Erin’s straight-faced. “I hope someone is taking good care of you.”
“If you mean room service, then yes.” Desiree flips the camera again to show her face as she walks back toward the bed. “And my driver will be making sure I get to the airport okay.”
“You’re going to the airport by yourself?”
“Apparently, they are expecting other guests. Tonight.” Desiree gives the camera a look that’s clearly meant just for Erin.
Erin shakes her head. “They aren’t shit for that. They should have let you know before they flew you out there.”
Desiree gets back in bed and balances her phone on her knees so she can put her hair in a sloppy topknot. “Oh, I already let them know I was not happy with the service. At all.”
When she picks the phone back up, Erin gasps. “Where’s your earring?”
Desiree’s free hand immediately moves from hair to ear. She’s wearing only one clip-on. She stares at the camera, again clearly staring at Erin, who stares back. They look at each other as comments come in double time now.
Girl I hope that earring wasn’t expensive.
Check under the bed, sis!
At least u kno it’s in the room since you aint left.
Erin speaks. “You should probably look for it.”
Desiree smiles. She looks up to no good. “I probably should, huh? We don’t want the next guest to find it.” There’s a knock on the door. Desiree’s smile just gets bigger. “Gotta go.”
Nine
Mel and Free were about the same skin color. Desiree would’ve been able to name their exact foundation shade in MAC, Fenty, and NARS. I had to settle for saying medium-ish brown. A quick Google search showed Free’s Free Money cuffs hadn’t been lasered off or covered up either, displayed in recent pics a few inches from a wedding band as thick and bronze as an Instagram model. I’m sure his keeping them was a power move, like Mel still showing their old videos. His reminder to everyone that Free Money’s success was just as much his as it was Mel’s.
Another check of Desiree’s IG post confirmed the ring definitely matched. If I’d been paying better attention earlier, it should have been a red flag. Mel never wore one. He and Veronika had matching ink on their ring fingers, Veronika wanting every assurance he couldn’t take that off.
Unlike Mel, Free was still with his high school sweetheart. They’d had a rough patch a few years back when she’d filed divorce papers. TMZ had had a field day when they discovered there was no prenup. Either the filing was a wake-up call or Free decided it was cheaper to keep her, because his wife withdrew the petition a few months later. And like a true hustler, Free used his personal problems for professional gain. His Love & Marriage album was twelve tracks insisting he was as new and improved as a box of Pampers. A man who didn’t cheat.
So much for that.
Although their official bio claimed Mel’s scholarship money had funded Free Money, hip-hop legend held there was more to it. Free, who had never gone to college, had indulged in a variety of extracurricular activities. He had ten LPs’ worth of claims about drug deals, corner shoot-outs, and home invasions. That stuff had built the entire hip-hop industry, with its focus on driving fancy cars, screwing fancy models, selling fancy drugs. But hip-hop was nothing if not exaggeration. The Bentley gets repossessed. The hot girl goes home when the director says cut. And the only things most rappers have ever stolen are the stories about illegal exploits.
My mom always swore Free’s backstory was pure bullshit, that the first time he’d held a gun was in the “Wasted” video. That Mel had had a rougher background than Free. But it didn’t matter if Free had actually joined a gang in his previous life; there was too much money at stake in this one. He’d lose everything if his wife left him because he’d gotten another woman knocked up—even if that woman was Desiree Pierce.
I couldn’t get out of that building fast enough. I ran straight into Bryant Park, New Yorkers instinctively sensing something was off and getting out of my way. The city had set up clumps of small, dark green tables that could barely fit their matching metal chairs. I sat in one anyway and scratched my wrist until it felt like I’d uncovered bone.
Free.
The few memories I had of him were good ones. Great ones. He was the reason I knew star quality wasn’t something publicists made up for press releases. I’d picked up on it even as a kid. It helped he’d paid me more attention than Mel had, sneaking me candy, listening to my too-long tales of preschool, turning the studio into a makeshift bowling alley courtesy of alcohol-free red Solo cups and tennis balls.
I had to remind myself that I hadn’t seen him in decades, didn’t think of him unless he popped up on the radio or my YouTube suggestions. I doubted Desiree had known him at all. He and Mel had fallen out when she could barely walk.
I’d never expected him to factor back into any of our lives—especially not like this.
It’s all good, baby, baby.
I said it over and over until my wrist stopped aching and the Super Black Woman returned. I didn’t know what this meant. Not knowing was something I wasn’t used to. I didn’t like the feeling at all. If Free was involved—whether in Desiree’s death or just in her life—I needed to know, which meant I needed to find him.
Confronting him was out of the question. This wasn’t Law & Order: Hip-Hop. No, I just needed him to admit something—anything that I could take straight to Green to get him to see that Desiree’s death hadn’t been an accident. I pulled out my phone and searched to see where Free might be. He’d owned a SoHo loft BC—before cheating. But in what was probably an effort to prove how serious he was about a fresh start, Free had sold it and set up home base in Atlanta, which meant I didn’t even know if he was still in New York, much less where in town he’d be. According to Wikipedia, which I used so much I actually gave them five bucks whenever they asked, New York City had 270 hotels and 75,000 rooms. And who knew how many Airbnbs? I couldn’t knock on every door, no matter how much I wanted to.
Free was as private as he was old-school. No Instagram. No Twitter. Definitely no TikTok. Not even ones run by publicists and well-compensated social media strategists. I couldn’t even use context clues like I’d done with Naut. Still, I checked Desiree’s pic again anyway. Just as I suspected, she’d cut off more than Free’s face. She’d also cut off any revealing details about where they had been. I moved on to the caption.
Vibes. It was followed by the camera emoji and a link to the photographer’s IG handle.
Erin.
*
“Erin!” Someone called from across the room.
Erin waved, a queen addressing a loyal subject. She smiled too, but sitting across from her, I could see it didn’t reach her perfectly made-up eyes. I glanced over to see who’d yelled. I couldn’t tell you the woman’s name, but I recognized her. I’d hit SKIP AD for her new TV show the last time I was on YouTube checking out natural hair tutorials.
Erin refocused on me. “I’m really glad you called. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
This time it was my smile that faltered. I just nodded and glanced at the menu.