“Script Money” The Novel

PROLOGUE

"Throned! TV playback...in three...two…ACTION!!"

She wore boots with a bikini. The two-piece she slew in. A black Givenchy cut-out set with gold loops showing off thicker curves than some emaciated model lying in the sand. But she wore this to start a war. Her boots, some hi-tech leather pair. Black and polished with floppy strings and rose her toned calves. The shoes weren't meant for running, fleeing from battle if need be. However, she rocked the reckless fashion kill, knowing she would get whacked. Soon as she popped the ops first.

Flaring in the wind was a Giambattista Valli floral pattern robe coat. She wore it lightly to cover her brown skin from the July sun. The woman held a smirk below her sunglasses as she entered their massive backyard spread. She was toting a RED 8K camcorder and a T-shirt bazooka on her shoulder brigade-style. "At Script Money, we can just about film any motherfucking thing." She says, pulling a wheeled wagon filled with colorful balloons. Balloons loaded with green slime. "We shoot movies. Do you need your Only Fans filmed on this? You can have a soundtrack recording in the house by Metro himself."

Imani Thicke brought the slime for anybody in the comfort of Kareem's birthday bash. Anybody bathing in complete bliss—beneath the cabana of soft couches, having drinks at the underwater bar or poolside hitting the rock-mounted slide repeatedly. All of them lying around in beach chairs and listening to Lil Baby while the conversation erupted throughout the pool party— as if your vibe couldn't get fucked up when she spins your block.

Maybe, the luxury around here made people feel things didn't get nasty. "It's all we do here. It's sad, you know, all we ever do is work and act like kids." She laughed funnier.

Inside, the humor of filming this ambush was sashaying in her thighs. Cameras were rolling for this takeout on the Throned reality show. Millions of fans devour Kareem's shooting events and everyday parties every week. All Script Money art and visuals were from every social media layer to the culture of young rich Atlanta what ATLiens was to the 90s. Imani had vowed to make this episode the slickest attack of the summer.

"Look at this sneaky ass bullshit!" Lotto shrunk into his beach chair. "Nigga I can not afford this shit; wait till I get my dog high for his G day." Imani sizes Lotto as she pops into the crowd. Kareem's younger brother is shirtless, catching vibes from a tandem of ladies and enjoying all the benefits of being the CEO's closest heir.

Instead, the family watches him implode instead of these broke groupies.

"Don't you want to let these gnats know that behind that mask and cape, you must've lost you're slime ball, little shit bird?" Imani bombs on Lotto with a T-shirt launcher first. "I think so!!" she laughs.

"What the fuck!" slime muffles the words from his face. His side pieces scream and accept the fate of a not-so-cute afternoon affair. His entire posse scattered as Imani shot them repeatedly. Some were on the mark, and other balloons obliterated the patio deck on their 17,000-square-foot property.

"Woah! Oh! You with the shits on sight, yeah."

"I can't wait to catch your ass execution-style. Ask one of those bitches what bukkake looks like motherfucker."

Lotto caught the warlike bug and ran for the wagon. She looked like a radiation-infused human. Only in live-action attack mode now. He forgets about the Kiton silk trunks, his Eliantte-encrusted Cuban link chains, and his drenched iPhone. The wavy things left the perspective when it was mercy or humiliation.

"Now! You sick birds get the picture! Money! isn't out here to make friends, okay!" She yells and quickly reloads her gun. Then her mission implodes, and shots take the back of her head. "oh mu-la-la-la…oh yeah...gone get off...because Money got something for everybody. It's war—"

Her glasses had a smudge on them, but she knew who would go down next. No one would make it out of this backyard alive, and she knew—which explained why even she felt it was sticking to her gown, cooling her warm skin as she ran toward her next victim.

"Parker! Ooh, sliding with your little homegirls, I see." Imani dashes off with a grin.

Parker.

She was the only superstar of the family under the age of 10. She hosted parties like these for her entourage of girls and had been standing by the bungalow dancing and taking selfies in their bathing suits. Until Imani and green cannon had them fleeing all over the grassy backyard, getting doused in gunk, laughter that went loud, then echoing into the infinity pool for cover. She brings the fight head-on.

Imani had prepared 200 balloons and still had more—some ten gallons inside the house. When the glow-up was confirmed, the turn-up was real. Producers knew the Cashmere family went from grinding to popping and having so much fun. And it was a spectacle to see.

