“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter Two

Best New Writer of the Year

The luminous statue sprawled on the floor in our main suite.

Its gold figure shimmering from the sun waving in from the floor-to-ceiling window near the bed. Along the carpeted floor, I woke up to see Imani's dress like a crime scene without the body, my pants and shirt, and a gift bag from the gala that I ripped apart last night for the Belgium chocolate donuts inside alone. The bedroom seemed like a drunk binge of sex and skinny dipping into our tall canopy king-size together hours ago.

I rolled out of bed with a hangover that felt like Muhammad Ali punching me in the back of the head, sitting there to let my body warm up to all the soreness from the after-party last night. Imani wasn't lying beside me, so I checked my iPhone—7:19 a.m.

Wearing black designer boxers, I went to the bathroom, handled the bio-terrorism in my mouth, picked up my first trophy, and placed it on my desk near a picture of Imani and me at a Drake concert. Then I roamed downstairs, thinking whether or not I won due to my talent or just because I was photogenic as hell for an ex-con/rapper/writer. I've had every social platform popping since having an iPhone wasn't against the law for me.

Minutes later, The Weeknd was crooning in my living room when I found Imani on the floor. On a royal blue mat, in a pyramid position with her cheeks raised high in the air. She wore Ivy Park Spanx and a sports bra, flocking her hair to the floor as she stared at her toes. I could hear her breathing in and out slowly while she stretched and bothered my morning hard-on.

I gazed at her thigh gap from the back, grinning. "Money. We must have a lot to do today."

Imani dips her hips provocatively, spreading into a wide split with her legs. "Yeah, the first episode of Sak Life starts today, and producers like the idea of the award winner making a guest appearance." She says, gazing up at me.

"Alright. Well, we'll do that. Then Sam wants us at the studio for a syndication proposal, which I know Gizzle and the others will love to see me a part of today. Oh, and remind me to go see my probation officer," I said, shaking off the anniversary. "I can't believe a year has passed, and you ain't pregnant yet."

"Maybe cause big homie's been running," She coos until she feels me crouching on top of her and kissing her from behind while her body presses to her mat.

I growl. "What do you mean running?"

"Oh, you must have time to do a few exercises." Imani murmurs.

"Not today."

Imani pouts some. "Aw... you're a buzz kill."

"How about I cook you some breakfast first?"

Imani rolls over, wanting to skip the meal. "Oh yeah. Well, you need to let me hear some freaky-funny lines too."

"I need to feed this hangover. Then I'll read something to you."

"Okay." Imani kisses me again.

I wasn't much of a cook, but like any dope boy in the kitchen, I could put on Yo Gotti and work the pots for my lady. I had an island counter where Imani sat on a high stool, wearing sleek specs and reading a manuscript I'd written in the spring. She poured us both two cups of coffee, keeping it black because I was rugged like that. I liked coffee so much that I had a dance for it. "When you come up, don't forget about yo' dog; that's law." I pipe up as I sip, whipping the batter for our paradise pancakes and eggs.

"What is that?"

"These my dance moves, baby," I say, rapping and sipping my coffee.

Imani giggles I hear. "Babe, I love you, but your rhythm sucks."

"I always find the spot, don't I?"

"Yeah, that's because we leave the lights on when we're having sex."

"Okay, then I have rhythm. Taste this." I said, feeding her a spoon of turkey bacon wraps filled with egg whites, peppers, and mozzarella cheese. "How's that?"

"Mm..babe, this is delicious. It makes up for the dancing," She said. Then kiss her while she's chewing. I fill our plates and set the countertop for us to enjoy the morning near each other. I'm scarfing down everything while Imani reads to me from her laptop. "Listen to this, some editor at Cottage Trap says, 'Cashmere showed us he can make great rags to riches prose, but how can a lowlife rapper ever be a gorgeous screenwriter? Let's see if he can do outré genres and earn gold in another category, say, a nineteenth-century period piece'. "

"You always got some critic blog motherfucker hating," I say, knowing why winning awards often seemed overrated; it always brought more controversy behind your brand. "Like I can't write a story about the world ending, or-or a Western. Or some marquee movie with five dysfunctional storylines. I got range, baby. I mean, what's the point of winning? The label would've put me on skates if I didn't win best writer. But when I do, I got these bitch ass editors trying to change up my style."

Imani reads on, encouraging me. "I know, Kareem, but you have a lot of people who love your work. Way more than those that down it. Table Knot just posted a blurb from Kai Cenat saying you're big enough to come on his Twitch. Hey, if ain't broke, don't fix it, right?"

I take another swig of coffee. I say. "We gotta keep the recipe fresh for these suckers. I want all my scripts pulled from that drive before our proposal."

"Uh-uh, you can't strip everything, Kareem. What about this one---wedding trip in the islands turns into a deadly adventure? I like it. It matches what Ziggy was pushing for somewhere in Morocco."

