Drama Is Her Middle Name (11 page)

That night was one of the most romantic Jamie had ever
experienced. When they finished eating, Derek showed her
around the place. It was a quick tour—two bedrooms, one bathroom, a European-style kitchen, and a large living room. He
lived in a renovated prewar building on the third floor. The
place had hardwood parquet floors and crown molding.

“Salesman, huh? What is he
really
selling?” Jamie wondered as she looked around. But she knew the answer to
that, too.

He showed her the first bedroom, which was the first room
along the hallway after the kitchen.

“I plan on making this my office,” Derek said.

He showed her the next room, the bathroom, which was
white with white hexagonal tiles.

“He definitely needs my touch,” Jamie thought as she plotted taking him to Bed Bath & Beyond to get some colorful
bathroom accessories. A few years ago she had also eyed a
wonderful teak bathmat in a Hold Everything catalog that
would fit in nicely.

Then he led her to his bedroom.

“This is where it all happens,” he said jokingly.

“What? Sleep?” said Jamie, laughing.

“Exactly!” he said with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, right!” Jamie thought, but didn't say anything. “He's
got the nerve to be modest about his shit, too? I like that.”

There was nothing in his bedroom but a dark cherry platform bed and matching nightstands and lamps. But his bedding was impeccable. He had powder blue sheets.

“Is that six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton?” she
wondered.

And he had a huge white down comforter that looked like
fifty cumulus clouds sitting on his bed. He didn't have a television or a radio or anything else in the room. Just the beautiful bed, nightstands, and lamps.

“I guess this is
really
where it all happens,” she thought.

Jamie wanted to stay the night but thought it wouldn't be
a good idea.

“Who gives a fuck about a good idea?” Jamie thought. She
was having an internal battle between her good senses and
her loins, which were beginning to ache slightly for no particular reason.

The scent of Derek's Chrome cologne—which was so light
she could barely smell it but what she could take in smelled
so good that she wanted to bury her face in his neck to get
more—was starting to work on her. That and his body. Derek
was about five foot ten and built like a martial artist. Even
in his khakis and polo she could make out the fine lines of
definition. And when he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt to
disclose the most beautiful forearms she had ever seen, she
thought she would lose her mind. His forearms looked like
chiseled wood carvings.

He kept his reddish brown hair closely cropped, and his
goatee was well groomed—but not too well groomed. Jamie
thought some guys went too damn far clipping and shaping
their facial hair (like that Ginuwine).

“Hey, girl,” Derek said. “Ready to go?”

“Wait a damn minute,” she thought. “He is
too
smooth—
ushering me out, knowing full well that will only make me
stay. He's good.”

Instead of answering him, Jamie moved right up to within
inches of his face, slowly grabbed the back of his head, and
kissed him. It was as if he expected it because his mouth was
ready. He took the tip of his tongue and slowly circled hers,
pulling back to suck lightly on the tip of hers. He nestled her
bottom lip between his and pulled until her mouth opened
and he plunged in gently with his tongue.

Jamie thought her coochie was going to fall right out from
between her legs. It was on fire. Jamie never imagined a kiss
would make her feel like that. His kiss was light and his
tongue was warm. He put his arms around her waist and
leaned in on the kiss.

“I better go now” came out of Jamie's mouth, but her
coochie was screaming “You have got to be fucking kidding!”

“Okay,” he said, letting her slide out of his arms. “I'll call
you.”

She somehow found herself at the front door. Her damn
feet, working in cahoots with her brain, had betrayed the rest
of her body once again.

“Girl, make sure you call me so that I know you got home
safely,” he said. “And here.” He pressed a crisp fifty-dollar bill
into her hand. “This is for the car service.”

Jamie didn't front, either. On her internship stipend of
nothing she didn't really have the money to be taking a car
service. Her parents still gave her an allowance, but she
didn't have it like that. She smiled and stopped herself from
kissing him good-bye.

“If I go back there I'll definitely not leave,” she thought to
herself as she walked down the stairs to the street.

Jamie called him when she got home and every day after
that.

