Exclusive: A novel
by Yasmin Shiraz
Published by Rolling Hills Press at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Yasmin Shiraz
Cover design copyright © by Marion Designs
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ISBN: 978-0-9718174-5-6 - EPUB
Exclusive
“How much time do we spend in relationships with people who are nothing like us—people who don’t like the things that we like and aren’t interested in the stuff we’re interested in? Isn’t it about time we sought out mates exactly the way that we want them? I want somebody made just for me.”
—Tisha Ariel Nikkole, excerpted from her article, “Get the Relationship You Want”
Chapter 1
Washington, D.C.
Magazine journalist Tisha Ariel Nikkole busied around her apartment getting ready to interview Shout, the biggest rapper in the United States.
For ten months the five-seven, twenty-eight-year-old freelance writer had collected various newspaper and magazine clippings that featured Shout and watched his numerous interviews and performances on television. Less than a year ago Tisha was watching Shout on BET and heard him say, “I could definitely fall for a girl who’s smart, loves herself, and knows how to take care of me.” Staring at the screen, Tisha thought she heard harps playing in her head. Was that a personal invitation for me? Tisha thought. Yes. That was a sign.
****
Tisha opened the trunk at the foot of her bed and pulled out Shout’s biography and articles. She smiled when she looked at the pictures of him. He was finer than Usher with a body like 50 Cent. Butterflies danced in her stomach beneath her silver flower belly ring.
For years, Tisha had all-access passes to the hottest rappers, actors, and singers in the country. She always used them to interview the star, take pictures backstage and then go to the after party. But now she realized that she had to use her access pass as a relationship pass to Shout.
Just then, she heard a knock on the door. She walked over to the door. Her best friend Charmaine Bukola waited on the other side.
At five-five, twenty-eight-year-old Charmaine was a successful government lawyer. Sporting black dreadlocks pulled to a bun at the nape of her neck, the heavy-set Charmaine’s sweet scented African musk oil permeated the air. Her dark skin was smooth and she wore her dreads impeccably like she should be on a jar of beeswax. Born to a Nigerian father and African-American mother, her style was unique—a compliment to both Africa and Mississippi. Charmaine often wore a Dashiki dress in the morning and ripped jeans with a tank top in the afternoon. Her strong southern drawl often slipped out of a face that looked like it should have an African tribal accent.
Tisha yanked the door open. “Hey, Charmaine. You could have called me.” Leaving the door open and Charmaine standing in the doorway, Tisha walked to her bedroom and stared in the closet.
Charmaine slowly walked up behind her friend and responded, “Called you for what?”
“Because I’m on my way out. I told you yesterday that I was going to the MCI Center for the interview. Had ya gotten here thirty minutes later, I wouldn’t have even been here.” Tisha walked past Charmaine and stood in the living room.
Charmaine followed her. “Oh yeah, you did tell me about that. That’s why I’m here.” Charmaine held up a bag in her left hand.
Tisha jumped out of the chair, ran over, and grabbed the bag. She dug inside and saw some blue jeans with silver studs down the sides and a crisp white T-shirt that read hot chick in red sequins. She put the shirt up to her chest then hugged Charmaine tightly.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. I was getting ready to go to this interview to meet my husband-to-be, and I didn’t know what I was going to wear. I was looking through my closet, and I didn’t have anything to wear.”
Charmaine sat in the recliner and said, “That’s what best friends are for.” Charmaine reached into her purse and got her car keys.
“I know how much you’re looking forward to meeting this rapper, but don’t set yourself up for a letdown. You may not like him at all. Or, after you meet him, you may find out that he’s not even all of that.”
“Please.” Tisha put up her hand.
“I believe in fate, and I believe that God has a blueprint for my life. Shout is in my blueprint.”
“I must admit, I have never heard you talk about any guy as much as you talk about Shout. And I never heard you ever talk about a guy in the music business like this at all.”
“C, I know you’re my best friend and everything. I know you don’t want to see me hurt but it has to work out between me and Shout. There has to be someone out there for me that has the same passions that I have. Look at all the years that I’ve loved hip-hop music. Well, he loves hip-hop music. He writes lyrics. I write articles. I always tell the truth in my writing. He speaks the truth on wax and in his interviews. It’s a match made in heaven. Don’t discourage me, just tell me that you’ll be my maid of honor.”
Charmaine let out a loud guffaw and dropped her keys. “That’s what I like about you, you’re eternally optimistic.” She picked up her keys from the floor and headed toward the front door.
Tisha and Charmaine walked to the door and hugged. As Tisha closed the door, she looked up to the ceiling. “Thank you, God.”
****
Shout sat on his couch and let some unidentified groupie suck his dick. He closed his eyes and kept his hand on the back of the girl’s head. He felt weave, tracks and glue but he didn’t care. If the groupie wasn’t good for anything else, she was good for a nut, maybe two. Images passed through his mind. He saw himself winning a Grammy, an MTV Video Award, and an ASCAP writer of the year award. He looked down at the groupie. I hope she doesn’t choke, he thought. But then again, as long as she doesn’t bite me, I don’t give a fuck. As Shout was getting closer to coming, his mind went blank. He shot off in the girl’s mouth. She swallowed. That was alright. It wasn’t the best, but I ain’t backed up either. Shout thought and smiled.
Shout didn’t have much to smile about last week when he stood in front of a judge in Fulton County as a result of a paternity suit. His body was damp all over. A stripper that he had sex with was accusing him of fathering her child. As the judge prepared to read the paternity results, Shout felt faint.
“Miss Julia Gaines, Keyshawn Lane is not the father of your child. The test are 99.9% accurate.” The judge stated in his Georgian southern drawl.
“He has to be. He has to be,” the stripper yelled.
Shout took a bandana out of his suit pocket and wiped his forehead.
“Jesus walks,” Shout mumbled to himself.
As the stripper’s lawyers tried to calm her down, she kept yelling.
“He has to be the father. I poked holes in the condom. It has to be his baby.”
Shout looked at her. “You bitch,” he yelled. And at that moment, Shout realized that it was truly a miracle for that child not to be his.
