King Reece Read online

  “Oh, Flame is here?” Qima perked up.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, what about Mysterio?” She peeped Qwess’s reluctance. “Come on now, Qwess. You’ve been promising the hip-hop world for months now that you going to introduce us to Mysterio.”

  Qwess pumped his hands. “Calm down. I will, I will. Just when the time is right.”

  Flame glided downstairs in a white T-shirt, cargo shorts, and wheat Timbs. His diamond-encrusted ABP pendant sparkled on his chest. He and Qwess posed for a few pictures inside the house. Then outside by the pool. Next in front of Qwess’s white Mercedes Maybach.

  After the photographer was content with his shots for the magazine, they all climbed into the Maybach with Flame at the wheel. The photographer rode shotgun while Qwess, Qima, and her assistant, Andrea, sat in the luxurious back seats. Everything about the Mercedes was opulent.

  Qima got settled as they drove up the long, winding road to civilization. Once comfortable, she took out her tape recorder and began firing away.

  “So, Qwess: First off, is it true you’re retiring?” She thrust the tape recorder in his face. Qwess couldn’t help himself.

  “Damn, baby girl, you cool as hell, but you don’t play no games when it comes to getting that story, huh?” Qima caught on to his point and moved the recorder out of his face. Just a little. Then she patiently waited on an answer.

  “Yes,” was all she got.

  “Just yes?” she repeated. Qwess nodded. “Why?”

  “Well, you know, I’m burnt out. It’s like the game ain’t the same . . .” He hesitated. “Truthfully, I had only planned to do one album. Ya know, you spend your whole life making your first album. Your experiences and whatnot. Shit, I had material for days in the beginning.”

  “So, what happened?” Qima asked. When Qwess talked she was enthralled—as was her assistant.

  Qwess continued. “Well, it’s like it wasn’t how I expected it to be. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful, but I just don’t feel comfortable anymore. I feel like the public is unappreciative.”

  “Unappreciative?” Qima repeated. “Come on now! You changed the game. You were one of the few rappers actually talking about something of substance. When everyone else was talking about how much cash they spending or how much ass they bending, you offered a different perspective. Hell, personally, I’m a fan.”

  Qima’s assistant, Andrea, nodded her agreement as well. Qwess tried to hide his blushing. After all his years of success he was still apprehensive about receiving praise for his work.

  “Thank you. I’m glad—”

  His speech was interrupted mid-sentence when a Suzuki motorcycle shrieked past the car with pipes on full blast. Qwess rolled the window up tightly, and the car became like a tomb.

  “Like I was saying, I’m glad someone appreciates my work.”

  Qima nodded. “Look, Qwess, this is off the record.” She held up her stopped tape recorder to prove her point. “The game needs you. I’m twenty-six. I’m still a hip-hop fan, but the majority of the music coming out of the matrix I can’t get with. I mean, I admit I may be a bitch sometimes, but my momma ain’t raised no hoe, slut, trick, et cetera. And I ain’t bending over and shaking my beautiful ass for nobody unless they are worthy!”

  Qwess gave a hearty laugh for that one. She had used the term “the matrix.” Qwess hadn’t coined the term, but he damn sure made it famous. It referred to the music being played on the radio as not being real. A fantasy world. A place where anybody could be anything, yet only a few really controlled what was going on. Qwess also had to give her props on her other comment. She did have a beautiful ass.

  “So, my question is,” Qima continued, “what are the mature adults going to listen to? Hip-hop used to be about addressing social injustice, and other plights plaguing the black community. Not about making a sound track for the strip club. For Christ’s sake, what are our little girls going to grow up to be.”

  On cue, a shiny motorcycle pulled up beside them at the stoplight. A female looking no older than fifteen was on the back of the bike shaking what little rump she possessed seductively, all the while trying to see into the Benz.

  Qwess saw the disgust on Qima’s face and pulled the suede blinds shut over the rear window. Andrea did the same on her side. Qwess pushed another button, and the translucent roof went through three different phases before he found the setting desired. It allowed just enough light to pass through so as not to be uncomfortable.

