I’d been signed to his PR firm, J.G. Wizer and Hunter, for three years. We were friends for years before, but when I was spiraling out of control with drinking, smoking, ramming my dick up in every set of open legs, and swinging off on anybody who tried to step to me, he took my image into his own hands and helped me clean up my act. For years I stayed in the tabloids. It was so bad, I had the names of the journalists from the major publications’ numbers programmed in my phone from them calling weekly for a comment. It was pretty damn rampant...and dark.
Quincy Hunter was partner in a top public relations firm in New York City. Their specialty was corporate relations that consisted of branding and image control for bottled water companies, large chain pet stores, major department stores and other well-known names. He had a knack for polishing images with his smooth talk and debonair presentation. He had an equal talent for changing people’s minds and convincing women he was the last good fuck on earth. Quincy loved the ladies and to manipulate minds, but was a good brother overall. He’d been my saving grace for the past few years.
Quincy said for years he’d wanted to get into individual branding for celebrities in addition to large companies. It so happened that he had a buddy who made an art of making an ass of himself and needed help. I was that ass. Ever since, he’d been my public relations guru.
The door at the end of the long conference room opened, arresting my attention.
“Erika and her people just entered the building,” Jackson, Quincy’s son announced.
Quincy tossed me a glance. I was still unsure about this shit.
“Have them wait in the lounge. Tell Shumethia to offer them drinks. StentRo here isn’t quite ready yet,” Quincy directed Jackson.
Jackson regarded me wearily. He then moved into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Stent, if I may,” he offered before stepping into my person. For a 19-year-old, Jackson had elegance and impressive articulation—similar to his father. There was never a wonder from where those characteristics had derived. He spent more time with his father and his father’s associates than he did friends his age. I nodded. “I’ve known Erika for quite some time now, Stent, and—”
“Have you fucked her?” Quincy held his open palm in the air and damn near sputtered.
“No. But I have her sister, Emily,” Jackson answered.
“Damn, bruh! You know how young that broad is? She’s fucking under-aged, Jax,” Quincy fired off with pinched brows.
Jackson shrugged nonchalantly. “And so was I at the time. Who do you think I am, Steve-the-damn-sleaze?” He snorted.
Quincy’s glare didn’t falter after that clear up, and neither did Jackson’s aplomb veneer. He was a suave motherfucker, that Jackson. Sometimes Q seemed as if he didn’t know what to do with all the swag he’d cultivated in his kid. It made me think about what type of influence I’d be to Jordan, or when we’d be friends—if ever. Quincy vacillated on the line of propriety with Jackson too much over the years.
“As I was saying,” Jackson ended the stare-down, “I’ve known Erika for a few years now. She’s a sweet girl...with a scandalous reputation albeit, but still fun and pretty damn smart. I know she has a propensity for seeking attention and approval, and her body was assembled by god himself, which is what most people see as her biggest asset, but she’s not insufferable.” Jackson shrugged. “Try it out for a bit, you may fuck around and fall in love.” He then threw his father a mischievous smile and they both broke out in laughter. That small display of ego battling was over that quickly.
Jackson’s attention returned to me. “Seriously, StentRo. We’ve all seen the video, so we know she can fuck, but there’s a genteel side to her, too. Just be up front with her about your limits.”