by Deja King
Late Saturday afternoon Chantal returned home with her parents from her high school graduation. She laid her cap and gown on the kitchen table and headed to her bedroom. She returned ten minutes later and her parents were bewildered when they saw their only daughter standing in front of them with a suitcase and what appeared to be a bus ticket.
“Chantal, are you going on a trip?” Mr. Morgan asked with a perplexed look on his face.
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“What is it, a graduation trip with some of your school friends?”
“Ma, I don’t have no friends in school.” Even though many had tried, Chantal refused to befriend any of her classmates; she kept to herself. She had the reputation as being the most beautiful girl in school but also the one with the nastiest attitude. Besides a couple of neighborhood girls Chantal kicked it with, she felt above everybody else. In Chantal’s mind she already knew she was special and would live a lifestyle that most of them only fantasized about. The thought of putting her energy into befriending any of them seemed like a waste of her time.
“Then where are you going?”
“To a place where I can make all my dreams a reality.”
“Where is that?” It was obvious to Chantal that her parents were dumbstruck.
“I’ll let you know once I get there.”
“But what about college? How will you support yourself? You don’t have any money.” Chantal just nodded as her parents continued to say what sounded like mumbo jumbo to her ears.
“Listen, I ain’t going to no community college and I will find a way to support myself—it just won’t be here in Southside Chicago.”
“But, Chantal, if you stay here you’ll have our support. That’s fine if you don’t want to go to school. We’ll help you at whatever you decide to do,” her dad pleaded.
Chantal chuckled for a minute. She didn’t know whether to laugh at her father or pity him for being so naïve. “Daddy, with where I’m gonna go and what I’m gonna do your assistance won’t be needed.”
Mr. Morgan stood there completely confused, but Mrs. Morgan wasn’t. She knew her daughter was up to no good and all they could do was pray that she wouldn’t be eaten alive by the wolves she so desperately wanted to tangle with. Mrs. Morgan doubted they needed to worry about Chantal; instead their concerns should be for the prey Chantal was seeking out.
“You’re my little girl; please don’t leave us.”
“Sorry, Daddy, but I have to go. The platinum streets are calling my name.” Chantal picked up her suitcase and headed toward the front door. Mr. Morgan moved forward to stop his daughter.
“Cliff, let her go,” Mrs. Morgan stated firmly.
“But she’s our baby.”
“No, she hasn’t been our baby for a very long time.”
“Chantal, please at least let me give you some money,” he screamed out in his last attempt to make her stay.
“That’s okay, Daddy, I’ll be fine.” Those were the last words Mr. Morgan heard before Chantal slammed the door.
Later on that evening when Mrs. Morgan was putting away the money she made from the previous day’s work, it became crystal clear why Chantal had no need for the money her father had offered her. Chantal had stolen the very last penny of the $7,000 Mrs. Morgan had been saving up for the last few years, hoping Chantal would want to continue with some form of higher learning after high school. Mrs. Morgan was from the old school and, even though she had a checking and savings account at the bank, she always believed you were supposed to keep a secret stash at home. Unfortunately for her, no secrets were safe from Chantal.
O N E
Queen of New York
2007
The honey-blond bombshell strutted into the nail salon on Park Avenue like she owned New York City. All eyes turned to catch a glimpse of the cover girl beauty. She had the gorgeous face and impeccable style that made you ask yourself, Where have I seen her before? Is she a model, actress, or singer? Is she famous? No, she wasn’t any of the above, but she was famous. Make that infamous.
Chantal Morgan did what many considered the impossible. She used her powers of persuasion to land the biggest mogul in the music industry. Andre Jackson was the Bill Gates of hip-hop, and Chantal was the femme fatale of industry chicks.
She didn’t come by her fame the conventional way, but she worked the tools she had. Those tools were her lips, her ass, and her pussy. The deadly combination put her at the top of her game. For the average girl that would’ve been enough, but there was nothing average about Chantal Morgan and she assumed everyone else knew it.
