Exit Strategy (5 page)

If his knuckles weren’t already sore—and he doesn’t want to break the skin again—Tristan would deck Bryce’s ass for that comment. Instead, he levels him with an icy glare. The business he sent Bryce’s way in the past didn’t involve anyone he’d been personally involved with. This scenario is wrong all the way around. He can’t foist Bryce on Keisha and Jada like that.

“You know what? Forget it. This isn’t happening.”

Bryce flushes. “What? Why?”

“Because it’s my goddamned prerogative.” Tristan stands to indicate he’s done.

“Well, if you change your mind,” Bryce says as he stands, too.

Tristan walks him to the door. “I won’t.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Bryce says and struts out of the office. Tristan closes the door and returns to his desk.

He pulls a small, framed picture out of his desk drawer. It’s a photo he and Keisha posed for at her mother’s home on Christmas day. Clara Lee did the honors herself, printed it out, framed it, and gave it to him as a gift. Somehow she managed to capture them looking like a couple who were madly in love. Although it was truly smoke and mirrors, he likes the picture because it illustrates what he could have if he weren’t such a goddamned lost cause. The broken girl who resides at the Lakeshore Meadows Rehabilitation Facility is proof of that.

However, Clara Lee’s gesture over the holidays reminded him so much of his own mother. Alyssa White was a romantic, a devoted wife who loved her husband and children fiercely. She packed so much love and precious memories into the years they had with her, but even so, it still wasn’t enough. They were robbed of her in middle school, high school, and college. She wasn’t there to usher them into adulthood, and she isn’t here to see the type of men her sons have become.

He takes another look at the picture. The woman he finagled into becoming his submissive is surprisingly very much like his mother. She told him that someday she would want more than he was willing to give. Perhaps that day has come, and no amount of money, nothing he can offer her will convince her to return. She’s an idealist who knows what she wants from life, and he’s an emotional cripple who can’t begin to give her what she needs. His mother always said, “One emotion you can never buy is love.”

Tristan is beginning to see that after seven submissives in as many years, he’s no closer to proving his mother wrong.

CHAPTER THREE

Keisha

In the weeks following the end of my arrangement with Tristan, I throw myself into my work at Kente Studio Records, because we have a growing list of talented clients primed for superstardom just clamoring for my attention. Even though I’ve resumed weekly visits to my therapist, and she’s helping me with my anxiety issues, I can’t seem to shake the anger that has taken up residence in my damaged spirit.

I’m such a head case that my Fairy Hoochie Mama and Triple-G act as if they’ve testified in a criminal case and have gone into their own version of witness protection. Both sans wings, the former wears a black jumpsuit with the letters FHM embroidered on the left breast pocket in white, and the latter wears a white jumpsuit with GGG embroidered on the right breast pocket in black. They haven’t spoken to me, other than their daily urgings for me to call Tristan, since I walked out of his condo. I’m waiting on one or both of them to take this farce even further by beginning a hunger strike.

Instead they bug me daily, especially after work, and specifically just before bed when I’m as horny as a garden toad with no release in sight—except my hand or my vibrator. Neither appeals to me because “once you’ve gone kink, vanilla stinks.” Or that’s what I tell myself about Tristan White and his addictive brand of kink. 

Call him
, the fairies chant, sometimes alone, but most often together.
You know you wanna
.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say and cover my head with a pillow.

My hand itches to dial the familiar digits almost as much as my ears long to hear the sexy baritone. I don’t get relief, even in my dreams. My mind conjures scenes with Tristan in my sleep where I can see and feel his sexy, muscular body in all its vivid detail. Yet something always manages to rob me of any satisfaction. Either the alarm goes off to begin another day, or I’m awakened by some noise in the neighborhood or have to get up and relieve my aching bladder—which I’ve played the biggest hand in filling by drinking copious glasses of wine before bed.

Misery breeds a burst of creativity I haven’t seen since college. I write a song or two almost every day, but the misery also brings with it a perpetual foul mood. Our staff begins to call me HBIC or “Head Bitch In Charge” behind my back because they already call Jada “The Bitch.”

Jada and Jorge drum up the nerve to tell me one afternoon.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Am I that bad?”

They look at me with incredulity.

“Did your homeboy just win reelection?” Jada says, deadpan.

“Well, we’re not running a daycare center,” I say. “This is a business.”

“This is true,” Jorge says. “But you might want to tone down the bitchery, cuz. Some of your employees are... extremely sensitive right now.”

“They don’t know what a bitch-ass boss really is until they’ve worked for some of the scum I worked for before LaPerla.”

Jada gives it to me straight. “Keisha, they’re threatening to jump ship.”

That gets my attention. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, if things don’t get any better. Look at it from their point of view. They’re used to me being a bitch, but you were the sweet, sensitive, nurturing artist who ‘got them.’  ” She does the air-quote thing, which bugs the shit out of me, and I look to Jorge, who saves me from saying something stupid and offensive to my best friend.

“Now you’ve flipped the script,” Jorge says. “And all they’re getting is double-barreled bitch with no break from the bitchery.”

Damn, it must undoubtedly be true because they’re agreeing for a change. Demonstrating solidarity so strong, all that’s left for them to do is to harmonize their own version of Kumba-fucking-yah.