****
Tisha pulled her new T-shirt over her head and slipped into the skin-tight studded jeans. Tisha’s shoulder length reddish brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The tight fitting tee revealed her defined abs and toned arms. Tisha’s skin was a warm brown tone. From the corner of her bedroom, she grabbed her black leather backpack and checked to see if her handheld tape recorder and notepad were inside. She sat on the edge of her full-sized bed and put on her favorite Nike sweat socks. The thick cushioning in the heel and toe of the sock made her feel as if she was walking on air. Reaching down to put on her Air Force Ones, she paused and decided to kneel and pray.
“God, thank You for this opportunity to meet my husband. Thank You for bringing Charmaine over here today. You let her know what was on my mind. You made it happen, God. In today’s world, people might think that me going after a certain person for a mate is crazy. But, You don’t think so, do You, God? I want someone with whom I can be compatible. God, Shout’s going to be compatible with me. I believe that. Well, anyway, God, protect me although I don’t think Shout is a psycho. But, God, as hard as I’ve worked, I deserve a little loving and a companion also. Eve had Adam. Can I have Shout? Amen.”
Tisha grabbed her backpack and headed to the door.
****
The air felt moist and warm as Tisha got on the U Street Cardozo Metro train and settled into one of the bright orange seats with yellowish tan trim. It had to be one of the hottest days of the summer. Near the subway’s door were plenty of posters about safe sex, HIV testing, and infections. Tisha sat and mentally reviewed Shout’s background.
Shout was the hottest and most profitable rapper signed to World Music Records, having received a half-million-dollar signing bonus after the A&R executive heard his five-song demo tape three years ago. Shout had fan clubs spread throughout the United States and worldwide. In fact, his fan clubs hung out in front of his hotel in every city where he performed. Girls and women from sixteen to sixty threw panties and bras on stage at his concerts. There had been several lawsuits where women alleged that he was the father of their children, although it was later proven that he hadn’t slept with those women, one of whom told newspapers and magazines, “It was immaculate conception.” Shout held the Guinness Book of World Records and Billboard magazine’s top spot for selling the most albums in one week by a rapper. Two years earlier he had built Shout and Sound, a Philadelphia studio where he could work on his music any time, but the traffic in front was so crazy that he could hardly get into the studio without a police escort.
The train stopped and several young women got on the train talking loudly about Shout.
“Shout is so fine. Oooh, when I get backstage it’s over.”
“Girl, you gon’ have to wait in line after me.”
“Oh, that’s alright, as long as I get mine.”
The girls giggled loudly.
Tisha noticed one woman was wearing a lime-green bikini with a tube top on her bottom disguised as a skirt. Every time the girl moved, her butt cheeks were exposed. Disgusted with the girl’s appearance, Tisha rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath, “Groupies.”
Just then, another heavy-set girl who looked to be about eighteen got on the train with two friends. Her bra size exceeded a 38DD, but she was wearing a white tank top with no bra, super-short cut-off jean shorts, and platform heels, and she had a plant sprayer bottle attached to her belt. Tisha regretfully listened as the girl and her friends discussed the concert. Every time the train moved, the girl’s breasts moved up and down.
“Girl, we’re going to be in the front row tonight. It’s going to be so live.”
“I know, I know. I’m going to get with Shout tonight. After he sees these big titties, it’s over. You know every man wants a girl with big titties.”
The girl’s small-chested friend replied, “Lawanda, we know you think so.” All three of the girls laughed.
The other friend said, “I don’t know if you forgot to water the plants or something, but your mom’s plant sprayer is on the side of your shorts.” The girl laughed.
Lawanda replied, “No shit. If Shout seeing my breasts without a bra ain’t enough to get him, I’m going to have my own wet T-shirt contest. I’ll be watering my chest like a bed of roses. ” All three girls started laughing again. Just then the train doors opened and Tisha stepped off.
“I won’t complain
About my lot in life
Thanks to this rap game
I got a lot in life
It ain’t been easy
Hard times
And I’ve paid the price
But wit’ my winnin’s
I’ma keep on gamblin’ right
Rappin’s a lot easier
Than a hustla’s life”
—Shout from his single “Rap Life”
Chapter 2
Boom Tillman sat at the mahogany desk in his Washington, D.C. hotel suite waiting for his star client, Shout, to arrive. Beads of sweat in the center of his back dampened his crisp white Prada cotton shirt. He continually picked barely visible flecks of lint off of his Armani black pants. His outfit, complete with Gucci loafers, were a long way from the hand-me down clothes he wore growing up in Raleigh, North Carolina.
****
Shout had not arrived as planned on the 1:15 p.m. plane that had departed from Philadelphia and was scheduled to arrive at Ronald Reagan National Airport. Boom had planned a huge media reception for Shout and had invited every press contact—from The Washington Post to The City Paper to Howard University’s Hilltop. He had even gotten Tisha Ariel Nikkole, one of his college friends, to do a cover story on Shout for Life Music magazine.
After receiving a call from the limousine company telling him that Keyshawn “Shout” Lane never showed up at the airport, Boom felt a minor headache coming. “What am I gonna tell Sydney?” Boom mumbled to himself as he rubbed his hand on the back of his freshly cut neckline.
Artists and missed flights were something that Boom was used to. But at his new job as head of urban publicity for the Sydney Warren Public Relations Group—known industrywide as the SWPR Group, he was told precisely to “Keep those rappers in line.” Rappers got a bad rap in the music business—some of the flack deserved, some of it not. Rappers were notorious for showing up to interviews and other engagements late with all kinds of excuses—from sick cousins to baby mama drama.
At twenty-eight years old, Boom was the most aggressive publicist at the SWPR Group—and the only black. He had a reputation for making sure his artists got media coverage in every part of the globe. If there was a magazine in Japan writing about hip-hop, Boom knew who to contact. For Boom, no story was too far-fetched and no contact too far away. His goal was simply to get his artists coverage by any means necessary.
