by Ni-Ni Simone
I took my drink from the barmaid as she handed it to me and took two deep gulps. Rich looked up from her platter of wings, raising her brow. “What? I know you’re not even thinking about sliding your fingertips over onto my platter for any of these. I only have ten wings. Everyone who really knows me knows I don’t play with my money, my man, and my hot wings. So wipe the drool from your mouth because there’s only enough for me. And I’m stressed too!”
I shook my head. “I’m not interested in any of your wings. So carry on and be gluttonous all you like.”
“Glut whaaat? You wait one damn minute, London. Don’t even get cute, which I know is already hard to do, and try to do me. You have a lot of nerve cursing me. Not once since we’ve been here have I said one nasty thing to you or about you.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically at her delusions, crossing and uncrossing my legs. “Of course you haven’t. Forgive me.”
She blinked. “See. There you go. Do you even know how to spell forgiveness?”
“No, Rich, I don’t,” I said sarcastically. “Why don’t you tell me how?”
“Ohmygod, London. Really? You’re going to disrupt my snack time because you can’t spell?” She snatched up a napkin, wiping her fingertips. “It’s the number four, then G-I-V-E-N-E-S-S. Now I see why Spencer calls you Deebo. You’re all feet and no brain.”
I bit into my bottom lip. Eyed her as she lifted her mug, taking two large gulps. I glanced at my timepiece. It was now a quarter after five. I had to get out of here soon. So it had to be now or never. I needed to know about her and Justice.
I steadied my nerves, then pushed out, “Have you spoken to Justice?”
She frowned, making a ridiculously ugly face at me. “Justice? Who’s that? I don’t know a Justice.” She wiped her mouth and pushed her empty platter to the side. Every wing, gone!
I raised a brow. “I don’t know how you don’t know who he is when you practically threw yourself at him in my suite, calling him your FBD, future baby daddy.”
“Whaaat? Clutching pearls! You lying! Bish, please. I only have one future baby daddy. And his name is Knox. So, no, I don’t know what or who you’re talking about.” She slid a manicured finger around the edges of the platter, swiping up remnants of sauce, then slid it into her mouth. She smacked her lips. “Oh, wait. You’re talking about that sweet piece of chocolate, that stud daddy, who you acted all stank and overprotective over? The one you wanted to introduce me to?”
I cringed. “Yeah, him. Justice, who you practically seduced in front of me.”
“Girl, bye. He’s cute and all. But I’m not checking for him like that. That boy has issues. And I don’t do issues. I thought you said you knew him.”
I blinked. “I do know him. I know him very well. Why?”
She grunted. “And how well is that?” She waited for an answer. I didn’t give her one. So she continued, “Well, obviously you don’t know him well enough. Otherwise, you would have known he’s real thirsty. No shade. Well, all shade. I think he has abandonment issues. Why would you try to hook me up with some crazy jerk like that? He doesn’t even know how to play the sideline. He’s too busy tryna be all front and center. I can’t mess with him. He’ll ruin my life. And disrupt my get-right with my man. And I can’t have that.”
“What? Thirsty? Justice? He’s not even the type.”
“Girl, bye. Like I said, obviously you don’t know him as well as you think. That crazy mofo sweats me to no end. He stays in my neck trying to get all up in my goodness. I don’t do that! I don’t cheat on my man.”
I felt the room spinning. “D-d-did you sleep with him?”
“Ohmygod, catch that tea! I just told you. I don’t. Cheat. On my man. You’re real messy, London. What, do you like him or something?” Rich eyed me suspiciously. “You’re sitting here asking me some mess like that! Did I sleep with him? Mmph. Girl, bye. I’m a grown woman. Only some thirsty trick is gonna ask some mess like that. And you still haven’t said if you like him or not. But don’t bother. I already know the answer. I see it all in your eyes. It’s all up in your face. Mmph. So that’s why you were acting all possessive that day I met him up in your room and I gave him my number. You want him for yourself.”
I blinked. I was fighting like hell to keep my emotions in check. “All I was going to tell you, if you did like him, which I hear you saying you don’t, is to be careful. That’s all. He’s a user.”
