Gold Diggers

by Tracie Howard

  “I’ll be careful, baby cakes. I promise. And thanks for dinner and the car tonight.” His response elicited a loud smacking/puckering sound from Reese into the phone’s receiver; she was sending him a kiss, one that he’d have squeezed through the receiver to get, if possible. “I love you, too,” she purred before hanging up the phone, then doubled over in a fit of laughter.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Gillian said, shaking her head. She was a dark, bronze-skinned beauty with wild, warm brown hair and an elegantly tousled look.

  Reese regained her composure and pushed the button to close the privacy panel between them and the driver. Tossing her long, flowing hair she said, “It’s very easy. The man is loaded.” To her, no other explanation was necessary.

  Gillian rolled her eyes. “To sleep with him I’d have to be loaded too. And I don’t mean with money.” She and Lauren, who was seated beside her, exchanged disapproving glances. The man was old enough to be their grandfather.

  Paulette looked on admiringly. She had full appreciation for Reese’s ability to get what she wanted out of whoever had it, whenever she saw fit. The two women had met when Paulette was schmoozing Chris to sign him to her public relations agency. Reese had pulled Paulette aside and done some schmoozing of her own. She agreed to convince Chris to sign with Paulette as long as Paulette agreed to get free press for Reese as well. It had been a match made in tabloid heaven. After that Reese’s name popped up in the right places with such regularity that she was transformed seamlessly into a New York “it girl.”

  “The man’s got skills, okay?” Reese pulled out her compact to blot her collagen-enhanced lips. Though they hadn’t needed injections, she’d been influenced by Angelina Jolie’s seductive bee-stung kisser, and all of the attention it received.

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe.” Gillian frowned, turning up her nose. “He looks like he should be on Medicare.” She and Lauren shook their heads, joined in mutual disgust over the distasteful lengths to which Reese would go to get to a man’s wallet.

  “That just means that he’s been fucking a lot longer than most of us.” Satisfied that her appearance was showstopping, Reese snapped the mirror closed.

  By now the sex talk had Lauren blushing. Listening to Reese was like driving by a bad accident on the side of the highway: You knew that what you were about to see would be ugly, but somehow you still couldn’t resist looking anyway.

  Gillian, an artsy type, was bored already. She was a moderately successful model and an emerging actress who had seen it all. On the other hand, Paulette seemed to be transfixed, and taking detailed mental notes. Maybe Reese was onto something with the rich-older-man thing. Trading sex for cash didn’t seem like such a bad idea to her; after all she—and countless other women—had had bad sex that had cost them money, or worse, heartache. The way Paulette saw things, there was a winner and a loser in every transaction, and she was tired of carrying a deficit.

  “How long have you been seeing him?” Paulette asked. She tried to appear nonchalant, knowing that Lauren found Reese’s behavior abominable.

  “My friend Kira and I met him at the Four Seasons bar a couple of months ago—a place I strongly advise you to frequent if you really want your pick of rich old men,” she advised. “As soon as we met he pulled out his American Express Black Centurion card, and he hasn’t put it back in his wallet yet.” She raised her palm in the air for a high five, which Paulette gave, but Gillian and Lauren ignored.

  “You go, girl,” Paulette said.

  Reese tossed a nonexistent strand of hair from her face. “He’ll do until I reel in the big one.” She planned to get a wedding ring out of Chris by hook, crook, or—her last resort—an “unplanned” pregnancy.

  “Then you’ll just toss him aside, huh?” Gillian reached for the bottle of champagne that chilled in the bucket on the seat between them. She and Lauren sat on one side of the limo, while Reese and Paulette shared the other. She refilled all of their glasses with Champagne Paul Goerg—also courtesy of Reese’s current sugar daddy.

  Since childhood Reese had recognized the power of good looks, but she had taken manipulation to another level when she discovered the untapped power between her long, shapely legs. It all started with a cute young PE teacher who had threatened to fail her because she rarely attended his class. When she realized the full calamity of the situation—which included not graduating from high school and forfeiting her acceptance to the University of North Carolina—she turned up the charm, and before you could say, “Let’s make a deal,” she’d exchanged an A for a blow job in the PE teacher’s office.

