Every Day I'm Hustling Read online

  “I was born a fox,” I told him. “I’m gonna die a fox. That’s my reminder.”

  We could talk about anything on the phone, and I was relieved that connection continued in real life. He was the nicest guy, just so sweet. He shared how long he had wanted for all of this to be happening to him. And it was happening.

  As we talked in bed, I could also see scars from when he was shot nine times. The story went that he was in a car outside his grandmother’s house when a guy snuck up and shot him point-blank. His hip, his calf, his hand, his pretty face … The story was part of his PR blitz, so of course I knew about it. He still had a bit of shrapnel trapped on the left side of his tongue, which changed his voice. But something told me he didn’t want to talk about it, and in the coming months I would see how much fear he still lived with. Security was a constant concern of his. He had a bulletproof Suburban with a driver trained in defensive tactics. And he always seemed to have about six bodyguards hanging around in public and at least one guy outside his hotel room.

  So naturally, that night he arranged a police escort to take us to the show. He put Terry and me in this little VIP area, and I noticed people clocking me, like, “What is she doing here?” But this was before social media and people tweeting, “Vivica Fox is in the next stall!”

  When he first came out onstage, his big entrance was jumping off this New York skyline set they made. And he kind of tripped up on the landing. I screamed like any fangirl, wanting to cheer him on. By then I knew the words to his rhymes, and spat out the lines right along with him. Afterward, he was like, “I can’t believe I slipped!” I made him nervous.

  We had amazing chemistry, with fireworks going off in the room, absolutely. We were connected, but he wasn’t one of those guys who wanted to screw all day. He was really focused on his success. Most of the time, I would be the one initiating sex because I really enjoyed making love with him. That’s what made his later nonsense about me being a Fifty Shades dominatrix manhandling him so upsetting. We were vulnerable with each other, and our lovemaking was special to me.

  When I left him after the concert, we went back to talking nonstop on the phone. One day in August, he said, “Hey, will you go to the MTV Awards with me?”

  It felt like he was asking me to prom. He even sounded nervous.

  “Of course I will,” I said.

  This would be our public debut as a couple, and I knew I had to bring it.

  *   *   *

  Let me tell you the story of The Dress.

  I had been doing a lot of work with Randi Rahm, a fun, gifted designer from New York who believes in collaboration. When I created looks with her, I felt heard, but she also brought her own wow factor to the game.

  I told Randi I needed a look, and confided that I had a feeling it would get a lot of attention because of Curtis.

  “Please let me do this for you, Vivica,” Randi said. “I want it to be special.”

  I put myself in her hands. Curtis and I decided we wanted to match colors—it really was like prom—and we decided on gray. I like to dress to a theme, so I told Randi I wanted something kind of rock and roll, and definitely edgy. I watched her brain work and could see genius take fire.

  I like Randi because she’s a hustler. Game recognizes game, right? She’s a self-made, self-taught mom who at the time was just breaking into designing for celebrities. She sketched out a thigh-high mini, with sort of gladiator straps just covering my breasts. The drawing made me look like a superhero.

  When I tried it on for the first fitting, I turned to check out my look in a full-length mirror. “Hell yeah, bitch,” I said. “You look good.”

  Curtis knew that Randi and I were planning to knock it out of the park, and he wanted to keep up.

  “What do you want me to wear?” he asked.

  “Would you mind wearing a suit?” I asked. I just thought he would look so handsome in a nice suit.

  “Not at all, I love wearing a suit,” he said. “What about a hat? Is a hat too much?”

  “Go for it, baby,” I said.

  In late August, I made the trip for the MTV Awards. Curtis flew me, Terry, and my go-to girl Lita to New York and put us up at the Four Seasons hotel. It was another red-eye, and when we got to the hotel that morning, Terry kept asking me a ton of questions. She continually stopped me from walking, asking me all this logistical stuff. It was getting on my goddamned nerves. From the lobby to the elevator up to our floor, she kept yammering to me when all I wanted to do was get to my suite.