  Qwess didn’t appreciate the fact that Qima had turned the interview into her own personal soapbox. She was supposed to be a professional, so this was unbecoming of her. She was in the company of a man who had done wonders for the world that was her livelihood. A man who was contemplating retirement. Yet she was waxing poetic. Qwess didn’t like it one bit.

  “So, Qwess, if you retire, what are you going to do with the label, ABP?”

  Qwess half turned, facing her. “See, that’s part of the reason why I’m retiring. I want to focus more on the business side. You know we got Flame tearing the game up. We got the hot R and B duo Desire. Not to mention Saigon. She always reps for the ladies. Plus we got another prospect we trying to sign. Someone you’re already familiar with.”

  “And of course, Mysterio,” interjected Qima.

  “Yeah, and, uh, we’re also trying to make a movie out of this screenplay my man wrote. So, I’ll have plenty to do.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Ultimately, I have done what I set out to do as a recording artist. Now it’s time for me to conquer something else.”

  “Speaking of conquests,” Qima jibed, switching gears, “word is you’re quite the ladies’ man. You’ve been linked with quite a few models and actresses since your broken engagement to . . . What’s her name?”

  “Hope.”

  “Yeah, that’s it! What happened with that anyway?”

  Qwess was reluctant to answer. He was never big on putting his real personal business out. The actresses he drilled were fair game. They were already in the spotlight, but Hope wasn’t. And even though their relationship had gone all to shit, he still wanted to preserve her honor.

  But he always gained favor in press circles because he never pulled punches. All questions were game with him. Nothing was off limits. So he decided to do both.

  “We just grew apart. We grew older and in different directions.” Shit, that was the least of it, he thought.

  “All right, Qwess. The ladies wanna know. Are you and the model Allysin an item?”

  Flame could barely contain his laughter in the front.

  “An item? No,” Qwess answered with a straight face.

  “The actress Melinda Wolf?”

  “No.” Still with a straight face.

  Qima smiled. She knew where this was going.

  “Okay, Qwess. I get the point. You’re not married, right?”

  Qwess held up his left hand. A big square-cut diamond ring draped his ring finger, but it was not to be confused for a wedding band.

  For the remainder of the drive she asked Qwess numerous questions ranging from his association with the infamous Crescent Crew—which he evaded like a seasoned politician—to what his favorite color was. By the time the Maybach reached Broadway at the Beach, Qima’s tape was just as exhausted as she was, but she was pleased. Qwess had answered every question she had thrown at him. Even Flame was briefly interviewed.

  Flame wheeled the big car into a reserved parking spot beside a Maserati with the top still dropped. Qwess paused a moment to throw on his trademark designer glasses before exiting the comfy confines of the Maybach. Normally he wore a pair of wood-grained Versaces with rose tint. Today he wore a pair of Cazals that looked like they were stolen from the late eighties.

  “You all are my guests, so stay close to me,” he informed Qima and her crew. When Qwess extended his hand to help Qima, he could’ve sworn she gave him “the eye.” However, she plastered her glasses over her eyes too quickly for him
to tell for sure. What couldn’t be missed, though, were her nipples. They were rock hard and threatened to puncture her flimsy tank top.

  There were an assload of people out at the celebrity basketball tournament. Security was just as thick to accommodate the diverse groups participating in the tournament.

  Record Label versus Record Label; Hood versus Hood; State versus State; Models versus Actors, etc.

  ABP sponsored its own team of five: Doe, Hulk, Amin (the business manager for ABP), Raheem (Qwess’s brother-in-law), and Yusef (the head of PR for ABP). Doe, Hulk, and Amin were the starting three for the ABP Powerhouse squad. They were playing on court six, all the way at the back.

  As Qwess and his entourage made their way through the thick crowd, they couldn’t help but notice the scantily clad women all crying for the rappers’ attention. Some of them thought Qwess was with Qima, and Andrea was with Flame, possibly because both ladies clung to each man’s shirt so as not to be lost in the crowd.

  “I’m not blocking you, am I, Qwess?” Qima asked sarcastically.

  “Nah, I’m already in the company of enough beauty,” he shot back.

  “Cute.”

  When they finally reached the bleachers at court six, Qima was relieved.

  “Whew, I don’t know how you men do it. I’ve seen more butts than a jailhouse ashtray.”

