Unfinished Business: The Smooth Operators Return

Unfinished

Business

The Smooth Operators Return

Olayinka Aikens

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2012 by Olayinka Aikens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/12/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9295-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9296-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9297-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921407

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Cover design concept by Michael Quattrocchi.

Cover image by Richard Upshur courtesy of istockphoto.com.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

You can’t help who you are. But you can change who you want to be.

Double R

Dedication

For Kiante & the handsome Aquarius I know and love.

Rest In Peace Lea, Darius & Derrick Aikens

Acknowledgments

Thank you to God who never fails even when you can’t see from the ground up. I am always appreciative of true friends and those who have been helpful and encouraging throughout my life! I may not say it but thank you!! Thanks to the supportive members of the Aikens family. Special thanks to Michael Menyweather & family. To my BFF’s: Teresa Anthony and the Anthony family, LaTasha Dunlap-Dunn & family; Dana Oubre and the Oubre family (RIP Krisha), Will Brooks and family; my H-Town ace Dawn Campbell-Hamilton and the Campbell family. Thanks to Tanya Lane a.k.a. New York, Sonia O’neal and Anita Hale, Charisse Dancy, Mike Woolridge, Keisha Martin, Karen Rotan, Jade Allen, Adriene Gray-Allen, Clairessa Spencer, Ebony Martin & the entire LBAC. Shout out to my special ATL Sorors Sherilyn Hamm and LaToya Kyle. Thanks to my 11 sisters Kaneesha Tarrant, Kris Owens, Cheryl Joy, Lisa Benbow, Rebecca Jackson, Tiffany Norwood, Makaila Brooks, Sheena Martin, Brandi Good-Williams, Dominique Murphy and Adrienne Coleman. Oo-oop! Shout out to my fellow Oakland Author and O-High Player Michelle Robinson (Right Before My Eyes), I wish you much success let’s do the dang-on thang!! Sorry if I did not include your name, I have too many people to thank and it would take me a long time to do it but I love you nonetheless. Thank you, thank you and thank you again.

Thanks to Oakland, California for schooling me.

Thanks to Southern University and A&M College, Baton Rouge for molding me.

Thanks everyone who’s ever offered kind words or assistance.

Many gracious thanks to my folks who truly deserve it and to everyone else who thinks they might.

All the best.—O

Chapter 1

Cam screwed up big time.

He had broken his cardinal rule: never spend the night with your one nightstand. He blamed it on the tequila. DeLeón Diamante to be exact. From the $125 bottle he had consumed eight shots. He had even engaged in a little cigar smoking with a few music industry heavyweights who were in town for the Southern Music Awards show while they partied on the rooftop of one of the city’s finest hotels. It was just another night in the A for the music mogul, but the rest of the evening was a blur. Cam didn’t even know how he drove to the woman’s apartment, or if he drove at all.

As he looked at the sleeping dimepiece beside him, her big booty peeking from beneath the covers at him, everything came rushing back. Baby girl had flirted with him and the next thing he knew, they were off in a corner trying to take each other’s clothes off. She almost got nailed to the wall but Cameron James was big on privacy. Even in a drunken haze he wasn’t foolish enough to engage in sex in public, although his date would have been with it. He was still a gentleman, so making the poor girl scream and holler among a group of his peers wasn’t exactly his idea of fun. He wasn’t into exhibitionism. He preferred to do his damage in private. They left the party, and wound up heading back to her Midtown apartment at top speed in his Corvette where he proceeded to give her what she was looking for.

Popping his neck from left to right, he moved from the bed, pulled his pants on and grabbed his Audemar watch from the nightstand. It was 9:45 and he didn’t have time to go home. He was already late for work. Usually he arrived at the office at 9 a.m. every morning. Today he would have to use the shower in the gym at the office to get cleaned up. He wasn’t trying to spend any more time in this chick’s apartment.

Are you leaving? she asked, sleepily.

Yeah, he said, pulling on his shirt.

The twenty-something voluptuous female, known as Croix, sucked her teeth. Damn, I can’t get breakfast or nothing?

Cam ignored her as he grabbed his jacket off the doorknob. McDonald’s is down the street.

Asshole.

He blew her a kiss. I’m out, he said, leaving her bedroom.

Croix slid from the bed pulling the sheet around her for cover. She rushed into the living room just as he reached the door and grabbed his crotch.

Are you coming back tonight?

I doubt it.

Why not?

I told you I gotta work. Double R’s album is about to come out. I have a lot to do.

All you have to say is no, Cameron. All the extra really isn’t necessary. Croix said, putting her hand on her hip.

