Just Can't Let Go Read online

  “I want you to think like her. Walk, talk, fuck like her. Close your eyes. Listen to me. When West-Léon comes back in this room, I need you to unleash on him! You are that brilliant bitch who brings it each and every time. No regrets. No apologies. You reign supreme over all dicks. Men beg to be yours and you let them crawl to you on their knees. Now sit down and read your part from the top.”

  Ebony took a deep breath, slowly opened her eyes, and then stared at me. Based on her talent and sexual prowess, we could have the number-one show of all the networks combined. We could top Empire.

  She stood five eight on those platform heels. Towered three inches above me in my flats. One hundred ten pounds. Tiny waist. Cute banging booty. Perky breasts. Twenty-six years young. She looked hot, but her appearance alone wasn’t going to win us anything.

  “Time is money, Ebony. My money. My investors’ money. Right now, you are a liability. Not an asset. Is there a problem?” I asked, staring back.

  Couldn’t wait for this day to end so I could go home, indulge in a glass of cabernet, and get me some good Friday night loving.

  I was a fiancée, mom of a two-year-old princess, the eldest daughter, and a sister to three siblings. When I wasn’t on set or writing (which was almost always), my world revolved around family.

  I motioned to Tiera. “Bring me my cell.”

  I asked Ebony, “Do I need to have my casting agent find your replacement? If your double showed up to read for you today, get the hell out, and don’t either of you come back until you find my character.”

  My iPhone was in my hand. I’d do it if necessary. I was willing to take a chance on replacing her. I refused to risk letting her drag both of us down.

  “Can I have a ten-minute break?” she asked.

  “Sure. Hell, take twenty. Thirty max! But if you don’t have it together before you step in this room, don’t bother coming back.”

  I didn’t get this opportunity being empathetic, or letting anyone—especially men in the industry—walk over me. This was my first shot. I was going to make sure it wasn’t my last. I started the stopwatch on my cell.

  Excusing myself, I went across the hall into my private office, closed the door, and called my fiancé, Phoenix Watson, the person responsible for this madness.

  “Hey, babe. How’s it going?” he asked, sounding cheerful.

  A portrait of Phoenix, our daughter, and me was in a frame on my desk. Hearing his voice made me smile on the inside, then told him, “Ebony, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She was excellent when we filmed the pilot. You saw it. Now she’s freezing up on me. I know she’s your recommendation, but I might have to replace her.”

  “You mean, Goldie.”

  “Ebony Waterhouse is her name from now on. Goldie is dead to me.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah, babe. Sorry ’bout that. You worry too much. I know this girl. She’s your star. She’ll be just fine. Maybe I can help out and take Ebony on as a full-time client. She—”

  “And do what? Babysit her psycho behind?” I asked, checking the time on my cell. Five minutes and counting. If she was two seconds late getting back in the room, her services were terminated.

  Business for Phoenix was getting slower. His checks were dwindling. A lot of models and actors in the ATL had agents or PR reps. They didn’t want to pay a consultant to brand them. From escorting them onto the red carpet to getting them on VIP lists, the title “publicist” was one artists preferred.

  Phoenix was a great father. With his part-time schedule, and help from his mom, I never had to worry about having Nya dropped off at my office or on set. I was cool with the idea of him managing talent full time in about three to five years when our daughter could communicate better. Not now. There were some things I couldn’t put a price on, and not having our daughter be raised by people we didn’t know was one of them.

  “Dev, let me manage Goldie’s, I mean Ebony’s, career. I’ll keep her focused. You know actors need a person to keep them from slipping up off set too. Listen, you pay Ebony. She pays me. You don’t want to lose her. Realistically, you don’t have time to find her replacement. This can work out for everybody, babe. Think about it.”

  I was thinking about the pros and the cons. It might not be a bad idea to have my man closer to me without putting him on my payroll. His mother was retired. I could pay her to care for Nya full time during the week. Plus, my silent partner made sure Ebony was earning eight hundred thousand this season. I loved Phoenix. I had to trust him and give him this chance.

  “Okay,” was all I said.