“Scrrrreeeeech! Stop the lies, London. I can’t tell. You acting like your feelings are hurt. Maybe I should be asking if you slept with him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Millie. It’s obvious you like him. And want him. It’s all in your voice. You’re sitting up here interrogating me like I’m Olivia Pope. What, you riding him? Is that it?”
“No. I told you. He’s a user.”
She raised a brow. Tilted her head. “Really? Is he a user? Or is it that he doesn’t want you? What, are you a reject? You didn’t make the cut, is that it? Or am I standing in the way? Honey, relax. If you want that boy, you can have him. He can’t do a thing for me. I gave him a lil taste of goodness, a lil slice of heaven on earth, and he couldn’t even handle the heat. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds into riding cowgirl, his toes curled and he was howling like a—”
“Did you use a condom?” I asked, cutting her off.
“Whaaat?” She slammed her mug down onto the table, drawing attention to us. “You are out of order! I already told you that boy was dead to the bed! A bore! You must really wanna bussa-bust with him too! Well, before you fulfill that fantasy, hon, I’m here to tell you, be prepared to count sheep!”
I felt myself shrinking in my seat. I was practically choking on my rage. And before I could block out the camera-ready gawkers and the flashing lights, I slung my drink in her face. And Rich leapt up from her chair, snatched the pitcher, slinging suds of beer into my face. Next thing I knew, Rich and I were swinging fists, yelling obscenities, and gripping hair. Tearing Club Tantrum up. And, although it wasn’t an easy feat, I was doing my best to beat every moment she’d spent with Justice out of her.
20
Spencer
“Mmph! My money down the shitter!” I heard Kitty snap as I made my way down and around the spiral staircase leading into the kitchen. I could hear papers rattling. As I got closer to the bottom landing, I could see Kitty at the table with newspapers and gossip rags spread out on the table and slung across the floor. And her face was tighter than a buffalo’s booty cheek.
I silently rolled my eyes up in my head. Just by her huffing and snorting, sounding like some constipated baby panda, I knew Miss Fifty Shades of Crazy was going to try to serve me a bowl of her nuttiness.
“Good morning, snickerdoodle-doo. Who tinkled in your kopi luwak this morning?” I said, walking over toward the center aisle and plucking a strawberry from a fruit platter. I leaned over the enameled lava-stone countertop, dipping the strawberry into a bowl of plain yogurt and biting into it.
I moaned. “Mmmm. This is sooooo juicy.” I swiped my tongue over my glossed lips to catch the juices. I reached for another strawberry. Dipped, bit, and moaned again.
Kitty snorted, lifting her personalized KITTY LIVES mug and taking a sip of her beloved muddy-poop drink. Ugh! One of the world’s most expensive coffee beans pooped out by the Indonesian civet—a furry-faced beast who eats the red coffee beans, then poops the inner part of the bean out, and natives go around digging through these animal’s droppings for the beans, which sell for a whopping six hundred dollars a pound.
Kitty was a mess! Drinking animal poop! Ugh.
She glared at me over the rim of her mug.
I glared back at her, then rolled my eyes. Two could play the eyeball game.
She slammed her mug onto her saucer. Picking up a magazine, she said, “I could spit fire right now! Hollywood trash swept up in handcuffs!” She slung the tabloid at me. “I told you this would happen. Heather is wild and out of control. Not to be trusted
. I told you she was still using. But noooo. You insisted she was clean and sober. You insisted she was ready for a big break. But you didn’t listen . . .”
I frowned. “Mother, please. Not today, okay? Now who sneezed in your yogurt? I have no clue as to what in the world you’re talking about. And I don’t have time for your foolery.” I reached for a crystal pitcher and poured myself a glass of pomegranate juice. “I need my strength and energy to fight through this rush-hour traffic in order to make it on time to the set for Heather’s pilot taping.”
Kitty slung another gossip rag at me. “Have you not heard a word I said? There is no set! There is no pilot! It’s all gone to hell! Canceled. Luda Tutor, from what the tabloids are saying, is in the hospital with a broken face, severe rug burns, and a fractured rib.”