14

Ivan opened the door to his hotel room and was pleased with
his clean, modern surroundings. He had stayed at several upscale hotels during his trips to New York—from the Plaza and
the Waldorf-Astoria to the Four Seasons. He hated old carpet and what he decided was the gaudy and stuffy decor of
both the Plaza and the Waldorf. He also hated the heavy ornate drapes that made all the rooms he checked into seem
heavy and dark. It was as if the old furnishings had absorbed
the sad feelings of all the guests throughout the years.

The Four Seasons on East Fifty-seventh Street was perfect, but the five-hundred-dollar-a-night rate for the kind of
room he wanted was too steep even for Ivan's fat pockets. He
didn't know how long he was actually going to stay in Manhattan, and throwing away that kind of money went against
his frugal grain. Watching his grandmother work so hard and
die with nothing made him keep a careful eye on his finances.

Ivan settled on an out-of-the-way spot in SoHo. Discreet,
reasonable, and trendy. His room boasted a small balcony.
There was only room for him to stand out there alone, but
when the French doors were open and he pushed back the
curtains, it provided a wonderful view and made his room
come to life with the craziness of New York City. It felt more
like a small apartment than a musty old hotel room.

Ivan opened his suitcase on the couch facing his bed at the
other end of the room and began hanging up his clothes. He
immediately realized that he had forgotten to pack clothes to
work out in. Ivan was part of the beautiful-people pack. In
the midst of his heavy work schedule, he made sure every day
to take at least an hour and half to either get in a run or find
a gym and a treadmill. He also lifted weights and was proud
that under his Brooks Brothers suits was a body to die for.

He knew he would be staying in New York long enough
that he would need to work out. Ivan decided he would finish unpacking later. It was already three in the afternoon, and
he needed to buy some sneakers and some workout gear. He
headed down Eighth Street off of Sixth Avenue in the Village in search of a sneaker store. He decided that running
would be a big part of his workout. He checked out the hotel
gym; the equipment left a lot to be desired. He scoped out
Washington Square Park and the surrounding areas and decided that it looked like a decent place to run.

Ivan was in New York to have fun. It was Miami-squared
in terms of opportunity and nightlife. His last visit to New
York taught him how wild things could be. While he wasn't
looking for wild, he was definitely looking for excitement. As
he headed past West Fourth Street and the cage that was filling up with ballers, he was bombarded with flyers for a “hot”
party or the best place for a piercing or tattoo.

After walking about three blocks, Ivan finally found a
store with a huge selection of running shoes. The salesman
asked Ivan to take a seat. Ivan loved to shop. He got a euphoric feeling whenever he was doing it. That coupled with
R. Kelly's “Happy People” blaring from the sound system put
a real bounce in his late afternoon. The salesman returned
and Ivan held up the Nike running shoe he wanted and asked
for a size twelve.

The store had on a radio station, not the normal Musak or
XM Radio. The woman's voice on the radio was intoxicating.
He had no idea who she was, but it sounded like she was loving life and loving what she was doing. Ivan decided that he
was exactly where he needed to be—New York City. The Big
Apple. Land of dreams. He was thirty-four years old, relatively wealthy, and out of touch with his youth. He was tired
of wondering where P. Diddy, who was pushing forty, found
the energy to party as much as he did. He ran up to the register and asked for a pen.

He heard the lady with the intoxicating voice talk about a
party the next evening at Club Red that she was hosting. It
sounded like the spot. Ivan took the address and knew that
tomorrow would be the first night of getting back his groove.
“That'll be $134.96, sir,” the store cashier said. “Would
you like a pair of socks to go with those?”

“In fact, I'll take five pair,” Ivan said. “And please tell me
what station we're listening to.”

“Oh, that's WHOT, Hot-9—99.9,” the cashier responded
while handing Ivan back his platinum AMEX.

“Who's that lady talking?”

“You must not be from around here.” The cashier got sassy.
“That's Ritz Harper! She's off the hook. They call her the
Queen of New York. She has the lowdown on everybody.”

Ritz was in the middle of a great blind item about a movie
star whose wife caught him in their swimming pool banging
some TV magazine host. She said she had to go to commercial break but would have more details when she came back.
Ivan found himself hooked. He was disappointed that he
wouldn't be hearing the rest. But he had to get back and get
prepared for tomorrow. He needed his beauty sleep.

15

Chas got to the club around midnight. He liked to get there
before Ritz to scope out the spot. Since her heightened fame,
Ritz also liked Chas to check the exits and make sure that
everyone in her surroundings looked copasetic. He often
thought she was paranoid, but he would never let Ritz know
that he thought she was overreacting.