Chantal couldn’t fathom why after almost five years of her precious services she still hadn’t walked down the aisle with Andre. What was it going to take, she’d quietly wondered. She had had his daughter, been through more drama with him than the law should allow, and still he refused to make her legitimate. Chantal’s fame continued to come from being his baby mother and girlfriend. That was unacceptable for the self-proclaimed Queen Bitch.
She refused to remain in the ever-expanding group of celebrity baby mamas, which she considered beneath her. The frustration was building up and Chantal was exhausted from hitting the same brick wall. Maybe it’s true what they say: “A man won’t wife a ho.”
Chantal sat at the nail salon getting Swarovski crystals on her gel-coated tips, admiring the ten-carat emerald-cut diamond sitting on her finger. It was a present from Andre for her twenty-fifth birthday. It was the third ring in two years but he still hadn’t proposed. Every time she wanted to discuss getting engaged, it seemed he would immediately buy her a new bauble, as if that was supposed to keep her mouth shut. With Chantal being the materialistic slave that she was, it always worked. This ring, like the ones before it, was one more gift she could shamelessly flaunt in front of her equally shallow girlfriends. But when she was alone, with no phony cheerleaders to gas her up with false praises, Chantal had to admit that this situation was wearing on her psyche. She believed it was time for Andre to wife her. Not just say it, but do it.
“Pretty ring. You married? Husband must be rich,” said the Chinese manicurist, as she meticulously created the design on Chantal’s index finger.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Oh, he not ready to get married?”
“Not yet,” Chantal retorted, smacking her lips.
“Oh, work harder,” the Chinese lady said, shaking her head back and forth, as though Chantal was a disappointment.
Chantal said to herself, I should have told the nosey bitch that I was engaged. Now she’s looking at me like why am I wearing this big-ass rock and I can’t get my man to commit. Come hell or high water, by end of this year I will be Mrs. Andre Jackson.
After sitting under the dryer for a half hour, Chantal’s $300 design was finally dry. She was being extra careful because she wanted her nails to stay in perfect form. Chantal had to be more on point than usual since she was escorting Andre to a red carpet movie premiere and wanted all eyes to be on her. With the dress she was picking up from Roberto Cavalli and with Marisa doing her hair and makeup, the original movie goddess herself, Dorothy Dandridge would have to make a grand entrance in order to shut her down. And since she was resting somewhere in royal diva heaven Chantal knew she had it all sewn up.
When Chantal opened the glass door and stepped outside, the cold air instantly sent chills down her spine. It was the middle of March and there is nothing like a New York winter. Even with her floor-length chinchilla coat she couldn’t escape the harsh weather. Not being one to wait, especially for people who are supposed to serve her, Chantal became frustrated when the driver wasn’t parked in front waiting as he was ordered to do.
“You have to be kidding me. Where is the dumb fuck? It’s freezing outside and the hired help is nowhere to be seen!” Chantal muttered as she scanned the area for the car. Just then Chantal saw Carlos driving the black Rolls-Royce Phantom around the corner. She ran toward the vehicle in her black Gucci st
iletto boots because it was too cold to wait for him to drive around a taxi that was blocking traffic. When she finally got in the car and slammed the door, the heat instantly warmed her and it felt so good she almost forgot to drill Carlos about where the hell he’d been. He gave her some lame excuse about the cops telling him to move out of the way. Whatever, she thought to herself, he was probably cruising around the block trying to pick up some girls and frontin’ like this is his whip. Chantal knew the game. She used to be one of those girls chasing the guy in the fly ride because she assumed he had some paper.
“Go to the Roberto Cavalli boutique at 711 Madison Avenue,” Chantal directed him, thinking to herself that as soon as she got home she was going to tell Andre to fire him.