  We exited the elevator and turned the corner. Just as I was about to tell her ass to stop already, I saw the first rose petal.

  And another.

  And another.

  When I opened the door to my suite, there was a river of rose petals leading back to the bedroom. There were dozens of bouquets on every table and nightstand, every available surface. Roses by the bathtub, in the bathtub, and around the bed. I’d never seen so many in my life.

  “Yeah,” said Terry sheepishly. “I was talking so much to stall you. He wanted to surprise you.”

  Ding-dong. It was Curtis at the door. I just ran and jumped into his arms. He was so romantic and so charming. And the relationship was still our secret.

  “Where do you want to have dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Maybe Mr. Chow’s?” I knew it was nearby and it had an old-world classic ambience. It’s a Chinese restaurant, with lacquered black-and-white surfaces and pops of red. Old-school waiters in white tuxedos that make you think of Scarface and Mafia movies. I knew Curtis loved those films, so I thought he would like dinner there. The Gangster and his Showgirl. Yeah, baby, it was on.

  It was about four blocks from the hotel and I thought we’d just walk there, but that wasn’t Curtis. He needed to be driven in his bulletproof car, nicer than the one I was in earlier. I got in the back with him, and there were all these cameras. Foolish me, I thought they were TVs. They were for security. Despite all the bodyguards I’d seen, that was the first time that I kind of thought, Oh man, I’ve gotta be on my p’s and q’s with this guy.

  So when he arranged for us to have dinner in a private room at Mr. Chow’s, it was in a way romantic, but it was also for his sense of protection. When he took me out, he would often shut down restaurants for our dinners or get a secret room with security always nearby.

  Curtis didn’t like the food at Mr. Chow’s. He was more of a cheeseburger-and-french-fries type of dude than a pot-stickers-and-Peking-duck kind of guy. But he’d found out all my favorite dishes and they just kept coming.

  Near the end of the meal, this waiter walked in with a huge covered silver platter.

  “Curtis, I can’t eat any more,” I said.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”

  As the waiter lifted the lid, there was a platinum Rolex watch for me. Curtis took it and placed it on my left wrist.

  Wait, he wasn’t done.

  When the car took us back to the hotel, three horse-and-carriage buggies were waiting outside the Four Seasons. We got in the middle carriage, and his security flanked us in the front and back carriages. He took me around Central Park, and we talked more about our dreams. We knew that by this time the next night, everyone would know about us.

  “You were my dream girl, you know,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yup,” he said. “I used to watch Two Can Play That Game and Set It Off all the time. I mean, all the time.” So much so that when his baby mama Shaniqua came home and found him watching the TV, she would say, “Are you watching that damn Vivica Fox again?”

  “She laughed at me,” he said. “She told me, ‘A girl like that would never be attracted to you. Keep dreaming.’”

  Oh God, but I was so attracted to him.

  “I’ve always wanted to be in a power couple,” he said. “Like Puffy and J.Lo. Or Will and Jada.”

  I put my head on his shoulder. Curtis was going to let me be me, I thought. Here was
a man who wanted a union of equals. I wasn’t gonna be just some trophy, at his disposal.

  God, I was so naïve.

  *   *   *

  The day of the MTV Awards, Randi was getting me ready in my suite at the Four Seasons. It was an amazing moment when Curtis turned a corner and saw me for the first time.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “It’s all right?”

  “Wow,” he said again.

  “Yeah, I look good, don’t I?”

  The photographers sure let me know. In the pictures I look a little scared at first. There was this whoosh of attention as every camera fired on us. Yeah, it was our coming-out moment, but I was kind of afraid it would be my coming-out-of-my-dress moment.

  We were brought to our spot in the front row, and Eminem was seated next to us. He leaned in to whisper to me.

  “Goddamn, you are wearing that dress,” Eminem said.

  All the attention made me a little self-conscious. I remember Madonna was sitting right behind me, and I so wanted to turn around and say, “I freaking love you.” But I didn’t, because I was thinking, Okay, be cool, Vivica.