  “Babe, that’s my mom calling. Let me hit you back.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Ebony

  #TGIF #dontneedthisish #iamthatbitch Backspace on all that except #TGIF. Tacked on #importantdecision #SSCATL. Never posted without ending with my hashtag #iamebonywaterhouse.

  Knowing Tiera was hawking my social media pages, I’d revised my tweet before posting. She’d definitely alert Devereaux should a light enough to pass for white ratchet enough to lead any housewives series newcomer go #left with a well-deserved defamatory public announcement. I was looking #edible for my male followers, #glamtothenine for all my gurlsquad, so I posted a selfie to Insta with #bossbitch. Had to keep things in character until I knew which direction I was flowing in. 467 retweets in less than sixty seconds. #coolbeans

  Devereaux could hire a zillion Ebonys, but there was only one #GoldieJackson and she knew it.

  The humidity coated my bare shoulders with moisture while I paced back and forth on Peachtree Street in front of the building where Devereaux’s office was located in midtown. To defuse my frustration, I made the sidewalk my runway. I placed my Bluetooth in my ear as I stomped fifty feet demanding my space as others stepped aside. My hair blew in the warm breeze. I rocked the best designer outer and under gear year-round. This was #mylife before #SSCATL. Shorts, skirts, halters, blazers, pants, coats, corsets. Black was my favorite color, but I wasn’t a #OliviaPope bland hue type of chick. Didn’t care too much for the spot her a mile away #rainbow-shine either.

  I held the button on my iPhone, commanded Siri to, “Call BJ.”

  People continuously moved out of my way. Pivoting to retrace my steps, I noticed men #hawking my ass, women admiring my diamonds. I smiled, kept strolling. Two-Faced Melted Strawberry liquefied lipstick was my usual.

  Most days I had a destination when I left house number one. Sometimes it was to go to house number two. Was seldom sure where I’d end up after dark. T.I.’s Scales 925. Ritz. Taboo 2. Intercontinental. Pin Ups. Mandarin. Lips. With my side. With my main. With my husband.

  This celebrity thing was really happening overnight. What if I couldn’t handle the #fame? It was ten thirty in the morning, already seventy degrees on this gorgeous summer day.

  My hubby answered, “Aren’t you supposed to be working? Everything okay?”

  I hadn’t had a requirement to report on a regular since I’d said I do. His inquiry was legit. A few people spoke to me. I nodded. Kept moving.

  “I don’t know if I can do this show.”

  “Honey, this is your fresh start. Give it a chance,” Buster said. “This is the big break you’ve dreamt of. You’re just a little nervous, that’s all. You’ll be fine. Big daddy has spoiled his Colombian angel, but it’s time to spread your wings. I’m not going to let you fail. You need me to fly in from New York? I can make it to Atlanta by six this evening. All you have to do is say yes.”

  “Not yet. Maybe. I’ll text you in an hour.”

  I tweeted, #ilovemyman #iamebonywaterhouse.

  Had to keep posts general when it came to dicks. That way they all thought it was intended for them. My man was whatever guy I wanted at the time. 843 retweets and counting.

  I’d done well for myself. Lied about being in law school until I snagged and married a seventy-one-year-old (well, he was sixty-nine at that time) millionaire whom I seldom saw. Tired of
the young broke lames, lots of ATL females were hitching to much older men with money.

  We owned a home in Long Island where he stayed. The house my ex-sugar daddy bought before I got married that I’d told Buster I’d sold was in Brookhaven a few blocks from Devereaux’s. The six-thousand-square-foot home in Conyers had an indoor pool and a natural lake as our backyard. Our vacation proprieties were in Hawaii and Paris. Buster got what he wanted, a pretend husband in New York and me, his real trophy wife in Atlanta. I had no complaints. I was #wellkept.

  Early in my relationship with Buster he’d told me, “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll take care of you.”

  That was a #donedeal.

  On the real, the compensation for my role was sweet. Straight up, my lifestyle wouldn’t change if I went to the garage, got in my black-on-black Benz with the tinted windows, and drove off with my personal tags that read, #AYMSSIK, which meant kiss my ass.

