I hated it when I couldn’t control the negative chatter inside my mind.
Ellie moved forward and opened the door for me. I entered the warehouse, awed that the interior of the dismal building had been converted into a bright and beautiful studio set. There were shimmering hardwood floors, a raised platform that was decorated with gorgeous flower arrangements and lush greenery, and of course, the fanciful letter “C,” the logo for Cookin’ with Cori, was festooned in various places throughout the vast space.
I was pleased, but didn’t let it show. Then I smelled the stale odor that seeped from beneath the new flooring. An unpleasant scent that was embedded in the ceiling and in the walls of the old warehouse. It was a musty, dank scent that all the razzmatazz in the world couldn’t disguise. I was certain that none of the other major cooking competition shows filmed their premieres in an old warehouse. I hated the way the network cut corners with my show. Suddenly irate, I began barking orders at anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.
Totally ignoring the group of contestants who were gawking at me, I headed to my designated dressing room. The place was a shithole and hadn’t been spruced up like the set. Luckily, I was camera-ready and only needed a quick touchup from hair and makeup.
Clutching a digital tablet, Josh followed me into my dressing room and shooed away my glam squad. He pulled up images and videos of the twenty competitors who had made the cut.
A few of the contestants looked normal, but there were plenty of wacky ones, like the Asian chick who wore blue contact lenses and matching blue hair with yellow ends. Another oddity was a white guy named Angus who had a shaved head with colorful tattoos decorating his scalp. Josh assured me that Angus wasn’t a white supremacist, but was merely a young man expressing his individuality. There was a Wiccan chick who chanted while cooking and who wore black everything, including jewelry, nail polish, and lipstick. We also had a white Baptist preacher on the show who wore his hair in a fifties-style, Elvis pompadour.
You’d think that a soul food show hosted by a black woman would have a heavy concentration of African American contestants, but like all the other reality shows, Cookin’ with Cori had only a token few. Josh’s explanation for this slight was that the show had to appeal to the masses. Of our three token blacks, there was one woman and two men. The black woman, LaTasha, was average-looking, and on tape, she seemed bubbly and likeable. Of the two black men, one was a dwarf who had to stand on a crate to reach the stove. The other, Michelangelo (his real name), was so fucking gorgeous, I was certain he was an aspiring actor, using my show as a platform to get into the film industry. His handsomeness was slightly edgy with his jet-black hair styled in a short Mohawk with natural curls from the nape of his neck all the way up to his hairline. His dark hair contrasted nicely with his russet-brown skin tone, and his penetrating light-brown eyes.
According to his bio, Michelangelo was twenty-four years old. I watched his introductory video and got the impression that he was somewhat full of himself. He probably thought he’d win with his looks, but I had news for him.
“So, who’s going home?” I asked Josh. It didn’t matter that the contestants hadn’t even begun the “Replication Round” where they tried to imitate my food with at least three of the top ingredients. Based on their lack of showmanship and TV appeal, Josh had already decided who would be the first to go home.
“Honestly, the cheerleader from Texas—Doralee Harper—should be going home,” he admitted. “She doesn’t know an apron from her asshole, but she’s perky and the camera loves her, so we’re going to keep her around for a while.”
I peeked at her testimonial on the tablet. Cobalt eyes, tall and leggy with big, fake boobs, Doralee was conceited as hell, talking a mile a minute while flipping waves and waves of long flaxen hair. The sound of her Texas twang grated on my nerves, and despite not having met her personally, I instantly hated everything about her.
Josh took the tablet from my hand and quickly swiped through images. “This one is probably going home tonight.”
I gazed at the video of a puny, dorky, white kid named Ralphie. Twenty-two years old and rather effeminate. He was the nutty professor type with buck teeth and large-framed glasses on a narrow face. During his testimonial, Ralphie fought his emotions as he tearfully expressed that his love of Southern cooking came from the African American foster mother who raised him. There was a montage of photos of him through the years, embracing his foster mother during important events such as Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and family reunions where lily-white Ralphie stood out like a sore thumb amidst a pack of hood rats. The foster mother, a roly-poly woman, smiled broadly in all the photos, revealing approximately four missing teeth in the front.
