~2~

“Final-fuckin-ly!” I breathed as the blue Ford Explorer pulled out of the park almost directly across the street from the club in Montclair. I’d only been waiting four minutes after circling the tight block, lined with cars. It was Thursday night, open mic night at Checkerboard and one of the most mature and popular ones of the week.

Humming to something random on the radio, I slid into a smooth parallel park before anyone could try to steal it from me. Once settled in, I tapped to cut the radio and rolled all the windows up in my Civic. Then I grabbed my phone and purse as I opened the door. I needed to text Van to let him know I was here. Final-fuckin-ly!

The moment I closed the door and leaned against it, I heard, “Boo!”

Startled, I leaped in the air, sucking in a breath before instantly coming back down and landing on my heels. That created a zing of pain charging up my legs. Even when I recognized the perp, my body wouldn’t relax.

“The fuck, Van!” I cried as he laughed.

“It’s just Montclair. Damn!”

“I’m not worried about getting robbed. That ain’t the only thing that could startle some damn body.” My hand rested over my pounding heart.

My eyes shot daggers into my uncle, who was only twelve years older than me, but was more of a brother than most knew. Van and I had been thick as thieves even before I moved in with him and my grandparents before I left for college. We’d been inseparable. So attached, I fell in love with his, then, best friend. My dating him brought about tension between the two, and aftermath of my, close to, ten-year-long affair caused a rift many thought was irreparable. I spent years saturated in regret for what I caused by being in a relationship with him. Van never held it against me, but I saw the conflict. They had been best friends since first grade.

But we were family. Most people didn’t understand our relationship with him being twelve years older than me, but we did. We knew the secrets that intensified our bond, and we kept them close to the chest.

“You look…” His dark eyes swept down my body disapprovingly.

I shook my head. “Don’t go there. It’s been a rough life,” I muttered.

Van sighed, rubbing his hand over his glistening caramel bald head. “Fuckin’ tell me about it,” he murmured his mood.

I rocked onto my toes. “I’d rather drink first.” My face tightened and lips pouted as I thought to amend that. “On you, because my blues involve cash flow issues.”

“When the fuck don’t they, Wyn?” he scoffed.

But I caught the flash of concern in his eyes as they brushed across the street to the line gathering for entry into Checkerboard.

“What?” I groaned, because that’s when I remembered. “You actually hit me first. Something going on, Van?”

He wouldn’t look at me, the sights around us somehow more appealing or compelling. With Van, sometimes you couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, but still without the aid of his eyes. “Some shit ‘bout to go down I need to hip you to. I just…” he hesitated.

I shook my head and breathed out a chuckle. “You know what? I don’t want to know right now.” That’s when Van looked my way, serving me worried eyes similar to when he told me about getting his first random piece of ass pregnant or when he’d gone back out into the streets, slinging rocks. Something was brewing and I didn’t want another blow before I had alcohol to help brace me. “Let’s just go in, have a few drinks to loosen up, then spill our sins. Okay?”

With a flick of his brows as he tossed his head to the side, Van agreed.

“You just wanna get inside to see if Mike Brown in there,” he muttered.

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t tonight. With the day I’ve had, it would only be kismet that brings us together. C’mon.”

I took him by the arm as I looked both ways before crossing. Thankfully, the bouncer knew Van. Lots of people did, and for various reasons: some from school and sports, others from his checkered history with the streets.

The line had grown in no time for a weeknight because of the popularity of the open mic theme. I wondered if a special guest was booked. I didn’t care. I just hoped to get a table and not just a chair at the bar. I needed a change of luck and would take it in the small gesture of feeling like a valued customer with a damn booth.

“Whaddup,” I heard just before the sound of clapping palms.

Holy holiest of kismets!

Ahead was Van greeting Mike Brown, the most challenging interviewer I’d ever faced, if I could consider him as such. He was here tonight! He was the main reason I frequented this place when I did. And damn, was my night being made already just by him being here.

Jackpot!

He moved with his gang of bodyguards, going inside, bypassing the security. As he breezed by us, his eyes brushed over me, long enough to hopefully register my presence. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten me. And if I was really lucky, I’d be able to pitch to him again tonight. The one thing this club had going for it was Mike Brown popping up here regularly. I mean, why wouldn’t he? It was an open mic lounge. People from near and far came to showcase their talent.

Before I knew it, Van and I were being ushered inside and as a third strike to my rare luck—the first being the bomb ass parking space across the street—we scored a booth. As soon as we sat down, my eyes scoured the place for service.

“Yo, I need to rap witchu ‘bout something real quick.”

“I quit my job.” I shot my arm in the air to gain the attention of a passing waiter.

