Just Can't Let Go

sex.

PROLOGUE

Devereaux

"No! Stop! Stop! Stop! Please! Stop!"

For every stop I banged on the script in front of me. I stretched my arms toward heaven, then whispered, Lord Jesus, please don’t let me fling these papers in her face. My fingers curled to fists; my right leg trembled. Refraining from calling her a bitch, I shouted in her direction, Who in the hell are you?!

The actress seated across the table from me was not the same woman I’d hired.

Her audition for the role of Ebony Waterhouse was spectacular. Her performance for the pilot was worthy of an Emmy nomination. My prediction upon executing her contract was she’d get better with each taping of my next ten episodes. But she hadn’t improved over time. The talent of the person I’d chosen to star as the lead in my new show had disappeared, and the person I was looking at now made an early cancellation seem imminent.

The only thing that kept me from hurling these lines in her direction was a lawsuit. I swear to you. I’ll rewrite this script and kill your ass off in the first episode if I have to. With each word, I pounded my fist on the table. Do you hear me? Coffee splattered onto the pages right before several sheets slid to the floor. The actress sprang to her feet.

Pointing at her, I yelled, Sit! Your ass down!

Moving in slow motion, her rear end descended until it touched the edge of the leather cushion. She scooted back and leaned forward.

My assistant picked up my mug, raced to craft service’s corner of the room, returned with a fistful of napkins, cleaned up the spill, placed a fresh script in front of me, then gathered the pages near my feet.

Exhaling hot air from my mouth, I softly said, Thanks, Tiera.

You’re welcome, Ms. Crystal. Hesitantly, she asked, Would you like a fresh cup of coffee?

Not now. I held my aching head in my palms, then grunted, Ugh!

Tiera sat in the seat next to me. Rolled her chair closer to mine.

Staring at the stranger facing me, I noticed that her high vanilla cheekbones didn’t flush to any shade of red. She didn’t move. Those big, bright hazel-gray cat-like eyes narrowed to a slither, but she didn’t blink. She acted as though she were immortal.

Is this bitch challenging me? If my office wasn’t on the second floor, I’d . . . I heaved.

Her fabulous twenty-two-inch wavy blond human hair lace front wig draped her toasted tanned shoulders. She’d literally transformed herself into a million-dollar mannequin.

The black lace halter jumpsuit—suctioned to every curve of her upper body—barely covered her areolas. The pants hem flared above her red Manolo shoes. The Cartier diamond pendant and the six earrings (three two-carat studs in each ear) didn’t impress me. All that bling, dazzling in the sunlight that beamed through the glass, added heat to my flaring nostrils.

Silence made me want to pick her ass up, put her in the window, and leave her on display. She wasn’t supermodel runway chic when she auditioned, but the new look could significantly increase my ratings. Sexy as she was, this wasn’t a goddamn game.

I massaged my shoulder.

The problem was apparent. She was flashy, but she wasn’t refined. Hunger didn’t loom in her eyes. The taste of a standing ovation from people around the world wasn’t on the tip of her tongue. It was on mine and I’d die before I’d swallow.

West-Léon, out! I have to find someone who really wants to costar with you.

Handsome strolled alongside the conference table. His masculine, chiseled, mouthwatering body inspired me to flip his real name, Leon West, to something more suitable by hyphenating his first with his last and enunciating it with a French accent.

Each of my lead girls had two guys. Ebony would eventually have three. The third, the heartthrob of them all, the one who was sure to make millions of panties wet and some boxer briefs too. I wasn’t revealing him until the finale.

Standing in the doorway, West-Léon said, She’s nervous, Devereaux. She’ll be okay. Then he exited the room.

For her sake, I hoped West-Léon was right. Now that I’d gotten my big break as creator and executive producer for my television series, Sophisticated Side Chicks ATL, she was reading for the first episode like she had a fart lodged in her brain. I had no idea whom I’d really put on payroll.

Disgusted with her staring at me, I pushed my chair back and stood. Answer me, Goldie!

She sat up, adjusted her breasts.

Boom, boom. Boom, boom. Boom, boom.

The blunt force of my pulse thumping nonstop against my temples gave me an instant migraine. I removed my glasses, pressed my thumbs into the sides of my forehead, and then took a deep breath. Slowly, I made my way to her, pulled out the chair with her seated in it.

Get up, I told her.

Quietly, she elevated herself on her six-inch heels and faced me. I moved so close I felt the rise and fall of her breasts against my collarbone.

Inching back, I lowered my voice. Calmly, I asked again, Who are you?

Tears clouded her eyes as her lips tightened.

Save it for the camera. Answer me.

A few days ago, I’d sat one-on-one with her as I’d done with my entire cast. She told me she was an artist first. Professed that her passion for acting took precedence over everything in her life, except her mother and father. They were natives of and resided in Colombia.

I didn’t ask her to, she told me, if necessary, she’d place her career before the husband who made her a United States citizen. If she’d had a child, I sensed this woman might sacrifice being a parent to make sure she shared in this grandiose moment of my becoming a trailblazer on a mission to dismiss every double standard men had created to suppress women.

She took one step back. I’ll get it together. I promise. I just need a minute.

This time I took the deepest breath I could. Slowly exhaled a fraction of an ounce of relief. I did not want to embrace her. If I did, good intentions could turn bad. My hands could wrap themselves around her long, narrow neck.

Goldie, what’s wrong? Did somebody die? I asked, praying there was justification for her behavior.

At this very moment, the silence was deafening. Three of the producers were in the room with the three of us. They’d worked on numerous shows, had IMDB pages filled with notable credits. They’d generously invested their finances with me. The largest contributor loved my female empowerment platform, but their company insisted on remaining a silent partner. They’d come aboard like a knight in shining armor just in time to save our primetime slot. All I’d witnessed was the miracle of their paper trail. They were relying on me, not the actress I’d hired.

I was not a violent person, but I was ready to strangle Goldie. If I failed, no one would give these two black women a second chance. Our success was dependent upon one another. Tiera, my cast, my set designers, my technical staff, my drivers, wardrobe, hair, makeup artists, and everyone receiving a 1099 were all depending on a paycheck from me.

Atlanta was swarming with talented females who would do practically anything to snatch the role of Ebony Waterhouse. I had four leading ladies. Brea, Misty, and Emerald all read well. I’d saved the best to end our week on a high note, or so I’d thought. We were set to start filming shortly, and I refused to increase my bottom line to give Goldie additional time to get her shit together. My team was not working on the weekend, and I had a fiancé to please and other shows to pen.

Her real name was Goldie Jackson. I started to shut her out for that reason alone. My fiancé, Phoenix, had pleaded for me to give his client a chance. Phoenix had reinvented himself . . . again, boasting how over three hundred film projects had roots in Atlanta last year. Starting a talent consultant firm to advise models and actors on how to break into the industry was a challenging spinoff from his former role as publicist. He had no contracts. A few people he’d taken on never paid him. He’d insisted that Goldie was his golden ticket. I tried to offer him my attorney’s assistance with getting legal documents executed, but Phoenix was my proud, broke man.

Since I’d refused to let him get involved directly with my production, I had to support him. His attempt at success was lame. A visionary had a plan. A dreamer had hopes. I gave this Goldie girl a chance based on Phoenix’s dream. Now I might be the one fucked.

Staring into her eyes, I said, "You are no longer Goldie Jackson. You are Ebony Waterhouse. You live, eat, breathe, sleep, and shit as Ebony Waterhouse every second of every hour of every day. Until the very last episode is in the can, you are Ebony Waterhouse.

"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,