Spin the Block: The Love & Music Suite, #1

CHAPTER ONE

KARRIS

Iinhale the fresh air and the fragrant scent of nearby magnolia trees. A gentle breeze kisses my skin beneath the warmth of the spring Atlanta sun as I glance over the bedroom balcony railing and survey the manicured lawn of my Tuxedo Park estate. I’ve owned the place for several years. Yet, it still feels surreal that this is my home.

As a little girl, growing up in a run-down, matchbook-sized apartment not twenty miles away, my mom wanted my sister and me to know there was something more out there for us to aspire to. She’d take us for a ride through this very neighborhood. We’d fantasize about living in a house like this one. So eight years ago, when the house came on the market, I bought it.

Of course, things were different when I bought the house. Back then, I was a pop music princess. And now… Now, I’m Monté Graves’s ex.

That ungrateful shithead!

I release a quiet sigh. So much for my peaceful morning.

I came onto the balcony to savor my requisite morning cup of coffee while reading a romance novel and enjoying the lush view of the property. A respite from scrolling through one disparaging tabloid headline about me after another. Each story casts me as a washed-up, unlucky-in-love pop star who hasn’t had a hit in years. Each photo portrays me as being miserable and depressed since my breakup with my longtime ex—fellow pop singer Monté Graves—whose star is skyrocketing. Thanks, in no small part, to me.

I haven’t shown the latest headline to my older sister, Deena, who is also my publicist. But clearly, she’s just seen it.

My sister stomps out onto the concrete balcony overlooking the pool’s waterfall as she approaches with her phone in hand.

Have you seen the latest story? She waves her phone, so angry I’m afraid she’ll pop a blood vessel.

It’s not that big a deal, Deena. I push the corners of my mouth into my practiced smile. The same one I’ve flashed for the countless cameras that have followed my every move since my breakout hit when I was nineteen—well over a decade ago. The smile is meant to calm down my hotheaded older sister.

Deena has a husband, a set of rambunctious seven-year-old twins, a terrible-two-year-old, a geriatric golden retriever with hip dysplasia and failing eyesight, and hereditary hypertension. So I don’t need her working herself up into a frenzy over something my asshole ex has done.

Not that big a deal? Deena mocks me incredulously, one fist planted on her generous hip. "You’re shitting me, right? After everything you did for Monté… after everything we did for his ungrateful ass—she jabbed a thumb into her chest—how dare he do this to you."

"And what exactly has he done to me, Deens? Fallen for someone else?" I adjust the silk eye mask embroidered with the word Offline pushed atop my head and brush muffin crumbs from my lavender Anya Lust silk kimono set. I’m still wearing my pajamas well into the afternoon, and I can hear my up-at-dawn older sister’s silent judgment loud and clear. I draw my feet onto the vintage cast-iron patio chair I’m seated in, folding them beneath me. We’re not together anymore. Monté is free to see whomever he wants. As am I.

Deena rolls her eyes and tosses her auburn locs over one shoulder. She plops onto the seat opposite me. We both know you’re not seeing anyone else. You’ve been moping around this place, waiting for Monté to return on bended knee, begging you to take him back.

Deena’s tone and expression manage to be both chiding and empathetic. A trick she perfected when we were kids. Our dad had gone to the post office when I was six and Deena was ten. Day after day, I’d ask when he’d be back. Mom would force a smile and say, Soon, baby, while trying her best not to burst into tears. Deena, on the other hand, informed me with that exact same look that our dad was never coming back.

She was right then, and she’s mostly right now. Which is why I need another shot of caffeine before I respond to my sister who is way too damn good at reading people.

I sip coffee from the monogrammed, black Ember smart mug Monté gave me a few weeks before the breakup. Deena eyes the gifted mug and hikes one of those thinly arched eyebrows of hers. I got rid of the sentimental gifts Monté gave me. But this temperature-controlled smart mug isn’t sentimental; it’s practical. Besides, I deserve it after putting up with Monté’s needy ass.

