Family Ties

Peyton had never been one for family drama. She’d been thankful when her parents moved from Cleveland to Philly in her teenage years because it separated them from the Cleveland Fosters and their madness. Somehow the work ethic and sense genes had skipped the majority of her father’s siblings, because few of them could ever hold on to a job or behave with any couth.  And since Peytons’s father, Perry was the sibling who was married, owned his home and had a well-behaved child, he and his family were often the target of the other Fosters’ anger and jealousy.  Perry was a man of few words who commanded enough respect to keep his siblings at bay. But young Peyton, as the daughter of the family member that everyone secretly hated and the smallest child of the Foster clan was regularly subjected to torture from her cousins. It was those fights that had contributed to her toughness. Even her young ego was too fragile to take too many losses so she learned quickly how to fight harder and smarter than larger foes.

Peyton had been surprised a year ago when her father had agreed to take in one of his troubled nieces from the Cleveland clan. “This one’s got some hope,” Perry said of the fourteen year old. “She kinda reminds me of you, Pey. She just needs a lil discipline and structure.”  As a high school teacher and basketball coach, Perry had a knack for spotting children with potential and typically had the recipe for getting the unruly ones in line. Unfortunately, his recent retirement had put him out of touch with the ways of the modern teenager. Perry and his wife had put up with young Tanisha’s eye rolling and sharp tongue for about a year, but they lost their patience when they’d caught her on their couch with a 22 year old drug dealer.

“I think Tanisha needs to come live with you for awhile,” he’d said to Peyton during an early morning phone call.

Peyton felt her tongue and throat burn as she choked on her Carmel Macchiato. “Are you crazy?” she shrieked.

She heard her father pause. “I’m gonna give you a minute to collect yourself and remember who you’re talking to.”  

It was Peyton’s turn to sigh. She felt like she was fifteen all over again. “Sorry Dad. I mean, excuse me?”

“Me and your mother talked and we think it would be a good idea if Tanisha spent some time with you. All she hears when we talk is old folks nagging. You can get through to her.”

Peyton instantly envisioned her hands wrapped around the teenage girl’s neck. “Now you know I do not have the temperament to deal with a teenager. I will end up in jail from beating the sh–daylights out of that little girl.”

Perry chuckled. “You like that cushy NBA job too much to risk jail so quit sellin wolf tickets. And she needs an example Peyton. She needs to see what she can have if she gets her head on straight. Because us threatening and punishing her ain’t workin.”

“I don’t know Dad,” Peyton searched her mind for more excuses. “I work like 60 hours a week, I don’t have time to keep up with her. How am I gonna keep her from runnin the streets if I’m never home?”

“Look,” Perry said sternly. “You are an adult so I can’t make you do anything. But I want you to keep in mind the sacrifices that people made to keep your little narrow behind on the straight and narrow. You’ve created a lot of success for yourself and your mama and I are proud. But you are 28 years old and you have yet to contribute anything of substance to the world outside of that ritsy New York crowd that you run with. Problem with these kids now is everybody runnin’ around tryna have it all that nobody makes time to talk to ‘em. Now I raised a tough cookie and I know that. But I didn’t raise you to be selfish and not care about folks, Peyton Quinn Foster.”

Peyton closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. The reason she’d stayed single and childless was so that she wouldn’t be responsible to anyone. Her life was arranged so that she could always put herself first.  And while she had meaningful friendships, they were with adult women who didn’t require more than the occasional ear and drinks every week or so. A kid? A smart-mouthed, hot-assed teenage girl nonetheless was more than she was ready to deal with. “Dad, I hear you. I really do. But you need to let me think about this. Can I call you in a few days?”

She heard Perry smile through the phone. As much of a bitch as she could be, she was still her daddy’s little girl. “Sure Pey. I’ll talk to you in a few days. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad” Peyton replied as she turned off the speaker phone in her office. She already knew that she couldn’t call her father with a no. The only question was how she’d keep from slapping the child upon her first eye roll.  

