Uptown Dreams (13 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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Worried or not, Jamaica smiled. Who cared what Maritzio used to think? Talia was the head bird in charge. New York was going to be better for her than she'd imagined.
21
LA-LA
“Y
ou sure this is the right place for a swimming suit?”
La-La asked.
Rikki nodded, then playfully rolled her eyes. “Trust. And maybe a camisole or corset for your performance tonight. We're gonna need all the help we can get to make you look old enough to get in.”
A sultry rainbow of silk, lace, push-up bras, and slinky lingerie greeted them when they entered What's-Her-Name's Secret's trendy establishment. La-La couldn't help but finger the too-cute fabrics, furry high-heeled slippers, and attached garters. Ninety-million A through DD cups splashed one section, and coordinating undies, purposely displayed nearby, lured one to buy matching pieces. And La-La took the bait, pulling Rikki along as she eyed one panty, then another, confused. They all looked the same to her. Except for the rare regular cut that wasn't large by her standards.
“They all look the same to you?” she whispered the question to Rikki.
“Don't tell me you've never been here either,” Rikki answered in disbelief. “First Cyd—can't believe she refused to come in here and thinks this is a hooker-clothing store—and now you're just as green as her. Good thing you two met me!”
La-La looked around the store. “I never needed to come here. I'm in ninth grade, remember? I buy
comfortable
panties.”
“You're kidding, right? They are comfy, most of 'em. Feel 'em and see.”
La-La reached for a pretty blue pair, and before she could touch them a saleslady attacked her.
“Can I help you find something in particular? A certain cut?”
“Cut?” La-La asked. “No. We're just looking. I'll let you know if I need help.”
Saleslady smiled and eyed her. Ignored her put-off. “Yes, cut. We have French cut. Brazilian. G-strings. Thongs. Low-ride bikinis. Crotchless—no, never mind. You won't be needing the crotchless, now, will you?”
Who knew there were so many different kinds of panties? La-La looked at Rikki. Maybe she knew the difference because La-La surely didn't. Did French women and Brazilian women wear different kinds of underwear? If so, didn't someone make American panties for American women? It couldn't be possible that panties were assigned by nationality. She came close to asking Saleslady what if she were half French, born in South America, but raised in California? What kind of panty would she be assigned then?
Rikki must've read the confusion on her face. “Regular bikinis please, with matching bras. Somethin' lacy,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Something racy,” La-La added for effect, in hopes of irritating Saleslady, who'd been looking down on them as if they were children, not young adults.
“Who knows, maybe even the crotchless ... breathing would be nice,” Rikki added, catching on to the game.
They followed Saleslady through the maze of lingerie. Every couple of steps, she paused, cleared her throat, and La-La would smile. She'd discovered a way to piss her off; she touched the garments on every rack that they passed, leaving a trail of swinging hangers.
La-La stopped, finding the perfect pair. Lime-green and lacy, the pair looked more like bikini bottoms. Something she could live with. Removing the panties from the rack, she held them in front of her pants. Then looked at the price tag. “Thirty dollars? Thirty freakin' dollars? For a pair of panties? What, is the bra free?” La-La flipped out at the top of her lungs despite Rikki shushing her. She couldn't believe What's-Her-Name's Secret was charging that much for a flimsy piece of material that rode up the butt by design. There was no way she was going to pay that much for a crotch-cover with a string.
“What's your budget?” Saleslady asked, clearly rattled.
“Budget?” Rikki answered for La-La.
“Yes.” Saleslady forced a smile through gritted teeth. “Because there are a couple of other stores that may have something else. You know, something within your price range.”
“She's good,” Rikki said to Saleslady, then turned to La-La. Gave her just the fuel she needed. “Ziggy will love them. They look just like swimsuit bikini bottoms—no one else will stand out like you.”
La-La gave Saleslady the once-over, swinging the lime bikinis, her adrenaline feeding her with each sway of the panties. “You shouldn't judge books by covers. That's cliché. Just like your attitude. So what if we don't
look
like we can afford these? In one week I made over a thousand dollars on the Market,” she lied. “You know, Wall Street? How much did you pull in from selling butt riders and tit lifters?” La-La spat, checking Saleslady's attitude. She was there to find something to disguise her flats that would help reel in Ziggy. Not make friends. La-La snatched a bra in her size off an adjoining rack. “Show us to the dressing room.
