Rhythm and Blu
Copyright © 2018 S.L. Jennings
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser for RBA Designs
Cover Model: Kaz van der Waard
Editing: Maureen Sytsma for Siren’s Call Author Services
Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dear Reader
Track One
Track Two
Track Three
Track Four
Track Five
Track Six
Track Seven
Track Eight
Track Nine
Track Ten
Track Eleven
Track Twelve
Track Thirteen
Track Fourteen
Track Fifteen
Track Sixteen
Track Seventeen
Track Eighteen
Track Nineteen
Track Twenty
Track Twenty One
Track Twenty Two
Track Twenty Three
Track Twenty Four
Track Twenty Five
Track Twenty Six
Track Twenty Seven
Track Twenty Eight
Track Twenty Nine
Ink & Lies
Special Thanks
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing RHYTHM & BLU as your next read!
While Rox & Riot’s story is set in the present, it is inspired by R&B from the 1990s, a genre of music that holds a very special place in my heart. To put a little twist on the experience, throughout the ebook you will find hyperlinked words and phrases. These will take you to the songs that correlate with each chapter. You can listen through Spotify and take a little trip down memory lane with me. You may also see a few familiar book boyfriends from some of your favorite music-inspired books, or find the next addition to your TBR.
If you want to skip the links and jump right into the playlist, you can listen here: Spotify Rhythm & Blu Playlist
RHYTHM & BLU Track List
No Scrubs—TLC
Stay—Jodeci
Weak—SWV
Tell Me—Groove Theory
Trippin’—Total
Understanding—Xscape
They Don’t Know—Jon B.
Get It On Tonite—Montell Jordan
I Gotta Be—Jagged Edge
Right Here—SWV
Cupid—112
You Make Me Wanna—Usher
Soon As I Get Home—Faith Evans
Sensitivity—Ralph Tresvant
At Your Best (You Are Love)—Aaliyah
Before I Let You Go—Blackstreet
Nobody—Keith Sweat
Be Happy—Mary J. Blige
Don’t Take It Personal—Monica
Breakin’ My Heart (Pretty Brown Eyes)—Mint Condition
So Anxious—Ginuwine
Get It Together—702
Freak Like Me—Adina Howard
Where I Wanna Be—Donnell Jones
We Can’t Be Friends—Deborah Cox and R.L.
Next Lifetime—Erykah Badu
Reminisce—Mary J. Blige
If You Love Me—Brownstone
All My Life—K-Ci and JoJo
BEFORE TWO MINUTES AGO, THERE were three definitive times in my life when I felt more conflicted than I do right now.
The first was when Hazel Figaro, my best friend since grade school, butchered her hair to look like T-Boz from TLC. Somehow, the hairdresser selectively heard, “Make me look like Mr. T.” I spent the remainder of the school year and most of the summer reassuring her that it wasn’t that bad as it grew out.
Oh, hell fucking yes, it was that bad. Hazel looked as if she had been caught in a waterfall instead of chasing one.
The second time was the day I had to break down and tell my parents I wanted to put the kibosh on my plans for med school and pursue music. My very traditional Korean father and West Indian mother, both highly respected MDs in their chosen specialties, were not trying to hear that shit.
“Music is not a career,” they said. “It’s a hobby.”
“But it’s what I love…what I’m passionate about,” I countered, feeling even smaller than my already pint-sized five-foot-one stature.
“Passion doesn’t pay the bills, Roxanne. And neither will we if you don’t finish your education.”
And while I’ll only admit it to myself, on days when I’m feeling particularly self-deprecating, they were right. Because music wasn’t paying my bills. And since they had made good on their promise and stopped funding my apartment, car, and expenses, I had to swallow my pride and get a real job. While it was shallowly related to my passion, it didn’t nourish my spirit and sing to my soul.
And the third time? Well, that’s come back to slap me in the face hard enough to make me taste a decade worth of regret.
As I sit here staring at my laptop, rereading the email my editor just sent, I have to remind myself that rent is due on the 1st. And even though I traded in my ride for public transportation and a good pair of kicks, I can’t damn well survive off of rice and beans for much longer. These hips can’t take it.
He wanted me to do what?
I turn down the music pumping through my MacBook’s speakers, and I pick up my cell to scroll to his number. Surely Bari’s email was riddled with typos, and I don’t want anything else to be lost in translation.
“This is Frost.”
I have to bite down on my snort.
Frost is not Bari’s last name. It’s Feinstein. But…ok. These days, everyone has a moniker.
“Bari, it’s Rox. Can you clarify your email for me?”
“What clarification do you need? I’m certain the assignment details were clear.” I hear the squeak of his worn leather desk chair in the background, and I can almost envision him reclining back in it, imagining that he’s the king of the fucking world and not a prematurely balding dude caught in the hamster wheel of a mid-life crisis. Don’t get me wrong; Bari is a decent boss. He tries to throw me a bone here and there. But he doesn’t hear much outside of his own voice and his own self-indulgent bullshit.