Blocked

Cherise stared at the blank computer screen. There were words somewhere in her mind, but she could not get to them.  They were trapped between memories of her last orgasm and the repeated attempts by Mr. Smith to get in contact with her.  For the last two days, her brain had been taken hostage by images of being wrapped around his brown body in various positions and locations. The way his fingers would hungrily graze her skin as though he could taste its sweet vanilla flavor through his fingertips. The carefully laid kisses on the nape of her neck and small of her back. The involuntary vibration in her thighs when it got too good to her.  With a sigh, Cherise removed her glasses to rub her temples. “Focus!” she whispered into the early morning quiet of the office.

But her brain was racked. Mr. Smith was in town to preview his new album to the press. Cherise had been relieved when the assignment was initially given to  another writer.  Her relief was short lived as assignments were rearranged after a writer had a death in the family. Of course Cherise ended up covering Mr. Smith’s listening party.  She’d tried during the staff meeting to keep her face together, but she swore that she’d felt it shatter and land in pieces on the office floor. Despite her best efforts to prevent it, she’d have to talk to him now. The careful dodging and short responses to his emails and texts had been pointless. The career gods were mocking her.  Perhaps even rolling on Heaven’s floors laughing hysterically at her expense.

Cherise had absolutely no clue how she was going to handle the evening. She’d spent two days planning her approach to the interview, but nothing stuck. She’d been obsessing over what she’d wear, but by some strange happening her entire wardrobe had morphed into ugly over night. It was ridiculous and she knew it. She needed to be talked down.  If only she could talk to her girls, but neither of them knew about Mr. Smith.  Cherise tried to imagine what they’d say. Mya had a penchant for mischief so she’d throw Cherise a  pair of Jimmy Choos and tell her to give him what he’s asking for. Peyton would give her the screw face and say, “You gonna let a man interfere with doing your job? You need to get your shit together ASAP.” Cherise had to chuckle at the amount of energy she was wasting on her silliness. She sat back in her chair and set her locks free from the messy knot she’d tied in her frustration. “I am trippin for real,” she said to no one in particular.

“Talking to ourselves this morning?” a voice broke through the fog in her mind. It was Morgan, the assistant fashion editor and one of her closest friends on staff.

“Something like that,” Cherise replied, a hint of dryness in her voice.

“Well, I’ve got some hot new samples from Tracy Reese and Giuseppe. Wanna raid the closet before the rest of these heifers  get hold of all the good stuff?”

Cherise smiled. The career gods hated her, but the wardrobe gods were clearly on her side. “Sure.” If she had to walk into hell, she was going to strut through the fiery gates in a pair of free Giuseppes.

Why is Cherise so against seeing Mr. Smith? Find out here.

Mya’s Sweet Escape

Mya had forgotten how much she loved L.A. There was something about the way the West Coast sun kissed her deep caramel skin that sent chills down her spine. The ocean breeze whipped through her naturally curly locks as her rented convertible raced down the highway. She could not believe that Marcus and her mother actually expected her to give up this sweet freedom for a Tiffany’s ring and a lifetime membership in the Links. Puh-leeze.

She’d had four wonderful days of rest in San Francisco. She’d enjoyed relaxing spa services, delicious meals, and connected with the energy on the San Fran streets. It was as though she could feel the rebellious spirits of the feminists who had once protested everything from sexism to the Vietnam war to racial injustices. Though she’d never compare her quest for personal independence to any of their causes, Mya definitely felt inspired by their boldness. She was inspired enough to know that she did not want to marry Marcus. There was no way that she could build a life based on someone else’s blueprint. Life was entirely too short. The only dilemma was relaying that information to Marcus and her mother.

Mya shook her head to clear her thoughts, for she was not in Los Angeles to worry about what she’d left in New York. She had come to L.A. to do some major damage on Rodeo Drive, fill up on Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, reconnect with college friends and dance on top of a few bars. She had already gotten in touch with her partner in crime for the next few days, Janine. Janine was the Dean of Pledges over Mya and Peyton’s line in college and was now a happily married entertainment lawyer in L.A. Janine was a firecracker who never shyed away from an opportunity to shop or party. She was just the kind of company that Mya needed for her time in Los Angeles.