Ritz was set to arrive around midnight to host a bash at
Club Red. Chas was certain that she would be late; it was getting more and more difficult to get her to come to appearances. She was feeling herself.

“What stars still have to make appearances?” she would
complain.

“Ritz, they're apart of your contract,” Chas would reason.
“Besides, it's the one time when you get to be with your people and they get to see you.”

“Fuck that!” Ritz said. “They don't need to see me. Those
thirsty bastards will tune in whether I'm hosting a party or
not. In my next deal, I'm not doing any more appearances
unless it's on my very own television show!”

While Ritz hated doing appearances, she loved the money.
She could pocket anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand in cash depending on the event. And while Chas was always there, Ritz never shared a dime with him. He never let
show that he minded her stinginess, but he did.

But it was Ritz who people showed up to see. She was the
star attraction. She
was
the star—dressed to impress in Rock
& Republic jeans, a beaded Luca Luca top, Ferragamo sandals, and lots of hair. Chas knew his role and his place.

Club Red was packed with people waiting in anticipation
for the arrival of “the diva.”

Everyone looked fabulous—including Chas. He always
looked fabulous. He took his own advice on always being
“runway ready.” He had on a new Ryan Kelly shirt, simple
black slacks—no need to overdo it there—and black Gucci
loafers. He also had on a black Gucci watch, which you had
to look at real hard to notice that it was Gucci. Chas liked
that.

“Ritz thinks she's a diva,” Chas thought. “But she could
never be a real diva. That takes some of the subtleties she has
yet to master. If she ever will.”

Chas felt at home in the club. He loved when Ritz had appearances at clubs. He loved the energy of the people, the
music, the lighting. It was like being in a dream. Lately it was
also fodder for the show. He would get to the club and pick
up some gossip. There would always be a few celebrities at the
club. When they drank too much, someone was bound to do
something that would be worthy of a blind item, at the very
least. During Ritz's last appearance, Majita, Tracee's former
artist, was looking suspiciously skinny and jittery.

Chas took his post near the bar and began scanning the
dance floor and VIP section for anyone famous. All he could
see were shapes as the strobe and spotlights moved around
the floor. But one figure stood out. Perhaps it was because it
was a solo figure dancing its ass off all alone. Perhaps it was
the striking physique that was so well defined that every
move looked like music itself.

When the song was over, the man walked over to the bar
where Chas stood, sipping on a glass of Martell XO or Louis
the XIII Cognac—two hundred dollars a snifter. Chas didn't
want to get drunk; he just wanted a nice, smooth buzz.

“Hello, stranger,” said Chas, turning up his charm more
notches than should be legal.

“Chas?!” the man said, sweat dripping from his face. “What
are you doing here?! Don't let me find out you're stalking
me.” Ivan gave Chas a warm but masculine hug as the two
laughed.

“You wish I was stalking you!” Chas said, shouting over
the music. “When did you get town? And what happened?
Why didn't we ever keep in touch?”

“You should be asking yourself that question,” Ivan said.
“The phone rings both ways, last I looked.”

“Well, you know how I feel about going both ways,” Chas
said, leaning in to Ivan's ear and then rearing back to let out
a howl of infectious laughter.

“You are still crazy,” Ivan said. “Hey, you want to get out of
here and catch up?”

“I have to wait for my girl to show up,” Chas said. “She's
hosting the party.”

“Ritz Harper? That's your girl?”

“More than that. I produce her show!”

“Get out of here!” said Ivan. “I am only here tonight because I heard her on the radio earlier. I like that lady. She is
something else!”

“Yes, she is! Yes, she is,” Chas said. “You still never told me
what you're doing in the city.”

“Well, I thought it was time for me to have some fun and
put a little spice in my life. I have an old friend here, too, who
I haven't seen in a while. I am thinking about checking him
out.”

“Checking
him
out?” Chas asked. “Hmm. You trying to
make me jealous?”

“Oh, stop! It's kind of complicated.”

“I specialize in complicated,” Chas said. “Ritz better hurry
up, so you and I can really catch up.”

Ritz did finally breeze in around one-thirty in the morning
after which Chas and Ivan left the club and did a little more
than catch up.