Jada grabs my cell phone off my desk and hands it to me. “You might want to call Tristan up and—”

“Jada Rachelle Jameson!” I warn.

Jorge finishes her sentence. “—and let him dickmatize you for old time’s sake.”

Jada laughs. “It’ll improve your mood.”

“Word.” Jorge laughs and high-fives Jada.

“Oh, I see what this is,” I say, gesturing between the two of them. “It’s supposed to be some kind of intervention? Well, it’s not working.” I head for the door. “I’ll be in the studio if you either one of you need to have a real business conversation with me.”

As I leave them doubled over with laughter, I slam the door behind me. One of the sales staff witnesses me taking my anger out on the door and scurries back onto the showroom floor.

That settles it. I need to have a staff meeting to apologize for my behavior. I don’t want my staff afraid of me. I need them to feel appreciated so they can be productive. And I certainly don’t need to be scaring any clients away. One thing I’ve always prided myself on is my customer service. It’s something I tried to drum into my father’s hard head, to no avail. If my people-handling skills slip, we can say good-bye to my dream of being the success my father never was.

I stop in front of our receptionist’s desk. “Tracey, have the floor manager get everybody together for a huddle as soon as things slow down in the showroom.”

“Yes, Ms. Beale,” she says and scrambles for the phone. Tracey’s always been relaxed around me, but I get a vibe that even she’s a bit frazzled by my recent mood.

I wait until she’s given my directive to the staff. She looks back up at me tentatively as she sets the phone in its cradle. “Is there something else you need for me to do, Ms. Beale?”

“Yes, just listen for a minute,” I say. “I just want to let you know I’m sorry I’ve been such a witch of a boss the past few weeks.”

Tracey relaxes visibly. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“But not so much that I should be behaving like a stark raving bitch.”

Tracey’s mouth twitches, but she manages to suppress her smile. “I know that’s been my nickname around here—and deservedly so. But no more. I’m putting my frustrations on lock-down. From now on, I’m going to be Ms. Even-Keel Beale.”

Tracey lets loose a brilliant engaging smile. “It’s good to have you back, Keisha.” The phone rings. “Just a second.” She picks up. “Kente Studio Records.” Tracey listens attentively and only then does she respond. “Yes. Just one moment please.” Tracey puts the caller on hold and looks back up at me. “It’s Princess Danai’s assistant. She wants to know if I can put her boss through to you.”

“Yes, of course. Just give me a second to get into my office.” I smile, so happy to have things back on firmer footing with my receptionist, who’s more like a personal assistant to me.

The spring is back in my step as I move quickly into my office and pick up the buzzing line.

“Keisha Beale.”

“Hold please for Princess Danai,” a professional, disembodied voice says.

“Keishaaa
…
” Princess Danai says, holding the
ah
in my name much longer than necessary. “Darnelle here. You got a minute to talk a little business with me?”

I haven’t spoken to Darnelle since the opening of KSR South, and now she’s calling as though we’ve been in touch often over the last nine months. I know she’s been on tour and busy working on a new album, but we’ve both been in attendance at a few release parties and industry events, and she’s been kind of standoffish. Can’t say I blame her since I physically assaulted her in the first week we came to know one another—an episode in my life I definitely want to forget. So, I figure I owe it to her to be the bigger woman.

“You know I’ve always got time for you, Darnelle. What are you talking? A collaboration with one of my artists?”

“You’re in the ballpark, but I’d like to hit a homerun. Will you sing the hook on the title song of my album?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. I heard that joint you sang at your opening, and you got some serious chops. Your voice would be perfect complement for the rhymes I’m spittin’ on that cut.”

“I don’t know, Darnelle,” I say. “I’ve got a lot going on, and a big name might be better for what you have in mind.”

“The buzz is you’re the biggest thing since L.A. and Babyface, Quincy Jones, Clive Davis, and Timbaland all rolled into one. I wanna be the first in the industry to have the artist whose brainchild is taking the recording business by storm on my album.”

I don’t even get a big head when she rattles off some folks in the industry I admire, because I know she’s just trying to butter me up for whatever reason. “I’m flattered just to be named in the same sentence with those greats, but I’m not anywhere near their caliber yet.”

“But you’re making headway. You’re hot right now, Keisha. And what better way to lead than by example. This will show your artists you’ve got what it takes to make them stars... because you’re a bonafide star yourself.”

“That would be great free PR,” I say. “What’s your timeframe?”

“I want to get started like last week,” Darnelle says. “If you’ve got some studio time this week, I’ll come to you.”

I hear a soft knock on the door. Jada pokes her head in, and I wave her in. “Okay, I have my orchestra coming in next week to lay some tracks anyway; we’ll work around them.”

“Thanks, Keisha. I’ll see you Monday, midmorning.”

“All right, Darnelle. See you then.”

When I hang up, Jada is frowning.

“Was that Princess Danai?”

“Yeah. She wants to do a collab with KSR. Well, with me.”

“Oh, really? After giving you the cold shoulder since that thing went down with Byron, now she wants to work with you?”

I shrug. “I did punch her lights out, Jada. Would you be buddy-buddy with someone whose last interaction with you was aggravated assault?”