"I am not moping," I say finally. Not true. Nor do I expect Monté to come back. Almost true. I’m glad it’s over.

Okay, now you’re just tellin’ bold-faced lies.

The truth is, I was completely blindsided by Monté’s sudden decision to end our relationship. The photos in tabloid articles about our breakup confirmed as much. In them, I’m sporting watery, red eyes, puffy cheeks, blotchy skin, and zero makeup as I paced this very balcony, pleading with Monté not to end our relationship.

Those less-than-flattering photos made the rounds the day after our breakup six months ago. They’re resurfacing now because Monté recently declared that his current love interest—a gorgeous rapper with a body that could stop traffic and a debut album that’s blazing up the charts—is the love of his life. And he keeps reiterating how this time it’s for real.

Granted, our first date had been carefully orchestrated as part of a publicity stunt by our mutual manager, Landry Hines. But I’d made the mistake of falling in love with the jerk. And I honestly thought he felt the same. Maybe he did at some point. But I barely recognized the calculating, dead-eyed fucker who stood in my bedroom and calmly informed me that we’d had a good run, but it was time for us to move on.

It was nearly the same speech verbatim I’d helped him devise when he’d decided to leave the moderately successful boy band he’d gotten his start with at the age of sixteen. The band had been together for thirteen years and had a decent fan base. But Monté had aspirations of becoming a solo act. A dream I had orchestrated with the help of my PR team and image consultants until Monté was making enough bank to hire his own.

We recorded a duet for my album that went platinum and another on his debut solo EP. That song went platinum, too. As did the EP. Eventually, he got the big solo record deal. But as Monté’s star began to rise, I tried to ignore the shift in his attitude and the growing rift in our relationship. Because I honestly did love him. I’d essentially put my career on hold to help him launch his. But despite all that, I got the breakup speech that I essentially wrote. Maybe having my former fiancé regurgitate that speech back to me is the karma I deserve.

The words a favorite author, Beverly Jenkins, once said scroll through my brain.

Karma is only a bitch if you are.

Well, tou-fucking-ché.

I drain the last of my coffee, wishing I’d added a shot of King’s Finest bourbon to it, then stand. I should get ready.

For what? Deena stands, too. That damn fist of hers is propped on her hip again. "We both know this—she indicates the stack of romance novels on the table—is pretty much the extent of what you do all day."

There’s nothing wrong with reading romance. I prop my fist on my slightly less generous hip.

I’m not saying there is. The problem is you don’t do much else anymore. Deena softens her exasperated tone.

Reading isn’t all I do, I say indignantly.

"Rewatching the complete seasons of Schitt’s Creek, Insecure, and First Wives Club doesn’t count either." Deena points a bejeweled fingernail at me.

Isn’t that what ‘washed-up pop princesses’ do? I ask, irritated with my sister who also happens to be my publicist-slash-babysitter. Besides, I have my Save the Peachtree School of the Arts Committee meeting this afternoon, I remind her. I need to hop in the shower, or I’ll be late.

I make a beeline through the bedroom that’s twice the size of the one-bedroom apartment we shared with our mom after Dad bailed. Deena, who isn’t ready to give up on the conversation, follows me into my spa bathroom—one of the first renovations I made to the house. The fact that I practically shut the door in her face doesn’t deter her. I whip off my pajamas and strut toward the shower bare-ass naked, hoping my sister will take the hint and make herself scarce.

Deena plants her stubborn ass on my black leather vanity stool, her back turned toward me as she scrolls through her phone. Probably seeking out more Karris Baker is a lovelorn, washed-up loser headlines and brainstorming how to counteract the damage this time.

I put a shower cap over my hair, already wrapped in a silk scarf. Then I step into the shower situated in a little alcove tucked around the corner.

Look, Kare Bear… Deena sighs softly, invoking my childhood nickname. Something she hasn’t done in ages. I realize how upsetting this must be.