He nodded, agreeing to stop by. When I turned back to Van, his chin was dipped and eyes rolling.

“Tell me you ain’t just say what I thought you said.”

“Yup!” I popped my lips. “And I spilled the damn beans before my first drink. Gosh, I feel good just being here!” I rarely went out socially.

“Why the fuck you do that?”

“Because it was killing me. I was good at my job—”

“Damn good. Ya boss kept sweating you!”

“But could never turn on that faucet for an increase. I never got my just due, but damn sure got a shit load of work.” I clapped my hands and swung my neck at a staccato matching my words. “Fuck. Her. Fuck. Them. It’s. My. Time. To. Fucking. Shine.”

The waiter appeared to my left and my eyes lit with joy. “Oh, hey there!” I tossed my regard to Van, thinking he’d be shaking his head at my whack attempt at flirting, but instead, he was in his phone. “I want shots. Lots of tequila shots!”

“How many?” he asked, leaning in with his ear to hear me over the music.

“You drankin’, Van?”

“Not really,” he returned, attention still on his phone.

“Hmmmmm…” My fingertips drummed the table. “Seven. Top shelf only. What y’all got on deck?”

“Uhhhhh…” He considered it. “Julio, Ceurvo, Patron…”

“Julio!” My palms met the table. “Never had him in me.” My face fell as I pondered that.

“Right away.” The waiter left.

“Unemployed people can’t afford the top shelf come-up,” Van teased.

I shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Ya roommate cool with that?”

“Haven’t told her. Don’t matter. She’s leaving anyway. Going back to her baby-daddy.”

Van shook his head at that. Wanda was his older sister, whose relationship we all didn’t agree with, including her daughter, little Asia.

“Whatchu gone do now?”

I shrugged again. “Figure shit out. Ain’t that what life’s about anyway?”

Van began biting his nails, his eyes pinned to me. “All them damn degrees and you still talking stupid as hell.”

“Man, listen, if convicts can pollute the earth and be fed and housed, a law-abiding intuitive woman such as myself can get a hustle to survive.”

“And what’s that? Ya music?”

My head rotated across the room. “You see your boy, Mike?”

“Here we go with this bullshit again.” Van shook his head softly. “You gone shoot ya shot again?”

“Yup, because you’re here tonight. The last time he looked at me for more than two seconds was when you were with me.”

I tried several times pitching my aspiration as a song writer to Mike Brown, manager extraordinaire to a few notable names in the music industry, but his biggest client was the R&B sensation and now actor, taking Hollywood by storm, Ragee. Ragee was a fellow-Jersey native whose career took off with unimaginable speed a few years ago.

“That’s ‘cause the big homie know the game.” My regard went back across the table. “That nigga know the circle I run in.”

“So?”

“His boy own the club. He be making sure he know the energy coming in and out.”

“His boy who?”

“That nigga, Ragee,” his tone was clipped, suggesting I should have known who.

“Oh, yeah?” A nearing body entered my periphery. The waiter lined the shots between Van and me. “And?”

Wasn’t nobody checking for Ragee—well, I wasn’t checking for Ragee. I was trying to possibly be an affiliate of his. I wasn’t like the throng of female-admirers, drawn to the money, fame, and prestige. I wanted to manifest my own. I wasn’t with marketing my pussy or making a man believe my heart was available to be captured.

As though he’d heard my thoughts, I raised the first shot in the air, asking him to join me.

“To new beginnings where I don’t have to cater to broken, grown ass men—or women!”

Slowly, Van lifted a glass, clinked mine, then swallowed back his. I danced in my seat against the burn in my chest and belly.

“Look, Wynter…” Van rubbed his face with his hand, his head bowing toward the table, revealing that sliver of anxiety I’d identified earlier. “I need to tell you some shit before it go down, man.”

My palm slammed in the air, inches from his face. “Nah, son!”

“Damn, it’s like that?”

Before I could answer, I caught the intro to a classic favorite and my arms shot high in the air. My tits sashayed left to right, bringing about a rhythm of their own as they bounced. The nostalgia tickled my senses and I giggled with eyes closed and my chin to the ceiling for brief seconds. “Bruh!” My head leaped down for emphasis. “You gots no idea how done I am with helping people sort their shit. I’m over trying to understand how to live for me. Now, I’m on my fuck humans; get money! Fuck humans; get money!” I let go another boff, reaching for the next shot glass.

Van grunted a round of expletives at something in his phone. He took a deep breath, eyes dancing all around, outside of our booth.

“Look, Wynter, I need you to do something for me,” he tried.

