Dirty Music Read online

  He had them then. His voice could’ve been as weak as Ashanti’s and they would have still supported him.

  Anetral released Flame and began trotting seductively across the stage, while tossing alluring looks over her shoulder. Flame trailed Anetral’s footsteps, continuing to rock the house.

  Flame finished his song just as Anetral disappeared behind the curtains, leaving Flame alone on the stage. The music screeched to a halt and was instantly replaced by a keyed-up piano loop. A steady snare drum laid underneath the piano marking tempo as Flame glided back to the center of the catwalk as smooth as Mike in his prime.

  Suddenly, the energy from the audience shifted a bit. The vibe from the crowd let him know this was the moment everyone had been anticipating, to see if the boy Flame could really blow. Flame took a deep breath and addressed his audience.

  “Thank you all for coming out tonight to witness my rebirth. Ya know, I got a lot of things to get off my chest . . .” He paused and closed his eyes to absorb the crowd’s essence. He took a second to let his words penetrate their minds before he continued. “Like love . . . Anybody ever been in love?” Screams from the crowd greeted him. “I mean really in love?”

  More screams.

  “Well, maybe you can relate to this song, then. I’ma break it down like this . . .”

  Flame dug down deep in his diaphragm and found a note that killed any doubts about him being official. He held the note, a real crisp tenor, for about ten seconds, then blessed them with a ballad about reciprocity in love. He hadn’t written this song, because he didn’t know shit about no reciprocity in love. In his life, women were used as objects of conquest or tools of pleasure, nothing more. The hottest songwriting duo in the industry, a down-low gay couple, had penned this hit, and Flame was killing it!

  Words couldn’t describe the reaction of the crowd. Words couldn’t describe how he felt from the reaction of the crowd. The adoration felt so good his dick went brick.

  As Flame continued to woo the crowd, working his way across the stage, catching eye contact with the ladies, and popping his hips, he saw her. Sasha Beaufont. Sitting in the front row with her amigas, Kim Rawls and Monica Wilson.

  Flame quickly made his way over to their side of the stage, still pouring honey from his lips. He hesitated at the end of the stage for a second, and then stepped down into the front row, right in Kim’s face, his crotch at eye level. She couldn’t miss his hard meat pressing against his linen drawstring pants threatening to escape and spew venom everywhere as he grinded his hips to the slow beat. In his peripheral vision he saw Sasha cutting her eyes at him, blushing, and knew his plan was working.

  Once Flame was satisfied that his quest for Sasha’s attention was in effect, he returned to the stage to complete his set. As he completed his performance, every now and then he spared a glance in Sasha’s direction to ensure she was still enthralled. Sure enough, Sasha couldn’t tear her eyes away from Flame’s sweaty body. He saw her squirming in her seat, losing the battle of attempting to be uninterested.

  Flame’s performance carried him back over to Sasha and her crew. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and the more he stared, the more he was in awe of Sasha. Her brown hair was hanging long and straight, and her juicy lips were shining harder than the chrome on his Aston Martin. Her titties exploded from her tight white tank top, and he could clearly see she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was just his type of chick, divaed-out, but still hood enough to bob her head to his dirty cuts. Flame decided right then that she was too fly to be with anybody else but him.

  Just as Flame was completing his set, he saw the crowd part like someone had pulled out a gun. He braced himself for a stampede, but it was a false alarm. Turned out, it was none other than the six-foot, four-inch, 285-pound Tyshawn “Diamond” Barker making his grand entrance. Diamond was CEO of Diamond World Music Group, aka the most popular music executive in the world. He also pulled double duty as Sasha Beaufont’s boyfriend of five years, and rumored fiancé.

  From the stage, Flame watched Diamond kindly remove Monica from her seat and sit down next to Sasha. Sasha said something slick to him, but Diamond pulled her into his lap and planted a wet one right on her lips. Monica quickly took Sasha’s abandoned seat and continued to watch Flame get busy.

  Flame was a little pissed that Diamond had swept some of Flame’s shine in his direction so he was determined to finish off in a grand fashion to remind him, and everyone else, this was his show.

