~1~

I felt all eyes on me as I clomped through the large media room with purposeful speed. The only thing I could hear was a siren of betrayal. All I saw were frozen bodies on either side. My fists were clenched at my hips, jaw set, and eyes determined, approaching the private consult room. I slammed the latch of the knob down and rammed the door with my shoulder.

The two armed officers on guard leaped and turned to me with hands on their holsters.

“Oh, god!” Laura cried behind me. “She’s my staff—his former counselor! The one I told you about!” I felt her move behind me to gain my side. The officers didn’t pull out on me, but they didn’t relax either. They both stepped closer to their transport. “Wynt—”

“You promised me, you fuckin’ dumb ass twat!” I blasted off. “I told you not to go over on that side of town! You told me you were over it. Had been ‘freed from the bullshit,’ were your exact words!” His neck twisted as I paced to the left and right of him with my finger to his face. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. Knock him upside his head and hope that would get through to him. “I put everything on the line for you. Stayed up late nights typing letters of reform; tweaking non-existent work experience on resumes to match them with whatever job you attempted; stood in front of the judge with your dumb ass; took groceries and clothes to your children on your behalf when I didn’t have the money!” My lungs were on fire and lips drawn so tight they hurt. “You’s a fucking liar and deserve whatever they’re throwing at your dumb ass!” I turned to leave the tight room.

Laura swiped to the right to get out of my way, her sapphires wide with fear and shock. The room was quiet—hell, the whole building seemed that way, and I couldn’t decide if it was my boiling anger clogging my ears or influencing my senses. Honestly, I didn’t give a shit. I was done.

“If I could clap I would,” his voice was catatonic, deadpan. My head whipped over my right shoulder instinctively. Gutiérrez cocked his head to the side, eyes eerily stolid.

I swung myself around, needing a better view of it. Of him.

Shit… How did I miss it?

“Ju read the file, but ju weren’t there. What they put in there maybe had ju feeling bad for me, but ju never ox me what happened. I was eight jears old!” he shouted, bucking at me against the cuffs they’d attached to the chairs. The cops were on him, holding him, though I doubted he’d attack me. He never tried. “I remember the first time that pussy fucker touched me. I still smell the cocaina from his fingertips tight on my shoulder and nose next to my fucking ear!” The chords of his neck swelled, his mouth balled as he pinned me with bulged eyeballs. “I couldn’t fuggin’ talk to tell mi mamá how bad it hurt. She stood at the door and whimpered, though. She was halfway in the room, rushing him…waitin’ for a fuggin’ hit.

“‘Vamos! Vamos! Vamos!’ she jelled at him—or me. ‘Darse prisa!’ she kept saying…her legs fuggin’ shakin’. He was too big…so he pulled out and spit on his hand and jerked his verga. I ain’t know it the first time, but by the fifth one I knew he was vassing me wit his fuggin’ spit!” His neck rolled, eyes possessed, rendering me spellbound.

With mere words he locked me into the room with his eight-year-old self. Was showing me the moment that changed his life forever, transforming him from an innocent immigrant from the slums of Santo Domingo to a most wanted terror on American soil.

“And when he got enough on dere, he rammed it in me so hard! So hard, I saw fuggin’ stars. The sweat comin’ from my crawjin’ skin. Felt like…felt like I shitted mi pantalones. But I didn’t, beech! I can’t shit wit a big ass crack cock inside my ass!” He leaped in his chair again. This time both officers had to switch stances to keep him down. Spit flung from his thin lips, the vein running the center of his forehead raised blue. “I fuggin’ pass out, watching me perra mamá sniffle and dance. But not cos of me. ‘Cos she wanted the fuggin’ trade off!”

My chest caved like a blow met it.

“Ju dunno what it’s like to see a pretty niña like you and get her so hot to suck me off, but go soft in her mouth ‘cause that nasty ass feeling in my ass feel so good outta nowhere. Ju ain’t dere at night when I stay up to trick the nightmares of big fingers at my fuggin’ shoulders!” he shouted, body jolting with volcanic potential.

