Onika
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I approach my life like a general. A tactician. Each decision researched and executed with precision. My father always said I should have been a surgeon, but the only thing I ever wanted to do was make whiskey. He wanted a son to carry on the family tradition, but he got three daughters instead, and I'm the only one who cared about the difference between a single malt and a single barrel.
Right now, I need information on a woman who lives in the shadows, so I go to the most obvious source – Google. I type in her name, and in less than a second the following message appears on my screen.
𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 : 𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚢𝚗 𝙵𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 : 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙳𝙾𝙲𝚄𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂.
That's impossible. I click on the image tab and it's blank. I add New Orleans, and dozens of sites pop up with information but nothing about Robyn Fenty shows beneath the preview of each.
I try a dozen more searches, all providing the same result.
It's like she doesn't exist. Like she truly is the myth and legend I thought she was before I came face-to-face with her yesterday.
So, how the hell am I supposed to get any information on her if she's a ghost where the internet is concerned?
Last night, I tossed and turned as the minutes and hours ticked down to my deadline. My tiny apartment doesn't have a money tree growing out back, so it's safe to say I'm no closer to a solution than I was before.
I could sell a kidney, but even that's not going to get me $500,000, I assume. It's not like I stay up on the black-market value of organs, because, well, I'm a normal, law abiding citizen.
I sell whiskey. I pay the excise taxes that make me want to vomit when I write the check. But I don't cut corners. I play by the rules.
As I walk in through the side door of the distillery, heat from the three massive pot stills surrounds me. Others would find it stifling. To me, it provides a sense of comfort. It's home.
Harry Styles, my head of distilling operations, lifts a glass to the light before sniffing and tasting.
"How's it coming along?"
He swings his head around with a grin stretching his lips. "Mark my words, Onika, this is going to be the best we've ever produced."
The smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth isn't forced. It's pride. I will make my father proud. I took a risk by changing grain suppliers–without telling him, I might add–and it's going to pay off huge.
If I can keep the distillery open long enough to bring it to fruition.
All night, I worked through scenarios. When I signed the loans with the bank, it was all based on the assumption that every loan was already disclosed.
I didn't know about the debt to Rihanna. How could I disclose it? And if it wasn't filed with the state and on record, then it doesn't count, right? Or could she be second tier and force a foreclosure to get what she's owed, after the original lenders are paid off? It's not like I know the ins and outs of any of this stuff, and what's more, I assume it doesn't matter. I can't imagine Robyn Fenty abides by the normal rules that apply to everyone else.
There's only one person I know who might be able to give some insight. And since Google failed me, she's my next best option. No general makes decisions without information.
"Don't you think, Onika?"
Harry had been speaking to me, and I've completely zoned out. "Sorry, what?"
His kind smile reminds me of all the people whose livelihoods depend on me.
"No matter. I was just saying you made the right call. It was a ballsy move going to the organic grain, and a costly one, but this speaks for itself."
Any other time, my lungs would heave a sigh of relief, relaxing my stiff posture, but not today.
I can answer honestly, however. "That's the best news I've had all week."
"Onika, can I borrow you for a second?" Tiffany, my overworked assistant / right-hand woman calls from the doorway. "We have a few more decisions to make for the event that I don't want to commit to without your approval."
In addition to being my right hand, Tiffany has also taken the lead on a massive Mardi Gras event we were lucky enough to snag one for the New Orleans Voodoo Kings, a local pro football team. They're renting out the entire restaurant, and the money coming in will be enough to keep our head above water for a few more months. At least, it would have been until...
I shoved the thought of my unexpected and unwelcome visitor out if my head and give Harry a thumbs-up before walking toward Tiffany, leaving the heat produced by the stills behind.
"What's going on?"
"They want to upgrade the menu to include something Jennifer is pissed about. They also want us to coordinate a car service, and police all the attendees to make sure none of them leave with their keys in hand to drive drunk. Bad PR, you know?"
The thought of having to be the one to tell a professional athlete that he wasn't sober enough to drive home–and possibly take his keys–sounds like a nightmare.
"So, basically, they want us to be the bad guys? Why can't the team do it themselves if they're so worried?"
"I don't know, but they said this has to be added to the contract or they'll hold the event somewhere else."
Oh, hell no. We need this event.
I think fast. "Tell them yes. But tell them well have to set it up as a mandatory valet service, and that we need someone from their organization at the door with one of our people to make it a joint decision."
Tiffany pulls out one of three pens she has anchoring her curly space buns before scribbling on her notepad with it. "Okay, I'll see if they bite on that." She glances up. "And if they don't."
