Exit Strategy (10 page)

I’m paying them all to scale, so I need to get as many tracks laid as possible this week. We practice all the pieces we expect to lay for the day, and I’m all over the place. I’m changing the scores where required, helping musicians with timing, and having fun for a change. Carmelo’s presence, I have to say, has lightened my mood considerably.

While the group practices an intricate part of the next track, I amble over to Carmelo. With the music playing, I have to move in closer to his personal space to be heard.

“What we’ve done thus far without your ax is a mystery to me,” I say.

Carmelo sets his guitar on its stand and gives me his undivided attention. His legs in a wide stance, arms folded, he grins at me. “You want me to record a few do-overs?”

“I’d love to rerecord every damn track we’ve done, but I know we can’t.”

“Looking out for that bottom line?”

“I have to. Jada would have my head.” And Tristan would have my ass, but I don’t tell Carmelo that. Tristan is still our backer, and we have to work together. This conversation reminds me of that with startling clarity. If I don’t manage things appropriately, he’ll be around sooner than later, busting our chops over the bottom line. Will I be able to resist him?

“Let me have a listen later. If there’s anything I can improve, I’d be willing to overdub some of it.”

“You would do that for me? Free of charge?”

Carmelo leans in and whispers, “I’d do anything for you.”

I smile. “Within reason, though. Right?”

“I dunno. You kinda rob a brother of all rationality when you get into conductor zone.”

“Somebody else said that to me recently,” I say as I struggle to keep my cool. Something tugs hard at my heart, to the point of aching. I think of Tristan and the time he dragged me into my office and fucked me until I couldn’t see straight after watching me conduct my little orchestra the first time. I swear everything is an aphrodisiac to that man.

At the thought of Tristan, Fairy Hoochie Mama takes a nosedive off my shoulder. The little bitch has feigned suicide half a dozen times since I left Tristan, and Triple-G is just about ready for her straight-jacket, she’s believed her fairy opposite dead so many times.

This time is no exception, Triple-G takes her pulse, pronounces her dead, and then proceeds to sob as if the world has come to an end. A gurney appears. Triple-G rolls Fairy Hoochie Mama onto it and they disappear to resume their strike. I don’t know why they keep up the charade when they know they’re going to come back again and try to convince me that my friendship with Carmelo is somehow a slight against Tristan.

“Is the Prince of the Loop at all musically inclined?”

“Yes, he plays a mean saxophone.”

“Damn. I wanted to at least have one up on that stud, musically.”

It might be difficult to find anyone who’s got one up on Tristan White. I think I knew this when he took me into his Grotto the first time, and he’s only upped the ante since then.

“I bet he can’t dance like a brother,” Carmelo says, taking me into his arms and dancing us around the room to the ballad currently playing. As we’re spinning, I glance at the oblong window on the door to the studio, and I could swear Tristan is standing there. When Carmelo spins me again, I look, but there’s no one there.

I pull away from Carmelo. “Have them take it from the top, and we’ll record when I get back.”

I rush out of the studio to Tracey’s desk. She looks up at me, startled.

“Hey, Tracey. Was Mr. White just here?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I just came from the ladies’ room,” she says. The phone rings, and she holds up a finger.

“Kente Studio Records . . .”

I turn and head toward the showroom. Just as I cross the threshold, I see Tristan’s limo leaving the parking lot and merging with traffic on the street in front of the store.

I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and dial Tristan’s number, but he doesn’t pick up.
Shit!
He probably saw me dancing with Carmelo, looking for all the world like a girl who didn’t leave the man she loves high and dry just a few weeks before. Tristan is too proud. He will not come back again.

And if he did come back, what would I do? Tell him why I spaz out every time he says anything that resembles something my father might have said? Tristan White may be a man who craves control and has adopted a sexual lifestyle that gives him that, but he’s never been abused by one of his parents.

I wander back to the studio door, collect myself, and then enter the room with a smile. “Let’s take it from the top.” I signal the guys in the booth, and we begin to record tracks. Eventually, the music consumes me enough to take Tristan and everything else off my mind. That is, until a sheriff’s deputy shows up at the studio, adding another chink into what’s to become a doozy of a fucked-up day.

When Tracey calls me out of the studio, thankfully she’s shown the deputy into my office so the staff isn’t gawking at us. Jada, and the fairies follow me in seconds later.

Arrest this bitch,
Fairy Hoochie Mama says.
It ought to be against the law for any heifer to give up the kind of dick-tation Tristan was laying down.

Word!
Triple-G declares, waving a pair of miniature handcuffs.

I ignore them and greet my visitor. “What can I do for you officer?”

Jada closes the door and leans back on it with her arms folded over her chest. I’m glad she’s with me so I don’t have to face whatever this is, fairies notwithstanding, alone.

The Deputy removes his hat. “Are you Keisha Anarosa Beale?”

“I am,” I say a tad defensively.

“Deputy Wick Carlson with the Cook County Sheriff’s Department, ma’am.” He extends his hand which holds a single envelope. “You’ve been duly served to appear in court as a material witness in the case of the State of Illinois versus Byron Oswald McCaskill.”