  “Actually, I’ll just toss him back to his wife.” With that, Reese raised her glass for a toast. “Here’s to catching the big one.”

  As their glasses clinked—Lauren’s and Gillian’s reluctantly—Lauren thought about how little she had in common with Reese.

  Gillian, who actually liked her roommate, Reese, but disagreed with her lifestyle, was a bit more pragmatic. Her bohemian model’s lifestyle would require a benefactor of some kind as she aged, unless her acting really took off soon. She realized that her looks would eventually play out, which for models happened sooner than you could bat a fake eyelash. It was a depressing yet realistic thought that had begun to creep along the edges of her consciousness.

  Paulette toasted without reservation. She welcomed the opportunity to marry well, at any cost. It would be worth it to redeem her family’s honor. More than any of them, Paulette felt entitled to the wealth and lifestyle that her mother’s poor choice in matrimony had deprived her of.

  “To the big catch!” Paulette said.

  Reese pumped her fist. “To Mr. Moneybags.”

  Expensive champagne–filled flutes met between them, and the ensuing chime resonated throughout the plush environs of the expensive car. That special crystal-on-crystal ping was the universal sound of a good time about to be had.

  As the car rolled to a stop in front of the packed nightclub, the driver ceremoniously opened the back door of the car, helping each girl out. The line behind the velvet rope was long and chock-full of skimpily clad females vying for the hunky doorman’s attention to get in, and guys hoping to get in to then vie for the girls’ attention. When the foursome stepped out of the stretch Mercedes, every head in the line turned to see who’d emerge from behind the darkly tinted windows.

  The first to appear was Reese, who’d already mastered the art of exiting a limo in front of a red carpet. She’d practiced getting out of her Honda in front of her parents’ modest Queens home at the age of thirteen, and was now fairly efficient at executing the leg-revealing exit while simultaneously flinging her hair over one shoulder. Everyone watching would have to assume that she was someone, even if they had no idea who.

  Next out was Paulette—or should it be said, Paulette’s boobs. She often thanked God for those two huge blessings. She might not have the family money that Lauren did, or the natural good looks, but the set of can’t-miss knockers were all hers, and she’d learned very early just how to use her two biggest assets. Tonight she wore a dangerously low-cut halter top that barely covered her nipples, so of course the rest of her pillowy bosom was on full display. When she stepped out of the car men openly ogled, and women jealously assessed whether they were real or purchased.

  Gillian stepped out behind her. In sharp contrast, she was very tall and model thin, all chiseled features, wild, exotic hair, and dark glowing skin. Her complexion couldn’t be bought in a bottle. Stepping out of the expensive car, she looked like a Parisian runway model on a high-profile photo shoot. A few cameras manned by celebrity-hungry paparazzi flashed in appreciation, which Reese dourly noted before slinging her hair dismissively. The effect that Gillian had on the crowd was the very impact Reese strived so hard to achieve. Reese sighed quietly, and resolved to practice her entrance that much harder. Such was the downside of hanging out with girls who we
re also attractive, but the benefit of more bait with which to lure a catch did offset the negatives.

  Last to exit was Lauren, who was as different from the rest as humanly possible. While the other three were all versions of the same glamour-puss, Lauren was elegant, poised, and tasteful by comparison. She gave the impression of not trying hard, and of being completely nonplussed by the events around her. In other words, she was the perfect socialite in training. Rather than the trashy club clothes the others had on, Lauren stood out for the simplicity of a sleek melon-colored Michael Kors sundress that complemented her fresh-from-the-Vineyard tan, and a pair of strappy cream Ron Donovan stilettos.

