Prologue #2
After a couple weeks, I was tired of having oxygen-depriving panic attacks and crying silently into the crook of my elbow in the office bathroom.
I wanted my life back—or at least the life I’d envisioned before I’d na?vely fantasized that Alonzo would one day treat me with respect, leave his wife and kids, and elope to the Caribbean with me.
Most importantly, I wanted to earn my editor in chief title because I was a talented visionary, not because my mom’s friend decided to elevate me into the role so he could have his way with me whenever he wanted.
I went into Alonzo’s office one afternoon and shut the door behind me. He stood up and ran a hand over his head, smoothing back the graying locs I’d once found so sexy. “Finally! We haven’t been alone in a while, but you have been on Daddy’s mind,” he said, turning to lower the blinds.
“Stop, please,” I told him as firmly as I could manage. “Just stop for a minute. I really need to talk to you.”
I sat down in one of the oversized chairs in front of his enormous desk.
Alonzo’s office was typical successful businessman chic, filled with the requisite crystal awards, framed citations, and expensive leather furniture.
His three televisions were tuned to BET, CNN, and ESPN.
At forty-eight, Alonzo was one of the most senior publishers at the company.
He’d been at Revolutions for ten years, during which he’d orchestrated a major shift in the brand—changing the magazine’s publishing schedule from monthly to weekly, pushing the editor in chief to add more music-industry dirt and style content, and launching a cutting-edge website.
Alonzo’s strategy tripled newsstand sales and advertising revenue, which made Revolutions one of the most profitable entertainment brands in the business.
Quite a feat for a Black man in a field where African Americans represented less than 3 percent of senior-level management.
Alonzo straddled the rarefied worlds of mainstream publishing and the music industry, where he was equally revered.
Even though the EIC technically decided who to feature, everyone knew that Alonzo was the real Revolutions gatekeeper.
In a rare moment of transparency after a particularly sweaty hotel session, Alonzo shared some of the lengths artists and labels would go to curry his favor.
The pop and rock artists preferred to gift him front-row tickets and heaps of blow, but the hip hop artists’ ploys were much more elaborate: magnums of Cristal accompanied the cocaine on private jet flights to Saint-Tropez and megayacht trips to the Caribbean, and an endless supply of video vixens willing to do just what “daddy” says.
Having been propositioned and groped by multiple artists and label execs as they passed through the Revolutions offices, I could attest to the disrespect and arrogance that would make someone offer up women as payola.
But while I’d prided myself on avoiding a disastrous career-destroying turn as a rapper’s flavor of the month, here I was, trying to disentangle myself from Alonzo’s grasp as LL Cool J rapped “Doin’ It” on the television tuned to BET.
Then the video switched to a powerful ballad from my favorite singer, Bobbie Washington, about a woman finding herself against all odds, which gave me courage to recite my prepared statement: “What has happened between us is obviously not a good idea, and I no longer feel comfortable. I’d like for our relationship to be purely professional from now on. ”
Alonzo’s expression didn’t change as he leaned forward: “No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I exclaimed, loud enough so that I could see a couple Revolutions team members turn to peer into Alonzo’s office through the half-closed blinds. I lowered my voice. “That wasn’t a question, Alonzo. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Sure, you can—and you will, because I’m not ready for it to end.”
I stared at him. “Are you telling me you’ll have me fired if I stop sleeping with you?”
“That is an interesting question, babygirl,” he replied, looking at me so intently I felt myself slipping on the black ice of his gaze.
“Either way, you’re going to make the smart decision because you love this as much as I do.
” Alonzo walked around the desk, put both hands on my shoulders and whispered, “You know you get off on being my bitch. Besides, nobody leaves me before I’m ready, Nikki.
I know you’re young, but you should have known that was part of the deal. ”
“What deal?” I asked, wriggling out of Alonzo’s grasp but worried that my reddening cheeks would betray the desire rising in me despite everything. “What are you talking about?”
Alonzo lifted his right eyebrow. “You’re here because of me. That is the deal. So, let’s not mess up a good thing.”
“Too late, Alonzo,” I said as firmly as I could. “We are done.”
Alonzo snorted. “You don’t get to say no to me without repercussions. So, actually, you are done.” His expression shifted frighteningly fast from anticipation to exasperation. “I’m not going to be distracted by you every day if I can’t have you. Why don’t you make it easier on us both and resign?”
My desire drained away as dread knotted my stomach. “But I haven’t even been at Revolutions a year. How will I get another job? And what about all that money on my credit cards?”
“Not my problem anymore.” He put on glasses with conspicuous Gucci logos and started pulling papers from a manila envelope, a signal that he was finished with this conversation and truly done with me. “If you don’t want to resign, I’ll have you fired tomorrow. Your choice.”
“How are you going to explain this to my mom?” I was shaking with fear and anger.
Alonzo laughed. “You really are a child.” Then his eyes narrowed. “But since you seem to know nothing about anything, let me school you: You’re gonna want to think real hard before you tell anyone about us, because you have literally no idea what I’m capable of. Fuck around and find out, babygirl.”
I walked out of his office, straight down the hall to the elevator, right to the human resources floor before I could change my mind. There was only one Black person in HR, and there was no one else I could talk to.
Marie Hyacinthe walked out to greet me with a huge smile.
