Commitment Read online

  Commitment

  A Novel

  Nia Forrester

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  Copyright © 2012 Nia Forrester

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1477527109

  ISBN-13: 978-1477527108

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  Greg dropped the issue of Newsweek face up on her desk without saying a word. Riley looked up at him and after a moment, shrugged.

  “I give up.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Greg, glasses perched at the end of his nose, stabbed a finger at the face on the cover.

  “Sure.”

  “Why is he on the cover of Newsweek, Riley?”

  Riley shook her head. “He’s pretty hot right now so I guess . . .”

  “What does it say under his picture?”

  Riley hesitated. What was this, a test? “It says, ‘Prophet or Pariah?’”

  “Do you know what’s wrong with that?” Greg took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began cleaning the lens with a tissue.

  “No. I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “We’re allowing mainstream publications to define African American cultural icons. That’s what’s wrong.”

  “But first we’d have to accept that he actually is a cultural icon.”

  “Well, that’s precisely my point. Newsweek says he is, so I suppose we’d do well to find out. In any event, he’s in town. He’s going to be at a W-KOOL party tonight. Here’s a pass to that party. Get an interview, do a story, have it for me by next Friday.”

  He had already turned and was walking away when she stopped him.

  “Actually Greg, if you remember I have that other thing I’m working on.”

  He looked at her evenly.

  “I mean, if you gave this story to Tyrone . . .”

  “Everyone else already passed. So I’m afraid you’re it.”

  He dropped a pink card on Riley’s desk and walked out without another word. Tonight. Riley exhaled and looked at the magazine cover again. K Smooth. The rapper du jour. His moniker sounded like an ice cream flavor. The fact that Newsweek had taken notice of him before they had clearly unsettled her editor-in-chief. After all, they were Power to the People, the so-called ‘voice’ of the African-American community. If a rap star showed up on the cover of a mainstream publication, particularly a rap star they hadn’t recognized as significant, it might mean they were losing their edge. Not that they had ever considered anything related to hip-hop significant before. Greg was a product of the civil rights movement who favored the more passive forms of civil disobedience. He had never shown even the slightest interest in the rabblerousing rap community before now; regardless of whether they had a positive message.

  K Smooth was the latest rapper on a mission – he seemed to be on magazine covers every other month and his videos ran on MTV just about every fifteen minutes so even though Riley wasn’t interested in rap any longer, she would have to be culturally oblivious not to know who he was. As far as she was concerned, the spark went out in her short-lived love affair with hip-hop around the time every other rapper started rhyming about Cristal and cars. And clearly her colleagues all felt the same way. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that she was Greg’s last choice for this assignment. Everyone else was busy trying to crank out something that would win the Pulitzer before they turned thirty, and she was stuck with some hip-hop puff piece. Awesome.

  She opened the magazine to the story, scanning the pictures – K Smooth in his “Washington D.C. area” townhome and another, of him shirtless and sweating on stage, the lighting making the most of his washboard stomach and sepia complexion.

  Then there was the same old sad tale – father wasn’t around to begin with, mother disappears into addiction, raised by grandmother, brief foray into a life of crime, blah, blah, blah. And the description of his music: “K Smooth’s lyrics are a fiery mix of the consciousness-raising and the crass. One is left wondering which of these provides an accurate window into the soul of the artist.”

  She looked up just in time to see Tyrone stick his head in the doorway of her office, a barely concealed smirk on his face.

  “Should be fun,” he said. “Club Hypnotiq.”

  Tyrone was the only writer on staff who had an affinity for urban culture pieces, so it stood to reason that this assignment would have caused him at least a glimmer of interest but even he had passed on it.

  “Sounds more like your thing than mine,” Riley said, trying to appear untroubled.

  “Yeah, but who wants waste time telling a story that’s already been told?” Tyrone shrugged. “And told by Newsweek, no less. So good luck with that.”

  Before she could think of a clever retort, he was gone. That confirmed it – this was a crap assignment. Every once in awhile Greg would get a notion – from something he saw on television or read someplace else – that they were falling behind. And with subscriptions down for even the biggest names in the business, he was often skittish about Power to the People’s prospects in an increasingly electronic age. Many a staff writer had gone down a rabbit warren at Greg’s behest, searching for a story that just wasn’t there. This felt like one of those times.

  Riley flipped over to the magazine cover and looked at the rapper’s picture again. Not bad. Hair shaved close to the scalp, square jaw and full, sensual lips. Dark, deep-set eyes and unbelievable eyelashes. He was staring into the camera with the same defiant scowl that all these guys seemed to have mastered.

