“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter Twelve

Never Part with The Family's Confessions

Throned---Confessional Room.

The Cashmere's St. Ives Estate, 5:54 am.

The informal section of the media room had served as the "Throned" confessional room. Lotto took up the leather and suede-lined sofa across from the tripod, concealing the white room with integrated blinds and prepping for his early morning take in a BBC top, fitted Moschino jeans, and a tapered shadowy beard around his crooked grin. "Like the GOAT, Bernie Mac used to start, good morning America." He says while he outstretches his phone and Snapchat. "It's 5:00 am in the throne, and this Lotto Bands, you feel me. I had to add the---Bands---to my shit; I think I want to go public and make that my stage name or something. I got Lotto Bands, real shit. You gotta have a dope name when you about to sell out Fox Theater, ain't that right, shawty."

When his phone zooms across the room, Shaquea Bryant flexes her toes on the silk and wood floor and chuckles lightly as she sits, "Of course, you know I'm gonna be there. I have to see your brother's face when he sees this." the production assistant cuddles with him during much of their fessing up.

They both hooked up yesterday at the studio during a casting call. Lotto helped them narrow eight thousand auditions to a stiff one hundred finalists, it was a tough first time in a studio, but Imani got him in the swing of the TV business. And later, he met Shaquea after the cuts.

After some vibes, Lotto brought her to the Cashmere House for a nightcap. "Kareem gon be like that boy crazy. I got everything set up for his punk ass."

"How're you and Imani getting him to the theater? He works like sixteen hours a day."

"I don't know, Money said she'd bring them. I got material to focus on. I'm not the transportation guy; I don't make reservations for the carpools. This is my night."

"Okay, I hear you, boss. You think they saw me spend the night?"

"I don't think the only Audi in our driveway is hard to miss, but if they don't know, America does," says Lotto winking at the camera. "Say what up!"

The production aide gushes with a laugh. "You so fucking corny...what up?" Shaquea jokes; she likes his seemingly infinite humor. "Oh, Lotto, you should plug the fuck out of your show right now. 'Throned' is popping across America; why don't you tell the city what we doing tonight."

When Imani discovered he'd ached their stomachs with jokes, and Lotto's fucked up roasts on Kareem were unabashed and gut-wrenching, she asked him if he could do stand-up comedy for one hour straight. Can a crowd of 1,500 people scare him? Did he even like being a comedian? Lotto had said yes, "But only if Kareem sits his ass in the front row at the venue. I want him to see just how piped up Lotto Bands is." He told her in the Lamborghini.

That afternoon, Imani drove to the bank, then removed $100,000 and told him, "I trust you, Lotto, and if you're for real as I think you are, Kareem will be surprised we bought out this place."

He rubs his palms, looking around the elegant room. "Yeah, man, I got the keys to the family business now. I, Lotto Bands, and it will be comedy royalty tonight at the Fox Theater, where you can find the city's funniest comedians, like Black Tony, Poncho Vick, and Donny Blue making you laugh out the ass. And my big brother Kareem Cashmere---watching me, Lotto Bands, give y'all folks that work tickets are on sale right now. You better lock in!" He says with a sharp nose mugging as he plugs on the TV show.

"Lotto!" Imani's voice jolts a nerve in his throat when it appears she's coming down into the media room. Lotto and Shaquea begin frantically laughing as they slump out of sight. "Lotto! Lotto, I know you down here." scoffs Imani.

"Ah, shit. What are you about to tell Imani?" Shaquea's bunkered on the couch.

"Just chill out. Money will not spill the tea. She's family."

"Oh, my god. Please, Lotto, do not tell her we're fucking, please."

Imani finally drops in on them both, slouched like mannish teens, "Oh, my god." She grins, spotting the production aide nuzzled under Lotto's armpit. "I saw that cute little Audi in the parking lot when I left work. But I don't think you needed the act right, Shaquea."

"Morning, Imani," she sighs and pulls her knees up.

Kareem's fiance crams her booty playfully down the middle of Lotto and Shaquea. "Morning, my brother," He knows Imani's puckering is awkward to him. "So, explain to me how you got by Kareem's nosey ass with this?"

"She came over for dinner; we had wood-grilled chicken, then played sizzle on my grill." A sly glance shot from Lotto.

Shaquea laughs at Imani's face. "Uh-uh, I just crashed here 'cause I thought our whole company was getting fired."

