Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
I thought I had a killer one-two punch with Tyisha, whom we’d photographed exclusively in Black designers for the September fashion issue cover, followed by Roxy covering October. Now, it was falling apart—again.
I had both palms over my closed eyes, not processing any words other than “… doesn’t want to be on your cover,” when I heard the manager say something about Groove, the name a faint echo as if he’d yelled it from the other side of a large field.
“Wait, what did you say about Groove?” I lifted my head.
There was a long impatient sigh, then Roxy’s manager slowly repeated, “I said that I’m telling you as a courtesy that Roxy will be on Groove’s October icons cover instead.
They’re letting her guest edit the whole issue, plus they gave her the second cover ad placement for her new skin-care launch for free. ”
So, Alonzo had pulled out stops to steal this cover from me, even giving up the enormous revenue that the back cover advertising placement normally generates.
Groove could afford to do that, while Sugar could not.
Alonzo had been seething after I flipped him off at MC RedHot’s party.
I’d watched Alonzo’s expression change from disbelief to comprehension to pure rage.
When I broke free from that spontaneous kiss, I knew three things: I would never be able to fully trust JJ again; Alonzo was not done seeking vengeance; and neither man would let me go easily.
My own anger had already replaced any last vestiges of fear.
Imagining Alonzo crowing with Luna over besting me yet again, the competitive spirit I’d honed on my high school track team returned: I would not let him win without a fight.
I calmly ended the conversation with Roxy’s manager, then called an emergency team meeting.
There was a conspicuously long silence when I explained that Roxy was a no-go for our October cover.
The team had likely surmised that Groove stealing the cover was driven by Alonzo’s hatred for me as much as it was by his desire to dominate the urban publishing world.
Even though they had no idea that there were only a couple issues left on Sugar’s countdown clock, everyone in that conference room was clearly disappointed.
“I’ve already pulled all the looks,” Freddy finally wailed. “I got so many designers who had never given me the time of day to release their best samples because it was for Roxy.”
Von patted her shoulder, even though he seemed more upset than anyone.
He’d already confessed to me that Roxy was his latest girlfriend’s favorite rapper of all time and that he’d promised her an autographed CD.
I wondered if this would be the end of yet another one of Von’s thirty-day relationships.
“Look, Alonzo Griffin is obviously gunning for me. And I’m fucking sick of it!” I registered the disbelief in the room as they heard me curse. But that f-bomb involuntarily roared out of me like a heat-seeking missile targeting an infrared Alonzo.
“I know that’s right!” Sondra bellowed. As the entertainment director, it had taken a lot of work on her part to get Roxy’s team to agree to the deal and iron out all the details of the cover shoot. “I’m not trying to let Groove keep pilfering our hits.”
“Agreed,” Imani added. She felt an affinity with Roxy as a creative businesswoman and had been excited to write the cover story. I knew she was upset.
“So, are we going to lie down and take it, or are we going to fucking fight?” I let another f-bomb fly, sensing that my team needed my passion more than my professionalism. “I say we fight!” The conference erupted into cheers.
“What’s the plan, Captainess?” Imani asked.
“We’re going to print in two weeks, and we don’t have time to get another prestigious artist for the cover.
” I considered our realistic options. “So, it has to either be a big reveal like Latika’s pregnancy, or we find someone provocative.
And we need low-hanging fruit because we already paid to book a studio for the cover shoot in five days. ”
There was more silence, then Sondra slowly said, “You’re probably not going to like this, but …
Sliq Bishopp was just accused of date rape by a groupie he hung out with after one of his concerts.
Bishopp’s people called me this morning to see if I wanted to hear his side of the story.
” Sondra’s pursed lips implied her skepticism.
Sliq Bishopp was a notorious rapper whose three albums chock-full of violent and raunchy lyrics had all gone gold.
He’d recently released a club banger that was getting major radio airplay and was on every DJ’s rotation.
The last thing I wanted was to give this asshole a platform, but women in the urban music scene almost never came forward to claim rape, so it would be incendiary when the news broke.