Alright then, no I’m not coming back.

Are you still gonna get me into Double R’s Christmas party? Croix asked, changing her tone to that of someone in desperate need.

I’ll think about it. I’ll holler at you next week.

The loud groan she let out let him know he would not be calling her next week, or any other week for that matter. He hated nags, he hated emotions, and he hated attachment.

I’m out, he said, swatting her behind.

He walked out and heard her slam the door behind him. He headed for the elevator shaking his head. He didn’t know why these chicks got mad after he laid down the law. He was always clear about his intentions and never made any promises. He wasn’t interested in a relationship and he certainly wasn’t interested in a relationship with some model/waitress who was looking for a mil ticket. Any woman he dated had to have something going for herself and Croix didn’t. She was content waiting tables and looking for a come up. She could complain all she wanted to. She was shit out of luck if she ever thought he was going to be with someone like her.

Fresh from his shower and kicked back it his office, Cameron peeled back the pages of the latest issue of XXL magazine with his artist Rodney Double R Robinson the cover. It had been five years since he had stepped in as interim president at the label. Upon the sudden retirement of his former boss, William Big Bill Sanders, he was elected by the board to take over the label as interim president. He had taken on twice the duties and had the huge task of tightening the reigns on the label’s bad boy, Double R. He was amazed that the artist he had found rapping at a liquor store nearly fifteen years ago was still going strong. His latest album was holding it down at the top of the charts after sixteen weeks and he was already back in the studio recording another album, a double-disc set he hoped to drop by New Year’s Eve.

But dealing with Double R hadn’t been easy. Cam had saved the rapper from himself, his enemies and the law. It was nearly a decade ago, when he was arrested for murder. Then a year later the rapper had kidnapped his former girlfriend Monica Holiday held her at gunpoint and assaulted her. The incident had made headlines and threw both their lives into a tailspin. But Cam had managed to quiet the storm and salvage the remnants of his protégée’s career. But the more he worked in the music industry, the more he despised everything that went along with it. Music was changing and he didn’t like the direction it was going in. Even the best rappers were becoming more and more commercialized. They were going form complete squares to gangsters overnight. Real music had fallen by the wayside and even Double R wanted out. But his fans wouldn’t let him go. They loved his bad boy personae, Jekyll and Hyde personality and his intangible ability to escape the law. They needed Double R, and Cam needed him to stick to meet his remaining contractual obligations.

So have you heard anything worth listening to? Cam yelled to his assistant Patrice.

Nope, not yet.

Patrice Rousseau was a former intern who lived and breathed music. She was hoping to work her way into A&R and had worked for the past three years. She had survived the label’s highs and lows and stayed loyal so Cam kept her around and promised her as soon as a position opened she would be considered for it. He just hoped she didn’t quit before he got a chance to promote her. Since the label was bought out by its parent company BGN, lots of changes had been made and Cam was one of the last few still standing.

I like this one, Patrice said as a mellow tempo filled the air. Ooh yeah, this one sounds good, she said, as the sound of a female voice lingered over the track.

Toss it! Cam yelled from his office.

Patrice laughed and hit delete all at once just as the phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID and answered it. Hey R.

’Sup lil’ mama? Where’s Big C at?

He’s here, hang on, she said, putting Double R on hold. Cam, it’s your favorite rapper.

Aight. Cam slipped on his headset. What’s good, Double R? he asked, looking out at the Atlanta skyline.

Shit. You see my article in XXL?

Yeah, I saw it. Interesting title.

I know, Rodney said, his voice gruff from all the weed and alcohol he liked to consume. You see how I mentioned them new niggas in the article. That ought to stir up some controversy for the album.

Double R, ever the meddler, had taken shots at a few rappers, but his latest beef with two Atlanta rappers, Lil’ Breeze, and Ice Block were brewing. The new kids in the game were selling a ton of records with very little talent. They were nowhere near Double R’s status and he knew it. He was determined to make a mockery of them in some form or fashion so if it meant battles on wax or in the streets, so be it.

You know you gonna start a lot of shit, R. Them dudes ain’t even in your league. Why even bring ’em up?

That’s me, that’s what I do. Fuck them. This is my city.

"Yeah but you ain’t from here. They’re all natives. Lil Breeze’s uncle was one of the biggest D-Boy’s in the city before he went to prison. He still has one foot in the streets. Plus he’s a damn crack baby with a short attention span. You frustrate him too much he’s going to want to kill you."

Whatever man. I ain’t scared of nobody who bleeds like I do. Fuck ’em.

