Gold Diggers

by Tracie Howard

  The officer’s radio crackled. “Got a five-oh-three on the license plate.”

  Suddenly the cop got antsy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his semicordial demeanor gone with the wind. “Get out of the car with your hands on your head,” he demanded. His gun was drawn now, and the barrels were pointed squarely between Chris’s eyes. A second cop, who’d remained in the patrol car up till now, was suddenly prowling on Damon’s side of the car, looking very nervous and menacing, while Damon looked like a runaway slave facing a tight noose.

  “Wait a minute. What’s going on here?” Chris was baffled. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Our records show that this car is stolen, so I need you both to get out of the vehicle slowly, with your hands in the air,” the first cop said, never lowering his weapon.

  “Listen, Officer, there’s gotta be some mistake here. I’m Chris Nolan, with the New York Knicks.” This was the card he always played when things needed to go his way, but this time it was trumped.

  “I don’t care if you are Don King; I need you to step out of the vehicle right now!” Tension was visible in the cop’s face; the veins along the side of his neck throbbed, and his complexion had gone from pale to pink—red was next. Chris suddenly understood the term trigger-happy, because the cop’s fingers were actually twitching involuntarily, as if only the release of a bullet could possibly scratch the itch.

  Damon was looking at Chris for an explanation and reassurance. Chris slowly opened the door and got out, then was promptly manhandled by the second cop, who frisked him, then slammed his body against the car, yanking his hands roughly behind his back, where they were joined in a pair of tight handcuffs. It wasn’t until his face was jammed onto the top of the car that Chris noticed a very important detail: The car was midnight blue, not black. Somehow in his haste he’d left the hotel in the wrong Escalade!

  Finally realizing what had happened, he immediately felt a sense of relief, a shining glimmer of hope that he could wake himself up from this awful nightmare. All he had to do was explain how he’d inadvertently taken off in the wrong new Escalade; then they could all laugh about it, and he could get on his way, head to the hotel, climb into bed, and forget this madness ever happened. “Officer, Officer, listen, please. I just valet-parked my rental car at the Peninsula, and somehow I left in the wrong one.”

  “Oh, yeah, so you just happened to take a brand-new Escalade by accident. Save it, buddy; you’re going down.” He yanked the cuffs, dragging Chris to the patrol car. Out of nowhere a photographer had shown up, offering Chris the second flash of light in his face in the last five minutes.

  “I want to call my attorney,” he demanded angrily. The reply was his head being shoved down as he was unceremoniously tossed into the backseat of the patrol car.

  In a surrealistic state he watched as Damon went through the same humiliating process. He was clearly terrified; his eyes were the size of dollar coins. When the officer frisked him he called out to his partner, and both men converged behind Damon, examining something that had been taken from his pocket; then a flurry of activity ensued. Though Chris couldn’t hear what was said, the fear in Damon’s eyes was loud and clear. Damon had something on him that he shouldn’t have. Chris dropped his head, shaking it from side to side, praying that this was all a bad dream. Another patrol car pulled up, and the officers hopped out and quickly begin a methodical search of the car, stopping every now and then to place pieces of evidence into plastic bags. Chris shivered as he absorbed the full calamity of the situation that was unfolding before him.

  After torturous hours of interrogation, booking, and processing, Chris’s attorney finally had them released at nine o’clock that morning. He walked out of the precinct looking like death warmed over, and was greeted by a swarming mass of reporters and photographers, all snapping a frenzy of pictures and popping off rounds of questions:

  “Chris, Chris, why did you steal the Escalade?”

  “Were you high on the meth they found in the car?”

  “What’ll happen to your Nike deal?”

  “Who is your friend?”

  “Where had you been all night?”

  Courtesy of a reporter looking for his reaction, a newspaper was shoved in his face. The erroneous headline read, “Knicks Star Chris Nolan Steals Escalade During Drug-fueled Rampage.”

  And, of course, there was the requisite grainy photo of him doing the perp walk—head down, hands shackled behind his back—into the police station. There was no way not to look guilty under those circumstances. This was his worst nightmare come true.

  Though his lawyer assured him that the auto-theft charge would be dismissed, based upon proof that he had just valet-parked a similar car at the same place, the drug charges could be a problem. Not only did Damon, unbeknownst to Chris, have Ecstasy on him, but there was meth and cocaine found in the car as well. Proving that they weren’t his would be tricky, since the car’s owner was unlikely to step up and claim the drugs himself. Regardless of what happened in court, his reputation was already tainted by the scandal-hungry media.

  He thought of his son, Rowe, his mother, his coach and team, and how disappointed they would all be when they got wind of this. It brought tears to his eyes. But most of all he thought about Nike, and the multimillion-dollar contract that had just sat in the palm of his hand merely hours ago. Given the character clause, it was fair to assume that defeat would be snatched from the jaws of victory. Forget a misting of tears; the enormity of that loss rendered him unable to hold back a tidal wave.

