The Rhyme of Love (Love in Rhythm & Blues Book 2) Page 7

  Taking a deep breath, I tried blinking away the hurt. “I think it sounds incredible.” I tried for a smile. “Just perfect, Teke.”

  “Okay,” he pulled the paper closer and fixed the guitar in his hand, preparing to give it another go.

  “Yeah. I can work with this,” Jemah acquiesced, grabbing her copy. “Let’s break down the keys and harmonize.”

  Teke nodded in agreement and began to strum the strings of his guitar, and Jemah toyed with a few notes. They spent the next few minutes vocally arranging the song, all without the benefit of instruments other than Teke’s guitar that coincidentally sounded amazing.

  Later that night, at our studio session, Dave waited for us in the orchestra room next to a piano. This orchestra room was rather large. I was told it was built with enough space to accommodate a seventy-five-member orchestra. At the center stage of the vast room was a grand piano with a woman on the bench facing diagonally. She was white with milky skin and red thinning hair. She smiled infectiously, and the closer I grew to the stage, the more defined her features became. She was an older woman based on the lines in her face and the one-inch gray roots of her scalp.

  “Okay, guys. Tonight, we start talking composition. I know many of you have done a bit of this, but remember, this training is all encompassing. There was the way you’ve done composition, now learn how L.I.T. Music does it”—Dave waved his arm to bring into focus the woman—“with Diane Roberts. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with this modern-day legend, she hails from the U.K.…Croydon to be exact. She’s worked with countless upper echelon acts. Some before your time like Celine Dion, Michael Jackson, Andrea Bocelli, Sting, Barbara Streisand, and Whitney Houston, just to name a few.”

  I was familiar with most of those names and already convinced this woman had her time in the industry. His eyes roved down to her, seated at his side. Hers rose to meet his.

  “I wonder if they’re still fucking?” Teke, standing next to me, mumbled.

  My eyes flew wide.

  Dave continued, “Names you would recognize are Pixie, Adele, Ed Sheridan, Beyoncé, Alana, Taylor Swift, Ariana Grande…” he hesitated instead of stopping. My goodness! “Sam Smith…and Brielle.” He beamed down at her. “Funny how you crossed the pond just to work on her project.”

  “Young Lord called and…” She raised her palm.

  Dave laughed along with her. “Well, she’s hot off the plane from L.A. She’s been at work with Young Lord on Brielle’s new album, and she agreed to spend a few days at our camp here to share nuggets of experience.”

  Gasps and whispers sounded from our small group. I could tell they were surprised and stoked at the news. Teke and Irv slapped palms, expressing their excitement. I was happy my damn self. I couldn’t believe I was sharing the air with someone who was in the same room as Pixie and Brielle. Holy shit!

  “So,” Ms. Roberts cleared her throat. “I’ve been brought up to speed with what you’ve gone over so far. I do not profess to be a master but would love to share tidbits of what I look for and to, when building a song. Sometimes it begins with a chord.” She tapped a key on the baby grand. “And oftentimes, it begins with meaningful words, perhaps a line. Who are my writers here?” Several people raised their hands, Teke included. When he glanced my way and saw mine down, he raised it for me. Ms. Roberts’ eyes hit me and she frowned. “Why can you not answer honestly for yourself, love?”

  My belly leaped with anxiety. I glanced over to Teke, expressing my serious disdain for him in the moment.

  After licking my lips nervously, I answered, “Because I’ve not written anything—yet,” I qualified.

  “Oh, no?” she chirped, peering over to Dave.

  With a steady smile, he replied, “Wynter is our fresh investment…new blood with promising and untainted talent.”

  “Oh,” she remarked, midsection leaping as she did. “Do you have a particular piece you need developed?”

  Laughter sprinkled over the group I was amongst.

  “Try a whole damn book of ‘em,” Teke chuckled…with pride?

  Ms. Roberts’ face folded. “I don’t follow…”

  “Mrs. McKinnon here keeps a book of passionate poems she’s converting into lyrics,” Dave clarified.