Boom’s new boss, Sydney Warren, pursued him for months once she heard about all of his successful media campaigns with rappers Big Todd, CRYME, and Miss Lovely. While working at World Music Records, Boom met a number of these artists who had just signed their deals. He talked to them, shaped their images, taught them how to speak, and what clothes to wear. He single-handedly made them stars before one record was ever sold, before one article was ever written about them.
Boom and Sydney had met during an album release party for Miss Lovely held in a Manhattan waterfront loft. Sydney, one of a select group of white publicists who specialized in African American urban music clients, was a well-known public relations maven in New York City. She had handled clients like Sean “P-Diddy” Combs, Jay-Z, and LL Cool J. Sydney had confided in Boom that she wanted her firm to hire a competent African American so that the firm could relate to its black clients better.
Boom recalled his first meeting with Sydney. A confident blonde, Sydney had walked up to him and created such a stir that the loft seemed to quiet almost instantly. In fact, Boom thought he felt a spring breeze work through the already closed windows.
“Hi, Boom. I’m Sydney Warren.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking Sydney’s hand.
She held on to Boom’s hand longer than expected and said, “I was wondering if you would consider heading up the urban music relations department at my company. I’ve heard many wonderful things about you, and I think you would be perfect for me—I mean perfect for the firm.” Sydney smiled mischievously.
Although he had never dated white women, Boom was somewhat attracted to Sydney. Her neat two-piece mini-suit, toned, tanned body, fly Manolo Blahnik heels, and shoulder-length highlighted blond hair all turned him on. As he looked at her walk away, he thought, She looks like she can handle hers in bed.
****
New York, NY
Sydney powered away on the elliptical machine in her bedroom and looked at the uncut edition of Shout’s new music video, “Shout’s The Name.” The video had pictures of Shout walking through a record label’s front office. The scenes reminded Sydney of her start as a publicist five years ago.
While working in the pop music department of World Music Records, black artists and their management would often stop into Sydney’s office and complain about their publicity campaigns. The artists would say, “I ain’t on the cover of The Source and ain’t nobody selling more rap records than me.” The female R&B artists would complain about Mary J. Blige being featured in every magazine from Essence to Vibe to Ebony while they weren’t getting much mention at all. So, Sydney began to investigate and found that many publicists were sending in their artist’s music, but they weren’t fighting enough to get them on the cover. Subsequently, when the black artists offered to pay Sydney to help with their media coverage, Sydney’s idea for The Sydney Warren Public Relations group germinated.
****
Boom walked out on the balcony. It was already two o’clock. Boom decided to try to reach out to Shout again. He knew Shout was in Philadelphia the last time that he checked and that was only two hours from Washington, D.C. The show started at eight and the press reception was scheduled for 6:30. If he could find out where Shout was, there was a chance that the press reception could still happen. Boom looked in his cell phone’s address book and dialed Shout’s home number. The phone rang five times and on the sixth ring, Boom decided to hang up.
“Hello,” a high-pitched woman’s voice answered.
Boom placed the phone close to his ear. “Yes. Hello. This is Boom Tillman. I need to speak with Shout.”
“Shout, Shout, somebody named Boom is on the phone. Shout, get the phone,” Boom heard the woman yell.
****
“Oh shit.” Shout looked at his clock on the night stand and saw that it was two o’clock. “I missed my damn plane.” He looked at the cinnamon-skinned girl with turquoise eyes who was wearing a midriff tank top with the word sexy on the front. Residue from her platinum-colored lipstick formed a crusty ring around her mouth. He sat up on the bed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Bonisha.” The girl, who wore blond braids and a black choker with a cross dangling from her neck, wiped her eyebrows, making sure not to harm the two-inch red painted nails that extended from each of her fingers.
Shout stood over and looked at the girl.
“What? Never mind. Whatever. You gotta go. Get your stuff.”
A bare-chested Shout grabbed the cordless phone and pulled the covers off the girl in one motion. Green-and-gray plaid boxers fell just beneath his hip bone. A tattoo reading god has chosen ran across his stomach, dipping and grooving with his breathing and the definition of his abdomen.
“Boom, man. I’m sorry. It was a late night. I missed the plane. I know, I know, I gotta get to D.C. What time do you need me there?”
“Four-forty-five.”
“Okay, okay. I can get there from Philly in that time. I’ll call you when I hit the city.”
****
Bonisha began to collect her stuff. Shout went to his bedroom door and yelled, “Greasy, Greasy.”
Three seconds later, a burly six-six, light-skinned man wearing a navy-blue skull cap with a blue bandana, white T-shirt, jeans, and Timberlands appeared at Shout’s door.
“Yo, Greasy, get her out of here.”
Greasy stepped inside the room and walked toward Bonisha. “Alright, sweetie. You heard the man.”
The girl backed away from Greasy until she bumped into a wall.
“But, Shout, can I get your number? Here’s my number.”
The girl tried to throw a piece a paper on the bed as Greasy grabbed her by the arm. Shout barely noticed the paper falling to the floor as he went to the bathroom, shut the door, and sat on the toilet.
****
Sydney worked on her laptop. Her clients, all African-American hip hop and R&B stars paid her firm $40,000 per month plus expenses. She was once called ‘The Head Mistress of the Hip Hop Plantation’ by a New York newspaper. Sydney found the title complimentary since it was true. She created the images of her black clients and she was 100% Caucasian. Her clients believed that she knew what was best for them and so they followed her every word.
Sydney jotted down some strategies to go over with Boom and then sent him a two-way message: after dc lets sit down and talk about our client list. i want to own new york city. syd
“In a recent poll, 65% of the women questioned said that they would lie to get a man. They said they would lie about their age, how many times they’ve had sex, if they had kids, how much money they made, and if they were currently in a relationship. It seems that the respondents were willing to be deceitful if they believed they had met Mr. Right, especially if it was the difference in getting the man or not. Are man-getting lies any different from white lies? And if the lie can get you to a place where you want to be, isn’t the lie worth it?”
