Chapter 11
When I stepped in that room and saw her standing there in a short black shirt and red jogging pants, I had to beg my dick to have some decorum. Did it listen? HELL no. So, I was forced to act like I hadn’t entered this famous, gorgeous woman’s very nice hotel room with a massive, aching boner.
She was so beautiful, even with those damn sunglasses on. I’d read somewhere that she had nystagmus, a common condition for people with albinism. I often wondered if she wore the shades to hide it or to protect her eyes from the sun. Or maybe both? I damn sure wasn’t going to ask. It would’ve been nice to see her eyes, though.
“So, what work are you here for?” I asked, unable to snatch my gaze from what I could see of her face because the partial view was fucking breathtaking. “I’ma get to see you in action…Don Bambina?”
She poked those thick-as-sin lips out and tilted her head to the right. “Don’t call me that. I hate it.”
“What, Don or Bambina?”
“Don. I can’t stand being called that.”
“Well, you just answered to it.”
“My security team calls me that, my employees. You’re not my employee. You’re my friend.”
“Nah, I’m an employee, too.”
She sighed.
“Okay, I’m your friendployee.”
Smiling, she said, “Anyway, I, uh…all my NYC work is actually completed. I’m…taking a break for once in my life.”
“Yeah, back in ancient times, like a year ago when I was but a fan, I read somewhere that you were a workaholic. You decided to change that, huh?”
“I changed a lot of things out of necessity. And ancient times? You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Judging by that little twitch your mouth is doing, I’d say I am.”
This melodic giggle spilled from her, and I chuckled, thinking she seemed so real, so regular in that moment. I liked regular Ishmia.
“Your work is done, so what we gonna do? How long you want me here for?” I inquired.
“How long can you stay? How’s your schedule?” she probed.
“My schedule is wide open for the next five or six days.”
“Good. Shit, I do have on obligation I need to meet?—”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by one of her GLOW-looking bodyguards poking her head into the room, saying, “Don, almost time for your appointment.”
“Thanks, Feather. I just remembered myself. I’ll be ready in a few.” Ishmia said, returning her attention to me. “You feel like riding with me?”
Instead of yelling hell-to-the-motherfucking-yeah, I nodded and uttered, “Fo’ sho’, Miss Désir.”
Riding with Ishmia Désir was a whole damn event. Getting from her suite to the sprinter van had me feeling like I was in a scene from a super spy movie or something. One bodyguard turned into three once we left her suite—two women and a man—and not one of them was there to play. They shielded both of us once we stepped off the elevator into the hotel’s lobby, barking orders at the establishment’s staff. Then we were whisked outside where the van awaited us. I was damn near shoved inside after her, and then we were off. Where to, I had no idea. The whole ordeal of making it to the van had me so shook that I didn’t think to inquire about our destination.
Instead, I asked, “This how you move all the time? This shit is…I don’t know? Jarring?”
She and I sat on the back row of seats across the slim aisle from each other, and her covered gaze was out the window nearest her seat as she spoke. “Unfortunately, yes. Sorry.” Her voice was soft, melancholic. It made me wonder what all she’d seen and experienced over the years. Just how wild had her fans behaved in the past?
Then I thought about my ass running and screaming the first time I met her.
Damn.
Shaking my head, I offered, “No…no need to be sorry. I just—I apologize for wilding out the first time I met you.”
Her head rotated to face me. I wished I could see her eyes. Then I tried to remember if I ever had, my mind flipping through a file of images and videos I’d viewed of her. She always wore shades, always, and if by chance she did a photo shoot without them, her eyes would be closed or downcast.
“Why are you apologizing for that?” she questioned me. “Not the first or last time it’s happened to me.” She ended the statement with a shrug.
“I know, but it’s gotta be a little scary when people act like that with you.”
“Fans don’t scare me. Not usually, anyway. That’s love. I’ll always appreciate that. The security…other things are at play there. There are other concerns.” She shook her head and returned her attention to the window.
“Smoke?”
Her head snatched around to face me again; but she didn’t speak.
So, I said, “I saw somewhere that he wasn’t happy about being fired.”
“Tea Steepers?”
“Them and just about every other hip-hop blog on the web.”
