Vengeance

2:30 p.m.

Atlanta, Georgia

Cameras, lights, action. The scene was set. I had to pat myself on the back. It was one hell of a plan. I was going to set Michael up for the okey doke and distance myself from the fallout at the same time.

Glaze had met me in Atlanta and I had her go rent a temporary office space in midtown with cash. She put up a placard on the wall beside the door that read PROVISIONAL ENTERTAINMENT. Even the name was pure brilliance, since “provisional” meant “arranged or existing for the present.” In this case, “the present” was less than a week and no company by that name actually existed. I made sure by googling it.

I had Glaze call up Michael, express that she was a Hollywood producer currently casting for a new film scheduled to shoot in Atlanta in the spring. I told her to toss out a few heavy-hitter A-list actors and actresses as confirmed leads and send Michael bogus sides that I had fabricated out of my vivid imagination. I didn’t write an entire script but just enough to make it seem realistic. I had turned down enough roles to know what a script layout looked like. I purchased some cheap script-writing software offline and made it happen within the span of an afternoon.

He was going to be auditioning for the role of Choad, the older brother of the main character, Domino, a hit man from Compton, who had come to Atlanta to exact revenge for the murder of his wife by an adversary. The name of the film was called Vindication. Every name was well planned out. I was there in Atlanta to get them all back, the name Domino stood for the domino/butterfly effect that my life had turned into that night in October 1987, and Michael was too stupid to put two and two together in regards to Choad. Most people had never heard of the term. However, being the freak that I was, I knew that a “choad” was the area between the penis and the anus and also a common nickname for a dick that was actually wider than it was longer. In other words, Choad was a moniker for “little dick motherfucker.”

We had cameras and microphones set up throughout the office that could not be seen and a DSLR—digital single-lens reflex camera—on a tripod on the opposite side of her desk. She was dressed in a black blazer without a bra, so her tits were titillating—no pun intended—and a short beige skirt with no panties and black fuck-me pumps. She had on glasses to make her seem studious and professional, but I was banking on Michael getting horny the second he walked through the door.

To give the temptation some additional momentum, Glaze had an “actress” there to read with Michael for the role of Choad. She was an up-and-coming porn star named Mrs. Teasedale. She was about five foot four, petite, with couveture skin, meaning that she was like chocolate rich in cocoa butter. Her skin was flawless all over. She drove men crazy. I only hoped that he had not seen any of her work yet. It could’ve ruined my plans. I needed him to believe that she was a real actress. It was customary for someone to read the other part in auditions so that those casting could see how it would all play out on-screen.

Michael knocked on the door promptly at two o’clock. I was across town watching it all on web cam in my studio. That was the only way that I could assure I would be alone, by lying and saying that I wanted to work on my music alone. Diederik and Antonio were off for the day since I had no concrete plans and Kagiso was out by the pool perfecting his moves. He had tried to teach the art form to me, both for self-defense and to relieve stress. Little did he realize that doing those slow, graceful moves were the exact opposite of what relieved my stress. I liked beating asses.

Since my studio was soundproof and I had barricaded myself in there by not only locking the door but by also placing a security bar under the knob, I had my laptop on as loud as it would go so I could hear everything.

“Come on in, Mr. Vinson,” Glaze said as she greeted him at the door and led him into the central office space. “This is Duchess.?

?

Mrs. Teasedale was going by the name of Duchess for the afternoon. It sounded like a great actress name to me. Being that I used a fake name myself, I was always fascinated with the fact that so many celebrities utilized them. Mine was obvious because of Wicket, and most people knew that I was also Ladonna Sterling. They just had no idea that I had started out as Caprice Tatum.

Some simply wanted more exotic names, some had long-ass names, and some had names that were too hard to pronounce. Some of my favorites were Nicki Minaj “Onika Tanya Maraj,” Akon “Aliaune Damala Akon Thiam,” Jane Seymour “Joyce Penelope Wilhelmina Frankenberg,” Stevie Wonder “Stevland Hardaway Morris,” Ralph Lauren “Ralph Lifschitz,” Cher “Cherilyn Sarksian,” and Woody Allen “Allen Stewart Konigsberg.” It always amused me how some papers insisted on using my real name whenever they did an article on me, stating that it was their policy—a damn lie—when they would write articles about tons of other people and never use their real names.

“It’s nice to meet you ladies,” Michael said, grinning from ear to ear as he shook their hands. I had the screen split into four so I could see it all from various angles . . . and record it. “I’m so excited for this opportunity.”

“How old are you?” Glaze asked, looking at his headshot and information on the back. “You look older in person. When was this headshot taken?”

Glaze was playing her role and going for the jugular from the onslaught like I had commanded her to do.

“Um, it was taken a year or two ago.” Michael watched as Glaze looked back and forth between him and the photograph. “It might be this goatee,” he added, rubbing his chin.

“So how old are you?”

Duchess looked on, trying to suppress a giggle.

“I can play midtwenties to early thirties.”

Glaze sat down in the leather chair behind the desk, leaving Michael standing in the middle of the floor.

“Have a seat on the sofa with Duchess. Did you memorize your lines?”

“Indeed.” Michael grinned as he sat down. “I’m your Choad.”

“So have you done any love scenes before?” Glaze asked, eyeing him over the top of her glasses. “Are you in shape?”

“I’m in great shape. I work out five to six times a week. As to your other question, no, but I’m not opposed to it, either.”

“Marital status?” Glaze looked over his paperwork. “It doesn’t say on here.”

“Single.”

“Good. That means no one should be tripping if I give you this role.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t recall any mention of simulated sex scenes in the sides you sent me.”