“So, when I found out that miserable piece of shit was staying in a crack house three blocks from my shelter, not far from a school, fuck you think I was gone be about? I know ju tried ya best to help me find work,” he sang, head bobbing with the cadence of his delivery. “…a place to live, and help me out wit mis hijos and shit. But…” His shoulders shot up in the air. “I tried. I did. I did eberyting ju ox me to. Eberyting. Ju sit in this shitty office, tryna tell people to…accept shit.” His chin dipped, eyes plastered to me. “I lived shit I can’t accept. Dat chupa polla deserved to die!” he screamed, exploding with all the darkness Gutiérrez had carried with him all this time. “And I saw his sweat shoot from his pores when I twisted mi cuchillo in him. His body shook and his eyes crossed from the pain. When I saw all that, baby girl, ju was outta ju league. Your words ain’t mean shit. Dat high was better than him or mi mamá got from him rippin’ my ass hole.”

Erupting were all the years of shame, disgust, and helplessness a child could carry into adulthood. Violence pulsing in every artery. I felt it. I experienced it all in those three minutes of horror this thirty-two-year-old convict, and soon to be convicted murderer had been carrying. He wasn’t my first. I’d heard more deplorable stories of rape and betrayal. Only one more heart-ripping. But one that included a schedule of sober men scheduling times to victimize a helpless child—several a day.

Luiz Gutiérrez had me fooled, though. He was the one who convinced me he fought those demons of implacable, vindictive violence. Gutiérrez made me believe he didn’t harbor rage and he was ready to move on, which inspired me to go the extra mile to ensure his transition from discharged inmate number 481-6389 to law abiding citizen, Luis Gutiérrez. Not to mention his last conviction was aggravated assault and armed robbery.  

I was frozen in place, numb from all the small tell-tale signs I’d missed, trying to believe in the greater good of humanity. Then I realized he was right: I was out of my league—or burned out. Either way, the handwriting was on the wall.

I turned for the door and trudged through almost as fast as I arrived, though this time was just as purposeful.

“Wynter!” Laura called behind me.

I tossed a glance over my left shoulder. She stopped, throwing up her arms, asking more questions than necessary with that one gesture. The decision had been made.

“I’m done, Laura!” I kept my stride to my cubicle.

“Done?” my supervisor shrieked as though my accent was as thick as Gutiérrez’s.

“It’s a fucking wrap. I quit!”

Mike stood with an expectant smile.

“Raj,” Frank Cramar, a movie studio executive, boomed and came charging at me with his arm extended. “It’s always good to see you, brother!”

I stood, taking his hand, and he pulled me into a hug as usual.

“Pleasure is all mine,” I returned, slapping his back.

“Mike Brown.” Frank went to Mike as I saw two people coming in after him.

Frank never took a serious meeting alone. This could go either way.

“Aye, man,” Mike greeted while giving him dap.

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Frank offered as he took to the chair at the head of the conference table. We were in Universal City headquarters, just outside of Hollywood.

“This is the meeting we’ve been anticipating for some time now, huhn?” Frank started, and I could smell the nervousness on him. I’d known this dude for years. “Well, I’m not going to spend time preambling bullshit.” He clapped his hands, elbows on the table. “We’re unable to offer you the role at this time.”

I dropped my head to help with the dizzying spin.

“The hell?” Mike barked.

Frank held his hands in the air. “I know. I know—”

Mike pushed up to the table. “We been on this shit for four fuckin’ years now, Frank!”

“I swear. I know.” Frank pledged, nodding.

“This man done jumped through every fuckin’ hoop y’all put in front of us, including giving that last supporting role in the Rom-Com to fuckin’ Dale, knowin’ damn well, Raj coulda kilt that shit. And Gabby asked for him!”

“I know,” Frank tried, face tomato red at this point.

His eyes bounced between Mike and me apologetically, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d paint him the victim.

“Not one movie Raj was featured in made less than nine hun’ned million worldwide. And that animated one had everybody checkin’ for dude because Tamoon, the bear in it, was the fuckin’ breakout character, thanks to fuckin’ Ragee!”

“Damn it, I know, Mike!” Frank raised his voice for the first time.

“Then what’s the problem now, Frank?” I finally spoke up.