"I am not upset." I squirt a generous pump of Rosie Jane’s Calm the F*ck Down body wash onto my favorite exfoliating sponge, inhaling the scent of lavender, chamomile, and neroli.

"I might be your publicist, Karris, but I’m your sister first and foremost. Taking a calm, logical, adult approach to the breakup is fine when you’re in public. But you don’t need to pretend with me. You have every right to feel hurt and betrayed by what Monté did. Deena hesitates a moment before continuing. Mom told me you’d been thinking of turning one of the guest rooms into a nursery," she adds gently.

I inhale sharply in response to the heaviness in my chest. Phantom pain from where Monté ripped my heart out six months ago. My eyes burn, and silent tears mingle with the warm water flowing down my face from the rainfall showerhead. I scrub my tawny-brown skin so aggressively with a loofah sponge that it feels like it might bleed. I sniffle quietly, hoping my sister won’t hear over the sound of the shower.

Kare Bear… say something, Deena pleads softly. In a matter of minutes, she’s gone from concerned publicist to overprotective big sister to doting surrogate mother—a role she was often forced to play while our mom worked two demanding jobs to pay the bills. "Talk to me. Please."

I finish rinsing my skin, then grab a towel and dry off. I slip on my short, lace-trimmed silk La Perla robe. The one I’d bought in Monté’s favorite color: fucking turquoise. Because it reminds him of the sea. I huff, pushing the thought from my mind as I join my sister in the main bathroom. I snatch off my shower cap and silk scarf, tucking them both into a drawer. Then I spray product onto my hair, add some hair butter and oil, then drag my fingers through my dark-brown natural curls and fluff them while my sister sits there patiently awaiting a response.

What do you want me to say, Deens? I ask when it’s clear that she isn’t going to let this go. That it hurts to hear him spewing glowing words of love about what’s-her-face? Well, it does. That shit cuts like a knife. I put my life on hold so I could prop up his failing career and fragile ego. And the worst part is I honestly don’t know what I did wrong. But admitting that makes me seem bitter and more pathetic than the tabloids are already making me out to be. I wipe angrily at the hot tears that blur my vision before they can slide down my cheeks. So why bother saying them?

First of all, you didn’t do anything wrong. Monté was a charming user. He fooled all of us. Deena stands, her eyes shiny as she wraps me in a bear hug that eases the tension I’ve been carrying in my neck and shoulders. You can’t bottle up that pain and just pretend it isn’t there. If you do, you’ll never get over him.

"I am over him." I wriggle out of my sister’s hold, offended.

"Okay, so you’re over him. But you’ve failed to move on. In fact, that’s your problem." Deena rubs her chin as she paces the marble floor.

There’s nothing wrong with being alone. I try not to sound as defensive as I feel.

Of course not. Deena follows me inside the walk-in closet that was once a separate bedroom. But you want to change the narrative in the tabloids that you’re devastated over your ex’s engagement, right?

Obvi. I glare at her.

Well, the best way to do that is for us to find you a new love interest, Deena announces with a self-congratulatory smile.

I stop scanning the business suits in my closet. "You’re not serious."

Someone notable enough to be press-worthy. Yet, not so big that they become the focus of the story, Deena mutters more to herself than to me. Suddenly, she snaps her fingers. I know the perfect guy.

Stop talking! I hold up both palms like a crossing guard. Right now. I mean it. Stop saying words. You’re not making sense.

It makes perfect sense. Deena folds her arms. You have to manipulate the media. Beat these bastards at their own game. You’ve been in the industry long enough to know I’m right.

Why can’t we focus on my charity work, like performing at the autism charity gala or saving Peachtree School of the Arts… which is what I’m attempting to do right now?

I’ve tried focusing on your philanthropic efforts. Deena sighs. It just isn’t a big enough story to divert those bloodsuckers from the ‘poor brokenhearted Karris’ narrative. And frankly, it’s drowning out the important work you’re doing. I know you don’t love the idea. But this is a solid plan. One I’m sure will work.