  Qwess issued her a sideways glance. “What’s up with your fascination with butts?” he joked.

  “Oh, cut it out.” She pinched his arm.

  Doe and the crew were suiting up to play next. When Doe saw Qwess and company, he swaggered over.

  “Yo, man, what took you so long? Who is shorty?” he asked, pointing to Qima. He gave Qwess that look. Qwess hurriedly dismissed the thought. “Nah, bruh. She’s the reporter.”

  “Damn, she cute,” Doe offered.

  Qima blushed. “Damn, y’all just trying to butter me up so you can get good press.” She tried unsuccessfully to feign indifference. It was no use. She was obviously impressed.

  “You guys keep up the flattery, and you just might get the cover,” Qima insinuated.

  “That’s the plan,” whispered Qwess.

  “Ah, yo, you see your boy over there?” Doe pointed to the other side of the court at another rapper/CEO named Maserati.

  Qwess shot his eyes to the sky dismissively. “I swear homie just trying to compete wit’ us in everything. Hell, if he take a little more pride in his work, he might be all right,” he said.

  “Ya know,” Doe cosigned. He got Qima’s attention. “Hey, the only quote you need from me is this: The takeover continues. Atlantic Beach Productions will still reign supreme in the face of Qwess’s retirement. Why? Because Doe said so. You got that?”

  Qima laughed.

  “I’m serious.” Doe wasn’t smiling at all. “Now watch us wreck shop on the court.”

  With that the starting three for the ABP Powerhouse took the court. On the opposing side was none other than Maserati and his group The Gangstas.

  Maserati mean-mugged the ABP crew the entire time. Like he was tough or something.

  When he looked at Qwess, Qwess winked through his Cazals.

  Things hadn’t started out this way between the two. In fact, Qwess tried to get along with the cat in the beginning. Five years ago, when Qwess accepted his Promotion & Distribution (also known as a P&D) deal through AMG Records, Maserati was the hottest artist in the world. Period. He had smashed the game with his debut album, Dying to Get Rich. When Qwess re-released his debut album, Janus, nationwide, it gained steam immediately. Qwess (and possibly Maserati) knew it was only a matter of time before he blew up worldwide. Inevitably, this proved to be true.

  Then at Bike Week four years ago, Qwess outshined Maserati during a performance. After all, Qwess was from the beach, and this was in front of the home crowd. Maserati took this as a snub, and ever since had been trying to create some type of beef between the two of them. Everyone knew that was Maserati’s schtick. He got on by a diss record.

  Qwess knew the plan, so he ignored Maserati. Maserati in return became more embittered. The height of the fiasco was when Qwess took home best album honors at the Source Awards later that year. Of course, he beat out Maserati for the award. Then, to add injury to insult, Flame also beat out The Gangstas for best new artist.

  That defeat planted a seed of hate in Maserati. He focused all his attention on his record label called Gangsta Life in hopes of one-upping Qwess sometime down the line. So far his plans had been unsuccessful. Qwess and ABP had broken the mold and put the music industry in a stranglehold. Yet at every major event, you could bet that Maserati would be present, trying to best Qwess or anyone affiliated with him. This was no different.

  The referee blew the whistle and threw the ball up. Hulk tipped the ball to Amin. Amin set the play up. Hulk went down low to post up. At six foot six and 320 chiseled pounds, no one could stop him down low. The closest man to his size was Roy Bangs of The Gangstas. Roy was six foot three, 240.

  Amin dropped the ball to Hulk on a bounce pass. Hulk spun and threw the ball down so hard the pole shook. The ball hit the pavement and stayed planted where it landed. One to nothing.

  “Arrrgh!” Hulk screamed. The ref picked the ball out of the pavement and gave it to Maserati to take out. For fear of a slaughter, the rules were alternate possessions.

  Maserati inbounded the ball to Young B of The Gangstas. The ball was nearly stolen by Doe, but Young B had mad handles. He regained control and tossed an alley up to Roy Bangs. Bangs caught the ball and was in midair just inches from the rim. Out of nowhere, Hulk came and swatted the ball—with force. Bangs slammed to the ground. The ball flew to court five, interrupting their game. Hulk snatched his jersey off.