  Flame signaled for the DJ to mute the music, then he locked eyes with a thick Latina in the front row. While all eyes were on him—sweaty body, jewels glistening, fresh Caesar, hard dick—he pointed right at the Selena lookalike and wailed out the last line of the song. He held the last note ’til he was damn near out of breath. Just when he felt like he was going to pass out, he stopped singing and blew a kiss at Selena. She fainted, and everybody screamed.

  His mission was accomplished.

  Flame retreated backstage, applause and cheers at his back.

  As he waded through the throng of scantily clad models and gay stylists backstage, he ran right into Freeman. Freeman passed Flame a handful of invitations to an after-party being held at a mansion on Star Island. This was the way invitations were extended in the big leagues. No rowdy radio promos, no ads in magazines; just a predetermined list of who’s who, and a method to reach those people. Flame was in the upper echelon of the music business now. He was the epitome of the Who’s Who and he loved every bit of his stardom.

  He greeted a few more people (and eyed a few more models) then gathered 8-Ball and Anetral. They dipped back to the Delano to prepare for the party.

  Little did he know that party would change his life forever.

  Chapter 4

  Atlanta, Georgia, Midtown

  Qwess swiped through Instagram’s explorer page and saw that Flame was trending. He went over to Twitter and saw the same thing. His performance in Miami was trending on all the platforms. Qwess smiled. The li’l nigga made good on his promise, he thought.

  For years, Flame had been pleading to Qwess to drop an R&B album. Qwess had to admit that Flame could blow, but singing was not what made the dough for Flame. Flame had amassed millions for ABP with his brash delivery, and Qwess was reluctant to divert the gravy train, but when a Canadian artist flipped the whole game on its head, he gave Flame the go-ahead. Judging from the response of social media—the new barometer for success—his gamble had paid off.

  Qwess placed his phone face down on his desk and shuffled some papers. The conversation he had had with Liam a few weeks ago in Vegas was still reverberating in his head like a pinball machine. The numbers he was talking were astounding! He had even sent some papers to validate his estimates. For sure, the game was changing with the rise of digital streaming, but Qwess didn’t see it affecting things this much.

  Qwess flipped his television on CNN to see the latest news, and the top story hit close to home:

  “Early this morning, authorities discovered the severed head of the alleged leader of a burgeoning Mexican drug cartel, Chabo “El Rey” Guzman. Guzman is reputed to be the leader of the violent Reyes Cartel, which operated between Fayetteville, North Carolina, and Michoacán, Mexico. According to reports, the Reyes Cartel seized control of the Southeastern drug trade after they wrested power from the hands of the Crescent Crew, led by its deceased leader, King Reece. After King Reece’s death, El Rey allegedly opened a drug pipeline from the Carolinas directly to Mexico, which shifted the balance of power in the United States. Now, with the death of El Rey confirmed, authorities fear we may be in the midst of a violent drug war . . .”

  Photos of King Reece’s mugshot flashed on the screen, followed by video footage of his funeral. Next, they showed a photo of Chabo. Seeing the photo of Chabo filled Qwess with mixed emotions. On the one hand, knowing the men that killed his brother were now resting in the afterlife gave him a sense of relief. On the other hand, he knew this murder would inevitably bring more h
eat to his door. In the court of public opinion—and the legal courts—he would forever be inextricably entwined with the Crescent Crew. No matter how high he climbed the ladder in the entertainment world, he just couldn’t live down his past.

  On cue, Qwess’s personal cell phone rang with a 910 area code. He closed the door to his office and answered the call.

  “As salaam alayka!”

  “Wa alaykum salaam, Akhi. Qisas has been carried out by my hands. Our comrade can rest now. Stay tuned.”

  The line went dead. Qwess shook his head at the audacity of it all. That was Bone on the other end, personally claiming responsibility for Chabo. Qisas meant “an eye for an eye” in Islam. Carrying out retribution had become Bone’s thing in the Crew. He had made his bones in the Crescent Crew by murdering a cop in cold blood for killing one of their members, Jersey Ali. Now, with King Reece dead and Samson incarcerated, Bone had become the acting leader of the Crescent Crew. He could have had any of them carry out revenge, but he chose to do it himself. Years ago, Qwess would have welcomed and commended this type of ambition and loyalty. Now, he was disgusted by it. Years of good living had softened him up and taken him out of touch with the harsh realities of life in the streets.