Parker and her crew were:

Little big shots.

All pranks included.

They were working with choreographers and producers for their new dance movie.

Wavy.

A cheerleader script and a culture shock Kareem penned and had them taking very seriously on set. Now, the little divas looked like infantile Shrek droppings and were meme-worthy.

"Uh-uh, Bye! We said to run them off Money, not leave a disaster. Fonda, outside! Go!" Lucky, Parker's mom bails into the house immediately, where life is more Rachel Ray and crab boil.

Imani caught shots in the face. Her once cropped pixie up-do gelled with slime to her scalp, the mid-length black and blond hair matted to her glasses. Slime and a sheen of sweat glistened on her body, but nothing seemed brighter than taking on the whole family. She conquered her lonely, antisocial childhood by falling in love with her ex-con boyfriend and his lovable southern roots and always hosting the craziest trivial events.

Rainey, Kareem's aunt and clinic comedy in the works, got it horribly near the grotto rambling. The nurse in real life flustered in goo— in her margarita, her African-styled braids hair, and sundress. The only brother was Kareem tour bus driver who felt the slime had taken the vibes that ran away with Lotto and the life of his delicious BBQ plate. Dripping in slime as he tried biting into ribs that were left unscathed. "Can y'all take that mess over there…away…from the food." says the tour driver. "Hit Tiny. She is short; you can drop them on her head like nukes."

"Uh-uh, Imani!" Tiny, her mother-in-law, and Cashmere OG pleaded as she shook her hands in terror. "You can't do this in the cabana...look at all the nice furniture, girl, don't you just wanna sit down and," she cried and uttered a sumptuous pout. "Please. Money doesn't get me."

"I'm sorry, Tiny, but if I chill with you, you might as well get wet too."

"No," Tiny shakes her head. "This stuff is the imported, baby; you don't want Kareem to know you ruined his eggshell silk canopy." She pouts, whimpering. Then beyond Imani, she spots Lotto closing in. "Oh, hell no, boy, you better not!" she points viciously.

With green streaming down her brows, Imani asks Tiny's younger son for reassurance. "You think Mama needs a reminder of how checked up we are under this nice cabana?"

Lotto shrugs, palming a blue balloon. "Come on, this Mama we're talking about. Our Queen! She's always trying to get Kareem to budget well; news flash, Ma, we ball like this– "

He says and dumps the balloon on his mother's head. She screams at first for the sake of her curly afro. She keeps pinned up and cuts out one piece she assuages beneath a patterned sarong.

Tiny chuckled, frosting in dripping snot-like mush. "Ahhh! I'm getting both of your asses! Do you remember this face and all this damn gunk juice in your hair? Just wait!" She grunts, overlooking the goo all over her seat.

Imani aims the T-shirt launcher at Tiny and replies. "We know, mama, and we are waiting for whatever kind of pranks you got coming." Then reshot her, execution-style.

"No!" Tiny, shrilled, wide-mouth, and taking in a mouthful of slime.

Tiny moaned. "This shit feels like bukkake."

A slime fight was best-served cold: on hot days in late July at their mansion in Atlanta.

While short bodies were dunking and splashing into the crystal blue pool, loud ratchet laughter from the crowd winding down from the balloon fighting, the videographers near the veranda were innocuous and quiet, rolling that beautiful bean footage. Of the Cashmere Empire living life on their hit show: Throned.

Imani wiped her face and neck with her coat sleeve as she scanned the yard. She mapped out everything about her boyfriend's birthday bash. The planning was also perfect, a botched attempt if it wasn't for the missing elephant in the room. Kareem was the only guy absent. Seeing everyone partying and having fun on this property was an eye roll. Just noticing them enjoying the luxuries of impeccable drip and writing: never letting the cameras see the King himself for his private bash.

"What the fuck you doing, Kareem?"

"U still working???"

"Can't keep them busy all day, da fuck?!"

Imani texted him. She decided to cool off from the hot sun and her temper, taking off her coat and dipping into the pool. The chlorine water turns vibrant colors underwater as the slime vanishes from her body. Then she emerges and takes a gasp. When she exited the pool near the steps, an assistant was waiting, holding a plush towel, a robe, and her iPhone.

