Sex, Secrets and South Beach (13 page)

August 2001

T
he Miami streets were so hot that visible
heat
waves rose from the asphalt
like steam from a griddle. Desiree's thin white wife beater was
moist and slightly transparent from her perspiration, accentuating
her full breasts. As she walked, she lifted her long hair on top of
her head in an attempt to feel cooler, but it was futile. There was
absolutely no breeze.

Desiree frowned, thinking that she
would look like a sweaty pig by the time she got to the music video
casting. She'd only been outside for a short five minutes, as long
as it took to walk from a parking lot two blocks over to the
National Hotel on Collins. But the relentless Miami sun had already
done its damage. Her long, curly hair felt frizzy and limp, and she
was certain that her eye makeup was smeared halfway down her face.
Not that it would matter. Desiree could have rolled out of bed and
gone to the casting in her PJ s and still been the finest woman
there.

The record company holding
the casting, Titanium Records, was the new shit bumpin' out of car
speakers and club systems all over North America. With over 10
million records sold in the label's short history, it was quickly
on its way to being an urban music legend. It burst onto the scene
like a supernova, hitting the public with a banging album sprinkled
with high-profile cameos, a glossy music video, and a fashion line
all at once. Its star artist, Bentley, had a number 1 hit on
the
Billboard
charts and was moving serious units, according to
SoundScan.

At twenty-four Bentley was
the biggest thing in hip-hop. Reminiscent of L.L. back in the day,
his pretty boy/thug image played well with TRL's demographic as
well as
106 & Park's
audience. He was most recently featured in
People's
Hottest 25
stars under twenty-five, ranking at an astonishing number 3. Not
bad for a guy from the projects whose album had only been out four
months. Blacks, whites, Latinos - it didn't matter. Everybody was
feelin' Bentley, especially Desiree. Ever since she'd seen him on
the cover of
XXL
,
she'd wanted him, and it was not like Desiree to get starstruck.
She got over that shit long ago. She made it a rule not to date any
more athletes or entertainers until she made it herself.

Desiree was determined to set the
music industry on fire. She made sure to spend at least a couple of
hours a day writing and boning up on her freestyling skills. When
she was with Dirty Dan, she'd written tons of lyrics and filled
several notebooks with raps that she shared with him. She knew he
liked her flow from his expression as he read her raps, and when
she freestyled, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. And on more
than one occasion he used some of her verses, chalking them up to
coincidence when she confronted him. Every time she threatened to
leave him, he'd promised her the sun, moon, and stars to lure her
back in, but nothing of substance ever materialized. Sure, she
appeared in some of his videos and did backup vocals on some of his
tracks, but it became obvious that Dan's idea of making her a star
was limited to recording her moaning statements like "Fuck me in
the ass really fast, Dirty Dan" and "Ooh, I like it doggy-style" on
his tracks. Desiree learned that it wasn't smart to shit where you
ate; besides, artists rarely had any power to make real decisions
anyway; they were all controlled by something or someone bigger,
richer, and more powerful. Dating an entertainer seemed to be an
exercise in futility. However, just looking at Bentley gave her a
rush. He made her body feel flushed and hot. And now she was going
to work with him if things went her way.

Desiree headed straight for the
bathroom as a blast of frigid air hit her upon entering the hotel
lobby. The casting had only been in session for about an hour, but
there were already what appeared to be over a hundred girls there
spilling out of a conference room into the bar area.

Even the restroom was crowded as
Desiree made an attempt to freshen up. She splashed her face with
cool water and gently patted it dry with a hard, crunchy paper
towel. She used her fingers to wipe away the eyeliner that had slid
from her amber-colored eyes, and then rummaged through her Louis
Vuitton baguette for an eyeliner pencil and some MAC Lipglass.
Desiree was fortunate that she didn't really need makeup. Her large
hazel eyes were framed by naturally long, dark, curly lashes, her
honey-colored skin was smooth, even, and clear. Her full, pouty
lips were such a deep pink that if she just slicked on some clear
gloss, it looked as if she were wearing lipstick. Desiree finished
up by putting her hands under the faucet, then running them through
her hair. Just a bit of water was enough to banish the frizzies and
re-activate her natural curls.