  Qwess sighed, leaned back in his chair, and massaged his temples. Life was coming at him fast. His number one act was cutting up, his wife was clamoring for more of his time, and he was still reeling from the fallout of his incident with Linda Swansen. Liam wasn’t lying about him being blackballed in the industry. It was like once he learned of the plot, he immediately felt the effects of it. People whom he had been doing business with for years were not returning his calls.

  A soft knock at the door awakened Qwess from his thoughts.

  “Yeah, come in,” he said.

  His administrative assistant peeked her head in the door and whispered, “There is someone here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Looks like police. Well, he doesn’t look like a police officer, but he’s persistent like one.”

  Qwess sighed. He was used to the routine by now. Every time someone from the Crew performed a heinous act, the authorities came to pay him a visit to shake him up.

  “Let him in,” Qwess said.

  A few seconds later a slim black man in a tailored suit walked through the door with a briefcase under his arm.

  “Qwess?”

  “You know who I am, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, right?”

  The man chuckled. “You have a point there,” he said, checking out the digs in Qwess’s office. He walked over to the glass wall overlooking the city. “This is a nice office here.”

  Qwess huffed. “Yeah, but whoever you are, I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to compliment my taste. What’s your business here?”

  “Ahhh . . .” The man turned to Qwess and fished for something in his briefcase. He retrieved a stack of papers and slapped them on Qwess’s desk. He stood tall and issued Qwess a stern look. “You’ve been served.”

  “Served? Served with what?”

  The man turned to walk out. “Read it; it’s all there.”

  The man closed the door, and Qwess shuffled through the papers. Apparently, it was a lawsuit of some sort. Qwess read the caption and saw his name. He was being sued by AMG Recording and Distribution for “tortious interference.” They were asking for a whopping $75 million!

  Qwess couldn’t believe this shit. He opened his phone and dialed his super attorney, Malik Shabazz.

  * * *

  The theme was Greek Bacchanalian, Flame learned. Flame never claimed to be the smartest man in the world, but he had been to Greece so he could personally attest that the Greeks were some of the freakiest bastards in the world. Therefore he wasn’t too thrilled about attending a Greek-themed event. In Miami too? There was bound to be trouble.

  However, Flame didn’t want to be a spoiler for the remainder of his staff he’d flown in earlier that day to attend the event. A lot of them were interns and low-wage salary workers he had recruited to do grunt work for the launch of his fashion line. He wanted them to get the total industry experience just like his mentor, Qwess, had done for him years ago. That experience had whetted Flame’s appetite more than ever and motivated him to be all that he could be. He was hoping this would motivate his staff to hump for him the same way.

  In the theme of the Greeks, all attendees were required to wear a toga to gain entry to the party. Flame wasn’t having it. He tried really hard to swallow his pride and don the toga required for entry to the party, but it just didn’t fit a man of his stature. He was FLAME, gotdammit! He represented one of the hardest towns in the South: Fayettenam. He wouldn’t be able to go back to the block if a pic of him in one of those things was posted on the Internet. He decided the toga was out. Instead, he freaked some white linen slacks and a hoe-beater with some all-white 1’s and rolled out like that.

  Waiting outside for Flame and his crew were two white Rolls-Royce Ghosts. His young staff climbed in one, and he slid in the other with his vets.

  As the luxury land yachts glided to Star Island, the sights of Miami were captivating. They must have passed a dozen drop-top Lambos—real Lambos with scissor-style doors, not that budget shit. They saw just as many dropped Ferraris too, and a couple of Enzos. Of course, the lovely Latinas were there as well. 8-Ball was so gassed on the lovely Latinas teetering around in heels and dental floss with all their beautiful curves jiggling around like warm Jell-O he nearly lost his mind. Flame couldn’t believe it. He was disgusted. All the pussy 8–Ball had gotten over the years, and he was still a cum-freak. But hey, beautiful women never got old, even for the rich and famous.

