Chapter 37
thirty-seven
“Good morning,” CiCi buzzed, walking into the massive suite.
There wasn’t a detail Daysha had overlooked when it came to Kamilla representing El Jefe, including the large bouquet congratulating her on her promotion. All while she swayed around the house prepping to add another heir to the Gallalucci legacy.
“Good morning,” Kamilla hummed, eyes closed while the makeup artist cemented the look in place to combat the heat. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good, this is such a nice hotel and I bumped into Sincere. Ohh he’s so fine,” CiCi gushed.
“CiCi,” Kamilla buzzed. “Focus.”
“You’re right, professionality is my specialty. But do you think we’re going to see Trae Way MB?”
“He’s doing a set at LIV tonight. So maybe. Please don’t fan girl,” Kamilla directed. “Are you ready for the hustle?”
“Yeah, Big Kwan is getting the SUV from the parking garage, it’s crazy down there.
First up is the indie show and then the rookies.
There’s a lunch break in the industry lounge.
Indigo is going to be there with Rolani— we should definitely see them—then back to the sound stage for emerging artists and the afterparty.
I’ve penciled in times on your schedule to talk to Kai,” CiCi rambled off.
“Listen if he calls, I’m going to answer, you just have to focus on the task.
I need a producer, artist, and a writer.
So if I step off, make sure you’re taking notes,” Kamilla said after the makeup artist finished.
“And I doubt he’ll call me until it’s bedtime.
He’s with his papa at the lake and he doesn’t know me when he’s fishing. ”
Cici laughed. “That’s so cute. You think you’re going to give him a sibling?”
Kamilla fidgeted with the ring she attempted to cut off the night before with a steak knife almost slicing her finger off in the process. “I think it’s going to be the two of us.”
Kamilla stood, removing the silk robe from her shoulders. The yellow dress against her skin made her smirk. Just enough skin showing not to be hot as hell underneath the desert sun. She fluffed her hair, applied her lip gloss, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the door.
“You got the iPad?” Kamilla asked double-checking her things.
“You know it,” CiCi excitedly announced. This was her first time in the field, and an El Jefe paid vacation would be one for the books. “After you, boss lady.”
The pair exited the suite, and Kamilla took in the last moments of quiet to prepare herself for the mayhem. As the elevator glided to the bustling lobby floor, Kamilla closed her eyes and whispered to herself, “Steal the fuckin’ moon.”
Before the elevator doors opened, she looked at CiCi. “Whenever we get some downtime, find a jeweler that sells forever rings please?”
CiCi pecked that into her phone and acknowledged her request. The moments of stillness were over and Big Kwan was at the elevator ready to escort them to the awaiting car. Through the crowd of celebrities, media, and fans, Kamilla was sure to take in the sounds of it, the energy of it.
RowdyRedd, an artist Lucci inherited when he snatched the record label, shouted Kamilla’s name. “Ay, Big Dawg K.”
She stopped slightly to find him through the crowd trying to get to her. “What’s going on, Rowdy? We behaving today?”
RowdyRedd smiled his new veneered smile. “Come on, you know I always behave.”
“Rowdy, please. Just last week I was up at three in the morning calling your lawyer because you and your girlfriend beat up someone in an all-day fitness center. A month before that, you jumped your old ass off the stage and slapped a fan because he called you washed. That’s behaving?”
“They don’t call me Rowdy for no reason,” he quipped.
Kamilla rolled her eyes and waved him off.
“I need a new sound, K. Like that old L.O. sound. This is my retirement album. I’m going to get married at settle down.”
She squinted up at him. “At forty-five?”
“Now would you say that to your pops if he were here?”
“Absolutely. Behave this weekend and I’ll entertain the sound for your last album when we get back. Deal?”
He bobbed his head. “I’m holding you to that.”
“Don’t hold your breath; the minute you slap somebody, the deal is off the table, and you get whoever Haddon gives you.”
