Vengeance (12 page)

I hightailed it into my bathroom and took about five to six minutes applying makeup. I was not going to put on any powdered foundation that day at all, but I made myself up to look like I was about to do a photo shoot. Actually, my dermatologist told me that I should always protect my skin with makeup. That way all the germs and elements from the day get washed off at the end of the night instead of seeping into my pores.

When I was headed back down the steps, I almost fell when I got near the bottom. My nerves were shot.

“Get it together,” I whispered to myself. “He doesn’t know who you are.”

My heart felt like it was about to hop out of my chest, it was beating so loudly. I took in three deep breaths and headed outside.

When I saw him, it was like time had stood still. He was sitting there spreading orange marmalade on a croissant as one of my maids poured him some coffee and orange juice. His dark-chocolate skin glistened in the sunlight and he was now bald. Damn! There was nothing that I was more attracted to than a baldheaded man. Back in high school, he had sported cornrows most of the time.

He spotted me and stood up as I walked toward him. “Good morning, Mr. Davis.”

“Good morning, Ms. Wicket.”

We shook hands and smiled at each other. I was likely to faint at any second.

I pointed toward the chair from which he had arisen, all six foot four of him. “Please, sit back down and enjoy the meal.”

“As long as you join me.”

“My pleasure.”

After we both got settled at the table and my juice and coffee were both poured, the maid left us to some privacy. Antonio was surely in a spot to see all, but at least we could speak without him overhearing.

“So you’re with
G-Clef
?”

“Yes, have you read any of our issues before?”

“Can’t say that I have. You’re local?”

He shrugged and fiddled with the recorder app on his iPhone. “Actually, regional. We’re up-and-coming. Right now, outside of a budding subscriber base of about eight thousand, we’re circulated in Georgia, the Carolinas, Alabama, Tennessee, and some parts of Mississippi and Florida.”

“That’s cool,” I said, picking up a mimosa that had been prepared for me before I sat down. “So how long have you been working for them?”

Jonovan chuckled. “Since its inception.” He paused. “Oh, I forgot to mention that we have a pretty huge digital following . . . to make up for our smaller circulation. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re wasting your time granting me an interview.”

“It’s fine. And I get it; everything worth knowing is primarily in the digital space these days. I’m surprised some of the dinosaur newspapers and magazines are even still around. Some that used to be considered credible, intelligent sources of information have converted into thinly masked tabloids to try to keep readers at all.”

Jonovan agreed. “Exactly! That’s why I started . . .”

I stared deep into his eyes—those sexy-ass eyes. “Aw, so you’re the publisher of
G-Clef
?”

Jonovan put his index finger up to his lips. “Shh, it’s a secret.” He appeared genuinely concerned. “I can’t believe I let that slip.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that when some people, especially those on your level of the music industry, find out that the owner of the magazine is basically the entire magazine, they tend to feel
G-Clef
is beneath them and their brands.”

“That is true, but I beat my own drum at the end of the day. I appreciate all my fans, and especially those in the ‘Durty South.’ I needed a break from the studio this morning and I don’t have to do a photo shoot, so it is a win-win for me.”

He actually blushed when I said that.
Good!

“Wow! You’re amazing,” Jonovan said. “I was waiting for you to toss me out of here any second.” He surveyed the area. “I have to say, this estate is the most glamorous one that I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. What made you decide to purchase it?”

“Is this the beginning of the interview?” I asked playfully. “I want to know when I am on the record and off the record.”

He pressed the record button on his phone and said, “This is Jonovan Davis,
G-Clef
magazine and I am here in the A-T-L with none other than the world-famous singer and performing artist Wicket. Thanks for granting me this interview today, Ms. Wicket.”

“Just call me Wicket and you are very welcome, Jo-no-van.”

He shifted in his seat after I took my time pronouncing each syllable of his name. “So let’s dive right in. You recently made the decision to relocate from New York City to Atlanta, Georgia. Could you explain why you made that decision?”