“Whaaat?” I shrieked, covering my mouth with a hand. “Why in the sneezusjeezus would you have Luda Tutor laid up in a hospital bed? That makes no sense to me, Mother. That was”—I stamped my foot—“not written in the script. I’m so sick of you doing whatever in the hocuspocus hell you want without consulting me. Heather was supposed to be dropped off in the guts of Brooklyn, forced to navigate her way through the gritty streets of the hood to find her way back home. Think The Wizard of Oz meets The Neighbors. You know, that TV show where the family is surrounded by aliens. What, do you want to call it Luda Tutor Does Hospital Beds? Some cheesy spin-off of General Hospital?”
She slung another magazine at me, almost hitting me in the face. “Oh, for the love of God, Spencer! Stop being a bimbo idiot! Must you take everything so literally? I swear the wet nurses I hired to breast-feed you must have been eating paint chips and drinking gasoline because you can be so brain-dead sometimes. Must I spell everything out for you? Do you need me to say it in sign language? I’m talking about Heather, for Christ’s sake! Your precious junkie project! The supposed to be star of the now defunct Luda Tutor pilot! You know, the pilot that never got shot because of your ridiculous idea to rescue some pill-popping binger. That Heather is in the hospital!”
I gave her an incredulous look. “In the hospital for what?”
“For being a junkie mess! For being the daughter of a washed-up drunk! For being a confused, whorish mess! Take your pick, Spencer! The point is, you’re too busy trying to be Captain Save A Junkie. And you had me use my resources to do it. Do you know what kind of strings I had to pull to make this happen? Do you? And I told you, if she screwed this up, it was going to cost you. It’s your fault. Now what, Spencer?”
I blinked. “Excuuuuuse you? What are you blaming me for now, Mother?”
“I’m talking about this”—she snapped the newspaper open—“ ‘Teen star Heather Cummings gets molly-whopped with a two-piece and a foot stomp by her once famous but now forgotten Hollywood-starlet mother.’ ”
I blinked, walking over to scoop up one of the articles. I gasped. There was a photo of Heather’s blood-streaked face splattered on the front of page three of the teen society section of Teen Talk Trash. The caption read: DRUGGIE VS. DRUNK!
I read on.
Teen star Heather Cummings was beaten and dragged through a filthy room at a motel known for drug dealing and prostitution. A source close to the troubled teen star reported that she was ambushed by her mother—the once famed Hollywood actress, Camille Cummings—in a drunken tirade as she wielded a rusty knife in one hand and an empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black in the other, demanding money from the teen idol...
Ohmygod! This can’t be happening!
Kitty read another news headline: “ ‘TEEN STAR HEATHER CUMMINGS ROLLED OUT ON STRETCHER! STOMPED OUT IN DRUG MOTEL BY OUTRAGED MOTHER!’ ” She slung the magazine at me. “What a mudslide of a mess! My money wasted! My time wasted! You’ll never take the helm of my empire at the rate you’re going! You’d have my whole media dynasty down in the gutter with your pickle-brain ideas. That’s it!” she snapped, banging a hand on the table. “This is part of your scheme to ruin me! To destroy my reputation! Why, you hateful little tart!”
I narrowed my hazel eyes. Strike me down and singe my panties, Kitty was effortlessly beautiful, but I wanted nothing more than to soak my fingernails in a bowl of Clorox and scrub out the whites of her eyeballs.
I stamped my heels into the floor, slinging the magazine back at her. “Shut your pie hole, you nanny!”
“I’m not your damn nanny!” she snapped back. “I’m your mother, who you continue to disrespect and try to sabotage!”
“You are a nanny! You ole hoof-heeled goat! If I wanted to sabotage you, dumbo, I’d simply dig up all the dirty pairs of boxers you have buried around your precious rose bushes outside! You floral floozy! Now don’t make me put my fist in your . . .” I caught myself from getting violent. I sighed. “Mother, all I’m going to say is, you better shake it fast . . . watch yourself, before I show you what I’m working with! And I do . . . mean”—I dipped two fingers into the yogurt, then slung it at her—“show you.”
A nice white glob splattered atop one of the magazines she had spread out across the table. I stuck my fingers in the yogurt and slung more at her.