Shortly after arriving at Janine’s beach house, Mya found herself enjoying fruit, croissants, mimosas and a much needed catch up session with her old friend.

“Well, girly. You certainly don’t look like a woman on the run,” Janine said with a smile as she sipped her mimosa.

“If that’s your way of saying I look good, thank you Ms. Janine the Dean,” Mya replied with a laugh. “How are things out here in La La Land?”

“Don’t even try it! We are not about to talk about my boring married life while you’re out here on the run from a doctor with a Tiffany’s ring. Now spill it before I go get my wood.”

Mya erupted into laughter as she was instantly reminded of her days as a pledgee. “Ok. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Janine looked Mya directly in the eyes. “Why are you here? Really?”

“To clear my head about–”

Janine interrupted. “No sweetie. Let me be more specific. Out of all the places you could run away to after turning down an engagement, why are you in Los Angeles where the only guy you’ve ever come close to having a long term relationship with, lives?”

Mya sighed. Dame. She’d managed to escape New York without any suspicion about her motives in coming to L.A. Dame Robinson had definitely played a big role in her travel decisions. After turning down Marcus’s proposal, Mya tried to remember the last time she’d felt alive with someone. Dame was the only guy she’d ever dated that let her be herself and there was a huge part of her that wanted to remember how that felt.  She knew that it would seem suspect to seek out an ex while in relationship turmoil, which was why she barely mentioned to anyone that she would stop in Los Angeles. Leave it to Janine to see through the bull.

“You still don’t know how to pull a punch, do you?” Mya finally replied.

“Never had to. Especially not when they always land so perfectly.”

Want to know Mya’s back story? Meet Mya here.

Peyton and the Party People

If there was one bain of Peyton’s profession, it was the industry party.  The scene was so very tired. Egomaniacal basketball players, pathological agents, the token “hot” rappers of the moment, pretentious PR girls tryng to get ahead, naive unassuming girlfriends, and of course, the groupies that keep the whole sports industry afloat. If Peyton wasn’t being hit on by some rookie hooper who didn’t know better, or pushed up on by some slimy agent, she was being glared at by girlfriends and groupies alike who wanted to know exactly “Who this bitch thought she was” that she could mix and mingle in crowds of these so-called superstars unaffected.

The latter scenario was currently playing itself out in the ladies room at the 40/40 Club.  Apparently, some peon’s “babymama” wasn’t thrilled about the “short bitch in the black dress”  who was “all up on” her man.  As the girl, who Peyton figured out was named Charmaine, went on her restroom tyrade, Peyton was in one of the bathroom stalls using the facilities.  She’d actually been finished for a few minutes, but she was so fascinated by what these girls had to say, that she couldn’t help but eavesdrop just a tad as Charmaine talked about wanting to “slap the taste out of her mouth.”  Peyton tried her best to hold back laughter, and thought to herself how lucky these girls were that she’d gotten in a game of raquetball earlier that day. Had she not released her well-documented agression, Charmaine might have found herself a victim of Peyton’s fiery temper.

“I just can’t stand these groupie bitches!” Charmaine said to her girlfriend. “I mean, like she didn’t see me come in with him and she just gonna be all up in his face.”

“Girl, you know that comes with the territory. You’ve gotta get used to it. All kinds of hoes are going to be all up in his face,” advised the girlfriend.  “I wonder who she is though? She didn’t look like a video girl.”

Charmaine smacked her lips. “I don’t give a fuck who she is. If I go back out there and see her with Tyrell again, there’s gonna be some problems.”