“That’s fair. I see you in your yellow though. Lookin’ like a little barbie,” Rowdy stated, as she walked away.
“Bye, Rowdy.”
From the hotel lobby, they were rushed into the awaiting car and were now sitting down in the cabana-styled section.
Kamilla let out a huff, crossed her legs and took in the beauty.
Variations of brown bodies filled the turf-covered area.
Whether lounging around, dancing to the deejay spinning on stage or tossing the beach balls and floaties in the air.
A beach-styled festival in the middle of the desert.
Her eyes floated over the dunes of sand brought in, splash stations, pompas grass and desert roses, sprays of flowers, and a wave pool.
The Ferris wheel slowly spun over the food stations she avoided looking at for too long.
The flashes of being cradled in loving arms threatened to hold her hostage.
Pulling her eyes away, she took her phone out and snapped a picture of the event screen. “Welcome to La Bega’s Desert Beach Fest.” Uploading it to her Instagram she locked it and focused on crowd watching. Through the deejay’s set and a few artists, Kamilla sat unimpressed.
“How’d they get in?” CiCi cringed.
Kamilla sat, laser-focused for the last thirty minutes, ignoring the mediocre music with unwelcome flashbacks of dreaming, not even realizing more people joined them.
“I heard,” the distinctly familiar baritone invaded her daydream. “It’s not about what you know. It’s who you know. Everyone hitting that stage knows somebody.”
Initially, she didn’t turn around. Out of fear that her daydreams had now turned into full on heartbreak psychosis.
“How you doing Mariposa?” he queried.
CiCi interjected, not sure how this handsome stranger made it past Kwan. “Uh, her name is Kamilla Pal-”
“Palmer. I know her name. I know it well,” Cairo finished CiCi’s sentence.
Before she reacted and made her record label look bad with the amount of media and fans around recording and snapping photos, she mustered up the most professional expression she could.
When really, she wanted to punch him in the side of his face.
And then punch everyone who knew about him being home, let alone here.
“Kamilla, you know him?” CiCi asked, in a loud whisper as Kamilla stood, fixed her dress, and tossed her curls over her shoulder.
She slowly took him in, schooling every fiber in her being.
Unsure if she wanted to run into his arms or literally kick him off the back of this raised cabana, she just stood there.
A pleasant smile on her face as she took in the manicured facial hair, fresh line-up, and four signature stitch braids.
His lanky frame now held muscles. Biceps flexed as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his freshly-pressed navy-blue dickie shorts and a graphic tee, fresh sneakers on his feet.
Evidence he had no idea how much his net worth was.
For the sake of keeping people out of her business and great content for the media, Kamilla broke the stare down with a dry joke.
“I see you can take the man from 50th but can’t take 50th out the man. Should I say welcome home?” Casually, she moved her right hand behind her back, flashing a bigger smile to distract him.
“Never knew how to put shit together. You know that,” Cairo commented. His eyes washed over her, taking in every curve. All of them more pronounced. He fought the grunt and the want to pull into her and take possession of her lips.
Kamilla lowly nipped her lip and released it, hearing the shutter of a camera. It was followed with, “C4! Kamilla, smile for the camera!”
She flashed him a warning glare and then turned toward the camera.
Cairo, ignored that glare. His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her into his side.
Feeling the inhale of her curls under his nostrils and soft caress of her waist, Kamilla leaned into him.
Muscle memory betraying her. Once the photos were taken, she was pulled into hug.
“They record everything. Let me go and smile,” Kamilla directed lowly, pushing him away.
Cairo grinned, putting his hand back in his pockets. “What you doing here?”
“Working,” she replied, turning her back to the recording cameras. “You know they know who you are, so don’t make this hard.”
“I’m seeing that. Who do I have to thank for that?” he quizzed, flanking his body between her and the camera.
“I don’t know, C4. Enjoy the festival, I have a meeting,” Kamilla unglued herself from his magnetic energy and signaled CiCi that she was moving from her section to the industry tent.
