I shrugged as I turned to my brother with a smirk. “So, I exaggerated. We’re more business associates than friends. Right, Cease?”
“Nigga, fuck you. Y’all come down here trying to shake me down with this bitch? None of this shit ain’t gon’ stick,” Ceasar ranted.
“So, you mean to tell me I can’t lay a finger on him?” I asked, turning to Kross for confirmation.
“If you beat his ass, him signing those papers could be misconstrued as coercion. We wouldn’t want him to find a way to weasel out of this.”
“The shit he did ain’t considered coercion? Lying and manipulating people to sign their lives over to him? It might not be coercion, but it’s something. We already letting him leave with his life,” I noted with disdain. “You never let me have any fun.”
“Man, shut up.” My brother chuckled.
We had successfully lured Ceasar to his office down at Big Time Records with pictures of him and his teeny boppers in several compromising positions and a scathing breakdown of how it had been confirmed that he had stolen over half a million dollars and climbing from his cash cow, Cy the Great.
For the past hour, I stood aside and listened as Ceasar’s wife and his mistress, of all people, explained how she would leave their marriage with the house, the business, and only half of his assets if he signed the paperwork we presented. I couldn’t believe my ears. From the day I said that I wanted to free Carteay from her label, my brother Kross had been in touch with his wife. Turns out she had been desperately looking for a way out.
Blaine was able to provide proof that he was cheating and had children outside of their twelve-year marriage that he had been able to hide by providing hefty payments every month and maintaining relationships with the mothers of his other two children.
Now one of the women, a young model who he had been having an affair with over the course of two years, wanted blood after a forced abortion and a broken off engagement. She provided DNA test results to prove the paternity of their daughter so that Cheyenne knew we weren’t just making upshit. She was more than able to help me free Carteay in exchange for freedom papers of her own.
“I just want out before the people come for you. You think that boy Cyrus is going to keep riding for you once he figures out his books aren’t balanced?” Cheyenne asked.
“Baby, one thing about me, I will always rise to the top. I’m not worried about Cyrus. As long as I provide everything he needs and wants, he moves at my beck and call. Besides, he too dumb to know his ass from a hole in the ground. I’m not worried about him. Cheyenne, you sure you wanna do this shit?”
“Sign the papers, Ceasar. All of them,” Cheyenne ordered.
“Suit yourself. You already know how I rock. That bitch Jessica only snitching because a nigga wouldn’t marry her. I love you, Chey. You know that. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
“Save it for your book, Ceasar,” Cheyenne said, snatching the forms off the desk.
She scanned the paperwork and passed a couple of the forms to me. “If you’re in the market for a record label, let me know. If not, have Carteay call me. I think we can work things out.”
“I’ll let her know.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read over the contract in my hand.
I, Ceasar Williams, acting as owner of Big Time Records, do hereby terminate all contracts and business deals and negotiations with one, Carteay Hoyt, as of the date of this signature. All masters and works will be transferred back to the above-named artist. All rights to the artist’s name and image have been returned to the above-named artist.
I read over it twice just to make sure that it was legit. There were a ton of other forms, but this was the most important one.These were my baby’s freedom papers. I couldn’t wait to get home to her.
“Y’all think you can get away with this? This is extortion.”
“Extortion is what you’ve been doing to your artists all this time. We are righting your wrongs,” I said, walking over and sliding the USB drive from my pocket onto his desk.
“What the hell is this?”
“This is every wire transaction you sent to your offshore accounts. You know, the one you’ve been using to launder money through your artists’ tour budgets and advances, including Carteay and your boy Cyrus. It would have been all good if you wouldn’t have been pinching off the top.”
“That bullshit will never stick. How the hell you even get that nonsense?”
“From me,” Cyrus announced as he marched into the room.
“I should have known you had filled Carteay’s head up with all that crazy shit you been talking. This is how you repay me after I drug your no talent having ass out of them pissy stairwells, selling dime bags? When you couldn’t control your dick and your urges to put your hands on random bitches, I gave you Carteay! I hand delivered you a bitch, and you was so coked and pilled up that you still couldn’t get it right.”
“Nigga, shut the fuck up!” Cyrus spat, dropping a stack of paperwork on his desk. “My lawyer will be in touch. I’m coming for every fucking dime.”
As expected, Ceasar’s arrogant ass barked out a laugh. “You think you can do this to me? You think you can just storm in my office thinking you can bully me into giving up my business and my top artists in the same day? None of this shit ain’t gon’ stick in court, Cyrus. How are you going to determine what money went to me and what went to the dope man, Cyrus? You got receipts or something, my nigga? You think you can go againstthe man who built you? I made you, boy, and I will break you before?—”
Ceasar’s words died on his lips when the lights in the room went out. The thunder of footsteps had him jumping to his feet, but it was a little too late.
