Gillian unzipped her bag, not sure what she’d find to wear. She’d shipped most of her things a couple of days ago, and was traveling with just enough to get by for a week or two, none of her flyest gear. When she opened the bag’s zipper, to her horror she realized that she didn’t have any gear!
“Oh, shit!”
Paulette stuck her head out the bedroom door. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“For starters, these are not my clothes,” Gillian answered, holding up a pair of silk men’s boxers with the tips of her fingers.
“What happened?”
“I must have grabbed the wrong bag.” Gillian had been so anxious to get out of the airport after the hellacious flight that she snatched the first Louis Vuitton bag she saw. It looked exactly like hers, but the baggage tag, once she got around to looking at it, read, BRANDON RUSSELL. Upon further inspection she saw that Mr. Russell lived in L.A. and listed a 310 area code, which meant he lived in L.A proper. “This belongs to a Brandon Russell.”
“That name sounds familiar.” Paulette wrinkled her nose, and then snapped her fingers. “I got it. He runs Sunset Records!” she gushed. It was Paulette’s business to know anybody who was anybody.
“I’ve got to get this back to the airport and hope that my bag is still there.” Gillian couldn’t care less who Brandon was; at that moment she could think only about her close friends Dolce & Gabbana, Calvin Klein, Gucci, and Prada.
“You should call him.” Paulette appeared excited at the prospect. She was halfway to the phone already. She hadn’t climbed to the pinnacle of the competitive PR field by being a shrinking violet.
“No, I should just take the bag back to the airport.” Gillian didn’t like the idea of calling up a stranger.
“He might actually have your bag. Have you thought about that? And if he does, getting it from him would be much quicker than sorting through red tape with the airline.” By now Paulette had her arms crossed over her chest and her weight shifted to one leg, while the other foot tapped knowingly. She couldn’t believe that Gillian hadn’t made the leap and figured out that meeting Brandon Russell was a good move. She was just like Lauren, she thought; both had no idea of how to hustle and make things happen. They were both born into too much privilege, and therefore were accustomed to having things taken care of for them. While Gillian was flitting around the world with her glamorous mother, and Lauren was swaddled in luxury, Paulette had had to fend for herself and her not-too-bright mother.
“He was probably smart enough to read the name tag.”
“Maybe, but once he saw that his was gone and yours was still there, he was also smart enough to figure out that you had his and would most likely call.”
Excitedly, Paulette began flipping through the man’s belongings as though she were at a rummage sale. When Gillian still didn’t answer, she added, “Besides, he could be worth knowing; he’s a powerful man in the music business. Get a look at these labels—Armani, Ferre, and Etro. He sure knows how to dress.”
“Yeah, and…?”
Paulette put both hands on her hips, giving Gillian a don’t-you-get-it? look. “Are you crazy? In this business you meet powerful people however you can, and if they owe you a favor it’s even better than gold.
Hey, I’m not suggesting you date him; I’m just saying call him. If he doesn’t have your bag, you simply do what you would have done anyway and go to the airport. You have nothing to lose.”
Don’t remind me, Gillian thought as she slammed the luggage closed.
FIVE
Reese Nolan stepped out of her tricked-out champagne-colored Jaguar, dripping in money. A fleet of paparazzi swarmed her, capturing for Page Six and the other celebrity-hungry publications the more than a hundred thousand dollar’s worth of jewelry, clothes, and accessories that she casually wore. On her left arm alone she sported seventy grand in merchandise, including her diamond-encrusted Rolex, an Ethos Art Collection necklace, her enormous engagement and wedding rings, and a fabulous diamond bracelet, a little something she’d picked up just this week from Cartier. Now that they were married, she had no reservations whatsoever about spending Chris’s money. As far as she was concerned, the more personal property she amassed during the marriage the better, since her prenuptial agreement set a measly $2 million cap on what she could walk away with in the first five years, and based on her current lifestyle—which she wasn’t about to give up—that wouldn’t last a New York minute. Plus, for no specific reason, except for her own devious proclivities, Reese did not trust Chris. After the five-year mark, which was only a year and a half away, he’d have to pay her more money if they got divorced, so what would stop him from dumping her prior to her expiration date?