Cam shook his head. Double R sure knew how to stir things up. But it was Rodney he always had to bail out.

Rodney cleared his throat, Fuck all that. Back to bizness. You think you can get Bill to get me this new ride?

What new ride?

This new Ferrari F coming out man. I want one. Black, with rims, and the suspension kit. I’ma send you the pics from my iPhone. Ain’t nobody got this shit yet.

R, come on man. You just got a Bentley a few months ago when your album dropped. You want another car, man? For what?

Life is short man, we don’t never know when it’s gonna end. Plus . . . to add to the collection, man. What’s the big deal? Bill used to give me cars at the drop of a hat. What’s up with this pinching pennies shit?

Look man, the label got bills to pay. If you want that shit, buy it yourself. I’m not signing off on that.

Rodney sighed heavily. I need that car, C. You need to handle that. Otherwise I’ma have to start complaining to Bill. And you know how he hates it when I complain. Do that for me. They only making a few and I want one. I’ma holler at you later.

Cam gritted his teeth as he hung up the phone. Rodney was beginning to become more of a liability than an asset. He wasted his own money then needed help paying his bills. The label was already paying his mortgage on two houses, child support for one child, and he had another on the way, and his car notes on three of his fairly new vehicles. Cam couldn’t understand why Bill went out on a limb for him so much. Rodney’s debts were burning up the company’s bank accounts.

Cam? Patrice called from Cam’s doorway. He hadn’t noticed her standing there.

Yeah?

Some guy is on the line from a Ferrari dealership in Florida. He says he needs payment information for a car Mr. Robinson just ordered.

What?

This muthafucka already ordered the car?! I just hung up with him!

Well, he said Rodney already filled out all the paperwork and all he needs is to give you the bank account info for the wire.

Take his name and number and I’ll get back to him, Cam said, smoothing his hand over the top of his thick head of waves. It was time for a haircut.

With his caramel brown complexion and jet-black hair, Cam could have easily been a model, or even an actor. He was sexy and handsome thanks to his African, West Indian and Creole blood. His mother, a Jamaican immigrant had moved to the states with his grandparents when she was sixteen. She had gotten pregnant by his father, a musician from Monroe, Louisiana whom he had never met. The son they created was now a successful music mogul with an enviable career. It was just too bad they couldn’t share in his accomplishments. Cameron was estranged from both of his parents.

He rose from his chair and went to Patrice’s desk. Dressed in his a blazer, a button-down shirt, jeans, and white shell-toe Adidas, he looked every bit of the urban music mogul he was. Cam liked to be sharp.

So, why were you late? Patrice asked, looking down her nose.

Grown folks business.

Another victim falls prey to the charms of Mr. Cameron James.

Victim is an ugly word. I think she would beg to differ.

You were late, must’ve been good.

I overslept. Too much tequila.

Umm-hmm. Anyway, you have a busy day, Patrice said scrolling through his calendar. And you missed the 9:00 a.m. international sales call—I covered for you by the way.

Yeah, I know. Thanks.

You’re welcome, Patrice said. Anyway, you have two conference calls . . . marketing emailed the files of the new Double R album cover—

Already? He is really serious about this new album. It hasn’t even been six months yet since the last one.

He said he wants to do something that’s never been done before, so I guess he’s doing it. And . . . his book publisher sent over some revisions he and the writer need to make.

Why the hell are they sending them to me? I don’t have anything to do with his book. All I deal with is the music. They need to talk to his manager about that.

Okay . . . Patrice said, typing a response to the email.

What else?

Uh, accounting has royalty statements for the Prima Donnas and there’s a clearance request for one of our old artists, Fusion. Somebody wants to sample one of their songs.

Forward that to Bev. Is that it?

For the moment. But don’t forget you’ve got the staff meeting in half an hour. And they cc’d you on the meeting agenda so make sure you take a look at it and tell me if you want me to add anything to it.

Alright, I got it, Cam sighed going back into his office.

He took a seat behind his desk and opened the email to view Double R’s album cover. He was in the center, with a noose around his neck and his hands and feet in shackles. Cam shook his head. The boy had to be losing his mind to come up with something like this. It was depressing. He flipped through the files of the additional versions of the album cover. He didn’t like any of them. As he took another look, trying to select the best one, his office phone rang.

Hello, Mrs. James, Patrice said smiling. Yes, he’s here. Hold on . . . Cam, its Lady on the line.

Alright, I got it.

