Weapons of Mass Seduction Read online

  “I hope so. But until then, don’t get any crazy ideas. Don’t think you’re going to be dropping little Pomegranate on Tia Dee all the time…” Darlene said, reverting back to her usual cheeky self.

  “Pomegrante? Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Because right now it’s a little seed, and it’s also muy Hollywood.”

  “Darlene, you are certifiably nuts,” Pia pronounced.

  The stroll to her apartment helped to quell Pia’s morning sickness. Maybe it was the fresh air, but by the time she walked through the front door, she was feeling better.

  “Hi, Paolo,” Pia said, throwing her doorman a saucy grin as she strutted toward her mailbox. Since the workshop and rejoining the sensually and sexually active, Pia definitely felt more like a total woman again. And practicing her flirting as Joey had suggested had become a fun part of her day.

  Once inside her apartment, Pia went about her usual routine of turning on her water fountain, lighting the candlescape in the fireplace, and flipping on her current favorite CD, Putayamo Presents: Asian Lounge. It was a homecoming routine she’d adopted years ago in the first few months of working in the hectic and very loud music video business. After a long day of dealing with booty-shaking music and the fragile egos of the artists who create it, the soothing sounds of water and soul-satisfying rhythms was a salve on her weary spirit.

  Her last task was changing her daily inspiration card. Dee had given her the Inspire and Affirm box for her birthday last year, and selecting daily words to live by had become part of her evening ritual so that each morning she could wake up with fresh positivity. Considering today’s baby and mama drama, Pia chose a quote from Louisa May Alcott to display: “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my own ship.”

  Now if I can just avoid running the damn thing aground, I’ll be okay, Pia thought with a twisted smile.

  Usually she’d sip a glass of champagne or a good merlot to take the edge off a tough day, but that part of the ritual was over—at least for a while. She’d have to settle for more herbal tea, Pia decided as she strolled through her sand-colored living room and into the kitchen.

  Pia stopped by the eat-in counter to read her mail. She rummaged through the bills and junk mail disguised as “important, time-sensitive” documents before picking up a small manila envelope with the words PHOTOS: DO NOT BEND scribbled several times across the front and back. A quick check of the return address made her smile. It was from Florence Chase.

  She filled her mug with water from the hot water dispenser on her sink, dunked a chamomile tea bag inside, and sat down. Pia opened the package to find a letter wrapped around another envelope filled with photos. Pia picked up the photographs and quickly flipped through, smiling at the memories they invoked.

  She put the pictures aside and opened the letter, eager to find out how things were going in Texas.

  Hi there, sugar. Sorry to be getting these to you so late, but things have been really busy since I got back to Dallas. First off, Joey inspired me to redecorate my boudoir in a much more sensual way. Before Dan came home, I got rid of all my bedroom furniture and created a suite that was more be-fitting a hot mama like myself (smile). I got new sheets, Egyptian cotton, 800 thread count, which is about 738 more threads than we’re used to. And can I tell you, you can rightly feel the difference. I tried sleeping in the altogether and they did feel really nice on my skin. I even sprayed the pillows with some of that Chanel 19. I have to admit, honey, I like this sensual stuff. Joey was right. It does make you feel real good and real girly.

  Dan’s been home more than two weeks now. Things are moving a little slow. It’s like we’re trying to get to know each other again. Honestly, I feel like we’re like roommates—sharing a space but not really a life. Maybe we’ve been like this for a while and I just haven’t noticed. I’ve been wearing my perfume but haven’t taken the underwear and the nighties out yet. I know the woman from the lingerie shop said not to wear them just for him, but I haven’t really felt like wearing them for me either.

  Haven’t been doing any flirting. I tried practicing in the mirror, though to be honest, I feel a little bit stupid doing all that eye talk jazz. Dan’s birthday is next month, so I thought maybe I’d try some of that red hot night stuff. We’ve got to break the ice sometime, right?

