Money Never Sleeps

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  “Where are you going?” Bilal grabbed Jaise by one forearm and said in a low yet stern tone, “We need to talk and you don’t need to be running behind him!”

  Jaise snatched her arm away. “That’s my son! And you don’t tell me what to do with him, you understand? Now get the hell out my face!” She started toward the door again.

  Without thinking twice Bilal aggressively twirled her back around toward him. “Stand. Your. Ass. Right. There.”

  She tried to wiggle away. “Get off me!”

  “You testing me?” Bilal said as a thousand creases etched his forehead.

  Jaise hesitated, then halted.

  Bilal turned toward the crowd and the camera crew. “Everybody get the fuck out!”

  What did he just say? Jaise knew he had to be beyond overheated, especially since he rarely even said “damn,” let alone telling everyone to get the fuck out. And then it hit her that he was tossing all her guests into the street.

  “Bilal—!”

  “Out!” he screamed. “Baby mamas, their grandmamas, camera crews, kids, Mickey Mouse, ev-ery-body get the fuck out, right now!”

  “Bilal—!”

  He shot her a look. “Umm, listen, everyone.” Jaise swallowed and forced a smile on her face. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I don’t believe this shit,” Al-Taniesha said as she collected her nieces and nephews.

  “Believe it,” Bilal snapped. “Now leave.”

  The guests’ heels clicked against the brick steps as they hurried out the door, some of them toting their gifts back out the door with them. Christina cried and Al-Taniesha said, “I don’t know what you expected from shit. Now, stop that damn crying. We’ve been thrown out of worse places by worse people.”

  Once the house was completely empty—Bridget and the camera crew included—Bilal turned toward Jaise and backed her up into a corner. His nose flared. “Let me explain this to you—you have got shit completely twisted. Don’t you ever in your fuckin’ life speak to me like that again! You understand? And you better say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  He continued. “Jabril needs to learn a lesson and you need to let his ass be a man. If you really want to help him, pack his damn clothes and tell him to find his ass another home. Enough of him doing whatever he feels like and not thinking about the consequences. Enough! When the warrant was brought to my attention I asked him what it was about and he never once mentioned another baby. I told him he needed to take care of it—”

  “He doesn’t have a job, and you know his trust fund is tied up until he’s twenty-five!”

  Bilal tossed his arms in the air as if he couldn’t care less, “Tough. He can get a job and keep it.”

  “If he was your son you wouldn’t be saying that!”

  “You’re right! ’Cause I would’ve bust my son’s ass years ago. Not at nineteen with two kids. Let his ass go and let him stay in jail until it sinks in that the world doesn’t abide by his rules and that when you make babies you have to take care of them.” Bilal backed away and grabbed his car keys. “You’re so busy paying attention to Jabril’s problems that you haven’t even realized today’s our anniversary.”

  Jaise’s heart raced. Did I really forget? “Bilal—”

  “Save it.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Chaunci

  “One day I’ll outrun the sky.” Lalah Hathaway sang live and electrified the small upscale Harlem club where Chaunci nervously waited for Idris. She circled the rim of her frosted wineglass with the tip of one finger.

  Her thick mane of hair rested beautifully over her shoulders, and her mahogany skin glistened in the subdued light where she sat, eyes closed and shoulders slowly rocking to the music.

  She hadn’t seen Idris in seven months, two weeks, and four days. And, yeah, she’d counted the time. Hell, she’d waited with bated breath as the months had passed, especially since eight months ago was the last time they’d made love and Idris had surprisingly asked her to marry him.

  She’d said no. She couldn’t.

  She wasn’t ready for marriage.

  Emotionally she’d only signed up to fuck him.

  Be his friend. Coparent with him.

  But marry him?

