Reunion Girls (15 page)

He shook his head and threaded his hands behind his head, displaying the full power of his biceps. "I can't win." One beat. "Do you have any beer?"

"I need you to leave, Jake. I have to get ready for a long work night, and I want my privacy."

"One beer and a twenty-minute nap. Then I'll split. Promise."

Babe groaned wearily and started for the refrigerator. "Import or domestic?"

"Any beer's fine," Jake called out.

She grabbed a bottle of Michelob, popped the cap, and set it down with a bang on the nightstand. "I'm going to take a shower. I want you gone by the time I get out."

Jake put on an exaggerated pout. "You make me feel so used."

A reluctant grin crept onto Babe's lips.

Jake caught it right away. "I believe that was a smile. See, Babe, I'm a stand-up guy. How many men out there tell the truth about their screwing around? At least I put my cards on the table."

Babe left to turn on the shower. Before shutting the bathroom door, she said, "Jake, it's admirable that you're honest about being an asshole. But it doesn't make you any less of one."

She let the hot jets wash away her frustration, taking her time, applying a tea tree oil treatment to her hair and Tracie Martyn Enzyme Exfoliant to her face.

"Nice work," Jake said. "When you're head over heels for a subject, it really shows."

The sound of his voice jolted her. She hadn't heard him come in. "What are you talking about?" Babe peeled back the shower curtain. And then she knew.

The expression on Jake's face explained everything. He had found the photographs of Dean Paul.

She silently cursed herself for being so careless, then smiled, trying to appear nonchalant. "That was a long time ago. I was filing away some negatives that had piled up and found those in storage."

Jake spit into the sink. "What are your plans for them?"

"I don't know," Babe said casually, laughing a little. "I didn't take a gift to the wedding. Maybe that's the solution."

He gave her a strange look. "You're lying."

"Well, Perry Mason, what do you think my plans are?"

Jake didn't answer. He wiped a circle of fog off the mirror and inspected his face, smoothing a hand down his beard growth. "Those pictures are ripe for
Playgirl.
I knew the guy was a punk."

A defensive impulse kicked in. Babe couldn't stop herself. "Kind of like your own book cover, huh? I don't remember David Brinkley ever posing in a jockstrap."

His eyes blazed with anger. "Tape the show tonight. Watch it when you get home." And then he walked out, closing the door behind him.

Babe experienced a terrible sense of dread. She rinsed quickly, draped a towel around her body, and dashed out of the bathroom, dripping wet with each step.

But Jake was gone.

Her gaze shot to the chipped draft table.

And so were the photographs.

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

You can take the girl out of the ghetto, but can you take the ghetto out of the girl? More than fake nails and hairpieces went flying when two rap divas got down and dirty outside one of New York's top radio stations. Arrests were made. Bless you, NYPD! There was no boy in blue in sight when yours truly became the victim of a purse-snatching a few weeks back, but I'm glad they were around to put these hellcats in the pokey. Sorry, readers. No luck on sneaking one of those lovely mug shots out of the precinct. Another scandalmonger got there first. Wonder where they will turn up? Are you humming that old Carly Simon chestnut, too? It's called "Anticipation."

Gabrielle

GABRIELLE WAS HANDCUFFED TO A bench and sobbing uncontrollably, her makeup smeared by tears.

A police officer approached and asked for her autograph. "For my daughter," he said, smiling. "She's thirteen. Her name's Misty."

Shaking, she reached for the pen and scribbled her name on the scrap of paper, wishing her writing hand had been shackled.

"It's routine to detain everyone until all the statements are taken," he explained kindly. "You'll be free to go soon. Don't worry." He stepped away and returned with several tissues.

Gabrielle tried gamely to wipe her eyes and blow her nose with her free hand. She finished and stared in horror at her fingertips. They were still stained with printing ink.

The officer sat down beside her. "It'll come off easy with soap and water. You just have to scrub."

She glanced at her new friend.

He seemed too young to have a teenager. With his unlined skin, neatly trimmed goatee, deep tan, and green eyes, the man with the name badge that pronounced him Kris Kirby looked late twenties, tops.

"I don't understand what's going on. I've been here since last night."

Kris shrugged. "It's procedure. You were involved in a shooting."

Gabrielle started to sob again. This had been the second-longest night of her life . . .

