Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (26 page)

CHAPTER 20

Vanessa

T
wo large bodyguards shielded Marcus as he strode out of the front entrance of the W hotel, holding back the crowd of screaming fans and groupies clamoring for his autograph and attention. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and slipped into the back of the waiting SUV next to me. One of the bodyguards took the driver’s seat after closing the door behind Marcus while the other folded his large frame into the front passe
nger seat.

“It’s done,” my husband said as he took my hand and brought it to
his lips.

“Good,” I said quietly as I smoothed down the front of my strapless red sequined Versace gown, trying to hold myself back from asking for the details of his final meeting with Laila James. Had she cried? Had she begged him to stay? Had she
screamed?

I looked out the window as the chauffeured SUV turned out of the crowded hotel parking lot and glided smoothly down the dark Phoenix city streets on the way to our next engagement. I could tell that Marcus was dreading this one as well, but at least this time I would be right by his side as he delivered the unfortu
nate news.

I felt my phone vibrating in my Alexander McQueen snakeskin box clutch. When I took it out, I saw a text message from Nia a
nd smiled.

We found ur stalker. He won’t b bothering U anym
ore. TTYL.

I exhaled deeply as I put the phone back into my clutch. Even after our fight this afternoon, I trusted Nia with my life. She wouldn’t play with something this serious, so I knew if she said this person wouldn’t be bothering us anymore, then my family and I were safe. I looked over at my husband and thought about telling him, but he looked deep in thought about how life was about to change forever. I’ll tell him later o
n tonight.

“Hey,” I said to Marcus as I squeezed his hand and searched his eyes. “Baby, don’t worry. You’re doing the right thing. You have no othe
r choice.”

“I know, but do we have to do this
tonight?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I said gently but firmly. “We do. I
t’s time.”

“I know, baby. I just never imagined we’d end up here after everything we’ve been through
together.”

“I know, honey,” I said, stroking his hand lightly with my glossy silver nails. “I didn’t, either.” That last part was a lie, but he didn’t need to
know that.

I opened my Christian Dior compact to freshen my makeup. Felecia, my makeup artist, had done a wonderful job. My dark brown skin glowed, the golden bronzer highlighted my cheeks, and the silver and gold smoky eye shadow and long silk eye lash extensions really made my eyes pop. I applied another coat of glossy red Versace lipstick and then smoothed down the sides of my hair. The stylist had flat-ironed my thick black hair into supersleek straight waves with a jagged part down the middle. And he had sworn on his life that it would stand up to the desert heat. I didn’t want to look crazy on the red carpet when we got to Kevin Hart’s comedy jam later on t
hat night.

The SUV made a left turn into the parking lot of the Nikko Tower. Designed by the Orito Group out of Japan to great acclaim, it was a stunning sixty-floor construct of twisted burnished metal and glass, and it was one of Phoenix’s newest and most exclusive office buildings. We stepped out into the evening’s dry heat, and the bodyguards escorted
us into the glass lobby’s cool interior. A lone security guard stood watch at a large marble desk facing a bank of computer monitors in the center of the modern lobby. The only sound was that of a janitor cleaning the already sparkling floors with an automatic polisher. Out of the bank of thirty elevators a bespectacled man in a dark navy-blue pinstriped suit and red tie made his way o
ver to us.

“Mr. and Mrs. King, welcome,” the man said, and his voice had the faintest hint of a British accent. “I’m James Van Helsen. And I’ve been asked to bring you both up to the executive boardroom on the seventie
th floor.”

“Thank you, James,” I said. As I looped my arm through Marcus’s, I could feel his body tense over what he knew he needed to do. I hoped he wasn’t getting
cold feet.

“Now, will your security team be joining us, or will they be waiting for you in the lobby?” James asked the b
oth of us.

Before Marcus could speak, I
jumped in.

“They’ll be joining us for the first meeting but not the second,” I sa
id firmly.

“Very good, Mrs. King. We’re happy to have them join the first meeting, but I’m afraid I must ask an indelicate question. Are these gentlem
en armed?”

“Yes, of course
,” I said.

“Unfortunately, as a matter of protocol, no weapons are allowed on the seventieth floor. So I’m afraid I must ask that they leave their weapons down here.” James motioned for the security guard to come over to us and addressed our bodyguards. “If you don’t mind, could you place your weapons in this security box? You can claim them straight away when you come back down to the lobby. Clarence won’t let anything happen, I can assure yo
u of that.

“If you’ll just follow me
this way.”

I signaled to Bruce and Tyson, who I knew could kill anyone with their bare hands in seconds to protect this family, to hand over their weapons. They opened their suit jackets and removed nine-millimeter guns from their holsters and placed them in the metal box. James closed the box, locked it, and gave the key
to Bruce.

