Millionaire Wives Club

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  The Michael Knight royal blue gown she wore snaked like the number eight across her tight midsection, giving sneak peeks of her full and firm breasts, and the skirt rested perfectly on her hips.

  Yusef walked up behind her, placed his arm around her waist, and posed for pictures. “You gon’ fuck around and get your ass kicked,” he whispered against her hair.

  Milan hated how quickly she was failing at being the reality star she’d envisioned for herself. “You really don’t care about the cameras, do you?” she asked Yusef, tight-lipped.

  “Of course I care. Isn’t this a reality show?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Well, welcome to your reality,” he said as they posed for another picture.

  Jaise sat in the back of her silver Rolls as the driver cruised up the highway. She pressed her cell phone to her MAC-covered lips, wondering what exactly she should say to Lawrence about Jabril. She hated calling him for anything, unless it was about her alimony check or child support, because she knew outside of that he didn’t care.

  “Hell with it.” She dialed Lawrence’s number.

  After several rings a soft female voice answered, “Hello?”

  Jaise sucked her teeth. She was instantly pissed as she realized the drama that was sure to arise with Lawrence’s jealous and overbearing wife picking up his line. “Robyn?” Jaise snapped with a little more edge than she intended.

  “Who is this?” Robyn’s soft voice quickly dropped an octave and picked up a tinge of attitude.

  “It’s Jaise”—she sucked her teeth—“how are you?”

  “Look, my husband is busy.”

  Jaise chuckled. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to speak to Lawrence—”

  “If you think you’re calling here to start your around-the-way drama, you’re dead-ass wrong. And if you have a problem with me telling your son that he is not to call our house after nine at night because the baby is sleeping, then tough. Like I explained to him, his little ‘I’ve been to jail’ story didn’t impress me, especially since we don’t deal with hoodlums. So I don’t need you calling here to defend your son and argue with my husband about a sixteen-year-old gangster.”

  Jaise was in shock. Jabril never told her he had called his father. Now she knew what his most recent attitude must’ve been about. “What you tell my baby, bitch?!”

  “How intelligent of you. I see why your son’s a thug.”

  Jaise tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Cancel Sag Harbor and drive me over to Montclair, New Jersey. I got a bitch I need to drag.”

  “In case you missed the memo, I’m not scared of you, so you can approach me if you want to and see what happens. Oh, and I’m not going to be too many more bitches. Now, what do you want? My baby is crying.”

  “Are you crazy? Really? Are you? Have you lost your fuckin’ mind? Fuck you and that goddamn baby. All I know is that Lawrence has a son with me, and I need to speak to him about him. Now, my suggestion to you is to put him on the phone, because if you don’t, wherever you are and whenever I see you, I’ma kick yo’ motherfuckin’ ass!”

  “Who the hell are you talkin’ to?” Lawrence shouted into the phone, while Robyn screamed and cried in the background, “I’m tired of her. How could she say that about our son? I really don’t believe this!”

  “Oh, now you’re on the phone, asshole?! Tell your wife to meet me someplace and see if I don’t backhand the shit outta her!”

  “You better cool your heels, Jaise, because I’m not going to have you calling here and speaking to my wife and talking about my family like this.”

  “You must be punch-drunk. You think I give a damn about trashy? I’m tired of going through this every time I call you. You need to have her understand that I don’t want you, Lawrence. I’m glad you’re off kicking her ass and not mine. Oh, and tell that ho if she calls my son a gangster again, I’ma burn a bullet in her ass and let her see who the real gangster is, trick.”

  “I’m hanging up. We don’t have to take this.”

  “We?” she said in amazement. “Are you still shaving your balls, ’cause I swear you need some hair on them. Jabril is your son! Or did you forget you had more than one!”

  “What about Jabril?”

  “He’s been getting into trouble lately, hanging out with the wrong crowd. And the other day he was arrested.”

  “Yeah, Robyn mentioned something like that to me.”

  “And you didn’t think to call me?” Jaise said, confused. “We may be divorced, but we are still parents.”

