Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Kiara woke me up from my nap by calling four times in a row. I finally picked up to a loud, “Oh, thank God!”
Then she let me know that Ricky had to travel last minute so wouldn’t be able to take her to MC RedHot’s fashion show that night for the launch of his new sneaker line.
Kiara had clients who’d be there so she needed to show her face, and she didn’t want to go solo—which I understood because his events were always unruly.
It was much easier for women to roll in pairs.
I didn’t want to leave my apartment, but since Kiara was calling in a favor, I agreed to meet her at the after party.
Kiara told me that the invite requested that everyone wear sneakers, which I interpreted to mean a sporty outfit.
My denim shorts, red tank top, and Air Jordans were a sharp contrast to the women in sequined minidresses paired with bedazzled running shoes and men in ice cream–colored suits with white sneakers ringing the Harlem venue’s velvet rope.
I found Kiara at the bar, wearing a red satin jumpsuit with gold leather high-tops.
Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun, showcasing her enormous diamond studs; the only ring she wore was a three-finger gold ring that spelled out her husband’s name: RICKY.
“Oh, love, I guess I should’ve said something.” Kiara grinned as she took in my outfit. “Nothing RedHot ever does is casual. Everything he touches is blinged out. When in doubt, think sequins.”
“Yep, knew that and inconveniently forgot it tonight. At least I didn’t bring a backpack.” I wouldn’t have had the energy for much more glam anyway, but Kiara didn’t need to know that I really wanted to be in my pajamas, eating takeout and popping a rented movie into my DVD player.
“No matter what you have on, you always look great,” Kiara told me. Her gaze darted across the room. “I see one of Ricky’s clients over there. Let me go say a quick hi. Be back in a sec.”
Having hung out with her at many of these events, I knew that could mean five or forty-five minutes.
Feeling little desire to circulate, I settled onto a barstool to people-watch and listen to the DJ mixing Goodie Mob, Silkk the Shocker, and OutKast. I hadn’t been there long enough to know if Southern hip hop was part of his set or the musical theme of the night, but I was into it.
It seemed as if every major urban entertainment heavy-hitter was milling around in the velvet-walled speakeasy.
I didn’t think I would ever get used to being around so many arbiters of culture in one place—or to being one of them myself.
The hierarchy in the room was as defined as the Hindu caste system, with the most powerful ballers emitting a centrifugal force that pulled pleasure-seekers to their respective VIP sections.
They each hung with a crew of formidable guys who were rewarded for their hype-man loyalty with riches and access.
Then there were the lowliest guys in the food chain, with their pants belted mid-thigh to expose Calvin Klein underwear, the only designer item they could afford.
These were the worker bees in the industry, hoping to one day catch a break and become a rich hype man or even a baller.
They buzzed from banquette to banquette, looking for someone willing to let them stay and enjoy a little nectar in the form of Cristal or cocaine.
Because a baller’s objective was to pack his area with hot women, it was with a great degree of salty reluctance that any one of them would relinquish a space that a video vixen could be occupying for a worker B-boy on the come up.
As I watched the sagging-pants dudes hovering around the VIP, I realized how rarely I saw couples at any of these events.
Save for a very few female music, style, or media executives, these parties were largely populated by na?ve women not more than a decade out of puberty, whose goal was to get as close as they could to the primary baller in the most sought-after banquette.
They’d arrive in bright, giggling cliques, like a chatter of parakeets, hanging together until the more attractive and opportunistic among them splintered off into smaller groups that reflected their higher pecking order.
It was easier for two or three of the prettiest girls to get into a VIP section than a mixed group of six or seven.
Even if one of these pretty girls managed to be on a baller’s arm as he walked out, they would never be seen together at the next party.
Occasionally, one of the executives (like me) and one of the ballers (like JJ) would be observed together at more than three events and, therefore, deemed a “thing.” But these “things” rarely lasted beyond the change of a season, according to Kiara, who was, ironically, in one of the few high-profile marriages in our circle.
My intention had been to order club soda, but the scene was too demoralizing to face without proper social lubrication.