  “Get that shit out of here! This my house!” The sidelines erupted. The spectators from court five shifted to court six. On the sideline, Flame collected his bets.

  “I told you, dawg. These nigga can’t see my big homies!”

  On the court, the game was reset. Bangs demanded the ball.

  “Give me the rock. This nigga can’t see me.”

  Maserati gave him the ball out to Young B. Young B pulled up a two-pointer in Amin’s face.

  “Swish!!!”

  Two to one Gangstas.

  Bangs and Young B connected on the same play two more times, making the score six to two.

  ABP Powerhouse called a timeout. Amin was subbed with Raheem. The game resumed.

  Raheem inbounded the ball to Doe on a backdoor pass. Doe went to lay the ball up when Roy Bangs caught him with an elbow, knocking him to the ground. Hulk ran over to his aid immediately. He pushed Bangs out of the way. Bangs just smirked and joined his teammates on the sideline.

  “You all right?” Hulk asked.

  “Yeah, I’m straight,” Doe wheezed. “Now let’s punish these cats. No holds barred.”

  Just then the ref ran over.

  “Fellas, come on. Let’s keep the peace. Just shoot the tech shots, and keep the game clean.”

  Doe, Hulk, and Raheem told him okay, but their thoughts were different.

  After Doe made the charity shots, the game resumed. Hulk posted up and slid one off the glass. Maserati fumbled the inbound pass. Doe retrieved it and fired a two that banked off the glass into the net.

  Seven to six. The game went to twelve.

  Roy Bangs attempted to commandeer the game again. He gave Maserati the eye. Maserati returned it. Roy Bangs pushed off Hulk and shot to the basket. When he got there the ball awaited him. He caught it and threw it down with a reverse dunk.

  The sidelines erupted. Gangsta Life supporters stood and crowded the side of the court.

  Qwess threw a towel down in disgust. Flame smacked his forehead. “Damn homies!” Roy Bangs dapped Maserati up.

  “Told you. This nigga can’t see me!”

  Maserati shot Qwess a glance. The point was clear.

  Qwess called a timeout.

  “You brothas, listen up! This can�
��t be happening. Naw, man! These cats can’t see y’all. Look, we can’t lose. Do I need to suit up?” Qwess acted like he was changing out of his clothes. Hulk stopped him. “Quit tripping. I got this. Just give me the ball.” He looked at each team member. “Give me the ball!”

  When the game resumed, Qwess gave Maserati a knowing smirk. Hulk put on a show.

  He threw one down on Bangs and Young B. Doe stole the ball and gave it to Hulk again. Hulk shot the ten-foot jumper. Swish!

  Maserati scored on a layup.

  Raheem reciprocated.

  Maserati scored again.

  Ten to nine.

  Doe passed the ball in to Raheem. Raheem set it up. Hulk posed up outside the arc. Raheem passed Hulk the ball. Hulk closed his eyes and hoisted up the two-pointer.

  Swish! Game over.

  Qwess, Flame, and other ABP supporters rushed the court to congratulate the winners.

  Qima instructed her photographer to snap multiple shots. This would make for good press.

  Maserati stormed off the court in disappointment. Again, Qwess had beaten him. His team was eliminated from the tournament. There was no need to hang around. Yet he still had to get the last word.

  He noticed Qwess had brought along an entourage. From his numerous dealings with the press, Maserati recognized Qwess’s guests as magazine reporters. In fact, the same curly-haired photographer had shot him numerous times for the magazine. Maybe this was what he needed.

  Maserati walked back to where the crowd had congregated. He strolled right up to Qwess unimpeded and shoved him in the chest.

  “You can’t beat me yourself, so you had to send your do-boys!” spat Maserati.

  Before Qwess could retaliate, a few referees as well as spectators intervened, creating a wall between the two rappers.

  Qwess was genuinely surprised. The shock was apparent on his face when he snarled. “You punk muthafu—Ooh! Get out the way. Get out the way!” The wall didn’t budge. Instead they tried to placate him.

  Qwess wasn’t trying to hear none of that shit they were talking. Only when Hulk gently slid his arm around his neck did he calm down.

  “Not now. Not now. We’ll see him again,” Hulk whispered in his ear. Qwess was reluctant, but he conceded. This time.