  All females outside my ATL circle were haters. That was how I had to regard those #jealousbitches like Devereaux’s sister Alexis. She was pimpin’ on the peasant stroll. Policing her stripper gurl, or should I say, ex-gurl, Chanel every night at Pin Ups. Only thing Alexis and I had in common was spending other people’s money.

  Bills, I’d never seen one since my first date with Buster. My husband, I sexed him when he wanted, but he preferred to watch me spread for other men. Whenever we saw each other he’d play with my pussy, tits, and finger-fuck me until I came really hard. He had his life. I had mine. He didn’t question me. I gave the same #respect.

  I responded, “I always need you.”

  My husband was my biggest supporter. That was why I’d called him. My family in Colombia trashed me for being a gold digger. Now they were trying to come up on my coins. My ass was never wetter than my wallet.

  “What’s really bothering you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Stick with this, Goldie. Of all the professions you’ve pursued, this is the perfect one. You love being in front of the camera, and God knows it adores you almost as much as I do. Having a career is better than any amount of money I can give you. Take advantage of this opportunity. Just remember. Whatever you do, don’t mention anything about me on that show. I’ll divorce you and dissolve your trust.”

  Public humiliation was Buster’s biggest fear. He did not want to have people gossiping at his funeral.

  “Don’t be so defensive, baby. It’s not a reality show. She’s filming the show like it’s a reality series.”

  “Well, make sure she doesn’t write me into the script. I’m too old to leave here shamed. People will do anything for ratings. I don’t want any parts of the spotlight.”

  Too late for the nondisclosure. Before I auditioned, I told Devereaux I was married, knowing that would allow her not to view my business relationship with Phoenix as a threat. I didn’t tell her BJ’s initials or his name. The rock on my finger was the real proof.

  Our marriage has always been private. Buster Jackson felt the less people knew about our personal lives, the fewer problems we’d have.

  Sucking in my lips, I became quiet. Stopped walking. Stared at the ground. The way Devereaux wrote the script was like she was writing my life story. Couldn’t tell my man half the things in the script indirectly applied to him, to us. #Coincidental. Soon I’d have to give him a heads-up, bail on this series now, or risk getting served divorce papers.

  Busta was right. I did love this role. Couldn’t afford to jeopardize my financial security on either end. Just didn’t know how to be that bitch Devereaux wanted without risking becoming homeless again.

  In the script, I was secretly married to an Italian tycoon. I was enjoying perpetrating the single life in the United States, but I wasn’t a citizen. Unbeknownst to my husband, I was the side chick to two men—one married, one engaged: West-Léon and Travis. The finale was going to shake things up when the sexiest Italian man in film landed on American soil to take me back to his home in Italy.

  Phoenix Watson’s name registered on my cell.

  “I’ve got to take this call, baby.”

  “You’re a star, Goldie. Own it, sweetheart. I want you to be happy. Call me when you’re done. I’ll fly in and take you to Chops for dinner tonight. I’m proud of—”

  “Thanks, BJ. Gotta go.”

  Touching the end call/accept call image on my iPhone, I didn’t want Phoenix’s call to go to voice mail. Obviously, Devereaux had called him since he was the one who referred me to her.

  I answered, “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

  “I got some good news,” he said.

  “I wish I could say the same. You must’ve not spoken with Devereaux. She’s pissed at me.”

  “Dev is going to let me manage you.”

  “Are you serious, nigga?!” Lowering my voice, I hissed, “I can’t let you do that ish.”

  “You worry too much. If you fail, I fail. If you don’t get back on track, Dev will never accept another one of my clients. Branding is what you need, Goldie. Dev is providing the platform for you to become a red carpet celebrity overnight. I want to make you the biggest star on television, get you major roles in films, commercial endorsements, all of that. They will beg you for appearances. I’m talking about branding you as Ebony Waterhouse. You are the woman everybody (men and women) is going to fall in love with. I’m going to manage you and that’s final,” Phoenix insisted.

  “I don’t need you. I’m good.”

  “Haven’t I taken care of you?”

  “You have.”

  “Well, I need you to do the same for me. Don’t you see if this works out, I’ll become the go-to man for branding the potential A-list. For a measly five grand I helped you get that eight-hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck. The least you can do is help me pad my pockets.”