That was the thing in Hollywood: Everybody liked the kissing ass and popping bottles, even knowing the knife destined for your back was being sharpened by the honing steel. I’d sang at Frank’s daughter’s sweet sixteen. Had made a visit to his partner’s son’s academy for free; he was the Co-President of Production. I’d had them at my estate, been to their homes, met their elderly parents, even attended a funeral for one. So, when they told me I’d be up for a lead role in a major romantic action film alongside an A-list female, I believed them. The problem was, the project kept getting pushed back. Three times. In May of last year, the last time it was postponed, the execs told us 2018 was when we’d start shooting for a fall release. A week ago, when we reached out for a follow up, Frank called us in for today’s meeting.

Now, he couldn’t look me in the face.

“I swear, Raj. I fucking swear, your name is on this script. It really is—”

“Then when the fuck do we start shootin’?” Mike demanded, his voice echoing off the walls.

The Asian woman next to Frank jumped in her seat. Frank’s hands flew into the air again.

“Hostility won’t help here, Mike,” he tried reasoning.

“You ain’t helping here!” Mike roared.

He was flexing, spit flinging from his mouth, and eyes deadly wild. The other guy with Frank leaped from the table and left the room. I sat back calmly, holding my chin in my hand, waiting on the next move. The shit was that frustrating, but something in my spirit held me calm.

Blinking hard and fast, Frank croaked, “It’s the rumors, Raj. The board isn’t comfortable with them. They won’t go away.”

“Ru—” Mike slammed his back into his chair, his arms shooting in the air.

I couldn’t help my scorn. “I’m gay, Frank? For real?” I cocked my head to the side, unable to hide my smug grin. “You let them ride on that craziness?”

“I tried, Raj.”

“Not fuckin’ hard enough!” Mike yelled again. “This two-thousand-fucking-seventeen and rumors about being gay keeps niggas from eatin’?” Mike was just as astounded as I was.

Frank shook his head.

“What brought this up again, Frank?” my voice deceptively calmer than my manager’s.

“I don’t know.” Frank shook his head again, his face to the table. “The blogs are keeping it alive by mentioning it several times a year. Your association with LeRoy Goshay…” His hands flailing in the air. “I don’t know… The fact that you haven’t formally addressed it after all these years. You turning down that invitation to the Rainbow Love benefit concert.”

“Oh, because their queer ass agenda goes against his religious beliefs and he doesn’t cross that fuckin’ line, that’s a problem in Hollywood?”

“Someone brought up the extreme homophobia amongst closeted gay religious men.” Frank’s eyes landed on me.

Mine squinted. Was he now questioning my manhood?

“What’s up, man?” Mike stood from the table.

“Sit down, Brown,” I warned.

This wasn’t the streets. Mike was good at what he did and so was I, but we had to keep in mind the opponent, and the rules they played by.

“Nah, man,” This time Mike’s palms went into the air. “I just feel like some shit went down that we ain’t being made aware of. I thought you was peoples, Frank. Now, you bringing up ludicrous shit that’s been circling around a good man, no different from the way it does every rapper and R&B singer. Motherfucker, it’s the culture of blacks, man!”

I pushed my hand toward him to shut his ass up. “Easy.”

“Nah, man. It’s crabs in the barrel shit black folk do when they hatin’. This nigga ain’t no more gay than you—never mind,” he corrected. “I ‘on’t know what the fuck you do when Marjorie outta town. You damn sure don’t ride for my client.”

That pissed me off.

This nigga really just accused a Universal boss of being on the DL!

Before I could speak up, Frank did, shooting to his feet. “I love Ragee, dude! He’s my friend!” Mike blew out hot air, dismissing that claim, but didn’t speak once two beefy security guys wearing blazers and hidden pistols came through the double doors and took post. When Frank glanced behind him, it seemed his frustration went up a notch, and he grabbed his hair, yanking locks of it against his scalp as he groaned. “Bob, the least vocal chairman, brought up the deep rooted and long history you have with an openly gay man—”

“Bi-sexual!” Mike corrected like he actually liked LeRoy. “That shit can be offensive, just ask them Rainbow Love mufuckas.” His tone was cynical. Mike didn’t give a shit about being PC unless it meant being in a pussy crisis.