“Technically, I’m still a legal resident of New York State and, of course, I own properties all over the world. However, for the time being, I will be chilling in Atlanta. I like the vibe here and even though I don’t socialize much or do a lot of networking, the people who I have met seem down-to-earth and that is a good thing. Most people tend to be intimidated by me.”

Jonovan cleared his throat. He was definitely one of the intimidated ones. “Do you think it is intimidation or reverence? You have tens of millions of devoted fans and I would presume, if they actually have the opportunity to be in your presence, that they would be overwhelmed with admiration and a feeling of worship.”

I giggled. “ ‘Worship’ is an interesting term. Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to be able to do what I am passionate about for a living, but I have no desire to be worshipped.” That was a lie, because I made Glaze and Piece of Shit worship me—their mistress—on the regular. “When I was younger, some friends of mine told me that I was talented and I was blessed enough to have a father who believed in developing it into something
unique
. If anything I was blessed with a talent from God, the finances to pay for formal voice coaching and the amount of studio time it took to make my first album, and I came into the music industry at the right time with the right sound.”

“Speaking of Mr. Sterling, Richard Sterling, your adoptive father,” Jonovan said. “There has never been a lot of information provided about how that entire thing happened. He adopted you when you were how old again?”

“Six, and there is not a lot of information out there because neither he nor I consider that part of my journey to be anyone’s business.”

I glared at Jonovan, making it obvious that he needed to move on from that topic. Even though Daddy had managed to fabricate one hell of a story, and all the legal paperwork to back it up, the fact remained that all of it was a lie. I had an exotic enough look for him to tell the world that he had adopted me in Guyana from an orphanage he had visited on a business trip. He picked there because he had actually been to Guyana about a decade prior. He was a single billionaire and all his staff and close associates had nondisclosure agreements in place, and he told the lie that he had sheltered me from the madness of his life until I became sixteen and decided to venture into the limelight in the musical space.

It sounded crazy but also plausible because most celebrities allowed little to no access to their kids, or even photographs of them. They were generally homeschooled, which was the story with me, and the truth after he did actually adopt me. I never returned to a school setting, for a few reasons, including the fact that I was not emotionally capable of dealing with being around other teenagers on a regular basis. I never established any true friendships with those my age, nor did I have the desire. My two best friends, Bianca and Cherie, had betrayed me in the worst way, and there was nothing that would make me take that kind of risk ever again. People were simply pawns in a game to me. They all served a purpose to get me what I wanted. Sure, I liked my bodyguards and my assistant, my band members and engineering team, and even a few people at the label, but trust was a different matter.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

I returned from my thoughts to find Jonovan halfway out of his chair. He must have assumed that I was about to toss him out for real.

“It’s okay. No need to slide out your seat. You’re not the first person to go down that road with me, and you won’t be the last. It’s simple. I only discuss what I care to discuss and if people want to take it upon themselves to speculate or make up things about me, they can do them. I won’t be forced to feel a need to reply to foolishness.”

“Well, it’s not my intention to make anything up,” he said. “I’ll only talk about whatever you want to discuss in the article.”

I smirked. “If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that.” I paused. “For the record, I wasn’t implying that you would. I was referring to some others who believe that writing lies about me, sensationalizing rumors, will somehow catapult their careers. Funny thing is, they write their bullshit, it’s tossed around by my other haters for a few weeks or months, I am still talented, my fans are still here, and no one even bothers to read their names on the bylines and they definitely don’t give a damn about them.”

“Yeah, that’s one reason I decided to start
G-Clef
. I wanted to put a positive spin on the industry. There is so much negative circulating about people who don’t deserve it.”

I smirked. “Some of them orchestrate their own drama. Don’t get it twisted. A lot of celebrities are encouraged to engage in fuckery in public, or to get into Twitter battles with each other, in order to stay relevant. A lot of them have to act a fool because their talent is mediocre. I’ve only seen a few who are exceptional do such things, and I’m convinced it is because of deeply rooted issues.”

