Page 90 of Just Like Summer

“Listen if he calls, I’m going to answer, you just have to focus on the task. I need a producer, artist, and a writer. So if I step off, make sure you’re taking notes,” Kamilla said after the makeup artist finished. “And I doubt he’ll call me until it’s bedtime. He’s with his papa at the lake and he doesn’t know me when he’s fishing.”

Cici laughed. “That’s so cute. You think you’re going to give him a sibling?”

Kamilla fidgeted with the ring she attempted to cut off the night before with a steak knife almost slicing her finger off in the process. “I think it’s going to be the two of us.”

Kamilla stood, removing the silk robe from her shoulders. The yellow dress against her skin made her smirk. Just enough skin showing not to be hot as hell underneath the desert sun. She fluffed her hair, applied her lip gloss, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the door.

“You got the iPad?” Kamilla asked double-checking her things.

“You know it,” CiCi excitedly announced. This was her first time in the field, and an El Jefe paid vacation would be one for the books. “After you, boss lady.”

The pair exited the suite, and Kamilla took in the last moments of quiet to prepare herself for the mayhem. As the elevator glided to the bustling lobby floor, Kamilla closed her eyes and whispered to herself, “Steal the fuckin’ moon.”

Before the elevator doors opened, she looked at CiCi. “Whenever we get some downtime, find a jeweler that sells forever rings please?”

CiCi pecked that into her phone and acknowledged her request. The moments of stillness were over and Big Kwan was at the elevator ready to escort them to the awaiting car. Through the crowd of celebrities, media, and fans, Kamilla was sure to take in the sounds of it, the energy of it.

RowdyRedd, an artist Lucci inherited when he snatched the record label, shouted Kamilla’s name. “Ay, Big Dawg K.”

She stopped slightly to find him through the crowd trying to get to her. “What’s going on, Rowdy? We behaving today?”

RowdyRedd smiled his new veneered smile. “Come on, you know I always behave.”

“Rowdy, please. Just last week I was up at three in the morning calling your lawyer because you and your girlfriend beat up someone in an all-day fitness center. A month before that, you jumped your old ass off the stage and slapped a fan because he called you washed. That’s behaving?”

“They don’t call me Rowdy for no reason,” he quipped.

Kamilla rolled her eyes and waved him off.

“I need a new sound, K. Like that old L.O. sound. This is my retirement album. I’m going to get married at settle down.”

She squinted up at him. “At forty-five?”

“Now would you say that to your pops if he were here?”

“Absolutely. Behave this weekend and I’ll entertain the sound for your last album when we get back. Deal?”

He bobbed his head. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Don’t hold your breath; the minute you slap somebody, the deal is off the table, and you get whoever Haddon gives you.”

“That’s fair. I see you in your yellow though. Lookin’ like a little barbie,” Rowdy stated, as she walked away.

“Bye, Rowdy.”

From the hotel lobby, they were rushed into the awaiting car and were now sitting down in the cabana-styled section. Kamilla let out a huff, crossed her legs and took in the beauty. Variations of brown bodies filled the turf-covered area. Whether lounging around, dancing to the deejay spinning on stage or tossing the beach balls and floaties in the air. A beach-styled festival in the middle of the desert. Her eyes floated over the dunes of sand brought in, splash stations, pompas grass and desert roses, sprays of flowers, and a wave pool. The Ferris wheel slowly spun over the food stations she avoided looking at for too long. The flashes of being cradled in loving arms threatened to hold her hostage.

Pulling her eyes away, she took her phone out and snapped a picture of the event screen. “Welcome to La Bega’s Desert Beach Fest.” Uploading it to her Instagram she locked it and focused on crowd watching. Through the deejay’s set and a few artists, Kamilla sat unimpressed.

“How’d they get in?” CiCi cringed.

Kamilla sat, laser-focused for the last thirty minutes, ignoring the mediocre music with unwelcome flashbacks of dreaming, not even realizing more people joined them.

“I heard,” the distinctly familiar baritone invaded her daydream. “It’s not about what you know. It’s who you know. Everyone hitting that stage knows somebody.”

Initially, she didn’t turn around. Out of fear that her daydreams had now turned into full on heartbreak psychosis.

“How you doing Mariposa?” he queried.