I’d guzzled half a too-tart whiskey sour when I glimpsed a familiar muscly bicep and set of fresh cornrows.
Hopping off the barstool, I stood on my tiptoes and looked over the expanse of red to see JJ holding court in a banquette.
I hadn’t told him that I would be at this party, nor had he mentioned that he was going.
I was reminded that the status of our relationship was “thing”—and of the uncomfortable comparisons to Alonzo that I’d been pushing to the back of my mind since the morning.
I’d never anonymously watched JJ in a social setting and was impressed anew by the confident way he managed the acolytes clustered around him.
He’d laid claim to the VIP section adjacent to RedHot, and their combined energy created the nexus of the party’s activity.
It was all bobbing heads and hands in the air in their corner, with only the best-looking girls and most determined B-boys getting within twenty yards of either JJ or RedHot.
I was debating whether to make my way over there when I saw JJ lean down and whisper into the ear of a woman I couldn’t see enough of to recognize.
I caught periodic flashes of her profile before it would disappear but couldn’t make out who the black hair, glossy red lips, and pointed talon nails belonged to—until she climbed up to stand on the back of the banquette, and I saw that it was Luna.
“They had a ‘thing’ back in the day.” I wasn’t sure when Kiara had reappeared next to me, but she’d caught me staring at JJ as he casually draped an arm around Luna while she shook her hips in time to 112’s “Anywhere.”
“For real?” I swiveled my head to now stare at Kiara, who was nodding at me with an I-told-you-so look. Fatigue and annoyance added some acidity to my tone. I thought about Teresa’s comments at brunch that morning. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Kiara cocked her head. “Nikki, I told you that JJ has a rep. He used to be one of the biggest modelizers in the city.”
I drew in a long breath, feeling contrite; she had warned me. As I exhaled, I fully processed the level of Luna’s wrath after she saw JJ kissing me. I had now taken two things that she considered to be hers.
I might have stayed put for a while to spy on my lover and my archenemy, but I caught a glimpse of salt-and-pepper locs coming through the door: Alonzo.
He always seemed to pick me out in a crowd, so I hopped off my perch and turned toward the bar.
As I pressed two fingers against my mouth, Teresa’s words skittered across my mind: I know how awful Alonzo was, and is.
So why are you going down that path again with JJ?
Do you seriously not see the similarities?
I turned my head very slightly to view the masses around JJ’s banquette part like the Red Sea to let Alonzo through.
I watched him clink glasses with JJ and kiss Luna on the cheek, then quickly turned back around before he spotted me.
Any certainty that my friends didn’t understand what I was up against faded as I wondered why I was attracted to yet another emotionally unavailable, entitled baller.
I’d spent years trying to be invisible to Alonzo in the cloistered world of high-end fashion where I’d felt like an interloper.
And now I had thrown myself into the center of Alonzo’s sphere of influence—where I somehow felt as if I belonged.
Why were danger and indifference more compelling to me than stability and prestige?
As more people thronged the area around me, trying to get a bartender’s attention, everyone near the bar had to jostle for space.
To my left, Kiara was obliviously chatting with an A he was pretty greasy. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Eddie seemed nice enough to me. I wasn’t going to come but Kiara asked me to be her plus-one at the last minute. And I’m glad I did because now I know what’s up.”
“I keep trying to tell you that nothing is up,” JJ started, but I held up my hand to stop him.
“It’s cool, JJ. I’m going to leave so you can have fun in peace.”
I started to walk away but JJ grabbed me, hard enough that I knew there would be faint markings on my arm the next day. His sweet tone belied his steel grip. “I don’t want you to leave like this. Why don’t you come and have a drink? Maybe you and Luna can make up.”
I looked toward JJ’s banquette to see Alonzo watching us intently.
With a smug grin, he gave me an exaggerated salute.
Instead of turning on my heel and rushing out like I instinctively wanted to do, I brought my hand to the back of JJ’s neck and pulled him close for a long kiss.
Behind JJ’s head, I slowly raised a middle finger in Alonzo’s direction.