Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (6 page)

He called as soon as he landed, and we made plans for a discreet outing—dinner and dessert in his hotel suite coordinated by Kareem. As one of the league’s most visible franchise players and a married man, Marcus could ill afford to have a messy affair splashed all over TMZ. The sex had been as electric as I had fantasized. To keep his attentions and affections, I’d have to keep the intrigue going, so I made sure that every time we saw each other, I surprised him and left him wanting more of th
e Goddess.

What married women don’t understand is that when it comes to sex, you can’t just give it to your man whenever he wants it. You have to be excited, enthusiastic, and adventurous. And when you’re dealing with someone like Marcus King, a multimillion-dollar pro-athlete who can jump into bed with a new movie star or model every single day of the week, you really have to step up your game. So whether it was handcuffs, blindfolds, blow jobs on the private jet, or bringing a little blond friend along for the party, I did it all, and Marcus never knew what to expect. And that’s what kept him coming back for more . . . and kept his wife’s bed co
ld as ice.

And while I thought we’d have fun for a couple of months and I’d get some wonderful presents and maybe even that fly new Mercedes I had my eye on, what I hadn’t expected was the deeper connection that developed between us. Marcus was funny, sensitive, charming as hell, and the king of the league. He listened to me talk and wanted to hear my opinion. We began seeing each other as often as we could. Kareem would fly me into the cities Marcus was playing, and he whisked me out right after the next game. And after each meeting, it became harder and harder for us to part. I could tell he was getting in deep with me, and I was quickly doing
the same.

I never worried about his wife, and he never mentioned her. And like most NBA wives, the woman soon to be known as the ex-Mrs. King
hadn’t really maintained her looks. She was cute enough, but she always had a tired expression on her face. The First Lady of the NBA, as she was known, stood no chance against me and my plans for her soon-to-be ex-husband. Sometimes she did intrude on our evenings together like when his main cell phone would ring while we were in bed and he’d have to answer. He would apologize and take the call in the bathroom. He had recently got a separate cell phone for me because he said wifey was always checking his phone for text messages and e-mails from other women. I never understood why women didn’t know that there was no more of a turnoff than a crazy jealous woman. But she wasn’t my problem, and soon enough she wouldn’t be Marcus’
s, either.

CHAPTER 4

Nia

B
reaking news alert: Marcus King spotted at NYC hotel with video
vixen!!??

“
Dammit, Marcus,” I groaned as I read the e-mail from Che Williams, intrepid
DivaDish
senior entertainment editor, and tossed my iPhone onto my cluttered desk before staring out the window of my corner office in Midtown
Manhattan.

“Ooh, girl,” said MJ as he walked into my office, his iPhone in one hand and another large brown box from my mom with more clothes from the HSN that she bought for my new job. He dropped the box on the coffee table in the seating area of my office, slid the frosted glass door closed behind him, and flopped his slim frame in one of the smoky Lucite chairs facing my desk. “Did you see Che’
s e-mail?”

“Of course I did,” I snapped as I sat down in the black leather chair behind my desk and raked my fingers through my new short, spiky do. When the
DivaDish
reporters had breaking news that needed an immediate response, I instructed them to copy MJ on the communication so that he could find me quickly for
approval.

“Whatcha gonna do, EIC?” he drawled. “You know this is a big story, and our readers are obsessed with Marcus King since he got traded to New York. Whenever the writers post anything about him on the site, it gets tons of page views and comments. I bet you that tramp-ass Laila James is the one that leaked the story. Golden Goddess
, my ass.”

Suddenly both of our iPhones buzzed with another incoming message
from Che.

Go
t video!!!

I clicked on Che’s message, and the short video clip opened on
my screen.

Shit . . .

Marcus King was hard to miss. And with a $150 million contract with the New York Gladiators, he had a target on his back for every reporter and every wannabe paparazzi with a cell phone camera. The clip was grainy and unsteady, but I could hear Che’s persistent voice yelling in the background, “Marcus King, o
ver here!”

