Bad and Bougie (Feeling Some Type of Way Book 2)

by Vera Roberts

  “Are you going to come for me?” He asks me and I briefly wonder what makes him think I could coherently answer him.

  Surprisingly, I do. “Y-y-yes!” I screamed and my body uncontrollably convulses on the bed. The orgasm was so big, so powerful, it wracked my body; freezing it as various moans in all pitches come out of my mouth.

  “That’s my angel,” Ian purrs. He thrusts inside me a few more times before he meets his own climax. I feel his cock pulsate as he empties inside of me and I milk him dry.

  He removes the silk handkerchief from my wrists and I collapse on the bed, followed by Ian. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my sweaty forehead as we laid in bed together. I don’t know if it was Ian’s intention to fuck me senseless this morning (maybe it was), but it was more than just sex this time around.

  It’s always more than sex between us but I felt Ian was taking away all of the pain, hurt, and anguish from the morning. Snarky comments from strangers never bothered me but hearing my dad’s sharp disapproval of me was a crushing blow. I don’t know if he’s always felt that way or it’s something new because of Candy.

  It doesn’t matter now. As I drift peacefully back to sleep under Ian’s arms, I silently thank my father for being so cruel. If it wasn’t for him cutting me off, I would’ve never met the love of my life.

  The temporary heartbreak paved the way for one of my biggest blessings. I should send my dad a thank you card.

  Ten

  New York, New York. Big city of dreams.

  It’s my first professional business trip on my own and I’m hella nervous but also hella excited about it. Me, 23-year-old gal from Baldwin Hills, is about to talk to world-famous rapper, Dolce Gabbana about dancing in his video!

  How insane is that?

  Ian was busy with his restaurants and preparing for his own tour with Sydney so he couldn’t come with me. Of course, Ian couldn’t send me alone so Emma is tagging along and acting as pseudo-manager for me. I think she wanted a reason to get away from her children and ‘all of the other fake-ass bitches’ she calls her group of mom friends.

  So, now we’re on a private jet heading to New York and I just hope I remember how to speak. I honestly did pole dancing for fun and to keep in shape. It’s bizarre I’m making a legit career out of this.

  “Are you nervous?” Emma asks as she sips on water with cucumber.

  “Very.” I want a drink but knowing my lush ass, I’ll get drunk and that’s not a first impression I want to make. “How come you’re not drinking?”

  “I need to be sober to make sure you’re not getting screwed,” she mentions, “and plus, I know a good bar around from where we’re staying at.”

  “Ah,” I shake my finger at her and she laughs, “I knew there was an ulterior motive.”

  “Girl, some of the bartenders in New York know how to make a damn drink,” she shakes her head, “like they need to be in bartending hall of fame or some mess like that.”

  “On the real, Emma, thanks for doing this for me. I’ve been really worried about how this would look on the Ferguson name and I’m just glad you’re on board for this.”

  Emma casually shrugs like what I said wasn’t a huge deal. “Why wouldn’t I be? My future sister-in-law is a pole dancer! I can get discounts for my friends! Well, actually, no. I’ll tell those bitches they have to pay full price but they won’t know that because they’re too damn glib to think otherwise, but hey, I’ll do anything for family!”

  I totally bypass Emma pimping out her friends and get straight to the important part. “Future sister-in-law?”

  “And…” Emma turns to me with widened eyes and she knew she done fucked up. “…I ain’t saying anything no more.”

  “Uh-uh, you need to spill that tea.” I politely warn her. “I have my cup ready for you to overfloweth with the best green tea. Spill.”

  Emma looks down and sighs. She then looks over at me. “If I tell you this, you have to promise not to repeat a single word to anyone or Ian will rain hell on us both.”

  “I promise!” I blurt. “Now spill!”

  “Ian’s been looking at rings,” she excitedly admits.

  “To propose to me?” I ask.

  “No, to see what looks good in your tub. Of course, to propose!” She chides.

