Chapter 19
Damn, I forgot all about this, I thought as I held the package in my hand. It was one of those ancestral DNA kits. I’d researched them and saw videos of people talking about how the results connected them to family they didn’t know they had. That made me decide to order one. The kit came the same day Ishmia had me swept away like I was in the Witness Protection Program or something, and I’d evidently left it on her jet. Since they were preparing it for her to use on her tour, someone found it and brought it to her house.
Wow.
Now, I wasn’t even sure if I still wanted to do it. I mean, did I really want to run the risk of connecting with the woman who left me swaddled in a blanket and lying in a chair in the lobby of a fucking welfare office? Yeah, that was the story I was told. Someone noticed me and brought me to the receptionist. Anyone could’ve taken me. A horrible person could’ve just taken me home and tortured me. I was fortunate that wasn’t the case, but still, who the fuck does that? And did I really want to find out?
I just wasn’t sure. Until I was, I placed it in a drawer in the closet room that held the wardrobe Ishmia purchased for me.
Rich bitch shit for real.
* * *
We flew to Seattle for her tour-opening show, and there in her dressing room, I was introduced to a new version of Ishmia Désir—the nervous one.
As she paced the room mumbling unintelligible words, I watched her, not sure what to do or say. The closest thing I’d seen to this was when she begged me to stay in her suite in New York.
Finally, I asked, “What can I do for you?”
She stopped, turning to face me with tears in her eyes. “What?” she squeaked.
“What can I do for you right now?”
“I…uh…”
I stood from the loveseat—the newest addition to her rider—and crossed the room to her, cradling her pretty face in my hands. “You’re upset or nervous. Doesn’t matter which one. I just want to help. What can I do? How can I assist you? How can I make whatever it is better? Need me to find Bubbles?”
She blinked a few times and sighed. “You’re gonna make me cry and fuck up my makeup.”
“Now, don’t do that. That Rueben dude did a good job. Still can’t believe he does your hair, too. That ponytail is sick!”
“Thank you…uh, sit down.”
I frowned. “A’ight?”
Once I’d reclaimed my seat, she said, “I wanna tell you a story.”
“Okay…”
She blew out a breath and resumed her pacing. “There once was a little girl whose mother gave her to a friend to raise when she was just a baby. That friend had a son who was eight years old at the time. The little girl adored the son—Patrick. He was her protector, her big brother for all intents and purposes. They grew up together, and since he remained in his mother’s house even after he turned eighteen, he noticed the little girl had a way with words. When she’d be rapping along with artists he played on his CDs or the radio, she would be spot-on with her imitations. So…with the permission of their mom, he started recording videos of her performing her own little silly raps and sharing them on social media. One of those went viral when she was fourteen.”
“Icy Girl,” I interjected.
Still pacing the room in a tight, black bodysuit that made her look scrumptious, she nodded. “Icy Girl. You know the rest. I got signed to a major record label; my brother became my manager and was instrumental in me becoming what I am today. I’ve been on many tours. So many. But I’ve never embarked on one as the only act. Patrick, who came up with the moniker ‘Smoke Dawg Baby’ for himself, said I didn’t have the star power to pull it off yet, that I wouldn’t sell enough tickets, and because I trusted he was always right, I believed him.”
“But he was wrong,” I said.
She stopped moving, turning to face me. “He was so wrong. He was wrong about a lot of things. He said I couldn’t do this without him, that my career would end if I fired him. I…I’m so fucking proud of myself for the moves I’ve made without him. I didn’t think I could do it, but I did. I am.”
She moved to stand in front of me and I placed my hands on her hips. “You are, and I feel lucky as hell to be along on this ride with you, Miss Désir.”
She bent over, a smile on her lips as she kissed me. “No, I’m the lucky one.”
* * *
I watched the show from the front row seat she’d arranged for me with Moby, my designated bodyguard—which felt weird as fuck—by my side. A few of her fans near me recognized me and kept smiling and waving at me. I looked up to find phones pointed at me more than once. This was crazy. She was the star. I was just the dude she was fucking.
Damn!
The show was phenomenal. It didn’t matter that I’d literally watched it be developed. I was still in awe of the finished product, and she was just so damn good at her craft. She commanded and kept my attention the entire performance. This Ishmia—the superstar—was a damn force to be reckoned with.
The show had just ended when Moby tapped my arm and led me backstage where she was in the midst of a VIP meet and greet. She was sweating but smiling as she took pictures with some lucky fans. Then came the celebrities—Talent the Prodigal One, that actress from Insecure, a couple NBA players, and like three dudes from the Seahawks. This shit was wild. I just stood there in awe, pride crowding my heart. She was a star, a bright light, and she’d be riding home with me tonight.
“How’d I do with the fans, baby?” she asked as Rueben cleaned her face. We were back in the dressing room. Bubbles was in a corner on the phone arranging for food to be delivered to our suite. Ishmia had a taste for Greek.
“You seemed genuinely pleased to interact with them,” I replied.
In return, she gave me a huge smile and said, “I was. I really was.”