When he saw Che’s camera aimed at his grill, he threw up his hand to block his face as he walked out of a Manhattan hotel lobby holding a woman’s hand. The woman, dressed in a short, tight turquoise Hervé Léger dress, quickly pulled the dark glasses off the top of her long dark hair, slipped them on, and then dropped his hand. But it was too late. The video ended as Marcus rushed by Che and jumped into a waiting car. The woman immediately turned and ran back into
the hotel.

It was definitely Marcus in the video. And it was definitely Laila James, the Golden Goddess,
with him.

“Damn . . . How dumb do you have to be to try to leave a hotel with your ho in the middle of Manhattan in broad daylight?” MJ asked as he shook
his head.

I knew Che was waiting for my response before she posted her latest scoop to the
DivaDish
website. It was sure to get a lot of traffic and put our fledgling site o
n the map.

But I wasn’t sure what to do with this juicy exclusive because, after all, it would kill my girl Vanessa, and she was the one who helped me get thi
s new job.

Vanessa had hooked up an e-mail introduction to her soror DeAnna George, the president of PrimeTime Media’s publishing unit, just as she had promised. Desperate for a new job and anxious to get the hell out of Los Angeles and as far away from Eric as possible, I quickly drafted a twenty-page proposal for DeAnna, outlining my vision for the magazine and website. Shortly after receiving my proposal, DeAnna, who, as fate would have it, was in LA to meet with advertising clients, arranged to meet for lunch at her suite in the Beverly Hi
lls Hotel.

It was apparent immediately that DeAnna George was wicked smart, had an edgy sense of humor, and played to win. One of the only female presidents at PrimeTime Media Group, a New York–based conglomerate of publishing, social media, and TV networks, she hadn’t gotten to the top by playing nicely with others and sharing her toys. Average height and well toned, she had a light brown complexion and a razor-sharp, chin-length jet-black bob with a widow’s peak. I took her age to be a well-preserved fiftyish. A Google search had yielded several business accolades and a few nasty stories about her underhanded office politics and quick temper, so I’d need to push for an ironclad contract to protect myself if she offered me the job. I walked her through my proposal, laying out my vision for the weekly magazine and daily website, which seemed to im
press her.

“I want the
DivaDish
brand to be the must-read for women of color both in print and online, and I think you’re just the woman to take the brand to the number one position,” she said with a hard glint in her dark eyes as she slid a black folder across the table to me. When I opened the folder, I was happy to see an employment contract. The salary, while in the mid six figures, was a little lower than I would have liked for this type of position, but when I tried to address that, she quickly shu
t me down.

“Let me be clear, Nia. All PrimeTime Media contracts are nonnegotiable,” DeAnna said. “Our human resources department has done all the necessary research on the marketplace, competition, and, more importantly, they have done the research on you. So, since you were fired from your last position and Kris Kensington seems to be doing her best to sully what’s left of your reputation, this offer seems more t
han fair.”

Ouch
, girlfriend did not play. I had to swallow my ego and my first impulse to shove the contract back across the table and tell DeAnna where to stick it, but unfortunately she was right. Just within the last week I had started to realize how limited my options really were. My calls and e-mails to contacts at outlets that had previously expressed interest in my work went unreturned and unanswered. The word was out. My career was officially DOA in LA thanks to Kris, and her version of my firing was sure to get to the East Coast media outlets within the week as well. But while I digested that this could be the only job offer I received and that eking out a living as a freelance writer wouldn’t cut it, I knew there was one thing that DeAnna had to agree to or I could never tak
e the job.

“OK, I can accept the salary, but one point that’s nonnegotiable for me is that I must be allowed to bring my assistant, Marquis Jackson, with me.” I sat back in my chair and stared back at DeAnna. I was ready to walk away over this point, and sh
e knew it.

“Fine. I’ll have legal adjust the contract to include your assistant, Marquis, and send the revised agreement to your home this evening
to sign.”

I accepted the terms of her offer, and within forty-eight hours, human resources had arranged for my apartment and MJ’s to be packed up and the contents shipped to
New York.

When we arrived at the
DivaDish
offices, MJ jumped on decorating the office. He’d done a great job. There were a plush cream-colored sofa, two black linen and chrome chairs, and a glass coffee table with chrome furnishings. A fifty-four-inch HD flat screen was mounted on the wall along with a series of black-and-white photographs of celebrities behind the sofa and a large zebra-skin rug on
the floor.