—Tisha Ariel Nikkole, excerpted from her article “Lies, Lives & Relationships”
Chapter 3
New York, NY
From the bay view of her twenty-fifth-floor Manhattan office, Jordan Ellis saw all the busy New Yorkers going back and forth—men in their trench coats, women with rainbow-colored umbrellas, families with strollers, and older women with plastic scarves flattening their hair, all walking frantically. Jeans, underwear, and record advertisements hung prominently over Broadway, one of Manhattan’s busiest streets. Screaming fans holding homemade signs for Eminem stood outside of the MTV office, jumping up and down in excitement. “Kids, the things they’ll do for a superstar,” Jordan mumbled.
Jordan was a petite, light skinned woman of mixed racial heritage. Her naturally wavy hair was kept in a short, Halle Berry-esque style. She had hazel-eyes that were often hidden under baby blue contact lenses. Her curvy frame barely reached five feet, and most of her 110 pounds were distributed to her shapely thighs and curvy bottom, save her 36B breasts.
She was born thirty years ago in Norfolk, Virginia, to a white mother and an African American father. Her family had traveled all over the world, moving from Army base to Army base. As a small child, Jordan had to move as soon as she made friends at the military bases. When Jordan was twelve years old, a teacher had sent a note home complaining that she did not play well with others and was very anti-social. When a concerned Mr. Ellis asked his daughter what the problem was, she responded, “Every friend that I ever had, you moved me from. If I don’t play with anyone, I won’t make any friends.”
Jordan looked at her achievement plaques on the wall testifying to her success in the music industry. Starting in the business as an assistant/girlfriend of record label owner Sean Simmons six years ago had served Jordan well.
Her mind wandered and Jordan thought about the next radio programmer that she had to pay off. Her job as the radio promotions director for World Music Records had her running money all up and down the east coast and across the continental United States. The Federal Communications Commission had laws that forbid record companies from paying record stations to play their artists’ records. But, FCC rules weren’t really laws. They were a myth. Any artist on the radio was being heard because some radio executive had greased a station owner’s palm. Jordan didn’t care about breaking the FCC’s laws. She was finally a part of a winning team. World Music Records loved her and paid her 250K a year to work for them. If she had to break some laws in order to remain a starter, she was willing to do it.
Pulling her compact mirror out of her desk drawer. She reapplied her lipgloss and got up from her chair. She brushed off her low-rise Seven jeans and straightened out her Bebe sequined tank top. The promotions assistant, Latavia Jenkins, sat at a crème wooden desk stationed in the reception area in front of Jordan’s office.
“Damn it, Latavia, I told you to make the meeting at 6:30,” Jordan scolded her assistant.
“Oh, sorry Jordan, it’s just that you had a train to catch at six, so I thought that you wouldn’t have been here,” Latavia responded nervously.
“Well, what time is it now?” Jordan screamed, looking down at her platinum-linked watch. Complete with twelve diamonds, the watch was Jordan’s favorite piece of jewelry because it reminded her of the success that she’d had in the music industry. Her watch was given to her by World Music’s president, Dan Bellows, after five of her last six artists reached number one on Billboard magazine’s coveted rap chart.
Gently opening the door of Jordan’s office, Latavia leaned in and said, “It’s 5:15. Would you like me to cancel your appointment with DJ Stylix?” Jordan looked at the papers on her desk and her cell phone and grabbed her two-way pager. “No, it’s fine. I’ll meet with him.”
Stepping inside the office, Latavia asked, “Well, will you still be catching the six o’clock Metroliner?”
Jordan became irritated at Latavia’s redundant question. She got up and walked over to Latavia. “Listen, I know you just started and everything, but in this business we have to remember our priorities. This meeting is a priority, so’s the concert in D.C. Try to see if you can pay attention to what I do and learn how I operate. It’s a quick pace here. Think before you ask questions.” Jordan turned away. “That’s all for now. You can leave.”
****
Dressed from head to toe in an all-white velour sweatsuit with a silver logo, DJ Stylix strolled into Jordan’s office. The Puerto Rican radio programmer was in charge of the hottest rap show at New York City’s WQHT radio station, also known as Hot 97. The platinum-link chain and miniature boom-box medallion sparkled brightly. The medallion looked to have at least thirty diamonds.
As he lounged on the comfortable purple leather couch that sat perpendicular to Jordan’s desk, Stylix said, “What up, Blue-eyes? What’s the latest?”
Unimpressed by his smug comfort in her office, Jordan responded, “Nothing. Why don’t you tell me?” She twirled her gold-engraved “Queen Jordan” pen between her French-manicured fingers.
“You know the callers ain’t feeling ‛Sweat Me.’ I can’t play the song if the callers aren’t requesting it,” Stylix said.
“Just last week, you said that you were spinning it in the hip-hop show. What changed?” Jordan asked.
“I was spinning it, but the phones weren’t ringing, so I had to pull the record from rotation,” Stylix said.
Jordan sighed, reclined in her wide leather chair and propped her feet complete with Gucci flip flops on her desk.
Latavia buzzed Jordan’s office.
“I’m in a meeting. What?” Jordan demanded.
“Mr. Bellows called and he wants you to cancel the trip to D.C. and meet with him in his office as soon as possible.”
Dancin’ naked, showin’ skin
Anything to get with him
‘Cause the Range
Is on their brains
Seein’ jewels they’ll never obtain
They’ll do ya crew
Sniff the blow
What kind of soul
Does a real trick know?
—Shout from his single “Real Tricks”
Chapter 4
In the backstage area of the MCI Center, Boom supervised the decorating of the press reception for Shout. Five round tables were draped with white cotton cloths. For every expected journalist, each chair had a Shout compact disc, a postcard of Shout, a copy of his biography, and a totebag filled with record label give-aways. Posters of Shout covered every inch of wall space. Smaller flyers had been placed on the ceiling.
Boom had both his two-way pager and his cell phone attached to his belt. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. It was 5:50. Time was ticking, and he hadn’t heard from Shout.
Boom paced the floor. A few reporters from the local newspapers had arrived and were enjoying the spread of cheeses, breads, shrimp, chicken, and beef kabobs. A bartender was set up in the corner mixing drinks. The bartender’s stand had a poster of Shout taped along the bottom.