She was relaxed and obedient, in her mid-forties, and no threat around her rather remarkable and flirtatious man.

"Thank you, Fonda." Imani dries off with the towel and grabs her phone.

"Money, why are you getting out? I thought we were smashing Kareem too." Parker Jay splashes behind her.

"I don't know what's up with Kareem, sweetie. Let me check on him. Parker, show your friends the clubhouse and do not track that stuff in the house, okay."

"Okay, tell my cousin he sucks."

"Parker."

"Don't blame me. Your man ditched us."

"I know, baby. Kareem gotta take care of the gang, right." Imani winked, putting on her robe and checking her planner. As Kareem's manager, she knew about his deals, his upcoming interviews, and customarily which producers he currently worked alongside. Imani managed the backends and the pickup schedules, always kept his splurges in check, and helped find the hours to share amongst family. So why hasn't he come out yet?

"When they tire themselves out, clean up the cabana and stuff, okay." She told Fonda and went into the house.

Inside, Lucky and Byrd were making lunch for the girls in the kitchen. Imani gloats at all the dishes Lucky prepared for his party. "You got away...what yawl cooking up in here?" she said.

"I'm making bacon-wrapped chicken fingers for the girls. I was about to bring out Mr. Recluse's cake, but that boy has been upstairs the whole time doing his business." Lucky said, wrapping up the entrees. "It makes me think he is talking to another world up there."

"Or another bitch." Imani rolls her eyes from the cake to their bedroom. She points at the counter. "Put the candles in that cake while I see if I can shake this fool. Kareem gone eat this cake."

"You think it's a good idea to mess with "Steven Ain't King" while he's working?" Byrd asked.

Imani winks, smirking. "Sometimes Kareem just needs a muse. Other times, like this, the man needs a little wickedness. I'll be back."

Imani leaves them flummoxed and grinning, it seems, as she runs upstairs. The mansion is an incredible three-part structured place, holding separate wings for Kareem's entire family: Imani remembers when he wanted to reconstruct his household and put everyone on. All the loved under one roof. When he purchased the estate, he told her, "This is the compound our family would grow up in." The man had the vision and brains for a seasoned gangster: but was a complete asshole when it came to writing and the energy that came with it.

King of the ink pen.

"Babe!" Imani yells, not finding him in the bedroom. "Oh my God, this is serious," Her messages were still dry.

She knew he was in his obsessed study whenever Kareem wasn't pecking away on some endorsed tablet. He could practically create a feature film with the equipment he kept in his elegant, intelligent cave.

Imani expected this, so she took the private stairwell from their master wing and walked toward separate lower-level caves: hers was an oversized spa room, complete with an in-home salon, between them was the fully-equipped fitness center they shared, and near a terrace overlooking the backyard was his private study.

A media room Kareem hid in like a fallout shelter like Cloverfield.

The study looked like a split-level middle-class loft. It was huge and furnished with modern high-end sofas bearing traces of gold accents, a marble-embedded fireplace encased around diagonal bookshelves, and soft studio lights dimmed for the more substantial, bleak noir effects. Imani herself adored thoughts of installing the Italian buffalo leather floor she padded on as she roamed the tranquil room.

The study defined Kareem as an artist.

It gave the interior a fresh feel, where only the rawest writers could pace back and forth, cooking their contagious artwork. Along with the luxury of the room, Kareem had portraits of iconic artists and prolific entertainers: Muhammad Ali, 2pac, Nipsey Hussle on Slauson Ave, Lil Wayne, Jay Z, and a Purple Rain album cover he tributes to The Prince. On the walls across from a posh sectional were ads of his latest book covers and trailers of Ice Cube movies was a B&W still of Imani posing nude in Kareem's high chair for him.

A boudoir or her basked in spotlighting on a wall of its own. She shot for Kareem a year ago: because he admired her deep sexuality and mesmerizing beauty without her being an actress. "What are you doing, Kareem?" she whispers to her reflection.

Perhaps her man was deep in his work. Imani found him inside a glass-encased studio-like upper level, where she spotted three 8K displays.

And Kareem.

He was perched over his keyboard and highly advanced desk. Imani groans lowly. "You throw your baby cousin's party in the Philip's Arena, then dump all the people you love on yours." She says, walking up steps, her bare feet damp and muted, as she enters the asylum of her boyfriend/writer. While he thought silently, Imani noticed the glass of D'usse and weed burning slowly.