Despite an extensive wardrobe of black pantsuits, her impossible-to-hide curves, flawless cinnamon skin punctuated only by deep dimples, and blond Afro made Marie stand out in any crowd.
Even though there was almost a decade between us, we’d become friends during my onboarding process, discovering a shared love of Rollerblading, curried chicken patties wrapped in coco bread, and, most importantly, Mary J.
Blige, Sade, and EPMD. I’d even ended up moving into an apartment in her Bed-Stuy neighborhood.
I must have been wearing my awful conversation with Alonzo all over my face because Marie’s friendly smile quickly faded. She pulled me into a windowless conference room, shut the door, and asked, “All right, girl. What’s going on?”
“It’s not a good story.” I sighed, leaning on the long glass table. “I think I got myself into a situation.”
She sank into a chair. “With Alonzo?”
“How did you know?”
“Please, he’s notorious. I have multiple complaints on file, but Alonzo generates so much revenue that the company hasn’t wanted to touch him. I thought he’d leave you alone since your families are close. Tell me what happened, then let’s figure out how to deal.”
“Okay, but this is friend to friend. I’m not doing an official thing here.”
“Got it. Not official. Off the record. Shoot.”
I gave her the PG-13 version, leaving out my parents busting us in the Krispy Kreme and the subsequent session that left footprints on almost every window of his Range Rover.
It was just enough information so Marie could understand my predicament but not so much that she would never look at me the same way again.
“I know, I’m an idiot,” I finished. “But he’s a lech.”
Marie got up and began to pace the room. “I care about you, Nikki, but don’t pass the buck here. This kind of thing can ruin you in the industry forever, especially one that’s not exactly friendly to us in the first place.”
“Maybe I don’t deserve to be here,” I said, digging my nails into my palms so the moisture clouding my eyes wouldn’t form into visible tears.
“Look, you got this job on your own merits,” Marie said. “All Alonzo did was secure the initial interview. The features editor was legit impressed with your ideas and your edit test.”
“But I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this bullshit.”
“That is an understatement. But I do know of another opening in the company that could work for you,” Marie said conspiratorially. “As for Alonzo, don’t say a word. There’s no reason for you to go public with this. As much as I’d love to see you get justice, it will blow back worse on you.”
“But Alonzo said he’d have me fired tomorrow if I don’t resign.” I sniffled.
Marie chuckled. “He’s all bluster. There’s no way for Alonzo to fire you that quickly without incriminating himself.
But he does have enough juice to drum up some bullshit reason and fast-track the paperwork.
” She paused to think, drumming her fingers against her cheek.
“Listen, you lie low for a few. Make up an illness and take some time off. But be available to come in for an interview this week. I got you.”
Two weeks later, I was packing up my cubicle.
I’d just been hired as an editorial assistant at the fashion magazine StyleList. The role was a step down from my assistant editor position at Revolutions, and I was much more into music than fashion.
But StyleList was Park Avenue Publishing’s crown jewel, with offices literally atop the company’s glass-clad Midtown building.
“This is it, Nikki. I stuck my neck out for you. And I can’t fix it if this goes left,” Marie cautioned me, but she need not have worried. I was scared all the way straight.
The StyleList offices were on a floor accessible only via a special elevator bank.
On the rare occasion when I spied Alonzo in the lobby, I ducked out of sight—and he never glanced my way.
I pushed my expensive miniskirts and bright crop tops to the back of my closet in favor of nondescript clothes in neutral colors and started scraping my hair into ponytails almost every day like I was back in high school.
I wanted to be less visible, less desirable, less of a target.
A couple months later, Alonzo left Revolutions.
Park Ave Pub didn’t make clear whether he’d been fired or had walked out voluntarily, but since he was out the door the same day his exit was announced, everyone assumed the former.
Alonzo’s departure sent shock waves through the building, with the Black employees buzzing about racism and vowing to organize a protest. I nodded and mm-hmmed along with them, knowing full well that, for once, there was more to it than that.
Alonzo had finally slept with the wrong person: a close relative of Park Ave Pub’s long-standing editor in chief of Architectural Décor.
When the septuagenarian EIC found out that Alonzo had seduced her precious niece, she reported him directly to Park Ave Pub’s CEO, which, Marie told me, was the last straw.
The company kept the whole incident so quiet that even Alonzo wasn’t aware of why he was summarily dismissed.
Alonzo called me the evening after he was escorted out of Park Ave Pub. “I guess you decided to test me, babygirl.” His fury was palpable through the phone.
“What are you talking about?” I tried to keep my voice steady even though I wanted to curl in a ball under the covers.
“Stop playing coy. It doesn’t suit you.” He was silent for a second and I braced myself. “You know very fucking well that you ran your mouth about us. I’m almost impressed by your guts.”
“You think I got you fired?” I had to convince him otherwise. “It wasn’t me, Alonzo. Marie said there were others—” I immediately realized my error.
“So, you did talk to HR. And you think you can lie to me about it?”
“No, I … I did talk to Marie, but off the record. She’s a friend. But she said that other women had complained…” I trailed off because I knew I was making it worse.
“If you think you can ruin my reputation along with a career that I’ve built over two brutal decades, you are either very na?ve or you are very stupid.” Alonzo’s next words would ring in my head for years. “Get ready to grow up, babygirl. You had better hope our paths don’t cross again.”