"Give in, but tell them we're only doing it for public safety reasons and reserve the right to call the police if someone gets rowdy."
She adds the note to her list. "And about Jennifer Hud--"
"How much is their request adding to the price of the menu?"
Tiffany flips the pages on her notepad. "Our food cost goes up by ten percent. I haven't given them a quote on the change."
"Tell them it's a thirty percent increase in the cost, and when they push back, settle on twenty-five. And then tell Jennifer I owe her."
Tiffany's grin widens as she scribbles. "See? You're a born negotiator. This is why you rock at your job."
If only I could negotiate a way out of certain debt.
I'm saved from discussing anything further as my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at the name on the screen.
This can't be a good sign.
"Sorry, I have to take this," I tell Tiffany.
"Of course. I'll catch up with you later on any other details. This is going to be great for Seven Sinners. Also, I have a line on a few more organizers interested in reserving the space for events, and a couple other ideas that could really be profitable. I'll fill you in tomorrow."
Normally I'd be thrilled to hear this, but I'm already distracted completely by my caller.
"Thank you, Tiff. This is why you rock at your job." I stride down the hallway.
"Hey," I answer.
"You know I don't get up before noon. You better explain these cryptic-as-shit texts that woke my ass up," Megan says.
After Megan dropped out of Sacred Heart in tenth grade because her scholarship got pulled, my mother told me I couldn't see her anymore. The ban wasn't surprising, because Megan got caught giving our history teacher a blow job in the supply closet. Mr. Kirk dissapeared, but Megan viewed the situation as her calling.
Mama tried to exorcise her from my life, but that's not how friendship works, at least in my book. Megan is the one who beat up Wendy Williams when she made fun of my nose in fourth grade, which also resulted in a suspension. She coached me through using my first tampon. Took me to the clinic to get birth control after I got asked to the prom at a boy's private school, because she swore she wasn't going to let me make any stupid mistakes with my life.
Megan is the big sister I never had. The one who looked out for me and always made sure I stayed out of trouble. My loyalty to her runs deep, and in my opinion, how she makes her living is no one's business but her own.
"Meg, I have a problem."
"What, you getting hit on by another restaurateur who only wants to carry Seven Sinners if you have a private dinner to talk it over with him?"
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. That has been the extent of my male interactions since Meek died, and she knows it.
I duck into my office and shut the door behind me before I speak, "Robyn Fenty. She was here." As soon as I say her name, the goose bumps return, along with the lingering seductive scent she left behind. I'll probably have fumigate my office to get rid of it.
Meg's voice goes quiet. "The fuck did you say?"
"Roby--"
"Shut your damn mouth and do not say that name again."
My teeth clack shut.
"She is not a woman you want to know you exist. And we can't talk about this over the phone. I'll get up. Get dressed. Fuck."
Her reaction validates everything I've been thinking. This situation isn't bad. It's catastrophic.
"What do I do?" I hate the fear making my voice unsteady.
"You get your ass to my place and tell me every damn thing that happened. Bring some of that whiskey of yours too, because we're going to need it."
"I have a full day of meeting--"
"Nicki...DING! Your schedule just got fucking clear. Get your ass over here."
Megan ordering me around usually is more along the lines of, "Nikaaaa just drive the boat. Don't be such a pussy." Or, "Just go out and get some dick, for the love of all that's holy. Your chimmy chonga must be dry as fuck."
Depending on circumstances, I ignore these comments. This order, I can't ignore.
"I'll be there in twenty."
"Make it ten."
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I park my twelve year old Honda Civic in a guest space of the parking garage of the poshest new condo complex in New Orleans. It's full of cars worth at least ten times the value of mine.
And while Mama disapproves of the path Megan has taken, no one can argue it hasn't been a lucrative one. She holds the distinction of being one of New Orleans' most exclusive madams, and the details of how she got there have never been shared with me. Everything I know came anecdotally, including the fact that her little black book of John's is thick. And what's more, Megan has the dirt on just about all of them, or so she claimed on the night we celebrated me taking the helm of Seven Sinners.
As I slip out of my car and shut the door, careful not to ding the Porsche parked beside it, my breathing speeds up. Megan won't pull punches. She'll tell me just how fucked I am.
I cross the pristine parking garage floor to the elevator and press the call button. It appears instantly, and within moments, I'm standing in front of the entrance to her sixth-floor condo. She hasn't quite reached penthouse status, but I have no doubt she's heading there. Megan has as much entrepreneurial spirit running through her veins as I do, if not more.