  Side by side the girls marched to the door and were met immediately by an Armani suit–wearing Italian with the demeanor of an undercover FBI agent. He wore all black, including dark shades, and a wireless headset in his left ear. “Follow me, ladies,” he said, also wearing a serious expression. Though his task was simple, it was executed amid cloak-and-dagger theatrics, all for show. He proceeded to part those left on the wrong side of the velvet rope like the Red Sea, as the four divas were ushered by.

  “You can always tell the gold diggers,” one jealous, plain-looking young woman sneered. It pissed her off that being beautiful and stylish seemed to be the prerequisites for admission into life itself in New York City. The unattractive need not bother even to show up. Here she was, as usual, one of the unlucky ones who would happily pay extra just to get in, while these skinny bitches not only got in free, but had an escort as if they were important or something. Who were they, anyway?

  The girls were swiftly led past the throngs of everyday people into the pulsating nightclub as if they were rock royalty, all because they looked good. Each knew the power she possessed, and was intent on a making the most of it while it lasted. When they came to the private section for the Uptown party, the I’m-too-hot for-this-job gatekeeper clutched her clipboarded guest list as though it were the Holy Grail. She took the girls in all at once. She didn’t like what she saw. “Who are they?” she inquired of the escort with much attitude.

  “They’re with me,” Paulette stepped forward and announced. As a publicist, she was accustomed to taking charge.

  This was too tempting for any serviceperson who thought she was too good to actually perform the job for which she’d been hired. “And who are you?”

  Paulette bristled with all of the authority of a celebrity publicist, even though her agency had only two B-list rappers, a C-list actor, a few athletes, and an assortment of other wannabes with enough dough to buy some publicity. None of this stood in the way of her attitude as she came toe-to-toe—or as close as her mammoth breasts would allow—to the nobody gatekeeper. “If you don’t know, I suggest you ask your boss.” She slung her weave and pushed past the now-timid woman. The others followed without pause, leaving her even more pissed off than before and poised to take it out on the next customer.

  The private party for Uptown magazine was a see-and-be-seen fishbowl for hip urban African Americans and those who wanted to be like them.

  While cool Afro-Euro music set the tone, free-flowing champagne fueled it. The party was sponsored by the French Champagne Paul Goerg and its bon vivant U.S. representative, Mario Rinaldi. It was the type of party where you could be declined access simply because of the hang of your trouser or the quality of your weave; fashion victims were not allowed. Though the audience was varied, including those from the media, fashion, and banking, as well as athletes and entertainers, they all had a few things in common: They were upwardly mobile, socially aggressive, and, without question, stylish.

  As promised, the magazine reserved special seating for Paulette, so she and her crew commanded a power booth, complete with its own overhead light to showcase them for all to see, in the event anyone should have missed their grand entrance. As soon as their well-toned derrieres touched the velvet seats, two servers appeared with three perfectly chilled bottles of Champagne Paul Goerg nestled in sterling-silver signature buckets.

  The champagne was loudly uncorked, competing with pings of laughter and the incessant buzz of light social chatter. Unable simply to sit, Paulette was soon up parading around with a glass of champagne in her hand and witty repartee ready for any takers—preferably male and attractive, though she was just as capable of working anyone in the crowd who might be able to help her or her clients make it to the next rung of the ladder. Just as she was taking in the scene, deciding where best to fit, in waltzed the finest, most self-assured man she’d ever seen in person.

  His entrance was tantamount to the sudden appearance of a black panther prowling a cage. He was six-one, with a tight build, one made for the fine drape of an Italian-cut suit. It hung well in every place that counted, and he had a silent swagger that suggested a better-than-average muscle there, too. His complexion was buttery, his hair dark and thick. It was clear that if it grew longer it might curl, but the man had enough panache to know that curls on brothers went out with bell-bottoms, so he wore it nice and low.

  Paulette put her flute to her mouth to catch the drool, stuck her chest out farther than need be—her girls looked like two buoys at high tide—and made her approach. “I’m Paulette Dolliver, the publicist for this event. And you are…?” She extended her hand for a feel of his.