"Tell them… I'm coming," Kareem replies, then rants on. "I wanna do a rom com with a photographer...No! A video director! Finding out he got cancer, then falling in love with three bitches. Some love triangle shit, but-but he'd have kids by all three. I wanna play with like five different storylines at once."

"You gone be hanging from one if you don't give this mess a break."

"Don't sleep," Kareem said, ignoring her as he sipped his drink. He loses his vibe, looking over. "What?"

"The 'what' is you." She mocked back, blocking off his display. "You're an ass right now! Can you have more respect for all this planning we put together for your party. Got show execs waiting for you. You've dodged the last four scenes."

"Baby, I know, but I'm pulling adaptations out of this new shit I'm doing, alright?" Kareem said. "I think it's lit, just maybe; Samirah and the producers want to make that bitch go crazy."

Imani slumps into him. "It will. Now, please, can you fall back a little bit?"

He works around her body with skinny arms. With his 6-foot frame, he uses touch-activated screens to itemize pages, shifting the lines he wants to move, adding more lines to a screenplay format, and tapping his drink without unhitching his chin from her shoulder. "You just gone stand here." Kareem stiffens.

"Mmhmm. Every time I come in here, it's like watching you play Minority Report with a damn book." Imani leans against the desk, finishing off Kareem's cognac and crunching away at the ice annoyingly like a grungy schoolgirl.

"So why you ain't outside?" She chews loudly. "This more important than us now?"

"No, you know what all this means."

"So...it can wait."

"Imani."

"I ain't playing games with you." Imani stood up to him. "Put it down and come with us."

Kareem gives a notorious look to his girlfriend/cofounder.

"Alright, alright, alright." He exhales and studies Imani's strength to deflect every move. To unwind and put down any task to get the attention she demands. "Since Samirah turned me on to this Script Touch technology, I can cook up five characters simultaneously! That's a lot of shows making Money for us like clockwork, babe."

"I know it lit Kareem– "

"I can run storyboards in real-time, get the consistency out front, and research all the shows on the come up against Script Money," He notices her eyes wandering. "You don't get it do you?"

"The man is truly golden. Maybe you can endorse the next version of Script Touch."

"Yeah, right. It lets me hook up all my shows quicker than other writers, allowing us to be ready for the Onyx Tape awards."

"Which we have under control."

"What do you think? The best screenplay of the year?"

Imani scowls irritably. "Yeah, yeah, she helped your ass out." She said, taking in the growth of Kareem, now wearing onyx Virgil Abloh glasses.

A black tee pressed with one word: Sakchaser covered his mostly homemade tattoos, the jewelry around his neck glowing and sending vibrations of clout throughout the room—white and rose gold diamond necklaces, tangled and overlapping, and advertising their Script Money movement. Like he had on a collection, his short nappy hair was growing and trimmed neatly around his circular face. Kareem had handsome. A slim and hood genius, intelligent and beguiling, always her reason for resenting this, "Samirah Cromartie," the repulsive director she despised as her man's "work wife." "Women do love their funny chick flicks." She turns, furling her lip at the LED screens. "What I wonder is this, does Sam buy all of her writers these virtual programs to write their movies, or just you?"

"Maybe, if any of them was dope with the pen like me. As I see it, with "Throned" popping off and "Sak Life" powering Script Money, the Writer's Gala is already here. I'm the best writer in the game, and if Samirah wants that best director nod, she must let me do what I do." Kareem holds her and bites down on her neck. "You're mad our projects are falling in line now."

Imani moans softly at Kareem's teeth and his ambitious ranting. "I-I'm sure Sam needs you for the...the stripper money, you know, so I can't be tripping." she jokes.

"It's Script Money," He spanks her ass bossily and follows through. "We are getting primetime air shit like Shonda Rhimes, Ryan Murphy, and Steve Harvey while you are funny."

"My bad. But we ain't the viewers of this ugly love-child of you and Samirah's--" Imani says, scooting onto the desk and pulling him between her legs. "we're your family, and we don't need your ass stuck in the office all day."

"I know, Money, but you see, I'm stressed with this."

"It's your birthday, baby." Imani sighs, petting his gold ropes with her fingers.

