Chapter 28
28
TMZ: Industry Insider: Onyx Records’ exploitative and predatory practices led to toxic company culture
BUSINESS INSIDER: Activist group calls for music mogul’s ouster amid internal investigation
FORBES: President of Onyx Records, Anthony Monzano, said to be OUT after board casts no-faith vote
THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: With Monzano out, culling of top brass may be next at Onyx Records
PEOPLE: What the shakeup at Onyx Records means for top artists like Elliot Majors, Blake, Violet Olivera, Werewolf Holiday, Malik North, and Ella Simone
I saw the news on X first. At the bottom of the first inning, the Dodgers were at bat and with Miles in the dugout, I took the opportunity to do some scrolling. It’s one thing to have an insider tip for when a giant is about to fall, and another to get to watch it come to pass. The first headline made my stomach drop. And by the last, I started to feel the all-too-familiar signs of an anxiety attack coming on. But when texts started to flood in from the Glam Squad (sans Sheryl), I began to feel a weight lift from my chest.
Rodney: Ella girl, you must have an Angel watching over you. Cuz this is some bible era retribution if I ever seen any
Jamie: Service sucks in this suite but I caught the gist
Jamie: Manzano out. Great. Now do Majors next!
Me: Crazy right? Wonder what Miss Thing’s up to now
Rodney: Probably somewhere punching the air
Rodney: Or fighting for her life in the comments
Me: Jamie, how’s your date?
Rodney: WAYMENT!!!
Rodney: I go to Miami ONE TIME and Jamie falls off the fuckboy wagon???
Me: I don’t think that’s how falling off the wagon works.
Rodney: Bitch. You know what I meant
Jamie: The jury is still out on Gabriel. I will let you heffas know my thoughts tomorrow
Me: JAMIE!
Jamie: Glass houses! Bc I know where ur spending the night and it ain’t in Malibu
Rodney: Not both of you out there boo’d up! It’s too much! Don’t make me get on a plane. What would Sheryl say?
Jamie: Speaking of…we need to check on her. All of us.
Me: Agreed. When we’re back in New York, let’s do a drive by.
Rodney: You got it.
Jamie: Consider it booked. Now back to the game. G’s about to show me what a “strike zone” is
Rodney: Oh I bet tf he is
Me: Rodney. Ew.
Rodney: Don’t hate! Participate!
After I opted out of going to the game, Miles called to give me the code to his security gate and told me I was more than welcome to watch from the comfort of his house—in fact that he’d prefer it. While I did experience sharper pangs of FOMO than I’d expected when Jamie sent me selfie pics of her and Gabriel in the game suite, I couldn’t pass up the chance to explore Miles’s living quarters unchaperoned—or to be there waiting for him when he returned home like he described in one of his voice notes.
When I pull up to his lot, I’m struck by the sheer size of the house. Thanks to Angelo, I was made aware of the number of zeros in Miles’s contract before I even met him. Still, I always pictured him as the type to live in a sleek high-rise in DTLA or maybe even Century City. But I’ve just arrived at an ultramodern home situated on a tranquil street that’s populated by what appear to be family estates on either side—not at all what I’d expect for a single athlete living in Los Angeles in his prime.
After punching in the security code and parking out front, I let myself into the house, where a retractable skylight frames Santa Monica’s radiant sunset. Oranges, pinks, purples, and blues cast kaleidoscopic beams of light across the creamy white walls and sleek black fixtures of the home.
Walking through the center of the great room, I pass two massive dueling sofas, each draped in Hermès throws with matching sculptural end tables. At this point I make a mental note to grill Miles on his interior designer’s contact and whereabouts. I may be living in a series of bi-coastal hotels at the moment, but like my grandmother always said, Trouble don’t last alway s. Eventually, I plan to put down roots of my own and set up a place that feels like me…like home.
Just past the kitchen stands an expansive wall of sliding windows that let out to a glittering zero-edge pool that is surrounded on all sides by different parts of the home. It’s clear Miles’s architect had the place built with optimal privacy in mind. And that presents the perfect opportunity for me to coax him into a skinny-dipping session later on. I make another mental note and continue on with my self-guided tour.
Once outside, I’m tempted to dip my toes into the pool to see if it’s heated, but I also don’t want to miss another minute of the game. So, I venture downstairs to Miles’s plush movie theater room, where he sent me detailed instructions for how to operate the projector and controls, inclusive of a tutorial on how to work the built in nacho machine. After successfully turning on the game—where the Dodgers are currently up by two—I head to the back of the dimly lit theater armed with my trusty nacho-making tips. When I approach the machine, I find a sticky note attached to the front of it.
Only the best for my Dream Girl.
#fakecheese
-M
Within five minutes, I’m deadweight, sinking into the velvet cushions of an oversized reclining lounger, cradling a plastic tray of tortilla chips and steaming orange goo. For the second time in as many days I’m basking in my own contentment. It could be the high-quality seating or the low-quality carbs, but more than likely it’s the fact that, this time, he called me his “ dream girl.” And it felt so damn good.
I wake up to the feeling of strong arms snaking around my waist from behind. Groggy and disoriented, I stretch out my stiff limbs on unfamiliar, but very soft cushions, and pry my eyes open to a room that’s completely dark save the dancing icon that’s projected on the screen. Turning over, I find Miles laying there, cradling me. He’s crisp and fresh from his post-game shower. And somehow, waking up to him next to me isn’t jarring at all, even after being used to sleeping alone for so long. Something about it feels right, familiar even. Maybe it’s because lately, I’ve been dreaming of exactly this on a near constant basis.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long,” he says. “Had to do some press interviews after the game.”