"Lies. It's okay; well, I guess everybody knows these two did some hooking up 'round this bitch. It better not be in here." says Imani, resting her heels on the steel-finished coffee table.

"It wasn't." It was Lotto's turn to press her. "So, where'd you and Kareem run off to last night? And what's with all that black you got on?"

Imani has an annoying moment tussling her hair and twerking in the confessional camcorder. She pokes her lips, "What? It's black, and where Kareem and I went is not a confessional business." But she hums to herself, reminiscing. "What they can know is my shit looks cute."

"Right. I say you look like Larenz Tate off Dead Presidents." Lotto scoffs.

Shaquea likes Imani's black hair tied up in a silk scarf. "I met Byrd last night, too. She said I could come by and get a hook-up one day. So is the Script Money launch getting---shut down?" she says.

"Script Money will remain a primetime takeover. Hey, did you tell Tiny about the concert?" Imani asks him.

"No, Byrd's keeping everyone in the blind 'til showtime."

"Well, you better put on at this big surprise of yours. I'm glad you're up; I got an interview at the radio station and a walk thru with the stylist at the theater for you. I plan to stick close to your brother today, but I will call your phone, so answer when you see me."

"Yeah, I just got through doing shoutouts down here. El Capo doesn't know shit, right?"

"What? No, I told you Mrs. Money got everything on lock," says Imani. "Kareem did ask about the money, though. I told him I needed some extra to host a White Royalty thing at Magic City this week." winked Imani as she got up. She does some twerking in her silk pajamas and says, "Wah, It might be time to hit my boo with this (alarm) clock."

Lotto shakes his glance away from his sister-in-law's clappy booty long enough for her to hit the door. Finally, he says, "Hey, Money."

Imani has a puckered, infantile face when she stops.

"I wanna TV deal with Cromartie Studios after tonight."

Imani gives him a frown. "No, you don't."

* * * * *

The master room was composed of a melodic boom from the sounds of Pusha T and Jay Z's "Drug Dealers Anonymous," echoing through the blistering cloud of rising smoke. Otherwise, a steady hand swishing of money was thumbed meticulously from his bed. Kareem sat upright, pressing his back against the headboard, flanked with copious barrels of cash he'd counted and cluttered on Imani's side of the bed. He had a blunt hung between his knicked fingers, his laptop illuminating his Cartier gold-rimmed glasses as he puffed, squinted to a desired amount, then set the wad aside.

It was a sunny early Tuesday morning, Lucky, Byrd, Tiny, and Lotto were well into breakfast, and his manager entered the master suite with her initiation fee: a black silk roast coffee.

"Morning," Imani says, handing him his cup.

"Morning, thanks." Kareem puffs his blunt once before. Then throws the money for more pressing matters and sips his cup. "Hmm... I'm waving farewell to some money for you in case you needed a new purse or had ideas on where you'd get a dress for today." He says, stroking her cheek.

"Where are you sending me off to? As if I don't understand when Valentino shopping creates loopholes that make it simple for you to outrun me." Imani replies, sitting on the bed. She's in a $425 tee that says: A massacre is the misdirection of love kneading Kareem's thigh with her knuckles.

"Whoa...I wasn't aware this was a race we are running through the ADVANCE launch party today, and maybe you thought to use some of this to start planning the arrangements."

"Maybe I thought about operating with my husband today, but since I don't want to be disappointed, when does Mr. Cashmere want to get married?"

He says with low promising eyes. "How about three months from now?"

Her cheeks sink in as she gasps. "You're serious? That's November."

"Yeah, ADVANCE is out my hair 'til the fall, I can tie up a romance sequence piece in that time, and it'll make a beautiful two-part 'Throned' finale. Hmm?" Imani hugged his neck because he was amazing, his breath was a harsh combination of coffee, Kush weed, and cigars when she kissed him, but she composed love as everything rooted in him.

"Oh, my God, I love you." she puckers him.

"Yeah, you love me... 'cause you see a million dollars I'm 'bout to spend on marrying your crazy ass...if it were on my side of the bed, I'd love you, too."

"I love you...because I'm able to sustain life in this room with you, and that morning breath you got blistering my face." jokes Imani, toppled on his lap. "I'm not sure; I should be scared or call off this wedding."

Kareem frowns and does a breath test with his hand.

"Shut up...that was lame." Kareem grapples her onto the bed; his torture is smothering her face with wads of cash and nibbling on her neck while Imani laughs on. "Move, my baby, talking like my mouth geeked up on caffeine...and it's doing Kusk ups...got my shit smelling musty as a motherfucker." He flees, getting up to run off to the bathroom. "Move!"

