A House Is Not a Home (12 page)

“Well, this
is
the Monster. They like to hear stuff by Barbra and Judy.”

“Don't sweat it. Even if they don't appreciate what we do,
we
will.” He motioned for Mitchell to sit next to him on his left; Mitchell did. Montee began to play.

Mitchell (and many of those in the bar) recognized the song immediately. He couldn't believe Montee had chosen this song.
Does he expect me to sing it with him?

When Montee got to Miss Ross's part, he nudged Mitchell.

“‘My first love?'” Mitchell sang as a question but on key. They laughed.

And those listening laughed—not at them, but with them.

After they harmonized the chorus for the final time, the crowd's reaction reminded Mitchell of that scene in
Coal Miner's Daughter
when Loretta Lynn (aka Sissy Spacek) performs for the first time at a honky-tonk. Petrified and unsure, she does her thing and the folks love her so much they want her to do another song.

“Woof woof woof!”
hooted a Bla-tino duo sitting just two feet from them.

“Y'all betta sang!”
screamed a fifty something brother, clapping furiously.

“Encore, encore!”
shouted a white drag queen, who favored Gwen Stefani.

“Thanks so much.” Montee grinned, giving Mitchell an
I-told-you-so
glance. “I'm Montee, and this is Mitchell.”

Mitchell acknowledged the audience by slightly bowing his head.

“Dalton has graciously allowed us to do an intermission set. So we're gonna do a few more selections and hope that you enjoy them.”

Those few more selections were also duets from the eighties: Barbra & Barry's “Guilty,” Roberta & Peabo's “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love,” Patti & James's “Baby, Come to Me,” Aretha & George's “I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me),” and Michael & Paul's “The Girl Is Mine,” on which the “girl” became a “boy” and they did an ad-lib that brought down the house . . .

“You know, Montee?”

“Yeah, Mitch?”

“You just need to hang it up—and
zip
it up. The boy belongs to
me
.”

“That's not what he told me last night.”

“Uh-huh. He must've mumbled it after his third or fourth screwdriver.”

“As a matter of fact, it was after the third or fourth time I screwed him
with
my driver!”

“It took you
that
many tries to get it right? It only took one bangin' from me and he was
sangin
' . . .” And Mitchell hit an octave that caused a glass on a nearby table to shatter—and the entire bar (which now included many of the patrons who had been on the dance floor, which is on the lower level) exploded in hysterical laughter that lasted several minutes.

The audience begged for one more song, and Mitchell wasn't the least bit surprised that Montee chose a tune by his favorite songwriters: Ashford & Simpson. Folks shouted the hook to “Solid” so loudly that a police officer warned management about the noise.

They took their bows to a foot-stomping standing ovation. They received many drinks and indecent proposals, including two propositions to engage in a ménage à trois. And the manager pleaded with them to do an hour show every Friday night. They turned down all these offers, but not the $226 in tips that filled two large beer mugs (this tally, as well as the adulation they received, made Dalton fume). Mitchell collected and counted it; Montee told him to keep it.

“
You
are a
genius
,” Mitchell proclaimed as they exited the bar, arm in arm.

“I don't know about that . . .” Montee gushed.

“You knew
just
what to play. How were you able to read them so well?”

“I figured we couldn't go wrong starting out with ‘Endless Love.' It might be one of the schmaltziest songs ever recorded, but it's a song everybody loves—even if they're reluctant to admit it. We gave it the twist it needed. I'm sure there are many men who have played it, sang it for their boyfriends. But to see two men sing it in public?”

“Yeah, that clinched it.”

“The songs were right. But my duet partner made it
all
right.”

Mitchell grinned. “You took a big gamble on me. I might not have known the words to any of those songs. Or I could've known but froze up.”

“Wasn't gonna happen. I had faith in you—and in us. And they're right: we
should
record a CD. Hell, we performed half the album tonight. And, as you saw, it would be a hit.”

“I guess so. And what would we call ourselves?”

Montee considered it. “M&M, what else?”

“The Mars company will have a
big
problem with that.”

“Ha, let 'em sue a tiny record label in Georgia. You know how much attention we'll get—and how many copies we'll sell then?”

Mitchell sighed a smile. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For this. I needed it. I haven't done something impulsive like it in so long. It was frightening but fun.”

“I'm glad. If you really wanna get wild, we can head over to this karaoke drag bar on Third and Sixteenth.” Montee looked at his watch. “Miss Ross should be hitting the stage in about five minutes.”

“Uh, I'd love to but I have a very busy day tomorrow.”

“But it's only two.”

“Which means I've already missed four hours of the sleep I'm used to getting. I have a house to get in order and food to prepare.”

“Uh, okay. Let me give you a lift. My car is parked on the next street.”

“What happened to your motorcycle?”

“She's in Atlanta. I drive to most of my events, unless I'm going to Cali.”

“Ah. What kind of car?”

“An Acura.”

“What, no Mercedes?”

“
Hell
no.”

Mitchell chuckled. “An Acura isn't exactly the type of vehicle one would expect a big-time producer to drive.”

“Please, I don't plan on goin' broke, spending all my green on luxury cars and jewelry. So, how 'bout it?”

“I'd appreciate it. Thanks.”

“But, like a cabbie,
I
expect a tip.”

“Oh? A cabbie usually gets fifty cents.”

“I'll take fifty
smacks
instead.”

“Ha, where?”

Montee's eyebrows rose. “Twenty-five on the lips—and twenty-five below the
hips
!”

J
ust like before, it all started with one drink—and just like before, that was one drink too many.

That first drink loosened Raheim up. He got tired of listening to Malice yak about his kids (their joint eight-figure deal with Sony, their clothing lines, and the mini-mansions built for them on their parents' property) and started bragging about his own being a genius.