“Can Ralphie cook?” I inquired.
“He can cook his ass off. His food rivals yours,” Josh replied, shaking his head ruefully.
“So, what’s the deal? Why do you want to give him the ax?”
“Our behind-the-scenes test audience doesn’t like the visuals of him with the black foster mother and the hood rat family members. The foster mother’s look is so…well, it’s so stereotypically black. And her butt is so humongous, it’s distracting.”
“His foster mother isn’t the one competing,” I said snippily, giving Josh the side-eye after his harsh criticism of so-called black characteristics.
“But she’s a huge part of his storyline, and if he makes it to the finals when the families come on the show, there’s not a thing wardrobe can do with that massive butt of hers. And I doubt if the execs would be willing to pay for any emergency dental work for her.”
“Hmm,” I murmured thoughtfully as I swiped though the numerous images of Ralphie with his family.
Josh continued pleading his case against Ralphie. “The foster mother seems to be the loud, boisterous type and the test audience doesn’t think she’ll be able to turn down enough to fit in with the other, uh, more dignified families.” Josh giggled conspiratorially as if he were in the privacy of his own home, poking fun of blacks with his white friends.
Livid, I cocked my head to the side and stared at Josh.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“You find it funny, huh? It’s okay when white people rescue unwanted black kids, but it’s an aberration for a black family to help an unwanted white child. Since it’s too uncomfortable for you and your test audience to watch, you all decided to make fun of Ralphie’s loving foster mother and call her all kinds of crude names.”
“No, you’re missing my point,” he said, assuming a look of innocence.
“You enjoy laughing at the shenanigans of low-class blacks, don’t you? Hell, you probably laugh at me behind my back.”
“That’s not true,” he protested. “I admire and adore you—and you know it, Cori.”
“I’m not convinced. I believe you lump all blacks in the same boat as Ralphie’s foster mother. You perceive us as ignorant coons, and utterly primitive people, with big butts that viewers find distasteful and insulting.”
“I shouldn’t have said those things, but you have to believe me, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Unforgiving, I sneered at him. “I was always aware that you were racist, Josh, but I never realized you were a confederate flag-waving, neo-Nazi-type racist.”
Josh gasped and his face drained of all color. “How can you say such a terrible thing about me? I’m the most liberal person you’ll ever meet, but I have to do what’s best for the show. Forgive me for sounding racist. It’s not what’s in my heart.”
“You pretend to be liberal, but your hatred of black people is glaring, and quite terrifying. I bet you’re a secret, card-carrying member of the Klan or the Tea Party. You could be an undercover white supremacist for all I know.” I looked at him with all the disdain I could muster.
“Oh, Cori, you know that’s not true. I’m Jewish and gay—a doub
le minority, myself. I would never…” His voice trailed off as if overcome by deep emotion.
Technically, Josh was my boss and he had the final say on important issues, but since he was blubbering one apology after another, I figured I might as well milk the situation for all it was worth. Hell, the buffoonery and heathenishness I saw on those videos of Ralphie’s foster family made me cringe. But I disagreed with Josh and his test audience. A white boy speaking with a heavy ’hood dialect, along with a ghetto family would be the kind of train wreck entertainment that viewers wouldn’t be able to tear their eyes away from.
“What do I have to do to prove I’m not racist?” Josh asked in a hoarse tone.
“Get rid of the Texas cheerleader with the snatched waist and fake tits. I find her boob-job to be distracting,” I said, emphasizing the word, “distracting.”
“Touché. But you have to admit that Doralee is gorgeous. The test audience loved her. Our ratings will be through the roof with her on the show. Her mother is a former beauty queen, and having the two of them together on camera during the finals will be such a boon for the show.”