“Thank you so much for your understanding. Now if you will all follow me
, please.”

James began to lead us over to the bank of elevators, and my Rick Owens ankle-wrap stilettos clicked along the marble floor. James inserted
a key in the panel on the wall, and the doors to a private elevator opened. There were only two buttons on the panel on the inside of this elevator, one for the lobby and one for the seventieth floor. James once again inserted the key and then pushed the button for the top floor. The elevator silently glided up to the top floor of the building, and then the doors opened into a large reception area framed all around by a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the twinkling Phoenix skyline and the desert mountains. A receptionist with a severe black bob, wearing a black dress with a mandarin collar, sat behind a large walnut reception desk, typing on a computer. She barely looked up at us as James escorted us past her desk as if it were normal to see a meeting conducted at this hour on a Fri
day night.

We walked down a long carpeted hallway, its walls decorated with works of art I had only previously seen in art books or museums. I must have counted at least two Picassos and a Renoir by the time we made it to the end of the hallway and stood in front of two walnut doors with brushed metal handles shaped like r
ams’ ears.

“Are you ready, Mr. and Mrs. King?” James asked, turning to us as he stopped in front of
the doors.

I looked at my husband because, even though I had gotten us to this point, he was the one who had to make the f
inal call.

“Yes,” he said firmly as he inhaled deeply. I clasped his hand tightly and gave it a reassurin
g squeeze.

“Very well,” James said as he pushed open the doors. The executive boardroom was one of the largest rooms I had ever seen. The same bank of floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the skyline in here as well. We made our way into the room as James escorted us down to the end of the long glass table that sliced down the center of the room. A stenographer, a blond woman also in a black dress with a mandarin collar, was seated on the opposite side of the table, fingers poised above the keys and ready to begin. Two men in dark suits got up from their chairs as we approached, and James introd
uced them.

“Mrs. and Mrs. King, please meet Cedric Jameson and Cristoff Warner, the two senior partners who will be overseeing this evening’s transaction.” We shook hands with the two men, who both looked to be in their early fifties, and then we took our seats next to them at the table. James instructed Bruce and Tyson to stand by
the door.

With that, James left the room and returned a few minutes later with a familiar face through a side door at the same end of
the room.

“What the hell is going on, Marcus?” Kareem thundered as he walked into the boardroom and saw his best friend, his wife, and their lawyers. James instructed him to take a seat across the table from us and then sat down in the empty chair n
ext to me.

The stenographer bega
n to type.

CHAPTER 21

Nia

T
he photographers screamed out names to get the line of reality TV stars, R&B singers, and rappers to stop along the red carpet so that they could get their shot. But as soon as the woman of the hour hit the carpet for her premiere party, only one name
was heard.

Her firm golden-brown body was encased in a flesh-toned strapless minidress laced with chunks of crystal in strategic places. One shiny cluster hugged each of her full breasts, another fanned across her bikini line, and then a line snaked down the back of the dress over the crack of her ample bottom. Her long light brown hair with golden highlights was piled down the center of her head in a cascading Mohawk of curls. Her fire-engine-red lips curved into a seductive smile as she placed her gold-studded talons on her hips and blew kisses to the phot
ographers.

“Laila! Lail
a! Laila!”

Glam Network’s newest star had turned the pack of photographers into a frenzied pool of sharks all trying to get the perfect shot of the one-of-a-kind dress that with one false move would present a priceless image. MJ and I watched Laila pirouette on her sky-high Christian Louboutin crocodile and sequined platform pumps on the red carpet while she waved to the screaming fans lined up five rows deep behind the police barricades
in front o
f Inferno.

Luckily, the
DivaDish
video team had prime placement in order to live stream the party on our website. So far, Tanya, the reality show’s executive producer, had told me we had about seventy-five thousand people logged on, and she expected that number to grow throughout the night as they kept posting updates a
nd photos.

MJ and I made our way through the tight security line into the already
packed nightclub. DJ Kid Capri, who we had flown in from New York, was lighting up the turntables and waved at us from the
DJ booth.

“Looks like a packed house,” I said, trying to make myself heard over
the noise.

“Yeah, good turnout,” said MJ, whose black suit was accessorized with oversize chrome zippers along t
he lapels.

“Great party for our last hurrah,” I said as I hung on MJ’s shoulders. I had told him that once I revealed this cover, I was probably going to get fired. So for the second time in a year, we’d both be out of a job over something I did. MJ took it all in stride as usual and said we should enjoy the night because there was no telling what mig
ht happen.

