Money Never Sleeps

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  “Shannon will, Mommy. She told me that. She said, ‘I will come between you and your daddy.’ Please Mommy, I want to stay.”

  Chaunci swallowed. Think … Think … Think … Deep breaths. “Okay, Kobi. I’m going to try it your way, but I will be there to get you in the morning.”

  “Okay, Mommy. I love you. We can read the story tomorrow when I come home, okay?”

  “Okay,” Chaunci said, trying her best not to reveal that she was still brewing inside. “I love you, too, and yes, we will read the story tomorrow.”

  Chaunci’s computer screen went black and a few moments later her screen saver of Kobi’s baby picture danced across her screen. I’ma cuss this motherfucker out. She picked up her phone and dialed Idris’s cellphone.

  No answer.

  She paced. He just stood there? Really, Idris?

  She dialed his number again.

  His voice mail came on. She left a message. “This is Chaunci. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

  Chaunci turned toward the camera and she could see Bridget looking at her intensely. She turned away and just as she walked toward the window the phone rang. She scurried over to answer. It was Idris.

  “Hello?”

  “Chaunci?” Idris said, shouting. There was a ton of noise in the background. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” she said pissed. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, wassup?”

  Be calm. “What …”—She took a deep breath—“the fuck …” inhale “is Kobi doing at your house,” exhale “and you’re out clubbin’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” she spat. “Like, seriously, Idris, you’re almost forty years old and you’re at a club with your wife while your daughter is at your house crying her eyes out? What the hell kind of shit is this? My child could’ve stayed the hell home if you weren’t going to treat her right, and tell your wife that I will fuck her ass up over my child! And you better—hello? Hello?” I know this motherfucker didn’t just hang up on me? Chaunci looked at her iPhone and the screen read, “Call disconnected.” This negro has lost his damn mind.

  Chaunci quickly dialed him back. No answer.

  She called again. No answer.

  And again. Straight to voice mail.

  She paced the room.

  “Chaunci,” Bridget said. “We’re going to rap it up for the night.”

  No response.

  “I know you’re too upset to talk about what just happened and I’m sure you want to race over to Idris’s house and wait for him. And we would love to film that, but I know you’re bigger than that and charging over to someone’s house is not your style.”

  Nothing. Chaunci continued to pace.

  “And besides, like Kobi said, they aren’t there, anyway. They’re at the very place we’re headed.”

  Chaunci stopped in her tracks.

  Bridget smirked. “The ballroom at the Metropolitan. The Moroccan room.”

  Chaunci resumed pacing.

  Bridget continued. “Kobi had it wrong when she said a club. Shannon’s hosting a fund-raiser for the homeless and pretty much everyone’s there. Vera’s there, Jaise is there. I could—”

  Before Bridget could continue, Chaunci walked out of her home office and headed straight toward her walk-in closet. She slipped on a pair of four-inch Manolos and a beaded midriff jacket, which instantly dressed up the fitted True Religion jeans and black camisole she wore. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, tucked her clutch beneath her arm and stormed out the door.

  “Carl!” Bridget screamed as they hurried behind Chaunci. “Let’s roll!”

  Vera

  Vera stood in her custom-designed dressing room, looking in her trifold mirror and staring at Taj’s beautiful reflection. Her lips eased into a crescent moon as she admired her husband. He was dressed in the smoothest Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo she’d ever seen, and the sexy way his dreads draped over his shoulders made her clit thump like an erratic heartbeat. No matter her inner turmoil, they were soul mates, lovers beyond the mortal realm of being in love. He could practically read her mind, which is why she knew that he knew that she had some shit—which he wouldn’t like—to tell him.

  She swallowed and diverted her eyes from his reflection. Can he really read my mind?

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  She resumed puckering her lips and dressing them with lipstick. The jazz band Art Of Noise played an uptempo beat through the surround sound as Vera found her gaze wandering back to Taj’s reflection, where his eyes clearly asked her, “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing,” she said beneath her breath. And this isn’t the time. She quickly looked at the camera crew and smiled.