The two never got along. No one in my circle really cared for Mike except me. They only respected the hustle he produced that helped us put food on the table. And so many of us ate from my grind. We’d made millions together, and I made double of that income alone.

“Oh, I don’t mean to be offensive,” Frank tried. “I’m just giving you the context of our conflict. We can’t market a gay man as straight on film. And we can’t afford the backlash of a secret sexual preference being exposed during the promotional run. Not to mention, you’ve never once, in your entire career, publicly—or privately—dated anyone.”  

“Oh. Is that what this about?” Mike asked animatedly with wild eyes. He turned and slapped me on the shoulder. “I guess you ain’t fill ya boy in, Raj.” Frank’s curious eyes bounced over to me. Mike’s devious laughter boomed through the room. He looked at me, but I had nothing for him. I hated surprises. This shit wasn’t scripted. “Fuck it.” He shrugged. “Raj engaged.” Frank’s eyes shot from Mike to me again, begging for answers.

This was fucking ridiculous. Thirsty at best. I didn’t fabricate to gain opportunities. I fell on my knees to petition them—and not in front of no man.

I shook my head, needing to put a stop to this before Mike embarrassed us out of Hollywood. “Don’t, B,” I warned.

“Nah, Raj.” He snorted. “Now ain’t the time to be covert with your real world. We’re living in the age of the fuckin’ millennials. They don’t value privacy; they fuckin’ hate that shit. You holding on to that shit costing you opportunities. You gotta give a lil.” After a pause where he stared at my profile—because I damn sure wasn’t running with that bullshit—he turned to Frank. “Being married don’t prove you straight, but if it helps clear up the mystique, you should know.”

“How—whe—” Frank couldn’t speak fast enough.

“For a few years now. You know dude weird as fuck. It’s always his way, his terms.” I could hear the smile in Mike’s words.

Every muscle in my body clenched. I hated liars and more than that, I hated having my life curated, which was basically what happened when you became a public figure. It was only about image, never about the soul. Fame and celebrity kill the souls of many. It had already eaten at enough of mine. I fought every day to protect what was left of it.

After what felt like hours of me staring into the fine details of the granite conference table, Mike and Frank looking between each other and me, Frank grabbed his phone from the table.

I glanced up to find him motioning to his colleague it was time to go.

“Let’s see how this plays out,” he muttered. “I can’t guarantee anything, but can stall the process by holding up casting.”

“For how long?” Mike asked.

“I can’t say,” Frank gritted then turned to me. “It’s never personal.”

I rolled my neck, feeling the tension throb from my shoulders. “Nah, Frank,” I replied dryly. “It never is, homie.”

Frank paid me a few seconds of inspection before turning toward the door, nodding for the security guards to let him out.

We walked into the house and I went straight to the living room for the bar. Mike was on my heels, still spitting shit I wasn’t trying to hear. I was a calm man, shut out most noise and was able to sift through lots of bullshit that way. But my manager was the opposite. He talked—shit, talked his way through everything. Mike was a Brooklynite, born and raised in Bed-Stuy amongst some of the most notable figures in music, and the most gutter niggas you’d ever heard of. He was hood, street—one from the trenches. One thing about his breed was their ability to hustle to survive. He’d done well by me; I’d always given him that. But there were times he worked against my brand and moral code.

“Have I ever steered us wrong?” he barked from behind me. “Look how far we’ve come. Ain’t nobody dropping out the fuckin’ race over stupid ass gay rumors! Trey Songz had them; they still say that shit about Jaheim; look at that dude that came forward about Dale since this syphilis scandal; and shit, they still saying Teddy P like trannies! It’s like the fuckin’ scare of the illuminati; everybody’s secretly down, but it ain’t been proven!”

I grabbed a glass and poured three thumbs of Mauve, gulping it down in two swigs. I leaned against the bar, appreciating the awakening of my esophagus. At not even quite noon, it made me feel something other than the numbing pressure of being puppeted. The strings were being yanked too damn hard for me. Words were being spoken too quickly and recklessly on my behalf.