By now Peyton had had her fill. She stood up, straightened her pinstriped pencil dress and strutted out of the stall. “Well apparently, that won’t be necessary since she is right here,” Peyton quipped as she walked up to the mirror. She slowly sat down her clutch and reached for her MAC for a reapplication.  She smirked as she looked at the girls in the mirror. “Doesn’t this whole situation remind you of something that would happen in college?” Peyton paused. “Unless of course, you’ve never been to college.”

Charmaine and friend were speechless as they watched Peyton meticulously apply her MAC Lip Glass.

“Well, I know back in college, I was good for smacking the taste out of the mouths of bitches who talked shit about me behind my back. These days, though I’m more the type to slap the shit out of bitches in bathrooms, and then have said bitches removed from this party. Because when you’re a senior level NBA executive, you can do that. I’d then have them banned from all NBA parties and what a shame that would be. Because if I did that, then that just might make room for one of the six video hoes who have conspicuously slid their numbers to a certain basketball player via his agent to take the place of a certain girlfriend.”

Peyton carefully blotted her lips as the two girls glared at her. She couldn’t tell if they were more angry or embarassed and nor did she care. Little did they know that the exchange had been her source of entertainment for the evening. As much as she hated these parties, she loved putting stupid people in their places. She placed her make up back in her clutch and strutted towards the door. “It was nice chatting with you girls,” Peyton said. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Want to know Peyton’s back story? Meet Peyton here.

Cherise’s Industry Rules

Cherise was awakened by the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand.   She immediately sat up and searched for a clock.  She’d been up until 2AM working on her article.  The effort had been painstaking, trying to fill the pages with words and ideas that weren’t in her interview notes and she’d crashed and burned after finally putting together something worth reading.  Now she sat up in bed, feeling like she’d only gotten an hour’s sleep as slivers of sunlight began to peak through the New York City skyline.  Was it really morning already?

The urgent buzzing of her phone broke her thoughts.  Who the hell was calling or texting her at this time of day/night?  Eyes still half-closed, she fumbled around the nightstand until her hands finally landed on her iPhone. The light from the phone forced her eyes open to read the alert across the screen.  ”Text Message from Mr. Smith.” Her heart skipped a slight beat at the sight of his name as she touched the screen to read the message. “Wassup? I’m in town next weekend. Let’s hook up.”  Cherise smiled slyly, her mind rewinding to their last encounter.  Before she could answer the text, common sense kicked in and she sighed. “Damn,” she whispered into the silence of her bedroom.

Working as an entertainment journalist came with a set of rules.  Sure, the rules in Cherise’s case were self-imposed, but they were rules nonetheless.  The first rule on her list was to not screw around with artists.  In her eyes, it tainted her credibility.  Her dealings with Mr. Smith was a violation of that rule, and no matter how much she tried to rationalize the situation, it was still against her moral code.  She had to give herself a break, though.  It wasn’t as though it had always been that way.  She’d met him long before the rule had even been created, when she was still a student at Howard University.  She was the editor of the entertainment section of Howard’s newspaper and he was an up and coming songwriter visiting for Howard’s famed Homecoming festivities.  Their shared passion for music caused them to click instantly and they were inseparable for the remainder of the weekend.  Over the years, they kept in touch via phone, email, and the occasional visit where they would casually pick up where they left off during their initial meeting and then go back to their separate worlds.

Time went by and the two advanced in their careers.  Mr. Smith stepped from behind the scenes and became a full-fledged R&B sensation and Cherise was slowly working her way up the urban entertainment journalism totem pole.  They began to run into each other at industry functions, during which Cherise would try her best to not be seen.  Her efforts were always futile and they’d always end up back at his hotel, dancing on his sheets.  It was always beyond good and in the moment, worth the mental anguish that Cherise often suffered as a consequence.

Not that it was a relationship.  It most certainly was not.  And their get-togethers weren’t even that frequent.  She probably saw him every three or four months.  Each time, he was warm and kind.  Never disrespectful or full of himself despite his newfound fame.  He was always that cool, charismatic guy that she’d met seven years ago at Howard.  And the sex.  The sex was always off the charts.  As much as she tried to suppress it, Cherise was weak against the calls of her libido.  Great sex had always been her weakness.  But with Mr. Smith, it was more like her kryptonite.