The second drink, to Malice's delight, got Raheim
loose
. Malice always picked the right time to lean forward, lean in, lean on him, lean against him—and Raheim welcomed it (Raheim
was
still attracted to him; Malice had a little gut, but the rest of the body was still tight and stacked, particularly that azz). Malice asked him to dance, and within a half hour, both were bare-chested and bumpin' with a vengeance on the floor. After three hours of that, they both knew it was time to take it to the head—literally.

Raheim was a little drunk (if one can be a
little
drunk) and Malice was a lotta drunk—but not
that
drunk that he forgot what hotel and which room he was in. His room door hadn't closed when he was on his knees unzipping Raheim's fly and gobblin' him up.

“Day-um,”
Raheim groaned, trying to keep his balance. After getting steady, Raheim got
heady
. It felt
so
jood to have someone's mouth wrapped around his dick, and what a skillful mouth it was: Malice's lips weren't made to just suck dick but inhale it. His lips are legendary: he's gone down on
many
in the hip-hop world, including a few record execs. (One of those encounters allegedly happened in a first-class airplane lavatory.) And he could multitask: As he gave Raheim some jood head he pulled down Raheim's jeans and bikini briefs, and worked off his own white sweatpants and stroked his own dick.

After a few more minutes of deep-throatin', Malice knew Raheim was on the verge of a volcanic eruption and pulled back. “Nah, I ain't about to have you cummin' yet. I want ya to get jizzy up in this.” He hopped across the room and fell onto his back on the bed, raising his legs up and tossing his bright orange G-string onto the bureau.

“C'mon, nigga, you know you wanna taste that azz.” He gloated, pointing the bottom of his Timbs to the ceiling and spreading his cheeks.

Raheim pushed Malice's knees farther into his chest and pushed his face into Malice's crack.

“Yeah, nigga, lick it wicked,”
Malice cooed.

After Raheim licked it wicked for a while, Malice flipped over on all fours, his azz pointed straight at Raheim, and threw a condom between his legs that landed at the edge of the bed. “Come on, nigga, you know you wanna nail that azz.”

Raheim ripped it open and rolled it down, lubed him up with his middle finger, and drove right on in.

“Ooh, yeah, crank it up while I yank it up,”
Malice demanded.

On every crank, Malice yanked his own dick. And as Raheim went in deeper, Malice's grunts got louder and longer and lighter, his voice moving from baritone to falsetto. He was all in it and all into it.

Raheim was in it—but he wasn't
in
to it. He was up in it—but he wasn't up
in
to it. And it was feelin' real jood; in fact,
better
than jood. But it's like his pops told him: “Just 'cause it's jood
to
ya don't mean it's jood
for
ya.” He felt like he was taking a step back
in
Malice's back. Malice made him weak in the knees, but that didn't mean he had to become weak and fall for his game again. He couldn't blame the alcohol; he'd made a conscious decision to allow himself to be seduced. As he learned while in the twelve-step recovery program, there are just some behaviors and people you have to delete from your life, or else you'll be regressing and not progressing. He had to close the chapter on Malice—and this was
not
the way to do it. He didn't belong here and he didn't belong with Malice,
anywhere
.

So, he did something he's
never
done before: right smack dab in the middle of bangin' some bootay, he slid out, slid off the condom, and slid into his underwear.

The azz still twirlin' in sync, Malice snapped his head back, looking at Raheim in utter disbelief. “
Nigga
, what the
fuck's
goin' on?”

“I'm outta here.”

“What?”

“I don't wanna no more.”

Malice was . . . well, insulted
and
mortified—and he had no problem letting Raheim know it . . .

“
Nigga
, what the
fuck
you mean, ‘I don't wanna?'
You don't wanna?
What kinda
fuckin'
shit is that? How you
not
gonna want
this
? You know how many niggas want a piece of this? You know how many niggas want just a little
taste
of this? You know how many niggas been beggin' to get all hella up in this? Shit, that list would be bigger than a fuckin' phone book.
And you don't want it?
See, I shoulda known. Your
punk
azz been runnin' away from it for years. Always comin' up with some ty-ad fuckin' excuse not to. Like,
I'm in love
. Nigga, who the
fuck
would love
yo'
triflin' azz? Ya can't handle it and ya could never handle it. After all these fuckin' years, and ya
still
don't know what the fuck to do. You
wish
you could fuck like a real nigga, yo. You'd lose your fuckin' mind
up in here, up in here. God-day-um
. I can't believe I wasted all this
fuckin'
time sweatin' yo' punk azz. And you got all that dick goin' to waste—and it
is
goin' to waste, mutha-fucka, if it ain't fucked
this
azz. So go on, get the
fuck
out. No wonder yo' sorry azz got caught up gamin'; ya gotta know how to
play
the game, and you can't. But, yo, make sure you take one good long look at
this
'cause you ain't
never
gonna see or have some azz like this again, for the rest of your sorry-azz life. Memorize it, mutha-fucka, 'cuz you ain't never gonna forget it, you ain't never gonna get it—and you
will
regret it.”

There was a lot Raheim wanted to rattle off, too. But Malice's bitchin' out like Grace Jones in
Boomerang
was just the revenge he needed. He didn't bust a nut, but you'd think he had given the grin on his face.

M
ontee pulled into a parking space across the street from Mitchell's home.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“You're more than welcome.”

“It . . . it's been a good night.”

“Don't you mean
jood
?”

They laughed.

“Yes, jood,” Mitchell agreed.

“It can be an even jood
er
morning, if that's a word.”

“It
is
the morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. And I'm sure it could be. I'd like to . . .”

“But?”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Let me put it this way: My body might be here with you . . .”

This was one lyric Montee didn't have fun finishing with him. “. . . but your mind would be on the other side of town.”

Mitchell nodded.