“Now why aren’t you on the red carpet taking pictures with the person you’re hosting this party for, Miss Thing?” MJ said, moving his little skinny hips to the beat of Beyoncé’s “Drunk
in Love.”

“You know why,” I huffed. “It’s bad enough I have to host this damn party for the woman sleeping with my best friend’s man, but I don’t have to take any damn pictures with her, too!” Besides, even though I was looking good in the short Junya Watanabe floral lace shift dress and Manolo Blahnik black patent leather booties MJ had picked out for me, I wasn’t trying to stand next to someone basically wearing a body
stocking.

“I think someone may disagree with that,” MJ said in his singsong voice as I turned around to face someone tapping me on the
shoulder.

“Why aren’t you taking pictures with Laila?” DeAnna snapped. She was dressed in a fitted red suit with skinny pants and sans blouse, her large breasts visible between the curved lapels of the suit. Her long black hair was slicked back in a severe chignon at the nape of
her neck.

“I was coming in to check on how things were going,” I yelled as DJ Nice started the opening chords of Jay Z’s “99 Problems” and the clu
b erupted.

“What?” she screamed back at me, straining to hear what I was saying as people rushed by, jostling her to get to the dance floor at the center of the two-story club. I decided to use this to my advantage, so I moved my lips, saying nothing, and made a few hand gestures like I had to go find someone, and then turned and left her standing there. Hopefully she would get crushed in the
stampede.

As MJ and I made our way deeper into the club and headed upstairs to
the VIP section, I saw Miki Woods in a black suit, lounging on one of the white sofas and chatting with comedian Kevin Hart. I knew I needed to talk to her now before the cover was revealed and Laila, our new corporate brand thanks to the merger, was humiliated, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Once it came out, the only thing left to say would be, “Nice working with you.” I flashed my all-access pass at the security guard stationed at the VIP entrance, and he removed the rope to let me in. From the tray of one of the waiters I accepte
d a La-lini, t
onight’s signature champagne cocktail compliments of tonight’s other sponsor, Mo
ë
t, and made my way ove
r to Miki.

“Hi, Nia,” Miki squealed when she saw me, jumping up from the couch. She introduced MJ and me to Kevin, who gave us some passes for his midnight comedy showcase and told us he expected to see
us there.

“All right, all right, all right!”
I said, making an embarrassing attemp
t to impersonate Kevin’s dad from his famous act. He and MJ just looked at me like I was stupid as hell. I took another large sip of my drink. MJ shook his head and walked Kevin out of VIP, hopefully explaining to him that I’d suffered a brain injury a
s a child.

“How’s it going, Miki?” I said, sitting down next to her on the sofa and taking a sip of my champagne
cocktail.

“I’m good. Great party, Nia. Congratulations.” Miki held up her own glass for a toast. We clinke
d glasses.

“Thanks, Miki
,” I said.

“Now that Glam Network is a part of PrimeTime Media, there are big plans in the works. The key word is expansion. We’re going to need people with bold ideas, fresh perspectives, and the ability to execute. I hear good things about you, and from what I’ve seen, you got this partnership up and running quickly for the launch of Laila’s show, so I’d say you are one of those people. Would y
ou agree?”

I was taken aback by her question. While I knew I was good at what I did, I didn’t expect she’d be thinking so highly of me in a few minutes when the new cover with Vanessa’s story and fake interview with Marcus were
revealed.

“I like to think I have some good ideas,” I said, not wanting to put myself out there too far, seeing as DeAnna would probably be firing me by the end of
the night.

“Don’t play yourself short, Nia. As a woman of color in the business world, you can’t afford to do that. You’ve got to learn how to promote your value. Look, I know good talent when I see it, and I look forward to expanding this partnership and getting things moving in exciting new di
rections.”

She was right. Whoever got anywhere by not stepping up and showing people what she could do? No one. And even though I was quite sure I would end the night unemployed, I spent the next twenty minutes talking to Miki about all the ideas that I had shared with DeAnna over the last six months that she’d either ignored or shoved in a drawer never to see the light of day. She seemed especially interested in my ideas about creating local content with the
DivaDish
brand in ten ke
y markets.

“Where would you start?” Miki asked. It had been so long since anyone had showed a genuine interest in my ideas, I almost thought she was being
sarcastic.

“I’d like to start in DC and capture that entire Maryland, Virginia, DC market, and then explore Atlanta, Detroit, Houston, Chicago, Charlotte, St. Louis as key markets, and then conduct some research to identify the next four
targets.”

“That’s a great idea. And do you think you could handle all those editions along with your current responsi
bilities?”

“Absolutely, I have a great team. They are nimble, hardworking, and passionate about t
he brand.”