Please
.”
La-La slid the bikinis over her cotton briefs, and admired herself in the mirror. They did look good.
Much better than these semi-parachutes.
 
“Got something sexy?” Cyd's question blared through the fitting room door.
“Oh, so you came anyway. Did you find some guts or buy some? Thought you didn't like lingerie stores,” La-La said, cracking open the door and poking her head out. “Come tell me what you two think?”
Cyd looked around, then slid into the fitting room with Rikki on her heels. “I said I didn't like hooker stores. Most of these are just fronts for some illegal stuff.”
La-La and Rikki ignored Cyd. “The color looks good on you,” Rikki complimented, holding up a black corset with detachable spaghetti straps. “You like this? This is what you're wearing tonight. It's grown and sexy, and we can fill the cups to give you some ta-tas.”
 
Broke-Up patted her on the back like a proud brother-in-law as she prepared to go on the tiny stage. “You're gonna do well, La-La. I just know it.”
La-La looked at him and smiled. She'd had no idea he was an upcoming music producer and DJ or that he had so much pull in adult clubs. But she was glad he did. If it weren't for him and Ziggy, she'd be relegated only to train stations.
Money is money
, she reminded herself.
An extra pair of hands were touching her arm. She looked to her right, and locked eyes with Ziggy. “A kiss for luck?” he asked.
Rikki stood next to him sticking out her tongue.
“Go kill it, La-La,” Cyd yelled, giving her a thumbs-up.
La-La smiled at them all, then nodded her yes to Ziggy, and just like that—he sparked magic in her.
La-La stepped on stage proud and tall, and borrowed the magic Ziggy had given her to bring the crowd to tears. She ended with: “Thank you. That was for Remi.”
22
REESE
R
eese eased through the crowded industry party with Wheez next to her with her mouth hung open, ogling all the celebrities. Reese elbowed her, and whispered for her to stop acting so green. It was bad enough they were too young to be there, and had dressed sexier than usual to appear older, she didn't want to risk standing out because of it, and get booted in front of everyone. No, she couldn't handle or afford that type of embarrassment, not when she had networking to do and CDs to pass out. She was here to make connects, not industry friends, and she'd told Wheez that before they'd got there. Standing on tiptoe, she looked for Broke-Up. He'd hooked them up with passes, and told her he'd be there. But where was he? she wondered, not seeing him anywhere.
“Woo-hoo,” Wheez called out to someone. She reared back her head, laughed, and acted very Hollywood, waving away Reese's warning. “You can't expect me
not
to act up in here. Do you see all these people? Who would'a thought they have parties like these in the Meat-Packing District?” She winked at a couple of admirers, grown men clearly old enough to know better. “Girl, there's Miss Fab herself. I gotta go talk to her,” Wheez said.
Reese just shook her head. “As long as it's women you're talking to, Wheez. There are too many Chesters in here,” she said, speaking of child molesters. “Be careful. And don't embarrass us.”
Wheez nodded, then turned serious. “Reese, I've got something to tell you first.”
“What is it, Wheez? You being so serious scares me. You don't do serious very well.”
Wheez pulled Reese to the side, and then searched the ceiling with her eyes. “Ladies' room sign,” she said, pointing. “Let's go.” She grabbed Reese's hand, pulling her along until they reached the door. Easily, she pushed it open, and immediately began looking under stall doors. “No feet. It means we're alone.”
Reese, for the life of her, couldn't understand why she was mirroring everything Wheez was doing, including looking under stall doors. She caught herself, standing. “What's the big secret that we have to talk about in the toilet?”
Wheez looked at her seriosly. “Broke-Up.”
“Hunh?”
Wheez nodded, searching her pocket and purse.
“No apples, Wheez. Talk!”
“Broke-Up. He's not the guy for you, Reese. You need to stay away from him. I can't tell you everything now, I've been sworn to secrecy. But I'll just say this, lives are at stake.”
Now Reese was worried. Was Broke-Up some kind of psycho? Reese nodded at Wheez just to shut her up, but she wasn't really agreeing. Bottom line was she liked Broke-Up, and loved his sound. “If you say so, Wheez. I've always been able to trust you.”
