Reunion Girls (27 page)

Gabrielle

"HELLO?
HELLO?
WOULD YOU PLEASE stop calling this number!"

Gabrielle shut her eyes as the connection went dead. She was dialing home just to hear their voices now. She knew what times her mother would answer. She knew what times her father would, too.

But she could never find the strength to speak. There was always that tentative intake of breath, the intention to say the words, to say anything at all, and then in the end . . . nothing. They always hung up before she found the final courage.

Her world had turned upside down. Again. Only now she wanted to run to Matthew and Diahann Foster, not away from them. Gabrielle's mind rolled over all the accusations and resentments she had silently heaped upon her parents. The walls she had put up. The emotional banishment she'd subjected them to. And the years. Oh, God, the years! Of estrangement. Of loneliness. Of secret yearning. It all seemed so pointless now. And the regret weighed her down.

They had given all that they were capable of giving. They had done their very best to protect her. She understood that today. But back then, on that horrible night at Brown, and almost every day after that until recently, Gabrielle had blamed them. For surrendering every shred of their blackness to guarantee their place among the elite. For conceding their culture so completely as to raise a little girl who had no concept of the things people could say or do based on the color of her skin.

Gabrielle had studied the Civil Rights Movement. She had seen movies like
Mississippi Burning.
But one was a history that her parents rarely spoke of. And the other was just a Hollywood film that seemed so far removed from her own experience. As far as she was concerned, those issues had nothing to do with her. Inevitably, though, there was always a price to pay for denial.

Come on, brown sugar. Give us some of that sweet chocolate.

And that night she had paid hers. Or so she thought . . .

The telephone jangled.

A sharp fear registered that it could be her mother calling back. But then Gabrielle assured herself that she had effectively blocked the number to prevent that from happening.

She let Baby Bear do the honors.

The phone rang less and less these days. People trying to reach her knew to contact Bizzie Gruzart, and now that the interview details had been disclosed, those hoping to break her story accepted the obvious and stopped trying.

It made perfect sense to grant
Hollywood Live
and Dean Paul the exclusive. Telling the world what happened might be one of the hardest things she would ever do. Because she planned on setting the record straight. For herself. For her parents. And that would mean revealing everything. No more secrets. No more lies. No more shame.

She wanted someone who really knew her to ask the tough questions, not a news magazine harpy who would play chemistry for the camera. By
her
she meant Gabrielle. Not Brown Sugar. That woman had ceased to exist. She had been a creation, an image to flaunt, ethnic armor to wear, a product of a deal that attempted to cheat the devil.

Tomorrow. The time and place was all set. Here in this suite. At two o'clock. It still seemed so far away. The panic came in waves. Occasional fits and starts, the dull fear of not being able to go through with it. Gabrielle tried to shield herself from the media buildup, only it was impossible to escape. The interview had been programmed for the full promotional blitzkrieg. Typically, Paramount's
Entertainment Tonight
steamrolled over its rivals. But
Hollywood Live
was rising. And the accompanying excitement for the coup of pairing Dean Paul with his tabloid-scarred ex-girlfriend had narrowed the viewer margin to a fraction of a ratings point.

Baby Bear stepped into the room. "Sugar." He used his hand to put an imaginary receiver to his ear. "It's your number one ace boon coon—Lara."

She smiled at the sweet giant who had taken a bullet for her. "I know this is going to take some time, Baby Bear, but I told you that I don't want you calling me Sugar anymore."

"I'm trying, Su..."

She saw him wince at his second mistake, and picked up her extension.

"Gabrielle!"

It sounded like she was calling from a construction site. "Lara? I hope you're wearing a hard hat!"

"I'm at the warehouse. There's so much to do. I'll never get out of here. Privi's bringing my clothes for the party and checking into the Hotel Gansevoort. It's right nearby. Poor Queenie. She's out cold from a tranquilizer. But it's for the best. She's never traveled well. Listen, I won't keep you. Just want to let you know that my car service will be there by seven."

"That's not necessary. I can get myself—"

"It's final," Lara cut in. "I'm not giving you an opportunity to change your mind. You haven't ventured out of that suite even once since the uproar."

Gabrielle laughed. "Dean Paul calls me Rapunzel."

"Well, I'm not going to tell you what Finn calls you. You'll slap him silly."