“Why am I getting this so soon? I thought the trial would be in April?” I take the envelope from him and open it. “This says March eleventh.”

“The defense likely filed a motion for a speedy trial; even with that, it’s taken the better part of a year. You may call the prosecutor if you have any further questions.”

“Thank you, Deputy Carlson.”

He tips his hat and leaves as Jada comes around to peek at the papers over my shoulder. 

“This day couldn’t get any better,” I say. “Tristan came by earlier but left before I could talk to him.”

“Really? Nate said he might come by.”

“I think he saw me horsing around with Carmelo.”

Jada’s face falls out of the grin she’s rocking. “Oh.”

I refold the papers, put them back into the envelope, and throw it on my desk. “Now I’m about to face Byron in court.”

“Fuck Byron. That bastard’s going down for what he did to you,” she says with the same vehemence she’d demonstrated when she first learned what Byron had done.

“I hope so.”

“Well, did you try to call Tristan after you saw him leave?”

I walk around my desk and plop into my chair. “Yeah, several times, but he’s not picking up.”

“You want me to call Nate and have him deliver a message? He could explain what the deal is so maybe you two could talk.”

“No. Don’t get Nate involved. I don’t think Tristan would like that.”

“Who gives a shit what he likes? He needs to know what he saw was a goddamned fluke. You want to get back with him, right?”

“I don’t know what I want, Jada.” And that’s partially true. I want Tristan, but I don’t know how to finesse dealing with the panic attacks.

“You need to hurry up and figure it out. Tristan doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’ll wait around very long for you to make up your mind.”

Jada’s right. I do need to sort my feelings out—and soon.

The day zips by, given the impromptu visit from Tristan, which didn’t go well, being served a subpoena to appear in court a month earlier than anticipated to face Byron, and multiple recording sessions. Before I know it, it’s closing time, and everyone is gone except Jorge and me. He swings by the studio where I’m furiously editing sheet music.

“I’m headed out, chica,” he says. “You need to come with me now unless you want another nightmare ride on CTA.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be a no,” I say. “Let me just shut everything down and grab my purse and my laptop.”

“All right. I’ll make sure the folks in retail have locked everything down, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” In addition to the apology to my staff the previous week, I’ve shifted some of my duties to Jorge so I can really capitalize on my creative energy.

By default, Jorge has also become my escort since I’m not Tristan’s submissive anymore and enjoying the perks of limo rides. I used to be able to take public transit unrecognized, but no more. Residual recognition from my association with Tristan is still in full effect.

People who don’t know me had been approaching me on the ‘L’ like we were old friends and they were somehow authorized to be all up in my personal business. After one pushy guy tried to follow me home one night, I ducked into a fast food restaurant and called Jorge, who thankfully had been working late and came to pick me up. Now he and Jada share escorting responsibilities.

That incident had me seriously considering buying a car, but I’m still kind of queasy about driving, so I haven’t acted on that impulse yet. I gather all my belongings, turn out the lights, and head toward the rear exit of KSR to the parking lot.

As I step out of the building, lights temporarily blind me. I guess Jorge must be eager to get home. I’m not sure why, because Thomas is back in a residential rehab program in Arizona. I grin, ready to tease him, until the SUV pulls up to me and I see the hooded figure. I only get a fleeting look because my self-preservation kicks in, and I step back involuntarily before stumbling into Jorge as he bursts out of the door. The SUV noisily peels off.

“What the fuck?” Jorge says.

“I think ... I just dodged a bullet.” I’m not actually aware of just how rattled I am until my knees buckle and Jorge catches me. My heart is thumping a million miles a minute, but it doesn’t feel like it does when I’m about to have a panic attack; this is pure, unadulterated fear.

Jorge draws me close. “I got you, cuz,” he says with a soothing voice and holds me until I stop shaking. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket.

“What’re you doing?”

“Calling the cops.”

“That guy is long gone. Did you get his license plate number?”

“No, that shit happened so fast all I could think about was making sure you were okay.”

“So, what are we going to tell them? That some guy in a mask was trolling our parking lot?”

“Hell yeah. At least they’ll know this guy’s on the prowl, and it might save someone else from being surprised by that motherfucker.”

“You’re right. Let’s call, but from the safety of your car.” Jorge agrees and keeps his arm around my waist as we hurry toward his waiting vehicle.

CHAPTER SIX

Tristan

Tristan’s mail is stacked neatly on his desk the same way Darryl makes sure it is every day, with confidential mail on the left. The opened and sorted is stacked from least important on the bottom to most pertinent on the top. A creature of habit, Tristan opens the confidential mail first. He is almost through the stack when Darryl buzzes him.

“Mr. White, there’s a sheriff’s deputy here to see you.”

Well, that’s not an intercom message he gets every day. Confident that whatever the officer’s reasons for showing up at his office unannounced doesn’t concern him being on the other side of the law, Tristan views the visit as a nuisance.

“Pick up your handset, Darryl.”

“Yes, sir.” Darryl’s obedience to his command is immediate.