I was talking mad shit, but I always did. I had my own demons, secrets, and debauchery going on in my private life, but I planned to keep it private. There was always that chance that someone would “blow up my spot.” My money was on Piece of Shit, which was why I made sure that he always had thick pockets so that temptation wouldn’t be there. Glaze seemed more faithful.

As for what happened to me that night at homecoming, the only living person who knew that I was Caprice Tatum was Daddy and, now, Dr. Marcella Spencer. I had yet to tell her everything, but I had already told her the truth about my identity. There was something about her that made me feel comfortable. Even during therapy as a teen, I never told the psychiatrists everything about my past; just enough about my thoughts and behavior to be diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder.

I had never discussed the fact with them that I would not allow any man to touch me in a sexual manner. I never revealed that I had sex only with inanimate objects or sex toys. I damn sure never talked about my BDSM life with them and my sex slaves that I enjoyed dehumanizing as I watched. I had tried dating a few men in my lifetime—all fine, successful, and kind—but when it came down to being intimate, I could never go through with it.

As I sat there looking at Jonovan, I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was. Was he married? I didn’t see a ring, but that meant nothing. Tons of married men stopped wearing their rings by the end of year one, if their wives tolerated it. They did it so they could troll for pussy and their sidechicks could always say down the road that they never knew the men were married. Game; all game. Was he seriously involved? Shacking? Someone’s baby daddy? Gay? Bisexual? Did he like to be blindfolded, whipped, and did he get off if a woman put a finger up his ass? So many questions I wanted to ask the one person who cared enough to save me in October 1987. My childhood crush who I had often thought about over the years. I had even tried to find him on Facebook a few years back, not that I would have said anything if I did come across his page.

“Yeah, that’s definitely true,” Jonovan said in response to my analysis of some other celebrities. “Those Twitter battles can be something else.”

I giggled. “I like the ones where thirsty chicks will post photos of them in bed with a male celebrity to prove that they’re manpooling with his other women.”

“Manpooling?” Jonovan was lost.

“Yes, that’s actually one of the songs on the new album I’m working on. A lot of women manpool like they carpool. Basically, the song is about sharing dick.”

He grinned. “Can’t wait to hear that one.”

“Oh, it’s fire. And nothing but the truth.”

“You’re a cold piece of work. You know that a lot of women are going to get in their feelings over that?”

“A hit dog will holler. No reason for them to get offended if it doesn’t apply to them. Even if it does apply, if they are willingly sharing dick, it should become their national anthem. You’d be surprised at how many chicks are actually proud to be a man’s side–ass action.”

“You definitely have a way with words.”

“You’re surprised? Where do you think my song lyrics come from? If I’m not going to go hard, I might as well go home.”

“So it’s a fact that you write all your own music?”

“I pen all my own lyrics and then, as I’m sure you know, I have a few producers who I collaborate with on the music itself. I bring the thoughts to life and they give me the beats to flow with. It’s a lovely thing.”

“So when is your next tour?”

“After this new album drops. While some may be able to pull it off, I can’t tour and work on new cuts at the same time. Those are two different lives completely. Touring is a twenty-four-seven process. Between traveling, sound checks, rehearsals, and the actual shows—where I cannot afford to disappoint—there is no time to go into a zone and create new music.”

“I’ve always admired those of you who do big tours. It has to be exhausting. I get tired even watching the performances. You must work out.”

I stood up and turned around, tapping myself on the behind. “With an ass like this, you know good and well that I have to keep it lovely in the gym.” I walked around the table and grabbed his left upper arm. “All this muscle you have on you, you must hit the gym daily.”

“I actually have a gym in my home.”

“Oh, do you and your wife work out together?” I asked, being nosy.

He looked up over his shoulder at me. “I’m not married. Well, I’m divorced actually.”