Seven Days in June(81)

Ty was standing outside an old, abandoned clapboard house in Elmwood. Despite Mr. Hall forbidding him to do this, he’d agreed to meet with his sister Princess’s boyfriend, largely known as Other Mike, a.k.a. O-Mike, at his recording-studio rental. This didn’t look like a studio. It looked like the haunted house on Neibolt Street from It.

For a usually rowdy neighborhood, especially at the start of summer, the block was eerily quiet. Why wasn’t anyone outside? Ty checked his phone. It was 2:30 p.m., and O-Mike was supposed to meet him at 2:00. Ty had come up with $200 to rent the space, so O-Mike was going to let him record a track. Mr. Hall wouldn’t give him the money, so his new almost girlfriend had lent it to him. She worked the register at Old Navy after school and could make the money back in a week.

Ty had been writing rhymes for two days and had felt confident enough to run some by her. She liked them. She liked him.

He leaned against the filthy porch and shoved his hand deep in his jeans pocket, where his composition notebook was rolled up. He ran his fingers along the cover to calm his nerves.

Mr. Hall had said this wasn’t a good idea. He’d reminded Ty that Princess was both a junkie and a liar—and so O-Mike probably was, too. But Ty wasn’t an idiot. On the off chance O-Mike was trying to hustle him, Ty had brought a Colt .38. That was in his other jeans pocket.

O-Mike didn’t show up until 3:00. But he came out the front door. Followed by a billowing cloud of smoke.

“Where you been?” O-Mike was a very short, very thin dude. He was about ten years older than Ty, but he looked forty. A hard forty. Black lips, ashy knuckles, bloodshot eyes, and jeans with unintentional holes.

“I been right here,” said Ty. “I was waiting for you.”

“Nigga, I been here the whole time.” O-Mike burst out in a wild cackle. And then he looked over his shoulder, into the house. Ty thought he heard a voice coming from the darkness inside.

That’s probably his producer, Ty thought.

O-Mike scratched under his arm and gestured at Ty. “You got my paper?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Ty shifted from one foot to the other. The cash was stuffed in the pocket with his notebook. But this didn’t seem right. O-Mike seemed jittery and desperate.

Ty had to stay focused. Rap would get him out of Providence. Rap was the plan. Focus.

“Where the studio at?” asked Ty.

“Gimme my paper,” he said, sniffing, “and I’ll show you.”

“Princess in there?”

“Nah.” He stepped closer to Ty. He smelled like weed, cigarettes, and something sour.

This felt wrong. And he was alone. For a small, breathless moment, Ty considered running. O-Mike had a dude with him. At least one, maybe more in the house.

Hand in his pocket, Ty pushed the emergency contact number on his phone.

Mr. Hall, he thought wildly. Pick up.





Chapter 24





Fabulous History




BACK AT CECE’S PARTY, IN A RELATIVELY QUIET AREA BY KEN’S GRANDFATHER’S grand piano, Eva was meeting new people.

“I’m so thrilled to get you two in the same room,” gushed Cece, clasping her hands under her chin. “Jenna Jones, meet Eva Mercy, esteemed author of Cursed. Eva Mercy, meet Jenna Jones, fashion editor and host of The Perfect Find.”

Eva reached out to shake Jenna’s hand, but the scarlet-lipsticked stunner said “I’m a hugger!” and crushed her to her boobs. She smelled fantastic, like expensive perfume and coconut oil.

Draped in a long-sleeve paisley maxidress plunging to her navel (vintage Dior) and shoulder-skimming beaded earrings (Nairobi street market), Jenna radiated strong Fashion Eccentric energy.

“Oh! I’ve seen your web series!” Eva gasped with recognition. “The one where guests make their dream fashion piece, and you partner with retailers to sell it?”

“That’s me,” she beamed with charm. “Sorry, can I ask where you got that cameo ring? I’ve been staring from across the room. Such opulence.”

Eva held up her hand, and all three women peered down at her rusted, nicked—but striking—oval ring. “It’s an old vintage ring of my mom’s. Feels like it was made for me, though.”

“It’s vintage, all right.” Jenna turned Eva’s hand left and right. “Judging from the casing, it’s over a century old. I bet there’s fabulous history tied up in that ring.”

Cece grabbed a glass of wine from a cater waiter’s tray, the wheels turning in her brain.

“Eva, how’s the film going?” she asked smoothly. “If you haven’t hired a wardrobe stylist yet, you two should make it happen.”

Eva and Jenna gasped at each other. Cece was floating on air. Connection, made.

“What movie?” asked a young, cute guy who’d materialized next to Jenna. He looked so much like Michael B. Jordan, it was criminal.

He reached out to shake Eva’s hand. “I’m Jenna’s husband, Eric.”

“Eva, tell him about your movie!” Cece’s expression was so sneaky, she might as well have rubbed her palms together and cackled. “Eric’s a Golden Globe–nominated director and Sundance darling. I, uh, heard you’re in the market for a new director?”

Eva’s jaw dropped.