"Let me see," I come near Imani's side of the counter, pressing for a better view until I get my hands on the Microsoft Surface Pro. Then I close the laptop, snatching it away and kissing her unbidden.

Plates get shoved, and I can feel my manager purring as she grips my shoulders and wraps her legs around my stomach. I was sucking my lips and pulling up her sports bra as I picked her up from the stool. I'm ready to fuck because I'm tired of hearing about people scrutinizing my writing, and Imani's body complements her outdoor wear, like mountain climbing lingerie on a stripper. She smells like a bit of sweat from her stretches and body spray. When I felt myself inside her for the first time today, I realized she's this wet and aggressive every time she does her regular yoga in the morning. And I loved it. Whether I won Best New Writer or wrote free verses for a cheap newspaper, Ms. Money fucked me as if we were a romance novelist and a sex troll on an indulgent retreat in the Bahamas.

* * * * *

Samirah Cromartie was dressed in a patterned robe and had her hair pulled back in a bun while she wore her bronze face mask. Walking into her kitchen, she saw Glendall having his coffee, looking through the news thread of the Atlanta-Journal Constitution, and glancing at the company's books via his iPad. "Morning." He acknowledges, standing there in a crisp suit.

"Hey," Samirah says, thinking otherwise of the mediocrity. "What are you reading?" She said, pouring up a glass of soy milk.

"Your brother is suing Cromartie for copyright infringement."

"What!" Samirah shrieks. He hands her the tablet to view the report with her own eyes. "How the hell can Raleigh do this to us?"

"He wrote an affidavit stating how we manipulated his market so his company would drop, then we used his brand to get TV ratings and land a network deal with Mr. Childs without his approval. He's serious, Samirah."

"That's bullshit. Raleigh said he didn't want the business to shut down, so we sent the production team to back him up. PEN picked up Cashmere's slates for Cromartie Script Money was just a cliché that made sense when Kareem collaborated on the album."

"Well, you live and die with that prick anyway, Raleigh's asking the courts for $12,000,000, and he's lawyered up," Glendall shows her the documents emailed from their legal team. Samirah woke up feeling betrayed by her only sibling, glaring rigidly at the iPad in disbelief. "Sam, if the networks find out this slot is some catchy fraud, they'll pull us off the air."

"I can't believe this. Let me talk to Nick and see if he can apply some pressure to his punk ass son." She said, looking through her phone.

"Also, I looked at Cromartie's expenses just in case we needed to liquidate Raleigh's budgets. And found this." Glendall opened a file that included Sak Life Entertainment's contract as Cromartie's sub-company and held Kareem Cashmere as a staff writer, along with a bill from Perry's Exotic Supercars. Suddenly, Samirah froze.

Glendall grimaced instantly. "What the fuck is this? Huh? We have enough Rolls Royce's and shit to escort the fucking banker in Monaco, and you buy another car. A James red 4-8-8-G-T. You bought him that Ferrari, didn't you?"

The director felt her fiancé had discovered her secret on the set showmance with her hunk writer and threatened to sue her too.

"What's this gotta do with."

"Did you buy him this car!" He yelled erratically.

"I-I felt like Kareem deserved a signing bonus." Samirah mumbles, fidgeting with a stream of her bang. "We didn't want some other house cashing out on our star writer. Nick does it; you know how this business goes, honey. Sport the toys reap the game-changer."

Glendall grunts and flings the iPad across the kitchen. Samirah jolted from the crash of dinnerware breaking on the marble floor. "Dammit!" He said, fronting her fiercely. "Last night, wh-what was that? You stood there while he insulted me in front of our investors. Producers I helped secure for us. You bought a Ferrari for him!"

"It was supposed to be a gift, baby," Samirah moved closer to grasp his hand but got deflected. "Glendall. Stop!" She cried out as he shoved her to the ground and slapped her. He tended to be tactile and racy about doing when his anger spiked.

"Are you fucking with him?" He tugged her curls.

"No!"

His gaze looked at her as if she sported all lies.

Glendall scoffed. "I don't believe you. I never do."

"I said no, okay." She repeated.

"You think I'd trust a degenerate pampering bitch like you. I told you not to play games with me when you signed this guy." He convicted her with his pointing. "You just killed whatever dream you had of launching this pilot." He stormed out.

Embarrassed, Samirah screamed back. "As long as Cromartie's got writers like Kareem, we don't give a damn about no weak-ass similarity suit or your insecure bitching!" Breathing as she glared at her engagement ring and collapsed into tears---watching her emptiness and predicament topple on top of her distress.

* * * * *

At 9:00, I perched on the hood of my car outside Melissa Cardona's office in Lawrenceville, chomping down on a Texas-style Bacon burger dripping barbeque sauce all over the pavement between my feet. Better the asphalt than the Lanvin kicks I was wearing.

Imani accompanied me, but I told her to hit up the nail shop in the plaza nearby. She knew I liked dark colors on her toes when she wore her Givenchy heels, and a quick pedi was all it'd take to check in with my probation officer. I hoped—anything to get my manager away from Melissa.

