Platinum Page 4

  Zander laughed out loud.

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” Bunny said, poking out her chest and clenching her jaw tight.

  “Somebody probably said that about my dad once,” said Zander.

  “True,” Kipenzi said.

  “And someone probably said that about you too.”

  “Touché.”

  Kipenzi walked Zander and Bunny to the foyer, where Ian was waiting to see them out. Just before they reached the front door, Bunny stopped Kipenzi by tapping her on the back. Kipenzi turned around.

  “I plan to break every record you ever set.”

  Kipenzi pulled her head back without moving the rest of her body. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Do you even know what records I—”

  “Most albums to debut at number one—twelve, one more than Jay-Z. I probably won’t pass the Beatles though. But your record for most number one singles on the Billboard Hot One Hundred and most weeks at number one? All mine. Mark my words.”

  Kipenzi smiled with her mouth closed. “Good to have goals,” she said. “I’m pulling for you.”

  “I think you should take a break,” Bunny said, running her hands over her spiral curls then letting them flop back over her eyes. “Sometimes people your age don’t know when to give it up and let the new blood take over.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Bunny,” Kipenzi said in a loud voice. It was Ian’s signal to get her out.

  When Ian closed the door behind them, he turned to look at his employer.

  “The first day of the rest of your life, Ms. Hill. Looking forward to it?”

  Kipenzi glided over to her living room sofa, sat down, pulled her legs up, and crossed them.

  “I’m going to fire people left and right, ditch all professional obligations, and nurture my godson’s career. Though I don’t like that little hellion he’s running with.” Kipenzi scratched the tracks sewn into the cornrows on the top of her head. “And tomorrow I’m getting my weave taken out. For the last time. Yes, Ian. I’m happy. Deliriously so.”

  Ian smiled and went to his office on the other side of Kipenzi’s apartment. Kipenzi sat on her sofa, still. In five minutes, she was fast asleep. When Ian let himself out of the apartment, Kipenzi was still sitting up straight, her legs still crossed, her back as straight as a Buddha’s. She eventually fell over.

  And for the first time in twenty years, she slept for twelve hours straight.

  ALEX WAS AWAKE BUT KEPT HER EYES CLOSED. AS ALWAYS, HER REAL life was turning into a story idea in her head. At some point, she thought to herself, an argument between a man and a woman becomes less about the content and more about the roles they play in the relationship.

  Alex opened her eyes, rolled over, and grabbed the black leather-bound journal on her nightstand. It was embossed with the word IDEAS. Birdie had given it to her for her birthday last year. She sat up in bed, resting her back on the headboard, picked up a pen, and began to scribble.

  When voices are raised and indignities are hurled, it’s not just because the dishes are piled high and the garbage hasn’t been taken out for a week. It’s because of the ex-girlfriend that he slept with when he said he was at his mother’s retirement party. Even if that happened five years ago.

  Alex stopped writing, tapping the pen on the notebook. She knew of three magazines she could pitch that story to. But she hadn’t read Cosmopolitan or Details in the past three months. They might have done something similar. She circled the sentences she wrote and then made a note to herself to go to the library and check out the back issues of a few magazines to see if that story idea could work.

  With the notebook still in her lap, Alex looked over at Birdie, who was lying on his left side, facing her. His breathing was even and measured. He’d gotten a haircut the day before, including a tight shape-up on his full beard. This meant that when Alex took him in, her heart flipped over once. Five years and he could still make her lose her breath. Alex leaned over and kissed Birdie’s forehead. The room was hot and they’d already put away the air conditioner in preparation for autumn. He tasted salty. But he smelled sweet—like Nag Champa incense, marijuana, and gingerroot tea.

  Like most of Alex’s story ideas, what she scribbled that morning was ripped from her own life. In five years, Alex and Birdie had managed to have at least one minor argument per week.

  Birdie: But if you use these dainty little white trash bags just because they fit nicely, it defeats the purpose if they fall apart when it’s time to take the trash out.