Boom walked out of the conference area and headed down the hallway to the men’s room. He passed a bunch of sound engineers who were sitting by the speakers, tour managers leaning on walls talking on their cells, young girls in tight jeans and too much makeup, and two guys handing out after-party flyers the size of a CD cover. Boom stepped into the men’s room and exhaled. Just as he was about to unzip his pants, he heard a door open and Shout stepped out of a faded brown stall.
“What’s up, nigga? I told you I wouldn’t let you down,” Shout yelled, punching Boom on the shoulder.
Relief swept across Boom’s face. “What you doin’ coming out of that stall?”
“I got to pee in private ’cause I don’t want a picture of my Johnson on VH-1. You smell me?”
Shout and Boom laughed.
“I heard that.”
Shout walked over to the sink and washed his hands. Boom resumed his business.
****
Just outside the loading area for the MCI Center, Boom and Shout stood near Shout’s brand-new, champagne-colored Cadillac Escalade. The burgundy leather interior had Shout’s name embroidered in the headrests. The twenty-two-inch chrome rims stood out in the daylight like four miniature metallic ferris wheels. Shout’s manager, Pockets, and his cousin Antonio, sat in the truck rolling blunts. They passed one to Shout who reached in his pocket, grabbed a lighter, and set the joint ablaze.
Boom looked at Shout and then looked at his watch. “It’s 6:30 on the dot. I have a roomful of journalists. Let’s go in there and talk to them. They’ll write some articles and help us sell more records. I’ll be straight up with you and you know this already, you’ll probably get asked the same question twenty times or more. Some of them may prefer to just look at you, but in the end we gotta give ’em some time in order to get the stories written. I’ll be right there with you.”
“Journalists are assholes,” Shout said as he took a pull from the blunt.
“Some are, not all. But in the end, if they’re gonna help keep you paid, you can deal with a couple of assholes. Are you feelin’ me?”
Shout took his last pull on the blunt, formed a fist, gave Boom a pound, and said with smoke seeping from his mouth, “Let’s roll.”
****
The back area of the arena looked dismal. Everything was either a dull gray or black. Stagehands walked by pushing equipment. Young men who looked like they still belonged in high school stood by the artists’ dressing rooms. Tisha thought that they might be relatives or male groupies. As she walked down the long hall, she saw a handwritten sign that read, shout press reception. It was written in the same script as her name on the envelope for her ticket and all access pass. She knew that handwriting because it belonged to her dearest college friend, Boom Tillman.
As Tisha entered the room, she surveyed everyone inside, looking for a recognizable face. As she scanned the room, she looked at the bored expressions of the journalists. Three television crews were there.
Where was Boom? Tisha wondered. She walked over to the food spread and got a small plate and filled it with cheese, crackers, a few grapes, and a strawberry. As she ate her cheese, the door to the media room opened. She looked up and Boom walked in.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you all to welcome the biggest artist of the year, soon to be the biggest rapper that hip-hop has ever seen, Shout,” Boom proudly stated.
Everyone in the room began to clap. Boom nodded in approval.
As Shout walked in, Tisha dropped the cheese on her plate. She was mesmerized by his looks. His high cheekbones, narrow nose, and white teeth all had superstar appeal. She stared directly at him, hoping to make eye contact. Shout stood a slim six-two. His brown skin shone as if he had just come from a Caribbean holiday. The white du-rag on his head ended at the top of his back. Most of the du-rag was covered by a baseball cap that had a white embroidered “S” on the top. His red-and-white baseball shirt had Shout written across the front in red lettering trimmed with white. His white Nike Air Force Ones looked out of the box fresh.
****
As Boom walked Shout from journalist to journalist, Tisha couldn’t keep her eyes off the rapper. Every time Shout turned so that she was not facing him, she moved so that she could see his face. She thought, This is the man that I’m gonna marry. I’m already in love.
Tisha was the last journalist to be introduced. Boom looked at her and smiled. “I’m so glad you made it,” he said. “This, of course, is Shout.”
Shout extended his hand for Tisha to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Shout said in his deep Barry White–like voice. Tisha did not respond. Boom broke the awkward silence.
“Shout, this is the journalist that I was telling you about who went to North Carolina Central with me. She’s real cool. She’ll be doing the one-on-one interview with you for Life Music magazine after the concert.”
“Aiight. I’m feelin’ that,” Shout replied.
Standing so close, Tisha could smell Shout’s familiar cologne. Is it Michael Jordan’s cologne? Is it Tommy Hilfiger? she wondered. “I know that scent,” she said, forgetting Boom and Shout were standing in front of her.
“I didn’t hear you. What did you say?” Shout asked. “Never mind. It was nothing,” Tisha responded.
“I know what you said. You’re trying to figure out the cologne. Well, sweetheart, keep guessing.”
Shout looked at Tisha. Their eyes locked for a moment.
“Boom, is it time to go? I want to get hyped up for the show tonight.”
Boom looked at Tisha. He had never seen her at a loss for words. “Yeah man, but I’ll need you to do three short interviews before the show. I have an area set up in your dressing room.”
Boom and Shout headed to the door. Tisha just imagined the muscular bottom that was hiding in Shout’s baggy jeans.
“At the sold-out concert in the Comcast Center in Philadelphia, platinum-selling R&B superstar Raphael electrified the audience with a 75-minute performance. When he sang his signature hit, ‘Hearts of Gold,’ the entire stadium swayed from left to right with their lighters, cell phones, and pagers in the air. As I walked to the backstage area to interview Raphael, I noticed the line of groupies trying to enter his dressing room was as long as the line in the ladies’ bathroom.”
—Tisha Ariel Nikkole, excerpted from her article, “Raphael: The Concert”
Chapter 5
The arena was sold-out. The deejay’s cutting and scratching had everybody in MCI Center standing and dancing. Tisha sat in the third row from the stage writing in her tablet. The room was so dark, she could barely see the lines on the paper. Tisha looked around the audience. The concertgoers were of all ages and every color imaginable. There were teenagers, kids being chaperoned by their parents, and thirty-somethings who wished they were still teenagers.
Concertgoers had already begun to jump up and down. The energy in the crowd was infectious. The music from the speakers was so loud that Tisha could not hear herself think. She put down her tablet and started dancing. She imagined Shout dancing with her, pushing his chest against her shoulder blades.