She tossed her Louis Vuitton key ring to the valet without a second glance. Thanks to Paulette, she was so cozy with the media that everybody knew Mrs. Reese Nolan. She was nearly as famous as her NBA superstar husband. Paulette made sure that Reese was invited to every red-carpet event in New York or L.A.; Reese even flew to Cannes and walked the carpet for the film festival every year, and in return she fed Paulette a constant stream of newly signed NBA stars who all looked up to her and Chris.
Reese hoisted her twelve-hundred-dollar Gucci bag up onto her shoulder, thrust her recently enhanced thirty-six-C cleavage out in front of her, tossed her hair back, and prepared to make her grand entrance. She was five-foot-nine, slim, but amply proportioned where it counted the most, and had just enough peanut butter in her complexion not to be considered high yellow. But her best feature was a full, thick mane of jet-black hair that flowed luxuriously down the middle of her back. From afar she was drop-dead gorgeous, but she wasn’t nearly as pretty on closer inspection, which revealed eyes that were just a hair too close together, a nose that was a tad crooked, and skin that bore a coat of enlarged pores that weekly facials had done nothing so far to correct, but which coats of foundation did wonders covering.
There was a long, winding line that started at the velvet rope and snaked down the sidewalk and around the corner, away from Rush, the latest trendy hot spot for hip and fashionable New Yorkers. The New York Knicks had made it to the play-offs after a long drought, thanks in large part to Chris’s three-pointers, and as a result a veritable who’s who—and those who thought they were—descended on the club for a star-studded party to celebrate.
“Mrs. Nolan, right this way.” A smartly dressed man wearing all black ushered Reese past the throng of groupies, wannabes, and hangers-on at the door. A gaggle of hoochies in skirts so short they needn’t have bothered wearing anything sneered as she was whisked past them. As far as they were concerned she was the enemy; she had what they wanted: a baller. Reese was impervious to such women; they were like yesterday’s news: They didn’t matter to her at all.
Reese’s escort glided her past the nobodies outside to enter the pulsing, dimly lit nightclub. The event promoter continued to guide her through another mostly female crowd who watched the door while sipping on the drink du jour, the Slam Dunk, a wicked concoction of Grey Goose and Red Bull.
New York’s nightclubs were a study in class systems. Waiting outside placed you at the lowest rung on the shaky ladder, but even after flash, cash, or cleavage had appeased the doormen, once inside, unfortunately, the social hierarchy began anew.
At this tenuous point some women would do and promise whatever was necessary to make the cut; they were so close to being in the mix they could just about taste the cake. If only they could make it beyond this point, Mr. NBA would be there waiting to convert their ordinary nine-to-five lives into the world of money, power, and makeovers. All it took was dollars and sense to get the right boob job to add that extra bounce, buy a little Botox to smooth away the rent-worry lines, visit one of those celebrity dentists to whiten, brighten, and straighten a crooked or yellowing smile. And let’s not forget a visit to Gucci, Prada, and Hermès to finish wrapping the end product in high st
yle.
Seeing Reese sail by without a pause only fueled their burning desire to make it into the end zone, where instead of the Slam Dunk, those lucky enough to breathe the air would swill vintage Champagne Paul Goerg, or shots of Courvoisier.
Reese could hear the incessant chatter as she breezed by.
“That’s Chris Nolan’s wife. She thinks she so cute.”
“I heard that he has over nine inches in those shorts, and I wanna see for myself.”
“That’s gotta be a weave she’s got. Ain’t no black girl got hair like that.”
“My fake tits look better than hers.”
“Don’t let me get my hands on him. He ain’t that cute, but I’d rock his world anyway.”
And so it went….
