The Eleventh Commandment (11 page)

I
t was a picture-perfect day in New York City's Central Park. Tens of thousands of excited fans had gathered for the free Fourth of July concert starring several artists, including D & C: Darius and Company. Darius, Bo, Darius's publicist, makeup artist, stylist, assistants, and finance manager all occupied a spacious trailer several yards away from the concert's main stage.

A knock on the trailer door announced to Darius that it was showtime. Bo answered it.

“Five minutes, Dee,” the man said, before hurriedly moving on to the stage where the rest of the band were already set up. The comedian who entertained the audience between acts was in the final stages of his routine. The makeup artist gave a few final dabs to Darius's forehead while the stylist and her assistants swarmed around him like bees, making sure that his outfit looked shabby chic, and that his bling could be seen.

After a moment, Darius brushed them away. “Let's go, y'all.” He took a last look in the mirror, and then headed for the door.

Bo rushed ahead to open it. “You look good.”

Darius gave him a pat on the back as he moved purposefully toward the stage. Except for the original mike check, and taking a peek at the opening band two hours ago, he'd purposely not gone back outside. He wanted to experience everything in real time: the atmosphere, the weather, the stage, and the multitude of people stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Wow.” Bo rubbed the area between Darius's shoulders, knowing that as calm as his husband seemed on the outside, his insides were churning with a mix of nervousness and excitement. “This is going to be good, baby.” He kept his voice calm and even. “You're going to kill it, Dee. Do your thing. I'm right here.”

“New York!” the comedian intoned above an already-frenzied crowd. “Are you ready?”

An affirmative rumble was his response.

“I said, Are. You. Ready?”

Again, a massive roar as some in the audience began a rhythmic clap that was soon picked up in row after row.

“That's right. You're already doing it, so continue to put those hands together and welcome one of R and B's brightest stars, a triple threat, an award-winning maestro . . . D . . . and . . . C!”

The Company, an award-winning band that had been with Darius since his Ministry of Music days at KCCC, broke out with the introductory chords of “Power,” the first hit song off his latest CD,
Me, Myself, andYou
. When the CD dropped at the beginning of the year, “Power” spent an unprecedented fourteen weeks on Billboard's R & B Top Ten. The second release, “Subtle Sexy,” came in at number one, while “Power” still occupied the number eight spot, and the song that would serve as the show's finale was officially dropping next week. Darius strolled confidently and with singular focus to the mike. He'd timed the walk to reach it at the exact moment the hook kicked in.

There was something otherworldly about having more than a hundred thousand people, fists in the air, shouting the title of your hit song. Darius worked every inch of the sixty-foot-long stage, making sure that he acknowledged the fans who were behind him. Every band member showcased the mastery of their instrument: bass and lead guitars, horn section, keyboard, and percussion. It seemed as though nature itself joined in; the rustling trees swayed to the beat and the birds dipped in and out of the branches on cue. Various smells wafted up from the crowd, vying for attention. Weed, sweat, perfume, and scents from the surrounding food courts mingled in the air. Every color of the rainbow was represented, both in the clothes being worn and in the races that gathered. Darius was in his element, looking deceptively cool dressed in low riding jeans, an open black shirt, platinum jewelry, and confidence. It was six feet of sweaty sweet chocolate: strutting, gyrating, crooning, encouraging the masses to believe in life and themselves. Barely two minutes into the concert and Darius had the crowd in the palm of his hand ... and what a large, talented palm it was.

 

As Darius did his thing on the stage, Bo was handling a different type of power all together: the type of power that came with managing one of the country's top R & B artists. While Darius whipped the crowd into a musical frenzy, Bo conferred with Darius's publicist before heading toward the area of the venue where product was being sold. From a discreet location, he observed the salespersons who were handling the sales of D & C merchandise: CDs, DVDs, T-shirts, key chains, flash drives, autographed pics, hats, jewelry, and other collectibles that fans would enjoy. Satisfied with the customer lines and what seemed to be lots of brisk business, he returned backstage and eventually stood in the wings as Darius came to the close of his forty-five-minute performance. There, as the audience matched the R & B star word for word on “Possible,” his first break-out hit, Bo saw something. Or more importantly, he saw someone. In the front row. Front and center to be exact. Bo let out a string of expletives.
I have got to find a way to get that dog to stop sniffing around my bone!

Later, as Paz Demopoulos not only joined them backstage but also for a dinner at an A-list director's house, Bo sat . . . and stewed. The only thing that kept him from going smooth off were memories of how Darius had come running back to him after one of Stacy's rants. Every time that woman had given Darius the blues about choosing Bo over her and her son, she deepened the bond between the two men. So Bo smiled and schmoozed and held conversations with others as if he was really interested in what they had to say. Truth is, if someone had asked him later what he'd talked about while Paz was cozying up next to his husband, Bo wouldn't have been able to say. But there was one thing he did know.... At the end of the night, when all the parties had wound down and the paparazzi were gone, it would be him lying in the bed next to superstar Darius Crenshaw. Tomorrow, he decided, he'd think long and hard about a way to deal with the person who dared to try and threaten his marital future. Tonight, he'd concentrate on something else long and hard. Bo had what Paz wanted, plain and simple. He didn't plan on that fact changing any time soon.