The concert’s emcee, a dreadlock-wearing WPGC radio personality stepped on stage and hyped the crowd. “When I say hip, you say hop.” The emcee chanted, “Hip” and the audience enthusiastically responded “Hop.” With every chant, the crowd became more excited. The back-and-forth continued for at least five minutes.
After the two opening acts left the stage, the center went black. Then, a voice came out of the darkness. “Alright, y’all. Now that you’ve been warmed up, I got the hottest rapper ever, ready to step on the stage. He’s gonna tear this motherfucka down!” the emcee yelled. “So, show some love for Shout, y’all! Show some love.”
The crowd went wild and began clapping, flicking their lighters, and hollering.
The house lights came on quickly and then shut off. Silence filled the auditorium. Then a nasally voice yelled to the crowd, “Y’all ain’t ready for Shout. I said y’all motherfuckas ain’t ready for Shout.”
The lights on the stage came on. Shout’s five-foot hype man was on stage looking like a human pit bull. He was trying to anger the crowd to get more hyped. The women were going berserk. There were screams from both male and female fans.
“We’re ready for Shout!” a female fan exclaimed.
“Bring that motherfucka out,” a male concertgoer yelled.
“Listen, D.C., we love y’all, but we only perform for live motherfuckas. So if y’all want my boy Shout to come out here and do his thing, y’all had better make some motherfuckin’ noise!” The crowd went wild. Screams exploded throughout the MCI Center. Tisha thought that she had gone slightly deaf. She wiggled her index finger in her ear.
Shout entered from the left side of the stage wearing a white tank top, baggy jeans, and yellow Timberlands. The tattoos on both arms made his biceps seem even bigger than his frame would allow. “What’s up, D.C.? Where my peoples at?” Shout yelled, grabbing the crotch of his jeans. “I want to thank y’all for coming out tonight. You didn’t have to be here. But you are. That’s real for a nigga like me. To show my appreciation, I’m gonna do the first song that y’all loved me for. Y’all remember this one?” He walked over and put his foot on a speaker. The track “Representin’ for Me” played and the crowd rapped with Shout word for word.
Tisha found herself dreamily staring at Shout. She envisioned herself being held tightly in his arms. She imagined her hand feeling over Shout’s bicep. Her nipples became aroused at the thought.
Two young women tried to walk by Tisha to the front of the stage. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” the girls said to Tisha. Realizing that the girls wanted to get by, Tisha stepped back. The two girls passed Tisha and stood in the aisle. One girl, wearing a halter tank top, untied the top of her shirt and shook her bare breasts, yelling, “Shout, Shout, I’m representin’ for you. Shout, Shout I’m representin’!”
Her friend, wearing a one-piece tangerine halter dress, turned her back to the stage and lifted her skirt. She bent over and shook her bare bottom, making her butt cheeks wiggle.
It’s not gonna be easy getting Shout. Every girl in this concert wants him, Tisha thought. It looks like I’m going to have to be more aggressive to get him to notice me.
Tisha looked intensely at Shout and wondered if he saw the women who flashed their body parts at him. There were dozens of them in the crowd. It was almost as if one girl saw another girl do it, and a breast tidal wave began. A lot of girls were wearing pants low enough to show the top of their thongs. Several girls danced provocatively, like they were having sex right in the aisle.
Tisha put her pad in her back pocket and decided to move to the aisle. She pulled her fitted T-shirt down, then realized that it was supposed to expose her pierced navel. She adjusted her shirt to show her belly button. She moved through the crowd and stood at the rail at the front of the stage.
“Women are an important part of my life. My mom is very special to me. She taught me how to treat women right. I’m single right now. But I’m looking for a perfect lady.”
The women in the crowd shrieked. Tisha stared at Shout, concentrating on his every word. This was the time in the concert where he was going to ask for a female participant. She prepared to jump when he asked. Her voice was ready to reach unforeseen octaves. Shout continued, “I believe my future lady might be in here tonight. I want to bring her up to the stage.”
Right then, Tisha jumped and said, “Keyshawn, Keyshawn, Keyshawn, Keyshawn, Keyshawn.”
Shout looked directly at Tisha and recognition dawned. He pointed to her and then pointed to the bodyguard who reached over the rail and picked up Tisha under her arms. He lifted her over the iron railing and pointed to the steps of the stage. Tisha gave her backpack to the bodyguard, adjusted her clothes and walked toward the steps. The other girls who were standing by her said, “Bitch,” loud enough for Tisha to hear.
Shout’s hype man returned to the stage with a chair, and placed it near Shout. As Tisha walked on the stage, girls continued to wave their arms in the air, still screaming, “Shout, pick me. Shout, pick me. That ho can’t do nothing like I can. Shout, pick me. I’m a better ho.”
Tisha stuck out her chest and stood tall. She strutted on stage, looking at Shout every step of the way.
Shout yelled into the microphone, “Oh, and she’s fine, huh?”
His hype man said, “Hell yeah. If you don’t want her, you know I’ll freak her.”
Shout smiled and said, “Oh, I ain’t givin’ you nothing yet.”
As Tisha got within arm’s length of Shout, she put both of her arms in front of her as if to say, “Well, what’s next? You got me up here, so now what?” Guys in the crowd began to whistle. Shout eyed Tisha up and down. He walked toward her and grabbed her hand. “So, you’re the lucky woman tonight.”
Tisha gently nodded. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in Shout’s ear, “No, you’re the lucky man.”
Shout motioned for Tisha to sit in the chair. She removed her pad from her back pocket and placed it on the side of the chair. The deejay began to play the intro for Shout’s hit single, “Perfect Lady.” He kneeled in front of Tisha and put one hand on her thigh. As he rhymed, Tisha watched his every move. Being on stage with Shout is not a coincidence. This is the beginning of our relationship, she convinced herself.
As he kneeled, he put his leg on one of her thighs and the crowd screamed.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Tisha said with a chuckle.
Shout looked up at her and then stood between her legs. Tisha reached to undo her ponytail. She shook her head and her shoulder-length hair fell. The crowd hollered and whistled. Shout smiled at Tisha.