“Fuck that, man! I’m throwing you—us a lifesaver with this shit!” Mike kept going. “You know how much you get from movies versus putting out records. This shit for the legacy! You should be down for whatever, man. I keep telling you the pool is full of sharks, fuck cute ass tropical fish. Fuck you think?”

I poured another glass, trying to think about how I’d pick up my day and keep moving after hearing this bullshit. The shit Frank Cramar hit me with felt like a knife in the back; I couldn’t front. This role had been promised to me for years, much of it built around my image.

From my periphery, I saw Lil Bruh, my muscle, come into the living room and plop down on the sofa with a magazine. Tim and Will, Mike’s security, waited in the doorway on their phones. They were used to this. Used to Mike and his yapping down on niggas. But I knew they weren’t too at ease because it wasn’t often that Mike made me the victim of his verbal assaults.

Mike Brown may have been a Brooklynite, but right now he was on some Harlem shit. His Dame Dash shit where he went into this zone of verbally annihilating someone who pissed him off. Mike’s mouthpiece game stayed on one hundred. He had the stamina to go toe-to-toe with anybody, cracking jokes, telling old Bed-Stuy stories of robberies and pistol whippings, and/or good ol’ decimating a man’s ego—all with one disparaging word at a time.

The problem was, Mike forgot I wasn’t that dude. I was prey for no man.

“You wanna make this shit all about you, huhn?” He kept with the bitching. “You always wanna think it is, Raj. You always wanna stay in ya weird ass lane, sing songs, hide behind characters in movies, hide out in Sparta like it’s the…fuckin’ Neverland Ranch, or some shit,” he scoffed, pacing back and forth. “You wanna sit or stand behind instruments, playing your way through mental trips, drink ya Mauve, go to church, and fuck random weird bitches you ‘on’t want nobody to know about.” His head swung like he was fucking exhausted.

My fists curled and knuckles knotted.

“Fuck!” he barked, flexing now. “You gone stand there and act like you don’t hear a grown ass man talking to you, bruh? Me of all people?” My second security, Danny G, appeared in the doorway. I could see from the corner of his eyes, he was worked up. Danny G came up through the New Brunswick school system with me. My pops trained him for years before he caught a robbery charge that got him sent up for twelve years. His only legit job was as my muscle. This shit was getting out of control. “I fuckin’ always put my shit on the line for you, man. Money with Ragee first, then my name, and then, mufucka, my freedom! Facts, my nigga!”

The whole room froze at that. Everybody around steeled in place.

A bag of air pushed from my lungs and my head dropped toward the bar top.

“Yeah, nigga,” Mike neared me, leering with a taunting tone. “I fixed that domestic cluster fuck of a auntie situa—”

My left fist knocked against his cheekbone in the precise place, speed, and impact to send him falling back, but I caught him with my right by the neck and squeezed. Terror flashed in his eyes and he tried to knee me, but I gripped his neck harder and lifted him higher as I scooted back. He threw a loose jab, but I blocked it and shot him again with my left in the same place. That dazed him.

Behind me there was shouting, warnings being thrown to me and from my security to Will and Tim to put their guns away. I heard the cocking of a few semi’s, but I couldn’t choke the shit out of Mike long enough to give a shit! When he started squirming, my inner man shouted and I let up on his neck—just a little.

“Yo, Raj, man!”

“Put down ya shit,” I recognized as Danny G’s voice.

“Hell, no!” was the reply. “Ragee, you want one in the head or back?”

“Muthafucka, one shot to Raj: miss or hit, death or injury, and not only will all y’all bitches catch one to the head, but ya families holding double funerals! Fuck with me!” I heard.

That was Danny G. Had to be. He only knew loyalty one way: to the grave or cell. He once told me if he wasn’t having so much fun traveling the world with me, he’d gladly go back to the pen where he thought he belonged.

My chest pounded and lungs worked hard to keep the violence within. I wanted to shred Mike’s ass apart. I didn’t need a gun for it. I didn’t need any tools to get it done.

 “It’s all good. All good,” Mike sang, struggling to lift his palm in the air to calm his security. “It’s just me and my lil bruh. All brothers fight. Right, Raj?” I saw the tears rimming in his eyes, not from crying, but from pressure on his windpipe. The outline of his cheeks swelling and reddening before my eyes. Sadly, the sight of it all excited me. It satisfied the rage storming somewhere deep inside. “Raj, baby, please calm the fuck down,” poured out like a squeal.

