Fireworks 3 and 4

Chapter Twenty-One

    Bright light pushed against the blinds and curtains of Nicki Minaj's hotel window. Nowadays, she had a routine. Her arm shot out and grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. With one eye open, she reviewed some of the social media posts she'd been tagged in, reviewed what records she'd broken that day, and reposted. Sometimes you had to remind people who the top dog was. Sometimes you had to remind people that for more than the past five years, you'd been that bitch, that female who'd broken a number of records and helped to put female rappers on the map.

     But I shouldn't have to remind them, she thought with disdain. It should be something they remember on their own. All of this music, all of these parts of myself I've given to them over the years, they should continue to ride for me - even when I'm down. Even when I'm quiet. Even when I have nothing going on but features. Whether I'm up or down, they should ride for me. But...should, could, would...those words aren't supposed to be in my vocabulary.

    Nowadays, it seemed like they were trying to crown anyone as a hip hop or rap star. Even little singer/songwriter Mia was gaining respect in the hip hop game. Sure, she showed a little skill or two with lyricism, but the media was attempting to compare the two female artists. It didn't help that people thought they resembled each other, physically.

    Nicki didn't know why she always felt the need to prove herself when someone new stepped into the ring. She was who she was. That was proof enough, really. And yet here she was again, stewing over the fact that the public dared to challenge every envelope she'd pushed since the start of her rap career.

    She got out of bed and recited that day's itinerary while she was in the shower. Airport. Complex interview and photoshoot. Airport. Radio Jam event, followed by a club appearance in Atlanta. Atlanta hotel, sleep for a couple of hours and it was back home the following morning. A few days later, she would repeat this cycle. Even when she was at her most inactive, she was still active. Even when she was at her lowest, emotionally speaking, she was still in demand. Her heart was still on the mend and she still had family issues to sort out, but the world didn't care about any of that. They wanted to see her. They wanted to hear her music. And if that's what it was going to take to stay on top, then that is what she would give them.

    After her shower, she dried off and threw on a bra, tee, and panties way too cute for the sweatpants that were pulled on over them. Foregoing the mile-long tresses for the first time this week, she instead pulled her own long, dark hair into a low ponytail. She could hear her friends and her team buzzing out in the living room of the suite. Her hand hesitated on the door handle to the hotel bedroom. She practiced a few smiles, the first few tight-lipped and forced, and the second few more relaxed and natural. Like it or hate it, this was her life these days: fighting to defend her empire and smiling to cover up the brokenness she felt inside.

    Someone pushed sunglasses into her hands while she sat in the back of the limo. She was so immersed in her own thoughts, she didn't register which friend was the lifesaver. Because she'd kept the same friends for close to a decade, they knew better - even when she wore the fake smiles, even when she gave the appearance that nothing was wrong, they knew when it was all bullshit. They usually called her on it. Since she had a photoshoot today, instead of calling her on it and starting some shit, they were wise enough to hand her a pair of sunglasses to cover tired eyes that would later be made up to look lively and vibrant.

    Magazine photoshoots...you could be an entertainer of Cher's caliber and still be encountered with surprises. You never knew what kind of reception you were going to get, whether they were going to practically roll out a red carpet for you, or if they were going to treat you like a second-hand citizen who was sucking up all of their time. With how hard the past year had been, Nicki especially didn't know what to expect from Complex.

    Their reception was warm and inviting. She was shown to a dressing room with racks and racks of beautiful clothes. A stylist had chosen a few pieces for her, which she reviewed. But rather than dismiss the additional clothes on the rack, she flipped through them, her hands lingering on certain pieces longer than others.

    Clothes. Hair. Makeup. Fans often thought that photoshoots and interviews took an hour or two. After all, the final result was anywhere from a one-to-four-page article, with a handful of photos. They didn't realize that there were outfit changes, different hairstyles and makeup applications used for each photo, that time and conversation went into which outfits were worn. Additionally, they didn't realize that interviews were sometimes broken up due to time constraints, and continued later via the phone, e-mail, or a location change. Writers often tagged along for Nicki for the better half of the day in order to get all of the material they needed to write whatever article they were looking to write. And articles were hit or miss. You would sometimes get a truly objective writer, who just described the location and dictated what was said during the interview. Other writers, though, would apply their own angles or slants onto the article, and attempt to breathe context into the words that were said during the interview.

    "Like Forrest said, you never know what you're gonna get," Nicki whispered to herself, holding up a red Dior dress to the light.

    "I like this little two-piece number," one of her friends said, holding up a two-tone aqua and navy outfit. Crop-top shirt, pencil skirt.

    Nicki tilted her head to the side. "I'm going with these two. Hair and makeup, are they ready?"

    She always tended to give hair and makeup artists grief, because her eyes were always anchored to her phone.

    "Eyes up," the makeup artist with the short, blonde pixie cut instructed.

    Nicki rolled her eyes upward, but only a few minutes later she had to be reminded.

    An hour later, with hair hair pulled up into a high ponytail, and makeup applied to accentuate her cheekbones, she stood behind the vanity responding to text messages when the photographer called her to set.

    Her friends were buzzing in her ear. She nodded at them, still stuck in her own mind. The next part of this entire ordeal was speaking with the photographer, trying to understand whatever vision he had in mind for the photoshoot.

    Balenciaga heels clicked on the floor as she made her way to a room with lights and cameras set up. Those Balenciaga heels came to a stop when she came face to face what could have been a mirror image of herself - only the hair, clothes, and makeup were completely different. Heat rose to her cheeks as she fought to keep her composure.

    Mia Thomas sized her up, just as Nicki was sizing her up. Simultaneously, they turned their heads to the side.

    "What is she doing here?" they asked in unison.