know that
Vanessa was looking at this trade as a fresh start for her husband’s career and their struggling marriage. She told me that having me there would give her some support and a real friend in a city full
of fakes.

“I may just have to, girl. Knowing Kris, I’m sure I’m blacklisted at all the LA media companies.” I had worked really hard to get to this point in my career, and the thought of starting over brought tears to my puffy eyes. I let a few fall onto the pillow, sniffing hard to stop my run
ning nose.

“Ah, hell. I know you’re not crying over that witch! We are better than that. No one gets the be
st of us!”

“I know but damn. Did she really have to fire me?” I whined into the phone, giving into my pain of losing both my job and Eric in the same day. I wasn’t sure which
hurt more.

“OK, look, I think I can get you a job interview within the week if you’d seriously consider moving to
New York.”

“Really?” I didn’t dare get my
hopes up.

“Yeah, a soror of mine, DeAnna George, is the president of the publishing unit of PrimeTime Media Group, and over dinner last week, she was telling me about all the drama she was going through to find a new editor for one of their properties,
DivaDish
magazine and the
website.”

“I’ll take it!” I said quickly into the phone. Suddenly the thought of a new job and a new life three thousand miles away from
Hollywood Scoop!
and Eric sounded like a lifeline I couldn’t afford t
o pass up.

“Well, slow down, sister. It’s not my job to offer, but you know I’ll put in the serious good word and lean on her to make it happen. She’s always trying to get Marcus and me to give one of her publications an interview, so I’m sure she’ll be salivating if she thinks I owe her something.” Vaness
a laughed.

“For real, V., you know I’ve always wanted to run my own show, and no one is better connected than me. That brand is hot and has a lot of p
otential.”

“Consider it done. I’ll call her as soon as we get off t
he phone.”

I smiled and thanked my best friend for always having my back. We caught up on how the move was going, her search for a new home, and getting Damon settled into a n
ew school.