  “Well, had you stayed and worked on our marriage and understood me, we wouldn’t be going through this.”

  “This isn’t about us. This is about saving our son!”

  “All I can say is send him to live with me and I’ll straighten him out.”

  “What?!” Jaise shouted. “You don’t even call him. I have to call you and remind you when it’s your fuckin’ weekend, which over the last six months you have yet to keep. Let him live with you?” she said in exhausted disbelief. “You didn’t even think enough of him to check your wife. Here she is calling my son a hoodlum, and I should send him to simply live with you, like he’s a pest I need out my house? What the fuck is really good with you, Lawrence?”

  “Is that how you speak to me now, like a homeboy? Is that show you’re on called ‘Ghetto Superstars’?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You lost that privilege.”

  “Look, what are we going to do about our son?” “I already gave you my answer.”

  “You’re his father, I’m his mother, and he’s going to do what he needs to do. And you and I are going to raise him.”

  “I’m done raising him. He thinks he’s as grown as I am.”

  “He’s sixteen.”

  “Tell him that. And you know that all of this is upsetting my wife. So how about this: If you won’t send him to live with me, then don’t call me anymore. You get more alimony and child support in a month than most people make in a year, and if that’s not enough to solve the problems and keep his ass off the street, then oh well, not my issue. The bank is doing my part. Now you need to do yours.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe it. Now I have to go. My wife has cooked dinner, something your gold-diggin’ ass never did. I’m still paying the bill for the goddamn chef you hired.” And he clicked off the line.

  Jaise sat there staring off into space. Although she and Lawrence hadn’t gotten along and he hadn’t always done his part, never in a million years had she expected him to act like this when it came to their son. She swallowed the painful lump in her throat and did her all to smile as the driver opened the door and the paparazzi rushed to the car and began flashing their cameras in her face.

  After stopping for a moment to speak with her magazine’s photographers and giving them directives on what exactly she needed them to capture, Chaunci posed for a few pictures on the red carpet and then headed toward the double doors of the mansion. She promised herself that she wasn’t going to let anything piss her off. She’d already been featured in the entertainment section of the Daily News, with them calling her the one-minute diva. One minute she was a diva like no other and the next minute she was threatening to whup somebody’s ass.

  Chaunci grasped the sides of her skirt and lifted so that she wouldn’t trip over the hem, while her fitted corset felt as if it were choking her waistline.

  As she smiled once again for the cameras and paparazzi, she realized that the man walking in front of her was Idris. She’d just learned yesterday that he had been traded to the New York Knicks as their starting point guard. Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t seen Idris since her senior year of college, and though she always knew that one day she’d run into him, she had prayed it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  Chaunci tossed her shoulders back and acted as if she hadn’t noticed him. But, once the French horns sounded and
the hostess announced her name, she saw Idris watching her intensely. She quickly turned the other way and headed toward Milan, whom she’d just spotted.

  “Chaunci?” Idris walked up behind her and she turned around. Immediately she felt a heated rush. Idris was six four and towered at least six sexy inches above her. He was the rich color of toasted almond or sunbaked brown. He reminded most people of Tyson Beckford, with the slanted eyes and charismatic smile.

  He looked down at her and his chocolate eyes told her that she’d been missed over the years.

  “Yes, I’m Chaunci,” she said.

  “I know who you are,” he said. It was clear that he was searching her eyes to see if she had any inkling of who he was.

  Chaunci averted her eyes from his. Even when they had been lovers in college she had hated looking into his face because she was rendered powerless around him.

  “It’s Idris.” He pointed to himself.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Well, since you know who I am”—he looked her over—“can I get a hug?” he asked and pulled her to him before she could refuse. As Chaunci pressed up against his chest she could tell by the way he squeezed her and began to rock with her that she felt good in his arms.

  “Wow, you’re still beautiful.” He stood back and looked at her. “Damn,” he said more to himself than to her. “You really are breathtaking.”