“I want her out of here.” I made the cutthroat gesture. “I don’t even care who the other three rejects are, as long as Ralphie isn’t one of them. For once, I’d like the pleasure of tasting food prepared by someone with a smidgen of cooking ability.”
“Getting rid of Doralee is a big mistake,” Josh said gravely.
“I’ll take the risk,” I retorted.
Josh groaned.
“By the way, what’s the story of the hunk with the brawny chest and the dreamy light-brown eyes?” I softened my tone, indicating that I was over my hissy fit.
“Michelangelo?”
I nodded. “He’s hot.”
“Smokin’,” Josh agreed. “All of the members of the crew are crushing on him.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m happy with the man I have at home, but I have to admit, Michelangelo is delicious eye candy.”
“Does he know his way around the kitchen or is he simply a pretty face, using the show as a vehicle for his acting debut?” I hoped he was a serious cook because I was already thinking of hiring him to work for me after the show wrapped. Since I only kept personal chefs for a few months, by the time Michelangelo was available, he’d be right in time to replace whoever was Tamara’s replacement’s replacement. I hoped Dreamy Eyes would be able to prepare tasty vegetarian cuisine. It was time for my husband to experience what it felt like to have hot male competition walking around the place where he should have been most comfortable—his own home!
“Not only does Michelangelo have movie star good looks, but he can also throw down,” Josh said, trying to endear himself to me by using black slang. I tossed him a tight smile. I had to get along with him in order for the show to run smoothly, but now that he’d revealed his racist side, I’d definitely be giving Josh the side-eye from now on.
CHAPTER 5
Behind the scenes, two chefs who worked for me when I owned the Harlem restaurant, prepared the county-style potato salad, garlic green beans, and grilled boneless ribs that would be placed in front of the blindfolded contestants and presented as the Cori Brown dish that they had to replicate, using the three main components of the meal.
While the contestants were sequestered off stage, I stood in front of the camera. Gina, my hairstylist, was nearby and armed with a container of hairspray and other tools of her trade, watching like a hawk for an errant strand of hair. In the midst of preparing the dish, I spoke about the importance of pan-searing the ribs before putting them on the grill. For the sake of ratings, I angled a warm smile toward the cameras as I fondly recalled how this particular dish had become my husband’s favorite back when he was playing college football.
“And it’s still his favorite meal,” I added with a wink that told the female viewers that my recipes would help them get a man like Maverick or assist them in keeping the one they had.
“Cut!” the director yelled. “That was perfect, Cori.”
Though all I’d done was chopped vegetables and rubbed seasoning on meat, I was relieved the cooking segment was over for me. The area I’d worked in would be cleared and a beautifully plated, completed dish of potato salad, grilled ribs, and garlic green beans would be brought out from the kitchen that was hidden behind the scenes.
I ripped off the mustard-colored apron with the swirly “C” in the center. I didn’t have to be present for the next segment where the contestants tried to duplicate my dishes.
There would be a two-hour wait before it was time for me to return to the set, joining two judges who would help me decide who stayed and who got the boot. Even though I would only ingest a tiny portion of the soul food, I dreaded having to taste any amount of the gruel the contestants had thrown together.
• • •
After an exhausting thirteen-hour day, I looked forward to crawling into bed and snuggling against Maverick’s hard, masculine form. Being close to him, even when he was asleep, would be such a comfort after the long day I had. Hell, I needed to do more than cuddle up. I was stressed the fuck out and the relief I needed could only be achieved from a hard dick, plowing into me vigorously.
When I arrived home, the lights were dim in the hallway and living room. Our bedroom was pitch-black and I could hear Maverick snoring as I made my way inside. Slipping out of my heels, my feet sank into the soft carpet and I released a sigh. Home, sweet home! As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I gazed at Maverick’s silhouette. My big, brawny husband was curled beneath the covers in a deep sleep, but not for long.