  Everything was fine the way it was. And she didn’t have time for anything else. She was too busy having it all. She was independent, and she’d proven to the world that she was an editor-in-chief extraordinaire. A force to be reckoned with. She’d taken her writing talent and her passion for fashion and created Nubian Diva, a magazine that competed with and was compared to the likes of Vogue and Glamour, and became publishing royalty. And at the time Idris had asked her to be his wife, her career was all she could handle. At least until he retired from basketball—courtesy of a knee injury—and moved to L.A. Now, with the exception of checking up on their seven-year-old daughter, Kobi, he no longer dealt with Chaunci.

  And she missed him.

  Missed everything about him, from the way his lips curled to the right when he laughed to the way they curled around her clit whenever they made love. And there was no way she could outrun the sky for a moment longer. She had to sit still, strategize, and come up with a plan that would legally make him her man.

  “Here’s the script.” Bridget interrupted Chaunci’s thoughts, placing sheets of paper on the table in front of her. “And there are your lines.” She pointed.

  “Lines?” Chaunci looked bewildered as she flipped through the pages. “What are you talking about?”

  “Yes.” Bridget snapped her fingers. “Lines. This is reality TV, and we have to push things to new heights. None of that uncooperative shit you pulled last season.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Bridget continued. “So, here’s what you’ll do. Go sit in your car, and when Idris arrives I’ll come get you. That will give you time to rehearse your lines and it will also look like he’s been waiting on you since last season. You know, waiting on the top bitch.”

  Chaunci’s eyebrows dipped toward the bridge of her nose. “Have you lost your mind? You’re taking things too far. I’m not letting you script my life.”

  Bridget clenched her lips and leaned in. “What life? We’ve been struggling to create a story line for you! Work with us here. Last season Milan and Evan were the breakout stars. Now Evan’s dead and Milan is, well, Milan. And after the showdown that just popped off over at Jaise’s house a few hours ago, I won’t have you lagging behind and dragging the ratings down.”

  “You’re going too far.”

  “No, you’re not going far enough! And this season, I’ll make sure you sing for your supper. So you better run along to your car and rehearse those lines—”

  “You don’t tell me—”

  “What to do,” Idris said, totally surprising Chaunci and catching Bridget off guard too. “Chaunci’s famous last words in any argument.” He paused and looked Chaunci over. She was a dead ringer for Lalah Hathaway, and all night people had given Chaunci double takes, including Idris—initially. Standing there, his eyes began to make love to Chaunci’s smooth skin, nursing her perfect D-cups, and caressing her size-twelve hips.

  “You look lovely.” He kissed her on one cheek—a place he’d never kissed her before. Her neck, yes, her forehead, yes, her lips, absolutely, but her cheek, never.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes nervously roamed over him, from the stress lining his forehead to the Gucci loafers on his feet. Quickly she wondered how to get to the meat of the matter so they could end this awkward shit, go home, and make love. She’d been craving his touch for too long, which is why when he called her and said he’d be moving back to New York for the summer and wanted to spend time with Kobi, she’d insisted they have dinner—to sort things out—the moment he arrived.

  “Sit down,” she said, as Bridget and the cameras faded into the background.

  “I think I’ll do that,” he said, wiping invisible sweat from his brow.

  “Thank you for coming.” Chau
nci smiled, but before she could continue the waiter came over.

  “Welcome to Lucille’s Blues, sir. May I start you with a glass of wine this evening?”

  “Actually, I’ll have a Heineken.” Idris gave the waiter a half smile.

  After a few moments of pregnant silence, the waiter brought over a frosted glass of beer and took their food orders.

  More silence.

  The food came. Before either of them took a bite, they simultaneously said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you—”

  They both chuckled nervously. “Can I start, please?” Chaunci asked as she grabbed one of Idris’s hands and held it between hers. She chewed the inside of her cheek, then slowly released a deep breath. She wasn’t sure how to begin. She just knew she had to lay it all on the line. “Idris,” she said, with a sigh, “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “You’re at a loss for words?” he joked.

  “I guess.”

  “Just say it.” He shrugged.