I shook my head. “Uhn-uhn! I haven’t asked you for a dime since high school. I am gladly prepared to make my first request.”

Besides, I’d done countless favors for Van down through the years: financial and otherwise. Finally, I needed help. The liquor seeping into my veins gave me the courage to do it.

“Now ain’t the time to—”

“Let’s fucking go, Donovan!” My head whipped to a seething white man with a buzz cut and narrowed eyes. “We can do this discreetly or shut this place down and drag you the fuck out of here.” He turned slightly and scanned the room quickly.

My eyes jumped to Van, who oddly appeared just as relieved as he was caught off guard.

Before I could speak to ask what the fuck was going on, the white man backed up, brushed back his windbreaker jacket to rest his hand on the gun at his waist. That’s when the glaring letters on the vest he wore over his chest unjumbled into actual words for my brain.

U.S. Marshal

That recognition came at an inconvenient time. The alcohol had begun settling in. I wanted to panic at that alone. Van blew out a breath and pushed his cell phone across the table to me as he scooted over to leave the booth. The phone was caught midway by the tall guy and handed over to another who appeared out of nowhere.

My eyes blew the hell up and I could feel my pulse beat in my neck as I swallowed.

“What the fuck is going on, Va—”

“Shut the fuck up,” the buzz cut dude advised me calmly, and was oddly polite as he eyed Van.

“I’m coming, man,” Van explained as he stepped out of the booth.

No less than a second after he landed on his feet, Van’s tall frame was yanked around against the divider of the booth and he was cuffed from the back.

“Hey!” I yelled, instinctively protective of him.

A thick arm was thrust across my chest, preventing me from leaving the booth myself. I felt violated and disregarded. It didn’t matter I didn’t know what was going on. These Marshals had a one track mind. Van eyed me the entire time he was being cuffed. My eyes pleaded with him for answers. Anger snaked through me at yet another one of his fuck ups. Something he clearly kept from me. 

He was pulled away, hardly able to develop a pace while being hauled off. Once the asshole holding me to my seat walked off, I jumped from the booth and followed them.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked when I could see Van’s bald head dipping and rising ahead from clearly being roughly handled.

No one answered me and at this point, we had the attention of the entire club. The overhead lights were on, dimness gone, and music paused. I tried to remind myself not to touch the Marshal in front of me. There was a muted air of intimidation in their presence.

We made it outside and a fucking swarm of unmarked vehicles varying in size and shape were surrounding the building, haphazardly parked throughout the street. Bodies from those vehicles doubled in number. Men and women visibly armed with weapons. The blue and red emergency lights had my pulse racing.

What’s all of this?

“Ah!” Van wailed near me, snapping me out of the haze my mind seemed enclosed in.

I looked all around at the bodies of officials and nosey ass pedestrians. Frantic, I started pushing people out of my way until I shoved the wrong body.

“Back the fuck off!” Another lengthy white male yelled in my face, raising his arm over me. “This is official U.S. Marshal activity. Take your ass over there unless you want to be arrested, ma’am!”

Fear coursed my chest. “That’s my brot—uncle you just arrested. I just want answers. What did he do?” I could only see a bit of Van, face down on the ground, struggling.

“You’re his…”

“Niece,” I answered when he hesitated, likely because of my stupid blurt. “We were in there together when they came and hauled him off. I work for the Department of Corrections,” I sort of lied.

“In what capacity?”

“Social worker.” That was a stretch, too. My official former title wasn’t as universal.

He spoke into a walkie-talkie attached to his chest, saying a relative of the fugitive was here. A correspondence came through, but I couldn’t understand it. Things were moving so fast and the area was polluted with noises of confusion and terror.

“Stay right here. Someone will come over and give you a form with all the contact information you’ll need.”

When he was about to step off, I asked, “Sir, are you guys sure you got the right person? Maybe this is a case of mistaken identity…” I tried, my voice trembling in fear.

“Donovan ‘Van’ Williams?” I nodded. “That’s our fugitive. Been on the run for almost twenty-four hours.” Then he walked off.

I fought back a cry of helplessness, burgeoning from my belly. This couldn’t be happening. He was supposed to have been on the straight and narrow. Van had a job at my grandfather’s old friend’s car shop. He’d been there for close to two years now. Bought wholesale tires and sold them on the side. I wasn’t sure how legal it was, but that couldn’t have sent the U.S. Marshal after his ass.

I held myself when I realized I was trembling. The September nighttime warmth left me chilled.

“Pardon me, yo…” I turned and halfway registered Mike Brown. He had brawny guys flanked at his sides. “That’s ya family?”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. This shit was a nightmare. Was he going to have a beef with me because this all went down in his club?