  But I damn near lost it when Beyoncé performed. I was not going to play it cool and let baby girl feel anything less than adored. She came down from the ceiling hanging by her feet, and then did a medley of “Baby Boy” and “Crazy in Love.” When Beyoncé was done, I was jumping up and down so much—I can’t even call it a standing ovation—that Bey gave me such a look of appreciation, like, “Thanks, Vivica.”

  The next morning, we found out we had shocked the world. Curtis and I were in bed together flipping between Good Morning America and the Today show. It was news! Britney Spears and Madonna had kissed onstage, and the other news angle was “GUESS WHO IS TOGETHER?!”

  That dress was everywhere. People were like, “Baaaby.” I called my mother and asked her what she thought of my dress.

  “It could have used a little more fabric,” she said.

  *   *   *

  We were in New York a few more days, and I had a bunch of photo shoots lined up. The morning after the awards, I was shooting the cover of Today’s Black Woman magazine. It was going to take all day, and he planned to spend the time with his son. Curtis told me he couldn’t wait to surprise Marquise with some clothes and sneakers.

  I was busy at the shoot when he hit me with a text: “Yo, she won’t let me see the baby.”

  I immediately called him.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What happened?”

  “You happened.”

  Shaniqua was jealous, he said. He’d landed his dream girl.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Sweetheart, I’m at my photo shoot.”

  “Okaayy,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Can I come see you?”

  Curtis came to the shoot, and I actually really liked it. Finally he was seeing the kind of stuff I did. I was laying it on thick with my model poses, and it lightened his mood—so much so that the photographer asked Curtis if he wanted to get in a few shots.

  He didn’t hesitate. Just said, “Yeah!” and got in the picture. I was told they would only use the pictures for some inside shots. It wouldn’t be the cover. And I believed that.

  After that, Curtis left to start a tour in Europe. I started traveling a lot for work, too, as the buzz for Kill Bill was helping me land jobs.

  Our schedules didn’t match well for the level of phone calls he and I were used to, and frankly he would often forget my schedule even after I sent him an itinerary. One time I had a long flight and he called me about ten or twelve times while I was in the air. When I landed, I saw all the messages and panicked that something was wrong. By then his concerns for his safety were my concerns, and I worried someone had tried to hurt him.

  Curtis’s voice messages started, “Hey, baby, I love you,” and quickly devolved into “Why are you ignoring me?” and “Call me back.” In the last message, he simply said: “Fuck off, I’m not calling you until the tour is over.”

  Here’s the thing, part of being a ride-or-die chick is that I take direction well. If a man tells me he doesn’t want me on his team, I’m out. So I was out. If he called me and apologized, that was one thing. But I wasn’t going to beg someone to be with me.

  A few days later, I got a call from a number I didn’t know. I picked up, thinking it might be a job. It was, just not a job I wanted.

  “Please talk to him, Vivica.”

  It was James, his assistant.

  “He won’t talk to nobody,” James said. “He won’t eat.”

  So I called him. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. He answered the phone in his put-on tough voice.

  “Yo, what’s up?”

  “Sweetheart, what is the matter?” I asked.

  “Why were you ignoring me?”

  “Because I was on a plane?” I yelled. “I told you.”

  “Oh, snap. I’m sorry.”

  It is embarrassing how many times we did this dance. Curtis would misunderstand something, usually involving my work, and he would announce that I was trying to break up with him. I often felt like I was walking on eggshells, and had to go out of my way to be super supportive.

  Inevitably he would invent some fight, stop talking to me, and then someone from his team would call me. It felt like I worked for them. And I know the rap group he had formed, G-Unit, deeply resented me distracting Curtis—and distracting attention from them. I watched some MTV interview with the whole group, and the reporter quickly asked Curtis about me. I saw one of the members—I won’t name him—roll his eyes in the background. Like, “This bitch again.”