  “I love you,” she said without hesitation. “And I never thought I’d allow myself to feel love, let alone put myself and my feelings out there—”

  “Chaunci—”

  “Let me finish.” She paused. “This is hard enough. I just want you to know that I’ve never stopped thinking about you or wishing I could redo that night when you asked me to marry you—”

  “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “You’re right, and I know now that the reason is because I needed to learn to let go and not be stubborn. And so—” She paused.

  “Resistant—” he completed her sentence.

  “Yeah.” She agreed and took another deep breath. “Resistant. And now I’m ready.” She pulled out a red velvet ring box and popped it open, revealing a platinum wedding band. “I want you to be my husband. Will you marry me?”

  “Marry you?” The words practically tumbled out of Idris’s mouth. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” Chaunci’s eyes lit up. “I love you—”

  “Really?” His voice continued to reveal his surprise. “But what changed? I mean, what makes you think now is the time for us to be married?”

  “Because I’ve grown.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Idris. I missed you. And while you were gone I was miserable, and I never want to feel like that again. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you were doing, who you were with, and what was happening with you. I didn’t like that feeling. And I want you here with me all the time. I really, really missed you.”

  Idris hesitated. “You missed me?”

  “Yes.”

  Idris shook his head, then looked at Chaunci as if his thoughts were suddenly clear. “How did we get here, Chaunci? To this space where we’re proposing to each other and both times end up saying no?”

  Silence.

  Did he just say no? I knew he was pissed, but not pissed enough to do this. “What do you mean, no?” She did her best not to sound frustrated, though she really wanted to lose it. “I asked you to marry me and you’re telling me no? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, I’m saying I can’t marry you.”

  Chaunci turned toward the streaming light of the cameras. She could swear fucked-up shit always had a way of showing up and showing its ass onstage. “I see what this is about,” she said with as much certainty as she could. “You want to embarrass me because I wouldn’t marry you when you asked me to. It wasn’t the right time for me then, but it is now.”

  Idris laughed in disbelief. “You have a lot of goddamn nerve. I don’t live my life around your timing.”

  “Idris, you have to understand that I wasn’t ready for marriage then. I was just getting my life where I wanted it to be. Feeling good about myself and my situation. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to give that up.”

  “No, you just wanted me in your bed every night. You wanted to fuck and play house but you didn’t want that shit transferring over into real life.”

  “It wasn’t the time.”

  “And it is now?”

  “I love you!”

  “You don’t fuckin’ love me. When did you rehearse that line? Chaunci, spare me.”

  “We have a child together. You’re a great father.”

  “We will always have a child together, and I will always be a great father, but that doesn’t have shit to do with being your husband.”

  “I missed you!”

  “You didn’t miss me.” He steadied his tone. “You missed me not being all up in your fuckin’ face. Missed me not begging you to be my wife every five minutes! Missed me not being a sucker for your ass—”

  “Idris—”

  He snapped, “You missed me being out of your damn control. You didn’t love me. You don’t love me. When it comes to anybody other than Kobi, you don’t know what the fuck love is.” He slammed his fist onto the table, causing some of the club’s other guests to shoot looks their way.

  As Chaunci tried to speak she realized she’d lost her breath. Was he right? Or were the nights she tried to force passion to linger long after sex a clear sign that they weren’t meant to be? Or maybe it was simply fear.

  But what was she afraid of?

  She desperately wanted to want Idris forever. He was the type of man she knew every woman needed to have: caring, kind, good credit, big dick, loved children. She wanted to love him—to be in love with him. But all she could seem to handle between them was a few good times, laughs, and memories. Nothing more and nothing less. And so, here they were …

  “Is everything okay?” Idris and Chaunci looked up as a caramel-brown woman with an asymmetrical bob, a beauty mole in the center of one cheek, and size sixteen hourglass body invaded their conversation.

  Idris looked at the woman, surprised. “I thought you were going straight to the apartment.” He stood up to greet her and she kissed him on the lips.