  “Are you done?” She pointed across the room. “Because this conversation you’re trying to have with me, I’m over it and I need to leave.”

  He looked at her strangely. “That’s the nicest greeting you could think of after seven years?”

  Chaunci paused and blinked. It was official this motherfucker was still bold and crazy, but she had something for his ass. She popped her clutch purse open. “My apologies, perhaps I should’ve greeted you with this.” She slapped three hundred-dollar bills in his hand. “Now bug the fuck off.” She turned to walk away, but before she could go too far, Idris grabbed her arm and turned her back to him.

  “Wait a minute, wait,” he said.

  “I’m supposed to wait for you again?”

  Instead of letting her go, Idris pulled Chaunci to a secluded corner of the room. “What exactly are you saying by giving me this money?” He paused. “Did you have that baby? You took my money and still did what you wanted to do?”

  Every tear that Chaunci thought she’d cried out years ago filled her eyes, but she’d be damned before she let him see her cry. “Listen,” she said, doing her best to sound beyond confident, “before I take my fist and fuck yo’ big ass up, I’ma walk away from you.”

  He blocked her path. “Chaunci, I don’t believe this.”

  “Well, believe this. Fuck you.” She turned to walk away again and he immediately turned her back around.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I messed up, I know,” he said, “and the truth is I always wondered over the years.” He stopped and shook his head as if he’d just been hit with a ton of bricks. “Listen, I need you to understand that I was a kid then.”

  “And I need you to understand colic, motherfucker. And fevers, and teething, and crawling, and potty training, and school, and parent-teacher conferences and shit.” She poked him in his chest. “And I need you to understand how I stayed up at night and took care of our daughter while she was sick. Me, not you. And now that she’s old enough to realize she has a daddy, she spends her days dreaming about your ass, thinking you are Mr. Fuckin’ Mighty Man, while I’m stuck trying to explain where the hell you’ve been all these years.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t want to know.”

  “Chaunci, be fair here. I really need you to understand—”

  “Okay, and I really need you to understand this: Get the fuck out of my face.” She grabbed a drink from the butler’s tray and walked over to where Milan, Jaise, and a few others were sipping champagne and enjoying the jazz band.

  “Hey, girl. We need to talk,” Chaunci said, kissing Milan on both cheeks. She nodded her head at Jaise and waved.

  “Hi,” Jaise said dryly as she eyed the room. “I’ll be back.”

  Chaunci rolled her eyes as Jaise walked away. She looked at Milan. “Give me a moment, I need another drink.”

  As the songstress sang Phyllis Hyman’s “Meet Me on the Moon,” Milan sipped her white wine and drifted into a daydream.

  “If I asked you to go with me to the moon, would you?” a voice whispered, interrupting her deep thoughts. “Or am I too late?”

  Milan held her breath for a moment. She knew it was Kendu. Slowly she turned around and he was standing there. He was exquisitely beautiful, and her only regret was that he was somebody else’s husband and not hers. She did her best to smile, after all, technically he wasn’t the only one who was married. “I try not to think about those things,” she responded. She smiled as she noticed Jaise and Chaunci had returned and were both looking at her strangely.

  After a few minutes Jaise walked over and stood between them. “Kendu, where is your wife?”

  “Jaise,” Evan said as she walked over, “I’m here. You’re looking for me?”

  “Yes, actually, I was.” She turned to Kendu and Milan. “Excuse me for breaking up the session. You can continue whispering to one another.”

  “Whispering?” Evan said, caught off guard. “Whispering about what?” She turned to Kendu.

  Both Kendu and Milan were silent. “I’m listening,” Evan continued.

  Kendu ignored her and left her standing there as he headed toward the bar.

  Evan tried to play off her embarrassment and chuckled. She looked at Milan and said, “Answer my question.” “What are you talking about?”

  Evan pointed. “Let me explain something to you.” She shoved her finger into Milan’s face. “Kendu is my man, my child’s father, and you need to stay in your miserable fuckin’ lane. I’ve had enough of you hanging around. So what you better do—”

  “Is get the fuck out my face!” Milan swatted Evan’s hand from her face.