  Enclosed are pictures from the workshop. We all look pretty darn good wearing those sheet dresses you whipped together, and I framed the one from the night you fixed me up (same night I met Clay). And no, I haven’t mentioned Clay to Dan and I won’t. I like having him as my secret memory. It’s silly, but it makes me feel good knowing that he thought I was attractive enough to want to kiss. Sugar, at my age (and weight class), that’s a Vatican-sanctioned miracle!

  How’s the daddy hunt going? So have you met anyone who’s put the swing back into those hips of yours? Hope you’re givin’ those New York fellas hell.

  Call me sometime so we can properly catch up.

  Love, Flo

  P.S. Have you heard from Becca? Somehow, I don’t think Chicago will ever be the same!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pia sat in Harmon Goldstone’s outer office, hoping like hell that Dee was downstairs pulling off the impossible. This sudden request for a meeting by the new boss had thrown her schedule totally off. It had taken her months to be granted a workout with Benita Perkins, the most sought-after celebrity prenatal yoga instructor in the business and a woman Pia had been trying to hire since her first sonogram. Hopefully Dee was able to reschedule their session for tomorrow.

  After Pia scanned through VIBE, Source, and Rolling Stone magazines, Harmon’s secretary finally waved her into his office. She sat another five minutes, waiting for him to finish his phone call and acknowledge her presence. While she waited, Pia studied her new boss. He was definitely a suit, and rumor had it that he’d been brought in to pump up the profit margin so the company could be sold.

  “Pia, sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, hanging up the phone and giving her a handshake and matching smile. Neither looked or felt totally sincere, but Pia did not take it personally.

  “Harmon, welcome to SunFire. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Have a seat. I’m sorry that our first meeting has to be under such…well, under these circumstances. No, don’t worry,” he said, reading the concerned look on her face. “I’ve heard only great things about you and your department.”

  “Thank you. So if things are great in my department, what circumstances are you’re referring to?”

  “You are aware that the midterm congressional elections are coming up?”

  “Yes, but how does that relate to what we do here?” Pia asked, trying to keep the What-the-hell-are-you-talking-about? look off her face.

  “You are also aware that Valen Bellamy is challenging the Democratic candidate Betsy Franklin for her Senate seat.”

  “Yes. Mr. Bellamy is a black moderate from New York who is being touted as the Republicans’ newest darling,” Pia again affirmed, still not sure why she was sitting here going through the state’s political landscape.

  Oh, God, please don’t tell me we’re going to start producing campaign videos, Pia thought as she began running through numerous reasons that this would not be a good idea. Damn that Diddy and his Vote or Die campaign.

  “Exactly. Bellamy is running on a platform emphasizing inclusiveness and tolerance. His campaign is calling for the end of ‘contrary and destructive’ images of women, blacks, and Hispanics in the media—including music and videos.”

  “Youth, blacks, Hispanics, and women—well, he’s got all the bases, or shall I say voters, covered. Surprised he can’t find a way to fit the NASCAR dads in there.”

  “Democrat, are we?”

  “Little bit.” Pia smiled. “Shall I conclude that we’re being targeted as a provider of these negative images?”

  “The entire industry, not just SunFire. Mr. Bellamy is meeting with several companies and individual
s to form a committee of experts. His goal is to become educated on the issue so he can better form his opinions and campaign. I called you up here because we’d like you to represent SunFire on this committee.”

  “Why not send Suzy O’Brien in PR? This seems right up her alley.”

  “I don’t want to come off as if we’re trying to put a PR spin on a very explosive issue. The fact that you, a black woman, are actually responsible for the production of positive imagery sends a better message. It says we at SunFire take this all very seriously.”

  “I try, but let’s be honest. Not all of my work can be held up as a shining example. I’ve produced my share of questionable videos.”

  “As long as it’s only a share and not all, I’m satisfied.”

  “But I’m a Democrat—a very liberal Democrat. I’m not sure Mr. Bellamy will appreciate some of my positions,” Pia responded, trying desperately to get out of this undesirable assignment.