Taking the microphone away from his mouth, he said, “You’re a pro, huh?”
He walked to the edge of the stage and ripped off his T-shirt.
Tisha was looking at his back. A trickle of sweat was dancing down the center. He had a picture of a man over his right shoulder blade with the name Vonnell written under it.
He turned to Tisha, then reached back and threw his shirt into the crowd. An overcharged teenager grabbed it with one hand and then put it to her face and inhaled. She then fell out. Two large security men carried her out of the concert.
As the song ended, Shout grabbed Tisha by the hand and said, “Alright, D.C., give it up for my perfect lady.” The audience erupted with applause.
Tisha smiled and bowed her head. She squeezed Shout’s hand, which caught him off guard. He looked at her and said, “I want everybody in D.C. to know your name. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Licking her lips, Tisha said, “Tisha Ariel Nikkole.”
“Thank you, Miss Tisha Ariel Nikkole.” The crowd applauded. Shout walked Tisha to the side of the stage and his hype man walked over to her. Shout returned to his performance at the front of the stage.
The hype man gently touched her arm and his hot breath was in her face. The scent of marijuana, stale beer, and sour-cream-and-onion potato chips stung Tisha’s nose.
“Hey, baby. Thanks for being a part of the show. You know this shit is stage shit. You don’t really have a chance with Shout, but, we’re staying at the Four Seasons tonight. Here’s the room number.” He gave her a wrinkled piece of paper with something handwritten in pencil. “We’d love for you to stop by. And you can bring a couple of friends if they’re as fine as you.” He reached over and attempted to feel her butt.
Tisha moved so that she was out of his reach.
“Yeah, whatever. I wish you were as fine as Shout.”
“What you say? What you say?” The hype man puffed his chest out and tried to walk closer to Tisha.
Tisha kept walking faster and giggled to herself. The pimple-faced, pint-sized, hype man-child was not her type.
She quietly asked herself, “Why is it that the most arrogant, funny-looking people are always a part of an artist’s entourage? And, when will they understand that joints, chips, and beer smell like hot garbage?”
She stepped down the backstage steps. “Let me just find Boom and see how long Shout will be on stage. I’m ready to do this interview.”
Tisha continued through the backstage area until she reached the media room.
“The hardest part about the music business is separating the snakes from the saints. There is definitely a good-versus-evil element in hip-hop. In order to make it, you need an angel on your shoulder.”
—Shout, interviewed for the magazine article, “Shouts and Saints”
Chapter 6
Jordan was on the elevator at World Music Headquarters. She pressed the button for the twenty-eighth floor. She leaned with her back against the elevator’s wall, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Jordan jumped when she heard the elevator’s bell ring. As she made a sharp left off the elevator, glass doors with the World Music logo awaited her. The receptionist saw Jordan and pushed the remote-controlled unlock mechanism for the door.
“Hey, Jordan.”
“Hi, Samantha.”
“Love those flip flops.”
Jordan looked down at her sandal’s white background covered with black double G designs. These are fly she thought to herself.
“Thanks. I had to have ‘em.”
Jordan walked off and took long strides on the plush coffee-colored carpet. Her bang, which touched her eyebrows, moved with every step. She stopped at the glass doors and pushed the buzzer to Dan Bellows’ office.
“Jordan, come on in,” a voice from the speaker announced. Jordan looked inquisitively at the chrome-colored speaker. That was a voice that she hadn’t heard before.
Taking a right and then walking down a long hallway filled with platinum and gold records, Jordan noticed there were still many employees working.
“What’s up, Jordan?” Tahib Miner, an attractive executive, said as he walked in the opposite direction. Pointing to his two-way pager, he said, “Hit me on the hip. We should talk.”
Jordan nodded and smiled, briefly.
Several offices had opened doors. Executives in their twenties and early thirties were at their desks on the phone, listening to music, or meeting with other executives. Poster-sized pictures of World Music’s most famous artists adorned the walls.
Jordan’s face tensed and her stride slowed as she approached Dan’s office. His assistant, Natalia Manetti, was sitting at her wooden L-shaped desk.
As Jordan approached, Nancy looked up and said, “I hear you’ve been out and about today. Has it been a rough one?”
Jordan smiled. “Just another day in the record business. Is Dan ready to see me yet?”
“Ready?” Natalia retorted. “He’s been waiting for the past hour. Go right in.”
Dan Bellows was in his early forties. He wore a baseball cap with WM on it to cover his headful of brown hair that had begun to slightly thin at the top. A handsome white man who stayed tanned, Dan was tremendously fit for his age. He lived in jeans and sneakers. His five-eleven frame showed no evidence of the stomach bulge that usually plagued men his age.
He was practicing his golf swing when Jordan entered his office. “Close the door,” he said without looking up at her. He hit the golf ball and it moved too fast on the putting green and came back to him.
“Still working on your swing, huh?” Jordan sat on the tan leather couch. She leaned forward with her hands clasped in the middle of her stomach.
Dan nodded. “How did everything go with that deejay from Butter 93?” Dan asked, continuing to practice. Looking at Dan’s pathetic swing, Jordan touched her Adam’s apple and looked at the tips of her nails; some of the French manicure had begun to chip off.
“It went alright.”
“Pour me a shot of gin.”
Jordan got up and headed toward the liquor cabinet. She poured two glasses. She took one over to Dan, who set the glass at the end of a broad wooden desk with a marble top.
“Is everything handled?”
She picked up the shot glass and threw the gin straight down her throat.
Dan looked over at her and returned to his golf swing.
“He said that he would increase the spins of the record. So, expect to hear more of it. But, I’ll tell you this deejay is greedy. He’s going to bleed us and bleed us and bleed us. It’s just something about him.”
“Is that so? The last guy that I ran across like that, I had to hang out of a window.” Dan laughed and reclined in his chair.
“I got some ideas of my own on how to handle this clown. It’s better that you don’t know, ” Jordan replied.
Jordan looked at the glass french doors that opened to a tiled veranda in Dan’s office, which was at least forty-five floors in the air.