“You know I don’t do these types of pieces. Wouldn’t this be a better fit for one of the Lifestyle writers? Or even Celeb Gossip?”
“Aren’t you our resident music expert?”
“Well…yes, but—”
“And is he not a musician?”
“He is, Bari, but he’s not the type of musician I usually cover.”
He snorts in that condescending prick-ish way that’s always followed by something snide. “What? Grammy award-winning artists are beneath you now?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Look, Rox. You asked for a shot. I’m giving you one. An incredible one at that. This is a huge deal for The Seattle Tea, so take it or leave it. But I promise you—a chance like this won’t arise again. Most writers would be willing t
o suck their own dick for this opportunity, so you should be grateful I’m even trusting you with a piece of this magnitude.”
I heave out a frustrated breath. I’m not going to win this one. I could fight this until I’m as bald as Bari, but when it comes down to it, he’s earned that raggedy ass desk chair in his corner office at The Seattle Tea. I’m still scrounging for stories, covering local bands and basement-dwelling artists that I’d hope the public would deem noteworthy. But truth is, the Seattle urban music scene hasn’t been hot since Macklemore. And that’s saying something.
However, beggars can’t be choosers, and my broke ass has been begging for a shot at a featured piece for the past year.
But why does it have to be him?
Of all people. Of all musicians. Why do I have to cover him? He’s not even considered a local artist. Not since he ran off and sold out. But now after a stunt six months ago on one of those trashy reality shows on VH1 that damn near killed him and his career, the prodigal son wants to come home?
Please.
“So what am I supposed to do? Interview him?”
Bari chuckles. He’s fucking with me. He knows how I feel about this assignment and the subject in question.
“Not quite. I want you to fully immerse yourself in his world. He’s moved here to reinvent himself—to reclaim his sound. I want the scoop on his creative process, his goals for this next album, what he does to get inspired. Find out who he’s listening to, what he’s watching on Netflix, who he’s banging. Shit, I want to know what his favorite breakfast cereal is and if he likes it with whole or skim milk.”
I bite my tongue. Because I know he loves Captain Crunch but always picks out the green Crunchberries because he claims there is no such thing as a green berry. And he’s strictly a 2% kinda dude.
As for who he’s banging? I’m not touching that. No way. No how.
Out of habit, I bring my fingers to my chest, imagining the phantom coolness of metal against my skin. I’d worked too damn hard and for too damn long to bury that ghost. I wasn’t about to resurrect him. But this was the real world, and I had a real job that paid me just enough to pay my very real bills. I had to be an adult about this, haunted memories be damned.
“Anything else?” I ask, cosigning my own demise.
“That should be it for now. First meeting is tomorrow. I’ll text you the address.”
“Fine,” I huff before hitting End. I don’t even bother with the social nuances of a goodbye. That’s reserved for people who aren’t currently planning how to fake their own death just to get out of an assignment.
Car accident? Nah. Too public. And one would actually need a car for that.
Gruesome home invasion-turned-murder? Hazel would kill me if I got blood on the furniture.
Mysterious disappearance? My parents would have my ass on every milk carton in the country if I don’t call at least three times a week.
Dammit. Even my fake death can’t get its shit together.
I’m still staring at the screen when Hazel comes bustling in, arms overflowing with fabric samples in an array of colors and prints. She chucks her purse and keys onto our tiny kitchen island and tosses the swatches on our already cluttered dining table.
“How do we feel about his and hers matching dresses for spring?” she asks by way of greeting.
I shrug half-heartedly. “If Jaden Smith can wear a dress, I don’t think it’s too far off. Although I think matching couple ‘fits in general are tacky enough, but what do I know?”
“Agreed.” She flops down onto the couch and kicks off her Hunter boots, still speckled with rain, before snatching off her beanie. Loose, dark curls tumble down around her shoulders. “Apparently, being boo’d up excuses fashion faux pas. I don’t care how good the D is, if I catch my man rummaging through my closet for something to wear, his ass will be ghost. He’s not about to be stretching out my hard-earned couture with his hairy man-thighs!”
She cackles to herself for a good twenty seconds before realizing that I haven’t budged, still too hypnotized by the words—or better yet, the name—staring back at me from the computer.
“Girl, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I have,” I deadpan, meaning it. I sigh. “I got a job today.”
“Aw, shit! That’s great, Rox! We should go out and celebrate. I just got a dress so tight that it requires Crisco to get into.” She busts into a shoulder shimmy reminiscent of the Bankhead Bounce circa 1995. Which takes me right back to my current dilemma.
“Yeah. Great.”
“Then why do you look like you’re mentally preparing for anal with a cactus?”
Unable to vocalize my disdain and overall frustration, I merely nod at the screen, prompting Hazel to climb to her feet and sashay her way over to my Ikea work desk. It only takes a quick glance to catch his name amongst the jumble of useless assignment details, as if it’s outlined in bold, blaring neon yellow instead of flat, black Helvetica, 12 point font.