  “To his credit, the man appears to be interested in all sides of the debate.”

  “Of course he appears to be. It’s election time.”

  “He’s holding an information-gathering meeting tomorrow at two o’clock at the Marriott Marquis. It’s no big deal. Let him pick your brain and give him some suggestions on how to improve things within the industry. Hopefully we’ll get some positive press coverage and it will end there. Pia, I need you to understand something. We do not, I repeat, do not want SunFire to receive any negative press on this. We want nothing that is going to tarnish our reputation. Is that understood?”

  “Clearly,” Pia replied.

  The two chatted strategy for several more minutes before Harmon was called away to take another phone call. On her way back to her office, Pia thought about what she’d just been volunteered to do. On one hand, the idea of getting involved, however peripherally, in a political campaign was something Pia had neither the time nor the inclination to do, but political ideologies aside, she had to admit that the thought behind Bellamy’s campaign was solid. If women and people of color wanted respect from others, they must first demand it of themselves.

  Still, Harmon’s zeal in insisting she not screw up made it clear that the rumors to sell the company were true. Just as clear was the fact that there was an awful lot riding on her performance with this Bellamy character, adding pressure she did not need right now.

  Pia turned the corner toward her office when it dawned on her that she now had to reschedule her rescheduled appointment with her yoga instructor.

  “Dee, I need you to beg, plead, and barter with Benita to once again reschedule my appointment. Tell her we’ll use her in Pharrell’s new video, tell her anything, but don’t let her drop me before I even get started.”

  “Okay. But damn, getting you pregnant was easier than scheduling time with Benita Perkins. And just so you know, stuff like this is why you pay me the big bucks.”

  “This time I agree with you. And please get me a bio on the congressional candidate Valen Bellamy. Meeting with this political wannabe had better be worth my risking prepartum depression. Pregnancy and hormonal bitch syndrome is a truly unsightly combination.”

  The next day at 1:55 P.M., Pia was sitting in a conference room at the Marriott Marquis Hotel with four others, all from different areas in the music industry, waiting for Valen Bellamy. They spent the next twenty minutes chatting together about the latest gossip swirling around their business, but when the conversation moved to athletes turned rap stars, Pia politely bowed out, turning her attention to the hastily obtained biographical information Darlene had pulled off the Internet.

  The fifty-two-year-old Valen T. Bellamy had earned both his undergraduate (international relations) and law degrees from Georgetown University. He also attended Britain’s Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship. Currently serving out his term as New York State comptroller, Mr. Bellamy had been heavily recruited as a poster child for the new Republican party.

  “I am so sorry to keep you good people waiting,” a voice with notice-me impact rang out. The man behind it was tall and handsome and had an unmistakable aura of power surrounding him. With him was a woman, obviously an assistant, carrying a stack of black binders.

  “Forgive me, but I had a last-minute phone call from my son with some wonderful personal news—looks like I’m going to be a grandfather,” he explained as he circled the meeting table, clutching an accordion folder under his left arm and shaking hands with the right.

  As the others offered their congratulations, Pia sat mentally doling out brownie points while waiting for him to reach her. It was obvious he’d also been briefed on everyone’s title and company, which lent a natural, friendly air to his greetings—definitely a political asset. And his good looks didn’t hurt either.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m Valen,” he said, offering an orthodontic masterpiece of Crest Whitestrips teeth as he extended his hand. No surname. Just his first, delivered in a quiet-storm voice that vibrated deliciously through various zones of her body. Pia was surprised by her strong physical attraction to this man. Though she’d returned to her celibate state following her encounter with Grand, apparently the floodgates had opened up.

  “Pia Jamison.”

  “I unfortunately don’t know your work firsthand, but I’m told you enjoy a stellar reputation.” His charm was thick but genuine. No wonder his political future was on the fast track.