It all began in the domain of Shaniqua Jackson, fifty stories above the roar of Park Avenue in the skyscraper jungle. Gabrielle had arrived just minutes before six. She had been a guest on Hot Jams 97 before, and knew exactly where to go.

Inside the small studio, Shaniqua reigned supreme, aromatherapy candles burning, overhead lights dimmed to a faint glow. A short, bald black man—the producer, no doubt—sat opposite her, manning the phones and monitoring social media.

A hard-charging track by Lil Wayne boomed over the airwaves as Shaniqua studied a wire-service report and chomped on a strawberry Twizzler like a girl from the block. She took one look at Gabrielle and broke into a I-just-won-the-lottery smile, then motioned to her colleague.

They seemed to speak a silent language all their own.

Lil Wayne went down.

Shaniqua Jackson went up. "Sorry, Lil Wayne. I'll make it up to you, baby. You know that. Y'all aren't gonna believe who just walked into my studio.
Brown Sugar.
That's right. I said
Brown Sugar.
I know she's steady tripping about Queen Bee going off, and she came to the right place to set things straight. We're coming up on a station break, so don't touch that dial. Brown Sugar is next. You're listening to
Down and Dirty with Shaniqua Jackson.
I'm serious now. Hands off the dial. I'm watching you."

The DJ diva threw down her headphones and rushed to the glass door. "Girl, I wish you would've called instead of wasting all that time in traffic. We've only got about ninety seconds left in the show. Will you come back tomorrow?"

Gabrielle iced her down with a cold glare. "No, thanks. That's all the time I need to say what I have to say."

Shaniqua turned to her studio mate. "Nathan, get that mike ready. Brown Sugar's about to swat a bee, baby!"

The man rose to a full five-feet-two. He offered his little hand. "Nathan Quinn. I'm Shaniqua's producer."

Gabrielle rebuffed his gesture. "Let's just get this over with."

The advertisements rambled on. Coke Zero. The new Kevin Hart movie. Fox’s lineup. And then Shaniqua Jackson commanded the airwaves again.

"I'm back, y'all. Fixing to hit the streets, but I've got one more little something something before I peace out. Brown Sugar is in the house. And I believe she's got a message for Queen Bee. We're almost out of time, so I'm going to let you close it down, girl."

Gabrielle gripped the mike. "When I was a child, my mama told me that if you can't say something nice about somebody, then don't say anything at all. Obviously, Queen Bee didn't get that home training. My heart goes out to rappers who have so little to say that they waste their time tearing down other artists. Listen to any song on my new CD. You won't hear a single mention of Queen Bee. No reason to. I've got important subjects to write about. This sister doesn't need controversy to bring attention to her records. Because Brown Sugar fans come to the party for the music. 'Nuff said."

Blazing a look of disgust at Shaniqua, Gabrielle released the mike and started for the door.

Baby Bear stood waiting. Silently, they headed for the elevator.

She could hear the radio host scrambling to wrap up her show, then rushing out to catch them. "Girl, you need to come correct and sit down for a real interview. That golden rule shit ain't going to cut it."

Gabrielle spun angrily. "You don't deserve your platform, Shaniqua."

Nothing in Shaniqua's eyes revealed a propensity to back down. "Maybe you don't deserve yours. Why don't you prove it? Come on my show and answer the allegations."

"I have no plans to sink to Queen Bee's level—or yours."

"You sink to AKA Bomb Threat's level every night, and he didn't mind getting down with Queen Bee." Shaniqua Jackson smacked her lips triumphantly. "He didn't mind getting down with me, either."

Gabrielle struggled to edit her surprise.

"Don't worry. He was just a baby back then. A little thug plugging his first record, station by station," Shaniqua said. "But, yeah, I let him hit it."

"That doesn't surprise me. Those were desperate times. He was willing to do almost anything for airplay."

"Well, Miss Priss, if Queen Bee's right, not much has changed. Now he's fronting a rich bitch as a ghetto girl for the same thing."

Gabrielle swallowed hard.

"You better hope your story checks out," Shaniqua said menacingly. "Hip-hop fans don't like fakers."

The elevator doors opened.

Baby Bear stepped inside to hold their position.