He was about to speak again until a deep feminine voice boomed, “You related to Williams, ma’am?” I turned to a short brunette, who in one hand held a piece of paper, while her other was on the holster on her hip.

“Yes.”

“Here’s how you can contact us for more information about where he’ll be remanded and about his no bond status.”

No bond? 

“Could you, at least, tell me what he did that garnered this major seize?”

She simply answered, “No, ma’am. I cannot.” Then she, too, was gone.

At that time, Van was being placed into the back of a van. His face was hardened with anger, but he moved peacefully. I swallowed back a painful cry as I watched the van pull off. In the rear, where my uncle was in custody, there were no windows for a final peek. And that’s when I choked on a cry shooting from my belly. I didn’t let it explode, but my eyes glossed over, blurring the last I could see of the van until it turned the corner.

“This yours, right?” I felt a poke at the back of my arm.

I turned and saw it was Mike Brown again, handing me my pocketbook. Maybe he wasn’t ready to throw me from the sidewalk over this.

“Thank you.” My hands trembled as I opened my bag for my phone.

I had no idea who to call.

Should I call Sheldon?

God, I didn’t want to call Sheldon. But I had to do something. Who did I know from work that could help me navigate this?

“Can I rap to you right quick?” Mike was still there. His burly crew still towering over me.

Oh, hell!

I nodded and followed him around the corner, not too far from the entrance of the club, but out of the thickened crowd of nosey onlookers.

“I see you in some hot water,” Mike scoffed. “Those Marshal boys only come around when shit deep as hell. You the same people of Van’s that told me you write music. Right?”

I sniffled, wiping my running nose with the back of my arm as I nodded.

“Aside from all this bullshit,” he pointed around, “you may be in luck. I need some fresh material for an artist I plucked tonight. You’d be interested in working with me?”

My face folded and tongued tied. This proposal seemed to go along with the surrealism of the day.

“Ummmm…” I swallowed and sniffled. “I’m sorry…Mike, but this…”

“My bad. I get it.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a card holder. “Here’s my contact info.” He lifted the card toward the front of the club. “I can help you out with that situation with Van.”

I took the card. “How so?”

“Good representation. I’m a businessman, but my humble beginnings was in the streets. Hell, I’m still in these mufuckas. I know when you need A-1 lawyers and when you just need a body with a damn bar license. The homie, Van, gone need a heavy hitter. I keep them on speed dial.”

My head shook from confusion. I couldn’t understand much of anything. I’d worked for the D.O.C. for some time, but never experienced this side of it.

I lifted the card in the air. “I…uh.” I couldn’t even look at him, my eyes midway down his body as I struggled for clarity of thought. “Do I call?”

“No. You come.” Finally, I was able to lift my head. “My office address is up there. You can’t do shit for him until the morning. Meet me at that address and we’ll work out something where you can do some music with me and we’ll get him a good ol’ esquire. A’ight?” He tried for a soothing smile.

It didn’t work, but I was grateful for the attempt.

I heard, “Excuse me!” It got closer. “Excuse me. You forgot to pay in there.” I turned to find the guy who served us. His face was as familiar as my first grade teacher at this point.

“I got it, Bobby.” Mike pulled out a wad of cash, licked his thumb and peeled back a few bills. “Here ya go, my man.” Before I could utter a word of thanks, Mike emphasized, “Tomorrow at nine.” Then he and his bevy of silent men took off.

I drove into a business park in Maplewood, trying to find Suite 803 among the small office units. The moment I located 799, I knew I was in the right area and pulled into an available parking space.

Eight fifty-three…

I had minutes to spare as I cut the engine and grabbed my purse. My phone rang, and immediately I sighed my grief. The damn thing had been ringing all morning as word was getting out about Van. Last night I managed to call MaMa, his mother, to break the news to her. She agreed to call Sheldon, who tried calling me all night. I chose to take his call earlier this morning to officially fill him in. This time, my girlfriend was calling. Word was really spreading.

“Hello?” I opened the door and stepped out of the car.

“Oh, my god, Wynter! I’m so sorry,” Mya cried. “I just heard about Van. Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks.” I tried scanning the suite numbers to be sure I was headed in the right direction. “I don’t think there’s much. Just send positive energy his way.”

“Well, what happened? Reign said you were there.”

“Mya, I can’t talk right now. I’m actually on my way into a meeting about this very thing.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you later, and hopefully with something positive.”

“Okay. Wynter. You hang in there. I know he’s your right hand.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone, switching the ringer off while I did this.