She shrugged again. “Most people aren’t happy when they lose their supply.”
Damn, was her pussy that good?
Wow.
“I see. Let me stop before I have you thinking I’m your fan again.”
She chuckled, still focusing on the scenery outside as we were ferried through the familiar-to-me city. “You’re really not a fan anymore, Orlando?”
“Not if being your fan means I can’t be your friend, Ishmia. You said you needed friends, not fans, correct?”
I could hear the smile in her voice as she said, “Correct.”
* * *
We’d just made it to our destination when my phone began to buzz in my hand.
Ford: Hey, Barry! Might you wanna have dinner with me and Krystle tonight? She made me invite your ugly ass.
I grinned before replying to his text with: Your son joining us?
Him: He can.
Me: I’ll pass. I’m out of town right now anyway.
Him: Where you at? NOLA?
Me: No. Why you act like that’s the only place I go?
Him: Because it is, nigga. Bring me back some of them cold dranks.
I could virtually hear his silly ass attempting to imitate me in his text.
In response, I sent him a kissing emoji and an eggplant emoji, which in emoji hieroglyphics translated to “suck my dick.”
Him: Lolololol
When I finally looked up from my phone, I saw that Ishmia was watching me.
“You always smile when you’re looking at your phone?” she asked.
Shrugging, I supplied, “Depends on what I’m looking at. The van stopped. We’re here…wherever here is?”
“We are. Feather will let us know when it’s okay for us to get out of the vehicle.”
I nodded. “Your security is making sure everything is straight?”
“Yes. Luckily, it doesn’t look like my coming here was leaked. No crowd.”
I nodded again, turning to look out the window beside me, my eyes ballooning as I read the words on the glass—Electric Lady Studios.
My head whipped around to find her attention still on me. “Electric Lady? This is where we’re going?”
Her head slowly moved up and down. “Yes…you know it?”
“Hell-yeah I know it! This is the house that Jimi Hendrix built! My mom made sure I knew about this place, but she never brought me here and I heard they don’t do public tours. We’re going inside?”
“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Are you gonna record here?”
“Not today, but I’m hoping to in the future. I wanna get a feel for the place first. Check out the energy.”
Shit, so did I.
And I did feel the energy—electric and palpable, as if all the art created within the walls of this place was permeating every inch of the air surrounding us as we traveled between the four studios. I don’t think I closed my mouth even once because this was hallowed ground for artists and music lovers alike. Besides Hendrix himself, D’Angelo, Stevie Wonder, and Badu had all recorded here. I mean, a set of Questlove’s drums lived at Electric Lady and I touched them! The real treat, though, was watching Ishmia move from room to room touching walls, instruments, and equipment, sitting on the vintage chairs, the sofa in the writing room.
When she sat at the grand piano in Studio A, I asked, “You play?” from where I stood next to the mixing board, not that I knew how to use it. This was the largest of Electric Lady’s four studios with room to hold an entire band or orchestra. There were even shows held in there from time to time.
“No,” she replied. “You?”
I was a little taken aback by this question being directed toward me, a hockey player. Nevertheless, I truthfully answered with, “Actually, yeah. I can play a little bit.”
Her eyebrows flew up, barely visible above her glasses. “Really?”
Moving closer to her and the piano, I nodded. “Yep, piano lessons were another part of my mom’s education plan for me.”
“Show me,” she said.
“Now?” I asked, my voice lifting octaves involuntarily. “It’s been years since I touched a keyboard.”
“I won’t hold it against you if you suck. Show me what you got, Orlando Rapp.” To emphasize her request, she scooted to the left, patting the now empty right side of the bench.
Sighing, I sat beside her, her scent—sweet and floral—comingling with the smell of the historic space as I laid my hockey-worn fingers on the keys and closed my eyes, trying to figure out what I was going to play. I finally settled on a rag—Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer. It was one of the few songs I’d truly enjoyed learning to play as a kid.
I didn’t play the entire song but enough that I felt good about having retained the skill, and when I lifted my hands from the keys, I looked over at Ishmia to see that she was facing me, a huge smile on her glossed lips.
“Wow,” she softly uttered.
“Thanks,” I said.
Soon, we were climbing the stairs and leaving the iconic studio, once again, surrounded by her security team.