"I know."

"Do you?" She shoots back.

Kareem sighs and keels over into her chest. "Sometimes I don't know if I'm celebrating getting older or living another year off lockdown."

"Why you should live for both, baby. Being free and enjoying the years with us because we are getting older, and we ain't going anywhere, Kareem." She palms his chin and kisses him, her deep eyes scanning his lips, her shadowy brows half-closing and darting back to his beady mug. "I love you."

"Love you too. That's why I gotta keep making these scripts, you feel me?" He went on. "It's on me to keep generating the stacks through the family. Parker is doing good with her moves, right?"

"Yep. Miss Parker be the next dance-off craze in theaters." Imani rambles on tiredly.

"Rainey is down with doing a show, but I don't know about Lucky liking that idea. That woman hides in a kitchen making duck confit."

"Lucky is fine, Kareem! We're fine, okay?" Imani yells with her confidant, "Stop being a perfectionist for one day because conversations are always stilted towards entertainment and Money. Hell, one minute. Just enjoy what you're working for, honey. They are all doing what you have written for them. Sure, you got the magic, okay? And still, everybody's making time to play patsy lovers in your lame-ass life." Imani pokes his forehead. "Stop..overlooking..that!"

Imani knew his work empowered him to change lives in unique ways. Which caused him to be stubborn, tacit, and damn near absurd: at times, Kareem was so fucked up he often forgot the fact he was lovable and pleasant to be with 24/7. Regarding his company, Kareem was on pace to be a dictator. He was like a tyrant worrying about every single idiosyncrasy he acted on.

Nonetheless, she loved him and was aroused by his mouth, always kissing him and longing for more of "The King." He finally let's go. "I'm gonna fall back for a minute, alright." he sighs.

"Great."

He grips her legs and adds. "What y'all been up to? Fucking up my backyard, I see." Kareem rakes the gel-like, too matted to her bang. "Really?"

"Oh." Imani chuckles. "Yeah, we fucked everybody up. Parker got it. Lotto and his little hoochies got their extensions jacked up. Even Mama, that's a disaster alert." Laughing at the excellent time, he postponed, unfortunately.

Kareem suddenly freezes in disbelief. "Oh, shit..you hit Tiny with paint."

"All in public...like a drive-by on Cleveland Ave." She scoffs and then pushes him into his chair.

"Man, that's fucked up." Kareem is unwinding, less overworked, and unbridled for the moment. A feat to have him away from his scripts; Imani admires him beaming in his downtime and scanning the only man who makes her wet.

"It is what it is." She rocks her legs, her vibrations tingling between her legs as she opens her dewy silk robe and sits back for Kareem's reaction. "Now it's your turn to get hit, boy." Parting her lips after she speaks. Imani notes how his eyes scour: scanning her swelling nipples in her damp top, her sexy chiseled abs, and the thigh gap resting in her center. He loved her thigh gap. "Or...would you rather make me a hit?"

Imani continues rocking her caramel sticks back and forth until he gets up. "I think I can make a star outta you," Kareem replies, making her gasp as he slips fingers between her panties and into her warm lips. "This is your way of making me quiet, right?" He fingers her, sucking her lower lip as he murmurs.

His manager-girlfriend holds onto his neck, purring and licking him. "Work time is over, baby. Ohh!" Imani arches her back as she whimpers like a damp mare.

"I'm done...I mean not with this, but oh, you know, what I'm saying."

"Oh, yes!"

Feeling her wetness running for the sea while she grips his chains, she feels Kareem pulling his dick out, slipping her bottoms aside, and swerving into her moist lips.

"Samirah's equipment...but it was my booty all over this screenplay machine," she cooed inwardly. Then abandoned thoughts about another vixen. "Damn, ah...throw me on the table." Imani yowls, spreading wider.

"Oh, girl...this how you act for my birthday. Oh yeah, birthday sex is the best time--"

"Kareem put me on the table, dammit! Ah!" Imani screams out.

Kareem suddenly flips her over. The touchscreen keystroke was whirring, swiping sounds, and dissipating visual pages' affray. Scaring her, Imani kicks out her black bottoms and dips into a one-legged doggy-style position, all mussed over the desk and glancing back at her man insatiably.

"Tell that bitch I'm the real script money." Imani groans before he fills her with powerful verve.