As Carlos pulled up to the store she called the sales lady and told her to bring out her dress. She wasn’t about to step out of the balmy car into the freezing cold. Chantal eyed the petite wannabe Eva Mendes–looking trick as she exited the store and ran toward the Phantom. The Cuban salesgirl gave Chantal a fake-ass grin and handed her the bag with the dress inside. As she waved good-bye and turned her back Chantal rolled her eyes and said under her breath, “That bitch doesn’t think I know she was fucking Andre. Trying to act like she’s so professional all the while she was swallowing my man’s dick. Huh, that’s why she’s working at Roberto Cavalli, and I’m shopping here.”
Those struggling days were long gone for Chantal now. She was finally living the good life. No more worrying about where her next dollar was coming from. She’d sealed that deal when she locked Andre down with their daughter. Melanie was a beautiful little girl and Chantal knew Andre was proud of her. People could say what they wanted, but Chantal knew if there was one thing she was good at besides sex, that was making some pretty babies. Ever since she was in high school, every guy would tell her they wanted her to be their baby mama. She reasoned that dudes always want the girl with the nice complexion and pretty hair, plus she had the body, too. She was constantly beating cats off with a baseball bat.
As Carlos opened her door, Chantal handed him her bags and walked into the lobby at the Trump World Tower. Andre had a penthouse in the building, and the fact she was laying her head there made her the envy of all women. Okay, maybe she wasn’t laying her head there every night but the fact was she was the queen of that domain. When Chantal wasn’t in Chicago, then she was in New York with Andre. She was still scheming to get him to move her and Melanie in permanently but until that happened she made sure to leave all her shit around for his hoochies to see.
On her elevator ride up, Chantal reflected back on one night when she came to town unexpectedly and thought she was about to catch a case. She had wanted to surprise Andre, so she caught a flight and arrived at his place in the early evening. When she opened the door she could hear some Sade playing but didn’t think anything of it. Andre loved to listen to Sade when he was trying to relax. Chantal took her pumps off so he couldn’t hear her feet on the marble floor. When she walked up the wraparound stairs she was the one who was surprised by intense breathing mixed with moaning. As she tiptoed closer to the bedroom door she heard a woman’s voice saying, “Oh baby, you feel so good. Go deeper, deeper baby.”
Then a male voice, which sounded like Andre, groaned, “This dick feel good to you, baby?”
“Yes, baby, I love my dick,” the woman moaned.
“Your dick! Bitch, you’ve lost your damn mind!” Chantal roared as she pushed opened the door. They had candles lit with the soft music playing. Andre’s ass was in the air about to come down and stroke the chick in her pussy once again. He looked up at Chantal like he was being introduced to the devil himself. There was so much rage across Chantal’s face, Andre knew it was about to be on.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Your ass supposed to be in Chicago,” Andre said.
“Yeah, that’s what you thought. So what, you decided to dick down the next bitch because I’m not here? I’m gonna fuck this trick up and then I’m coming to get you.”
The half-black, half-Filipina chick jumped out of the bed, putting her hands over her pint-size tits. Like Chantal gave a fuck about her body, she just wanted the trick out of her man’s bed and his house.
“Chantal, calm the fuck down, you’re acting real crazy right now.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen crazy yet!” Chantal barked while taking off her jacket and diamond hoop earrings, preparing for a brawl. She kept on her rings hoping to leave a signature mark on the girl’s face. “You think I’m going to let you play me out with some cunt?”
“Ain’t nobody playing you out. You wasn’t even supposed to be here. Now calm down. This shit ain’t funny.”
“Andre, you better get this bitch out this house right now or I’m gonna fuck her up. Do you understand me?”
By this time the chick had tears rolling down her face. She didn’t know what was going on. The distraught groupie was under the impression she would be making love and spending the night with superstar Andre Jackson. Well, not tonight, bitch. The Queen was now here and was claiming what was rightfully and undoubtedly hers. Andre was handing the frazzled woman her clothes, trying to apologize for the misunderstanding. Under his breath Chantal heard him call her Arisa. Arisa was looking scared and confused just the way Chantal wanted her to be. In the future she would think twice before bringing her bony ass to this crib. Just to make sure, while Andre was escorting Arisa out, Chantal snuck in a sucker punch to the woman’s right cheek.
