Millionaire Wives Club

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  Milan lay still for a moment before she realized that the nurse was calling her by the false name she’d checked into the clinic under. Milan peeled one eye open at a time and scanned the room. She was no longer in the operating room; she was lying in the recovery room, separated from the other women by a white curtain.

  “Try and sit up,” the nurse said. “As soon as you get yourself together, you can go home. Would you like for me to call you a cab?”

  Milan nodded as she grabbed her clothes. After a few minutes of collecting herself and fighting off the drowsy side effects of the anesthesia, Milan began to dress.

  A little while later the nurse peeped back into her section. “Your cab is waiting.” She smiled.

  Milan nodded and made her way out of the clinic.

  Rain poured from the sky and beat against the cab’s hood as she slid in. Once she gave the cabby her address she heard a knock on the window. Milan looked up and a protestor had plastered a picture of a dead fetus against the wet glass with a bleeding handwritten note: STOP SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL.

  The protestor ran off, and until the cabby removed it, the picture stuck to the window.

  As they took off down the highway tears ran down Milan’s cheeks.

  As she approached her apartment she could hear a throwback of Boogie Down Production’s “Bridge Is Over” screaming from the CD player. She turned the knob, and the smell of fried chicken and weed filled her nose.

  “Happy Birthday!” Yusef smiled, holding his right arm out and puffing on a blunt with the left. He walked over, held Milan in his embrace, and kissed her on the lips.

  Milan looked surprised; she glanced up at the calendar: October 5. She looked at the small card table and saw a birthday cake. She turned thirty today. She couldn’t believe it; she’d actually forgotten one of the biggest days of her life. The day by which she had promised herself she’d have a white picket fence, two point five kids, and a dog.

  “I was hoping to surprise you.” Yusef smiled. “Where’ve you been?”

  Milan didn’t respond; she couldn’t, especially knowing how much he wanted a child. Instead of answering she walked over to the small, round table, held her hair back, blew out the candles, and then lay down on the suede sectional.

  “What the?” Yusef mashed the blunt in the ashtray and said in disbelief, “You sick or some shit?”

  Milan turned over on her back and looked at the ceiling. “Yeah.” She nodded. “Yeah—I am.”

  “Oh, I was ’bout to say, black man can’t do nothin’ for yo’ ass.” He laughed.

  Milan arched her eyebrows and turned back on her side. She wasn’t in the mood to discuss his version of race relations.

  “Yo, dig,” Yusef said, walking over to her, “I been thinking …”

  Milan could tell by the way he was breathing that this was the intro to an argument. “Yusef … I’m not in the mood.”

  “So what is you sayin’, Milan, fuck Da Truef?”

  Milan rolled her eyes. “Look, I never said that.”

  “So what is you saying?”

  She carefully took a deep breath. “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Ain’t no sweat, Milan. If you too high and mighty to hear what Da Truef got to say, it’s cool.”

  “Know what? Just tell me.”

  Yusef sighed. “Ai’ight.” He sighed again. “But first, just let me talk. Don’t interrupt, ’cause I don’t wanna hear no bullshit and no opinions. Just hear me out.”

  “What is it?”

  “I made a career change, baby.”

  “A career change?”

  “Look, I ain’t gon’ tell you if you gon’ be sighing and shit.”

  “Would you say it?”

  “I’m tryin’ to.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Why you always gotta start an argument?”

  “Would you say it!” she screamed.

  “Ai’ight, I invested some money in this dude from Wyoming to train me.”

  “Wy-who? What?” She sat up. “What did you just say to me?” She looked at him, confused, hoping she had heard wrong.

  “Check it, I’ma ’bout to be in the WWE. You heard of Superman, well I’ma be Da Truef Man!” He jumped up in glee. “Yo, I’ma be knockin’ suckers out!” He rocked from side to side. “I’m ’bout to the best fuckin’ wrestler they’ve ever seen. The Rock ain’t gon’ have shit on me.”

  Milan blinked. Maybe the anesthesia had made her delusional. “What just happened here? You about to be a who?”