At this I realize I fell asleep before the final score. “Oh my god, did you win?” I ask.
His chuckle is a deep rumble, and I love it. “Yeah, we did,” he says. “Score was nine to seven in the end.”
“Ugh,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I’m the worst.”
“Not at all,” he replies, smoothing back my hair with his warm hands. “You’ve been working hard. Want me to take you to bed?”
I sit up straight, suddenly wide awake and wiggling my eyebrows. “Actually, I was thinking we could try the pool first. If it’s heated, of course,” I tell him, shrugging a shoulder.
His eyebrows notch upward. “Oh, it’s heated,” he confirms. “You bring a suit?”
Biting my lip, I very slowly shake my head and mouth the word no . And he responds by lifting me over his shoulder and taking the steps to the exit at a fast clip.
Early April in Southern California makes for cool nights that hardly rise above sixty degrees. But watching Miles Westbrook strip off his clothes on a private pool deck more than makes up for the drop in temperature. He’s just flung his long-sleeved workout tee over his shoulder and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his joggers.
“Let me,” I say, stepping closer. “I didn’t get to do this last time—undress you. It’s only fair.”
At this, his smile stretches across his face as he raises both hands in surrender. I lift up on my tiptoes to get closer to him, pressing soft kisses to the center of his chest while slowly easing down his pants. He groans in pleasure, and the sound spurs me on to take his growing length in my hand with one long, firm stroke. His head tips back and fuck yes falls from his lips. Then he’s burying his hands in my hair and pressing his open mouth to mine.
And this kiss is different than all the ones before. This one is primal. Needful. It’s desperate. Unlike words and music—there’s no thinking or craft to it. Only feeling and desire. And unlike baseball, no one’s keeping score. It’s just the two of us, together, both letting go and grabbing hold of the things we’ve lost and yet somehow still found.
“Let’s get you naked,” he says as his hands skate down my sides, gathering the fabric of my dress before wrenching it up and over my head. Since I’m not wearing a bra, only my lace thong is left to discard. He kneels down to remove it with his teeth. Then he begins peppering warm, wet kisses from my stomach down to the apex of my thighs, and I almost let him keep going. But then this would be over far too soon.
“Not yet,” I tell him, clasping his hands that are splayed on my thighs. He looks up at me and I nod toward the pool.
Catching my hint, he stands and takes my hand to lead me to the water’s edge. We descend the steps together, and when we submerge in the warm water up to my breasts and his waist, he lifts me and I cling to him. With his arms around me and my legs around him, I arch backward, throwing my head back and spreading my arms wide to skim the surface of the water, like making snow angels. Keeping his hold on me, Miles frees one hand to run a flat palm from my stomach up to the center of my chest.
“Hey, Dream Girl,” he calls out.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, before sitting back up in his arms. “You got something to tell me, Curveball?”
“Is that what you call me?” he asks.
Nodding, I explain. “Because you’re entirely unexpected, Mr. Westbrook.”
His hands squeeze my ass, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing our foreheads together. “Well…you know back in the hotel room when I said I wanted to see you let go?” he asks. “This is what I was talking about—I love every second of it. Just wanted you to know that.”
I let his words sink in, and a knot forms in my throat. “Thank you,” I tell him, my voice thick with emotion.
“For what?” he asks, and a line forms between his brows.
“For seeing me,” I tell him. Then we just embrace, clinging to each other, with my chin resting on his shoulder. We breathe each other in as the water swirls around us.
Everything about tonight feels surreal. The blue light dancing off the ripples of the pool. The glittering stars in the all-black sky. The neo soul playing on his sound system. It’s all so beautiful, so perfect, I’m afraid I might start crying for real if he’s not inside of me soon.
Thankfully, I don’t have to find out because he carries me over to the steps, where he’s laid two towels. We get out and dry off before he leads me over to a cabana that’s equipped with a heat lamp. He lies down on his back and I climb on top of him, kissing my way up his torso, making a pit stop as I go.
Then I take him in my mouth, like I’ve wanted to for ages. Now, I get to relish the sounds he makes when he’s the one to lie back and let go. And they’re glorious. I’ve performed in arenas filled with screaming fans, thousands singing the words to songs that I have written. I’ve ridden those waves and felt those highs. I chase them in every studio session and anytime I step onto a stage. But the feel of Miles Westbrook coming undone from the pleasure I’m wringing from his body—this could be the high I chase forever.
Then Miles interlaces his strong fingers with mine and gently tugs me upward until I’m now straddling his lap. “I’m never getting over this,” he tells me.
“Good. Because I don’t want you to,” I say back.
He firmly plants his hands on my hips and lifts me up to sink down on his rigid length. The stretch as I go is the most brutal bliss imaginable. I cry out with the first few strokes of my hips, collapsing so that now we’re chest to chest. Now, he starts to drive into me from below—slowly stoking the flames of an impending wildfire.
“Tell me if it’s too much, I want to see you,” he pants through ragged breathing.
At this, I rise again as he brings his hands to my breasts. “That’s it, Dream Girl. Fuck , you’re gorgeous.”
His words spur me on to ride him in earnest. And the rocking motion of our bodies is a giving and taking in return. It’s a continuous pouring into each other. It’s radical and real, like something I’ve never felt before. And when looking into Miles’s soul-baring eyes becomes too overwhelming, I tilt my head back to peer up at a sky that’s blanketed with stars and allow myself to get lost in a sea of possibilities.