“What do you want me to do next with Butter 93?”
“Arrange for Shout to do some special radio promotions. Do some exclusive shit for that particular deejay. And if all else fails, give him a sex party. Unless he’s a homosexual, we’ll get some spins for buying him a few hookers. And even if he’s gay, we can arrange something for that too.”
Leaning forward in his high-back leather chair, he asked anxiously, “How close are you to Shout? Can you get him to understand this part of the music business?”
Exasperated, Jordan protested, “You know how artists are. They think it’s all about their music. They don’t understand what my job is. Shout’s just another knucklehead. I’m not close to him.”
Dan raised his hand. “Look, a lot of our financial future rests on our ability to make this a really successful record. This is the last hoop that we have to jump through and that’s it. We’ll be at the top of our game longer than any other record label in recent memory.”
Dan got up from behind his massive marble-topped executive desk and sat down in a black leather chair diagonally across from the couch.
“We need to make this happen. We have to make this happen. Work whatever angle you have to use. This artist needs to be in our back pocket so that we can get this deejay in our back pocket.”
“Hasn’t Shout already sold like six million albums worldwide? We’ve already made our money off him. Isn’t it time for us to look for World Music’s next superstar?”
“Yes and no. We renegotiated Shout’s contract so we need his next two albums to be three million–plus sellers for us to make the money off him that we made off the first five million albums we sold. And, don’t you worry about that anyway. I want this deejay and Shout in our back pocket. Work on the deejay for now.”
“We pay every other deejay. Why do we have to do something different for this asshole? Outside of buying cars, clothes, hookers, what else can we do? Shoot, if I take him out, we still gotta train somebody in his place.”
Dan chuckled. “If I didn’t look at you and couldn’t see that you were a woman, I would believe that you’re a man. You think like a man, you act like a man. But, Jordan, you are not a man. Maybe it’s time for you to use what runs the world.”
Perplexed, Jordan asked, “And what’s that?”
“Pussy,” Dan Bellows responded.
“You can’t curl up to a laptop at night. A business report can’t warm your feet on a cold winter’s night. Working 12-hour days won’t guarantee you a life free from loneliness. If we know this is true, why do we continue to let work get in the way of love?” —Tisha Ariel Nikkole, excerpted from her magazine article, “Work vs. Love: A Fight We’re Not Winning”
Chapter 7
Shout had barbells, weights, and a sit-up board strategically sitting inside his dressing room. The all-gray area had open wooden lockers along the left wall. Three lockers had signs with Shout Only—Don’t Touch written on them. Inside the three lockers were new sneakers and boots, three pairs of jeans, three velour sweat suits, three tank tops, three pairs of sweat socks, and three baseball caps with “S” on them. Tisha looked around the room.
“He likes working out, huh?” Tisha said to Boom who was leaning near an open closet. Six pairs of new sneakers and Timberlands were lined up at the top of the closet.
“Yeah. He’s into his appearance. He takes working out seriously. His commitment to things like that is part of what makes him a huge star.”
Tisha got up, walked over to a dressing table, and sat down. Gazing in the mirror, she looked at herself and smoothed her hand over her hair.
“Did you see me onstage?”
Boom stood straight up, “See you on stage? When were you on stage?” Tisha spun around in the chair and faced Boom as he walked over to her.
A wide grin crossed Tisha’s face as she coyly stated, “I wanted to be a part of the show so when Shout had his audience-member-onstage segment, I volunteered.”
Raising his voice, Boom said, “You must be kidding. You’re going all out for this story, aren’t you? I noticed how you were looking at him earlier. You don’t want to go there. Trust me, Tisha. You don’t.”
Boom’s pager went off and he looked at the message: how’s the concert going? call me later, Sydney. Boom closed the top on the pager and put it back on his hip.
“I don’t know, Boom. I think I might have felt something when I first looked at him. Love at first sight can happen.” Tisha looked at herself in the mirror again and twisted her long ponytail around her finger.
Boom reached into a narrow plastic trashcan full of sodas and bottles of Cristal champagne. He grabbed a soda and quickly began to drink.
“I never thought I’d hear you sound so naïve. As a journalist, you know artists aren’t always what they seem. You know what the climate is.”
Just then, the screams of the crowd got louder. The mirror shook and the door to the dressing room was kicked open. Shout’s two hype men entered, followed by two bodyguards, Shout, and three of his associates.
Shout had a small white towel in his hand and he wiped his forehead and yelled, “Yeah, boy. It’s on. It’s on.” He beat his hands on his chest like a warrior.
Simp, the hype man, headed straight to the trashcan cooler and grabbed two bottles of Cristal. He passed one bottle to Shout and opened the other and began to pass it around the room after he took the first sip. He looked over at Tisha and nodded, “What’s up?”
She just rolled her eyes at him. Simp looked over to Shout and then to the other men in the room and said in a huff, “It’s a bunch of niggas in here. Where are all the bitches? I gotta get the bitches for our party.” He pointed at one of the men and said, “Come on, let’s go get the chickens.” The man took a long drink on the Cristal, and put it on the table.
Boom clicked into publicist mode and stepped to Shout.
“If you’re up to it, the journalist that I introduced you to earlier is here. The interview will be about twenty minutes. It’s a cover story and it’ll give your fans who weren’t at the concert another chance to get close to your music,” Boom stated.
“Alright. Give me like five minutes. I’ma get my head right.”
“Cool. Me and Tisha are going near the showers. It’s quieter back there. We’ll be waiting on you.”
Simp re-entered the dressing room with four women and directed them to sit on the black couch in front of the barbells. Tisha got up from the dressing chair and noticed that one woman was playing with the weave that hung down to her waist. Another girl was standing in five-inch heels, wearing short-shorts. Her gold belly ring had an “eat me” charm dangling just below her belly.
Standing confidently, Tisha looked at the other women. She picked up her backpack, switched her hips energetically passed them and hissed. The sight of groupies in a rapper’s dressing room was always unnerving for her. Boom reached out toward her and she grabbed his hand. Boom yelled to Shout, “In five, ten minutes. It’ll be quick, aiight.”