  He reached out to shake it, but his eyes never left her chest. Many women might have found that Pavlovian-breast-effect look offensive, but Paulette was of the mind that any attention was better than none at all—the perfect disposition for a publicist.

  “I’m Maximillian. Maximillian Neuman the Third.” He flashed a smile that said it all: sexy, confident, and primal. A man on the prowl.

  His voice was a melodic tone of smooth masculinity. And he was beyond handsome; Paulette was convinced that the word for him had yet to appear in Webster’s. She now knew the meaning of weak in the knees. Even though he hadn’t touched her in a meaningful way, she could feel her insides melt like heated butter. An orgasm was only a well-placed stroke away. “Are you alone tonight?” By now her chest was heaving up and down, bobbing seductively with each breath she took.

  His eyes never left them. For her, it was as if time stood still; nothing else in the room mattered except for the potent chemistry that was set to explode between them.

  “Oh, there you are.” Reese’s chirpy voice was like a shard of glass, quickly piercing the sexy spell that Paulette had cast.

  Reese was smiling like she’d won the Miss America pageant, and worst of all, Paulette knew those pearly whites weren’t being displayed for her benefit. Couldn’t she be satisfied with an NBA star and a filthy-rich sugar daddy?

  “Who do we have here?” Reese finally got around to asking. She appraised Maximillian the way a hungry butcher might look over a tender side of beef.

  Maximillian seemed entertained by the brash show of feminine wiles. Certainly he was accustomed to undue female attention, and was even turned off by it at times, but given the extraordinary mammary glands on display, and the glistening fangs bared by the man-eater, it was hard for him to turn away.

  “Maximillian, this is Reese. Reese, Maximillian.” Once the hesitant introductions were over, Paulette repositioned herself between the two. “So, where were we?”

  Reese sidestepped her. “Would you care to join us?” She motioned toward their table. “We have plenty of room, and lots of champagne.”

  He glanced at the table that Reese had gestured to, and saw Lauren and Gillian watching the melodrama unfold. “What kind of man would turn down champagne and the company of four beautiful women?”

  “Not the kind I know.” Reese shook her hair out and sauntered away, briefly looking back over her shoulder to witness his eyes slip and land on the rhythmic motions of her ass. Got him, she thought.

  When Lauren grew tired of watching the predictable drama between the two divas, she turned to Gillian, who had also grown bored with the s
cene, and said, “Weren’t you in Raisin in the Sun last year?”

  “Yes, I was.” Gillian immediately brightened. While many of her girlfriends were impressed that she was an actress, not many ever actually bothered to come to the theater.

  “You were great! I loved that last scene. You were brilliant!”

  “Thank you.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I just finished a run of Jelly’s Last Jam.”

  “I saw the original, with Debbie Allen, and I loved it, too.”

  “Do you go to the theater often?”

  “Every chance I get. I love the arts.” Lauren smiled for the first time all night, and then shrugged. “Although I have no artistic ability myself, I’ve always admired those who do.”

  “I do love my work.” Gillian sighed. “Though it can be so hard for actors that sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.” She was not the open type, and rarely bonded with other women, but there was something genuine about Lauren that she immediately liked.

  “You’re so talented that I’m sure your big break will come.”

  Before Gillian could respond, Paulette, Reese, and the catch of the day were headed in their direction, led by Reese, who was tailed by Max. Paulette brought up the rear, deeply pained by the slick maneuver Reese had used to lure this prime catch from her well-set net.

  “Gillian, Lauren, meet Maximillian,” Reese announced. She introduced him as though he were already her property, leaving Paulette feeling like a wobbly third wheel.

  “Ladies.” As smooth as silk, Maximillian slid into the booth next to Lauren. Reese sat to his left, and Paulette to hers, so in record time he was happily sandwiched between the four women.

  “Have some champagne?” Paulette strategically leaned over Reese to pour bubbly into an empty glass, causing her boobs to nearly pop from the tight confines of her top. It had just the effect she’d counted on. All bets were off. Paulette realized that she’d have to play hardball to stay in this game.