"What, babe, I'm for real," Imani chuckles and throws cash at his melodramatic rant. "I thought about riding your face before yoga...but I can't. Your breath smells---horrible---and the only thing you got going this morning is that classic man smile I keep seeing." she eventually follows Kareem as well, coaxing him with a smile. "See."

He grins for a spell. "Well, I (was) pillow talking with my soon-to-be Mrs. Cashmere---but---I wanted to talk to you about last night," Kareem says. Imani imbibes awkward grins on sharing a near-fatal moment with her fiance unbeknownst to the family. About their threesome in Samirah's home, she remembered receiving cunnilingus from the wealthy director, racing with heavy orgasms, and walking out knowing Kareem didn't love Samirah: she was just a powerful and bougie fuck.

Imani shrugs for him and says. "What? It happened; it drove me crazy hearing about you screwing her. I had to evaluate what a ham Sam-wich tasted like. It'll never happen again. That's our rule number one for damn sure."

"Rule number one?" frowns Kareem with a foamy mouth.

"Yes, (rules), we never sleep with the same woman twice."

"So once we fuck them, that's it? No more swinging partner."

Imani shakes her head no. "You have a streaky way of sweet-talking women, Kareem. And attraction feels nostalgic when a person's fucked multiple times by someone they need a response from. I want (us) to enjoy this, not them having their way with (you). Do you hear me?" She demands, poking his head.

Kareem imbibes her pristine cheeks, studying. "You better think again about ever touching another man." He points with his toothbrush.

Imani has to laugh pitifully. "Like the selfish, narcissistic man I love, rule number two: I agree to only play with other women." She says, looking at him in the mirror. "And since I support your merit of crazy video sex if you ever fuck a woman not sanctioned by me, I'd hate to kill her."

Stunned, her fiance removes his shorts, making Imani beam. He says, "Just when I'm ready to say I'm no longer messing around." Then gets in the glass shower while Imani stands in the bathroom. She takes in wanting to join him, but her hair is more pressed for preservation.

"Babe, I was thinking we should save up for our studio," says Imani as her voice trails off into the bedroom. She grabs her blue mat and a tripod and returns to the spacious marble floor patterns near the steamy shower doors. It's an effort making her giggle as she hastily sets up in time.

"A studio?"

"Yeah, what if we open our studio?"

"Money, you know how much industrial space we are looking at?" Kareem says, "We talking forty thousand square feet. And we're not making that amount of money yet. And saying we did make $40,000,000 to buy up that much space, what if the networks have us paid up too deep to run something like that?"

Imani reflected on Kareem's fears of jumping like this, then said. "We keep producing your shows with Cromartie, the money stays from your scripts, and I can get more talent and workers to run the operation on the ground." Her words fall to the floor as Imani unrolls the mat vertically near the shower, stepping back several feet to position the tripod on her makeshift set, where kaleidoscopic his and her patterns on their floor resembled a tribal ceremony. "Then you negotiate to have partners in your (own) powerhouse."

Imani presses: record on the Red Dragon, then takes off her clothes; she kneels before the camcorder and meditates with deep melodic breaths. "All right, consider it done," Kareem says and finally stops the sprinkler. Imani smells the air filled with refreshing body wash and her man's YSL scent, the steam warming her light nipples and dampening her skin as she folds over and stretches with an exhale. Her lips oozed for him to join her naked yoga session.

She hears the door sliding, and it alters her body rhythmically. "Imani...are you videoing this?" Kareem's booming voice opens her eyes; then she spikes her thin brow at Kareem's apex, him poring over her breasts, tilting as she curved her back, the front of her legs pressed to the floor.

"Yep."

He blots his body with a cotton towel and patters to the bathroom's center. Kareem squats before Imani begins kissing her with a minty refreshing tongue now; her breasts swell inside his cupped hand as he reaches back to fiercely palm one of her cheeks. She realizes she's very much wet when his fingers sink into her pussy and fingers her while he caresses her upper body. "Oh, Kareem." she opens her crevice for him to explore her deeper.

Consciously, aiming her cheeks outward so the camera sees how magnificent her porous brown lips appear. Kareem then makes her lick his forefinger, and she moans, "Hmm." She's creamy now and laps his nail, so her tongue looks sexy against his skin.

