Page 3 of Good As Hell

“I will never apologize for wanting to give the best possible product to my fans, but in order to do that, you have to know when to step back and let people who are experts in their field take the lead. I trust Lovie-Belle and Delightful’s vision, and I know they trust the Al Rasheeds. I for one, am very happy and grateful for the care they took with the entire project.” My answer is heartfelt, and it is true. Not that I didn’t know this question was coming. There have been whispers for months I was causing problems. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where it stemmed from. Yet, I know after nearly two decades in the entertainment business, if you’re explaining, you’re losing the narrative.

Having nothing to do with the movie other than turn in the song assignments as FADE gave them to me or rework arrangements with Ghad. I had nothing to do with the film.I wonder if that is why Hassan had such a negative reaction towards me earlier?

“I see.” The reported hedges looking around for confirmation from the rest of the cast and lasering on Lovie-Belle for confirmation.

“Lyric was never on the set and did everything we asked. Really Amy, you know better than to heed meritless gossip in this town.” Lovie-Belle titters like the woman is being absurd.

“But so many rumors?—”

“Enough.” A hard command comes from where the Al Rasheeds are sitting among the audience in the front row. “Move on.” The clipped tone brokes no argument. There is a tense moment in which I try and fail not to meet the eyes of the man who came to my rescue.

He looks aggrieved to have even done it. He catches my gaze and I’m locked in like prey in a scope. Hassan looks even more aggravated with me, as if I brought this on myself.

Heat rushes to my face and I’m ever so thankful for my glam squad for perfecting my make-up to the degree that none of the embarrassing flush shines through.

I sit up straighter as if he’s commanded me too. I look straight ahead like I’m back at choir rehearsal at my home church, First Baptist Ensley in Alabama.

For the rest of the interview, I do my best not to look at the man who judged me then came to my defense only to look at me again like I was the biggest problem. I don’t like how he’s making me so off kilter.

My competitive spirit has me wanting to win him over. I know this is my strength as well as a weakness — I’ve always been able to prove my doubters wrong with either my hard work or my personality. Yet something tells me Hassan Al Rasheed never going to like me.

The pulseof the music at the after party strums through my veins. I’m on my second Remi Martin 1738, neat, so I feel mighty fine right now, like my grams used to say before she passed.

FADE and Delightful disappeared over an hour ago. I’m glad that I secured one of the penthouse suits of the five star Waldorf Astoria. I didn’t want to travel back to my place in Malibu since I’ve put it up for sale and the realtor has so many showings with various brokers. I love that house. It’s served its purpose, but I decided after this tour that’s due to kick-off in a couple of months I was going to find another place to stay. My plan is to have my sisters come live me with never panned out. And my Malibu mansion where I’d planned every day to be like a spa day for Kadence, Harmony, Song and me never is way too big and lonely for just little curvy ol’ me.

Rob figured if he could keep them under his thumb, he’d have some control over me. And to an extent he’s right — I send them money, keep up their lifestyle. since he rules everything mom and my sisters do with an iron fist, I can only comply. Boiling angry at myself for still letting that troll get to me makes my tummy twist into knots. Pure evil does not come close to defining that monster.

Justice’s dad, Pastor Carrington and Ms. Grace, his wife, told me to never let hatred rule me and I have tried. Lord knows I have, but if there is one thing I want to do is kill that motherfucker. Him, and his weak ass wife, my mother. She should have left his ass a long time ago — especially when I made it. But no, she was too concerned with what people would say.

“Um, that’s my song.” I say to Fifi by bestie, my everything as soon as the strands ofBaddiehit my ears.

“That’s literally your song, hoe.” She fake sneers down at me as I toss back the remains of the liquor and make my way to the dance floor.

She follows because how can she not? I know we make a pair ridiculous or gorgeous. We have been called it all. Me, a shortie in my white jumper hitting all my curves and Fifi that I often shorten to just Fi, also formally known as Felix, her dead name before she transitioned is a nearly six-foot tall light-skinned beauty with a pixie blond body-waved hair. Her tall, lithe form is the perfect opposite to my short curves.

The remix of the song I made especially for the movie drives us into the newly choreographed piece we’ve been practicing for my upcoming world tour.

“Oh, get it girl,” Fifi cheers as I drop low into a move, ignoring the camera flashes as we dance together like to two baddies that we are.

We gyrate and twirl like we have a million times before, and for the first time that night, I allow myself to feel genuine joy. Freedom is its own aphrodisiac and has been my only one for as long as I can remember. Having your choices taken when you are too young to know better or be able to protect yourself makes it so. I revel in the power I hold at being at the top of my game and enjoying with Fi always makes me happy.

No longer do I dwell on the haughty disdain of Hassan Al-Rasheed’s mean ass.

One song turns into two, but then I feel like I need to get my second wind.

“I’m not eighteen anymore.” I remind Fifi.

She quirks a mercurial eye. “You’re not twenty either.”

“You ain’t either.” Sticking my tongue out at her, I go back over to the table where my security is standing.

“Dang, my feet hurt.” Fifi mumbles as we sit back down. Eyeing her as she sneaks a hand under the table to rub herbruised toes, I roll my eyes. “That’s what you get for wearing those high ass heels all the time. Then having the nerve to try to dance in them.”

“Well, everyone can’t be a sneaker head like you.” She scoffs. “You can get away with it. I’d be looking like Big Bird.”

“Well,” Leaning back, I give her a critical eye. “The blond hair ain’t helping.”

She gives me a stunned look for all of two seconds when we both fall out laughing.

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