Reunion Girls (12 page)

Babe felt a ripple of awareness race through her body.

How could she have forgotten? That rainy day when Dean Paul had modeled for her on the steep incline of College Hill. He had been so quick to strip down for the unabashedly sexy and impromptu photo shoot. She had her Nikon. He had a bold exhibitionist streak. Together they had made beautiful, erotic art.

Lara was still talking.

Babe had stopped listening. What she possessed could be the stuff of bidding wars. But it was different. No anonymity this time. She couldn't throw a rock and hide her hand with these pictures. The moment they hit, Dean Paul would know exactly where they had come from. It would mean selling him out completely. It would mean crossing a line that he might never forgive her for. Still, only one question percolated in Babe's mind. It had nothing to do with emotions. It had everything to do with money.

How much could she get?

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

Everybody thought a certain hip-hop diva (hint—her name is very sweet) was sitting pretty with Mr. Thug Mogul (hint—his name reeks of terrorism). That is, until he turned up at The Ivy in Los Angeles with her archrival (hint—her name buzzes with royalty). According to spies, the two looked very cozy. This could get very awkward. Especially when diva number one hears how badly diva number two slams her on a new song. Why say it in person when you can sing it over the radio?

Gabrielle

THE BITCH WAS BACK.

THAT unmistakable voice bounced off the walls of the Waldorf-Astoria penthouse suite. In disbelief, Gabrielle stopped to stare at the speakers of her Bang & Olufsen stereo.

"What's up, New York? Yo, yo, yo! Shaniqua's in the house! Shaniqua's in the house! Go Niqua! Go Niqua! Go Niqua! Go Niqua! It's your birthday! It's your birthday!" A cackling stream of self-amused laughter. "I know, I know. Y'all are probably sitting there thinking, 'That bitch is so damn country.' But that's okay. This sister ain't offended. I'm from the Dirty South, baby. That's why y'all love me so much. Because I bring a different flava to the concrete jungle. And let me tell you, it's
good
to be back. I want to thank Hot Jams 97 for having the balls to put Shaniqua Jackson back on the mike where she belongs. Y'all know it took a set of steel ones to do that. All those haters out there. It ain't easy being Shaniqua. You know what I'm saying?"

Gabrielle pushed aside the room service tray, her appetite suddenly gone. So this was the big surprise that her favorite radio station had been promoting for weeks. The return of prodigal DJ-diva Shaniqua Jackson.

A year ago, the Yazoo City, Mississippi, native had been suspended from her top-rated show on The Beat 101.7. Stories varied on what exactly pushed her out. Was it her gossipy revelation about the sighting of a powerful hip-hop star in a gay bar? Her announcement that a young television sitcom actress was recovering from a botched abortion? The curious manner in which she secured new music and played it weeks before the official add date?

No matter the reason, Shaniqua Jackson had been effectively silenced. The station management had suspended her indefinitely but refused to release her from the remainder of her contract, preventing her from seeking employment within New York's five boroughs. But now a year had passed, Shaniqua Jackson had become a free agent, and Hot Jams 97 had paved the way for her return. No doubt the audience would be rejoicing. Listeners loved her dirt-dishing, bad-girl antics.
 
She was Wendy Williams on steroids.

"It's been a year, so y'all know I'm chomping at the bit to get in the game again, right?" Shaniqua bellowed. "And I ain't about half-stepping on my first day. I'm coming back hard and in charge. That's why I got royalty in the house."

Gabrielle experienced a momentary tingle of dread. She reached for the remote control and ticked up the volume.

"Queen Bee, welcome to
Down and Dirty with Shaniqua Jackson."
Another arrogant laugh. "I'll be doing it nice and rough every afternoon from two to six. Now whatcha think about that?"

"It's all good, girl," Queen Bee answered. "It's all good. And you know I got something hot for you. I ain't about bumping in here just to say, 'What's up?' "

"I know that's right," Shaniqua said. "Y'all, the Queen has brought her subjects a little taste of her new CD. A smoking track called 'The Sting.' And it's a message to a certain somebody. Now my mama always told me, 'Don't start no mess, won't be no mess.' But Queen Bee don't live like that. Sister girl says what's on her mind. Listen up, y'all. We'll trip over this on the other side."