I was desperate for a solution, help. I called the Marshals last night and they took my information, telling me someone would call me first thing this morning with more information. I was relieved when the call came through before this Mike Brown meeting. At least I’d have something to give a lawyer. What was shitty as hell was finding out all of his charges. Apparently, it was kidnapping, gun possession, and attempted murder.

Unreal.

Unfucking real.

If Van had told me about these charges last night when I blew him off, it would have been me sitting in a damn cell somewhere for strangling him. How could he have done something so stupid as to have racked up those charges? I was running on empty, having not slept a bit last night, didn’t have an ounce of food this morning but a few sips of coffee. My whole damn body tremored as though I’d consumed a gallon as I opened the door to Suite 803.

It was small, but colorful. There was a woman sitting at a desk.

She didn’t smile when she asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mike Brown.”

She took off her reading glasses. “Who are you?”

I swallowed back my sass. “Wynter. I have a nine o’clock with him.”

“Have a seat.” She pulled on her glasses as she ordered, picking up the phone.

I walked over to the leather sofa next to the door and sat on the edge, nervous energy bouncing around in my empty stomach as I studied the place. The walls were each a different dark color: red, blue, green, and gray. An odd combination for business, but they were lined with plaques and framed pictures of well-known celebrities. Ragee, of course, was in many of them. I didn’t follow him much, but knew he was managed by Mike Brown.

Ragee was a big name in music and film. His voice was far more mature than the generation currently downloading music at a rapid rate and buying concert tickets, but he managed to maintain their attention with up-tempo music and acting alongside heavy-hitting modern day actors. In a nutshell, Ragee had done well, and apparently with Mike Brown managing his career.

The door adjacent to the small couch opened; one of the beefy guys from last night waved me in. Immediately, I identified Mike Brown behind a desk, on the phone. His eyes were on me. The most glaring feature of his I caught was the shiner on his face. I didn’t notice the black eye last night. Maybe it was because I was too preoccupied or the sunglasses he wore. I didn’t know. But this morning, the swelling of a quarter of his face was hard to miss.

“Uhn-huhn…” he uttered, listening into the phone. “Who else know?” He cocked his head to the side, apparently pleased with whatever the answer was.

Realizing I was snooping, I diverted my attention to the office décor. It was at a minimum. Louder than the detail of style was the stench of weed melded into the paint on the walls. Over his desk was a RIAA platinum plaque for Young Lord’s production of “Do You?”. This one was specially made because it included a picture of the three men: Young, Ragee, and Mike Brown holding Grammy awards. Around were mounted pictures of Mike with the Notorious B.I.G., Jay Z, Busta Rhymes, Big Daddy Kane, AZ, Talib Kweli, Mos Def, Fabolous, and other well-known rappers. Some shots were candid from corners and stoops, others were at award shows and concerts. It didn’t take me long to grasp they were all Brooklynites. That memorabilia reminded me no matter how shoddy the look of this place, Mike was an accomplished, and possibly powerful man.

“A’ight,” Mike released a deep breath. “Keep me D on everything. A’ight. One.” He disconnected the call and stood from his sitting position on the desk with a smile. “Well at least you’re on time. For the business I’m tryna do with you, following instructions to the T is key, mama. He traveled around the desk toward my seat in front of it. His eyes slithered over me from my head to my crossed legs. “You heard the news on ya uncle?”

I nodded my answer, feeling that lightning of pain in my chest from the reminder.

“Me, too.” He sat in front of me, on the desk. “That call was about him. Attempted murder, robbery, and kidnapping.”

I swallowed as my eyes shifted away. “I wasn’t told about the robbery.” My tone was defensive.

“Because they may have missed him and gave it to the other niggas involved. Van got fucked. A bad deal gone shitty. He ain’t even know what all the score was.”

“How do you know what happened?” A jolt of anger zipped through me. “Do you even know Van like that? He didn’t give me that impression.”

He chuckled quietly, eyes drawing somewhere behind me. “You asking the wrong questions.”

“Then help me out.”

“The right question is what type of lawyer it’s gonna take to beat the charges? Are the charges even tough?”

“The U.S. Marshals picked him up. I’d say they’re fucking tough enough.”

Mike shook his head. “Not really in Van’s case. He wasn’t a mastermind or a player in the score. He was just going to make a pickup from his plug while they was in the middle of a job. They kidnapped a nigga and brought him to they hot spot to rob him. When they saw they wasn’t getting nowhere, they shot ‘em up.” Mike shrugged. “So happen Van was re-up’ing at the same fuckin’ time they had the nigga strapped to a chair. He saw Van come in.” He smacked his hands together. “Called his name when they found him in the back of a school and took ‘em to the hospital. Dumb fucks ain’t even make sure the nigga was dead,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Mike stood. “Anyway. The deal is done. The FEDs ran down on all the players and it took them a minute—a day—to find Van. We all know when they did and where he at. Fucked up thing is if he get a public defender, he doing hard FED time. I’m talking about maybe thirty, forty years out this bitch.”