"No, tell me. I'll see him tonight. Maybe I'll push him headfirst into a gondola."

Lara hesitated.

"Tell me," Gabrielle insisted.

"Okay. But don't hold it against me. I'm just the wire service."

"Deal."

"He says you're a crazy agoraphobic cat lady with twenty cats, only minus the twenty cats."

"That shit!" Gabrielle squealed with good humor. "Ugh! I'm going to get him!"

"Isn't he awful?"

“Beyond awful. Have you heard from Babe?"

"Not really. She's obsessed with that book proposal for her agent. But she'll be here tonight." Lara paused for a moment. "Oh, God. One of my sculptures just fell into the lagoon. Serenity now.”
 
She paused a beat. “Are you keyed up about tomorrow's interview?”

"Try terrified."

Lara's tone changed on a dime. "You're in good hands. He'll take care of you."

"I know."

"Okay, Rapunzel. I better run. I feel like the architect of a disaster right now. This place will never be ready in time."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everything's going to be perfect," Gabrielle assured her.

"It better be. There's no dress rehearsal for events like this. I'll see you tonight." As Lara was hanging up, she began to scream at one of the subcontractors, "Get those red linens out of here! They're supposed to be black-and-white checkered!"

Gabrielle smiled. It was all in the details . . .

And that's when an unfinished one crashed back into her life. She froze. Just hearing his voice in the outer seating area filled her with repulsion.

"Sup, Baby B? Heard you ran into some trouble. You handled that shit, though. One bullet don't stop no Bear. I told Queen to get rid of that punk-ass cousin. Crackhead."

Gabrielle seethed in a cauldron of used-to-be memories, realizing how much she hated the industrial-strength ghetto bullshit, wondering how she'd endured it for as long as she had.

AKA Bomb Threat loped into her suite as if he owned every square foot of the hotel. It was Halloween, and he was going as the Fairy Tale Thug Prince, his costume tricked out to the max—Armani on the body, Gucci on the feet, Oliver Peoples over the eyes, full-length ranch mink over it all, and screw-you-I-got-bank jewelry flashing from ears, neck, wrists, and fingers. Gold shouted little-boy money. Serious ballers busted out the diamonds.

Following a few reverential steps behind this hip-hop cartoon was the servant Gabrielle knew as Ice Man. Always in his Sunday best, always discreet, always silent. His only job—to carry a velvet-lined box containing more of his master's diamonds.

Movie stars pranced around film locations with personal umbrella handlers trailing them like tails on a comet. AKA Bomb Threat did them one better. He shadowed his every step with a personal
diamond
handler.

"Hello, Bomb," Gabrielle said with all the coldness she could muster.

He eyeballed her. Slowly. Up and down. Noting the total absence of the product he owned. Brown Sugar had been in-your-face style. The woman front and center was subtle grace. His chin jutted up like an exclamation mark. "What's this? You look just like that bitch I rescued from Vibeology." He laughed a little. "Remember? You were nothing back then."

Gabrielle straightened her spine. Her eyes blazed defiance. "You're wrong, Bomb. I became nothing when I signed on the dotted line with you."

For a moment he paused. Then a peal of mocking laughter exploded from the depths of his bull neck. He waved Ice Man out of the room as if swatting a fly. Suddenly, the laughing eyes were narrow. "Bitch, I
made
you. Don't stand up in this penthouse crib I'm paying for and try to tell me different. Who do you think you are?"

"The name is Gabrielle Foster." The present tense strangled her voice with emotion. "And trust me. She's no one you need to know."

He smoothed down the nonexistent creases in the jacket of his two-thousand-dollar suit. Eventually, his hand grazed over his crotch, watching her as he crudely adjusted himself. There was a dismissive shrug. "Different name. Same pussy.”

Gabrielle hated that word. But she hated the speaker more.

Bomb walked quickly to the bar and fixed himself a Courvoisier. "The label's pissed about this interview. They sent me here to deal with your out-of-control ass."

"You mean they dragged you away from the making of Brown Sugar part two? This must be serious."

He banged back the liquor in a single gulp. "Should be. To you. Think any other company will sign you? You're still under contract. Don't mess with that."