  Attempting to steal 8-Ball’s mind from the gutter, Flame tapped him.

  “You see how ya boy Diamond tried to hog my shine?” Flame asked.

  “Hell yeah! My nigga came in and everybody started taking pictures of him like he was performing an’ shit,” 8-Ball agreed. “And did you see his broad? Dayum! She baaad, fam. Word!”

  “Yeah, she is,” Flame admitted. He wanted to tell his friend how she was checking for him on the low, but he knew that 8-Ball felt all women wanted him. Most of’em did, in his mind.

  “That nigga Diamond lucky, falling up in that pussy every night. Bet it’s pretty too,” 8-Ball wondered aloud. “Monica straight too, though. You know she checking for me, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeeeeah!”

  “Get you, fam. Get you,” Flame said, encouraging him to go for it. 8-Ball wasn’t the most handsome dude, but being next to Flame had upgraded his confidence.

  Up front, Anetral was chirping away on her cell like a bird, oblivious to Flame sizing up the smooth skin seeping from beneath her toga. Flame was plotting on the gay beauty. He was praying that she would relapse on her diet. If she did, he would plug her ass like a dam. He just knew that she had a good shot between all that thickness, and he had been pulling out all the tricks for her to let him find out, but she refused to budge.

  Soon, they arrived at the bridge to cross over to the island. They showed their tickets, then breezed through, following a convoy of exotic cars to the mansion.

  When they arrived, all sorts of people were milling about on the spacious lawn. No sooner had the cars stopped, than the valet appeared to relieve them of their vehicles. The valet took one look at Flame and 8-Ball and scrunched his swarthy nose up as if they stank or some shit.

  “No, you can’t come in,” he informed them, shaking his head like he was disappointed with them for rebelling against the dress code.

  “What? I got an invitation,” Flame insisted, thrusting his papers in his face. He jerked his thumb toward the valet. “This fuckin’ Mexican tripping.”

  The valet pointed to their clothes. “This is a toga party. To-ga. Strictly enforced.”

  “What, nigga? You know who I am?” Flame barked, ready to blank o+ut. “You wasting my damn time!”

  Fortunately Flame was resc
ued. “I know who you are.”

  The soothing female voice came from behind him. He stepped aside and saw Kim Rawls, standing with her hands on her slender hips. She wore a cream toga cinched at the waist by a gold buckle. Her toga didn’t pass her knees. Her toned, chocolate legs were on full display, as were her sculpted shoulders. Kim rocked that toga like it came fresh from a runway in Paris. From the bright lights shining down, she appeared to be glowing.

  Immediately, Flame changed his mind about resisting. If Kim was looking this good in her toga, he would’ve walked through fire asshole-naked with gasoline hanging from his balls to see what Sasha looked like in her toga.

  “Come on, Flame,” Kim said. “Follow me, I’ll take care of you. I’d hate for you to miss this party.” She winked at Flame.

  The entourage followed Kim into the mansion. They walked past the raucous party going on in the front room and entered a side room filled with new togas still wrapped inside expensive packaging. Kim and an assistant rifled through the pile searching for a toga big enough to fit 8-Ball. They eventually found something that looked like an elaborate sheet and tossed it to 8-Ball to try it on. Once they were sure it fit, they both left the room, leaving Kim and Flame alone in the small room.

  Kim waved her tiny hands at Flame. “Come on, take it off,” she ordered. “Gotta find out what size you are.”

  Flame smiled. “Shit, you ain’t saying nothing but a word.”

  He stripped down to his boxers and Kim’s eyes went straight to his bulge in his briefs. “Hmmm . . . look like you full of promises,” she mumbled.

  “Damn right.”

  Kim found something that fit Flame and helped him put it on while he complained.

  “Yo, I’ve been to Greece and I ain’t have to wear a toga there,” he grumbled as Kim fastened fabric around his waist.

  “Actually, this whole thing is of Roman origin, not Greek,” she corrected. “But since the two societies were so closely related, it’s not a big deal.”