  With his head in his hands, the six-foot-five-inch superstar athlete cried like a lost child. At that moment being a star NBA player was worthless to him; in fact, he’d rather have been just an average black boy from South Carolina.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Normally Brandon was the portrait of calm, cool, and collected, his feathers rarely ruffled. But lately Gillian had noticed that he seemed just a tad anxious, a little jittery, and ever so slightly on edge. Of course, he was charming to her, but there was a barely perceptible frisson beneath the smooth surface of his impenetrable facade. She chalked it up to the stress of producing his first feature film.

  On the contrary, starring in Gold Diggers was exhilarating for Gillian, like jumping from a soaring jet with a weightless chute that opens just in the nick of time, but without any effort or energy. To William’s delight, she proved to be a perfectionist where her craft was concerned. She pushed herself harder than any director would dare, happily enduring countless hours of shooting—and reshooting—scene after scene, perfecting a simple glance that would speak volumes, or delivering a powerful line with just the right balance of emphasis and restraint. Each night she fell into bed drained, but never had she been happier. Her director, Christopher Bythewood, was a genius, the screenplay was brilliantly written, and her role was tailor-made just for her—as was Brandon, she was also discovering.

  Her feelings had begun to change a couple of weeks before. She’d fallen asleep exhausted in the media room while looking over outtakes that Chris had given her to study. Sometime in the night Brandon came in, lifted her from the chaise, and took her to her room and tucked her into bed. She had a sleepy, partial recollection of this, but a very clear remembrance of the sense of security that the gesture gave her. In every way he was unfailingly generous, providing her with everything a woman could ask for; he was kind and loving, and ensured that all of her needs were met. And the bonus was, he was also a perfect gentleman! Surprisingly, he had not once come close to crossing the line she’d drawn in their relationship, even though his desire for her was obvious. Oddly enough, his maintaining a distance seemed to draw her closer. More than anything else, the sense of security that she’d never experienced from a father was deeply comforting and very enticing.

  A lazy smile crossed her face, and she slipped farther down into the milky bath she’d drawn, letting the warm w
ater lap over her hair, untangling the coils, caressing her body, and quieting the stream of static in her mind. A chilled glass of sauvignon blanc sat on the marble ledge that surrounded the Jacuzzi tub, waiting to further erase any stubbornly tangled nerves. In these minutes of pure relaxation, Gillian experienced an unshakable satiation with her life; in fact, she hadn’t thought about a cigarette in weeks now.

  She had always felt just a little out of place in the world until now: a little too tall for her grade-school classmates, a little too dark for Jack and Jill, hair just a little too kinky to be considered good, and a little too rich for the kids in the hood, but still a little too poor for the jet-setters—she was never just right for anything. These ambiguities made her a truly unique and special person, but taken out of context the result was unsettling. Brandon, however, provided an environment created just for her, so the fit was like a kid-leather glove pulled taut. He accepted Gillian for exactly what she was, and blindly worshiped all of her: the good, the bad, and the rest.

  Deeply content, she turned her hazy thoughts to her friends. She wondered whether they were anywhere near as happy as she was at this moment. Though Paulette was expecting and seemed pleased as spiked punch about it, Gillian personally thought the pregnancy was a nine-month disaster in the making. And Lauren had been mysteriously missing in action lately. Aside from a quick call to set up Paulette’s baby shower, she hadn’t been heard from, a development that was way out of character for her. And then there was Reese, who’d gotten beat at her own game. Even so, it was hard to really worry about her. The girl was a survivor, the type who would be left standing when all others fell. It would be good to see them at next week’s shower.

  Gillian stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself in a plush white towel, and took another lingering sip of wine. She padded out of the bathroom into her enormous suite, which had its own landscaped balcony, an entertainment/sitting room, and a personal boudoir. After smoothing a rich Biotherm lotion into her soft, buttery skin, she slid into a creamy lace nightie and tossed a matching robe over it. Gillian was about to go to bed when she decided to do something that she’d been considering for the last week, as her attraction to Brandon grew. Even though she realized that it was probably a father-figure fixation, the idea still tugged at her, teased her, coaxed her to join Brandon in his sitting room, where he would undoubtedly be smoking a stogie and nursing a single-malt.

  And there he was, wearing a cranberry velvet Armani bathrobe with matching slippers and black drawstrings house pants. The cigar had long since burned out, and the snifter was low on fuel. He looked melancholy, but perked up the moment she walked into the room.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He gave her a weak smile, but his eyes still danced at the sight of her.

  She marveled at her ability to elicit such an unguarded response from such a powerful man, realizing that he truly worshiped her. She slowly walked over to him and perched on the armrest of his chair, wearing her sexy negligee and a nice warm smile. He looked so vulnerable, causing her to feel a deep affection for him, a desire to make it all better, whatever it was that troubled him.

  “Can I get anything for you? Another cognac?” she asked. Her words were simply put, but the real question was as complex as the faceted shades of brown and gold that flickered in her eyes. There was nothing literal about their conversation, but then again, Brandon was not a literal man. She was beginning to see the many layers of his personality, those that weren’t obvious to most people.

  He reached up and gently slid his hand behind her head. “How about this instead?” he asked, pulling her toward him for a kiss.