  Alex: Perhaps we need to redefine when it’s time to take the trash out. I say some time before there are seven bags stinking up the foyer.

  They usually managed to keep the major blowups to no more than one a month. But by late September they were already on their third. Alex put the ideas book back on the nightstand and picked up her journal. She looked back a few days and noticed the angry red marks underlining her words, signifying that she went to bed angry. Last week it had been Tweet’s mother, who’d stopped by unannounced. Alex asked Birdie to talk to her and he refused. Then, just a day later, while Alex was in her office, she heard Birdie come into the house with seven members of his loosely organized rap collective. They settled into the living room—not even the basement!—and didn’t leave for hours, smoking weed, listening to instrumentals, and freestyling. As soon as the last dude left, Alex came downstairs and cursed Birdie out for twenty minutes. He never said a word.

  It was with these two arguments in mind that Alex decided to tread lightly around Birdie when he woke up.

  “If I get a remix from Ras Bennett, I’m guaranteed to get on the radio.”

  Alex snapped her head to the side and noticed that Birdie had awakened and changed position. He was on his back, with his hands behind his head. She thought she’d be up, washed, and dressed before she would have to deal. He’d caught her off guard on purpose.

  “Good morning, Birdie,” Alex said, throwing back the sheets and putting her feet on the floor.

  “I could probably even get a deal on a major label.”

  Alex got up and went to her walk-in closet without looking back. “Since when do you want to be on a major label?” she asked. “I thought it was all about keeping the music pure.”

  “It’s all about having more than two sticks in my pocket to rub together too.”

  Shrugged into her robe and with a towel draped over her shoulder, Alex went toward the bathroom. A cold shower would help her center her mind and come up with better reasons why Birdie wasn’t going to get his way. Again. But before she could make it to the door, Birdie leapt out of bed and blocked her path.

  “Baby. I don’t ask for much, do I?”

  No, not much. Just to take care of your daughter. Front you cash when you need it. Pretend I don’t know you at industry events. Lie to your manager about where you are. Rub your back after a show. Cook for you. Clean up after you. Tell you that your music is wonderful …

  “No,” Alex said, keeping her eyes on the floor. If she looked up at him, she’d melt. When he was shirtless, wearing just his boxers and a pair of socks, she just wanted to be held by him, close to his chest. And when his eyes—wide, glassy, and hazel green—were locked onto hers, she turned into a robot that would follow his every command.

  “Then why won’t you do this for me?”

  “It’s unethical,” she said, for the fifth time since the argument had begun the night before.

  Birdie rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious about that. What’s unethical about writing a story on this dude’s wife?”

  “Listen to what you’re asking me and try to put yourself in my shoes,” Alex said. She leaned against their bedroom door and began ticking off talking points on her fingers. “You want Ras Bennett to produce a record for you.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And in order to make that happen, his manager wants me to write a cover story on Ras’s wife for a local Caribbean magazine.”

  “You g
ot it.”

  “And you don’t see how that would make me uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t see the problem at all.”

  “How does his manager know your girlfriend is a writer?”

  “It may have come up in conversation.”

  “I’m not even dealing with you, Birdie. This is all kinds of wrong.”

  “Do you care that I’m ready to make some money with my music?”

  “If that’s what you want, I fully support that. But not at the expense of my own credibility. I’m a journalist. Not a publicist.”

  “I’m trying to get money to pay for this expensive-ass wedding you want and now you want to play moral police?”

  And with that, Alex and Birdie were off to the races. While Birdie’s daughter, Tweet, continued to sleep in the bedroom adjacent to theirs, they pointed fingers, hurled insults, and threw their hands up. Alex stomped off in one direction and then turned sharply on her heels and said, “Excuse me?” Birdie sucked his teeth and laughed (not a real laugh but an indignant Ha!). They both rolled their eyes considerably. Neither would back down.