Her Kareem sits back suddenly, and her mouth pants as she crawls over his legs. She pecks her lips along his knee, thigh, and tip, grips his balls, and begins sucking him plentifully. Imani wanted him large and lathered, lapping her mouth around him until it watered. Once she felt winded, Imani palmed his chest and slid on top of her fiancé's dick giggling lightly from the soreness she embraced as she rolled and gyrated her lower body.

Kareem spanked her loud cheeks red.

The bite helped her find a fiery node and a more intricate rhythm. Imani gritted her bone-white teeth together to make him explode before the waterworks took over her body with the shakes. But minutes into fucking Kareem, she was spilling in tides and turning their video into an early morning skeet show.

* * * * *

There was a silver lining in Imani's black and white nude portrait: she was so fucking gorgeous, and the textures resembled a Tracey Emin painting; I'd never wake up next to a woman and double-think buying a studio unless Imani was the one managing it. Everyday. She kept me pivotal and safe. She was like a Mercedes Benz; it came perfect even if you felt compelled to drive them too crazy.

But Imani showed me that she'd kill me for breaking her heart.

I shelved the wrapped cash inside the biometric safe, putting up thousands at a time for whatever pitfalls I had lurking around the corner. I began this habit with my show money, the unaccounted-for dollars from the road tours, and my Adult film business. When I closed the safe, I picked up the handcrafted still of my fiancé and propped it back on its rung.

"No one kept me safer than you." It seems like her reflection voices me.

I pad out my study with a dark Tom Ford birken bag and take the slim staircase to the kitchen, where some of the family had bunkered around the counter chatting over breakfast.

Tiny spots me and says, "You okay?"

I hug her short build and kiss her. "Yeah, I'm a bank receipt. Your bride-to-be just asked for a studio as a wedding gift." I say, exchanging looks with Imani.

"Whoa. What's wrong with the studio downstairs?" asks Tiny. "It's huge."

Imani picks up a dish from the table and glares at me. "It's fine. I asked Kareem what if we got a production studio. Not Now. Someday---so we can start making our films and getting network TV deals without all the middle (men)." she says, with a sharp eyebrow hike for me. "Maybe then we wouldn't get double-crossed so much."

"Sounds like a wonderful wedding gift to me." Tiny scoffs with a traitorous grin. "Convince him to buy up the world, honey. That way, whenever the old scrub ways get out of hand, he'll think twice about losing his house and a studio." She and Aunt Lucky share glances at me like I'd been the only adulterer born in the house.

"Which one you gon let me keep, the Bentley or the Lamborghini?" jokes Lucky, slapping hands with Imani.

"Thanks, mama," I think Imani giggles because they're in love with her, or maybe it's true. "Go ahead, put some more crazy-ass ideas in her head. Let's make this big. How about a boat? Like an all-white charter, so I can throw Money overboard while we are fishing for catfish in Barbados." I say. Imani erupts with a hurt smile and punches me in the back.

"Drink your coffee before I hurt you." She has an appetite after morning sex and chews on a chicken breakfast slider. She's in a cutout Balmain jumpsuit that shows nude angles of her sides from the neck down, rose gold Tiffany Co. accessories that bling along with her wedding ring, paired with some Christian Louboutin heels: everything black, at length because it seems to vet Imani's trend. "Hey, what time are we having dinner back here tonight?" Imani asks Tiny while I'm eating.

"Lucky's having roast tonight, and Byrd wants to host dinner, so I want you both back here at 6:00 sharp. You understand me?"

"Ma, you know my plans to be crazy today. We have a lot going on."

"Oh, that's right. It is Tuesday." Tiny scoffs. "Still, 6:00. No exceptions."

"We talking 'bout Script Money, Lucky you gotta feel me."

"What does that have to do with dinner, boy?" Lucky attacks me too.

"I'm Sak Life Shawty...Why can't it be later?" I say.

There's awkward silence from all three of them.

"He'll make it because I'm gonna be on his ass to make sure he does." hops up Imani, right on the motherly bandwagon. She glances at her phone and adds. "Hurry up. We have to get to Athens within the next thirty minutes." I fill my mouth with food like a squirrel and stand, guzzle down some coffee to help dissolve the food, and pick up my bag.

"Love you, Mama." I kiss Tiny again. Then I walk over to Lucky and plant one on her too. "I'll try to be here, okay," I say, without making promises, work may break.

Imani flanks me out of the house, where Rome stands in the foyer beneath the double-height chandelier. We exchange handshakes.

