mine. Qwest doesn’t have some things she’d like to do after the show. She has someone she’d like to do after the show.
Grip.
“Oh, yeah?” I drop the contract and run my hand over the back of my neck where the tension always seems to gather. “Like what?”
“She was thinking she and Grip could hang out after the show. They haven’t seen each other since they wrapped on the ‘Queen’ video a month ago. So . . .”
Pairing Grip with Qwest, the hottest female rapper on the scene right now, was sheer brilliance. I wish I could take credit for it, but Qwest approached us about working with him.
“So . . .” I pick up where Will left off, waiting for him to voice the request.
“Could we cancel the chat with the reporter so Qwest and Grip can go out after the show?”
I swallow the big no that lodges in my throat. It’s true that Meryl will be irritated if we cancel. She’ll be shadowing Grip for the next few weeks leading up to the album release writing this piece. I don’t want to start our working relationship not delivering the one-two punch of Qwest and Grip together. But, if I’m honest, that isn’t the only reason I want to refuse Qwest’s request to spend time with Grip.
I clear my throat before responding.
“Um, let me see what I can do, Will. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. I don’t want to alienate this reporter. This piece she’s doing is great exposure for Grip’s album.”
“I get that, but you know how Qwest is.” Will laughs, probably to keep from crying, because Qwest is a handful. “If we make her do the interview, she’ll probably say some outrageous shit and ruin it anyway.”
Irritation prickles under my skin. Qwest is undeniably talented. And undeniably hot for Grip. I’ve seen it for myself. She practically engraved an invitation for Grip to screw her at the “Queen” video shoot. For her to put her libido above a commitment is highly unprofessional, but then, it is Grip. She wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve seen lose all sense of decency where he’s concerned.
“If I can’t get them out of the interview without potentially damaging this piece,” I say, stiffening my words just enough. “Then I’ll expect your artist to be where I need her to be when I need her to be and to conduct herself professionally. If you can’t control Qwest, don’t make me do it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Will’s tone stiffens a little, too. “It shouldn’t be that big a deal. Promise the reporter something else. Something bigger.”
“Like what?”
“Like what if she goes with us next month? She’d get Qwest and Grip performing in Dubai. The optics alone will be a great add to her story.”
Damn. Wish I’d thought of that, too. Grip and Qwest are giving a sweet sixteen concert for the daughter of one of Dubai's ruling families.
“That’s a great idea.” My tone still makes no promises. “I’ll pitch it to Meryl and get back to you.”
“Sounds good. See you at sound check.”
With a million things clamoring for my attention, demanding action, I stand still at my desk for a full minute, staring unseeingly at the work waiting for me.
Qwest and Grip.
They’re perfect for each other. Not only that, but it would be good for business. Their fans would eat up a romance between them. They’d be the king and queen of hip-hop. All the ideas spin through my head of how to maximize on a relationship between my artist and Will’s. I could spin a street fairy tale of it. It’s what Qwest wants. It’s what everyone would want.
But I’m the one thing I know without a shadow of a doubt Grip wants. Over the years, we’ve managed to become friends. Really good friends actually, and I was thrilled when he finally agreed to let me manage his career. But that’s all. Grip has made it clear he wants more, but that’s all I can give, and that’s all we’ll be.
So if you won’t have him, Qwest can.
That little voice of conscience and reason whispers to me every once in a while. Depending on the circumstance, sometimes I listen. Sometimes I ignore. I know this time I should listen.
Sarah’s groan from the outer office pulls me from minutes of
contemplation I can’t afford. Despite all the work I’ve already done, I still have so much to do.
“You’re still here?” I call out, walking to the door.
I fight back an ill-timed smile