  I nodded. “Fine, Phoenix. Fine.”

  “Well, all right. I got this. I’m officially your manager now. Think I’ll rename my company Phoenix Stars Branding and Imaging Corporation.”

  It wasn’t the manager title I was worried about. “What if Devereaux finds out we’ve been fucking for years?”

  “I got this. I told you Dev has daddy issues. She doesn’t even know the dude. On her birth certificate her father is listed as unknown. There’s no way she’s going to let our daughter grow up without my being in the house. You keep making love to me and let me take care of Dev.”

  Shaking my head, I glanced at my phone. “Oh, shit! I gotta go. I’ma see you tonight?”

  “You know it,” he said. “Soon as I’m done taking care of the home front, I’ll be over.” I could hear in his tone that there was a smile on his face.

  Oh, damn! Buster said he was flying in. “Wait, I need to go over these lines tonight. Come by tomorrow.”

  Joy turned to disappointment in his voice when Phoenix said, “Cool.”

  We never ended a conversation by saying bye. I whispered, “I love you, my babe.” I contemplated going to the garage, getting in my car, going home, and leaving this opportunity behind. That was the respectable thing to do for Buster, myself, Phoenix, and Dev.

  Softly, he said, “I love you, too, my babe.”

  With less than a minute to make the biggest decision of my career, I didn’t want to be a second late if I were going back into that reading room.

  CHAPTER 2

  Alexis

  The valet attendant at T.I.’s Scales 925 opened the door to the white convertible Lexus my fiancé, James Wilcox, gifted me. I stepped out modeling my five-inch red Louboutin pumps, a diamond anklet, and a silky salmon-colored dress that barely covered my bootylicious buns. The newest Michael Kors purse dangled on my forearm.

  My engagement ring was where it belonged. At home. In the black box it came in. Inside my drawer. All the way to the back. For what it was worth, James could have it back and ship it to his side piece in LA. The ice my ex-girlfriend, Chanel, gave me was in my purse. Missing her, I dug into my bag, put her ring on the thin twenty-four-inch chain, then wore it around my neck. Legally I cou
ld say I do to either of them.

  I wasn’t here to meet James or Chanel. I needed to talk heart-to-heart with my brother.

  I took my ticket, told the tall, handsome, blond-haired guy, “Thanks,” and then strutted up the sidewalk and into the front entrance.

  The scene was popping off, as usual.

  A lot happened to me twelve weeks ago that I couldn’t shake. My life was one big lie. Hell, I was so good at deceiving people I didn’t know what to believe myself, especially when it came to love. Being in college was the main thing that kept me from going insane. Dreading that summer break was here. Non-fam who rubbed me wrong could get their ass kicked. Wish I’d never begged my mother to help me find my father. Biggest mistake of my life.

  Taking one class would’ve kept me partially occupied. Too late to enroll. Shouldn’t blame my fiancé, my ex-girlfriend, my mother, or my brother for my dilemma.

  I stood in dining area number one; fluffed my dress. I stared at the round, pale man cracking chicken bones with his teeth. He gazed at the flat screen television in front of him. I looked around for my brother; he wasn’t in this section.

  The choices I’d made three months ago had gotten me in this horrible situation. I shook my hands as though they were dripping wet recalling the way I’d leaned on my brother’s stovetop, let him penetrate me from behind until he came inside of me. That hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at the time, when I had no idea my father was his father, too. Around that incident on a different day, one Saturday morning I’d pulled down his pants in my mom’s kitchen, then sucked him off in sixty seconds. Brother or not, he was undeniably hot.

  Gliding up the staircase to the second floor, I strolled to the end of this dining room. He wasn’t in here. I could’ve texted. Would rather wait. Didn’t want a disappointing, can’t make it response or a request for a rain check. I’d gotten enough rejection from James lately.

  I asked my brother to meet me here. Desperately, I needed someone to talk with. Someone who was just like me and wouldn’t judge me. That eliminated my sisters Devereaux, Sandara, especially Mercedes. Confiding in my mom wasn’t happening since her man was my newly discovered biological brother. Shit was complicated. It was best for me not to speak to my mom yet.