Cam’s grandmother, Lady James, lived in Tallahassee, Florida. She had raised Cameron, working three jobs to send him to college. He was grateful for all she had done. And as a result of her love and generosity, he paid off her bills, bought her a shiny black Cadillac, and told her she never had to work another day in her life if she didn’t want to. All her years of cleaning people’s houses, waiting tables, and taking in laundry had finally paid off. Now all she wanted was to see him happy and married with a couple of kids.

Cam pressed the automatic shut on his door and pushed back from his huge black lacquer desk. Hey Grams. What’s good?

"Cameroooon?" Lady James’s Jamaican accent was still thick, as if she had just arrived from islands.

Hey, my Lady.

How’s my boy?

I’m fine, Grams. How are you?

Good. Wonderin’ why me only grandchild ain’t been ’ere to see me.

I been busy, Grams. I’ll be there soon, I promise.

You say that all the time and ya never come. You work so hard I don’t know what ya look like anymore. You need to take some time off and go on a vacation.

I know. But I’ll come, I promise. But what about you, you alright? You need anything?

No, not a ’ting. But I did get a call from you ex-girlfriend, the pretty girl ya date in college . . . Angela. She loved my peach cobbler . . . such a nice girl.

She aight . . . she called you? When?

About a week ago. Said she’s getting a divorce and moving back to Atlanta.

Cam sat upright. She’s getting a divorce?

That’s what she said. I didn’t ask for any details. But I ’tink she’ll be contacting ya real soon.

Cam thumbed his temples thinking about Angela. She was the only woman other than his grandmother that he had genuinely cared for. But like his mother, she had left him for a man and he had yet to forgive her. He hadn’t been able to love another woman since.

Cameron?

Yeah, Grams. I’m here, he sighed.

Did you hear what I said about Angela?

I did, he said, checking his email.

Well, what are you going to do?

Nothing. What can I do? I don’t know, Grams. Wait and see if she calls me, I guess.

He knew his grandmother always liked Angie, but that was because she didn’t know what really happened between them. Their relationship had run its course, and had no desire to open old wounds.

I gotta go, Grams.

Okay, my boy. Talk to ya later.

Cam hung up the phone and grabbed his pen and pad. Nothing like the news of an old flame to start the morning off with a bang.

Angela Daniels-Reed had served her soon-to-be ex with divorce papers more than a month ago, but he had ignored them. Now that she was cleaning out their home and heading to Georgia, James Reed was away from home yet again. It was a bye week and he was nowhere to be found. Angie knew he was with another woman. He was always with another woman. But a neighbor’s call to James’ cell had alerted him to the moving truck outside of his home. Now he was furious.

You want to leave me now? After all the times you let me come back? Now you want to leave? What the hell is this about?

Angie had let him come back, over and over again. But this time she had taken just about all she could take from James Reed. There was nothing else for them to talk about. Nothing at all.

You know what it’s about, James. You’re a lying, cheating, scandalous dog and I don’t want you! So you can run and tell all your little comrades, your homies, your bum ass family members and your sorry ass teammates I dumped your ass in the middle of the season!

What about my stuff? All my trophies?!

I gave you a chance to come and get your stuff, now I’m getting rid of it all.

Why are you being such a bitch?!

Now, there’s the James I know. Always resorting to insults. I shoulda left your ass a long time ago with that weak ass penis you have!

Fuck you! James spat.

No fuck you, but you couldn’t do that well either!

Angie dropped her cell phone into her pocket and continued to watch the movers load the truck. She was taking her stuff to a storage facility and giving all of James’ away. Finally she was doing the right thing by him. She just wished she had done it sooner. It was time to move on and start over. She deserved better.

Chapter 2

Monica Holiday was seated behind her desk drinking green tea and reading emails when her assistant Rita entered her office with a huge grin on her face.

What is it? You’re cheesing a little bit too hard, Monica said, looking up from her computer.

"I just got an email from Peaches magazine. You’re one of ten winners selected for the Best Dressed Atlantans issue!"

Monica’s face lit up. Really?

Yes! Isn’t that exciting?

Monica smiled, Yes, it is. Now I know maxing out my credit cards wasn’t done in vain!

Check your email, they sent over an official press release. You have officially been put on the A-list.

Ahem, I’ve been A-list since Handle Up Records thank you very much.

Well, you know, this is another level of bourgeois.

They laughed as Monica opened the email. She was proud of herself. She was always well dressed. Today she was wearing a taupe colored Elie Tahari dress, a Charles Albert statement necklace and chocolate brown Jimmy Choo sling backs. She was glad her style hadn’t gone unnoticed.

So, she said, taking another sip of tea. Let me see who else made the cut. She scrolled through the press release, reading the names and mentally checking off who she knew. When she got to the bottom of the list she paused. Ohmigod, Rock made the list.