I got busy meeting the new team, whose members seemed bright, competitive, and passionate about the brand and the growing audience. They were all young, hungry, and ready to put
DivaDish
on the map, but the senior editor, Che Williams, had really distinguished herself as a dogged reporter with a knack for landing juicy scoops, great underground contacts, and a hip writing style that readers really liked. There was only one bad apple in the bunch: a self-important fashion reporter named Basil Greene whom DeAnna had personally hired. Lazy, loud, and with an affinity for long lunches and cocktails, he quickly got on both MJ’s and my
bad side.

Up by six o’clock and in the office by seven thirty each morning, I spent the first half hour of my day scouring competing websites. I then checked the chatter on our Facebook page and Twitter account, posted some questions to spur discussion, and then responded to e-mail. At eight thirty, I met with the editorial team to talk about the day’s assignments, brainstorm new articles, and review the hottest celebrity photos from the photo agencies to make our selects for the day. We’d then review any overnight star sightings, breakups, or makeups, and our marketing and social media teams would review traffic patterns and develop new content opportunities and
campaigns.

Being editor in chief for
DivaDish
was fun and fast-paced. I reported on the celebrities that
I
cared about, like Gabrielle Union and her hot romance with Dwyane Wade; the opening of Steve Harvey’s new movie; Usher’s baby mama drama; Beyoncé and Jay Z’s daughter, Blue Ivy; Kim Kardashian and Kanye’s latest antics; and Zoe Saldana’s blockbuster. I no longer had to pretend to be just as obsessed as my former
Hollywood Scoop!
colleagues with the likes of just-plain-old-boring Jennife
r Aniston.

The first two weeks DeAnna left me alone to get acclimated and gel with the team. But by week three, she included me in her weekly update meetings during which she reviewed the business, newsstand sales, and traffic goals in painstaking detail with all her editors. All the editors made sure to overprepare for the weekly torture sessions because DeAnna was exacting and icy, and she never missed anything. I always walked out of those meetings thankful I had a contract in case she ever decided to bounce me out the door over some
bullshit.

The best part of my new job was finally running my own show and no longer having to answer to people like Kris Kensington. I assigned the stories. I set the pace. I decided whom we covered and to whom we ga
ve a pass.

And now that meant I had to decide whether to cover my best friend’s husband
’s affair.

I decided to put Che off for a little while longer and told MJ to let her know that I had received her e-mails and to hold on posting the story while I attended my weekly meeting with DeAnna. I opened my office closet door and looked into the full-length mirror on the other side of the door to check my look before going in
to battle.

Before we came to work at
DivaDish
, MJ had insisted that I needed a wardrobe upgrade. And he knew my mom would be sending boxes of “business separates” from the Home Shopping Network that he would have to donate to Goodwill, so he called his friend Harper Stevens, a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman, and arranged for a complete makeover. Standing naked and vulnerable in the bright, unforgiving light of a Bergdorf dressing room, I knew I was in good hands with Harper. She was fly in a boho chic kind of way, assessed my body and taste in minutes, and returned with an armload of skirts, blouses, dresses (I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d worn one), and jeans, declaring my new look would be urban elegance with edge. I didn’t even know what the hell that meant, but MJ snapped his fingers in appreciation, so I knew there was no g
oing back.

The hardest part of the makeover? Aside from blowing my entire
Hollywood Scoop!
severance package, spreading the balance of that afternoon’s purchases across three credit cards, and spending more on clothes in one afternoon than I had spent in total over the last five years, it was getting used to the heels. Now, don’t get a sister wrong. I
l-o-v-e
a fabulous shoe. But prior to moving to New York, I saved my shoes for industry events and nights out when Eric managed to plan something for us that didn’t involve a movie ticket or restaurant with a paper napkin dispenser on the table, but MJ and Harper assured me that being taken seriously in Manhattan was all about having a mean shoe game. This explained the acquisition of seven pairs of flat-form pumps, calfskin booties, peep-toe stilettos, and one sick-ass pair of over-the-knee black leather boots that I had no idea where on earth I would actually wear. There wasn’t a flat
in sight.