  She stole another glance at Taj.

  Is he even blinking? Her lipstick slipped from her hand and rolled onto her royal-blue cocktail dress. She looked at the small smudge it left behind and bit one corner of her bottom lip. Damn. Would he look another way?

  She dabbed the smudge away with a baby wipe and then patted Angel perfume behind her ears.

  Am I losing my mind?

  She reached over to her all-glass vanity for her emerald-and-diamond choker and tried to fasten it around her neck. She failed and the jewels crashed against the glass, causing her to jump for fear of damage. She inspected the vanity. Nothing.

  She held the necklace in her hand. She didn’t want to ask for Taj’s help because him getting too close might make her slip and say some shit.

  Before she could decide what to do, Taj said, “Let me help you with that.” Reluctantly, she handed him the necklace, struggling like hell to maintain a smile.

  “Are you okay?” Taj asked, fastening the clasp.

  “Yes,” she said a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  Taj paused. “All right,” he said as if he were saving the rest of his thoughts for later. “We need to talk, though.”

  “I know.”

  “No matter what, you know I love you. We haven’t been right since the recital and I want to get things back together for us.”

  “I know. I do too.”

  Taj smiled. “You smell delicious.” He slid his hands around her waist. “And you look delectable.” He kissed her on one side of her neck.

  Vera took a step back, but instead of letting her go Taj pulled her closer, and they locked eyes. She absorbed every inch of him and his gaze reminded her that he wasn’t just a doctor. He was a doctor with Brick City roots and a South 14th Street swagger who not only knew her better than she knew herself, but when he got pissed or thought she was hiding some shit, he didn’t hesitate to let his thuggism take the place of being politically correct.

  Vera straightened his tie. “You look so handsome.”

  He paused. “And you look even better.” He paused again. “You know I love you.”

  Why is he telling me that again? “I love you most—”

  “Carl,” Bridget interjected. “Cut the camera off.”

  “Why?” he asked, baffled.

  “Because I need to know if you have a gun.”

  “A gun?” Carl said, taken aback.

  “Yes, a gun!” Bridget screamed. “Because I need to be put out of my misery!” She pounded her fist on the heated marble wall. “What the hell is going on here?” She paced. “What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. Here! Really, I need to know!” She placed her right hand like a sun visor over her eyes and spun around. “Are violinists and ballet dancers going to skip through here at any moment? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Somebody save me! I’m dying of boredom.”

  “Why are you carrying on, Bridget?” Vera asked, pissed.

  “Because this is ridiculous! Do you need a script? If so, I have plenty!” Bridget snatched her briefcase off the edge of the chaise. “Which would you like?” She pulled out a pile of papers. “Something basic: financial problems, cheating, he doesn’t make your love meter rise? Or are you looking for an Academy Award? If so, he needs to be gay. Or even
better, you need to be gay. A Millionaire Wife on the down low! Nielsen ratings will soar through the roof!”

  “You’re going too far,” Vera said.

  Bridget yawned and patted her lips. “If I’d listened every time I was told that, I would’ve never had an affair with a priest. I’d still be a goddamn nun, a tight-ass virgin, counting rosary beads, all while losing my mind! So save your intimidation tactics for your costars. They don’t work on Sister Mary-Francis. I mean, Bridget.” She shook her head in disgust. “Is Milan going to be the star again this season? Je-sus! You need to kick it up a notch, Vera. Crip-walk or something. Or better yet,” she said, as if a lightbulb had just gone off. “Why don’t we chat about what’s really been going on? Let’s start with the interview you did yesterday?”

  Vera gasped slightly and Taj’s eyes landed on her mouth. “What’s really been going on? Interview? What interview?” he asked.

  “Nothing really going on except, you know,” Vera hesitated. “We all give interviews that’ll be aired during the show when the new season starts.”

  “And?” Taj pressed.

  “And nothing,” Vera said and Taj watched her as she bit her bottom lip.

  “You’re lying to me now?” he said more as a statement than a question.