  My breath is caught in my throat and it’s suddenly become a bit more difficult to breathe in the tiny space. Here I was, lost in my own world, wondering when I would ever become Mrs. Ian Ferguson and Ian was planning a spectacular surprise for me all along.

  Well, it was a surprise. “I don’t know what type of ring I like.”

  “Well, that’s also why he sent me. He wanted to see what you would tell me about the type of rings you like.”

  “Is this Ian’s first engagement?” I ask.

  “Um, his first official one, yes.” Emma begins, “but not the first one.”

  I keep forgetting there is the culture of being official with something as oppose to something everyone already knows between friends. The way Emma said it, however, tells me there’s a whole lot more to the story. I wonder if it’s in my best interest to know.

  Aw, hell. I need to know. “What happened with the first one?”

  “From what I’ve understood, Ian was dating this girl, who was a childhood friend. As they attended school and grew older, feelings between them developed. Ian now is who Ian has always been – give it to me straight, no time for bullshit, all of that. The girl, however, played games. She always wanted Ian to prove his love to her in some form. Ian would write her poetry, and that wasn’t good enough. But if he bought her a Mercedes, he was all of a sudden, the best boyfriend in the universe.

  “Ian loved her, anyway. She was his first everything so there’s that. He followed her around like a lap dog and just took a lot of bullshit abuse from her. He was 18; he didn’t know any better.

  “And then it literally came crashing down one fateful night. Lula Jean died. Ian doesn’t want to admit how messed up he was from her death. You see, Lula Jean and Ian were very close. It was beyond mother-son; they were best friends. Gerald also worshipped her. So her death had a serious impact on the family.”

  I figured that much about Lula Jean. In Ian’s home, there are a ton of pictures of her on the walls. In his office, there was a picture of her on his desk. He often spoke of his mother in the present tense, switching to past before he realized what he was doing.

  I never corrected it because I know how it feels to suddenly lose the one person you love more than anything. My mother didn’t die via a horrific accident, but I watched her die slowly as the cancer spread through her body.

  My mother had a luxurious head full of hair, and I remember holding her in the bathroom as she removed clumps of her hair. She grew to appreciate her bald head and I shaved my head in solidarity. We even did a photo shoot together with our heads touching each others.

  I feel my eyes water and I need to stop. This is not about me and my family but Ian’s history, and I have a feeling I only know the faint details of it all. “Okay, but I’m not understanding how that related to Ian’s not quite engagement?” I say.

  “Oh, I’m getting to that part. That’s the juicy part. Apparently, the night Lula Jean died, she was preparing for an engagement party later that week. She was going to announce to everyone that her son, Ian Ferguson, was going to be married to Naomi…Christensen.”

  I think my heart flew back to L.A. on its own. “SHUT UP!”

  Emma bites her lips and nods. “It’s still unclear if they truly loved each other or if it was some sort of business deal. I think Ian loved her, she was ambivalent about it all, and the fathers saw potential money to be made. So, obviously, when one child kills the matriarch of the other’s family, it kinda throws a wrench into the whole, ‘let’s get married and live happily ever after.’ Ian couldn’t marry Naomi knowing her brother killed Lula Jean, so he promptly broke it off.”

  Everything about Ian is starting to make perfect sense. W
hy he didn’t want to just settle down with anyone for years. Why he was, and still is, very private about his relationships. Why he’s so protective of me. “So, what happened to Naomi? I’m assuming she’s still alive?”

  “Oh, she’s very much alive,” Emma sucks her teeth. “She’s now Naomi…Yates.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Em.”

  “I wish I were. She married the Yates’s son, Timothy, shortly after Ian broke up with her. It was as if they were never together at all.”

  “My god,” I shake my head. I thought Love and Hip-Hop was full of drama but apparently, I was all wrong. Ain’t no drama like old, wealthy white people who have too much time on their hands drama. “And what happened with Naomi?”

  “Timothy is no prize. He cheats on her left and right and is rumored to have a couple of outside children. She won’t ever leave him, though. She loves the lifestyle too much, though she resents what could’ve been had she married into the Ferguson dynasty. There’s wealthy and then there’s Ferguson wealthy.”

