“You all have been sucking off me like big fat ticks,” she said so quietly that her brother was momentarily stunned. “I got into this music industry with hard work and to you all it’s just a game— but this is my life.”
“We all are supposed to stick together, you know Mom said so before she died,” Antwan stammered. “When one has, all have.”
Anita shook her head as tears came to her eyes. “Still running that same old tired bull, huh? It’s sad, ‘Twan. Well, it’s not going to work anymore.”
The siblings looked at each other for what felt like a long time. Anita drew a weary breath as the tears fell from her eyes. Resentment roiled within her like a silent storm. Instead of bodyguarding her and protecting her from the sick bastard who was stalking her, her brothers were laying up with women and so high they couldn’t do the job she was supposedly paying them for.
Not to mention that, listening to their advice, she’d moved from soulful R&B to attempting rap as a way to make fast money, more money— because of them. But that had only been to pay off spiraling debt that they’d created. The result had been disastrous to her reputation and career. Now she was given a chance to do a comeback tour of sorts, her big break back into R&B, and they were acting like this?
“I bought you all houses—”
“Oh, here we go,” her brother said, blowing out a breath of exasperation and beginning to pace. “Wait, let me guess . . . We’re supposed to be grateful till the day we die because you bought us some cheap-ass, three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar houses in Philly and—”
“I bought us all houses that we could afford to keep up in a normal, suburban community, if my career tanks. Me, you, Derrick, and Pops— and the only reason I got those so inexpensively was because the bottom dropped out of the housing market. Same with the cars. I couldn’t go buying Maseratis and Lamborghinis; I got you guys something fly but moderate— like a Lexus, a Benz, and not some mess you see on Access Hollywood. Do you know what the insurance alone is on a Bentley, not to mention the maintenance? Be serious. I don’t even drive that kinda car. And for the record, it cost me almost a cool one-point-five for four homes, by the time I loaded on taxes, titles, and insurance, okay? Be clear— there was nothing cheap about what I did for you guys!”
Fury made her walk a hot path between the sofa and the love seat, talking with her hands as she spoke. She couldn’t believe her brother was so naïve and so terribly ungrateful.
“You know how fickle this music business is, ‘Twan,” Anita snapped, stopping to place her hands on her hips. “How many artists have tax problems or have these big mansions that they can’t afford to maintain or heat after their careers crash and burn, huh? You wanna go back to living in Bartram Village Projects in Southwest Philly, if say, next year, my new R&B album doesn’t go platinum? That’s why I got us all something we could manage after the music dies. So don’t you start trippin’.”
She needed her brother to understand that the gravy train was over, and so was all the waste and partying at her expense. Common sense told her to diversify, invest in a potential future that didn’t involve strutting on the stage half-naked and belting out scandalous lyrics. The money was great, but the grind was wearing her down and wearing her out . . . and after Jonathan walked out on her, she knew her days in the industry were numbered. Nobody crossed Jonathan Evans and had her career survive more than a season. When her brother simply rolled his eyes at her, she pressed on.
“Listen,” she said, more calmly. “I have paid off all your debts at least two or three times. I’ve even taken care of your baby mamas . . . and all you do is run up bills like I’m Santa Claus.”
When he only grunted a response, she glanced at the duplicate stack of hotel check-out folios on the coffee table that she’d requested, the ones that now more accurately separated out all the expenses by room instead of putting everything under her name, and then just stared at her brother. “I came to the Trump Plaza to work. While you guys were ordering champagne and having a grand ole good time, I was doing back-to-back concerts, working my tail off. I have to work to keep all this going.”
Antwan tied his sheet in a knot around his waist tighter and then folded his arms. “You act like nobody else works, ’Nita . . . like, I’m on security with Derrick, your so-called driver, and Pops is—”
“Oh, save it,” she said with a wave of her hand, cutting her brother off. It was all a sham and she flopped down hard on the white sofa and closed her eyes. “You’re on security? Right . . . smoking blunts, running women, and drunk at every one of my shows. I might as well call a cab, waiting on Derrick to bring the car around because he’s always got some hoochie in there and not where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be. We already know somebody is stalking me, leaving things under my hotel room door,
in the hallway of my apartment building, just to let me know he can. That scares me. You’d think that would scare you too, as my brother.” Her voice broke as she pressed her hands to her chest, truly feeling the heartache of loving people who were so callous in the way they cared for her in return. “If somebody wanted to do me real harm—”
“Me and Derrick would be all over it, just like when we was kids, ’Nita,” her brother argued. “Just like Pops is handling your business.”
She laughed and it came out as a sad, hollow sound as she opened her eyes and looked up at her brother, shaking her head. She remembered the time when they had nothing, and she and her brothers stood as a united front against anything going down in the old neighborhood . . . but that was so long ago. Now she didn’t know who to trust.
“You really think I’d let Pops know about all my contracts and what I’m working on? Do I look crazy to you? After the way he mismanaged my transition into an area of music I should have never gone near, not to mention the public relations insanity that he got me into just to create controversy and media attention, as he put it . . . why would I ever let him handle my reemergence into R&B?”
“So you’ve been holding out on the family?” Antwan said, sounding indignant and completely missing her point.
“Pops can’t manage his way out of a paper bag, and it’s disgraceful the way he’s behaving— all the women, all the scandal . . . now I know why Mom left him while she was alive. Me, like a dummy, I fell for the ‘I’m your daddy and I need you back in my life’ scam. I only did it because I missed Mom so much— but she never conducted her life like this.”
“Conducted, well, ain’t we high siddity now?” Antwan said, mimicking her in a high-pitched voice. “You can take the girl out of the projects, but you can’t take the projects out of the girl, ’Nita. You need to be real and stop trying to be somebody you’re not! Using fancy words and—”
“I’m trying to educate myself! Trying to get better! Trying to grow! Why don’t you try to do the same with your free time?”
“Why don’t you stop judging people, especially me, D, and—”
“Who? Our father?” Anita popped off the sofa like a bee had stung her. “I’m tired of hanging around people who get up in the morning high, continue the day with liquor and don’t even remember the names of who they’ve slept with the night before! Do you know their names?” Anita pointed toward the bedroom door and when her brother didn’t immediately answer her, the words just rushed past her lips. “I’m tired of being around big kids— who play video games all day long, and . . . and . . . why am I even talking to you?”
“You need to go smoke a blunt and chill out is what you need to do— it’s too early in the goddamned morning for all of this,” her brother said, waving her off.
“It’s eleven-thirty, a half hour before noon,” Anita said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Whateva,” her brother said, heading back to the bedroom.
“My bags are packed and I’ve checked out— on time.”
“So . . . what’s that got to do with me?” he muttered, reaching for the bedroom door.