Unable to go back to sleep, she rose from her bed in search of jeans and a T-shirt.  The sun had completely broken through the clouds which meant that the Starbucks on the corner was open for business.  Perhaps a carmel macchiato (another of Cherise’s guilty pleasures) would ease her current frustrations and calm her mind.  Before hitting the door, she looked at her cell phone one last time.  It’s better if I just leave it, she said to herself.  Maybe she’d forget all about the text by the time she got back.

Want to know Cherise’s back story? Meet Cherise here.

The Girls

“Sooo, you couldn’t just say ‘No Marcus. I am not ready for you to lock me down and impregnate me with your rugrats.’  You had to pass out?” Peyton said in her usual sarcastic tone as she walked past Mya into the apartment.

“She had to pass out because she knew that a medical emergency was the only way you’d let her get away with being late to lunch,” Cherise stopped to hug Mya as she entered the apartment. “Hey, Cuzzo.  You alright?”

Mya had to chuckle.  Leave it to her girls to make light of her panic attack without pissing her off.  “I’m cool,” she answered as the three friends settled into the living room of her Brooklyn brownstone.  Between the incident at the restaurant earlier that day, hashing things out with Marcus and fielding her mother’s 1000 questions, Mya was emotionally exhausted.  A visit from her two closest friends, Peyton and Cherise was exactly what she needed to get her in better spirits while she figured out her next move.

As the three of them sat in her living room laughing and exchanging banter, it was hard to believe that they hadn’t all been friends forever.  Mya and Cherise were cousins and had been close since they were children, despite the fact that Cherise lived in D.C. while Mya lived in Atlanta.  Spending summers visiting her cousin and aunts had played a huge part in Mya’s wanting to come east for college and the two were always traveling back and forth between D.C. and Philly to visit each other during their college years.  They had also moved to New York together after graduation and were roommates their first two years in the city.  Cherise still lived in the tiny Harlem walk-up that the two of them used to share.  Though Mya had never been a fan of the apartment, Cherise had definitely given the place character with her funky decorative touch.  She was indeed a free spirit and had always encouraged Mya to go after what made her happy, even if it meant going against the grain.

Mya and Peyton had met during their sophomore year at Temple, when they were on line together for their sorority.   Peyton was the fiery ace on their line who withstood some of the more physically grueling experiences with ease while Mya had been the emotionally stronger number two who was able to keep Peyton’s temper in line during the more emotional hazing.  With Peyton’s take no shit personality, Mya never understood exactly why she’d pledged, but Peyton later explained that it was to prove that she could.  She’d been told that she had too much attitude to make it online and if anyone knew Peyton they knew that more than anything, she loved to prove people wrong.  Years after having crossed the sands, she and Peyton remained the closest of their ten line sisters.  Peyton had always been an advocate of Mya doing her own thing and it was that thinking that brought her and Cherise together as friends when they all first moved to New York.  While Peyton and Cherise had had some personality differences at the beginning of their relationship, they had developed a closeness over the last six years.  Most people who met them assumed that the three of them had all grown up together.

“So, now that Aunt Linda is in a tizzy and you’ve got Marcus waiting with bated breath, what you are going to do?” Cherise asked.  Mya had just caught them up on the rest of the story.  She’d asked Marcus for some time and space to consider his proposal.  Though he wasn’t crazy about the idea, it was clear that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. If he wanted to be with her, he’d have to play by her rules.  Her mother on the other hand had been a different story.  Apparently, Marcus had told her that he was going to propose so she was shocked to hear that Mya hadn’t readily accepted.  Mya believed that her mother was more upset about her turning down the ring than she was about the fact that her daughter had been so panicked at the thought of marrying Marucs that she had passed out in a restaurant.

“I’m leaving town,” Mya replied nonchalantly as she walked into her kitchen for a glass of water.  Predictably, Cherise and Peyton were on her heels two seconds later.