  “No. It just isn’t the right time to talk to you about it.”

  “About what?”

  Bridget snapped, “About how she wants to open a new salon in L.A., and maybe one in Atlanta. About how her salons here in New York are running themselves and are virtually unfulfilling. And about how she needs to do something besides cook for you,”—she pointed at Taj—“and play mommy all day, God forbid. She loves the kid, obviously, but she’s a woman too. And blah, blah, blah, you get the picture. Simply put: She doesn’t want to be your trophy wife.”

  “You said all that?” Taj said, taken aback, releasing Vera from his embrace.

  Vera watched a road map of veins come alive in his neck.

  “Taj—”

  “The cameras roll and suddenly you’re brand-new? This is how we doin’ it?”

  “Taj—”

  “Excuse me for cutting you off, Vera,” Bridget said. “But Taj, she also wanted to talk to you about HSN’s offer to market her hair products—the ones she’s been selling in her salons.” Bridget winked.

  “I don’t believe you just said that!” Vera spat in disbelief. “I should beat your ass!”

  Bridget pointed her hands like guns. “And that would make for even better TV. Now, roll tape, Carl.”

  “You’re a genius, Bridget.” Carl smiled as he focused the camera. “A damn genius.”

  “Taj, can we talk about this later?” Vera said. “We don’t want to be late for the charity event.”

  “No, we gon’ talk about this shit right now.” Taj’s nostrils flared. “And what the hell is HSN?”

  “Home Shopping Network,” Bridget said. “Carl, get a close-up on Taj’s face. His expressions are priceless. Hell, we might be able to do this episode in 3-D.”

  “Bridget, Bridget, Bridget!” Carl squealed.

  Taj spat at Vera, “You back on that Home Shopping shit? So you’ve been running around here not picking up Skyy from camp, missing her dance recitals, and doing everything else other than talking to me, your husband. And instead of you being up front with me and here for our child, you’re running around getting high off bullshit!”

  Vera blinked. Has this negro gone crazy? “First of all, you don’t let another chick, Bridget or anyone else, tell you some shit about me and get all huffy. And second of all, I don’t appreciate you saying that I’m putting anything before our child!”

  “That’s not what I’m saying!” Taj snapped.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you seem to be talking to everybody else but me.”

  “Because everybody else listens!”

  “Oh, I don’t listen to you now?”

  “Every time I’ve ever tried to talk to you about what I want to do, you change the subject. I am not your goddamn Susie Fuckin’ Homemaker!” She pointed at her reflection in the trifold mirror. “And you are not about to turn me into some robotic bitch!” She looked around her crowded dressing room. “This is just too much!”

  “Oh, I get it. Taj is the bad guy. The villain. Is that your role on this show? The victim?”

  “I resent that.”

  “I tell you what. Since I’ve been telling you what to do and you wanna pretend that you’ve been listening, then this is what you will do: You will keep your ass home. No L.A. No Atlanta. And definitely no Home Shopping Shit. And I don’t wanna hear any more about it. Now, unless you’ve got something else to get off your chest, I’m ready to go.”

  “And cut!” Bridget screamed in glee. “Perfect scene, people, perfect scene.”

  “Cut? Oh, hell, no,” Vera snapped. “Ain’t no cut unless somebody’s getting cut the fuck up. Did you just tell me what the hell I will do? Yeah,” she said, answering her own question. “I believe you did.” She grabbed her purse and started to sort through it. “Let me see if I can help you find your goddamn mind, because you have lost that motherfucker.” She pointed at Taj.

  “Vera—” Taj tried to interrupt.

  “Vera my ass. Don’t you ever tell me what I will do! Since when did I sign up for you to be my goddamn boss? I agreed to marry you. I agreed to have a child with you. But I never agreed to give up who I was and what I wanted!”

  “And I didn’t ask you to.”

  “That’s because you can’t.”

  “Vera,” Taj said sternly, as he looked around at Bridget and the camera crew salivating at their every word. “We can talk about this later. We need to go.”