The opening guitar riff from the Rolling Stones' "Start Me Up" arrowed straight into Gabrielle's heart, igniting an inferno of anger. Instantly, she knew. The bitch had stolen the sample track from the remix of her upcoming single, "My Hot Box." And now that Queen Bee had hit the airwaves first, there was no way Gabrielle could release it. Damn her!

Queen Bee was a minor talent at best. Born Quantika Williams, she had grown up in Brooklyn's notorious Marcy Projects and used her body as a ticket out, working as a stripper, sometime prostitute, and booty dancer in rap videos before taking a turn at the mike. A regular john who also happened to be an executive at a major record label had given the green light for her first effort, "Size Matters." The song had enjoyed marginal success, setting the stage for a full-length CD,
Bigger Is Better,
and the cheap notoriety of Queen Bee's in-your-face sexuality.

Though she possessed little natural beauty, Queen Bee put her enhanced charms to exhaustive work. With double-D-cup breasts, fake eyelashes, big, candy red lips, elaborate hair weaves, and a penchant for enormous feathers and tiaras, she was equal parts circus diva and drag queen.

Gabrielle listened with ferocious interest as Queen Bee delivered the rap lyrics in her grunting, melodically challenged style...

There's a fake-ass ho—who shall remain nameless

Calls herself Queen of Bling—and that's shameless

It gets worse—she thinks she's a Super Bitch

Drop the prefix—and I'll be down with this

Buzz Buzz, Sting Sting

There's only one royal

Queen Bee—That's me

My first real fight—tenth grade

Girl pulls a punch—I pull a blade

I got a bruise—but she got forty stitches

Now she's workin' drive-thru—and I'm here countin' riches

Buzz Buzz, Sting Sting

There's only one royal

Queen Bee—That's me

I tell you this cuz Queen Bee always brings it real

I don't hide, I don't lie, I don't cheat, I don't steal

I grew up gangsta hard—bangers shootin' straight at me

Didn't know shit about private schools and fancy things

Buzz Buzz, Sting Sting

There's only one royal

Queen Bee—That's me

Didn't have to make up ghetto life—baby, I lived it

So I dare that imitation sweetener to come with it

Name the time, Name the place, Let's go, Let's rock

We'll see how tough you are—staring down my Glock

Buzz Buzz, Sting Sting

There's only one royal

Queen Bee—That's me

Gabrielle merely stood there in stoic, simmering silence. "Queen Bee!" Shaniqua exclaimed dramatically. "My girl! I got one word for this—
damn!"
She strung out the one syllable into two. "You are not playing with this new track!"

"That's because Queen Bee don't play. Trix are for kids, okay? I bring it on the level. I don't hide behind nothing. You know where I came up."

"The Marcy Projects," Shaniqua said knowingly. "That's a hard life, girl."

"You know it. Ain't no Chuck E. Cheese where I'm from. We got liquor stores and check-cashing joints. My best friend got shot because she didn't have a watermelon Jolly Rancher in her pocket when her strung-out cousin wanted one. Girl was twelve years old. You didn't hear about that on the news, did you?"

"That's a nightmare walking, girl," Shaniqua said quietly. "But you got out."

"Hell, yeah, I got out. I shook my ass. I sold my tail. I did whatever I had to do. Ain't no shame to my game. Other bitches try to look down at me and call me a ho. I'm like, 'No, no, no. Think twice. A ho meets a brother at a club and gives up her stuff later the same night.
That's a ho.
I charged green paper for my coochie to get what I needed.
That's a businesswoman.
Okay?"

"No, you didn't just go there," Shaniqua said with devilish glee.

"Yes, I did," Queen Bee replied with a proud smack of her lips.

"Okay, girl, let's continue being real," Shaniqua began.

"I'm
always
real," Queen Bee snapped.

"Then let me get real right back at you," Shaniqua countered. "Your last CD did a little bit of business, but you didn't see any platinum, am I right?"

"No, but it went gold. You got a gold CD, Niqua?"

"Ain't trying to get one. We're talking about your career, sweetheart."

"Don't talk about my shit like it's raggedy just because it didn't go platinum. Gold is serious, too. That's all I'm saying."