But that inner Man whispered, advising louder than the rage thundering inside. Without delay, I yanked back my arm, bringing him with me before releasing him. Mike swayed on his feet a few times before gaining them. I could hear the sighs behind me just before Mike started choking. A few guns decocked behind me, too. Mike struggled to catch his breath and stand straight, but he did eventually. 

Crouch over, he pumped his palm in the air. “Yo, give us a minute,” he told his guys.

“You sure, man?” Will asked, unsure himself.

“I said give me and my fuckin’ man a minute!” Mike tried to scream.

I looked over my shoulder to Danny G and gave a reverse nod, dismissing him and Lil Bruh. When I turned back to Mike, he was backing to the wall for support to stay on his feet. 

“You hit me with your left.” He smirked, heaving.

“Lucky for you.”

“I know. That’s how I know you gotta good heart, man.” He chuckled, still out of breath. “That right would’ve sent me night-night and had this place riddled with bullets.” He dabbed his cheek, but I didn’t miss the soft threat in that.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he’d told his security to shoot me if necessary. I wouldn’t know until the next time he took it too far.

“Raj,” his lungs sloughed. “We gotta follow through with this. Frank ain’t gone forget what I said back there.”

I yanked away, still furious about the position he put me in. “I can’t believe you said that shit!”

“I couldn’t help it, man,” he pleaded. “Blame the Brooklyn in me. We act when our back’s up against the fuckin’ wall, man. We make shit happen! You know me, duke. Known me for years, man. Let me…fix this.” He could hardly speak in between coughing.

“How?” My body spun to face him. “How do you make a fuckin’ fiancée happen?”

“Easy. I can find somebody.”

“Somebody?”

Mike’s palms pumped in the air again.

“Nah, man. Fuck that. You can’t be putting me in some illogical shit. Shit you only see in the movies. A fuckin’…manufactured relationship? That ain’t me, man!”

“That’s where you wrong. It happens all the time, especially in Hollywood.”

“That’s some ol’ white people shit. Black people don’t do fake relationships.”

“StentRo did.”

“Who?” I was so damn inflamed, I didn’t catch the reference.

“Stenton Rogers. From the 76ers,” he tried again, this time sitting up with his back against the wall as he spoke of earlier.

“I know his wife, Brown. She ain’t even from the industry. You forget he goes to my damn church now?”

Mike shook his head. “Not his wife, Erika Erceg. Memba when they fucked around?” I didn’t answer, but he knew he had my attention. “They peoples was tryna make that happen years before StentRo went with it. They ain’t marry, but nobody knew that was set up by the industry.”

I turned away, shaking my head. I wasn’t the type to do anything because someone else did it. I prided myself on being my own man. I was of a peculiar people. I embraced that part of it. But I knew if Mike said he could do something, there was a good chance he’d pull it off. Faking a fiancée for a few months was bearable if it meant getting out of this new damn quandary with Frank and finally getting the role owed to me.

Am I really considering this shit?

“Man, you forget I’m in the middle of kicking off a fucking major tour? How am I gonna announce a damn fiancée with all this promotional shit going on? All the money behind me right now?”

Mike finally pushed off the wall and waddled to the sofa. “That’s the perfect time to do it. The media ain’t gone be paying much attention to ya personal life when ya name and face is all up on billboards, buses, and shit. They gone just take it as, ‘Oh, this dude on his reclusive shit again. He done got a whole fucking love life while making music happen.’ You know the attention span of these fucks is the same time as a good nut in the best pussy last.”

“So, I get engaged and that’s it?”

Mike’s eyes were elsewhere as he thought about that. I shook my head, knowing he had lots of thinking to do if he thought I would fly with something as wild as this. Engaged? A wife? A woman next to me?

I closed my eyes at the possibility of that, not able to conceive it.