These women were either friends or girlfriends of players and their friends. They were in the mix, but still not a bona fide part of it. The endgame was the fiercely guarded section that rose high above the other two sections, where players, their wives, and other celebrities gathered to look down over the glass partition and reign supreme over the peons relegated to the depths below. This was Reese’s domain. Though she’d been married to Chris for three and a half years now, that heady rush of superiority that followed such public displays of her position still gave her an incredible high, one that no twelve-step program could ever cure.
“Let me know if I can be of further assistance,” the promoter said, nearly bowing as he opened the door for Reese to enter.
Scanning the room Reese saw a cluster of diamonds: a group of players’ wives. The players hovered near the bar, surrounding André 3000, Jay-Z, and Russell Simmons. Most of the players were married and on a tight leash for the night, but a few of their single teammates were on the prowl, searching for the pick of tonight’s litter. Assorted rappers were there with their posses, as well as a bevy of perpetually bored-looking models, a smattering of perky up-and-coming Hollywood actresses, and quite a few PR reps, some of whom confused themselves with their clients, so intent were they on their own fame.
Reese wasted no time diving right in. “My, my, my, don’t you look trim. You’ve finally lost some of that baby fat,” she said to Windy Latner, a rookie’s wife who’d had a baby eight months ago and struggled mightily to return to a fighting size six. Until she did, the other wives would continue to treat her as though fat cells might actually be contagious. Reese was the worst, acting as though being fat and/or ugly were cardinal sins.
“You’ve certainly never had to worry about that,” one of the rookie wives said, sucking up. The two women exchanged fake air kisses, not even bothering to touch each other’s cheeks.
“And I never will.” Reese tossed her impeccably maintained hair and proceeded to greet the other wives, and their inner circle, who stood as if to kneel and kiss her ring. The player’s wives tended to follow the same pecking order established by the players. Those whose husbands made the most money or had the most fame lorded over the others. The rookie wives were at the bottom of the NBA-wife food chain, unless, of course, you’d managed to snag Lebron James or another bona fide rising superstar. Before taking her throne Reese greeted her old friend Kira, whom she’d personally invited to the party.
“Hey, girl. Glad you could make it,” she said.
“As if I’d miss it,” Kira replied.
Kira, who began her “career” as a video ho, was now simply a well-kept woman, or, more generically put, a high-class call girl. She lived in L.A., and because of her ferocious body, which she worked seven days a week to maintain, she was a regular on the celebrity circuit, often bedding one star or another, be they male or female, and sometimes in mixed groups. In exchange for her valuable services she got regular and substantial deposits into her many bank accounts, two of which were offshore. Hers was a cottage industry; the cottage just happened to be smack-dab in the middle of Beverly Hills.
After they’d all rearranged themselves so that Reese would be among their center, they resumed sipping champagne, gossiping, and looking fabulous for the photographers who milled about taking shot after shot of the beautiful people.
“Here comes your husband,” said Kira. She nudged her in the side. “He had a great game tonight.”
When Chris entered a room—particularly of women—a hush usually followed. He was tall, powerfully built, and though he was not necessarily handsome, his money made him very sexy; paper like his melted hearts and panties alike. All eyes followed him as he approached Reese, who beamed like a Cheshire cat. The other wives envied her, not just because her man was the star, but because he was faithful, at least as far as the busy NBA grapevine was concerned. One thing was certain: If a player was fooling around, everyone knew it; the grapevine usually took root in bed, and thus spread from pillow to pillow.
“Hey, baby.” He leaned his six-five frame over to kiss her lips. After more than three years of marriage and a baby, he seemed to still be in love with her.
“Great game.” She remained seated, but flashed him a smile, or at least one for the cameras, which were flashing right back.
“Can I get something for you?”
“I’ll have another glass of Champagne Paul Goerg, please.” It was the only champagne she drank.
“I’ll be back.”
After he left, Reese felt her cell phone vibrate, and checked the caller ID. It was Paulette, who’d just flown in from L.A. “I’m downstairs,” she shouted. “One of the morons at the door, who doesn’t have enough sense to know who I am, won’t let me up. You have to come down to get me.”