Just as I finished talking about my team, DeAnna squeezed through the VIP crowd and made her way over to us. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she wasn’t happy to see me talking to Miki. She also expected me to get up and make room for her nex
t to Miki.

“Hi, DeAnna,” Miki said. “I was just complimenting Nia on this great party and discussing some of her exciting plans for the
DivaDish
brand. Sounds like you’ve got a real win
ner here.”

Damn, now why’d she have to go and tell DeAnna all that? Even though she had dismissed or ignored most of my ideas, I knew DeAnna was extremely territorial and wouldn’t like hearing that I was discussing anything about the
Diva
brand with Miki. As I began to get up from the sofa to make room for Miki, MJ walked over with a microphone
and Laila.

“It’s time for the cover reveal,” he said, handing me the microphone. He might as well have said, “It’s time to walk the plank.” “They want you and Laila over by the railing overlooking the dance floor, and Tanya will project the cover image on the wall above the DJ booth and then roll the clip of Lail
a’s show.”

MJ led Laila and me over to the railing and gave me the microphone. Laila’s makeup artist rushed over to powder her nose and freshen her lipstick. Her hairstylist quickly fluffed up her curls. I looked down and saw Tanya Peoples getting her crew into position on
the stage.

MJ spoke into his headset to cue DJ Nice to cut the music and introduce me, and then MJ gave me the cue to start
speaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of
DivaDish
, Mo
ë
t, and Glam Network, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the world premiere party for Laila James’s hot new reality show,
Whatever Laila Wants
!” The room erupted in cheers, whistles, and thunderous applause. Just as I was about to reveal the cover, Laila grabbed the microphone from my hand and stepped in fr
ont of me.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Laila purred into the microphone as she blew kisses down to the cheering fans below. “Welcome to my party for my new show,
Whatever Laila Wants . . .
I’d like to thank Glam Network for launching my show and Moët for sponsoring this fabulous party. Can we get a hand for Moët and Glam Network, e
verybody?”

I couldn’t believe she was snubbing me and the
DivaDish
brand at the party we were hostin
g for her.

“And now, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. It’s the world premiere of my clip from my new show,
Whatever Laila Wants . . .
Hit it!” Since Tanya had been instructed to show the cover first and then the video, it took her a few seconds to pull up the
show clip.

“I said, roll the clip!” Laila said forcefully with a hard smile on her face. “Let’s give these people a sneak peek at what they really cam
e to see!”

The clip for
Whatever Laila Wants
began to play, showing various scenes of Laila in New York City and Los Angeles. There were clips of Laila shopping, dipping in and out of luxury boutiques, trying on lingerie, in business meetings, out at nightclubs surrounded by groups of men, and, of course, the requisite celebrity cameos. But the part of the clip that caused my stomach to drop was the way the producer had interspersed allusions to her relationship with Marcus. There was Laila rolling around in a hotel suite wearing a number 17 New York Gladiators jersey and panties reading the
New York Daily
story about her and Marcus getting caught leaving the hotel, footage of her at Gladiator games, cheering on the sidelines, and cutaways that made it look like Marcus was waving to her. This was much worse than I could have even imagined. I looked over at MJ and motioned for him to close his mouth, which was hanging open in shock. Laila looked back at me and sneered before turning to address her f
ans again.

“So what do y’all think?” Laila roared, pumping her fist in the air, which caused her skimpy dress to rise, nearly displacing the strategically placed crystals of her gown. “Did your girl Laila put it down
or what?”

The crowd in the club started cheering in
response.

“Laila! Laila! Lail
a! Laila!”

“Are y’all ready for the drama?” she asked, holding out the microphone for the crowd’s
response.

“Are you ready for
the sexy?”

“Are you ready for my
new show!”

I needed to get out of there and get some air, but I knew I had to do my job first. I snatched back the microphone as Laila adjusted
her dress.

“One more round of applause for Laila James, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd cheered again and then quieted down as I motioned for silence. “As Laila mentioned, this is her night, and it’s a special one as she prepares to launch her exciting new reality show. Well, we all know nothing makes for a better reality show than a little drama, so with that I present the new cover of
DivaDish
magazine and our exclusive interview with Vane
ssa King!”

Tanya punched the button on her computer, and the cover of Vanessa King announcing her pregnancy was revealed. There was a loud audible gasp from the crowd as everyone took in the beautiful image of Vanessa cradling her stomach and read the cover line about her and Marcus working things out. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers that were even louder than before. Suddenly they began chant
ing again.

“Vanessa! Vanessa! Vanessa!
Vanessa!”

“What the fuck is this?” screamed Laila, not realizing the microphone I was holding was still hot and that the cameras from the live stream were trained right on her. Her face was twisted into an ugly mask, her mouth in a menac
ing scowl.