Riot Blu.
Top 40 fuckboi. Paparazzi player. Trashy reality TV trainwreck.
And heart-crushing life ruiner.
Ruiner of my life, to be more specific.
“Holy shit, Rox.” Hazel takes a step back and brings her fingers to touch her lips to conceal a gasp.
“I know.”
“Did Frost know about how he—”
“No. He only knows I don’t care for his music, which is true.”
“But he doesn’t know that you—”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“Fuuuuuck.”
We both take a beat to reread the name that feels like a shank to my gut with every syllable.
“Well, we can still go out…” my roommate comments quietly.
“Do you not get what this means, Haze? Riot-fucking-Blu. I’m freaking out!” I snap with more venom than I intend.
“I know. I know. But you see…this dress. I was really hoping to get penetrated tonight. And we don’t have to celebrate. It can be a last-night-before-the-end-of-the-world type of occasion, with booze and carbs abundant. My treat?” She bats her fake lashes and smiles in that way that looks like she’s trying to feign innocence and hold in a fart at the same time.
She’s going to get her way. That’s how it’s always been. Everyone gives into Haze one way or another.
Plus carbs and booze sound pretty damn good now that she’s paying.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whatever. But I swear to G-o-d, Haze: no scrubs. You are not sticking me with the broke, ugly friend to entertain while you get those cobwebs knocked outta your coochie.”
“Cobwebs?” she scoffs. “Girl, bye. My shit is made of unicorn glitter and rainbow sprinkles.”
I make a face and gag. “Sounds like a yeast infection to me.”
The mood temporarily lightened, I heave out a breath and push away from my laptop. I can stew about Riot Blu later, after I’m properly sauced and am happily slipping into a carb-induced coma.
We shower. Dress. Pre-game.
Hours later, we’re breezing into our favorite nighttime haunt in the heart of Pioneer Square. The upside of rolling with Haze? Always knowing where the party is. The downside? The party is most likely her.
As a fashion blogger and self-proclaimed former hoe (her words, not mine), Haze knows everyone who is anyone in Seattle. And if she doesn’t know them, she isn’t shy about forced friendship. Which is precisely how she foiled me into becoming her best friend of almost two decades.
I was the quiet girl with braces and Coca-Cola bottle glasses that would much rather spend her lunch period with a Walkman and a mixtape. And Haze, all tanned legs and brazen attitude even back then, was the new kid, meaning she was a magnet for attention, the very thing I was hoping to avoid. Apparently, headphones were no deterrent for the California native, because she insisted on talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Until I finally got tired of p
retending to read her pouty, pink-glossed lips and pulled off my headphones.
She never stopped talking, and I admittedly found myself listening. And soon enough, I was conversing with the super cool new girl at school whose parents let her wear eyeliner and baby tees that exposed the tease of her navel.
Not much changed from then. I got a little bolder, she got a lot louder, but the dynamic pretty much stayed the same. I was the Kelly to her Beyonce. The JoJo to her K-Ci.
Until Riot. Then…everything went to shit.
We sidle up to the bar, bypassing the pub tables and high-back chairs that are quickly filling up with patrons. It’s Ladies Night, meaning two-for-one specials and plenty of men banking on cheap well liquor.
“So, what are we drinking?”
I don’t even know why she asks. Since before we were even old enough to drink, our spirit of choice has always been vodka. Tito’s, to be exact. I only have to give her a pointed glance before she turns towards the bartender to flag him down.
“Hey, you!” she coos, batting her falsies and painting on a saccharin-laced, flirtatious grin. “I didn’t know you were working tonight. I haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“What’s up, Haze? Where you been hiding?” Manbun, beard, flannel. Typical PNW kinda guy. The bartender is easy on the eyes, with his emerald-hued irises and fit build, but he is so not Haze’s type.
“Oh, you know. On my grind, always. It’s so funny though…I was just thinking about you.”
I bite down on a laugh and roll my eyes stealthily. Haze wasn’t thinking about this dude. She can’t even remember his name. Hey, you is code for, Shit, who are you again? And I feel bad. I always feel bad for the unsuspecting men that fall for Haze’s charms. Her presence is magnetic and alluringly dangerous. It’s like looking into the endless obscurity of an eclipse, knowing it’ll scorch your eyes. And time after time, guy after guy, she renders them all blind.
She finesses us a couple double tall vodka sodas with lime before we claim a sofa and table set-up nestled on the other side of the lounge. It’s dark enough that we have a veil of privacy yet gives us a view of the whole space. We’re not ready to be seen yet—at least I’m not. By our second round, the place is packed, and the DJ on the ones and twos has the whole crowd vibing to the latest club bangers. Although I usually abhor anything on heavy rotation on the radio, I don’t even recoil when Haze grabs my hand and tugs me towards the dancefloor.