  The woman nodded toward me. “Is that them there?”

  I glanced down and found my leather portfolio clutched in my hand. My head shot up. “Yea—yeah!” I cleared my throat. “Yes, it is.”

  “Anything you’re working on now?”

  “Yup,” Teke chimed in. “Me, her, and Jemah”—he pointed to Jemah on the other side of the group—“just put melody and vocals to one earlier this afternoon. We were hoping to record it tonight. Some dope shit.” He nodded with a compelling smile.

  With parted lips, my gaze bounced between him next to me and Ms. Roberts. After a beat, Ms. Roberts’ eyes trailed back up to Dave and murmured something we couldn’t hear, by design I was sure. She shrugged. “Okay. Let’s start there. Bring that magic book on up.”

  Dave spoke to her using the same volume. Her eyes seemed to have lit with new inspiration, and I knew my marital status had been discovered. I was just relieved to know her interest came first. I couldn’t move at first, inexplicably stuck on stupid as fuck. She spoke again, but I didn’t catch what she said. I then saw Teke and Jemah moving for the small stage.

  “Hey,” Teke called back to me en route. He stopped to wave me on. “Shake that shit off and let’s make history with this hit-maker.”

  I swallowed hard and willed my feet to move. When they did, I hit the stage, opened my portfolio to the piece we’d decided on, and the trio got to working on it right away. Teke and Jemah harmonized the first round. After, they gave their ideas for instrumentation and arrangement. Ms. Roberts added her recommendations as she tried out chords at the piano. The other members were released to work on their projects until it was their turn with Ms. Roberts. For the next two hours, I watched my first poem be translated into music—to be recorded next…or referenced, as they called it. The plan was to work on the song over the next couple of days and get it recorded as L.I.T. Music would do for pitching to one of their artists.

  This was all too much. Moving way too fast. As she was correcting, Ms. Roberts must have picked up on my mental distance at one point. Her soft hand rubbed over my stacked ones. My eyes trailed from the point of our connection to her blazing brown eyes.

  She smiled kindly. “It’s okay. You’ll get used to seeing them off to caring—and not so caring—hands soon enough, love.”

  I tried for a smile as I nodded, hoping to assure my over-dramatic behavior right now wasn’t as severe as it appeared.

  I could feel them at the side of my face. They were insistent, patient, yet determined. I turned to green eyes sparkling with a sentiment I knew could prove to be dangerous if I didn’t address it sooner or later. This was not just some lifetime dream I was achieving. Other lives—far more prominent and reputable than my aspirating title—were at play here and I needed to move with the smarts I came here with. I didn’t want to get lost in this fantasy of an opportunity and cause damage bigger than my layman mind could conceive.

  ~3~

  My last memory was of my hand grazing a small metal ball pierced into soft velvety flesh encasing a steel muscle when my eyes fluttered open. The phone…it was ringing from the nightstand. That’s when I realized my thumb and index were gripping the teardrop diamond pendant, rolling it back and forth. My eyes squeezed closed.

  Damn it!

  I’d dreamt about him. Again.

  Why?

  My phone ringing again snapped me out of my head. I pushed over onto my shoulder to get it. The random number with a distinct area code lit across the screen told me who it was. Damn… I almost missed this call.

  “Hey…”

  “Whaddup?” Van asked as though it was a decent hour.

  Here in Arizona, I was two hours ahead of him, and that two hours made a big difference no matter how
hard I tried keeping with my normal sleep and wake patterns.

  “Just waking up.”

  “Daaaaamn,” he sang. “I know that mouth hot!”

  I rolled my eyes at his teasing. “You hear from Ernestine?”

  “Nah. She ain’t speaking to me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Ernestine was Van’s second baby’s mother. They fought all the damn time.

  “She said her tire blew and she’s riding on a spare.”

  “Shit…” he swore under his breath. “Always some shit!”

  “Yup.” I yawned. “And so close to you getting out. When exactly?”