  And according to . . . what was the reporter’s name? According to Rhonda Beckford, his anger seemed “directed” and “coherent.” Yeah. Sure, it was. Riley slid the magazine aside and thought little about it for the rest of the day.

  g

  Club Hypnotiq was a popular nightspot in Midtown that frequently showed up in the papers as the site of some moderately unsavory incident. Never quite terrible enough to have the place shut down, but just enough so that most sensible adults steered well clear of it if they were looking for a drama-free night out. The garish pink neon sign hanging outside was reminiscent of Hollywood’s rendition of a strip club which was pretty appropriate if you considered the attire of the clientele.

  When Riley arrived to take a place in line, there were already about a hundred people waiting. Most of them were young women who, despite the cold, dressed in short shorts or mini-skirts, tiny tube tops and shoes that were so high as to be ridiculous.

  When had this become the standard? There were far fewer guys, and like the women – girls, really – they seemed incredibly young. If Rile
y had to guess, she would say that about a third of the partygoers would flash fake ids to get in.

  Pulling out her phone, she sent a quick text message to her best friend, telling her where she was. Tracy would be just leaving the office right about now. She seldom ended her work day before seven and Riley could almost always tempt her with an offer of a good bottle of red wine in a mellow atmosphere. The mellow atmosphere was clearly not in the cards, but she was more than happy to pony up the wine.

  Tonight she could use the company and it didn’t hurt that Tracy was something of a man-magnet. Even in her business attire, she was almost certain to draw the attention of the rapper since she looked kind of like a video vixen, complete with the auburn hair and hazel eyes.

  It only took a few moments for Tracy to reply. You’re WHERE?

  Riley tapped out her response.

  Hell to the no. You’re on your own, Tracy responded.

  After almost an hour, Riley was still standing behind about ten people, waiting to be admitted to the sanctum sanctorum of the nightclub fidgeting with her pink pass, cursing under her breath and seriously considering ditching the whole enterprise. She had just worked out in her head what she would say in an effusive email apology to Greg when one of the bouncers crooked a finger in her direction calling her up to the front. He took the pass from her fingers and looked it over.

  “This is a VIP pass.”

  “It is?” Riley took it back and looked at it.

  “Yeah. It means you don’t have to wait in line. You get to bypass all this and go to the VIP lounge. Let me get someone to take you.” He beckoned another guy over and handed him the pink pass, putting a hand on Riley’s back. “Unlimited access.”

  Riley smiled at her usher. Unlimited access. That was precisely what she needed.

  As they entered, the onslaught of music was deafening and the throng on the dance floor was moving and writhing, bumping and grinding to the music. Trying to do an interview under these circumstances was going to be impossible, of course, but it also gave her a convenient out. She would circulate for a little bit, just long enough so that she could tell Greg she made a bona fide effort, and then she would meet Tracy at a place where grown-ups could hang out. But as the usher led her down a long hallway and toward the back of the club, the music subsided into the distance and suddenly an entirely new scene opened up in front of them.

  The lounge was crescent-shaped and painted a deep cranberry, the walls lined with plush, overstuffed benches curved to fit the shape of the room. At one end, thankfully there was a bar. There were only about fifty people; some standing by the art deco style bar drinking or watching one of several oversized televisions mounted on the walls playing K Smooth videos.

  Riley could no longer hear the music from the main club at all. It reminded her of the backroom in mob movies where the head of a crime family might hang out with his henchmen.

  She smiled at the thought. Maybe she could write that in her article, because these days, frankly, the similarity between some rappers and crime bosses was a little too close to reality to be scoffed at. According to Newsweek though, K Smooth was not that kind of rapper – he had a “message”. Rappers with a message were, as far as Riley was concerned, just another marketing ploy. When you looked just a little deeper, the same crap came tumbling out of their closets – guns, the girlfriend who claimed to have been beaten up, the tax debt and assorted BS that ultimately proved their emotional development had come to an abrupt halt somewhere around the age of sixteen.

  As Riley looked around, it was immediately and ridiculously apparent where K Smooth was even though she couldn’t exactly see him. Of all the groups of people in the room, one seemed to have attracted the lion’s share of women. Penetrating that crowd would be like breaking into Fort Knox. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was sitting or standing somewhere in the center of the phalanx of beautiful, eager women who looked as though someone had served them up like so many pretty canapés.

  This was where Tracy would have come in handy. Having a spectacularly beautiful best friend was not without its drawbacks, but tonight, Riley was not above using her to bag an interview with a rap star. Since that plan was out, she instead made her way over to the bar and ordered a glass of wine.

  Riley turned her attention to one of the television screens. In the video playing, K Smooth was wearing an immense pair of black jeans and as usual, no shirt. He swayed rhythmically to the bass beat and gestured dramatically with his hands as he rhymed. His face was angry and passionate, every word he was saying utterly convincing and surprisingly powerful.