My breath caught in my chest. But he’d just said Van was an innocent bystander. Maybe not innocent, but definitely not a part of what those other knuckleheads were into.

“Or,” Mike emphasized, “he can obtain a law shark and fight all them bitch ass charges. Maybe just get a couple of state years for the little package he picked up. Or turn federal witness for them fuckas who caught him up in the middle of they shit.”

“Van ain’t no snitch!” I gritted.

No way was he going to wear that tag for the rest of his life. That sounded more dangerous than the first scenario.

Mike shrugged again. “Bottom line is, I got at least four lawyers on my rolodex that can beat the charges.”

“In exchange for what?” I demanded.

Mike turned to me, a wide smile breaking out on his face. “You’re a smart thing. I figured that from what I saw.”

What he saw?

“I don’t have time for niceties. I got an uncle in some serious shit, in case you forgot that quickly.”

“I respect that.” Mike nodded. “For real.” His eyes bore into me as he rubbed his hands together. But this look wasn’t salacious, it was examining. “I need to know how serious you is about getting your uncle outta this bullshit. Because the lawyers I’m talking about…we talking fifteen hun-ed—two G’s a hour. I know Van ain’t got that type of bread. Not picking up the little package he was that day, he don’t. And from what I hear about you, you ain’t pulling that in at ya job either.”

“What do you know about me and why does this shit feel murky?”

“Because I’m thorough. And I’m a business man with needs.” He moved toward his desk. “Before I make my transaction, I research the players, sweetheart.”

Mike pulled a folder from a drawer and tossed it across his desk, toward me.

Inside was a copy of my school transcripts, birth certificate, driver’s license, home address, professional certifications…a whole gamut of shit. My eyes shot up to him.

His average height and stubby frame stood still, sporting an accomplished smirk.

“Ain’t no marriage certificate in there.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because of my proposal. I can get Van outta this shit—or help you get him out; I don’t want nothing to do with that bullshit—if you help me change ya marital status.”

My face went wild, contorting in disbelief. “You wanna marry me?”

Oh, fuck no!

“Don’t look so excited. Hell, no!” He laughed so hard at that. “Me give my name to a woman? Not for nothin’…never happen!”

My head cocked to the side at the familiarity of those words.

This guy quoting Jay Z lines while I’m here trying to keep from crying?

My face fell into my palms. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

“Before I spit everything, you need to tell me now if marrying a total stranger ain’t never something you’ll agree to. Ain’t no need for me to waste my time or yours.”

My head jerked back. “Marriage?”

“I ain’t talking about nothing crazy. No gay shit. And I only work with well-off people, so your lifestyle will definitely be elevated. Nothing long…maybe two to three years of you playing wifey to somebody you ain’t gotta fuck or suck—unless you want to.” I gasped so hard my throat hurt. Mike reacted, too. “Wasn’t nothing in that file about religious convictions either—” Mike’s face fell, forlorn. “—which can be good or bad, now that I think about it.”

“What?”

He shook off a thought. “Nothing. Can you answer the question, ma?”

“My name is Wynter—”

“Yeah, Blue. As you can see, I know a whole lot. At least enough to try to do business with you. Listen, sweetheart, I’mma business man from the grittiest part of Bedford-Stuyvesant. I done seen more shit than ya pretty head from Garfield could ever think of. I seen niggas get ten years for stealing a ten speed. I seen millionaires make their pregnant mistresses disappear and never got nothing but a formal interrogation with they lawyers sitting right next to them, telling the detectives, ‘My client will not answer that.’ And you know the difference between the two?” I swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my curiosity. “The right lawyer!”

His wide eyes were on me again, and I couldn’t breathe. He made the solution seem so simple.

“That’s it. And Van’s case is shitty, but fuckin’ prosecutable because don’t nobody down there give a fuck about his black ass innocently walking in on that shit. They lookin’ for bodies to throw the fuckin’ book at so they can get to the next black ass muthafucka to make a case against. Van’s ass ain’t special to nobody that matters right now but you. Because unless y’all got family somewhere with bank, you can wait for them to find housing for him somewhere out Midwest like they did fuckin…Trent Bailey. Had that nigga locked the fuck up where only people wit’ dough could see him. He could survive that ‘cause he had paper. Van’s ass got…” He pointed to me.

The first groan croaked from the bottom of my belly.

My voice cracked when I asked, “What kind of marriage are you talking about?”