“Leaving town?” Cherise asked. “To go where? And for how long?”

“I’m going to California for a week.  I’ll spend a few days in San Francisco and then shoot down to San Diego to chill on the beach.  I really need to clear my head and I can’t do that with Marcus breathing down my neck and my mother pressuring me,”  Mya answered.  “Which is why neither of them is to know where I’m going.  I’ll tell them that I’m going out of town, but that’s it.  So I need you two to keep quiet.”

“What is there to think about?  You know good and damn well that you do not want to marry that man,” Peyton said.  “Passing out at the sight of a ring is indication enough of that.  You have to spend a week on a totally different coast to figure it out?”

Mya sighed.  “It’s not just about Marcus.  I have spent the last ten years of my life making compromises between what I want and the life my parents laid out for me.  I mean, I’ve done my own thing here and there, but only to an extent.  I need to make some serious decisions about the next phase of my life.  And that requires time and space, Peyton.”

Peyton nodded with understanding.  That was the nature of their relationship.  Mya was one of very few people who could occasionally shut Peyton up.

“Escaping to find yourself, huh?” Cherise said with a chuckle.

Mya shrugged. “Something like that.”  What they didn’t know was that she was actually escaping to find someone else.  And that her trip would include a stop in Los Angeles to do just that.

“So other than keep our mouths shut,” Peyton said. “What else do you need us to do?”

“Drive me to the airport in an hour,” Mya replied with a smile.  “My flight leaves at eight.”

Tiffany’s Trap

She could not escape.  Why did she want to?  This was the moment that Southern girls like herself dreamed of their entire lives.  It was the purpose of all of those ridiculous Jack and Jill functions, cotillions, and every party she’d attended since she was at least thirteen years old.  Every moment of Mya Washington’s life had been specifically planned and ordered for this very moment.  She was supposed to be sitting in this very fancy Manhattan restaurant across from this well-bred pediatrician in giddy anticipation of the tiny box that he was currrently pulling out of his pocket.  Mya was 28 years old, the prime age for marriage and child rearing and here it was.  The brass ring.  Or in this case, platinum.  Though she was sure of nothing else at the moment, she was 100% sure that the box Marcus was reaching for would be from Tiffany’s and that the ring it held would be platinum.  It couldn’t have been more predictable.  Her mother would be so proud.

Sure, Mya had deviated slightly from the original script.  She had broken her family’s strong “Southern Black Ivy League” tradition by attending Temple as opposed to Spelman, Fisk, or Hampton.  She’d been a Southern Belle her entire life, and she had felt an indescribable pull toward the East Coast.  Philadelphia had been just what the doctor ordered.  Surprisingly, she’d quickly adapted to the change of pace and easily wooed the entire campus with a slightly sassier version of her natural Southern charm.  Yes, she’d pledged a sorority, but she had not followed the legacy plan her mother had mapped out for her, and opted for her mother’s rival sorority.  Her mother had initially thrown a fit, but then surrendered that she could have done much worse.  Despite her mother’s constant matchmaking efforts, Mya remained single throughout most of college.  She rather enjoyed the freedom of serial dating and did as much of it as she possibly could.   In spite of her studies in education, Mya adopted a love for fashion and kept herself styled to the nines in order to feed her desire to be a stylist.  She was supposed to become a teacher and move home to Atlanta, but she instead headed to New York City after graduation.  She didn’t pursue her teaching license, but went for a Master’s in Higher Education Administration at Columbia.  If she was going to work at a school, she at least wanted to be in charge. 

For those first few years out of college, Mya did live many of her dreams.  She used her own salary to bankroll her bills and her parents’ cash to bankroll her lifestyle of fly clothes and fun trips.  She’d been a staple at every All-Star Weekend, Superbowl Weekend, and Essence Jazz Festival through much of her twenties.  She dated at will and kept a pair of Jimmy Choos on her size 8 feet.  Her mother had been absolutely mortified until Mya turned 26 and finally began to slow down.  Two years later, Mya was settled into her career at Columbia as the Director for the Center of Multicultural Affairs and was in a committed relationship with Dr. Marcus Grey who came from a well-bred Philadelphia family. 