  “A wrestler.”

  “Oh…my…God… are you that desperate for the limelight?”

  “You tryna play Da Truef? What’s the problem? Wrestlers got groupie wives too. You’ll be right at home.”

  She ignored his groupie comment and went straight to her biggest concern. “And how much money did you invest into this business?”

  “A million dollars.”

  Milan’s eyes welled with tears. “Are you crazy?” She couldn’t believe this; they had only two million left. Half a million was for her to buy new furniture and designer digs for TV, which she saw as an investment. The network would pay her fifty thousand an episode, but she wouldn’t receive any of it until the end of the season’s filming.

  But if he’d just spent a million, they had only one million left, and judging by the letter she had just got from the IRS, half of that was about to be tied up in taxes. Milan felt herself about to pass out, but she fought with everything she had to stay conscious. “Why didn’t you come and talk to me about this first?”

  “’Cause I didn’t think I owed you an explanation seeing as how I was by myself when I was up and down the basketball court, and truth be told you the reason we don’t have any money. So I didn’t really see what I needed to discuss with you.”

  “Excuse you, Yusef?” Milan blinked. “I wasn’t the one who snorted up a multimillion-dollar contract.”

  “No, ‘cause yo’ ass was too busy shoppin’!”

  “What did you just say to me, Yusef?” Milan snapped.

  “You heard me: You the reason we don’t have any money.”

  “Yo’ ass was gettin’ high, motherfucker! Don’t try and act like you were Michael Jordan, Pooky.”

  “Don’t be tryna shine. You know that shit was weed.”

  “Tell it to the damn drug exam that came back positive for cocaine!”

  “You know that came from that medication I was taking.”

  Milan felt herself getting dizzy. “Look … leave me alone.”

  “I get it.” Yusef snorted. “’Cause you graduated college and I didn’t you the best ma’fucker round here. What, you hot shit all of a sudden?”

  “What are you talking about?!” Milan screamed. “I graduated from college because I wanted more. I didn’t wait around for somebody to give it to me!”

  “You ain’t say all of that when I gave you that fuckin’ ring and married your ass.” He pointed to her left index finger. “You was all on my dick then.” Yusef shook his head. “Yo it’s whatever,” he snapped. “I been thinking that maybe you need to step off anyway. My mother been telling me for years that you a problem and I shoulda never married your ass. So you know what? Do you. If you here when I come back then cool, if not then that’s cool too.”

  Milan couldn’t believe it. Now she knew for sure the abortion had been the right decision. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. Milan placed her hand over her mouth and looked around the room. “This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.”

  “What-the-hell-ever, Milan. If you can’t love a black man when he’s down on his luck, then do what you got to do.” He flicked his hand as if he were performing a magic trick.

  “So what are you saying?”

  Yusef took a step back. “I’m saying you ain’t shit, like the fuck I been saying. If you can’t accept Da Truef like he is, then ain’t no need for you to stick around and wait for Da Truef to get back on his feet. Man, please. Your Puerto Rican ass—”


  “I’m not Puerto Rican.”

  “Whatever, I betchu you understand ‘Adios motherfucker.’ You gotta lotta dreams that ain’t gon’ amount to shit, ’cause you ain’t shit. You’re talentless, and you’re fat as hell. When I met you, you were cute, exotic and shit.”

  “Please, you were just hung up on me being black and Dominican.”

  “Well, now I’m hung up on you being a spic-ass trick. Since we don’t have any money, why don’t you go down to the corner and hop on the back of a truck with the rest of the goddamn Mexicans. ’Cause I don’t need you in my face.”

  “You ain’t shit,” Milan snapped. “All the other athletes’ wives are living lavishly, and here I am stuck with the fuckin’ towel boy!”

  “Oh, so that’s what this has come to? You wanna put me down? Well, if yo’ big ass think you can come up with something better than Da Truef, number twenty-three, then who is Da Truef to hold you back? Da Truef shall set you free.” He opened the front door and walked out into the hall. “I ain’t gotta take this.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “And neither do I!” Milan screamed, as the automatic locks clicked in place.