  “Soon. My lawyer said he’s waiting on the prosecutor to send the judge some documents. Then he can file a motion for dismissal.”

  Van didn’t sound as happy as a man who could smell his release should.

  “That’s great. And your court date is still in a couple of weeks?”

  “Less than that,” he mumbled.

  “Can’t wait.” I smiled. “I’ll be there with fucking bells on. I swear, I can’t wait for the nightmare to be over.” Then a thought came to mind. “You think you’ll still have your job at the garage?”

  “I sent a letter to old man Spence last week. Had MaMa call him the other day. Sounds like I’m good. Just gotta finally get outta here.”

  “Yeah.” I turned over to my back. “I hear you.” I licked my lips, eyes closed as I held my breath. “And we’re done with the bullshit. Right, Van?”

  “Look, Wyn—”

  My eyes shot open. “A simple yes or no would suffice.”

  For a while, I didn’t hear anything from Van. I could only hear the noise pollution of the happenings around him.

  “Damn, baby girl. Yeah. Hell, yeah!”

  I sighed deeply, wanting to believe him. I had no more tricks. What I’d done to help see him through this was extreme and a once in a lifetime type of deal. He’d be released soon. I still had the aftermath of my decision to deal with. I’d heard on BET last night how Mike Brown’s condition hadn’t improved. No arrest had been made, but the word was True Blue had his hand in this. Would he come for Ragee? Me?

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Aye…”

  “Yeah.”

  “You in love?”

  “Wha—” I flew up to a sitting position. “What?” When did Van talk about being in love?

  “You know what I mean. Like… This shit with your old man on the up and up?”

  Quickly, I caught myself. “I am married to him, Van.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Like… You kick it with that nigga? Like… On some real shit?”

  Where was he going with this?

  “He’s my husband, Van!”

  He went silent for a while, and that confused me even more.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah, Wynter. I’m here.” He exhaled harshly into the phone.

  Was he losing it in there? Had these six months behind bars gotten to his mental? I’d seen this countless times. Oftentimes, men didn’t have the mental wherewithal to endure jail and/or prison.

  “I ain’t never say this, but my bad on the Sheldon situation.”

  “Huhn?”

  “I know!” he grumbled. “I ain’t never really address the shit properly. I was too fucking caught up in my feelings about you sneaking behind my back… I felt betrayed, yo.”

  My forehead lifted, confused and hella surprised. “Betrayed? By me?”

  “Yeah…” didn’t come out exactly clear.

  “Why just me?” Here we go again with this shit! “He was your best friend—”

  “But you was family. My fucking sister. The one real smart and pretty. You may be from Garfield, but ya grandparents raised you like you was from fucking…Nutley. You was the light for me. The one I wanted to protect, yeah. But the one I ain’t never expect to fall for a nigga like Sheldon or me? We the same. You better than us.”

  With my face bowed and while pinching the bridge of my nose to manage the emotion, I shook my head. “No. Van, I wanted to be just like you. Wanted in your world. I’m sorry for going behind your back, fucking up your relationship.”

  “Nah. He did that. And then on top of it, got lil’ Reign pregnant—twice.”

  “Three times.”

  “What?”

  “She’s pregnant now. I’m surprised MaMa hasn’t told you.”

  There was an abbreviated pause. “Nah,” he sounded dazed. “She didn’t.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I found out in January. Guess I forgot to tell you, too.”

  That was true. I rarely thought of Reign. I’d programed my mind not to over the years.

  “Look. I gotta go. They gone end the call soon. But I want you to know I’mma handle that between you, her and Sheldon.”

  “That shit is old, Van.”

  “Nah. Just overdue. I’ll holla.”

  The line went dead. I dropped the phone from my ear and stared blankly at the face. What was that? We didn’t talk about Sheldon. Van established that years ago when he began speaking to me again after finding out about our relationship. Shit. I made it so we didn’t talk about Reign. The shit hurt, and the best way I dealt with that type of pain was by not speaking about it. Even Wanda knew the rule. Only little Miss Asia didn’t, but she’d know as soon as she was old enough.