  “Fuck that.” She tucked her clutch securely beneath her arm. “This needs to be a solo night out.” And before he could protest Vera stormed out of the room, swaying her hips in rage from side to side.

  The Club

  Chaunci walked into the Metropolitan, parted the velvet drapes, and strutted into the Moroccan ballroom. As she crossed the threshold and spotted Shannon, Vera, and Jaise, she knew then she was at war with the truth. The truth of her being jealous, and mad, and pissed that somehow love and happiness and contentment had gone on without her, while all of these bitches: Vera, Jaise, and Shannon, seemed satisfied.

  Chaunci hated being jealous, especially since she couldn’t stand Vera and Shannon, and Jaise simply pissed her off. She had to get rid of this nagging feeling because this was not the mission she intended.

  This was to be a selfless mission that required her to be strong as steel, focused, and capable of taking Idris’s ass to task and fucking him up—if need be—for leaving her baby crying while he and his wife were getting “their party on.” Bastards.

  With Bridget and a cameraman on her heels Chaunci swung her hips into overdrive, parted Idris’s small circle of friends and associates, and tapped him on the shoulder. He quickly turned around and his eyes revealed a pissed surprise.

  “When you hung up on me”—Chaunci placed one hand on her hip—“I wasn’t done.” She placed the other hand on the respective hip.

  “What are you doing here?” Idris said in a low yet stern tone. He grabbed Chaunci lightly by her forearm and forced her to walk a few inches away from the group he’d been talking to.

  “Didn’t I just explain that to you?” She snatched her arm away. “And don’t touch me again!” She brushed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve. “Now, I tried being polite and calling you on your shit via the telephone, but you wanted to get it crunked and I don’t do well with telephone bullies. So here I am. Now, as I was saying, I don’t appreciate my child calling me crying hysterically, screaming about some nasty babysitter, a set of bad-ass kids—including your stepson—and how your wife told my child that she better learn to zip it, that she wouldn’t be able to see you anymore, and that if she didn’t learn to shut up she was going to beat her ass—”

  Idris�
��s jaw tightened as he raised his voice. “Shannon didn’t—”

  “The gold diggin’ bitch did, and you know it. My child said that Shannon’s ass was mean and I believe her—”

  “You better—”

  “No, you better check that bitch’s mouth before I check her in the mouth. Now truthfully you ran off and married out of desperation and I guess she has your pussy-whipped-wussy-ass fooled, and that’s cool, but you better make sure she treats Kobi Sarai Morgan right or I’ma bust her ass. Period.” Chaunci pointed into his face.

  “You are way over the top and completely out of line!”

  Chaunci sucked her teeth. “I don’t give a damn. Fuck the line.” She spat as her words slurred, reminding her that she had had one too many tonight.

  Across the room Vera wrinkled her brow as she stood talking to Shannon and Jaise. She pointed behind the cameraman who was filming. “Is that … ummm, Chaunci?” She paused. “Why is she flinging her arms in the air?” She paused again. “Is she arguing with Idris?”

  All the women turned toward the action.

  “Shannon,” Vera said. “Is she really showing her ass over there?”

  “You need to handle her,” Jaise insisted.

  “Oh, I will,” Shannon said pissed.

  “Well, let’s go,” Vera said and she and Shannon walked toward Idris and Chaunci.

  Jaise looked into the camera and said, “I guess we don’t need Al-Taniesha to see how new-money-ghett-tow rolls. No offense. I adore my new friends. I’m just making an observation.” She shook her head as she strutted across the room.

  “This chick has lost her damn mind,” Shannon said as she approached Chaunci and Idris who were so engulfed in their argument that neither of them realized they were drawing a crowd of whispering onlookers with every passing second. “I really don’t want to take my Jimmy Choos off and beat this hoe’s ass, but I will.”

  “Chaunci,” Jaise said, attempting to break up the argument. “I know you’re much more of a lady than this. Let me speak to you for a minute—”

  “When I’m done checking this motherfucker,” Chaunci spat. “I’ll get to you.”