“That’s my token to you. Think about that, bitch, when you crawl in your cold ass bed all alone,” Chantal said with so much frost that even Andre got the shivers.
That was the type of bullshit Chantal had to deal with when it came to Andre. She knew he was screwing other women because Andre could not sleep in the bed alone. He needed to have a warm body next to him. With her living in Chicago, she damn sure wasn’t cuddling up to him every night. But after that incident, Chantal made sure to leave everything from panties to lipstick to purses and clothes around the house. A bitch was gonna feel her presence.
The minute Chantal stepped foot in the front door, Marisa was anxious to make her into a glamour queen. Nobody could beat her face like Marisa. Yes, Chantal was naturally gorgeous, but when Marisa finished she would look flawless from head to toe. Chantal could never understand why Marisa would always have her looking like a dime piece but she herself strolled around looking like one-cent copper. Marisa wasn’t a stunner, but damn if she just applied half her skills on her unruly hair and makeup-free face, she would at least be a nickel. But Chantal was no one’s savior and she didn’t have the time to make the suggestion. Plus, Marisa had access to mirrors and the eyes never lie. All that mattered was that she was the best and that’s why Andre insisted that Chantal use her. Andre expected Chantal to look unblemished when she attended any event with him. That was fine with her; she liked to see the other women green with envy and the men drooling.
When Marisa finished dolling Chantal up, she slipped on her dress. She was divine. Her normally pale winter skin was luminous against the peach-colored dress, compliments of the beautiful golden tan from her and Andre’s recent trip to Anguilla. Marisa pulled her wavy shoulder-length hair back to accentuate Chantal’s perfectly featured face. The dress hugged every curve and made her ass look plump and round. The crystal-studded Jimmy Choos were the finishing touch.
“Chantal, you ready? It’s time to go,” Andre said impatiently.
“Just a minute, baby, I’m trying to tighten up my strap.”
“Well, hurry up. I don’t want to be late.” Andre continued pacing back and forth in his gray wool three-piece Valentino suit and white cotton French cuff shirt. His black crocodile loafers and silver silk basket-weaved tie made his attire the perfect combination of playboy and New York City chic.
This was Andre’s night to mingle with the Hollywood powerhouses. He was determined to break in to acting. Hell, he had conquered the rest of the industry. Andre had his hands in everyt
hing. Music, sports, fashion—and now he wanted movies. Chantal loved it; that meant more photo ops for her. She grabbed her studded bag that matched the shoes and headed out the door.
When the stretch limo pulled up to the red carpet at the Ziegfeld Theater, all you heard was the paparazzi screaming for Andre Jackson. Chantal lived for these events. All the cameras flashing and people screaming her name—it gave her a rush, because she was a celebrity, too, in her own right. People wanted to grab at Chantal and take her picture. Some pathetic idiots even wanted her autograph all because she was with Andre. Chantal was his woman, so now all she needed to do was become his wife.
As they stepped out of the limo, Chantal smiled and gave her standard beauty pageant wave to all the cameras and fans. She was just as beautiful as any other celebrity walking the red carpet. This was the East Coast premiere for Halle Berry and Bruce Willis’s new movie Perfect Stranger. Everyone from Denzel Washington to Julia Roberts was in attendance. The Hollywood elite were so different than their normal music industry peers. Everyone here looked refined; whereas the music industry set looked like brand new about to go broke money.
This crowd here was right up Chantal’s alley; as for the other crowd, she had been there and done that, literally. Chantal had basically fucked every music bigwig and couldn’t get any of them to sponsor her on a long-term basis. She was their trophy piece for a minute and then after they had twisted her back out and partied with her every which way, they traded her in for the next hot chick. Thank goodness she met Andre when she did, because Chantal Morgan had come one step from being a has-been in this town.