Who?"

Oh, Alonzo Stone. My old friend from back in the day.

Oh yes, I remember him. He’s the tall handsome guy who always had a crush on you. I remember when he came to the Handle Up Christmas party back when you were with still with Dray, he looked so disappointed to see you two together. I think I was still working for CNN then.

"Yeah our timing was always off. There was always something or someone in the way."

Well, you don’t have anyone or anything to get in the way now. And if I remember correctly he’s single too. Not to mention rich and perfect!

There’s no such thing as perfect.

Perfect for you, Rita corrected.

Monica rolled her eyes, Okay, whatever. Your point?

"You can’t find fault where there is none, Monica. And since he made the Peaches list that makes you two destined to be the ultimate power couple. Imagine being invited to all of the city’s major events and having him on your arm. He’s friends with the mayor too."

I know the mayor too. But you know Alonzo is not much of a partyer. He’s never really liked crowds, doesn’t do too many social events. and he doesn’t have any real vices that could be a problem.

Neither do you—well except for the drink part, Rita said. You two still have a lot in common. You both love family—he employs his. You both are well-dressed, hence the best-dressed list, you’re both attractive and you don’t need each other’s money.

I don’t know if I’m ready to date again, Rita. There’s been too much drama these last few years. I just don’t want to deal with all that goes with dating.

Monica, you cannot keep avoiding great guys just because of what happened with Dray- and Rodney. You have to let go of all that. How else are you going to get those kids you want. Love hurts. We all know this, but it can still be grand and beautiful. Fear is just the devil trying to keep you like the rest of these spinster independent women with no man taking girl trips thirteen deep, having sperm donor babies, and watching bad reality TV. I’m not going to let you become a statistic. You’re going to get a boo before the holidays.

"Yes, mama. Lord knows I don’t want to be a spinster with a dried up cooch."

The two women laughed.

"Well, I guess I’ll send him a congratulatory gift for the Peaches list . . . He loves cologne. There’s one he wears by Creed . . . but there’s a few different ones."

Well get him a bottle of cologne then. He won’t be expecting a gift to begin with but if you get him something he really likes, he may give you something you really . . . really like.

Get your head out of the gutter Rita, Monica said, checking her watch. I’m gonna run over to Peachtree Center so I can go to the bank. Call me on my cell if anything urgent comes up.

Waiting for his car to be brought up by the valet, Alonzo Stone stood in front of Peachtree Center talking on his cell phone. The handsome real estate developer, who stood a tantalizing six feet, three inches, with honey colored skin and dark chocolate eyes, was GQ magazine ready. Wearing a custom dark grey Tom Ford suit, a matching shirt, Gucci loafers, and a Cartier watch, he was the epitome of suave. On looks alone one might think Alonzo Stone was full of himself, but in reality, he was quite the opposite. Alonzo had struggled to get everything he owned, and while he was grateful for all his success, he could never forget how hard it was to attain it. He watched his mother hold down three jobs to support him and his siblings. In college he maintained the best grades, then on a whim, took a different path—one he chose to forget about. He was focused on the future and making life better for him and his family.

Like the millionaires next door, Alonzo preferred to a low-key lifestyle. He was content spending quiet nights at home catching up on work or reading. He enjoyed traveling to his second home in Miami when he needed to conduct business there or his penthouse at the Ritz Carlton in downtown L.A. When he needed time to himself, he sailed the Atlantic in a rented yacht or traveled to Jamaica where he owned a small villa. In Atlanta he golfed occasionally and spent quiet nights at home. For a man who was one of the most prominent young businessmen in the city, other than his lust for travel, he led a rather simple life.

So, his assistant and sometime project manager Heather Grigsby said. Are you excited about making the best-dressed list for Peaches magazine?

Should I be? You know I don’t care about stuff like that.

I know but think of how much attention it’ll bring to the company. Our sales team should be able to close a few more deals when people find out how handsome and charismatic our boss is.

My looks and clothes don’t have anything to do with the real estate market.

Alonzo, you can be a real drag sometimes. Why don’t you just enjoy the honor? The photo shoot is in a few weeks.

I don’t know Heather. I don’t want my face plastered all over a magazine. It’s like putting a dart on my forehead and sticking me in the middle of Peachtree.

Alonzo, hello? You’re building properties all over the country now, you’re going to get the attention whether you like it or not. You didn’t balk at the Black Enterprise cover.

"That’s because where I come from nobody reads Black Enterprise. People in my old hood don’t even know that Stone Real