  Riley pulled out the notebook she’d brought along and began scribbling her impressions. There was no story at this point but maybe if she just wrote everything down something would come to her later as she slept, when most great story ideas were born. She bit into the tip of her pen and took a sip of wine.

  “Are you press?”

  She looked up and into the eyes of a guy well over six and tall. He had refined, chiseled features like those of a model, and a haircut and goatee so flawless, they almost appeared painted on.

  “Yup.”

  “Who are you with?”

  “Power to the People.”

  “For real?”

  “Uh huh.” Riley turned back to her notes and tried to ignore him.

  “You writing about Smooth?”

  “Yes I am.” She opened her backpack again and found her Amex card, sliding it to the bartender who promptly pushed it back.

  “Drinks are on the house,” he explained.

  “I’ll have another white wine.” Riley looked up, and her uninvited guest was still there.

  “So are you writing about the concert or about Smooth personally?”

  Riley looked up at him. “What concert?”

  “Last night,” he said. “At the Garden.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t at the Garden. I’m just doing a story about him.”

  “Without talking to him?”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  He held out a hand and smiled winningly. “I’m Brendan Cole. Smooth’s manager.”

  Riley blinked. In another two minutes, she would have told him to get the hell out of her face.

  “Oh. Hi. I’m Riley Terry.” She shook his hand briefly.

  “Nice to meet you, Riley Terry.”

  Brendan Cole nodded in the direction of the crowd of women. “So you want to meet Smooth, or what?”

  “If he has time to talk to me that would be great.”

  “Maybe I can work something out. He has a radio interview in about a half hour and then he’s free for the rest of the night. Let me ask him if he’s into it. We’re all about Power to the People,” he winked at her.

  Riley watched as Brendan Cole walked over to the group of women and they parted like the Red Sea. She could only just make out the top of the head of the person he was talking to but could clearly see a white shirt, jeans and heavy soled boots, mustard-colored like the kind construction workers wore. She sipped her wine and waited, glancing at her watch. It could not have been this easy. She’d only been inside for about thirty minutes, and already she’d hit pay-dirt. Of course, she was probably conspicuous as the only woman in the room not looking to drape herself across the man of the moment.

  Riley pulled out her cell and tapped out a message to Tracy. A little gloating was in order. If her luck held, she would be out of here in no time. When she looked up, a self-satisfied smile still on her face, Brendan Cole had stepped aside and was looking right at her, but now there was another pair of eyes focused on her as well.

  While at the magazine, Riley had quickly learned that people constantly in the public eye were often disappointing when you met them in person. When no longer in the glare of the camera, they could seem so small, so ordinary. But this guy was by no stretch of the imagination small, nor was he ordinary.

  Staring directly at her, his gaze did not falter even when she looked right back. When th
eir eyes met he tilted his head slightly as though surveying a painting in a museum and trying to decide whether he liked it. K Smooth’s photos didn’t do him justice. Not even by the barest approximation of a long-shot. Riley looked away, focusing instead on Brendan who was beckoning her over. She set her glass of wine on the bar and walked toward them.

  “This is Riley Terry,” Brendan said. “Riley, this is K Smooth.”

  He held out a hand to her and she took it briefly. His fingers were long and tapered, almost graceful, but his grip was firm.

  “Call me Shawn,” he said. His voice was deep and somewhat raspy.

  She already knew from the Newsweek article that his real name was Kendall Shawn Gardner. And that he hated the name Kendall so people who knew him personally called him Shawn. The moniker K Smooth was something his friends made up when he was a teenager because he’d lied so convincingly to the multiple girls he was always dating at one time.

  “We have to leave for that interview in a few minutes,” Brendan said. “You can ride with us to the hotel and do your thing there when he’s done.”

  “I thought it was a radio interview,” Riley said, her eyes narrowing. Riding “to the hotel” did not sound like the best idea she’d heard all evening.

  “The radio station is in California.” Brendan seemed to sense her reluctance. “So the interview’s by phone.”

  “What’re you drinking?” Shawn asked her, setting his empty beer bottle on a nearby table. He seemed either not to have noticed – or cared about – the exchange between her and Brendan.

  “Chardonnay.”

  He raised a hand and called over a waiter, ordering himself another beer and a glass of white wine.

  The waiter brought their drinks and Riley sipped her wine self-consciously. It was her third glass – time to stop if she wanted to be on her toes for the interview. Brendan had left them alone and all of a sudden, though she had the perfect opportunity to begin cultivating rapport with her target, she couldn’t think of single thing to say.