Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [33]
“Whatsup, dude?”
“You’re not trying to slip away, are you?” Bart asked. As far as I was concerned, homeboy had just crossed the invisible line I had warned him about after our first meeting. I didn’t date men, and I certainly didn’t like them calling my office during the day to chitchat.
“Dude, I can’t talk right now. Let me get back to you,” I said.
“But what about our plans?”
“Plans? What plans?”
“I got tickets for us to see The Lion King. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Bart, I don’t like surprises.”
“Didn’t you get the messages I left for you at your house?”
“I haven’t been checking my messages. I’ve been tied up.”
“I’d like to tie you up,” Bart teased. There he was, crossing the line again.
“Bart, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I have other plans,” I said, suddenly feeling like letting Bart sample the beef could have been one of my biggest mistakes of the new millennium.
“Other plans that don’t include me? You are trying to get away. Now, don’t make me put you in a headlock, and you can take that any way you want to,” Bart said in a playful tone.
“I’m sure you’ve got some other friends that would enjoy the show, and I’ll pay for the ticket,” I said.
“It’s not about the money. It’s about our debut,” Bart said.
“Debut?”
“Yeah, as a couple,” Bart said.
“Dude, how can I get this through your head?” I said in a low, hushed tone. “We had a good time, but I told you I don’t date hardheads.”
“Yeah, I know, but I was hoping I could change your mind,” Bart said.
“Bart, look, I need to run. I’ll hit you back later,” I said as I got off the phone quickly. After that conversation, I needed to hit the gym and work out some of my tension, then go and find me some new pussy.
Other Divas and CP Time
I had been rehearsing for a couple of hours for my performance at the Roxy when one of the backup singers got on my last nerve. Paul Ellis, the musical director hired by Motown, had hired three backup singers for my act, two females and one male. The male singer, Guy, a decent-looking brother with a honey-smooth tenor voice, and Terri, the regulation backup big mama with her gospel sound, were just fine. But this skinny bitch named Dove, with holes in almost every part of her body, was giving me fits. First of all, I wanted to ask her why her mother named her after a bar of soap, but I had more pressing issues on my mind.
Every time I was getting my groove on with my songs, Miss Dove would start singing over me, with riffs and notes that were not part of the arrangement. At first, I tried to be nice. I walked closer to the singers and sang with them. When I asked them if they knew their parts, they all nodded and smiled, but when we started to sing again, the only voice I could hear was Miss Dove’s. I motioned for Paul to stop the music, and Michel came over and asked me if everything was okay.
“No, it’s not,” I said firmly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Dove’s singing over me, and she’s fucking everything up,” I said.
“You think so?”
“Can’t you hear her? She’s singing stuff that’s not even in my songs. I’ve asked her once to sing it the way I told her, but when we sing I can hear her trying to out sing me,” I said as I folded my arms to let Michel know that I wasn’t happy.
“But Dove is one of the top backup singers in the business. I think she’s pretty close to getting her own deal,” Michel said.
“Then let her sing that loud and that off-key with her own act. She’s not messing up mine.”
“Yancey, the Roxy performance is one week off. I don’t know if we can get another singer at this late date.”
“Then we’ll have to make do with Guy and Terri. Fire that bitch right now,” I demanded.
“Yancey, are you sure?”
“Fire her now!” I said as I stormed off the stage. When I got close to my dressing room, I heard the chatter of my assistant,