Gabrielle stood frozen, feeling a frightening sense of life spiraling out of control. Finally, she joined Baby Bear and nodded for him to take them down.

Shaniqua got her last lick in mere seconds before the doors closed. "Be sure and listen to the show tomorrow, girl. An old friend of yours is my special guest. I'm sure you remember him. The name's Theory."

With each descending floor, Gabrielle's stomach knotted tighter and tighter. She didn't imagine that Theory would have many nice things to say about her. Their relationship had ended bitterly, and nothing had changed for him. He was still holding court at Vibeology, doing the same starving poet routine.

Baby Bear regarded her seriously. "Is there anything I can do, Sugar? Maybe I could pay this Theory cat a visit. You know, convince him to stay at home tomorrow."

Gabrielle reached out and touched his massive forearm. "I don't think so, Baby Bear. It's out of our control now." She sighed wistfully. "And I'm afraid it's going to get real ugly."

"I don't care what they say. I've got your back, Sugar. Anytime. Anyplace."

Gabrielle was moved by his expression of loyally. She felt her eyes mist with tears.

"You're not just a paycheck to me. Whatever goes down, I'm your dawg. You know that, right?"

Gabrielle embraced him warmly. "Yeah, Baby Bear, I know."

They exited the building and made a beeline for the limousine.

"Shit!" Baby Bear exclaimed, lumbering over to remove a traffic ticket slapped on the windshield.

Gabrielle laughed. "What do you expect? An illegally parked white limo stands out like neon. How many does that make this month? Thirty? Forty?"

"Twenty-seven," Baby Bear grumbled.

"If you weren't such a sweetheart, I'd have to think about deducting it from your earnings." Suddenly, she noticed a black Cadillac Escalade with dark-tinted windows speeding in their direction.

Baby Bear picked up on this, too. He watched it closely.

The luxury SUV screeched to a stop, blocking the limousine's path.

"Get in the car, Sugar," Baby Bear said.

Before Gabrielle could make the move, Queen Bee swung out from the vehicle's passenger side. "Bitch, what do you know about home training? Your own mama taught you how to be a lying-ass ho!"

For a moment, Gabrielle stood there, stunned. Then she stepped around the limousine to face down her nemesis directly, raising up her hand. "I've said all that needs to be said. You're not going to provoke a feud out of me. Maybe you need it for your career, but I don't need it for mine."

"Wait a minute, bitch!" Queen Bee rolled her neck and waved a hand of long, extravagantly painted acrylic nails. "Don't try to play me out like some nobody."

"If the shoe fits..."

Queen Bee was steaming now. "Yeah, bitch, it's Gucci. Of course it fits. Keep talking. Any minute now it might be fitting straight up your ass!"

Baby Bear shot a stern look at Gabrielle. "I'll handle this, Sugar. Get in the car."

But Gabrielle didn't move.

And Queen Bee thundered on. "What's this shit about me not being important enough to write about?"

"That's between you, your publicist, and the media coverage you don't get," Gabrielle said. "It's really none of my business."

Queen Bee pushed out her big breasts and smiled with a cool comeuppance. "Is AKA Bomb Threat your business?"

Gabrielle smiled savagely. "He's more my business than he is yours."

Queen Bee twisted around to share a secret grin with her driver.

He cackled.

Queen Bee cackled, too. "Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely. Bomb is old school. You know how men like that can be. Sometimes they just like to take out trash."

Queen Bee's nostrils flared. She eyed Gabrielle up and down scornfully. “Oh, that's something he used to do. Now he's taking out me."

Baby Bear had made his way around to the driver's side of the Cadillac. Suddenly, he slapped the hood with the palm of his hand. "Move your ride, man. It's blocking me in."

Queen Bee's driver jumped out, displaying the kind of youthful aggression that signals stupidity and nothing to lose. "Yo! Fat ass! Keep your hands off the car!"

Baby Bear raised up both arms in mock surrender. "Not looking for trouble, man. Just move so we can go. Simple as that."

The driver dipped back into the SUV.

Without warning, Queen Bee lurched toward Gabrielle and pushed her violently, slamming her against the limo. "You want to take me on, bitch?"

An uncontrollable rage surged through Gabrielle. She swung with one arm and yanked with the other, making hard contact with Queen Bee's face and ripping out an expensive hairpiece at the same time.