  Long distance wasn’t working, so I was really touched when he invited me to come to Europe to attend the World Music Awards in Monte Carlo. It’s this amazing event hosted by Albert II, Prince of Monaco. Curtis was set to win Best New Artist, and yet he wanted me to be part of it. It was really touching because he knew I was hurt that I was not invited to any premieres on the Kill Bill publicity leg in Europe. “This will be your European tour,” he said.

  One of the organizers of the event found out I was coming and reached out to me on behalf of Prince Albert. “Hey, we hear you’re going to be attending,” he said. “We were wondering if you would like to host the show.” Mariah Carey was coming, and so was Pink. They wanted it to be special.

  Okay, now if you’re the audience in this horror movie, this is the moment I need you to yell at the screen, “Don’t do it, Vivica! Don’t do it!”

  But I said yes. This is what Angie from Indy was thinking, I swear: This is so great because now he won’t have to pay for my flight. I thought I was being a good girlfriend, saving him money. This is what a power couple does, I said to myself.

  Say it again and louder so I can hear you all the way back in time: “Don’t do it, Vivica.”

  What I failed to realize was that Curtis wanted this to be his night. Later I would realize I was insulting his manhood by standing equal with him.

  *   *   *

  Monte Carlo is one of the most beautiful places in the world, especially in October. It’s a gorgeous little place set on cliffs looking over the Mediterranean, and when the temperature drops to the sixties at night, men lend their tuxedo jackets to women in gowns. It is like a film set of old Hollywood. The roads are winding and glamorous, the same ones that Monaco’s Hollywood princess, Grace Kelly, drove with Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.

  There I was in this city of romance, and Curtis would not even talk to me. We didn’t even share a room. I did what I always did when I needed help. I called my father. At first I pretended I was just calling to let him know I had landed safely. But then I got real. “Curtis won’t talk to me,” I said. “I don’t even know where he’s at.”

  Dad diagnosed the problem right away, more than four thousand miles away in Indiana. “Evidently he wanted to do this for you, Angie,” he said. “This is his night and you were supposed to be his guest,
not the host.”

  “Dad, I thought it would make him happy,” I said.

  “You can’t charge right in there, baby. Don’t always be doing. Sometimes you gotta be done for.”

  I closed my eyes and said an empty “I know.” I looked out a window and sighed. “Daddy, I am in Monte Carlo,” I said, starting to cry. “I’m supposed to be happy and I’m not.”

  “Just play it cool,” he said. “He’ll come around.”

  Dad was right. Curtis finally spoke to me. Even that seemed like a miracle. We made plans to meet in my hotel room, and then I made everything about a thousand times worse by trying to do an over-the-top gesture for him. I had my room filled with roses. The same way he had done for me at the Four Seasons.

  When he walked in, he scanned the room and his face hardened into a sneer.

  “Are you trying to compete with me?”

  “What?” I said, honestly blindsided that he could think that. “I don’t … I’m your partner. I wanted to do what you did for me.”

  “Forget it.”

  Forget it. That was his thanks.

  But I am a trouper. I did that whole awards show, and I will tell you that I nailed it. When the show was over, there was so much energy backstage, with people high-fiving and yelling, “That was great!” Curtis and I just looked at each other. No words. I went to my dressing room and sat on a couch, leaning my head back. I was still in the white Randi Rahm fitted pantsuit I wore onstage. People had been around me all night, fussing over my hair and face, and here I was alone. I could stop smiling.

  I felt him come in the dressing room. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it was Curtis. He sat across from me on the couch, and we stared at each other for a little while. There had been so many times we had just looked into each other’s eyes, but this time I didn’t have a single clue what he was about to say.

  “You did do good,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It wasn’t worth losing you.”

  “You didn’t lose me,” he said.

  Honestly, at that point I was so afraid to say the wrong thing that I silenced myself. Here’s what I wanted to say: “If this mattered to you so much, why didn’t you tell me? Why do I have to guess about what I actually did wrong when you are always so ready to accuse me of something I didn’t do?”