“It would have to be a wife.” His muttering had my neck whip to face him. Mike nodded, believing his conjured theory more by the second. “Yeah. She would have to be introduced as ya fiancée because she gone be ya wife right after that.” He’s fuckin serious… “It’s gone have to be on some, we’re making the announcement of her because the wedding’s going down ASAP. Maybe whispers of the engagement then BAM wedding pix floating around the innanet. Facts!”

Mike stood too fast. He swayed a bit as he went for his phone. I looked at him like he was crazy. Because he was. I’d been partners with him too long not to recognize his excitement for execution.

“I gotta flight to catch soon. Gotta be at the club tonight. I’m scouting some kid they’re dubbing the next Chris Brown.” He stopped abruptly and turned to me. “Raj, man. What I did earlier was fucked up. One hun’ned; it was foul of me—all of it. But this us, baby. We make shit happen. How many platinum records later, how many movie deals later, how many millions later? It’s what we do to set ourselves the fuck apart, my G. Just let me pull some shit together for you. Please?”

Mike Brown never begged. That wasn’t Brooklyn. Every once in a while he’d go non-Brooklyn on me, behaving in a manner his people from home would never go for. But it was because I was his cash cow. Not only did I not back down from anybody, but Mike Brown had been eating well for years off my talent. He knew when it was lights out for that Brooklyn bullshit.

I shook my head, remembering I had a meeting with my set director for the upcoming tour in a few. Right now, I had to get my head ready for that and get Mike out of my space.

“Do you,” was all I could say to dismiss him.

I was desperate for relief from his energy. That was all he needed, too.

“Facts, my dude. We gone get outta this shit, then go get what they holding from us like reparations, my G.”

I couldn’t even respond to that as I watched him leave the room.

It was well after seven by the time I turned the key into my apartment door. My stomach roared its emptiness. My feet throbbed and so did my head. It took hours of failed negotiations on my supervisor’s part and me packing all of my things—years’ worth of files and personal effects to sift through. My car was filled with the boxes I left the job with. I was too tired to carry them inside.

The apartment was nearly dark but for the kitchen light on across the room, from what I could perceive from my vantage point. My place was small. Too small for two women and a child. I sauntered beyond the partition we purchased from Ikea years ago when I added a mother and child duo to my living conditions.

Stepping beyond the divider, I saw into the kitchen where a little chocolate seven year old with the softest dark curls sitting atop her head sat at the table. I tossed my bag and jacket on the small nightstand near my bed then moved into the kitchen. There was a loud motor coming from her nebulizer; she looked her age with the mask on, receiving the medicated oxygen shooting from the plastic tube.

While washing my hands, I noted over my shoulder, “The coughing didn’t stop, I see.”

I glanced to see her shake her head. After drying my hands on a towel hanging from the cabinet door, I turned for the fridge where I begged for there to be milk left—unspoiled milk. I sighed my relief after sniffing the open bottle. Before sitting at the table, I grabbed a bowl and spoon. Then I went for the box of Wheaties with an image of a black football player on the front.

I poured a generous portion to cure my hunger pangs. Little Asia watched from the other side of the table. Silence wasn’t a feature of her personality, so I decided to enjoy the last few minutes of it.  As I began to feed my face, my eyes randomly wandered over to the cereal box where the powerfully built and posed man was pictured. That struck me and I studied the front matter closer. The football player was in a throwing pose. Trent Bailey. I’d heard a lot of him lately. I wasn’t into sports, but knew the name and his particular sport. He was a fellow New Jerseyan, and apparently my age. I loosely followed his story a few years ago when he was arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to federal prison. Dumb move on his part, but lucky for him, the American football community favored talent over sins, because he was back at the top. Making the Wheaties box wasn’t an easy feat. 

“You look mad,” her little voice broke my inner thoughts.

When did the nebulizer go off?

I dug back into the bowl scooping another serving. “I’m not mad.”

“Tired?” she tried again, standing to grab a piece of paper towel for her wet nose.

“Kinda,” I garbled. Asia sat back at the table, engaging me. She was expectant. I knew this of the witty seven year old. “I quit,” I mumbled then looked down into the bowl as I dug for more.

“Blue!” She slapped her forehead and her little eyes rolled to the back of her head. “You said—”

“I know what I said.” I made very clear. “I said I’d G up and wait it out.”