Wheez perked. “Cool! Now I feel better about leaving you so I can hang out with the fabulous one. Who knows, maybe she needs me for her show.” Wheez slipped away as easily as they'd entered the warehouse. “Toodles, Reese!”
Reese left out of the bathroom, pushing Wheez's information to the back of her mind. She couldn't, wouldn't, stay away from Broke-Up, but she would look for him. Stepping from the restroom, she searched, but still didn't see him. She did spot the bar, and decided it'd be a time killer, plus she was thirsty. Clutching her purse, she made her way over. Her nerves had her shook so bad that they'd absorbed her fluids, and now her mouth was desert dry. It only took seconds for it to be her turn. The bartender eyed her, and she eyed him back. He seemed to be the only one who questioned her age, but she didn't care. The party was full of models who couldn't have been much older than her. Most of them were barely in high school anyway, she assumed as she sized two of them up. “Cranberry juice, low ice,” she ordered, then smiled when a look of relief came over the bartender's face.
“What's up? Who you with?” some dude asked, swirling glass around his drink. A cocktail she could smell a mile away.
Reese sipped her juice, then wiped the cranberry from her ruby-stained lips with the back of her wrist and smiled. She grinned at the guy, realizing that he was studying her hard. Then she had her aha moment. She knew who he was. A heavy-hitting music producer. Just the medicine her career needed, Reese thought, then sipped her drink again. She shrugged. Playing coy with him to get what she wanted was only fair; he seemed to have been trying to peg her since they'd made visual contact. Like she was a celebrity herself, she did what she thought any high-powered, self-assured star would do. She flashed him a smile, turned her back on him, and made her way to the wall of windows. Left the next play to him.
Her arms relaxed and became heavy, hung at her sides, left her just enough strength to grip her drink. The cranberry juice seemed to be toxic as if it had alcohol mixed in it. Her neck warmed and the heat traveled to her head, blurring her mind, making her hope she was wrong. She didn't drink. Drinking was so unsexy. Her lids fell, and her body rocked. Music. Yes, she thought. It had to be the music taking over her. Funky hip-hop that she would've loved to accompany with a piano or violin—any instrument she played—vibrated from the speakers. Then the track switched to a T.I. song, and made her bounce, reminded her that her knees still worked. Her neck was still in commission too, she discovered when some other song mixed in with T.I.'s and caused her head to nod. All alone, Reese began to party in front of the wall of windows. Got into her own groove. It was just she and her natural high. Her juice was just juice, after all.
“Like to do it by yourself, I see,” a male voice interrupted her zone.
Reese paused. Stared. Remembered. It was him. The producer. He'd taken the bait after all. “What it wuz, cuz?” she asked him
what's up?
like they did on the rap songs played in the Dirty Dirty. The South. Hotlanta.
The music producer laughed, nodded. “A music person with a sense of humor. I like that.”
Reese released her body against the window, and let the glass hold up her weight. “How'd you know I was into music?” she asked, her words blending slowly. Like she was sounding out her question.
He swirled the alcohol in his glass, then held it up like he was toasting. “C'mon. It's an industry party. You're too short and real looking to be a model. You're not sitting over there with the actors. And if you were a rapper or singer, I'd know you. We're always at the same parties. I'm—”
“I know who you are,” Reese cut him off, though she didn't remember his handle, just his face. His name wasn't important at the moment. What he could do for her was. “I'm a producer and musician.” There, she'd said it. Made the declaration because it was true.
He smiled a different kind of smile. Promising. Cunning. “Let's discuss your
talent
when I get back.” He grabbed the glass from her hand before she could down the rest. “You need a refill.”
Reese grinned as she watched him move through the crowd to the open bar. Her stare wouldn't have left him if it had not been for a pleasant interruption. A gift who was headed her way. A big-shot record label VP and producer who'd invaded her dreams on countless occasions, one she had hoped to work with one day.
“Aren't you—?”
He nodded, cutting her off, and stopped. He smiled back at her. “Yeah, I'm him. Messiah,” was all he said as he began fixing his shirt. Then he bent forward and wiped his kicks.
