Chapter 1: Kingsley Carmichael

There are two kinds of people in the world: those with power and influence and those without. Kingsley Carmichael was an unapologetic, card-carrying member of the former group. As Barbados’ top entertainer, he was used to getting his own way, and for the last ten of his twenty-six years, he’d rarely ever heard the word “no.” Whatever Kingsley wanted, he got—women, houses, business deals—it didn’t matter, he only had to indicate an interest.

If Kingsley had been a handsome man, his ego would have known no bounds; but his average looks provided a much-needed check for his pride. He had small, effeminate features—beady eyes, rounded jawline, and a button nose—the exception being thick, wide lips that masked a quarter-inch gap in his teeth. His only “saving grace” was the flawless dark complexion he’d inherited from his mother, but Kingsley didn’t see it that way. He thought his complexion was the least attractive thing about him.

Despite his aesthetic challenges, wherever Kingsley went you were sure to find a string of the Caribbean’s most beautiful women swooning in his wake. What he lacked in good looks, he made up for in charm, sex appeal and charisma. It was this charisma that he called on as he closed his hour-long performance at Carlyle Park in his native island of Barbados. He gave one final look over the crowd then finished with his traditional closing: “T’ank you! No matta where I go, you’re always the best audience! No place has betta fans dan Barbados!” The crowd’s response was deafening. “Good night! No drinkin’ an’ drivin’ on da roads!” he shouted hoarsely.

He exited the stage and smiled inwardly at the screaming crowd behind him. It was always the same whenever he performed in Barbados; no matter how long he stayed on stage it never seemed to satisfy his fans. In the beginning, he used to feel guilty and the audience’s screams would always bring him back to the stage, much to their delight and his manager’s chagrin.
“Yuh know we doan get paid for the extra time, right?” Marlon, his younger brother and manager had said the first time he’d returned to the stage. Kingsley had merely responded with a laugh, which made Marlon even more upset.
“Yuh stay dere an’ laugh, man. I mus’ be workin’ for di Kingsley Carmichael Charity. Where you eva hear people work for free, eh?”

As he’d gotten more secure in his status as Barbados’ top artist, he’d learned that the “unsatisfied” screams was just his fans’ way of complimenting his performance. Every now and then he’d surprise them with one last song, but tonight was not one of those nights.

“More! More! We want Kingsley!” the thunderous shouting of the crowd was still ringing in Kingsley’s ears. Nikki, his personal assistant, was waiting by the stage, towel in one hand and tea in the other. Kingsley could smell lemon and mint in the steam coming from the cup, and he sipped it gratefully as he headed backstage. Nikki trailed behind him trying to wipe the perspiration from his face and neck as he walked. He was exhausted and his throat felt like it was on fire. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep, but the minute he entered the backstage area, he was surrounded by a swarm of people—reporters, fans, promoters, groupies—who all wanted to speak to him.

“Dat was a good show, KC!” said Marlon, slapping him resoundingly on his back.
“You always think it’s good.” Kingsley replied, rolling his eyes, yet secretly pleased that Marlon hadn’t noticed the cues he had missed during his performance. It was one thing for him to know that he had messed up; it was entirely another for someone else to comment on his mistakes.

Kingsley’s thoughts were momentarily interrupted by a flurry of activity as the members of his band Karma entered the backstage area. How appropriate for hem to show up just as I was thinking about missed cues, Kingsley thought spitefully. He cut his eyes at the bass guitarist who had the misfortune of being in his line of sight, then went off to change out of his sweat-drenched clothes without so much as a word to any of his band mates. The snub went unnoticed by everyone, except Robert, Karma’s drummer who had been Kingsley’s friend and playmate since they were seven. He watched Kingsley walk away, gave a disgusted snort, and turned to answer the reporter from the Daily Gleaner who wanted to know the band’s plans for the rest of the evening.

Although there were over fifteen artists and bands at the concert, there was only one trailer backstage and it belonged to Kingsley. Concert promoters understood that any successful event in Barbados relied heavily on his performance, so they made every effort to keep him happy. It was only in the privacy of his trailer – which he forbade even Marlon from entering without his permission – that Kingsley succumbed to the full force of his annoyance. While changing into the freshly-laundered clothes Nikki had prepared for him, he fumed at Karma. The nerve of them to walk come backstage with such nonchalance after they had made him miss three of his cues! It was good that Marlon hadn’t noticed, but he had, and that was what mattered. He could’ve had a perfect performance had it not been for their incompetence. Kingsley decided that it was time for a major change in the band’s structure; the members were becoming far too complacent. It seemed as though they had forgotten who was the real star of this operation.

Fifteen minutes later, Kingsley emerged from the trailer in considerably better spirits, strengthened by his resolve to make some changes within Karma. He had hoped to be able to evade the bulk of the reporters with his prolonged stay in the trailer, but they were all still outside waiting like loyal subjects, or vultures, depending on his mood. Tonight, they were vultures. He spotted Tricia, his current girlfriend, standing uncomfortably off to one side. The melee was definitely not her scene, and it showed. Kingsley motioned to her to wait for him in his trailer. Her brief, yet grateful smile sent a spark of desire through him, and he could feel his manhood instinctively harden. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused his attention on the interviews ahead.