  “I would’ve done that, sweetie. But when I got to the airport I realized you didn’t leave me any keys.”

  “And you are?” Chaunci looked into the woman’s eyes.

  “I’m Shannon.” She smiled. “Idris’s wife.”

  Milan

  The clock struck midnight as Milan tripped out of her custom “Cinderella” Manolos, leaving one somewhere behind her. The hem of her plum-colored gown had snagged beneath the five-inch heel and practically tossed her to the floor, forcing her to grab the hand of a passerby to halt her fall. She’d just returned from the powder room and prayed that not many people had noticed her mishap, especially since this was Kendu’s big night. He was celebrating his retirement from football and his new career as an ESPN sports commentator.

  This was the moment for which Kendu had been waiting. For weeks, they’d chatted endlessly about it and made love in the midst of dreaming up this night’s possibilities. Milan was just as excited as Kendu, if not more, and here she stood in the back of the dimly lit ballroom, off balance and doing her all to calm the butterflies in her stomach as her eyes scanned the floor in search of her missing shoe.

  “Milan,” a whisper slipped into her ear. “I’d give you my hand but I think I may need it.”

  Caught off guard and realizing she’d been holding the hand of a stranger—who oddly enough knew her name—Milan quickly hobbled a little to the right, spotting her shoe. She slipped it on, then stared at Mr. Unknown. She thought he looked familiar but she couldn’t place him.

  He smiled. “You don’t even know who I am, do you? Damn shame.” He laughed slightly.

  Milan sucked in a sip of air and a full smile filled her face. “Samir?” she squealed. “Is that you?”

  He confirmed her suspicion with a one-sided grin.

  Milan hugged him. “Oh, my God. I haven’t seen you in forever!” Her eyes inspected him. He was a far cry from the kid next door whom she used to babysit. He was now a man. A beautiful and exquisite black man, with skin the color of smooth, rich coffee with a splash of cream, warm chestnut eyes, and a well-put-together body that onl
y a blind woman could miss.

  Damn. “I can’t believe this.” Milan smiled. “I haven’t seen you—”

  He interjected, “Since I was eight and asked you to be my girl.”

  “I was your eighteen-year-old babysitter.” She playfully curled her lips and put her hands on her hips.

  “So what’s the problem now?” He stepped directly into her personal space.

  “I’m taken,” she said without thinking twice, placing her left hand in his.

  His eyes dropped to her ten-carat Tiffany solitaire. “By whom?”

  She pointed toward Kendu, who’d just stepped onstage after being been introduced by his former NFL coach.

  “Kendu? Really?” Samir looked toward the stage. “Damn, I had no idea. Hmph, life is funny. He’s going out.” He looked Milan over. “And I’m stepping in.”

  Milan eyed Samir and he winked. She hated that her dimples glowed. “Is that so?” She arched one brow.

  “Number-one draft pick, baby. New York Giants starting quarterback.”

  “Congratulations,” she said. “But my man’s a legend. Remember that.” She returned his wink, turned to the stage, and smiled at Kendu’s presence. He was beautiful beyond words: the prettiest deep chocolate skin with Senegalese eyes. His lips were full and were framed by a sexy box beard with a few sprinkles of premature gray. He stood six-three with a chiseled body, a thick neck with his daughter’s name tattooed in script on the right side of it, broad shoulders, large hands, matching feet, and a swagger that let anyone and everyone know that he handled his business and handled it well.

  “I wanna thank everyone for coming out tonight. I know it’s late.” Kendu chuckled. “But since this is the last party of my playing career, I figured you all could swing a little past midnight with me.”

  Light laughter floated through the crowd.

  Kendu continued. “I’m from the streets, as most of you know. I don’t know my biological mother or father. All I knew growing up was the system and foster home after foster home after foster home. But all that changed when I turned ten, because I met a man by the name of Coach Reid.” Kendu pointed into the audience. “He coached a small neighborhood team, and he encouraged me to join. Of course, that’s when they started winning.”