Author's Note: Angel King has returned and I've uploaded a picture of the real Jayne Kennedy. Enjoy this fictional tea otherwise!
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1987 –Los Angeles, California (Before "Angel" Breakup)
BRENDA
B,
No more games. I'm all yours tonight. Please forgive me, Baby Girl. I love you so much.
– Mike
Michael left the note before leaving my penthouse that morning. Rehearsal would swamp him as usual and I'd leave for the studio. Nothing too unexpected. Frank and Bill picked him up after walking through the elevator and waved at me. Exhausted smiles crept onto their faces and I understood given the hour. His two loyal employees marched back toward the exit we all knew too well and just stood before Michael even stepped closer.
I wouldn't even smile at the man. Michael whispered goodbye and fogged his Raybans before tearfully kissing my cheek. His voice croaked affection as he held my left cheek. Michael then stepped to hold me close, but I wouldn't even hug him back. My usually arrogant boyfriend once again mumbled apologies in the direction of my ear. He soon kissed my neck, but I only accepted these movements with tearful and open eyes.
His final kiss on my dark skin tone broke off. I could the wetness of his lips nearly drip on its neckline crevice. If this moment took place before Michael left to perform in Japan and Australia, I'd react differently without hesitation Now, the elevator chimed shut. Out of habit, I tossed my car keys back and forth.
Last night, Michael and I argued in a private room at the club. Again. We didn't even make love to forgive. There was only a matter of time before he gave up on us altogether. Case in point, I completely ignored the scribbled phrases on that morning note. There was no other choice. Dwelling on his chaos proved ridiculous to say the least.
I washed my face for the millionth after crying while alone and drove straight to the studio. Work usually stopped my thoughts from considering Michael once more. By tonight, he'd most likely act foolish all over again. Only time would tell at this point.
Downtown, I strolled in one of the studio hallway. Forced energy raced in my stride. Before long, I paused and stood only feet away from my usually designated room. Craig yelled in the doorway for whatever reason, but he peeked away and glared at me with narrowed eyes. I almost rushed my boots in his direction and my eyes soon peeked back into the doorway.
Craig resumed his tirade with whoever entered our space. King stood behind the glass of my favorite recording booth. A presumed stranger sat down at Craig's mixing board. I'd hadn't felt this surprised or irritated before. But when the stranger turned around, I almost collapsed on wooden floor. Not Prince. Not Michael. Not even El.
My hometown ex.
Grant Palmer.
Years before I danced on Soul Train, we met in a corner store. I'd just come home after graduating college and Dad needed beer-cases for a family barbeque later that afternoon. I promised myself to never sin in front of family. Mom never made the rule, but I just knew better. Setting an example proved vital considering my young but assuredly legal age. My little sister Jasmine (Jazzy) needed a role model beyond Mommy or some of my aunts.
For now, my lean arms nearly hugged the beer-case and I moved toward my tiny shopping cart. My limbs then carefully set this large and alcoholic purchase inside. As rolled that cart away from the freezer section of this store, another view caught my eye. Some young man browsed the junk-food aisle. Headphones plugged into a cassette player and pinched sides of his baby afro. From a back angle, I could only see his red tee shirt and black pants.
Grant even removed his headphones and continued holding the cassette player in that left hand. I faintly heard the rhythmic opening to "Get On The Floor" by Michael himself. Grant soon turned off his music and profusely apologized to everyone in that tiny store. Awkward laughter followed from other individuals. My own Afro topped high regardless of the summer temperature. I rolled toward young Grant and joined him as he stood, embarrassed.
Now, that afro vanished. Grant chose waves to pattern his eternally short hair. In diming lights of this recording studio, his dark complexion glowed. Grant faced me with the brightest as if he never even invaded this coveted recording studio. I shook out of a nostalgic daze and folded both arms. Behind the glass, Angel removed those headphones and perched onto a stool that sited not too far away from the hoisted microphone.
On the other hand, Craig rushed out yelling for security. We always occupied this exact room and breaking the routine of my producer would trigger consequences. What changed? I closed this door behind me and fought every need to punch the glass separating Angel from me. Had this woman still not learned from my first whipping at the club? Apparently not.
"What are you two doing in here?" I immediately questioned Angel and pointed. There was only silence as she walked out of the booth and sat near Grant at Craig's mixing board. I'd fumed all over again. Questions raced through my mind as I noticed Angel and Grant together.
"Working. You can't even sing, so please give somebody else a chance, Brenda. I'm gonna be huge." Angel hissed at me. She knew how I operated and tried to ruin plans. Again. Grant rolled away his chair just to tune up a synthesizer that mounted nearby. I rolled my eyes as he dodged explaining his own reasons to return.
I hadn't seen this man in years. Grant cheated the night before my first Soul Train audition six years ago. A good friend of mine called with heartbreaking news that morning. All throughout my flight to California, I hid behind sunglasses to cry. Grant and I both visualized fame, but he somehow thought it was a good idea for me to hold back. To him, I wouldn't be faithful while away. To him, I'd neglected caring about his own dreams while pursing the need to dance.
My ex worked house parties at first and his music often triggered joyful pandemonium. While my perspiration bled through flexible outfits in local dance studios, Grant pushed for New York record labels to hear those beats. My heart supported him, but not enough to stop my own aspirations. I would never exist as a stagnant female. Fed up, Grant apparently found some Jayne Kennedy knock-off and those two drowned shots before ripping off clothes.
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I always meant nothing to men.
"I can sing circles around you, Angel. Please don't sit there and try fooling yourself. Why don't you understand that?" I almost laughed regardless of the situation. Before long, the door swung open and Craig stood between two suited and badged security guards. Grant continued playing the synthesizer as if nothing bothered him. Angel just shook her head while smirking. I tossed out my hands, fed up.