Very rarely did she drink, but this seemed to serve as a fine time to help herself to a spritz and relax her nerves.
Inside the tent, having accepted the sponsored beverage and lunch box, she found a corner and took in a series of deep breaths.
With each breath she took, she prayed he wouldn’t follow her in here.
For the last three years, she’d done a superb job at keeping her personal life, attachments, and anything else away from this world.
The most people knew about her was that she KP’s daughter but even with that, she refused for it to be a topic of conversation.
There were five years of separation between her and Cairo.
A five-year-old secret and years of feeling detached from and abandoned by him. She wasn’t unpacking any of that here.
“Girl, how do you know him?” CiCi asked, after Kamilla downed her first glass and singled for another one. “I did a quick dive. Do you know he was the secret producer on Ekho’s last album that went triple diamond?”
“I know,” Kamilla grumbled, taking another drink.
“Do you know he’s unsigned?” CiCi continued to press.
“I know.”
“Then why are we in here and not out there selling him on El Jefe?” CiCi questioned.
“CiCi,” Kamilla said sharply before pulling in a breath. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I am aware of all of the things. Who he is, where he came from, and what he can produce. You forget we need all three. Don’t be so eager to catch a fish that you mistake the fish for a shark. Okay?”
“Okkayyy,” CiCi dragged out. “But off the record, can we talk about how fine he is? My God!”
Kamilla rolled her eyes and muttered. “I know that too.”
Three spritzes later Kamilla was calmer and back in the cabana in her corner.
Cairo was seated on other side, watching a rookie artist on stage.
Kamilla studied the intensity in his brows and the slight bob of his head, tap of his foot and drumming of his fingers.
He was hearing melodies and playing them against the rapper’s lyrics.
Business wise, entertaining the thought of Cairo at El Jefe made sense.
Rumor was, Ekho was looking for way out of his deal with Platinum.
Ekho, plus the moldable artists on stage, served as a jackpot.
While Kamilla studied the two, she noticed one thing no one else would have – the rapper’s lyrics didn’t match his image.
There was a writer behind the scenes, poetically penning rhymes of a street life he regretted.
The shark had led her to the fish. But in order for her to bring them in, she’d have to cast the net on the shark too.
“Big Dawg KP,” Indigo buzzed, moving up the steps to her. “How you doing, girl? I heard they’re putting you to the test.”
She laughed and stood to greet him. Indigo took a seat by her and looked toward the stage. “You’re making a plan.”
“I am about to make y’all a whole lot of money,” she shared. “You know him? He’s rapping about your soil, but his accent isn’t L.A. or L.O.”
“Nah, that’s a nigga from Port East. He has ghostwriter for sure,” Indigo replied in his South Central accent. “You’re about to reel him in.”
“And his ghostwriter. Anyway, how are you? How’s the family?”
“Everybody is good. You got a spot open for an interview with us after you lock down the youngest black female A&R?”
“You know there’s always a spot open for y’all. El Jefe has that main sponsorship for the gala?” she countered.
“Sign and sealed. Can I get a vinyl of AyeZee?”
“I can work on it. I’ll figure out the track list and send it over to Ro for pressing. Even though I think he’s going to be the one to outbid everyone.”
“Oh, for sure. You know he got deep reverence for the greats,” Indigo said with a chuckle, looking over at Cairo who was locked in. “That’s C4?”
“That would be the one and only,” Kamilla spoke coyly.
“That steal the moon shit is genius. I’m not telling you what to do, but if I were a record label looking a solid producer, that’s the nigga, on hood.”
“On Azul,” Kamilla replied.
Indigo gave her a half-knowing smirk before standing. “You’re going to his afterparty, right?”
“I’ll be there. Tell Taj I said hi.”
Every artist Cairo locked into, she sent CiCi a list. So far, there were three possibles. She would talk to all three tonight at the afterparty and watch how they behaved when they assumed they had traction. El Jefe didn’t need another RowdyRedd, that was fact.