“Spencer! That’s it! You heathen! I’m shipping you off to the wilds of the jungles to be with your father, where you can swing from trees and eat with your feet! I’m sick of your—”
I jabbed a finger in the air at her. “Kitty, shut it. Up! I’m not going anywhere! Now go on out to the playground and find you some boy toy to ruin, because I. Am. Not. Hearing. You. It’s too early in the morning for you to be attacking me! You’re telling me all about Heather lying in some hospital bed and I don’t know anything about any of this nonsense. Do I look like Nurse Jackie to you, huh, Mother? Jeezussneezus! I wasn’t there changing her bandages. Now let me read in peace!”
I picked up another magazine, GlamDivas. There was a piece written by some heathen bunny about Heather and her mother, with a full-page photo of the two of them. Heather’s face was bloody. Her hair was wild. Her lips were swollen. Then there was Camille’s ugga-mugga face. Her pale skin was blotchy. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and crazed looking. Her lips were curled up into a snarl, showing her front teeth.
“MyReese’sPiecesNutterButterpiecrusts!”
Kitty grunted. “Don’t act surprised, you little trollop! I told you she wasn’t ready for another show! But noooo, you pressed me to no end. And look at the result. A pilot canceled! And you will transfer that three million dollars back into my account for being so ridiculous as to think that some misfit would have worked the program instead of letting the program—or should I say her counselor—work her.”
I gasped. “Mother, how dare you! I told you about Heather’s panties dropping down around her ankles for her counselor in confidence, you low-down snakeazoid! I told you to keep it on the hush-hush. And there you go yapping your gum line.”
She gave me a blank stare. I got so sick and tired of her and everyone else giving me that same empty look as if they don’t understand English.
Jeezus! My patience was really running on E with this woman. But one of us had to be the rational and sane one, so it might as well be me.
I took a deep breath. I had promised Daddy when I spoke to him two days ago—although after fifteen minutes into the conversation he kept getting distracted and started calling me some dang Cleola, whoever that ole country biscuit was. But, whatever! When Daddy finally got his mind together, I gave him my word that I was going to be loving and kind to this sea witch. And in turn, he was going to buy me my very own yacht.
Kitty huffed. “Don’t you get pissy with me, Spencer. If you don’t want me repeating anything you say, then perhaps—as hard as it may be for you—you should learn to keep your loose lips shut.”
I blinked, deciding it best to block her out before I made it rain on her head. I glanced at another headline. LOOKS LIKE ANOTHER TKO FOR HOLLYWOOD ACTRESS CAMILLE CUMMINGS. Then started reading the article.
Mayweather who?
Camille Cummings is the new heavyweigh
t champion in this bout between mother and daughter. The Academy Award–winning actress slugged her teen star daughter, Heather Cummings, over money and booze. Sources closest to the paparazzi-starved mother-daughter duo say the washed-up Hollywood starlet became enraged when Heather arrived at their sleazy motel room, driving a ’57 Chevy with her longtime pal Co-Co Ming—the androgynous son of five-star sushi king, Ying Ming—then flaunted her ten-thousand-dollar Brazilian butt lift in her mother’s face as she packed her belongings. According to sources, the two exchanged heated words that led to the elder Cummings attacking her daughter, pounding and stomping her with her fists and feet. Sadly, while the younger Cummings screamed for her life, her rainbow buddy stood biting his painted fingernails before running out of the room yelling for help...
The multi-award-winning teen star, who is well known for her long-standing role as Wu-Wu Tanner on the now canceled but highly popular sitcom, The Wu-Wu Tanner Show, was slated to star in an upcoming pilot as Luda Tutor on Kitty-Kitty—the television network owned by media mogul Kitty Ellington . . .
My nose flared. That two-faced hussy! How dare she flounce her big ole bubblicious booty over to that dang egg noodle without making it her business to check in with me first! Co-Co Ming didn’t give a damn about Heather the way I did. And this was the thanks I got! I should have been the first person she called and visited to gleefully show me my investment.
“I need to get to the bottom of this,” I snapped.
Kitty pushed back from her seat, standing to her feet. She snapped a hand up on her hip. “This is your mess! And you had better find a way to clean it up. That pale-faced, zebra junkie and her drunken mother are—”
I frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to shake it fast and watch yourself, huh, Mother? Now I won’t stand for your name-calling. Don’t you dare call Heather a zebra. Zebras are too beautiful to be cheapened to the likes of some hyena who can’t keep her snout out of the mud.”