Her wife-beater looked a little
wrinkled, so she tied it tightly behind her back in a small knot,
making her breasts look enormous and her tight waist even smaller.
Desiree turned around to inspect her rear. Her Brazilian-cut jeans
dipped dangerously low over her voluptuous ass. Desiree noticed
that several of the models in the ladies' lounge were staring at
her. They recognized her from her other appearances in music
videos, no doubt.

Desiree was a ghetto superstar, or at
least that was her rationale. Over the last two years she'd been in
over twenty music videos for rappers and R&B singers. She had
even made appearances in Kid Rock and Aerosmith videos. She
couldn't take all the credit; Dan had introduced her to her
manager, and it was her appearance in the music video for his song
"Doggy Style" that had first put her face out there. Now as the
reigning queen of video, you couldn't tune into BET or MTV without
seeing her face. Desiree was in heavy rotation. And lately, Desiree
had been getting more work that wasn't video-related, like print
ads for urban fashion lines, as well as a hair care ad.

Desiree was smart, and made sure that
the more visible she became, the more she charged. She wasn't some
cheap video ho, happy to be hobnobbing with the stars. This was a
business! She'd met plenty of so-called celebrities in her days as
an exotic dancer and during the year that she was with Dan. She
considered herself to be on their level. She was a future star, not
a groupie. Besides, she was a hustler. She knew the game. She
commanded a day rate of two thousand dollars, and sometimes more if
they were really big stars, while those cheap chicks were thinking
they were doing the damn thang making two hundred a day if they
were lucky. Strippers made more money than them! Desiree wasn't a
supermodel making ten grand a day, but she was a far cry from her
humble beginnings, and definitely several steps above the other
girls.

Desiree found a way to flip whatever
she made, and if she couldn't flip it, she just stashed it. Now a
frugal and savvy businesswoman, Desiree had managed to save a nice
little piece of money, have all her bills paid for her, and live a
lavish lifestyle by never breaking her cardinal rule learned from
Dan: avoid spending your own money at all costs.

Desiree never paid for anything if she
could help it. She'd learned early on that was the way celebrities
rolled. They walked around like the world owed them a favor; and
they could afford to pay for anything, but they were always looking
for the hookup. Desiree believed that the first steps to becoming a
success were to look the part, walk the walk, and talk the talk. If
she surrounded herself with successful people, acted like them,
went where they went, and did what they did, she'd soon be where
they were.

She'd even acquired quite an
impressive array of jewelry, ranging from custom-made pieces
designed by Jacob the Jeweler of New York's Diamond Quasar, to
baubles from Tiffany and Cartier. Like Marilyn said, diamonds were
a girl's best friend. She also had a wardrobe of furs that she only
wore when out of town, because it never got cold in Miami. Some of
her gear and accessories she got from video sets, but most were
gifts from her "friends," the men she "dated" who helped to provide
the lifestyle she had grown accustomed to.

She peeped the other girls' reactions
before leaving. She adjusted her jewelry, a platinum cross, and
positioned her hands so that they would catch the gleam of her
platinum and pave diamond ring. She did it just for spite, so those
females wouldn't get it twisted and confuse her with one of them.
Who did they think they were fooling with their rhinestones and
Austrian crystals anyway?

I got them bitches
shook!
she thought to herself, grinning.
She knew the type of things they would probably say about her when
she left. They'd call her stuck-up, or a ho and a slut, and yak
about what they'd heard. But Desiree didn't give a fuck. She knew
they were just jealous and intimidated. They all wanted to be where
she was. But if any of those girls had hopes of dethroning her,
they were mistaken. She wasn't just any bitch, she was
that
bitch.