  Birdie and Alex had issues. After ten years as a critical darling in hip-hop, Birdie wanted a platinum plaque. He was tired of opening for people like Jake and Z. He was tired of borrowing money from the owner of his record label, a Jewish kid from Harvard who lived two doors down from him and Alex. And he was tired of being respected but not recognized. He was ready to sell out, get a song on Hot 97, make a big-budget video and tape a making-the-video segment for BET. The first step would be a song produced by Ras Bennett. Like T-Pain had his run back in ’08, it was Ras Bennett’s year and everything he produced, rapped on, sang on, or even contributed a few guitar licks to had stratospheric success. But he charged $90,000 for a track, more money than Birdie made in a full year of rapping, touring, and performing.

  Birdie had run into Ras’s manager on Fulton two weeks before. The manager told Birdie he’d been trying to get press for Ras’s wife, who had opened a bridal boutique on Madison Avenue. Birdie read between the lines and went to work—begging Alex to pitch a story on Josephine Bennett to Sounds of Caribbean America. The founder of the magazine was a good friend of Alex’s. He knew she had the power to get Ras’s wife on the cover.

  He wanted to get Alex to do the story so he could manage to bump into Ras and get his music popping before it was too late. Birdie knew Ras wouldn’t be hot for much longer. He wanted his piece of the action before the industry tossed him away.

  “I understand all of this,” Alex said. She was standing in her usual argument spot, at the window facing their backyard. Birdie leaned against the bedroom door, so that they could be warned if Tweet woke up and tried to come in.

  “So you’ll do it.”

  “I always said that after, you know, our situation, I’d never blur the lines again.”

  Birdie’s face softened. “It’s been five years, baby. You’re still tripping over that?”

  “I was supposed to interview you. Not have sex with you. Yes, I’m still tripping over that.”

  Birdie stepped away from the door and came up to Alex until he was a half inch away from her. He stood as close as he could without actually touching her. She could feel his breath on her forehead. And there were certain parts of his body that were skimming hers.

  “But you couldn’t resist me. You had sex with me. And we lived happily ever after. And that’s okay.”

  “I think it will be okay, eventually. But I still struggle with it. I broke the rules. And now you want me to get this woman on the cover of a magazine to help your career?”

  Birdie ran his hands up and down Alex’s arms. A warm flush immediately traveled down her body and she had to take a deep breath to keep her composure and not tackle him onto their bed.

  “So you’re going to seduce me to get what you want?”

  “I’m not above it.”

  Birdie kissed her shoulder, where an unfinished tattoo of a daisy was etched into her skin. The daisy had a long green stem that snaked down her shoulder blade. But the flower only had four petals with room for many more.

  “Is it time to get this updated?” Birdie asked.

  “Almost,” Alex whispered, her eyes closed.

  “Is this part of the reason why you feel weird about writing the story?”

  “Yes.”

  Birdie pulled Alex to the bed and sat her down beside him. He kept her hand in his. “Can I say something?”

  “Whenever people say that, it usually means you don’t want to hear whatever they’re about to say. So, no.”

  “I’ll say it anyway. You’re a drunk.”

  “A former drunk.”

  “A former drunk. Who made some bad decisions once upon a time.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “It doesn’t mean that for the rest of your life you have to be perfect. You can still bend the rules sometimes.”

  “Especially when it’s for you, right?”

  “Well, yeah. Especially when it’s for your man.”

  “When it comes to my work, I don’t ever want to put myself in the position of being less than one hundred percent honorable again. Ever. And I’m pissed off that you keep on pushing this.”

  “And I’m pissed off that you don’t see how important this is to me.” The heavy cherrywood door to the bedroom opened with a creak. Alex and Birdie both looked back as Tweet appeared in the doorway, her thumb stuck in her mouth. She had Birdie’s cocoa brown skin and her mother’s wide brown eyes. Her big, fluffy ponytails looked like cumulus clouds.

  “No fight,” she said, pointing at Birdie.

  She had such a soft, high-pitched voice that Birdie said she sounded like Tweety Bird. The nickname Tweet stuck.