Maybe that's part of the reason we're kindred spirits. We're both in the business of sin.
She opens the door on my first knock, and her black dress emphasizes her every gorgeous curve. Instead of the normal smile I usually get when I show up, she grabs me by the arm and yanks me inside. She slams the door behind me and locks the deadbolt.
I face her, a lump growing in my throat. "It's bad, isn't it?"
"Where's the whiskey you brought? We're going to need it."
I pull a bottle out the Tory Burch bag she gave me the night we celebrated, and hold it out. Megan grabs it from my hand and carries it to the counter as I follow.
"There are things in my world that should never cross into yours, Nicki. You're sweetness and light, despite the fact that you make badass whiskey. But you crossed into it, and I have no fucking clue how we're gonna get you out of it whole."
She reaches up and snags two crystal tumblers off glass shelves in the bar area and splashes whiskey into them, three fingers each.
Megan is always confident, bold, and never shows any kind of hesitation. The fact that her personality has taken a one-eighty kicks up my heart rate until it hammers in time with the tapping of her long peach acrylic nails on the counter.
"What do you mean?" I ask slowly, because I have a feeling I'm going to need an explanation that's just as slow.
"Bitch you've been marked!"
"What does that mean?" There's no way to disguise the fear edging my words.
"I did some digging."
"How? I just told you--"
She cuts me off with a hand in the air. "You know I can get to the bottom of a mystery faster than a crack whore can find the bottom of a dime bag. Don't act all surprised. This took one discreet phone call, and what I found out isn't good."
I reach for the crystal tumbler and gulp down the single malt that any other day I would sip and savor, noting the flavors as they caress my palate. Not today. Today, I need liquid courage to face whenever is coming out of Megan's mouth next.
She leans both elbows on the counter and drags one long, glitter-tipped nail around the rim of the glass. "Robyn Fenty is not someone you fuck with."
"I didn't!" I sound like I'm on the verge of hysterics, and to be honest, I am.
"Nothing happens in this city without her say-so. She's like a conduit through which all things must pass. Booze. Drugs. Girls. Cons. Gambling. How the woman amassed so much power, I have no idea, but she did and she holds it with a iron fist." She looks up at me. "Now you're in her grip."
"Booze? We've never paid her off."
"You sure about that?"
"I would have known. Dad never mentioned it-"
Megan tilts her head to one side and then the other. "Doubt he would. Hell, maybe he's kept paying her off since you took over to keep her away from you. Doesn't matter now. You owe her, and you can be sure she's gonna collect."
I can't imagine my father paying off Fenty regularly, and I have no idea how I'd even begin to bring up the subject. The implications hit me hard, and I watch the color drain from my face in the mirror behind Megan.
"I don't even know what Meek did with the money. I didn't know he borrowed it in the first place."
Megan's gaze drops away.
"What? What aren't you telling me?"
"Nicki, you know I love you, but there are some things you don't need to know."
It didn't surprise me that Megan would try to shield me if she could, but right now, I need answers. I take a slow, deep breath and let it out, as though preparing for something painful. Which I suppose I am.
"Tell me what you heard."
After a few beats, she finally speaks, her tone flat. "Word on the street is that part of the money went to pay off the one very irate loan shark, which is like borrowing money from the devil to pay one of their minions. Some went to his very expensive nasal problem, and the rest to the bitch he was fucking on the side, because she told him she was pregnant. That's all rumor and he said, she said, though."
My knees are supposed to hold me up, but they fail. I fumble for a grip on the counter, but miss and fall flat on my ass on the floor. The crystal tumbler shatters on the marble as I go down.
"Bitch!" Megan bolts toward me, her arms outstretched.
I hold my hands out. "Don't. Just. Don't."
Stunned, I suck in breath after breath as I process her words.
Loan Shark.
Nasal Problem.
Pregnant mistress.
I knew Meek was cheating on me. He barely tried to hide it. I can't even believe it took me almost the entire four months we were married to figure it out. It's why I met with a divorce lawyer three days before he died and leased an apartment so I'd have somewhere to go when I filed the paperwork.
Megan backs away and reappears with a broom to sweep up the broken glass. I pull myself together and stand. There's one part of what she said that doesn't make sense.
"What kind of nasal problem did Meek have? Allergies?"
She dumps the dustpan in the trash bin and looks at me with an expression that could only be described as sympathetic, "Nicki, he was cokehead. Since before the day you met him."
"What?" The word bursts out of me. She surely can't mean...
"Cocaine. Blow. White."