  I have a sneaky suspicion this story isn’t quite over yet. “Why do I have a feeling Naomi isn’t just sitting back and counting her plastic surgeries?”

  “Because she’s a popular conservative blogger,” Emma hands me a tablet, “and you’re her new favorite target.”

  I grab the tablet and scroll through the article. It seems Naomi works for a popular conservative website specifically targeting women called Plain Jane Homemaker. I get the title is play off certain types of women being considered as plain Jane’s or Suzy homemakers because they don’t fit the loose-woman stereotype bestowed by…ahem, other women.

  At least she linked the video to YouTube, that’s amassed over fifteen million views now. Small blessings.

  Of course, the article was the typical emotion so-called white feminists love to pounce on whenever they refuse to call out their fellow melanin-deficient sisters but have absolutely no qualms calling out someone of a darker skin tone.

  Let’s see…I should be ashamed of myself…bodies are private, not public…can’t believe the Ferguson dynasty thought this was okay…what am I going to teach my daughter as she gets older…oh blah blah blah bullshit!

  Since when did feminism evolve from having equal rights to being concerned with what another woman does with her body? Oh, I forgot…it’s always been like that. Never mind.

  I hand the tablet back to Emma and roll my eyes. “Such total B.S. Ian knew I was pole dancer the night we met.”

  “Yes, but not everyone knows that nor do they have to.” Emma taps my arm. “The family is staying silent about this because it brings publicity. This the most publicity the Ferguson name has received in years, Domi, and that’s thanks to you!”

  Um, thank you? “I’m not sure if that’s something to be proud of?” I tilt my head.

  “What you’re doing won’t reflect on the Ferguson name if that’s what you’re worried about. For now, let this ride out. They can only bring you more publicity and money by saying your name.”

  I see where Emma is getting at. “Got it.”

  “Besides,” Emma swiped left on her tablet, “I would sell my first-born to see the look on Naomi’s face when you and Ian announce your engagement. Hell, I think I’ll go shopping just to prepare for that occasion.”

  ~~~~~

  “Dominique,” Dolce greets me with a warm smile and a hug. He’s the type of guy that doesn’t look like he could be a rapper, but rather a model. He’s devilishly handsome, with one of the best fades and goatee combinations ever.

  Looking like an advertisement for Supreme clothing, Dolce holds out my chair to let me sit before he sits across from me and Emma. Along with him is his wife, Lexi, and his business manager, Paul.

  “I’m so glad you could meet with me on such short notice,” Dolce begins after we all order at Eleven Madison Park, “I saw your video and I was just mind-blown. Girl, you got some moves.”

  “Thank you,” I blush, “it was a private video that my friend jokingly said she was going to put on YouTube. I didn’t think she would but here we are.”

  “Here we are,” he nods, “I’ve never seen moves like that ever. Are you classically trained?”

  “I took jazz dance classes when I was younger and then ballet when I became older. I quit ballet because it was just too much discipline and dedication for a teenager who just wanted to have fun, but I did other dance classes in its place.” I reply, “so yeah, I’ve always been a dancer.”

  “That’s incredible,” Lexi chimes in. She’s a slender dark-skinned sister with long Marley twists. “You’re so flexible! I’m like, ‘Dang, I can’t even do those moves!’”

  I giggle. “It takes a lot of practice. I’m on the pole constantly.”

  “Are you going to be opening a studio soon?” Lexi inquires.

  “We’re working on that right now,” Emma interjects, “we hope to have all of the details sorted out very soon.”

  Wow. Go Emma!

  “What I wanted to talk to you about, Dominique, was I saw your video, saw your moves, felt your energy, your vibe, your presence and I knew I had to have you in my video.” Dolce explained. “And only you.”

  My smile is so big, it could be compete with the size of Africa. “Sounds great. What would I be doing?”

  “A routine to my song, “Muse,” which I think you’re the perfect fit for.” Dolce replies. “And since you’ll be the only one in the video, it makes sense.”

  “The only one in the video?” I question. “I don’t get it.”

  “I won’t be in the video at all,” Dolce clarifies. “I only want you in it.”

  Hooooooooooleeeeeeeeee shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

  “Oh,” I calmly reply but my body is anything but, “um, when do you want this to happen?”

  “Preferably next week. Do you think that gives you enough time to come up with a routine?” He asks.

  I could have a routine down pat in 24 hours. “Um, yeah, that’s plenty of time.”

  “Good, good,” Dolce holds up a glass and we all join in, “to the real muse!”

  I shyly smile. These last few days have been a whirlwind and a half. I just hope I can live up to the hype.

