Like a Sister(9)

“Welcome to Pierce Productions!” she said when I finally made it. “Do you have an appointment?”

I paused then. A mistake. My hesitation was over her word choice. If we were being technical, I didn’t have an appointment. The police did. But judging from her expression, Ms. Whitestrip took it to mean I’d snuck past the security guard downstairs, a flash drive of my new mixtape wedged between both boobs.

I decided not to drop Mel’s name. “Tam’s expecting me.”

“And you are…”

Then decided to drop his name. “Mel’s daughter.” I took my sunglasses off as I spoke.

“Lena?” she said, but it wasn’t my declaration that had changed her mind. It was my eyes.

I’ve been told I look “just like your daddy” going on twenty-eight years now. Not just the eyes but the medium-brown skin. The freckles. The lips. The 4A kinky hair. All ripped from Mel’s face and placed on my own. I’d even had the same gap before Dr. Sutton worked his Invisalign magic. It was strange—to be told your whole life you look just like an über-masculine man. But I’ve also been told that Mel Pierce made a damn beautiful woman.

“Lena!” she said again with more confidence, and I nodded. “You know where you’re going?”

“No, but I can figure it out. Just follow the screaming.”

She laughed then like she was supposed to. Legend had it the Murder Mel nickname was due to his ability to “scream bloody murder.” He joked he’d inherited this from Gram, whom he could hear yelling to come inside for dinner from halfway down the block.

“I don’t think he’s in yet, but you can head straight back.”

I thanked her and walked over to the door to the inner sanctum. Just as she was about to buzz me in, I heard her behind me. “And Lena. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

It’d been five years since someone last told me that. Turned out I didn’t miss hearing it at all. “I appreciate it,” I said, then went inside.

The entire office must have had Slack because it was clear everyone knew who I was and why I was there. The hallway felt like it stretched to eternity, as starkly white as a hospital. Row upon row upon row of white desks. I’ve never hated the open concept so much. The journey to find Mel’s office felt more like a walk of shame.

The faces were more colorful than the décor. Black and white and everything in between. None of them friendly, all aware of the “daughter from a previous relationship” mentioned in Mel’s profiles but never photographed. After Mel left us, my mother hadn’t allowed me to be used as a pawn in his magazine puff pieces.

His office was easy to find. As one might expect, it was in a corner. It was guarded by a four-person cluster strategically gathered at the desk directly across from Mel’s double doors. None of them was Tam. Their lack of eye contact and weak attempts to look disinterested were dead giveaways I was the Space Mountain in this Magic Kingdom.

I paused ever so slightly. I had a choice. Stand around, pretending not to notice people pretending not to notice me. Or hide. Since I didn’t know where the bathroom was, my only other option was Mel’s office. I opened one of the double doors and went in.

It was as dark as the rest of the office was bright. Black walls, carpet, and blinds, which were at half-mast. Even the spines of the hardcovers behind his desk were black. And what wasn’t black was gold. The couch. The vases. The picture frames.

“Is this a vampire’s lair?” I said.

“They say I like spilling blood.”

The voice had come from somewhere to my left. I looked over just as something beeped and the blinds rose like a church choir standing, about to grace us with His benevolence.

Suddenly it was 2 p.m. again. Light enough for me to see Mel’s full face before the sunglasses resumed their position on the bridge of his nose. I caught the red rims around his eyes—my eyes. It wasn’t surprising. Mel had always loved anything shiny, and Desiree was nothing if not that. He’d walked out of my life and into hers like he was on a runway in Milan. And I knew it wasn’t her fault. But still it’d hurt. She and I had gotten past it by not bringing it up. Not the healthiest way to handle things, but it’s what we had done.

Mel was at a full bar drinking straight from a bottle of his own liquor. And I don’t mean he owned the bottle. He owned the company.

Murder Mel Pierce had become a millionaire a hundred times over with this image. Sunglasses on indoors and hands grasped tight around a bottle of liquor. Pouring it in women’s mouths. Pouring it on women’s boobs. And in one instance, with over ten million YouTube views, pouring it on women’s weaves.

Back then it was jerseys and Jordans. Now it was suits and Salvatore Ferragamos. The only hint of his former life, the tattoos peeking out from both sleeves of the suit jacket. The inked handcuffs matched the logo for his first—and most successful—record label, Free Money.

I stared at them—at him—as he walked toward the massive black desk, the only indication he was looking back at me the slight uptick of his lips.

I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been in a room together. I’d made sure to miss the White Christmas party every year.

“Sit,” he said. I did. The seat was the type that looked better than it felt, all hard backed and just low enough that your knees jutted up at odd angles. He joined me a second later—his chair thick and leather and positioned so that he looked down at whoever sat across the desk from him—and slid a large black envelope my way, the Pierce Productions graphic displayed proudly at its center. “For you.”