“Then why would you quit?”

I shrugged, face in the bowl I was prepared to refill. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” dared the kid with a black Cinderella gown on.

“When you worked hard through school, getting two degrees all to be not only under-appreciated by your boss, but preyed on by your clients, you burn out easily.”

“But you said you was gonna look for another job, get paid more money, and we was gonna get a place with three bedrooms so—”

“So you can have your own room, I’ll have mine, and your friends can sleepover in the living room”—I tossed my chin into the living room, two feet away—“instead of avoiding them because your big cousin’s bedroom is in the living room. I know.” I swallowed my cereal.

“Now what we gone do?” Her little forehead wrinkled.

I shrugged again. This was what my life was reduced to. Asia, my little cousin, was my confidant. Right now, I was so vulnerable, she was playing my counselor. It happened like this lately.

“I’m going to figure it out.” There was finality in my tone, because that was all I cared to share with her.

I was still raw. Still shaken by my “big” decision to leave my job. I had a few dollars saved. Living with your aunt, who was nineteen years older than you had its financial benefits, though not much.

“He’s in there,” Asia shared with her head cradled into her little hand.

“Your Dad?”

She nodded. That’s when I heard the soft rhythm of the springs on a mattress being manipulated.  

Oh…

I tried resuming my cereal so little Miss Asia wouldn’t pick up on the sex taking place in the not so distant distance.

“We’re moving back up there,” she whispered.

“Wanda say that?” I stuffed my face with another spoonful.

She nodded. “Yesterday, she did. My daddy did, too, when he came today.”

The place was mine, lease in my name. It was my first apartment and I’d been in it for years before my aunt Wanda broke up with her daughter’s father, who was from Pittsburgh, and needed a place to stay. Asia was so small at that time, and I couldn’t imagine having them in the living room. It was only me and I didn’t have a lot, so I opted for the living room, giving them the only bedroom. Turned out, not too long after they moved in, my salary got cut and Wanda began paying more of the rent than me, making the decision to give up my bedroom indefinite.

Now, with me jobless, and my rent-relief moving on, going back to an estranged and rocky relationship, I had lots of shit to figure out. I needed a minute, though. An escape from this madness sounded better and better the more I thought about it. A drink. That would have been great. Getting shit-faced wasted would have been even better. Problem was, I didn’t want to do it on my dime, considering I’d just quit my job. I didn’t want to call any of my girlfriends, because that would mean me sharing more of my hasty decision while still feeling raw about it.

My phone pinged from my purse on the nightstand as I was draining the milk from the bowl down my throat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and went for it.

Van…

Why didn’t I think of him?

Van: I need to kick it with you 2nite No xcuse yo

I typed back as fast as my fingers could move.

Me: Meet me at Checkerboard in Montclair at ten.

Before I made it back to the kitchen to pour another bowl of Wheaties, my phone sounded in my hand.

Van: Issa bet

I sat at the table and went for the cereal box.

“Now I get what you mean about boyfriends,” Asia shared with attitude. “They ain’t for me either. I’mma be like you when I grow up and not have no kids and no boyfriend.”

My face wrinkled. “That sounds grim and lonely.”

“You ain’t lonely.”

“I’m a little different. Boyfriends turn into husbands. It’s kind of hard to bypass the first step.” I poured the last of the milk into the bowl.

“Oh, like Reign.” Her face lit up. “She got Sheldon as her boyfriend. She said they gone get married.”

Horrible example, Asia…

But she was too young to understand the implications of that claim. No way I could be offended.

“I don’t know about that, but what I’m talking about is something special. My grandma and grandpop had it for a long time. They were so good at it, they helped raise me from when I was a little girl, much younger than you, until I was in high school. That’s the only type of future we should look forward to. Everything else is corny.” I stuffed my mouth with crispy flakes. “School…getting the best grades you can should be the only thing girls focus on.”

“And what happen when they get to be as big as you?” she asked softly.

My eyes bulged. I had to think.

“Then they work hard…find a deserving job until the right guy comes around.”

With pouted lips and hiked brows, little Miss Asia nodded as if to say that order made sense to her. It was such a confident reaction, I had to consider it myself.

Yeah right…