Risky Business

The video had gone viral, and while there’d been plenty of people on Taya’s side, she still came out looking like an aggressive, fists first, questions later sort.

Hopefully, nothing that drastic has happened. Again.

“Yeah,” I say warily. “I remember.”

“You are not gonna believe this shit, girl. That dick-weasel had the audacity to send me a DM on Insta! Talking ‘bout how he’s some bigshot photographer now and would love to do a shoot with me. Like I didn’t tell his crazy ass to leave me alone last time and he didn’t try to get my record company to pay him off for his ‘pain and suffering’. Ooh, I could make him suffer through some pain . . .” she growls, her eyes bright and her fist punching air as though the guy is right in front of her in my bedroom. Somehow, she doesn’t even spill a drop of coffee as she fights the imaginary guy.

“Are you serious? What’d you say?” I demand. I’m already cycling through options on how to spin this because I have no doubt that Taya ripped the guy a new one and pissed in the old one. It’s her style.

She pins me with a look, smug arrogance nearly wafting off her in waves. “I told him to fuck off and that if he contacted me again, I’d have legal after him so fast he’d wish I only beat him with my wig.”

I blink. That’s . . . not what I expected. Actually . . . “Taya! That’s great progress, girl! You didn’t threaten him with bodily injury or use rude insults. Or put him on blast. You used your resources . . . namely, legal ones. I’m so proud!”

She preens, flipping her hair, silver and black curls today, over her shoulder. “I knew you would be.”

I can’t believe it! But wait . . . “You said you needed my help with something. What else is there?”

She digs her toe into my thigh, punishing me for something but I don’t know what. “You broke me, Jayme. All my piss and vinegar is gone, replaced with some snotty ‘call my lawyer’ bitch. I’m mad at you.”

But she doesn’t sound mad. She seems proud, if not a bit confused, by her reaction to the wannabe photographer’s message.

“Taya, you’re not some snotty ‘lawyer’ type bitch. You’re a woman who’s well aware of what requires her attention and what doesn’t. Delegating out the shit to the people you pay to handle it is what you’re supposed to do. You are Taya-clap-Fucking-clap-Simmons-clap. You don’t need to waste one second of your day on some pissant like Elliott Jones. You have better and more important things to do.” This is a Taya-brand pep talk, a specialty I developed when working with her that later became how we communicate as friends.

She stares at me for a minute, taking in my words before looking into the depths of her nearly empty coffee mug. She mulls it over and then nods to herself. “You’re right. I can pawn him off and not give him another thought. Hell, I didn’t even remember his name or I wouldn’t have clicked on the DM.”

I smile at her conclusion, amazed at how far Taya has come. There were days when I truly thought I wouldn’t be able to save her from herself. She wanted to fight everyone and everything, as though the whole world was out to get her, even when people wanted to help her. But she’s different now. Not in the way she worries about, but in a more mature way, but still one hundred percent Taya.

“Speaking of other things I need to do . . .” She sits up in the bed, crisscrossing her legs in front of her as she sets her mug on the nightstand. “I need to pump you for information about whoever’s keeping you out till all hours of the night and that you have to call in the morning like he’s your keeper. But mostly, who the hell is making you smile like you were doing on the phone earlier?”

Before I can start to argue, she holds up a finger, her long nail threateningly sharp. “And don’t you dare try to tell me it’s nothing or I will slay you like one of RuPaul’s drag queen walkways.”

She undoubtedly will, and honestly, I could use someone to help me sort the mess of thoughts swirling in my head. “This goes without saying, but this is just between us.”

Taya gives me a wry look, as though whatever I’m about to tell her is nowhere near as juicy as the other secrets we’ve shared and waves her hand to tell me to get on with it.

“Right. Okay. So . . . I’m on a new assignment, and the client is interesting. He got a raw deal—”