********************

“You and Robert have been friends for a long time. How do you feel about his new relationship with Miss Barbados?” It was such a simple question, yet it annoyed Kingsley to no end. What a silly question! How should he feel about someone else’s personal life?
“I try to stay out of my employees’ personal life,” he said, a little more coldly than he'd intended. Nor had he meant to use the word “employee”, since in all fairness, he considered Robert to be more than that. Aside from his brother, Robert was probably the only other person he trusted in the industry. Yet, growing up, Kingsley had always felt a little threatened by him. Although they both came from wealthy families, in high school it had been Robert’s fair skin and rugged good looks that made the girls giddy and made him popular amongst the boys. It was Robert that everyone had wanted to be friends with; they just accepted Kingsley as part of the package. So it was not without some inward satisfaction that Kingsley had enjoyed the complete role reversal they both experienced when his career took off shortly after graduation.

But Miss Barbados had been a sore topic with him for almost a year now. At her inauguration ceremony, Kingsley had gone up to Jeanine Baxter to offer his congratulations, confident that his popularity would do the rest. As a practice, he never made the first move; after all, he was Kingsley Carmichael and that meant that he was a chasee, not a chaser. Having been romantically linked to beauty queens from both Trinidad and Jamaica, he had no doubt that his congratulatory comment would have its desired effect. So it had caught him off guard when Jeanine graciously accepted his well wishes, then shyly asked if he would introduce her to Karma’s drummer, whom she’d had a crush on for a couple of years. Kingsley had made the introduction, but his ego had been bruised. Now a year later, the innocent question unearthed memories he’d much rather forget.

The reporter noticed the abrupt change in Kingsley’s mood and quickly changed the subject. It was her second week on the job and she didn’t want to be known as the reporter who pissed off Kingsley Carmichael; that was enough to make her lose her job at the Daily Gleaner.

An hour and a half later when Kingsley entered the trailer, he found Tricia slumped in a chair, fast asleep. Despite her undoubtedly valiant efforts to maintain her usual ladylike decorum, in sleep her legs had taken on a mind of their own. One was haphazardly flung over the arm of the chair, while the other lay prostrate on the floor. She stirred when he walked in.
“Hi baby,” she smiled sleepily, stretched and held her face up to receive his kiss. “What time is it? Feels like I’ve been sleeping forever.” She cracked her neck and winced at the stiffness caused by her awkward sleeping position.

Kingsley pulled her up out of the chair, and close to his body. “It’s a little after two. Those interviews took a long time. Every-damn-body waan ask me a question or tell me about some blasted business idea, or mek me listen to some foolish song dat they think is gonna be the next hit.” He sighed heavily and sucked his teeth. “Bunch a leeches, di whole lot a dem! Sometimes I wish they’d all leave me the fuck alone.”
“C’mon, baby. Yuh not bein’ fair. If all dose people had left you alone when you were starting out, yuh wouldn’t be where you are today.” Tricia was always the Voice of Reason.
“I doan care!” Kingsley replied emphatically, “Dem should know when to tek a break sometimes, man. I can’t take a shite widout it being in the Daily Gleaner! I just want to tek a break. Maybe go on a vacation wid you to London or France – somewhere in Europe where we can have some peace an’ quiet.”

It wasn’t the first time Tricia had heard that song-and-dance. In the six months since they’d been dating, Kingsley had probably uttered those same words a dozen times, yet he’d never seem to be able to take enough time to make them a reality.
“Why you want to worry about dat now, huh?” Tricia asked, groaning slightly as Kingsley unbuttoned her jeans. She could hear the muted sounds of reggae music and laughter outside the trailer and instinctively looked toward the door. Kingsley, aroused and focused on maneuvering his hands into the tight space where her jeans made a “v” was oblivious to everything. Tricia stilled his hand. “KC, di door. Somebody could walk in right now.”

Kingsley sucked his teeth. “Nobody have da balls to walk into my trailer, jus’ so! Besides, you gottta learn to be more adventurous.” Yet despite his cocky assurances, he went over and locked the door, then resumed his former position as though he had not been interrupted.

If music was Kingsley's first love, sex was definitely a close second. Performing always made him tense; sex was his way of relieving that nervous energy. If it were up to him, he would have sex before and after every single performance; but sometimes his schedule simply could not accommodate it. His insatiable sexual appetite was well known amongst his female fans, quite a few of whom were not ashamed to admit having felt its effects first hand. But up until a few years earlier, like an urban legend, his sexual prowess had often been grossly exaggerated. It was only after he met Shauna, an American B-list actress, that his bedroom skills vastly improved. Before her, he’d become accustomed to just sitting back and allowing the woman to take care of his needs. They’d all seemed to be okay with that arrangement – until Shauna. “That’s it?” she had asked after their first sexual encounter. “You’re just gonna get your rocks off and go to sleep? I know you’re used to being Mr. Superstar, but that doesn’t happen on my watch.” She had coaxed his limp penis back to erection, and made sure she was satisfied before they both fell asleep. It was at Shauna’s insistence that Kingsley partook in his first threesome – he and two women, locked in a Los Angeles hotel room for one unforgettable night. Although their relationship had been purely sexual and lasted a mere two months, almost every time he’d had sex since then, Shauna momentarily crossed his mind. Once when Tricia admitted that Shauna was one of her favorite actresses, he’d had a private chuckle at her expense. If you only knew how much more you had to thank her for, he’d thought, pleased at his own private joke.