"That's impossible. I would have known. I-"
"You're a good girl." Megan says, shaking her head benevolently. "You can recognize a drunk at twenty paces, but drugs are out of your wheelhouse, Nicki."
"That piece of shit put my family's legacy at risk because of drugs?" I'm no longer on the verge of hysterics. I'm there.
"That and pussy, which is even more addictive, in my experience. Plus, Meek Mills was a con artist. He had you hook, line, and sinker before you even had a chance."
I cover my face with both hands and focus on breathing. Counting to ten. Trying to let the anger recede.
It doesn't work.
Eloping with Meek was the one impulsive decision I've made in my life. I thought meeting him was fate. He was so perfect for me from day one, I couldn't help but believe the world had destined us to be together. And after that incredible night...
I shake off the memories. I was such a naive little idiot.
"I wish I could bring him back to life so I can kill him myself," I whisper.
Megan aims another indulgent smile my way. "Sweetie, if he were still alive, you know I would cut off his pathetic excuse for a dick with a meat cleaver."
"What the hell am I going to do?" I ask her as I begin pacing the marble floor.
Megan's head swivels back and forth as she watches me. "Nicki... this shit is serious."
I spin around to face her. "I know. I need five hundred thousand dollars or I'm fucked. How the hell do I get a half million dollars in a week? No bank in this town will loan me another cent with the debt I already have."
She clasps her hands together in front of her belt buckle that wrapped itself tightly around her waist. "I'm gonna get real with you. Even if you were a virgin, there's no way we could organize a payday like that so quick."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Sell myself off? A shudder of disgust slithers itself down my spine. Even that's not an option because I'm not worth that much. I look up and meet her steely gaze.
"Meek got five hundred thousand in a week. I have to be able to do it too."
"No one is going to give you that money." Her face is solemn.
"What about another extension? A payment plan." I jam my hands into my hair as I attempt to think of all other possible options.
"Girl, you don't need me to tell you that isn't gonna solve your problem."
I cross my arms over my chest, hugging them tight around me before walking backward until my knees hit Megan's leather sofa and I land on it.
"What if...what if I just don't pay? What if I tell her that it was Rihmeek's problem and he's dead, so leave me out of it?"
This time, Megan's gorgeous glowing face pales. "Onika," she says, and I stiffen when she says my full name because she never says my full name. "You don't want to go down that road."
"I don't have a choice! I don't have the money."
Megan crosses the room slowly and sits on the couch next to me. "The last woman who crossed Fenty ended up in the morgue."
Goose bumps prickle every inch of my skin as I swallow. "She killed her?"
Megan's slow shake of her head sends an icy rush of fear into my veins.
"Rihanna doesn't have to do her own dirty work anymore. But that Bitch was sliced and diced. Died from blood loss."
I picture a woman bleeding out in a dark alley, slit from ear to ear, but Megan continues.
"They say her people pumped her full of uppers and forced her to dance barefoot on broken glass until eventually she fell and managed to grab a shard. She slit her wrists herself just to end it."
My stomach rolls as I picture the brutality in vivid color. I bolt off the couch with my hand over my mouth, making a mad dash to the bathroom.
Megan is behind me in moments, pulling my thick curls away from my face. "I shouldn't have told you. But I don't know how else to make you understand what you're dealing with. You don't want to know what I heard they did to her boyfriend. It was even worse."
I heave again, bile burning my throat as I retch. Megan rubs my back until I wipe my hand across my mouth.
"Water?" The request comes out as a croak.
"Sure, babes."
I follow her out the bathroom, back to the kitchen, picturing the broken crystal shards she'd swept up moments ago, except this time I imagine them digging into the soles of my feet as my blood stains the floor.
Megan slides a bottle of water across the counter to me, it's cap already removed, and I take cautious sip.
"What am I going to do?"
She covers my free hand with hers. "We, sugar. Because if you don't give the woman what's she's owed, then she won't stop with you. She'll take out everyone you love."
I gag on the sip of water. "Oh Jesus, I have to leave. I can't get you involved–"
"Too late. Fenty never makes a move without knowing everything about her target."
"My parents...my sisters..."
Megan nods. "And your friends. Employees."
My eyelids sink closed. "She said...she said there was something she was willing to take in trade." I hate to voice the option, but I can't contemplate the alternative consequences without running for the toilet again.
"What?"
I swallow another wave of rising bile before I answer. "Me."
"Well, fuck."
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Nicki?
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The information she told Nicki?
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With everything going on I think a update was in store.
3988 words.