Gabrielle thought about what Dean Paul had told her and decided to test the water. "Does that mean I can go back into the studio?" She gave him her best provocative smile. "I want to do some new tracks. Don't you think I should answer Queen Bee?"

Bomb gestured to her haltingly. "We don't need to do that right now. Let's just chill for a minute. Give this shit a chance to ride out." His tongue flicked out to moisten his upper lip.

It was the answer Gabrielle expected. She switched the weather on her smile, going from hot to cold faster than Beyonce could shake her ass. "That's a pretty lame pitch." The expression on her face said she knew the deal.

Curiosity shone in his eyes.

"Let me guess," Gabrielle said. She eased down onto the plush sofa and crossed her legs. "You plan to burn me off with a greatest hits set and whatever else you can package quickly and at little expense."

Bomb looked at her savagely. He preferred women listening to his business lectures. Not the other way around.

Gabrielle seized the moment. She had become a thundercloud full of hidden lightning. Time to strike again. "It would be better for me to stay underground, right? That way the Brown Sugar mask stays on, and there's only one product to focus on. The one you control. And with all the controversy, you might be able to squeeze out a few more sales before shipping me off to Vanilla Ice Island." She changed her tone to singsong. "But if Gabrielle Foster starts getting all the attention . . ."

Bomb slung the fur over a chair. But he wasn't shooting steam or spitting game. Just staring, his mind putting together her intentions like a child's jigsaw. Suddenly, he erupted. "Bitch! I made you!"

Gabrielle kept her voice even. "I think groomed is a better word for it. You approached me, remember? You responded to my poetry. I wrote every lyric on those CDs."

She paused, thinking of the way he had pushed her to compromise her material. He had all but forced her into writing about the genre's default subjects for female artists—men, money, their own vaginas. "My voice was diluted, but a part of me was there."

His smile was cruel. "You think people were jamming to your
poetry
? It was my beats, girl. I could've gotten any ho off the street to rap the Yellow Pages over those tracks and still had hits!"

She tried to stay calm. Part of what he said was true. But so what? His attack only served to end the argument. "If it's so easy, then you shouldn't care what I do. Find another bitch. This one's out of here." Gabrielle stood up.

Bomb lurched forward to get right in her face. "Where are you going? You don't have shit. I own you." His hand dug into her arm.

"Let go of me."

Bomb twisted harder.

"Baby Bear!" Gabrielle called out.

One blink. And he was there. "Step off, Bomb. That shit's not right."

Bomb's temper ticked up even higher. "Who do you think you're talking to? You work for me. My company pays your fat ass."

"I work for Su... I work for
Gabrielle.
Check your fax machine for my letter of res. Now. Like I said. Step off."

It was
High Noon.
Baby Bear, sumo body lurching, was ready to pounce. The threat was crystal clear. If Bomb didn't release Gabrielle's arm, then he would be a diamond-studded pancake.

The thug-mogul's face talked major-league disbelief. He gave orders. He didn't take them. But finally, he removed his hand. Then he looked around the room, as if he half expected a hidden camera crew to emerge and reveal the whole scene as a joke.

She stared for a long time because this was how she wanted to remember him. With a chink in the macho armor. "I had an independent lawyer review my contract. You screwed me, Bomb. You screwed me good. And you screwed me better with that deal than you ever did in bed. That's for sure."

The humiliating words whacked into their target. An accusation to a black man that he couldn't handle business in bed. The ultimate abuse. And right there in his eyes was the force of the hit.

"I could never have recouped those expenses." She laughed at the crime that was her slave agreement. "Well, maybe if I sold ten million. Anyway, that wasn't a contract. It was a sucker's loan. So good luck paying it off to the label. Like you said, Bomb, you own me. Brown Sugar is Riot Act's problem now, not mine."

He bounced a look to Baby Bear. "You like working for free, man? This bitch ain't got no money."

Gabrielle tackled the end of his words. "I sold the jewelry." She flashed her bare extremities as evidence. "Those were gifts. Mine to keep. Mine to sell. And don't try to evict me from this suite. It's paid up through the weekend. Your accountant was late with the bill, but I settled the matter with management. I'm the registered guest now. I could have you thrown out. But watching you walk away with your balls in your hand will be satisfaction enough. Of course, you probably won't do the heavy lifting. Chances are you'll make Ice Man carry them."