it.
True, Cristal was always hounding me about my need for “thug love,” but I liked me a roughneck. Timbs and “wifebeaters” turned me on more than suits and ties. A hard brotha with that swagger and an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude made me wet while those whitewashed brothas (from the same corporate world I yearned to be a part of) made me laugh.
I can’t explain it. I just liked what I liked.
Rah walked into the bedroom naked as the day he was born and smoking a blunt as thick as three fingers. I was glad my ass was already dressed.
A little shopping excursion would be good, but putting up with him and his minute-man sex wasn’t on my agenda for the day.
He held the blunt between his straight and even teeth as he climbed back into bed. “What time you get out of class?”
“I have classes all day and my dance class tonight. Did you need something?”
“Naw, I’m straight. I’ll be at the new store all day,” he said, reaching for the remote to turn on the sixty-one-inch flat screen on the wall.
“Wish me luck on my test,” I said, moving to the bedroom door.
“Good luck.” He exhaled a thick silver cloud from his pursed lips. “Love you, baby girl.”
“And I love you, too,” I said without pause.
Another lie. Maybe the biggest of them all.
2
“Hello, how are you doing? I am Cristal.”
“Good morning, Platinum Records, please hold.”
I used a clear-coated half-inch fingernail to push down the small button marked hold on the multi-line phone system. I slanted my hazel cat-shaped eyes up to the brotha who stood before my desk with a cocky “you know you want me” pose.
He was Bones. The label’s newest rap artist whose self-titled debut album just went platinum. The fool actually looked like one of those guys in a prison photo still trying to be down like they were in a club and not in jail. Hands on hips, legs apart, chin tilted up like “What?”
Oh, he was nice-looking in a roughneck, corner thug sort of way, but unlike my less discriminating best friends, I do not go for the allure of a thug. Baggy blue jeans, untied Timbs, and a white T-shirt (which I refuse to call a wifebeater) do not make my panties moist. Now, do not get me wrong, I appreciate a man with an urban attitude, but I want it mixed with a little of the sophistication I read about in magazines and see in those old black-and-white movies I love so much. Tailored suits and ties. Culture-filled dates. Legal income. Stability.
So this man/child standing before me trying to look and dress like he was mad at the world was definitely not my type.
“Can I help you?” I asked in a friendly manner, forcing a smile to my round, pretty face.
“Damn, lovely, how you doin’?” he asked, his grave voice full of that unmistakable East Coast accent.
“Fine, and yourself?” I answered.
Working as the sole receptionist for one of the hottest Black-owned record companies—and looking as good as I do with redbone appeal—I was pushed up on by many of the male artists and members of their entourages. Thus, looking up at Bones as he gave me a toothy grin did not send my senses reeling like he obviously thought it would.
Back when I first started working here, I got a little star struck at times, but now…humph, now I make them feel they should be just as honored to meet me as I am supposed to be about meeting them. Okay? All right.
I learned early and often in the game not to outright offend these thugs. They were quicker than a fly to shit to call you a bitch or a whore, and then turn around and tell you, “You ain’t all that anyway.”
Now, my girl Dom does not give a damn. If she does not want to speak, there is not a soul alive that can make her. Alizé is like me and just plays it nicely. And Moët? Well, she has the kind of innate sweet charm that can soothe a savage beast. Men want to care for her, when in fact she has the smarts and the strengths to take care of herself if she wants.
Yes, I loved my friends, but I was woman enough to admit that I envied them. They all had families. Even Dom had Diane, who was not much of a mother, but she beat a blank. And Alizé and Moët had futures ahead of them. Both were graduating college this year, and I could only wish I could have afforded to go.
I grew up an orphan. I had no family. I have never been in love. I could not afford college. I was barely making ends meet to pay the rent on my one-bedroom apartment in The Top, a luxury apartment complex just outside of the Livingston suburbs.
Struggle as I might, I was not downgrading. My next step out of The Top would be into even more luxurious surroundings.
I outgrew the ghetto. Newark was no longer my home. I did not even claim it. In my opinion, why should I? Sure the girls always gave me a hard time about my feelings, or rather lack of them, for my hometown. It had not been good to me, so why should I be good to it. Okay? All right.
“Go right on up. Mr. Linx is on his way into the office,” I told Bones, finally directing my attention back to the man/child standing before me. I quickly but smoothly moved my hand as he reached for it.
Bones just smiled. “Later, shorty,” he hollered over his shoulder as he walked toward the elevator with his entourage in tow.
I waved and ducked my head, not wanting to make any contact that suggested that I was eager for that later. I did not release the breath I was holding until he and his associates gathered noisily onto the elevator. The chrome doors closed, and they were gone from my view.
More of the phone lines lighted up. I put three on hold and answered the earlier call. “Platinum Rec—”
The rest of the words froze in my slender throat as he walked through the rotating chrome doors. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to cool my reaction. In my eyes there was a glow around him. He seemed to move in slow motion. Harps played a tributary tone in my head.
He was Sahad Linx, CEO and founder of Platinum Records. The producer turned record executive shaped the multiplatinum success of all of his artists and built one of the most financially successful hip-hop labels in a very short amount of time.
Sahad, the CEO, the producer, the entrepreneur, the sexiest man alive, the porn star of my wet dreams; but most importantly, one of the wealthiest African-American men around.
Lawdy. Lawdy. Lawdy.
A diamond-encrusted Chris Aire watch winked from his wrist. His suit was so obviously hand tailored as it flowed on his tall frame. Rimless aviator Gucci shades were in place on his handsome, angular face. Italian shoes softly cushioned his feet. Classy diamond jewelry glistened from his neck, wrists, and hand. The scent of his Ralph Lauren cologne blended in the air with my own Ralph Lauren Glamorous perfume.
He was the new era of the Black elite. Urban. Hip. Smart. Wealthy.
And I was going to have him. Okay? All right.
3
“Hey.
