He glanced over at Orlando, who had just finished up his conversation. “No offense, bro, but I bust my ass around here just as much as you. You’re not the only one who makes a lot of money for this family. I don’t hear anybody complaining when the money from the clubs gets deposited on Monday morning, or about the two BMW 650 convertibles DJ Two-Tone bought on my recommendation last week.”
Rio spearheaded the marketing and promotions aspects of Duncan Motors, a creative endeavor he came up with himself. He paired the two things celebrities loved most: exotic cars and parties. Where there were celebrities, there were fans willing to buy everything their idols purchased. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but his brainchild was a brilliant, unquestionable success that had only served to expand the family’s reach in ways I didn’t think possible.
Orlando nodded, acknowledging his brother’s work, but I took a different path, rolling my eyes in my youngest son’s direction. “Do you call going out to a club all night and sleeping until three and four in the afternoon busting your ass?”
“Nope,” Rio huffed, meeting my gaze with one of his own. “I call it the night shift. When you’re sleeping, I’m working. Why can’t you understand that? Is this because I’m gay?” Rio pulled his sunglasses down, peering over them as he struck a very feminine pose.
“Don’t mess with your father, Rio. Not tonight, all right?” Chippy warned, with a look that said she meant business.
Rio shrugged his shoulders and gave her an angelic smile. Of all our children, he was the closest to Chippy. She loved and accepted him as is—no exceptions. I, on the other hand, loved my son but just couldn’t accept his lifestyle. I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that my son was a homosexual. I didn’t think I ever would. His sexual preference disgusted me.
“I’m not messing with him, Momma. I’m just trying to make a point. I bring business into this company too.” Rio sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I just think a little recognition would be nice.”
“Are you finished?” I asked. The look on my face said everything that didn’t come across my lips.
With a final glance from his mother, Rio softened his demeanor and nodded. “Yeah, Pop, I’m finished.”
I turned my attention away from Rio just as a cute little bundle of energy came into the room, scurrying around the conference table and chairs as if they were her own personal playground. That little bundle of joy was my granddaughter, Mariah, and with her mother on her heels, she bolted just out of reach behind me and her grandmother.
“Mariah! What did I tell you about running in here?” her mother shouted.
Mariah’s mother, my eldest daughter and fourth child, London Duncan Grant, was a tall, classy, butter almond–colored woman, the spitting image of her mother when she was the same age.
“It’s okay, London,” I said, handing my only granddaughter one of the lollipops I carried in my suit pocket just for such occasions. She was the apple of my eye. I loved my children, but my granddaughter stole my heart from the moment I set eyes on her. As far as I was concerned, I would lay the world at her feet. “Let her be. She has just as much right to be here as the rest of us. One day this will all belong to her, anyway.”
Mariah took the lollipop out of my hand and gave me an affectionate kiss on the cheek before taking off again. When she passed my eldest son, Junior, he caught her with one arm and deposited her in his lap as he took his seat. She giggled at her uncle’s sudden display of strength. If she were older, she wouldn’t have questioned it at all, because Junior was six feet five inches tall and a solid 270 pounds of pure muscle.