  The little girl looked at Birdie and then Alex and then back to Birdie again.

  “She started it,” Birdie said, jerking a thumb in Alex’s direction.

  Alex went to the door and picked up Tweet, cradling her on her hip and carrying her to the bed.

  “We’re not fighting, sweetie,” she said, kissing her forehead. “We’re just having a discussion.” Alex sat on the bed, still holding Tweet, and looked over at Birdie. “And I think this discussion is over.”

  “No. It’s not. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. It’s not that deep.”

  “Did I tell you I’m starting a new ghostwriting project this week? I don’t have time to write a fluff piece for a local magazine that can’t even afford to pay me.”

  “They will pay your rate. I told you that.”

  “That’s worse!” Alex said. “Sounds of Caribbean America doesn’t pay their writers. But they’ll pay me a dollar fifty a word? That’s payola!”

  “Who are you ghostwriting for?”

  “That girl who’s writing a tell-all about her life as a dancer in rap videos.”

  “What kind of book is that?”

  “I have no clue. But she got six figures for it. And I’m getting fifty grand. So I’m not arguing.”

  “So it’s okay to get fifty thousand dollars to ghostwrite a book about a topic you care nothing about. But you won’t take three thousand and write a story that will help your man’s career.”

  Alex laid Tweet on the bed and undid the snaps on her pajamas.

  “Fine, Birdie. You win. I’ll write the story.” She eased Tweet out of her pajamas and picked her back up.

  “Just like that? You’ll do it?”

  Alex snuggled into Tweet’s neck and kissed her. “Just like that. See how easy it is to get me to do whatever you want?”

  The doorbell buzzed and Birdie and Alex looked at each other.

  “You expecting someone?” Alex asked.

  “Shoot. It might be Jennifer.”

  Alex forced herself not to groan since she was still holding Tweet in her arms. But she wasn’t prepared to deal with Tweet’s mother.

  “Are you expecting her?” Alex asked through clenched teeth, as she carried Alex down the stairs,
behind Birdie.

  “I think she might be taking Tweet out today. I forgot to tell you.” Birdie looked through the peephole and then began to turn the locks on the heavy door and opened it slowly.

  “Morning, Jen.”

  Tweet’s mother stepped into the foyer and reached out her hands for her daughter.

  “Mommy!” Tweet yelled, scrambling to get out of Alex’s arms. Alex tried to smile as she handed the girl over.

  No matter how many times they did a parental transfer, it never got easier. Alex always felt like a nanny when Jennifer came to pick up her daughter. Not like a person who was about to become Tweet’s stepmother.

  “Alex, always good to see you,” Jennifer said, nuzzling Tweet’s neck.

  “Of course. Same here.”

  Alex touched her hair, hoping it wasn’t the wild mess it usually was at this hour. Jennifer, as always, was perfectly put together—a linen skirt suit, sling-back Louboutins, a double strand of pearls, and her hair pulled back in a sleek, jet-black chignon.

  “Peter, I hope you didn’t forget that I was taking Anais to the Jack and Jill brunch this morning?”

  “No, I didn’t forget. We just … we were running a little late.”

  “As usual,” Jennifer said. “Luckily I brought an outfit for her. Has she been washed?”

  “I was just on my way to give her a bath,” Alex said.

  Jennifer smiled with her mouth closed and stepped closer to Alex to hand the baby over to her.

  “Would you mind?” Jennifer asked, handing Tweet over. “I would do it myself but I’m already dressed.”

  “No problem. We’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks a million,” Jennifer called out, as Alex turned to leave the room. “But, uh, don’t worry about her hair. I can take care of that.”

  Alex’s stomach was boiling. Birdie was always conveniently forgetting whatever plans he’d made with his ex-wife concerning Tweet. And Alex ended up feeling like an idiot, undressed and unkempt in front of his always perfect ex.

  As she made her way upstairs, she looked back for a moment and saw Birdie and Jennifer sitting in the living room talking.