  ~~~~~

  Emma was right about the bar around the corner from our hotel. Not only are the bartenders smoking hot but they know how fix a girl a drank.

  Not a drink. A drank.

  As we do shots at the bar, Emma shares more about what it’s really like being married to a Ferguson. Yeah, it’s glitzy and glamorous, but there’s a lot of hard work. She has a nanny and a maid to help her out (“I ain’t cleaning that fucking house by myself! Shit!”), it’s pretty much her and the kids all of the time. Gerald often travels to procure different art pieces and Emma sometimes plays the role of single mother.

  A loaded single mother.

  She admits it gets lonely from time to time and she uses her vibrator more than she wants to admit (TMI, sis) but when Gerald is around, he’s one-hundred percent on. He helps out with the kids, cooks dinner, and in her words, “gives the proper dick-down I deserve.”

  Good for her.

  “Are you asking all of this because you’re trying to see your future?” She asks me as she sucks on a lime.

  “Yes,” I honestly answer. I have a lot of freedom now because I’m only Ian’s girlfriend. It might be different once I become Ian’s wife. “I just want to see what it’s like.”

  “It probably won’t change too much for you and him. You two want to be married for a while before the kids and I don’t see Ian trying to have a baby before he’s 40. He just barely turned 36 so I think he wants to enjoy having a hot, young wife who he can fly around the world on a whim.”

  Emma’s words cheered me up but of course, the emo in me paid attention to what else she said. Ian was going to expect me to stay at home once we did have children?

  I never pictured myself a stay at-home mother and I don’t knock those who
are. It’s just I love the freedom of being away from the house and all that it entails. Of course, I’m saying this and we don’t even have a dog yet. I guess that’ll be the first course of business: getting a puppy.

  I wonder what kind of dog parent Ian would be? “I think we should get a dog.”

  Emma’s eyes light up and she feverishly nods as if I just told her she should get a dog. “You totally should! That’s a great test for him! He loves dogs. He’s a total dog person.”

  “Hmm…” The wheels are already spinning. If I’m about to dance full time and he’s at one of his restaurants, who’s going to watch the dog? “Maybe we should get a plant first.”

  “Oh, just get the damn dog!” Emma waves her hand. “You two need a dog. It’ll teach Ian some responsibility for once.” She places a hand on my knee and turns serious. “Get a dog.”

  “Well, damn, okay!” I reply and Emma laughs. “I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” I stand up and begin to leave until I put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Please be good.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She sticks her tongue out and I leave.

  A dog, huh? That’s a huge step for us. As I did my business and washed up, I thought about the kind of dog I would want. I always grew up with various dogs – my first one was a Doberman Pincher, and had a series of smaller pets over the years – yet, I wonder what would suit us.

  Hah! Us.

  We really are playing husband and wife. I guess I will start looking at rings to get an idea of what I want. Now I have no hesitation of signing that prenup prenup.

  I left the bathroom, too busy in my own thoughts about how Dominique Ferguson sounds, when I ran into a brick wall of a man.

  Not just any man.

  Todd.

  I looked up at him and saw his mouth curl into a dark snarl while his eyes twinkled with something more sinister. I finally figured out exactly what Todd reminds me of – the dog shit I scraped from the bottom of my shoe.