GHETTO SUPERSTAR (8 page)

“You ain't lying,” Tonk added.

“I could give Mr. Tonk here a break so he can go home and take a shower daily.”

“Looks like she has sold herself—what you think, bro?” Casino asked.

“Shit, she sold me for sure,” Tonk said.

“What's all this ruckus about?” the real nurse said as she walked in.

Casino nodded toward Fabiola and said to the nurse, “My daughter.”

“She just came up here to check on good ole daddy dearest,” Tonk added.

“She's so pretty, and you look too young to have a daughter that old,” the nurse flirted as she passed him his pain pills.

“What can I say?” Casino blushed.

“He started out young,” Tonk teased.

The nurse smiled. “Well, keep it down in here and”—she looked at Fabiola—“it is really outside of visiting hours and he needs his rest, so you're going to have to cut your visit short. We've made an exception for Mr. Tonk here, but we can't have another person in this room.”

“I will,” Fabiola agreed with a smile. “Tonk, what time do you want to go home?”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I want to though.”

“Well, anytime you come is cool but neither Spade nor I will leave his side.”

“Well, what y'all gone do? Pee in a cup or something?”

Tonk smiled. “Not exactly, but whatever time you want to come is cool, just let me know.”

“Okay, tomorrow I have a photo shoot at one. I may be caught up with that for a few hours, but I should be done and able to get up here around seven
PM
. Is that okay?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I will see you at seven tomorrow. Casino, do you want me to bring you anything when I come?”

“I think I'll be able to manage, but thanks.”

Fabiola was overjoyed that Casino was going to let her visit with him. Mission accomplished.

* * *

“Click-click-click.”

“Say ‘superstar,’” the photographer stated before snapping the photo of Fabiola.

“Wait, wait,” Viola called out. “Fix that one piece of hair,” Viola demanded of Sheena, the hood hair stylist.

Sheena immediately went over to Fabiola and fixed the one strand of hair that was out of place. And she did so with Viola breathing down her neck to make sure it was done right.

“All right,” the photographer said, placing his camera up to his eye, “let's try this again.”

“Wait, wait!” Viola interrupted once again. “I think we need different earrings,” she suggested.

Adora pulled three different pairs of earrings out of a big trunk that was filled with all kinds of accessories. She ran over and held them up against Fabiola's cheek to see which ones looked best. After choosing some jazzy, medium-sized gold-and-diamond hoops, Adora placed the other pairs back into the trunk and turned her attention to her sister, who looked absolutely stunning.

The shoot had been going on for more than four hours, but Fabiola never let her exhaustion show. Instead, she did what any
superstar artist on the come-up would do: She sucked it up and did what she had to do. It didn't hurt that Maymount Park, where they were taking the pictures, was a beautiful spot.

“Now smile, say ‘Money honey’ and look directly into the camera,” the photographer said as the camera snapped a few more shots.

Fabiola switched poses like a pro, wondering the entire time how in the world the photographer could keep the camera lens steady over those pop-bottle glasses of his. She smiled even harder and chuckled at her own thoughts.

“That's right! Perfect smile right there,” the photographer complimented. “Now I need you to be ecstatic, like you just won a Grammy.”

That wasn't a hard roll for her to play at all; winning a Grammy was a lifetime dream of hers. “I'd like to thank the academy …” Fabiola got right into character with a smile bright enough to light up the entire park.

“That's it! Wonderful! A money shot indeed,” the photographer said with a smile as he looked at the camera. “That's it. I think we got some really beautiful shots for you to work with.”

“I think so, too,” Viola agreed, as if unless she had, the photographer would have needed to have taken a few more frames.

“Give me until nine
AM
tomorrow and I will have the photos ready,” the photographer stated while packing up his things.

“At your studio?” Viola asked.

He nodded.

“We will be there at ten.” Viola extended her hand. “Thanks so much,” she said, shaking hands with the photographer.

That works out for me
, Fabiola thought.
I can get to the studio, see the photos, and be done with Mommy by noon so that I can get over to the hospital
.

The photo shoot that Viola arranged was a great success, and
the pictures turned out amazing—considering all the events that surrounded the past twenty-four hours.

The long drive to perform at the infamous Chicken Shack, then to finally get home only to hear the news of Casino getting peppered with bullets, which resulted in rushing to the hospital and being there all day long; not to mention overhearing all the different people scheming on the man's money not knowing if he was dead or alive.

Fabiola couldn't believe how disgusting people could be. All of that drama just gave her the insight she needed to know what a
Boss
must go through, and if left up to her, she was going to be one soon.

Fabiola told Ricky that she was going to take a few nights off. Maybe he would learn to appreciate her after hearing the people booing his corny new songs and not having her there to bail his has-been butt out. Maybe when she returned, he would let her sing some of her own material.

The bottom line was that Fabiola needed a little time to relax anyway. She didn't know the last time she had gone to a movie or out to eat at a real restaurant. Well, that was what she was going to be doing late Friday night. She was going out on a date.

abiola met Gregory Parham, who most people knew as G.P., a few months ago at a club in DC. At the time he was the perfect gentleman.

“Hello,” he had said, approaching her after she had finished her set. “You have the voice of an angel.” He extended his hand. “My name is G.P. and I need an angel in my life.”

Fabiola smiled as she extended her hand to the complete stranger, who then took her hand and kissed it. His voice was straight old-school. He must have just watched one of those old Billy Dee Williams movies like
Lady Sings the Blues
.

But over the past few months, Fabiola learned that oldschool
he wasn't. He was lots of fun to be around—and nobody partied like G.P. Fabiola had promised him that she would spend some time with him, and now she was going to make good.