  After sitting still for a few moments she walked over to the wall of windows and looked down at the busy Manhattan street. “How do I get outta hell?” Milan said to herself as she turned around and leaned her back against the glass. Suddenly she felt the room was closing in on her, and if she didn’t leave now she knew her fear would never let her out.

  “Happy Birthday,” she said, sliding her wedding band off and dropping it on top of the cake. She lay back on the couch and rubbed her empty belly.

  Jaise

  Jaise was tired of carrying the weight of a strong black woman on her shoulders. She didn’t want the responsibility of being seen as Mother Earth, Nubian Queen, or an I-don’t-need-no-man-all-I-need-is-me being.

  She wanted to be vulnerable without being taken advantage of. To be able to cry without being charged as emotional. The permission to stand up, place her hands on her voluptuous hips, shake her fly-ass hair, and say, “Yes, I need a man for more than dick,” without any judgment.

  Jaise wanted to be submissive without anyone thinking she lacked substance. And she might be rich due to her substantial alimony checks, but she was tired of paying her own bills. She wanted a man—her man—the infamous “him” to do it … and not complain about it.

  And she wanted to cook for “him” …hell, she liked to cook. She wanted to hold “his” hand while he took charge.

  And no, Jaise wanted to shout, no matter how you slice it, how many goddamn support groups, testimonies, and self-help books there are, I cannot be my sixteen-year-old son’s mother and father. She was failing miserably at it.

  But since she couldn’t voice her true feelings, and because what everyone else thought of her mattered more than what was in her heart, she swallowed her emotions and glided into her bedroom where her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Trenton, was lying in her Civil War—era antique four-poster bed waiting for her.

  Jaise moved from side to side, her see-through nightie showing every erotic gift she had. She placed her hand on the retractable pole in her bedroom and started a sensual dance, moving her size-sixteen hips in a seductive rhythm. She could see Trenton’s dick hardening and seeming to grow by the moment. Jaise spun around the pole and grooved like a Vegas stripper. Trenton gripped his dick and squeezed the tip, as the pre-cum glistened and eased out the sides. “Shit, Jaise,” he said, “I want you over here.”

  Jaise smiled and hoped that him wanting her had a double meaning. “You want this?” she took her index finger, slipped it into her sweetness, and licked the wetness. “Are you sure you want this?”

  “You know I do.” Trenton said, “And I’m selfish as hell too, so I want all of it.”

  The closer she got to Trenton, the more she prayed that he saw in her what she saw in him: security. She knew convincing him that they should be a family would be hard to do, especially since he and her son, Jabril, didn’t interact other than a head nod or a sincere-looking wave. Jabril had already told Jaise that if Trenton wasn’t gone by the time he was eighteen he would either bounce or snuff Trenton out, but either way one of them had to go. As far as Trenton was concerned, whenever he spent the night, which was more often than not, everything was all about him: He showered, Jaise fed him dinner, and they went to bed.

  Yet despite the inner anguish Jaise felt about the situation, she was determined to make do with the man she had. There was no way at thirty-five, with a sixteen-year-old son and a ton of suppressed relationship baggage, that her selection of rich men was endless. Besides, Jaise knew plenty of women who kept their children and their man separate.

  It wasn’t as if Trenton mistreated Jabril; he just didn’t do children. But she’d concluded that her son was her responsibility anyway. At least Trenton was a good role model. He had an MBA and his own company, invested his money, and was able to show Jabril what it was to be a successful black man, especially since Jabril’s daddy never had. Lawrence was too busy making love to his white wife and floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee for the boxing commission.

  The music floated behind Jaise as she stood before the bed and dropped her black satin negligee to the floor, revealing her smooth and glistening brown skin.

  “Damn,” Trenton said, admiring what he saw. “I’ve been wanting that pussy all week.”

  “You should stop waiting so long to come home and get it.” She smiled. “It’s yours all the time, baby. And it’s waiting for the day when we can share last names.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to stop thinking about that? When the time is right, I’ll let you know.”