  “Thank you,” she replied as she studied his brown face framed by short salt-and-pepper hair. She found herself mesmerized by this grandpa-to-be’s cute crow’s-feet crinkling around the corners of his smiling gray eyes. Why were the same fine lines that sent women in frantic search for Botox needles so damn sexy on men? Life just wasn’t fair.

  She tried not to gawk as Valen pulled out his notes and hastily prepared for his meeting. Once settled, he introduced his assistant, Melody, to the group and announced that she’d be taking notes.

  “Thank you all for coming this afternoon to discuss a crisis that has hit our communities as hard as obesity, high blood pressure, black-on-black crime, and HIV/AIDS. Along with the supersizing of our fast food meals has come the supersizing of our appetites for hypersexuality, violence, and a blatant disrespect for ourselves and each other.

  “Rappers boast about being the ‘spot smacker and favorite macker’ while proudly promoting the image of the pimp as a flamboyant beacon of power and wealth. In bookstores, displayed beneath signs marked African American Literature, are titles like Ghetto Azz, Thug Livin’, and Toxic Ho. In millions of PlayStations and Xboxes are games where kids can watch strip shows, carjack soccer moms, and kill police officers.

  “Our young people are experiencing a triple whammy of ‘entertainment’ sources that glorify violence and dangerous sex practices to the detriment of our collective sense of self-respect. And this is why I’ve asked you all to join me today.

  “This is a fact-finding mission to gather ideas and information to shape my campaign platform: ‘Respect Yourself, Be Respected.’ My hope is that through awareness we can begin to reverse the negative cultural trends that are having an impact on our daily lives, for example, making heroines of women who make a living shaking their booties and servicing ‘gangstas’ who refer to them as ‘tricks,’ ‘bitches,’ and ‘hos.’”

  “Excuse me. I’m not a whore. I’m an actress,” argued Jalese Chantal, a successful video girl. “Videos pay the bills while I advance my acting career.”

  “Man, we’re selling a product…and everybody knows that sex sells everything else from cars to cameras. Why not music?” the hip-hop artist Playadoh added.

  “Crack cocaine is a product. Shouldn’t we be policing ourselves when it comes to all questionable and potentially harmful ‘products’?” the candidate queried.

  Pia could see that Valen Bellamy was quickly losing his congenial charm as he delved into this issue. It was clear that he was impassioned by the subject, but his passion was putting his audience, including Pia, on the defense.


  “Let’s not forget that we’re in the business of producing and selling fantasy and entertainment,” record producer Alison Black replied.

  “The key word being business—and one that follows trends,” video channel executive Tourè Peterson added. “So if our consumers like what’s being supplied and keep asking for more, who are we to stop giving it to them? And by the way, I think this whole hypersexuality thing will eventually burn out once a new trend emerges.”

  “And while we wait for the trend to burn itself out, what about all the damage it’s causing now? Ms. Jamison, you’re in the business of producing these videos. What’s your take on the subject?”

  “My take is that the issue goes so much deeper. It’s about how we raise our kids. Accountability and positive self-imagery starts at home.”

  “Which is why family values must be resurrected in our community,” Valen inserted.

  At the sound of that loaded phrase, which now felt like a personal attack on her own morality, Pia could feel her liberal sensibilities surfacing and could not resist turning the discussion political.

  “Despite the fact that politicians like yourself have tried to co-op and turn the idea of ‘family values’ into a narrow discussion of conservative sensibilities, the root of the problem is not how we are portrayed on videos or in books, but how we each portray ourselves on a daily basis.”

  “And I don’t see how you can tell me that what our children consume as entertainment on a daily basis does not affect how they behave,” Valen shot back.

  Was that a smirk? Did he just smirk at me? Pia wondered, feeling her ire rise. In her head, she heard the screeching sound of the brakes bringing an immediate halt to her initial attraction to this pompous ass.

  “Around this table you have gathered together five black people, as if to say that respect or lack or respect is a problem only in our community,” she continued.