  I pulled myself from the bed, needing the toilet. The toilet led me to the sink to wash my hands. Doing that propelled me to wash my face and brush my teeth. And while on auto-pilot doing that, I next found myself in the shower. That damn Van. Why would he broach the forbidden subject after all these years? Something was up.

  As I toed out into the bedroom for clothes, my mind wouldn’t slow. I just finished tossing on a bra and panties when I sat down to distract myself. Social media was always a great go-to when I needed a mental escape or to pass time—at least since being married to a celebrity. It didn’t take long to come across material related to my world, directly and indirectly. I saw a link to an article stating two arrests had been made in Mike Brown’s shooting. And predictably, they were Crips from Compton, California, home of True Blue.

  A few days after we returned from Saint Justin, a horrid video was released of True Blue’s children’s family being attacked by masked gunmen. Whispers circulated about the assailants in the video being affiliates of Mike. I knew Mike had his shit with him, including dark energy, but I had no idea he was the murderous type. A crook, perhaps. But a homicidal tyrant?

  Why the fuck did I check social media?

  I tossed my phone and went to the drawer to pull out a cut pair of shorts I bought before flying out here. I’d been so proud of my weight loss, I treated myself to them. I paired them with a long sleeved, oversized powder blue blouse. It was a rest day for me. I’d been going so hard since being here, my entire body ached. I got clowned last night by some in the group, saying it seemed as though I’d just had my first fuck.

  As I powdered on a little foundation, my phone rang again.

  “Hey, MaMa…” I wasn’t hesitant on that greeting, knowing a genuinely excited one wouldn’t be reciprocated.

  “It’s me,” was returned with even more timidity from Reign.

  “What’s up?” I pushed myself to continue with a light face.

  I’d soon have to find a car to take me into town.

  “MaMa told me to call you.”

  “Okay…”

  “She said you supposed to send her some money. Van told you to?”

  First of all, the money I’ve been sending her has been my own...

  Van asked me once since being arrested to look out for her. That was all he said.

  Because he knew you’d do exactly that…

  “I don’t know nothing about what Van said.” Then it hit me. “Can I speak to her?”

  I didn’t like this third party setup.

  “She in the bathroom,” Reign tried.

 
; “Then she can call me back when she gets out.”

  She stalled, and I knew. I understood why. MaMa had her call because she didn’t want to speak to me.

  “Wyn—”

  “I’m so sick of this shit,” I breathed, more to myself while pinching the bridge of my nose.

  I could feel a headache nearing.

  “She wants you to get your car—”

  She was interrupted by a familiar mal-matriarchal tone. “No. She need to get that shit off my damn property!”

  My brows lifted. “I see she’s out of the bathroom,” my tone sardonic.

  “Wyn—”

  “Tell her to give that shit to you! She high and mighty now. She ‘on’t need that shit,” MaMa kept with her long-thought-out theories. “She jealous of you. You know what that’s about. She jealous you can give your man all these babies and she couldn’t.”

  That was it.

  “Tell her I’ll have the money to her in a few hours.” I disconnected the call.

  The moment I hit the kitchen and expected empty quiet to fix my breakfast in peace, I see four male figures. My steps halted, taking in the scene before me and identifying everyone. Most were sitting, one standing, a few yawning, and all wore tight faces.

  Resuming my pace toward the fridge, I greeted them and asked, “What the hell are y’all doing up so early?”

  Teke turned from over the stove. The room smelled of glorious pork bacon, a delectable food I hadn’t had in months.

  “Oh, hey,” his vocals were thicker than usual, a little raspy, too.

  I grabbed cottage cheese and blueberries from the fridge and placed them on the counter before going for a bowl. Teke’s eyes were on me until I peered at him directly. He went back to the stove.

  “No one’s answered my question. What are you doing up this early?”