  “Shh.” Jaise climbed on the bed and placed her wet index finger between his lips. “Let’s just enjoy this moment.” Jaise slid down his scrumptious body, parting his legs, and expanding her cheeks. She licked the length of his hardness and as his toes curled against her sides, she started doing his favorite thing: tea-baggin’ him.

  “Fuck.” His eyes rolled to the top of his head and as Jaise sucked every ounce of him, his phone started singing.

  Jaise stopped for a moment, long enough to at least open her eyes and wonder why this ringtone was different from the others. Before she could come to any conclusions Trenton pushed her head back to his dick and she continued to deep throat him.

  Jaise tried to get back into the erotic rhythm that her slurping mouth had mastered but she couldn’t. She just wanted him to cum so she could be done. So as she sucked his dick she ran her middle finger along the slit of his ass and within a matter of moments it was over.

  “That was the shit, baby,” Trenton said, shaking his head, as if waves were floating through him. “Damn.” He hollered in delight as Musiq and Mary J started singing from his phone again.

  Trenton reached for his phone on the nightstand. Jaise looked at the clock: one a.m. “Trenton, why is your phone ringing this time of the night?”

  “What I tell you about questioning me? In my business this could be anybody.”

  “At one in the morning?”

  “I talk to people from all over the world. It could be three in the afternoon for them,” he said, flipping his phone open. “Hello?”

  Jaise heard a female voice on the other end of Trenton’s phone, causing a lump to gather in Jaise’s throat and make her gag on the residue of Trenton’s stickiness. She attempted to kiss Trenton on the lips in an effort not to allow jealousy to prick her pride.

  He looked at her as if she’d gone crazy, and instead of kissing her back he turned his face to the side, muted the phone, and whispered, “You know I don’t do that. Go brush your teeth and come back.”

  “Excuse me.” She blinked. “That’s your dick.”

  “Why don’t you ever do what I ask you to do the first time?” He gave her a warning eye. “I really don’t like that.”

  Every part of Jaise’s being told her not to get her ass out of bed, but i
n the pit of her stomach she knew if she pissed him off he wouldn’t think twice about leaving for the night, and that was not what she wanted. So she went into her master bath, handled her business, and came back out.

  Trenton was still on the phone, and she could clearly see that he was aggravated. She lay down next to him, and while she ran her hands through the curly hair on his chest she heard the woman on the other end crying.

  “Listen,” Trenton spoke sternly into the phone, “I’m being extremely rude right now and I have to go.” He paused, and a second later said, “This could’ve waited for the morning’s meeting. Your calling me this time of night is not acceptable.”

  Jaise’s heart thundered in her chest. It was obvious that Trenton was attempting to pass off whomever this was as a business associate.

  Trenton continued, “Look, I will deal with you later in the a.m.” He clicked his phone off and tossed it back on the night-stand. He rolled over on top of Jaise. “Where were we?” He licked her now-soft nipples.

  “Who was that?” she said, watching him suckle her breasts.

  “An associate.” He cuddled her nipple with his tongue.

  Jaise stared at Trenton. She wanted desperately to ask him what type of associate, but she wasn’t so sure what he would say. There was a possibility he would lie and a possibility that he wouldn’t, and at this moment with her feelings resting on the tip of her clit, which he was now sucking better than he ever had before, she wasn’t so sure if the truth or a lie would be worse.

  Besides, she’d already surmised that most of Trenton’s ambivalence came from his never having been involved with a woman like her. And since she was just getting into the groove of convincing him of what life and love with her would be like, Jaise made up her mind that she was willing to put in the time it would take to reshape Trenton into the man she longed for him to be.

  So … what was a phone call with a crying bitch on the other end? After all, if he wanted the other chick, he wouldn’t have been in Jaise’s bed.

  “Eat it up, baby,” Jaise said, with melting sugar running between her legs. Trenton pulled her clit between his teeth, and as she grabbed the base of his neck her phone rang. Trenton stopped what he was doing and looked at the clock. “Who the hell is calling you this time of night?”