A fake relationship is what got me into this mess in the first place, I remind her.

Then it only makes sense to use the same tactic to get you out of it, Deena says matter-of-factly. As if any of this makes sense.

Let’s say I’m willing to consider it. I rub my throbbing forehead and resume my search for something to wear to this committee meeting Deena is making me late for. Who’s this perfect guy you have in mind?

Ward Hughes.

Ward Hughes? I whip around to face my sister.

There’s a glitter of amusement in Deena’s dark-brown eyes at the mention of my high school ex who also happens to be the younger brother of one of her closest friends. That’s how Ward and I first met when we were about twelve. He is now known to people all over the world as DJ War, and he’s huge on the club scene.

I pull out a pair of tan Brunello Cucinelli pants and study them. Just how much give does cotton crepe have? I’ve put on about twenty pounds during my six-month pity party.

I clear my parched throat and try to sound nonchalant. DJ War is doing a European club tour. We could barely nail him down as the DJ for the jubilee concert this fall.

The upcoming school year will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the Peachtree School of the Arts High School, which Ward and I both attended. The committee decided to celebrate the milestone with a few huge, fundraising events that will be attended by the school’s star-studded alumni. Ward and I are among Peachtree’s most notable success stories. That’s the only reason I reached out through our sisters to ensure that he would be there.

Ward returned home a few days ago, Deena says excitedly.

I don’t need to ask how she knows. Deena and Wanda—Ward’s older sister and stylist—talk often.

He’s exhausted from the international travel, tired of living out of hotels, and plans to lay low in Atlanta for a while. This honestly couldn’t be a more perfect setup.

For whom? I scrunch my face, my belly tensing at the thought of seeing Ward again.

We’ve crossed paths at industry parties a few times over the last ten years. He’s never looked glad to see me. Though, I honestly can’t blame him.

"For both of you, obvi, Deena taunts. It’ll divert the narrative about you being heartbroken over the split with Monté, and it’ll be a positive PR cycle for Ward. Every time he dates some B-list pop star… no offense," Deena adds with a wave of her hand.

None taken, I lie through gritted teeth.

The retort, I’m Rick James, bitch! echoes in my head.

Ward’s stock goes up every time he dates someone newsworthy, Deena continues, tapping out something on her phone. It’s a low-effort, win-win scenario for both parties. You just need to be photographed out at lunch and dinner a few times holding hands. The media will eat that shit up. And just like that, there’ll be no more talk of ‘poor, lonely Karris.’

When I don’t respond, my sister glances up from her phone. This is going to work, hon. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?

No, but⁠—

And it’s not like you two haven’t done this before. Deena stops tapping on her phone long enough to raise an eyebrow. You two faked your way into becoming homecoming king and queen in high school.

And you were dead set against it, I remind my sister. You were even more opposed to Landry setting me and Monté up for the publicity, I say, referring to Landry Hines—the manager Monté and I share.

I was, she acknowledges. But quite honestly, it worked. Both times.

Fine. I thumb through my clothing in search of a top to go with the pants. If Ward is up for it… I’ll do it. But I have rules.

Great. The two of you can work that out when you go see him tomorrow afternoon. Wanda will be there to let you in around a quarter to two, so you can make your case.

Make my case? I thought you were going to arrange⁠—

"Ward doesn’t like to be managed. Wanda thinks it’ll work out better coming from you. Just make a genuine plea from one old friend to another."

"But Ward and I aren’t friends, Deens. Not anymore. You know this."

And you’ve always felt bad about how things ended between you two. This is the perfect opportunity for you two to work things out.

But what if Ward doesn’t want to work things out? The question echoes in my head every time I consider apologizing to him. "He clearly isn’t a member of the Karris Baker Fan Club. Every time I try to talk to him, he grunts at me like a fucking