Reese wanted to tell her that it wasn’t because he didn’t know who she was that she couldn’t get in, but because she was at least fifteen pounds overweight and her weave needed tightening up. In other words, she didn’t look like a VIP. For a publicist she could be awfully dense, but then again, who knew what exactly Paulette saw when she looked at her own image in the mirror? “I’ll be right down,” Reese said. She got up and pushed her way through the thickening crowd to rescue her friend.
Out of nowhere a hand grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. She whipped around, ready to snatch it away and sling indignant outrage at whoever it was who had the nerve to touch her. She turned to face a man who had danger written across his handsome forehead, down his lean but muscular arms, and across his deep, broad chest. The man who stood unfazed by her glare was dark and ruggedly handsome, with a smile that Tyrese would envy. There was nothing pretty about him; he was sexy in a very primal, dirty, bad-boy kind of way.
While Reese stood immobilized by rapid-fire thoughts of lust, he did his talking with his hands. Camouflaged by the crowd, his right hand pulled her even closer. She could feel his sizable hard-on as he slyly rubbed her ass. His brazen display only fueled her lustful thoughts. Her head was light; she had to remind herself to breathe. She felt both wet and hot, sensations that she’d not known for years, certainly not since being married to Chris. With his left hand he slipped a note in hers, put his thick, perfectly shaped lips to her ear, and whispered, “Call me, and don’t make me wait too long.” He gave her a sexy leer that passed for a smile, and then he was gone.
By the time she returned to the VVVIP room with Paulette, some of the groupies had managed to cajole, beg, or barter blow jobs to gain access to the inner sanctum, and had gathered near the bar, scoping their targets. Reese watched as their eyes took in every inch of Chris’s body. Many didn’t refrain from licking their lips. Reese despised groupies. They hunted her man and the other players like prey in the jungle, trying any- and everything to bag one—if not for keeps, many would be just as happy with a souvenir, in the form of a baby, that could be taken all the way to the bank. She rolled her eyes at the group of them.
Just then one girl loaded up and moved in for the kill. She was formidable, with a long, silky weave, a full rack of breasts, and a butt that made Beyoncé’s look like a starter kit. She slunk over to Chris as
he approached the bar. Chris was no fool; he turned his back to her.
“Those gold diggers will stop at nothing,” Samantha hissed. She had good reason to; her doggish husband was one of the biggest whores in the NBA. Rumor had it that he had three outside children, and the baby mamas to go with them, and brought cases of venereal disease home to his wife the way some men brought flowers. Many of the wives, like Samantha, were tortured but well-dressed souls, who would sooner cut off a limb than part with the social status of being a player’s wife.
Reese didn’t have that problem, since she was convinced that she was as much of a celebrity as her husband was. The only thing necessary about Chris was his money.
“Those hussies are the worst,” Paulette hissed, rolling her eyes. She was oblivious to the sharp irony of her remarks. As a realist, Paulette was well aware of her own hunt for the power that the right Mr. Right would bring, yet she still drew a distinction between those women and herself.
Reese had no such conflicts; she despised the gold diggers so much because she understood them all too well. In fact, she was one of the best, and look where it had gotten her, so she had little doubt that even a man like Chris could succumb to one. After all, that was how she got him.
SIX
Like a prospector prepared for a big dig, Reese had shown up at the University of North Carolina with her future clearly mapped out. She knew that to get the type of man who could afford the things a girl like her deserved, first she had to get the hell out of Queens, and since she wasn’t quite ready to conquer the Big Apple yet, she needed a pit stop. The University of North Carolina proved to be the perfect outpost.
Reese surmised that any man with bankable credentials wanted his wife to at least have a college education; that much was simple to her. While most people viewed a degree as necessary for career success, to Reese it was like a sharp chisel: a precision tool needed to get better results quicker. The decision to go to UNC specifically was even more tactical: It was an excellent place to start her NBA scouting expedition.
Gold Diggers Page 5