Now here she was, just two days after her 28th birthday, sitting across from Marcus, staring at the Tiffany’s box that sat on the table between them.  Mya felt her breath becoming short.  Her palms began to sweat.  Her mind was racing.  She took a sip of her water and tried to calm down.  What was wrong with her? Why did she feel the sudden need to run screaming out of the restaurant?  She felt trapped.  Not by her surroundings, but by the Tiffany’s box that sat on the table.  It meant that she’d have to permanently set aside the person that she had become over the last ten years and become a society woman.  A doctor’s wife.  She’d join The Links and become a slave to the opinions of women whose lives were seeped in secrets and contradictions.  She and Marcus would have children and drag them across the Tri-State for all those silly black high society functions.  After all, how else would they learn to choose their mates and friends by pedigree rather than personality?  She’d never again dance on a bar in Las Vegas, or flirt with the cute Puerto Rican bartenders in San Juan, or fly out to San Francisco just to see a concert.  Damn.  Marcus would be the last man she’d have sex with. Ever.

The shortness in Mya’s breath became nonexistent, as did her breathing.  Her heart pounded in her chest.  Her head spun.  As she tried to get up from the table, she heard was Marcus’s voice ask “What’s wrong?”  That was the last thing she heard before everything went dark and her body hit the floor.

Cherise Jackson

Three hours.  The most tedious, ridiculous three hours Cherise Jackson had ever suffered.  Three hours spent trying to pry an interesting conversation out of a syruped-up idiot who claimed to be the best rapper alive.  Cherise shifted the weight of her oversized Tracy Reese bag and sighed.  She really hated rappers.  Well, not all rappers.  She still had an eternal crush on Common that had lived in her heart since the very first time she heard “I Used to Love H.E.R.” And she couldn’t forget about Nas, whose “I Gave You Power” still gave her chills whenever she heard it.  And there was of course the original God MC, who was the author of her all-time favorite song “I Know You Got Soul.”  Why was she complaining?  This career was what she had worked for her entire life.  Ever since she had written that review of the “The Chronic” for her junior high school newspaper, she knew that it was her destiny to write about hip-hop.  Before she even knew that hip-hop journalists existed, she knew that she wanted to be one.

Four years at Howard University’s John H. Johnson School of Communications, a brutal two year sentence at Columbia University’s J school, multiple internships, and survival through the financial murkiness of the freelance world and Cherise had finally hit pay dirt.  Or something like it.  She had secured a job as a writer for Vibe Magazine, immediately following an unsatisfying stint at XXL that ended when she realized that hip-hop as she knew it was indeed dead.  Vibe was a better fit for her, and allowed her to cover some more interesting artists.  After a year of paying dues, she had finally earned her dream assignment-a cover story.  It just had to be about one of the new breed rappers.  She hated to feel old or out of touch, but in comparison to the artists that she’d grown up listening to, these cats left a lot to be desired.  Especially when they gave her barely a page worth of material that she was supposed to magically morph into a cover story. 

That dumbass.  She’d spent a good hour and a half of the interview trying to ignore his disgusting flirtations.  Ick.  That was another hazard of her profession, fighting off the sexual advances of  clown ass rappers.  Despite how much she tried to downplay it with her honey brown dreadlocks and neo-soul style, Cherise was still a sweet-faced, thick redbone underneath it all.  While she was perfectly comfortable in her own skin and loved the way her curves poured into her size 10 jeans, she hated the way her Coke bottle figure seemed to distract interviewees from the fact that she was indeed a journalist and not the second coming of Karrine Stephans.  This was especially the case with her last interviewee, who had a well-documented fetish for the curvy light-skinned breed.  Every girl he’d been linked to in the industry certainly fit the bill.