Ms. Cardona wasn't the type you bring another business handler around. When it came to me, she was like one of those dominatrix broads with the chain loop around her neck—always wanting to violate me in some fashion instead of sending me back in. A kinky femme fatale who controlled my freedom and, luckily, allowed me to live any way I wanted to in society. For the last twelve months, I went on tours nationwide, piss tests turned into blowjobs, and she kept the dogs down at the station where they belonged. Although I wasn't going to Morocco anytime soon, Ms. Cardona was alright with me as long as Imani never found out about our visits.

"Hey, Kareem, when you gonna drop another single?" A fan ignited confusion with a question. That caused a small crowd to want me to pose and take selfies inside the magistrate building's main floor. Some were police, supervised delinquents, and circuit secretaries, but all were my Kingpins. "Uh, soon; just keep checking my Snapchat for updates. In the meantime, make sure you catch all my shows on Script Money, Tuesdays starting at 8:00," I yelled, then wandered off to my meeting.

"Knock, knock," I said, opening her door as I entered her office. "Ms. Cardona, what's up? Your lobby is brackin' today. I know you watched the gala last night."

"Yep. You were great, and I saw you drinking last night too." She said, which came with an unexpected hug.

She pushes the door shut behind me. Tugging on my shirt and adding as she reeled me. "We can skip the sobriety test if you want."

"Whoa, whoa. Okay, that's cool, but I don't have time to fool around, Ms. Cardona. I came to report in and out, done." I unfurled her grip from my top and stopped before she sucked me in too deep.

Cardona grins, biting my knuckles with her teeth. "Mm..baby, I can feel your dick in and out of me right now--" simultaneously snaps her pointer finger. "Sit motherfucker!" She coos on top of a giggle that's erotic.

"Stop fucking playing all the time." I shove her away carefully.

The trick with Cardona is playing seriously as a businessman but doing whatever she demands. "Well, I see someone's got all rich on me. You've accomplished much of what you said you would upon your release. How have you been, Mr. Cashmere?"

"Great. Sak Life airs tonight. Maybe you and your vibrator will Netflix and chill together while you lock in." I joke as I sit on a leather settee as Cardona listens and lifts her dress to show me she began this meeting without wearing panties. Retrieving a toy from her desk and sitting on the opposite end of the settee we shared, spread-eagle.

"I've found a buddy, so, usually, my rose stays in my drawer these days...Oh, but today isn't that day." She laughs, messaging her clitoris and slowly drawing my lust for sex toward her apex. "He's a politician, so I can't say who...but you look amazing. Staying out of the papers, right?"

"Damn girl, you're tanned." I stare down at her legs, sprawled around me.

"Kareem, have you been staying outta the front pages?"

"Uh yeah, the arrest reports, I guess. Here." I pull out a manila envelope filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills and toss it between her thighs. "For my dues and a little something for letting me finish The Penprint tour last month. Sak's has been crazy with me back home now."

She scoffs and checks the package. "What you want me to do with all this, Kareem? Go to Tiffany's?" Cardona asks.

"You could." I reply, "It's ten g's. Go to the Bahamas, find someone to take care of that gorgeous pussy of yours." Again her vibrator tops out like a Corvette.

"Oh!" Cardona's hips arched. "Only guys in the Bahamas are 30-year-old bastards who finesse older female tourists into moving from the States. So what? We ain't fucking no more; you were just using the payola to keep me out of your business." She sized me up again seductively. "What's going on?"

"What? I have agendas. I got flights and private ones too--"

The officer bailed on my response, keeling over and flinging her silver nub. She pushed me back. She had dutiful hands like an officer (because she was one, on duty), unbuckling my pants and exposing my shit. Her delicate fingers coiled around me like I was her black battalion.

"Can I?" Oh, how she pouts.

I pause when I feel the tongue stretching, inhaling deeply, then telling her. "I need passports so I can shoot footage with my company. Producers want to release a spoiler alert about a project in Africa. I was wondering if you can get the judge to expunge me so I can get it brackin' in the Motherland."

"You can't. It's too early in your conditions, and you'll never be able to get past the Customs database legally without legit passports."

"Exactly why I need you, ma'am." I admire my charm.

"It's impossible, Cashmere!"

"Yes, it is...look, I have a brand new coupe outside. Two hundred miles on the dash; not even a hundred miles have been put on it yet. The leather is so buttery it'll make your thighs shiver when it cranks up. I'll give it to you. Just push up the date of dismissal a few years."

Cardona debates for a time, then adds. "Fuck that car. It sounds hot. I want something big for this." Giggling at her job at hand.

"Come on; I can't keep giving you the king-size dick anymore." I nod my head no.

"I know our fun is ending, baby. That's why I want you to film my nude project." Session completed. Blowjob on end. It seemed like when you were on, everyone wanted to use your power to make their dreams come true, even if it meant making your probation officer an OnlyFans star to spend three business months out of the country.