"What up, big dog? Pull up the Mulsanne, and um, we might need a tail today." I tell Rome. He nods and steps outside, where an early dew composes my front porch of chlorine fountain water and grass in the distance. Already, my fiancé is Snapping with her iPhone bouncing her shoulders near me. I glance at Imani and spot an Audi S4 beyond her. "Who car that is?"

"Lotto, um...bumped into Shaquea yesterday," explains Imani.

A bit surprised, I shrug. "Oh, maybe Shaquea will get him to step his game up."

"Maybe." Imani nods to our car arriving.

I grip her hand as we strode down the steps, handing my bag to Rome to put in the front seat, then helping Mrs. Money in the back. The motorcar was lined behind us and driven by Ronnie, who tailed us out onto the street.

Today, "Sak Life" was filming an episode forty-five minutes from their Suwannee mansion. Rome drove north on Hwy 316, and the Bentley rattled with heavy bass from Gucci Mane and Drake's "Back on Road" and Imani taking in a usually pleasant morning with her phone.

I finally get some downtime. "Listen to me, the only way we can make this studio happen is we gotta buy options from any writer who ain't working with Cromartie directly. If they're worth putting on screen, we get them." I tell Imani.

"Who do we start with? If they're good, Nick will adapt them, right?"

"Don't worry about Nick; he likes gambling against people he can't simply buy out. We need intellectual comedies that laugh-out-loud corny love shit or some limited series drama in a fixed environment."

Imani holds my vision nodding. "Something where the actors are more complex... it's their alter egos relating to us. I like when we watch those."

"They are cheaper, and everybody can be like, damn, what if my life happened just like that' without wasting money fucking some shit up," I say.

"So, we spend more on a high-grade cast, less on the set. They'll attract ratings with just their names, making numbers sales because it's provocative, right?"

"This is where your casting skills with Samirah will pay off," I note how Imani flares her nostrils at knowing Samirah is very important to our operation. "You have to get stars willing to come on board with us." I touch the crease between her thumb and forefinger.

"You think Cromartie would let you strike out and do our own producing?" asks Imani in an entangled voice as she palms my hand.

"Nothing lasts forever; they'll keep paying us right now, but soon one of us getting dropped, and I gotta be the boss when that day comes. Since Script Money makes our brand a go-to with the networks, it'll be easy for you to get them to work with me."

"Let me call some of my clients in on this. See if we can get a hit on a new face we can bring out." She says, thumbing through her contacts.

"All right."

* * * * *

"Sak Life" Knight's Challenge.

Ten miles outside Athens, Georgia. 8:15 am.

The obstacle event remained in a woodland area with the air of irrevocable humid heat, the scent of pine and cow shit from acres of thick barrel trees, and farmland etched on three corners of the uneven field. In the distance, birds were squawking, but the "Sak Life" cast broke into teams- Team Atlantic and Team Tribeca- and muttered no words during the event instructions.

Almost fifty yards beyond me, the "Knight's Challenge" was a producer's play on my high school alma mater. It consisted of a quarter-mile luggage sprint, a tractor tire flip, a live hostage pull, fifteen-foot wall hurdles, and the usual basic training fuckery, which had both teams cursing themselves for signing on to be entertainers. I stood near a group of ex-military personal trainers and Imani as the teams loomed around us as I began. "Today, you'll be separated into teams of five and competing in a relay race we call the Knight's Challenge."

In her jumpsuit, Imani resembles an agile Catwoman as she speaks, "This test will show who'll have perseverance, which of you is determined to be the leader of your own will, and how well you guys can come together as a team.

"You up for it?" I say, extending my hands to the muddy CrossFit course.

They cheered in unison, clapping as they took up my ball-busting offer.

It felt exhilarating to motivate these brigades. "All right. Team Atlantic, you'll be led by team leader Phillips and Team Tribeca; you guys will get to take team leader Vickers." The instructors give them stiff waves as I point them out. Each wore khaki shorts, sunglasses, and running sneakers: along with a black tee for "Atlantic" and a yellow tee for "Tribeca."

"All of you must determine each other's strengths and weaknesses and who'll go first when the clock starts. Everyone must complete their leg to get points. Whichever team finishes with the fastest time will win house immunity." Imani says with a sly grin.

"And a trip to work off this ass-kicking in Lake Como, Italy! How you love that?" I finished clapping for them because who didn't want to go to Italy?

I almost felt tempted to compete for my ticket.