“ H
ey there, Doc.”

Gabriel smiled and nodded at the plain yet pleasant nurse behind the desk, who'd worked at the hospital for almost thirty years.

“How'd it go, Dr. Livingston?” The other nurse sitting at the desk had just passed her boards. She'd been on the job less than a month.

“It went well, thank you.”

An attractive redhead fell into step beside him. “Good work in there, Doctor.”

“Thanks, Amber. I'm very proud of the team's performance today, you included.”

Amber blushed. “Thank you. It was touch and go there for a while; first her rapidly falling blood pressure, then the concern of whether we could successfully remove the cancerous cells so close to the veins....I tried to maintain professional distance, but the fact that she has a daughter was never far from my mind.”

They reached Gabriel's office. He put a hand on her shoulder. “We're all human, Amber. It's very difficult to stay totally detached from patients, especially someone like Hillary, who has such a positive outlook on life. I thought about her daughter too.”

Amber smiled her appreciation of his understanding and after another couple minutes of conversation continued down the hall. Gabriel entered his office and immediately began the postsurgery paperwork. Usually focused and disciplined, today his mind kept wandering back to Amber, and how well she'd done in the operating room. It wasn't the first time; since joining his team as a peri-operative nurse five years ago, he'd quietly observed her stellar knowledge, natural skills, and endless compassion. After she'd gotten comfortable in her position and begun flirting with him, Gabriel had been flattered but uninterested. Aside from a couple file room trysts during residency, he'd stuck hard and fast to his “no nurses” dating rule. Their friendship was just deepening when he'd had “the encounter.” That's what he called his meeting with Frieda, the day his world got tilted on his axis after they literally ran into each other at a Beverly Hills mall. She was crass and loud and he was immediately intrigued—a demeanor so unlike anyone in his circle, or anyone he'd ever known.

Frieda had been the aggressor. Had she not taken the lead, it is unlikely that they would have ever seen each other again. Gabriel was quiet, studious (some would say geeky), and while his female friends had told him otherwise, he'd always felt his freckles kept him off the list of handsome hunks. She'd suggested they meet for drinks and when he didn't move fast enough in the intimacy department, had ambushed him in his office one evening and sexed him on the couch. Satisfying to be sure, and a definite spark to his predictable life. But a temporary one. Or so he'd thought. And then came the news that she was pregnant. There was never any question that he'd do the right thing. A signed prenup followed by a destination wedding, and a somewhat shell-shocked Gabriel had gained himself a missus.

Gabriel rose from his desk, walked over to the window that looked out onto a well-landscaped lawn. July had come in with a vengeance, with record-breaking heat, but here, from the climate-controlled confines of his second home, the scene he beheld was a postcard: stark blue sky, fluffy white clouds, swaying palms, and vibrant flowers lining the walkways.
That first year was pretty good,
he thought, as he followed a jet's journey across the sky. Gabriel's thoughts weren't as linear as the plane's flight appeared. They flitted from one incident to the other that had transpired when he'd first married, when he'd actually felt hopeful—thought there might be a chance to soften Frieda's rough edges. He'd tried to establish a friendship between her and his mother, Alice, one of the most refined women he'd ever known. The match wasn't one made in heaven. Alice was cordial because after all, Frieda was her son's wife, the mother of her grandchild, and human. Alice treated stray dogs kindly; she'd do no less to another person. Frieda's discomfort upon meeting his mother had lessened over time, but they'd never developed the camaraderie that Gabriel had hoped. Now, their communication revolved almost solely around Gabe and usually included planned drop-offs, pickups, or sleepover dates.

Gabriel's cell phone rang and as if he'd conjured her up, Alice was on the line. “Hello, Mom.”

“Hello, Gabriel. You sound tired.”

“I am. Just got out of surgery.”

“I hope everything went well.”

“It did.”

“Thank goodness for that, son. I know we say it often, but your father and I are so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Son, I won't keep you. I tried reaching Frieda, but her phone keeps going to voice mail. The ladies of the committee want to know if she's going to participate in the upcoming charity event. We need to know as soon as possible so that if not, we can call in one of the alternates.”

“I'm here for forty-eight hours, Mom, but if I can't reach Frieda, I'll make sure our housekeeper passes on your message.”

“Your father and I have been married for forty-five years, Gabriel. I believe I can count on one hand the times that I couldn't reach him, and didn't know where he was.” Silence. “You know, honey. I can remember the quiet, contemplative little boy who'd sit for hours in his room, reading books or dissecting one thing or another with the biology set we gave you one Christmas. You and Raymond, remember? You two would have your heads together, studying the organs and trying to determine which ones were affected by the liquid you'd used to end the poor creature's life.”

The memory of the experiments he and his best friend concocted brought a smile to Gabriel's face. “Yes, and now Raymond is a force in his own right, as one of the leading researchers at Johns Hopkins.”

