Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Between organizing Betty Brown’s August cover shoot, getting the September issue assigned, and packing up my apartment, it was a Wizard of Oz tornado of a week with powerful swirls of activity touching down across my life.
I felt like Dorothy desperately holding on to a spinning house hundreds of feet in the air while unpacked boxes and unedited magazine features swirled around me.
JJ had developed a habit of sending me two-way messages multiple times every day to check in.
I’d let him extract a commitment to hang out again sometime, but I made no promises about when that would be, telling him that since I’d just broken up with my boyfriend, I wouldn’t be ready to date for a while.
I’d even told JJ about my upcoming move to explain why I’d be even more busy than usual.
So, his daily outreach was sweet, but a little pushy.
This was clearly a man used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it.
Occasionally, JJ would call, so I wasn’t surprised when Von told me there was a guy for me on the external line.
Expecting his gravelly Brooklyn-tinged accent, I stifled a flicker of exasperation.
I’d warned JJ this day would be hectic. “Hi there. This is Nikki,” I purred, my tone overly sweet to compensate for my irritation.
“Well, hello there. This is Derek.”
My involuntarily giggle was mortifying. Although Teresa had given me a heads-up that he’d be calling, I was flummoxed by Derek’s presence on the other end of the line. “Oh, hey. Sorry about that. I was expecting someone else.”
“Lucky guy.” I could hear the amusement in his voice.
My cheeks reddened, but before I could decide how to respond, Derek got down to business.
“Listen, I know you’re at work, so I won’t take up too much of your time.
Not sure how much Teresa told you, but I’ve got a new client, a teenage hip hop artist, who a prosecutor claims is gang-affiliated.
Even though the kid swears he made everything up, the prosecutor is using lyrics from his latest single as proof that he assaulted a rival gang member.
I’m inclined to believe my client, but I need to get some proof. ”
“Well, that sounds crazy,” I exclaimed. “How can they use someone’s art as evidence, anyway?”
“Happens all the time. Well, it happens to us,” Derek corrected himself.
I let out a mirthless chuckle. “I guess you don’t have prosecutors quoting honky-tonk songs about gun racks to prosecute any white kids from the sticks. Nobody came after John Lennon for ‘Happiness Is a Warm Gun.’”
“What do you know about country or rock music?” he snorted. “I thought I was calling an OG hip hop head.”
I hesitated. He was right that I loved hip hop to my core.
But growing up on a mix of my mom’s Isley Brothers, Smokey Robinson, and Stevie Wonder records along with my dad’s Thelonious Monk, Rolling Stones, and Janis Joplin records had given me an appreciation for all music.
More than one person at Howard had mocked the second cassette case I hid under my bed that was filled with everything but hip hop and R he might have even wanted to go to jail for the street cred.
When I called Derek the next day to let him know, he yelped, “I knew it! You are a lifesaver.”
“Really happy to hear that,” I responded sincerely.
“You may have kept an innocent kid out of jail.” Derek sounded so relieved. “I appreciate you, Nikki! How can I repay you? Lunch or dinner on me?”
As tantalizing as that was, I was being pulled in way too many directions to break bread with my girl’s coworker. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could help. And I see why you and Teresa are so cool. It all makes sense now.”
“And I see why you and Teresa have been best friends for so long. You have a good heart, rock star.” His voice was like a classic guitar riff, raw and mellow. “There will be a meal on me at some point, though. You’re not getting away that easy.”