  “Ladies,” Jaise said, smiling at the cameras, “this is not the time nor the place. Let’s have some class.”

  “You know what,” Milan spat at Jaise, “I’m a little sick of your troublemaking ass. You started the shit and now all of a sudden it’s ‘Ladies, ladies.’ Fuck you. Now, how’s that for class?”

  “Oh wow, that’s an interesting twist,” Chaunci said, laughing. “Milan,” she now said seriously, “leave this crazy-ass chick alone. Trust me, in my two-thousand-dollar shoes I’m not dressed to throw.”

  “I got this,” Milan assured her.

  “You have what, Milan?” Evan rolled her eyes. “I’m so sick of you and this chick”—she pointed to Chaunci—“and your ghetto-ness.”

  Chaunci looked at Evan’s glassy eyes. “You better get your high ass out my face.”

  “You don’t need to be concerned about us being ghetto,” Milan spat. “You need to worry about how much of this ghetto-ness your husband likes.” Milan turned her back on Evan and spoke over her shoulder, “Pardon my back.” She started to walk away.

  Evan walked swiftly around and in front of her. “What exactly did you say, bitch?”

  “Wait a minute.” Chaunci stamped her feet. “Wait a damn minute. Did she, no, no, she didn’t. Milan, let’s just walk around this chick, because obviously she has lost her damn mind.”

  “Would you be quiet?” Jaise gave Chaunci the eye. “We need to calm down.”

  “Shut the fuck up and mind your business.” Chaunci shot a quick and fake smile at a passing photographer and posed. After the photographer took the picture and walked away Chaunci turned back to Jaise. “You’re the one who threw the rock and now you wanna act like, oh, let’s just calm down?”

  Evan pointed in Milan’s face. “You could never be me.”

  “Exactly,” Milan said, “because then I’d be on the outside looking in.”

  “I want you to leave!” Evan pointed toward the doo
r.

  “Kendu invited me. Tell him to tell me to leave.”

  “What the hell is going on over here?” Kendu stormed over, looking at Evan as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Don’t be looking at me like that. You better get ahold of this bitch.”

  “Don’t call her a bitch.”

  “What would you like for me to call her? Tell her to get out,” Evan said to Kendu while pointing her finger back in Milan’s face.

  “Or what?” Milan butted in. “What you gon’ do? ’Cause you are talking entirely too much shit.”

  “I’m glad somebody agrees. I thought it was just me,” Chaunci said snidely.

  “Please,” Jaise said, tight-lipped, “a crowd is starting to gather.”

  “You wanna fulfill your fantasy and try to beat my ass, is that it, Evan? If not”—Milan slapped Evan’s hand out of her face—“then get your fuckin’ finger outta my face.”

  “I know she didn’t just slap my hand,” Evan said as if she were asking the crowd encircling them a question.

  “Evan, just let it go,” Kendu insisted.

  “Oh, you takin’ up for her now?”

  “Calm down,” he said, “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “Embarrassing myself!” Evan was floored, and as if she were under remote control she turned around, grabbed a drink from the passing butler’s tray, and tossed every ounce of champagne into Milan’s face.

  The entire party seemed to screech to a halt. Milan blinked, and Yusef standing nearby could be heard to say, “What the—” Milan wiped her eyes and stood silently for a moment. Her mind rewound what had just occurred, and as fast as the drink had been tossed in her face she reared her hand back and slapped Evan so hard that Evan staggered back a few inches.

  “Hurry, Carl!” Bridget yelled. “Get a close-up!”

  Evan stumbled. After she regained her balance she took a swing at Milan but Kendu blocked it. “Stop it,” he said as security rushed in and Evan started screaming, “Out! I want them out!”

  One officer grabbed Milan and the other grabbed Chaunci. “Oh hell no!” Chaunci yelled. “You better get the hell offa me. If I’da beaten the bitch she’d still be on the ground.”