Desiree eyed a skank in a tight purple
spandex getup with holes cut out down the sides. Some bitches just
didn't have a clue. She gave greetings to some of the other models
she knew or had worked with before, but kept it light and casual.
She wasn't in the business to make friends. Hell, she wasn't even
there to make money. She was there to be a star! Every video was
just another step closer to her ultimate goal.

Desiree had a plan. She'd always had
plans, but somehow they'd managed to go astray. But she was a smart
girl who learned from her mistakes. Her setbacks had been the
result of relying too heavily on the grace of others. She'd gone
about finding fame and fortune the wrong way–waiting for some man
to hook her up. Ginger had tried to warn her. Desiree had been too
stubborn to listen, but no more. Men were okay to fuck to pay the
bills and buy clothes and the like, but that was it. Real success
was going to be the result of her talent.

She was going to parlay her video
success into a record deal of her own. She'd just finished a demo
that she had actually paid for with her own money. That was an
investment in herself that she wanted full control over. A&R
reps from indie labels had heard it and offered her deals, but they
were not what she was trying to hear. When she came out, she was
coming out hard. She wasn't going to be some puppet, or a backdrop
to the niggas that had put her down with their label. She'd leave
that to Vita and Charli Baltimore. Both girls were beautiful and
had skills, but somehow hadn't reached the level of success of some
of their less talented male counterparts.

She could keep on modeling if she
wasn't going to have any say-so about her career. She knew her
product was hot. And once her demo landed in the right hands, she'd
be on her way to platinum success. After she was established as a
rapper, she planned on tackling movies. Maybe she'd even win an
Oscar or something. She was just as pretty as Halle Berry or Salma
Hayek. And she was damn sure sexier than Nicole Kidman!

She looked at the wannabes. None of
them were talking about anything but auditions and bookings and
agents. None of them had shit but were busy trying to impress each
other. They were all scratching to be cast, hoping to be seen. They
were hungry, but not in the same sense as Desiree. They were all
living from job to job, waiting tables or working some other job
part-time to make ends meet. Desiree couldn't understand how some
girls who had so much potential were so stupid.

Once at a casting she'd heard a hater
saying she "wanted to make it, but she wasn't going to whore
herself out doing it." Desiree understood how the girl felt, but
she also knew that she was trying to be slick because the girl
looked at her when she made the comment. Desiree chose to ignore
it. What did her and her friends think modeling was anyway? It was
nothing more than legal prostitution. Their agents were the pimps,
collecting the bread while the girl did all the work, claiming to
be there to "protect" them and their interests. And like pimps,
their agents had a ton of other bitches just like them. And as soon
as they got too old or too fat, they got kicked to the curb, like
raggedy, dried-up whores.

Desiree hated cattle calls. There were
just a bunch of girls, all waiting for the opportunity to shake
their ass, all gossiping and sizing each other up, being phony as
hell. Usually, she wouldn't waste her time and would have her
personal manager handle it. Unlike the majority of the girls,
Desiree had a manager dedicated to helping her career, who hooked
her up constantly with good-paying jobs and always as a lead or a
feature.

But this time the buzz was that the
artist claimed he wanted as many girls as possible seen, not just
the same faces. Usually, a label rep would call agents and have
them send the production office head shots and comps of the top
girls, but lately, there were more and more cattle calls, and the
pay scale was getting lower and lower. The video girl thing was
beginning to not be worth the effort.

This time not even her manager had the
hookup. And normally, she would just say forget it. But for
Bentley, she would make an exception. It was like some ghetto
Cinderella story: a handsome prince wants to meet all the available
ladies in the land to be by his side– in a video anyway. Desiree
didn't let that fade her, though. She knew that Titanium Records
could see all the women in Miami, but none had the raw sex appeal
she possessed. Her star was just starting to shine.