A soothing shower was what I needed to get the burst of energy that was necessary to play the role of aggressor in bed.
Maverick usually initiated sex, but tonight I had to atone for the sin of going behind his back and firing Tamara. Tonight I’d have to put on a hell of a performance. Suck his dick down to the hilt. Lather up his balls with my tongue. Pinch his nipples while riding him. Talk extra dirty in his ear, making sure to include at least one of the filthy fantasies that always prompted him to go crazy and completely ravage my insides.
I hated it when Maverick was upset with me, and so tonight, I would do whatever it took to get back on his good side, even take it in the ass if that was what he wanted, even though anal sex was something I did not find particularly pleasurable.
In the shower, warm water sprayed my body from multiple angles, making me feel pampered and relaxed as it cascaded over my shoulders and ran down my back. In my mind, I reviewed the day. The best part had been sending that annoying Texas cheerleader packing. Judging by the disbelief in her eyes, she wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. Later, when the cameramen and the rest of the crew were packing up their gear, I noticed Josh engaging her in a secret exchange. I assumed he was comforting her until her rage-filled, accusatory eyes turned to mine. For a good ten seconds…maybe longer, that bitch stared daggers at me.
Why was Josh coddling her? He didn’t owe that Texas slut an explanation for why she’d been booted from the show. There was no earthly reason why Doralee was still hanging around after she’d already been filmed taking the walk of shame down the corridor. All she needed to know was that her food sucked and she was out of there. Yet Josh had felt compelled to tell her that it had been my decision—not his—to get rid of her. There was no plausible reason for him to have confided that information to her.
Apparently, the culinary executive producer of my show was not only racist, but also devious. I’d definitely have to watch his sneaky ass from now on.
After toweling dry, I slathered on Chanel Coco Mademoiselle body lotion, a scent that drove Maverick wild. I slinked into the bedroom, my naked body soft and shimmery, and then slid into bed. Mav’s back was to me. I threw back the duvet and discovered that he was cocooned inside the top sheet, and no matter how hard I tugged, I couldn’t unsnarl him.
Giving up on the notion of touching his bare skin, I ran my hand gently across his sheet-covered shoulder, allowing my fingers to delicately skitter downward over the curvature of his muscled arm.
Changing tack, I ran my hand along the length of his back, and when he still hadn’t responded, I smoothed my hand over his hip and down his thigh. He lay there motionless, but I was aware that he was awake. I could tell by the rigidity of his body. Could hear hostility and anger in the sound of his breathing and felt waves of resentment emanating from him.
Determined to entice him into a forgiving mood, I reached over and groped for his dick, which should have been pulsing with readiness, but instead, it was hidden beneath the sheet, defiantly shriveled and limp. He squirmed away from my wandering hand.
“Mav!” I whined his name and then awkwardly began caressing his hipbone and thigh, stretching out my fingers to get to his groin, determinedly trying to bring his dick to life.
“Stop.” His voice came out soft and sleepy, but there was a cold finality in his tone that unsettled me.
Stop! Since when did my libidinous husband ever turn down sex? “What’s wrong, babe?”
“I’m tired.”
“You don’t have to do anything except lie there; I’ll do all the work.” Eager to feel his dick swelling and stretching inside my mouth, I yanked at the sheet vigorously, but it was tucked around his body tightly, practically mummifying him. “Come on, babe. You know you want it.” I licked my lips with the realization that once I swirled my tongue around the head of his dick, Maverick would begin helplessly moaning and groaning, no longer able to resist me.
Suddenly, he sat up and ripped the bedding away from his body. For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to get rough with me—toss me around—and fuck my brains out. But instead, he stood up, stalked across the room, yanked open one of my dresser drawers and proceeded to grab bunches of my neatly folded lingerie, carelessly flinging panties and thongs down to the floor.
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