“When is the last time you visited with him?”

“It's been too long,” Gabriel admitted. “Both of our schedules are always so busy and his wife just had another baby not long ago.”

“That makes four for them, correct?”

“Yes, fourth and final, according to Ray.”

“Little Gabe is such a delight, son. I'm sure he'd welcome a little brother or sister. It's just that...”

“What, Mom?”

“Oh, honey, it's really not my place to say. It's just that . . . well, I just thought that . . . imagined your wife would be a different kind of woman, that's all. Someone more like who you've been surrounded with your whole life, someone well educated, from a well-heeled family, perhaps someone in the medical field.”

“Honestly, Mom, so did I. But Gabe's arrival changed all that.”

“Are you happy, son?”

“I love little Gabe. He's one of the best things that's happened in my life.”

Gabriel hadn't answered his mother's question, but long after they'd ended the call, he was still thinking about it, still trying to come to terms with what he knew to be the answer. Because the truth of the matter was that Gabriel wasn't happy. Not at all.

“ Y
ou look happy, Ma. Is that me putting the smile on that pretty little face?” Clark ran a finger across Frieda's upturned lips. She'd been at his house all afternoon. Now it was evening. They'd had sex, ate, had sex again, smoked a blunt, taken a shower where they enjoyed yet a third round, and now lazed on the new couch that Frieda had purchased, munching on chips and dip, and drinking shots of tequila.

“Quit it!” Frieda playfully slapped Clark's finger away from her face. Truth was, she was happy, giddy even. Hadn't felt this way in a long time, hadn't felt like she was living in her own skin since becoming Mrs. Gabriel Livingston. She loved the lifestyle, but wanted to enjoy it on her own terms. Like this. Just kicking back and chilling. Not putting on airs or a phony “I'm interested” face, or trying to have a conversation with Gabriel's snooty mother and uptight friends. She missed this life, where she didn't have to be anybody but herself. “Dang, man. Why do you keep flipping through the channels? See what's on TV One.” Frieda didn't watch much TV these days, but she'd heard about a show called
Unsung
that was supposed to be very good.

“Who's got the remote, woman? Me no let no woman control me a'tall. Not even the TV. I'm the man, right?”

“Whatever, nucka.”

Clark let out a confident chuckle. “I'm
your
man.” He continued to scroll the channels, settling closer to Frieda in the process.

“Wait! Who's that?” They'd landed on the Food Network, where a handsome African-American man was smiling into the camera as he pulled barbecued meat out of a countertop smoker. The man, not the meat, is obviously what had gotten Frieda's attention.

“Him? The brothah whose family owns that restaurant off Sepulveda?”

“What restaurant?”

Clark's look was a question mark as he turned to Frieda. “You haven't eaten at Taste of Soul, haven't seen any of their commercials? Everybody's talking about that place. The atmosphere is on point and the food is bangin'.” They both listened in silence for a moment. “As a matter of fact,” he continued, “his last name is Livingston too. Y'all might be related.”

“Hmph, I wouldn't mind being that brother's kissing cousin.”

“With your hot nana, you'd be more than that! But seriously though, you should find out whether y'all are related; might be able to get us some free barbecue.”

“Where are they from? Do you know?”

“No,” he said with a shrug, before changing the channel.

“I don't think they're related to Gabriel. All of his people have a lighter complexion, nothing like that Hershey bar I was looking at. Turn it back!”

“Watch yourself, girl.” He reached for her hand, placed it on his crotch. “You've got all of the chocolate you need right here.”

Frieda moved her hand and changed the subject. “Clark.”

“Hmm?”

“How mad at me would you be if I fired your mother?”

“What's up with you and my moms?”

“She hasn't asked you about us?”

“Yeah, but I said we were just friends.”

“Please, boy. Your mom isn't stupid. I've caught her looking at me with this accusatory expression on her face. She knows there's more going on here and she doesn't like it. Worships the ground that Gabriel walks on too. It's just a matter of time before that loyalty has her talking even more out of school than she already has. You know I've warned her about sharing my schedule and whereabouts and if it happens again, if she takes some of my personal business and shares it with my husband, her employment for me is going to have to be a wrap.”

“I'll talk to her.”

Frieda shook her head. “I don't know if that will be enough.”

“Mom is good at what she does, has excellent references, and never has problems finding work. As much as she needs that job, you won't be able to bully her, Frieda. So don't even try.”

“Cool. I'll just put old girl into my yesterday. If that happens, we're still good?”

Clark ran a hand through Frieda's short, weave-free cut. “Yeah, Mami. We're good.”

Frieda was ecstatic. So a couple minutes later, when two of Clark's friends joined them, she ordered up a few pizzas and sent one of them out for bottles of Dom Pérignon. Her husband would be at the hospital all night, so after calling Cordella and telling her that she was spending the night with a cousin, she settled in for an evening of fun with the boys. She'd worried about firing Cordella and keeping Clark, but now it looked like she would be able to have her cake and eat it too. Only later would she have to wonder whether that particular piece of chocolate was worth it.