"Well, what
I'm
saying is this—up until now you've been trying to do your thing while Brown Sugar, Nicki Minaj, and Iggy Azalea have taken all the rays and left you in the shade. You might call yourself Queen Bee, but all you've been is a little gnat."

"Bitch, who you calling a gnat?" Queen Bee demanded hotly. "Can a gnat run you down in a Bentley?" She jangled a set of keys.

But Shaniqua didn't back down. "I have my spies and sources," she responded confidently. "I hear that the Bentley is on lease from your record company, that they can take it back whenever they feel like it, and that you're just a broke bitch."

Gabrielle howled with laughter. Queen Bee's expletives were being bleeped, but you could clearly make out the intended words. This was shock radio at its finest.

"Now wait a minute. You low-down stanky ho! Follow my ass to the ATM to check my balance. I'll prove that I ain't no broke bitch."

Living up to her reputation, Shaniqua Jackson proved relentless. "I don't care what that little slip of paper says. My sources tell me that you're all tapped out on advances from your record label. I hear it's only a matter of time before you file for bankruptcy."

"Bitch, your
sources
don't know what the hell they're talking about!"

"Quit calling me outside my name, girl." There was a severe warning in Shaniqua's tone. "I'm just presenting stories that I've heard. If you ain't a broke bitch, then there's no reason to be upset."

"Let me make it crystal clear then—I ain't no broke bitch. I ain't no
fake
bitch, either."

Shaniqua laughed. "Okay, girlfriend's got promotional skills. She knows how to bring it full circle and back to the product. So let's talk about that new track, 'The Sting.' It's fierce, girl. I have to give you props. That's a hit."

"It was a song I had to write. The shit came straight from the heart."

"This ain't just a song, girl. What I hear is a declaration of war. You're calling out Brown Sugar as a pretender."

Queen Bee grunted. "You said it. I didn't. The name Brown Sugar ain't in my song."

"Come on, sweetheart. Let me go over what you mentioned in the track, okay? Queen of Bling, Super Bitch, imitation sweetener. Now who's not being real?" Shaniqua paused a beat. "Flat out, are you telling me that Brown Sugar is a phony?"

"Why don't you ask her that question?" Queen Bee said.

"Because she's not here right now. And you are."

Queen Bee hesitated. "I'll say this much—my song speaks for itself."

"So you stand behind it?" Shaniqua challenged.

"You know it," Queen Bee said tightly.

Gabrielle felt the urge to call the radio station and blast Queen Bee live on the air. But she resisted. No need to draw attention to this. It had the potential to develop into a big scandal and possibly damage her career. Better to take the high road.

"Everybody knows that Brown Sugar is AKA Bomb Threat's girl," Shaniqua went on. "He molded her into a star. Does he know that she's fronting like this?"

Queen Bee didn't bite. "You'll have to ask him that."

"Why can't I ask you?" Shaniqua asked teasingly. "You had dinner with him at The Ivy in Los Angeles the other night. What did the two of you talk about?"

"That's personal."

"So is the fact that you were a teenage hooker, but you shared that with no problem. Spill it, girl. Everybody knows that the two of you hooked up in L.A. That piece of business is out. My sources told me. It's even in the papers."

Gabrielle rushed to find the latest edition of the
New York Examiner,
the new tabloid of choice, ripping through it to find Jinx Wiatt's column. She scanned the gossipy blind items until she found the one so clearly about AKA Bomb Threat and Queen Bee. The realization smoked inside her brain.

Without thinking about what she might say, Gabrielle dialed his private cell.

AKA Bomb Threat answered on the second ring.

In the background, she heard music, loud voices, and laughter. "Where are you?"

"In my skin."

Gabrielle was shaking with rage. "It sounds like you're in a strip club!"

"I'm in L.A. getting a lap dance at the Wild Goose. Amber's riding my jock right now. Wanna say hi?"

"Go to hell!"

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

"I just heard Queen Bee's new song! Using the Stones' 'Start Me Up' for the remix was
my
idea! But she's stolen it! And now I find out that the two of you have been hanging out together in L.A. I suppose you're going to tell me that this is a coincidence!"

"So I tossed the track in her direction," he admitted easily. "Big deal. I came up with a new killer beat for 'My Hot Box.' It's wicked, baby. Even better than the sample. You'll hear it when I get back. Trust me. You'll love it."