“This one.” I pointed to the picture of me on the yacht at Young and Kennedi’s birthday bash. My in-house photographer was with me at the private event that brought happy memories every time I thought about it or saw pictures like this. I still couldn’t believe the birthday honorees were served boxed Hamburger Helper and a damn salad while we all chowed on lobster, Kobe beef sliders, caviar, imported cheeses, shrimp and grits, and other stuff I couldn’t name. “We got more from then?”

“Yes, but we want to stay away from recycling backgrounds and ensembles,” my web content manager advised. “One more.” She moved her index finger up the table with an illuminated top layer. “What about these? They didn’t make the cut from the tour shoot.”

“Raj,” Myisha called from the other side of the room where she was busy in her iPad and phone. I glanced up. “We still haven’t responded to the Carmichael’s invitation to Lisa-Mare’s birthday celebration—in Saint Justin.”

Only my pastor would have his baby’s birthday party on an exotic island. I also knew the invitation was not extended to many. Ezra was particular and cultured. He strategically chose the people he let into his new life with his family.

My mind raced for the details of what she was speaking of. I needed to when it came to my pastor and friend.

“When is it again?”

“October eighth. Apparently, it’s on her actual birthday.”

“Any conflict?” We’d just kicked off the first leg of a tour.

Myisha tapped her devices for an answer and my attention briefly went back to the images before me. It was a group of pictures with me wearing all black, including a turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up my forearms. The wool slacks fit right on my thighs, and the shiny black Ase Garbs chukka boots made the look official. My hair was shaped up, but had grown out to a wild state and my tapered goatee resembled more of a full beard. Not my favorite look as far as clothes, but the smile captured on my face was priceless. I sat on a red bar chair with an old fashioned microphone stand between my legs. 

I remembered why I was smiling so hard. Myisha told me Heather had just called her and said she delivered their first baby, and the one thing she feared happening during the delivery happened: she shitted on the table while pushing. What made it funny was that was the one thing she obsessed about when talking about having the baby.

But my humor wasn’t malicious. It was an expression of happiness and pride. They—she finally had her first baby. I was proud of her. Now, looking at the pictures, I saw I was able to pull off the image they were going for. I was supposed to be happily performing, singing into the microphone.

Looked that way to me…

“Looks like it’s on a stretch—the night before your Miami show,” Myisha finally answered.

But my head was now somewhere else. I needed to think about it for a minute.

“Yeah.” Getting back to work, I took a deep breath, feeling sleep knocking at my door, but knew I wouldn’t be able to answer anytime soon. I wasn’t even in the middle of my day. My eyes roved between the seven images from that shoot, trying to decide which one. “We can…”—I stalled, mentally narrowing down my picks—“go with—”

A harsh push at the door snatched my attention from the table board. Mike and his crew busted in like they ran shit.

“The room,” he demanded. Seemed like everybody stood still, trapped in their shock. “Now.” Bodies started to move, even Lisa, the owner of the place. I looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. Wisely, he read my expression right and lifted his palms in the air defensively. “It’s important, Raj. Facts.”

His guys, Will and Tim, moved deeper into the small room to give space for my crew and Lisa’s to go. On her way out, Myisha tossed me an annoyed look. She, too, was getting fed up with Mike and his aggressiveness that had been getting out of hand over the past few months. I told her to curb her tongue because I knew dude had been going hard on this movie deal, and it had been stressing him, too. Mike was intense, but damn good at his job. But coming into a mid-town Manhattan studio unannounced could get his body riddled with lead if he wasn’t careful.

I sat against the end of the table, knees spread wide and crossed my arms. “Glad I told my guys to wait out there and not in here.” I scratched my nose. “Coulda been some gunplay poppin’ off in here.”

Mike shook off that low key threat. He tossed a manila file folder on the table. From over my shoulder I could see the impact blew the organized pictures all over, including on the floor. I narrowed my eyes.

“Look,” he ordered. “This shit need to be settled by tomorrow. We ain’t got much time.”

Slowly, I turned to face the table, grabbed the folder and fingered through what was obviously a contract. It was pages long and detailed. While going through it, I had an out of body experience. Everything was signed on both parties’ parts. This couldn’t be happening in my life. But it was, according to this document. It was all here in black and white. Her name struck me as odd.

Wynter Haile Blue.

I found a seat near the table and sat while I read through this. She was twenty-eight and from Garfield, New Jersey. She signed off on three years of matrimony to “Unnamed Client” and to an air-tight nondisclosure and prenuptial agreement. She agreed to protect the confidentiality of private information disclosed during the expressed period of time, or other related types of business transactions as it concerned “Unnamed Client” and or his/her affiliates.