G.P. pulled up to Fabiola's mother's house—well, the house Casino had allowed her family to use—driving a purple Lexus LX 470, and blew the horn. When Fabiola heard him, she dialed his cell number and told him, “Look, don't anybody answer to any horns around here.”

“I didn't mean nothing by it, Boo. You know I'm just anxious to finally get to spend some real quality time with you. Time with you has been hard to come by lately.”

“A'ight then,” she said, accepting his apology. “I'll be out in a minute.”

Fabiola finished touching up her makeup and then pulled on her thigh-high boots on top of her Frankie B jeans. She took one look in the mirror and then slipped on the mink jacket that her mother had bought hot off a crackhead and stepped out ready for her date. When she got to G.P.'s truck, the wheels were so big she damn near needed a stepladder to get in the thing.

G.P. was a certified d-boy, dope dealer, trap star, or whatever the slang term for them was these days. He had tried to keep it from Fabiola at first but it was too entrenched in his blood. G.P was the type of fella that needed to let people know that he was getting money and a lot of it. G.P. flaunted his cash. Normally, Fabiola wasn't interested in the trapper type of cats, especially the young and dumb ones, but she tolerated G.P. He did buy her nice things, made her laugh, and his sex game was indeed something a best-selling author could write home about.

“We going to that new club tonight,” G.P. said when she climbed in the truck. “What's the name of it?” he asked. “The Diamond Mine—that's it,” he answered his own question.

“I don't want to go to any club,” Fabiola protested. “I thought
we were going out to a movie and a restaurant.” She felt like she was hanging out at work when she went to clubs.

“I'm trying to floss for my lady, the baddest bitch in the city. Fuck a tired-ass movie. Tonight we gon pop hella bottles of the most expensive bubbly they got … do it up in baller-status style. We gon make this grand opening legendary. Let me spoil you, let me show off those boots I bought you,” G.P. begged.

That was one of the problems she had with G.P.: He could buy her clothes, make it rain all night on sweaty stripper chicks, and buy out the bar, but when Fabiola asked him to invest some money in her career he looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. G.P. had no vision, therefore he failed to see her vision. The furthest his sight went was hustling narcotics; if it couldn't be bagged up in a plastic bag and sold … it didn't make sense.

Fabiola knew that a real relationship wasn't going to work out for them in the long run, but the last six months had been fun. She'd give him that. What girl didn't like to go on getaways to Atlantic City and New York City and receive expensive gifts? She worked hard and G.P. was just the distraction that she needed.

“I'll go if it means that much to you,” she gave in.

“Thanks, Boo.” He smiled, showing victory all over his face. “And I tell you what I'm going to do: After the club, I'll cook you a gourmet steak dinner at my house. One of dem steaks that Biggie rapped about.”

“But”—Fabiola matched his smile—“I don't want no shit out you come two in the morning after we leave the club when it comes to my steak dinner. I don't want to hear you too pissy drunk to cook for me.”

“Nah, I can handle my liquor, plus I can hook a steak up,” he boasted.

“Okay, we'll see.”

Every baller and wanna-be baller in the city made the grand opening of The Diamond Mine, which had three floors, with a different style of party happening on each one. Downstairs was hip-hop. Dance hall on the second level. And on the third, it was anything goes. That's where the pole was, and the strippers were putting that sucka to work—overtime! G.P. spent most of his time and money making it rain on the third level. He had women circling him like vultures all night long, and he was loving every minute of the attention. At that moment, it didn't matter to G.P that the prettiest girl in the club was there with him.

Maybe it is time for me to upgrade
, Fabiola thought as she looked at how engrossed he was in his surroundings.
He's never going to understand anything other than this
.

“Boo,” she called out to him, but he didn't answer, since he was mesmerized by an African chick with a weave that stopped at the top of her apple-shaped butt, who was taking off her clothes to R. Kelly's song “Sex Me.”

Fabiola directed her attention at her and realized that the girl was so seductive that Fabiola was intrigued a little herself, so Fabiola waited until the song was over and softly punched him on the shoulder. “G.P., let's go, I want to go home now.”

“You gone give me my own private dance when we get home?” The girls lost his attention for a few seconds while he gave it to Fabiola.

“I sure will,” she purred, sealing the deal with her bedroom eyes.

“Girls, my baby girl said enough.” He kissed Fabiola on the cheek. “I hate to leave but I gotta go,” G.P. informed the dancers and grabbed Fabiola's hand, but not before throwing the rest of his five-hundred ones in the air.

A couple of the strippers rolled their eyes at her while the ones about their money grabbed the ones. Fabiola could feel the daggers
of hate stabbing her in the back as they walked into the musty smoke-filled crowd.

I don't know why they mad at me, shit I was a good sport as my man made it rain for them. Thanks to my man and my good sportsmanship they can all get off early tonight
.

G.P. held on to Fabiola tightly and led her downstairs. Once they got to the bottom of the steps, someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to look. It was one of her brother's women, Cheryl. “Hey, girl.”

“Hi, how you doing? You heard from your brother?”

“I've been meaning to call him.”

“Well, girl, you know I caught him with a chick.”

“Really,” Fabiola said, but it was nothing new to her. This was her brother's thing—women. Every man had a weakness. Some it was money, some it was cars, others it was drugs, booze, or gambling. But she didn't feel like lending a shoulder for the girl to cry on that night.

Just then someone else came over and interrupted the conversation. It was her girlfriend Shug. Shug and her had been best friends since ninth grade and they had been partners in crime ever since. They hugged.

“Girl, where you been?” Shug demanded to know, not even acknowledging Cheryl.