And to think, that idiot had made her late for her weekly lunch date with her girls.  Cherise was a good ten blocks away from the sushi bar and the little bit of cash she had was for lunch and train fare back to her Harlem apartment.  That meant that a cab was not an option.  She would have to truck those ten blocks in the knee-high chunky heels that were sure to murder her feet and endure the verbal lashing she’d receive from Peyton for her tardiness.  Why had she resigned herself to  the lifestyle of a starving artist again?  Well, there certainly were perks.  The press pass that allowed her admission into any concert she wished to attend.  And the free CDs and MP3s that kept her music collection on point.  And the hot industry parties she sometimes covered.  And the greatest perk of all, being an insider.  Cherise’s words helped to dictate what was hot.  Her voice was heard and her opinions mattered.  So, her interviewee had been a moron, her feet were killing her, and she was late for lunch.  She was living her dream and would not have it any other way.  With a sigh of acceptance, Cherise plugged her ears with the sound of Maroon 5 and began her trek.  The life of a writer in NYC…

Peyton Quinn Foster

New York City was supposed to be a fast-paced city.  Peyton Quinn Foster never understood how a city full of people moving at hyper-speed managed to be so damn late all the time.  She abhored tardiness.  She blamed it on all those years of strict basketball practices in high school and college. Peyton smiled as she remembered those times.  The good old days.  She’d moved to the East Coast from Cleveland at age 14 and found solice on the basketball court at her high school.  She had been one of the fastest, toughest point guards in the Philadelphia area and was recruited to Temple University for college. Peyton was a tiny 5’4″ Freshman, but she let it be known from day one that she was not going for any of that Freshman hazing crap.  She was instantly pegged as a fighter.  A girl with a Napoleon complex that was not to be screwed with, an attitude that served her well both on and off the court.

But then came the career ending injury in the middle of her sophomore year.  That season, Peyton watched with a broken heart as her team made it to the Sweet Sixteen without her. By the end of the season, however, she’d found a new place in Temple athletics as an intern in the marketing department.  A position where her toughness and hardcore work ethic came in handy as she competed with the male interns.  Peyton was a natural competitor with sharp sales instincts.  By the end of her junior year, she’d been offered an account manager position and had become a part-time student, working in the office during the day and completing her degree at night.  It had required a lot of hard work, but two years later, it paid off when she was hired by the Philadelphia 76ers as a marketing rep.

Now, at 28, Peyton was a senior marketing rep for the NBA.  Though she missed the thrill of the game, she didn’t believe in regrets and was more than satisfied with her career.  She had shed her tomboy looks over the years in favor of a classic, no nonsense style, but even that had a level of discipline and organization to it.  Peyton still favored a powerful suit over a dress, but her suits were tailored perfectly to fit her petite body.  No bright colors, they were too girly.  She mostly stuck with black, white, and gray, with the occasional red when she wanted to make a statement and remind people that she was indeed all woman.  Her hair stayed styled in a short, blunt bob that barely grazed her chin.  Where Peyton allowed herself to play was with her collection of toys.  Nothing made her feel more powerful than rolling like a big boy, especially since she was the youngest senior marketing rep and the only woman.  She loved pulling up in her black Infiniti truck with her system blaring early 90s era East Coast hip-hop, then stepping slowly out of the truck, allowing her designer black pumps to hit the pavement as men  watched in shock.  Even her apartment looked like a bachelor pad with its black leather furniture and black and white photos of the Rat Pack decorating her walls.  She absolutely loved it. Not bad at all for a petite 28 year old Black girl from Cleveland.

No matter how far removed Peyton was from her hooping days, that player’s discipline still lived within her.  She often wished she could take it back to the days of basketball practice and make people run suicide drills when they made her wait.  Maybe then they’d learn to respect her time.  Peyton pulled out her Blackberry Curve and sent a warning text to her lunch dates, “You bitches have 10 min to get here before I roll out.” So what if they were only five minutes late? That was five minutes of her life that she could never get back.