This dude is playing no games…

I didn’t make myself dizzy with the legal jargon on there, but was used to contracts enough to know this one was solid. The girl could be sued up her ass for sneezing a word about the type of toothbrush I used. Still, this didn’t feel right.

I tossed the file back on the table and rubbed my mouth with my full hand.

Mike motioned for his security to leave the room. When the door closed, leaving us alone, he shook his head. “Don’t do this, Raj!” Mike started toward me. “Don’t do it! We talked this shit in the ground and you said if the shit was legit you’d be wit it.”

My brows went up. “I said I’d consider it. That means think about it.”

“I know you like to use those words when it suit you, homie, but right now ain’t the time to get all educated with me. We went over it. Don’t flake on me now; there’s too much work to do after we make this shit official.”

“And what about an alternative plan?”

He laughed, his Dame Dash sarcasm coming to life. “Here he go with the alternative bullshit,” Mike spoke to the air. “Look, man. I know that’s what you like for us to do when we do normal business, but right now, my nigga, this the business of the day…and tomorrow and next year…and fiddy years to come when our grandkids old enough to make power moves off our paper.”

He pulled up a seat next to me, leaning over to try and reason with me. “Raj, what the fuck I say to you when you came to me with that beat up ass guitar back in the day when nobody was checking for a corny ass acoustic musician?”

I chuckled, eyes going out the window. “Let’s not go there, man. Mike B., you might have a growing client list, but let’s not get it twisted: I’m your first and only successful client. When I met you back then, you was staying with ya kids’ mom—in her mom’s basement. Yeah, you had the Cuban links with the sparkling Jesus piece and a shiny Lex, but I’m that nigga who paid all that off. I’m that dude that worked his ass off, so you could open an office in Maplewood even though it’s in a small business lot. So, you telling me back then, ‘I believe in you so much, I’mma help you change ya vision level of the world,’ was a boomerang effect. You’ve eaten and been eatin’ well. Only one in this room with the belly to prove it is you.”

Mike sat up eyes rolling toward the ceiling as he laughed. “So it’s only been you bustin’ ya ass—”

“Not my words. What I’m saying is I’m the talent. In this case”—I swung my two fingers between us—“grindin’ don’t beat talent; it only assists it.”

“Yeah, until that grindin’ mean digging graves to keep mufuckin’ demons away from the talent.” My head swung over to him to find Mike eyeing me intently. “Yeah, nigga. My talents done brought us far.”

Taking a breath, I looked away, not wanting to lose it on dude. Mike had been my partner for almost seven years. We’d seen green days with stacks of cash and bloody days where we had to defend the lifestyle we worked hard to get. We were bonded by secrets—front page scandals that were far deeper than taking on a fake wife. I felt trapped. There was no way out of this. Mike was playing ball and I had to go hard or possibly kiss goodbye all the rewards of the hard work I’d busted my ass to get for me and dudes coming up behind me. I’d busted down doors and demanded opportunities your average black R&B singer hadn’t. Mike here had been right by my side, kicking down doors with me. We couldn’t let Hollywood’s fickle and arbitrary system block me from what was rightfully mine. I had to level up.    

“Look man, I ain’t ‘bout to explain how we—”

“October eighth.”

“What?”

“October eighth.”

Mike shook his head, confused. “That some cryptic way of saying fuck off?”

I stood from the chair and grabbed his file. “It’s the day this marriage bullshit’s gotta go down.” I handed him the file, unable to look at him because doing so would force me to face I’d just sold another chunk of my soul to the enemy for fame. What I was doing wasn’t right, but I was so desperate, I couldn’t think of a better way to go about this. Doing this movie would shoot me into the stratosphere I belonged in. “It’s also a non-show date. Guess somebody ‘round here gotta remember the business while we tryna make shit happen for the business,” I lied.

“Raj, man…,” Mike started.

“I’m good.” I dismissed him.

Mike stood there for a minute, probably stumped by my abrupt decision, but there was nothing more to say. I didn’t dither. Hated it. There was only one area of my life that I struggled in. The one area that got me in this…unreal situation in the first place.

Mike had just touched the knob when a thought occurred.

“Yo…”

He turned from the door, tossing his chin at me.

“How much I gotta cut this check for?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. This ain’t no come up deal.”

“What’s her cut of the deal then?”

“Nothing that ain’t in my back pocket. It’s on me.”

I had no clue what that meant, but didn’t care to question him more on the topic. Mike left with his pre-signed contracts and my consent in his “other” back pocket. It was a done deal from here. My spirit told me my life would be forever changed after having made another deal with the devil.