  She caressed his lips with the soothing touch of her own. Opening her mouth ever so slightly, she invited him in, tasting, teasing, and testing him, skimming the surface of his desire. He literally shivered under her touch. An epiphany revealed itself to Gillian: If she’d brandished a whip and snapped it overhead, Brandon would have happily succumbed to any demand she made. But her desire was only to soothe him, to make him feel good, the way she’d felt in the bath just minutes ago, as she did before the camera earlier today, and as she had for weeks being swaddled in his lap of luxury. She caressed the taut muscles in his shoulders, his back, and across his chest, eventually roaming past his robe to his nightshirt underneath, where she unfastened one button at a time, slowly seducing the man who’d given her everything. Her touch was at once tentative, inviting, electric, and forbidden.

  Nonetheless, uninvited thoughts intruded, though she held them at bay. Were her attentions an outward expression of gratitude for all that he’d done for her? Or were they simply a callous quid pro quo, an exchange of favors, one for the other? Was she more like her mother than she’d ever allowed herself to believe? Or even cut from the same cloth as Reese? The term gold digger bounced around the back of her subconscious, but for the moment she convinced herself that it could not possibly apply to her.

  She saw herself as a director might have, standing up from her perch on his chair’s arm, playfully pulling away his pajama pants before straddling his lap, leaving nothing between them but her flimsy lace G-string. Her face brightened at the sight of him and she enjoyed the radiant heat that filled her clenched fist. She held him as a race car driver might clutch the throttle of a powerful car, knowing that one thrust would send it speeding recklessly into space. She had that kind of control over him, and she could see it in his eyes. Gillian held his gaze, daring him to look away.

  Lifting up, she slid a condom from the pocket of her robe, slid it on him, and positioned herself, daring him to look away as she pulled her G-string aside and descended onto him, taking him in inch by inch. Soon he was swallowed whole, and his eyes were glazed orbs of lust. His orgasm was metaphysical, a spiritual experience, connecting them on an even higher plane.

  Afterward, she was sure of one thing: She never wanted to lose him, or the sight of what she represented in his eyes. Gillian’s need for Brandon wasn’t just a function of material things, but of everything. She saw and appreciated herself more fully through his eyes. He fulfilled her and offered her a sense of stability and security that had been missing throughout her entire life. Because Gillian grew up without roots, she lacked foundation. A stable childhood was like a compass: No matter how far life took you from that origin, if you wanted to, you could always find your way back to the time and place that had helped shape the very essence of who you were. As a result of the many moves, men, and machinations that Imelda used to try to alter her own compass during Gillian’s childhood such a foundation was nonexistent for her. There was no stability; there were no cousins, grandparents, or cherished holiday traditions. Most important to Gillian, there was no father. Things might have been better had there been one who had died in an accident, or been a deserting louse or an impossible drunk. But not to know anything about him left a gaping hole in her identity, one that had been beautifully camouflaged over the years with looks, money, and prestige.

  Afterward, she lay draped over Brandon like an expensive cloak, soaking up the heat emanating from his body, basking in his love for her. It was such an incredible feeling to be cherished by a man. Early on she’d tried to chase Brandon away, to ignore him and give him every reason to give up hope that she’d ever return his affection. But he didn’t give up, convincing Gillian that he would be around, and could offer her the security that she’d always needed, but never even knew she wanted.

  “Are you okay, baby?” he asked, stroking her back the way one might a beloved pet.

  “I’ve never been better,” she purred. She kissed him sweetly before shifting a little to curl up in his lap, contented. “How about you?” she asked softly. “I’ve been worried about you lately.”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, there is something I need to talk to you about.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There is nothing romantic about poverty. Having no money meant no weekly spa facials at Mario Badescu
in Midtown to ward off telltale wrinkles, no familiar greetings at four-star restaurants, no exquisite one-of-a-kind jewelry from Ethos. In general, being poor was hard on a girl, and downright devastating to a legendary glamour-puss like Reese, who was now forced to witness the dimming of her bright light in real time.

  The mirror was no longer her trusted friend. The two-faced bitch was betraying her with sad images of dark shadows lurking beneath her eyes, lackluster skin with overenlarged pores, and hair as limp as two-day-old, overcooked spaghetti. Not to mention the ten extra pounds that a couch, no trainer, and comfort food had added in all the wrong places, or the haunting memory of her six-pack, which she’d proudly sported with midriffs and low-riding hip-huggers. The sour cherry atop these layers of tragedy was walking up Madison Avenue and not having one single head turn. It was sadly sobering not to have one person admire, envy, or lust after her for the entire ten blocks it took to walk—as opposed to being chauffeured—from the subway to her lawyer’s office.

  When Justin was finished explaining the terms of her measly settlement in his monotone legalese, Reese was one blink away from an onslaught of tears. How much more humiliation would she be forced to endure?

  “If you’ll just sign here, here, and here,” he said, flipping through the pages of the document, “that should do it.” By the time he took his unfair cut, and Uncle Sam grabbed his, Reese would be lucky to have enough to start her life again in, say, Kansas City, let alone in Manhattan. There was a time when she would have scoffed at two hundred thousand dollars—she was fully capable of blowing through that during a long weekend in Saint Barts. But with a sum total of $47.73 left in her checking account, she was relieved to get anything.