Reese flushed. His smile was different from Mr. You Need a Refill's. Messiah's held not a trace of slickness, but an energy Reese liked.
“How you?” he asked, unfolding himself and laughing at his feigned Southern accent.
“Great, now that you're here. I'm Reese.”
Messiah reared back his head, laughed again like he was responding to a joke. “Oh yeah?” His eyes swept her from head to toe, then traveled up to her perfectly made-up face again. “That's nice, Reese. But you're too young for me. I don't do jailbait.”
Reese stood up, leaving the window to mirror her back. She was serious now. “I'm not too young for what I want. I'm here for business.”
Messiah crossed his arms. “That should be my cue to walk, but I'm curious. Entertain me. What kind of business you want?” He looked over his shoulder to the bar at the producer Reese had been talking to, then turned, again facing her. “
Him?
You must want him. He does underage. Overage. Any age ... you get me.”
Reese nodded slowly. “Only musically—”
Messiah shook his head, showed he was disgusted. “Not another groupie—”
“No way! I'm nobody's groupie. We were just getting ready to discuss my music.”
He put his hand on Reese's shoulder, looked at her intensely. “Say word? You serious? You produce?”
Reese nodded. “Yes, and I play just about every instrument too—and not on a computer. I'm talking live. Keys. Strings. Drums. You name it, and I can play on any kinda track too.” She reached into her purse, pulled out an iPod. “Listen to this,” she urged, selecting a track and passing him the MP3 player.
He shook his head. Declined.
Reese grabbed his arm. “Please. You gotta! I dressed up, put all this junk on my face so I could look older, and snuck out of the house to be here. Please?”
Messiah smiled, and reluctantly put on the tiny headphones, and began to bop his head to her music. “Got somethin' else on ya? Something for later?”
Reese fished in her bag again, handed him a demo CD, and prayed he wasn't a beat stealer. She'd heard enough about them, but she had to take a chance.
He handed her the iPod. “If you're serious, and I believe you are, I'll listen to this. Pass it around. If you're serious, I mean real serious about your music, I'll be honest with you. You gotta be careful 'cause it's people in this same room who'll act like they're helping you to take advantage of you. So if you're serious about your music, the first thing you have to realize is that these perverts gonna want something from you. The fake ones like ya boy at the bar.” He nodded his head at the super producer. “Be careful if you're dealing with him. Unless, of course, that's what you wanna do. He'll help you a'right. Help you get outta yo panties. No such thing as getting to the top by laying on your back. Not anymore,” he warned.
All Reese could say was, “ 'Preciate you looking out. But I'm not laying down to get down. I don't expect anybody to put me on. I can put myself on. I just want a chance, that's all. I'm dead serious about my music. I've studied and practiced for years so I can get through the door.”
Messiah nodded. “Good. I'm looking out 'cause you young and I got a sister, plus you got that thirst. Keep it—even if you get what you want,” he said, then grabbed her hand. “Matter fact, 'cause you so serious I got a few
real
industry friends for you to meet. You know the real ones 'cause we ain't zoned out on drinks and drugs. We get high off music.”
Reese followed Messiah, and was amazed at all the talent in the room. There were musical geniuses who shamed the predator at the bar she'd spotted slipping powder into a drink.
Probably my refill
.
 
Reese sat on the edge of the bed, excitement zooming through her bones. Her violin was to her left, CDs of artists she'd seen and met lay to her right. The phone was pressed to her ear as she watched Wheez sleep, and listened to Broke-Up explain why they wouldn't let him in. He'd had on the wrong clothes, looked too thugged out, and he wasn't a girl. Reese didn't care though. She'd made enough connects for them both.
“So you sure you want to do this with me?” he asked.
Reese nodded as if he could see her. “Yes. Can we meet tomorrow? We gotta work now.”
“Okay. I'll meet you at your school.”
“One more question, Broke-Up?”
“Sure, Reese. What's up?”
She looked over at Wheez to make sure she was still dead to the world. “Is there anything you need to tell me? Are you involved in something dangerous or illegal or wrong?”
Broke-Up laughed. “Yes, I guess. I do deal with killers and go-getters. I make killer beats for the go-getters.”

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