“Ugh, you’re right, Sondra. I do kind of hate it.” I looked upward, searching for a solve to the ick factor, because I had to admit that a controversial Sliq Bishopp cover might even outsell a Roxy cover. And we desperately needed a bestseller.
“What if we also interview the accuser?” Imani offered. “That way we can present a balanced perspective.”
“Now that’s a great idea!” I slapped the table. “We can illuminate all sides of the issue.”
“If we keep the same photographer and shoot date, I think I can pull together a quick concept cover with loads of statement pieces from Jacob the Jeweler,” Freddy added. Bishopp was known for his Mr. T–like excesses of necklaces and his diamond-encrusted mouth grill. I gave Freddy a thumbs-up.
“Okay, let’s get on this.” I stood up to pace the room. “Von, would you please track down the accuser? Imani and Sondra, do either of you want to interview Bishopp?”
“Um, one more thing,” Sondra interjected, avoiding my eyes, so I knew her next statement would be a doozy. “Nikki, apparently Bishopp saw you at some recent MC RedHot party and only wants you to do the interview. That’s his condition for an exclusive.”
I paused but, seeing no alternative, closed my eyes and let my head fall back. “All righty then, I guess I’m writing the cover story this month. Imani, you’re on the accuser’s story. Let’s go, team!”
Sondra hung around after everyone else had left the conference room.
“Look, I didn’t want to say anything in the meeting, but you should know that Jerome Jermaine produced most of Bishopp’s last album, including his current single.
He’s not going to like any story about his artist that isn’t irrefutably positive. ”
“How can we be irrefutably positive about an artist who’s been accused of rape?” I said. “But okay, good to know … So, we need to keep the fact that we’re also interviewing the accuser under strict wraps.”
“Aye-aye, Captainess!” Sondra raised her eyebrows but saluted me.
I recalled Alonzo’s similar gesture at RedHot’s party and thought, Game on.
The hotel lobby had been a compromise. Sliq Bishopp had wanted me to interview him in his suite, but I’d declined.
He refused to come to the office, so Von had the idea to meet him at the lobby bar, promising that he’d come with me but stay at a discreet distance so Bishopp wouldn’t see him.
The uniformed doorman who opened the opulent gold doors for us noticeably refused to make eye contact.
Since Bishopp was staying there, I imagined all kinds of ratchet activity popped off at every hour of the day and night.
The doorman may have assumed we were part of the merry band of troublemakers—or he was a run-of-the-mill racist.
I’d puzzled over what to wear, not wanting to be too sexy but knowing that I should probably not wear a muumuu to get the best story out of Bishopp.
So, I settled on body-hugging black jeans, a black tank top, a lightweight cropped leather jacket, and silver pumps.
I hoped this would be an inconspicuous outfit, but I stood out in the sea of Muffy clones in their matching floral dresses prancing through the high-ceilinged, ornate lobby.
It was a mystery to me why Bishopp chose such an old-school Midtown hotel until he emerged from the elevator, flanked by six men.
Equal parts handsome and menacing, they were dressed in matching white linen suits paired with a rainbow of pastel shirts.
The violent and misogynistic thread that ran through Sliq Bishopp’s lyrics was echoed in his infamous music videos in which he and his crew, wearing long white tanks, bandannas, and loose denim with Glocks tucked in the waistbands, would plunder neighborhoods then throw their cash spoils at women’s bare and bouncing asses.
But now, they strutted through the lobby like a genteel hip hop Rat Pack on their way to a lawn party in the Hamptons.
They fit right in to the gold-dipped lobby, with its marble floors, crystal chandelier, and birds of paradise–printed wallpaper.
Beaming like a benevolent king, Bishopp palmed hundred-dollar bills to the elevator operator, the bellman, the front desk attendant, and a few other uniformed hotel employees who hastily emerged from the shadows.
Everyone was deferential, addressing him as Mr. Bishopp and basically kowtowing as he passed.
Bishopp’s comfort and familiarity made it clear that this was not his first time staying there.