Kingsley could still hear voices outside, and it excited him tremendously. The thought of people enjoying the concert just a few feet away from where he stood, and oblivious to what was happening inside the trailer, sent nervous thrills up his spine. He peeled off Tricia’s jeans and felt the last of her indignant resolve disappear with it. There was only one chair in the room and he settled her into it.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, hoarsely, the effects of the lemon mint tea long gone. He gently licked Tricia’s moist triangle through her frilly lace thong. She whimpered from somewhere above his head, then he felt her hands in his hair urging him on. Later, he thought, using his teeth to remove her panties. This wasn't the time or place for a leisurely lovemaking session. In one deft movement, he replaced Tricia in the chair and positioned her so that she was straddling his thighs. Years of quickies in cramped spaces had made him an expert. Within seconds, he was enjoying the feel of Tricia clasped tightly around his manhood, bouncing up and down, her breath hot and moist on his face. He felt her vaginal muscles spasm, and put his hands on her hips to slow her frantic pace. “Not yet, baby.” She groaned in frustration, but obeyed, grinding her hips in a slow, circular motion. Her breasts were grazing his face, and he flicked his tongue over the erect nipples through her cotton shirt. Minutes later, they exploded together in euphoric abandon, she, back arched emanating long, breathless sighs, and he, groaning softly with his face buried between her breasts.

Exhausted and momentarily spent, Tricia made a feeble attempt to remove herself from Kingsley’s lap. “Uh-uh,” he said pulling her back down unto him, “I like you just where you are.” She laughed, happy for the respite to catch her breath.
“So what yuh t’ink of di show?” he asked, stroking her back, and slowly moving his hands down to cup her butt cheeks.
“Your shows are always good, honey. You know that...”
“But...?” he knew there was one in there somewhere.
She looked at him, shrugging her shoulders in mock innocence and smiling playfully. “But what? There’s no but...it’s jus dat it was a likkle different from rehearsals, dat’s all.”
Kingsley stiffened. He didn’t know whether to be happy that someone paid such close attention to his work, or to be annoyed that she had been able to spot the mistakes even his band mates had missed. He decided on the latter. Annoyance enveloped him swiftly.
“Well, you should come on stage with me one night an’ try to sing fuh an hour.” He had intended to say it jokingly, but failed.
“I didn’t mean—“ Tricia began, sensing that he’d taken offense to her critique.
Kingsley continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I mean, anybody can jump an’ carry on unda those hot lights fuh an hour widout messing up, right?”
Tricia sighed exasperatedly. “Look, baby, yuh takin’ it out of conte—“
Kingsley stood abruptly, setting her on her feet as he did so. “I was lookin’ for a likkle understanding, especially after such a hectic night and dis is what I get instead. Well I not in da mood to sit here and listen to you berate me, what wid the big show I have comin’ up tomorrow, so I t’ink you should jus’ go home tonight.” He watched her silently get dressed, angry that she’d blamed him for the mistakes, instead of realizing, as he did, that it had been the band’s fault.
“How yuh got here? Yuh need money for a taxi?”
“I drove.” Tricia responded shortly, securing her hair with the black hair band she always wore on her wrist. “Be safe drivin’ home.” Then she was gone.

As soon as the trailer door closed, Kingsley immediately regretted his overreaction to Tricia’s criticism. But being the man that he was, he had never had to apologize to a woman before and he certainly didn’t plan on starting now. He glanced at his watch; it was almost four a.m. – time for him to get some sleep and prepare for tomorrow’s performance. He collected his bag and exited the trailer. He found Marlon and Raj Singh, the concert promoter, conducting business in a dark corner of the backstage area. Kingsley didn’t like to be around when money was being discussed, so he quickly said his goodbyes and headed to his car. Lassie was leaning on the hood, waiting for him.

‘Lassie’ was one of Kingsley’s fans. Her real name was Yvonne, but Kingsley had been privately calling her Lassie for years, since she reminded him of the faithful canine from the movies. She’d been at his first show, and at every show he did in the islands since then. St. Lucia, Dominica, Jamaica – it didn’t matter. As long as she could get a flight out from Barbados she was there. From the very beginning, she’d made it clear that she was only interested in sex. She never seemed to want more and she always made herself scarce when girlfriends were around. But now, here she was, as if her radar had sent her a message about his fight with Tricia.

“Is long time now I doan see you,” she said in her thick Bajan accent. “You wan’ some company, t’night?” He contemplated silently for a moment; the romp with Tricia had barely taken the edge off his sexual appetite. He had planned to have a prolonged session when they got home until she’d ruined it. Lassie is just as good, Kingsley decided with a shrug, and she won't stick around after we're done. He clicked the car alarm in silent acquiescence.