“I never agreed to be scripted!”
“It’s simple then; if you don’t want to be scripted, you’re fired! And yes, this is reality TV. Not some Tyler Perry sitcom! It’s not okay to be boring as fuck! And to think I had Kim Kardashian and God lined up!” Bridget shook her head. “No one on this show wants to see you play with your baby!”
“Then fuck them!”
“Excuse me.” Alana, Milan’s assistant, wrung her hands and said nervously, “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to let you know, Mrs. Malik, that the driver is waiting and your flight to Miami leaves in an hour.”
“Flight!” Bridget screamed. “To Miami?!”
Milan turned toward her assistant. “Thank you, Alana. Now please excuse us.” Alana nodded as she scurried out of the foyer.
“What the hell are you going to Miami for?!” Bridget questioned.
“To be a fuckin’ stellar wife and fuck my husband!”
Bridget laughed emphatically and then said into the air, “Sister Mary Frances, this ho is out of control!”
“Ho? Don’t let my boring ass slap the shit out of you!”
“Do it. Then at least we’d be able to record some action! Now I tell you what.” Bridget stabbed an index finger toward Milan. “If you get your ass on that damn flight go to Miami, when you come back you will be replaced! And I mean that! Because I have had it with you! This isn’t Burger King and you will not have it your way. This is the Millionaire Wives Club, the hottest reality show there is, and I run this! And I will have you replaced in five minutes flat! Trust me, there are a lot of rich bitches dying to suck on this candy! Now what I suggest you do is cancel that damn flight and get to planning a party. Invite every rich bastard you know and by the time the night ends, somebody better get to fightin’, and I mean it! Or your ass is finished!” Bridget turned to Carl. “Let’s go! I need to call in a few replacement wives for an interview.” Bridget shot Milan one last look before shoving her purse strap up her arm and slamming the door behind her.
Milan stood completely still as her eyes jumped around the room, landing on her Louis Vuitton suitcase. Instantly, her skin felt electrified as the hackles on the back of her neck stiffened. She walked into the family room, stepped over to the fireplace mantel, and in one swift motion sent the candles and the family pictures that decorated it flying into the air. The candles rolled across the room as the silver frames crashed and sent shards of glass to the bamboo floor.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” Milan screamed at an invisible Bridget. “I can’t stand your ass! You don’t ever tell me what to do! Do you know how many women are trying to be me? And you’re trying to script me! You must be crazy. To hell with the Millionaire Wives Club! How about this: I quit! I’m done with this shit. I got my man and my child and I don’t give a damn about anything or anybody else—”
“Mrs. Malik,” Alana peeked into the foyer and said anxiously.
“WHAT?!”
“I just wanted to remind you that the driver is waiting and your flight leaves in a half hour.”
Milan froze.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
She rushed up the stairs, kissed her baby, left instructions with the nanny, and quickly returned to the foyer, where she picked up her suitcase and opened the front door. Just as she placed one red bottom on the walkway, she sucked in a hard breath and shoved it out.
Shit.
She turned back toward the door and walked into the house. Dropping her suitcase to the floor, she grimaced at her assistant. “Cancel my flight and get me the best party planner in New York on the phone!”
CHAPTER 9
JOURNEE
The invasion of 24, Faubourg perfume drifted through the salon as Journee stepped into the room and immediately zoomed in on Chaunci. The crisp menthol from the silver-tipped and ultrathin cigar she smoked eased into her chest and smoothly filled her lungs. She exhaled a cloudy veil and drifted into a twelve-year-old memory. . . .
“I just wanna get out of here—” Chaunci had said nervously.
“Would you relax?” Journee had replied.
“I can’t.” She quivered.
“Listen to me.” Journee shook her by the shoulders. “Those niggahs think that we are so in love with their asses that we would never take them. Fuck that. And fuck them. I’m tired of sitting up in this trap while this motherfucker’s high and shit. Listening to him lie about how he has a billionaire father who hates his mother and who won’t have anything to do with him. How he’s in the streets hungry and hustling while his father is rich enough to own the goddamn streets. Do you think I wanna keep listening to that bullshit? Hell no. And if he does have a billionaire father and I find his old ass, trust I’ll know exactly what to do. But until then, I’m done. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t leave the strip club to chase lies, food stamps, and a hard dick.”
“Me either.”
“Exactly. And if it wasn’t for you being the lookout and me driving the getaway car, their asses would’ve never pulled off that bank heist. Now, I’ve already washed and packed up the money. It’s in the backpack by the bed. You ease into the other room, take it, and I’ma meet you at the train station.”
“Where are we going?”
“New York.”
“New York?! I don’t know shit about New York!”
“Well, you will today. I’ma cook this shit up, skin pop those two bitches, and at the first nod, I’m out. Now go!”
“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Journee asked as her memory and the veil of cigar smoke evaporated.
Chaunci arched a brow. “We need to talk. Now.”
“I don’t have shit to say to you.” Journee flicked ashes into the crystal ashtray that sat on the lava fireplace mantel. “So I couldn’t imagine what the hell you have to say to me. Not unless you wish to discuss how you have to be the stupidest bitch in the world to have come here, knowing that what you did requires me to scalp your ass and drown you!”
Chaunci looked toward Mary, the house manager. “Are you going to ask your maid to leave or should I do it?”
Journee laughed snidely. “Prime time has really injected you with one big-ass set of camera balls. But camera ball bitches get their asses beat when they step into the street with that shit. So unless you want me to gank you, I suggest you understand this: You don’t give orders around this motherfucker. I do. Understood?”
Chaunci responded by having a seat on the white chenille sofa.
Journee turned toward Mary. “Be a dear and give us a few moments alone.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Dupree.” Mary smiled nervously as she stepped over the threshold and closed the hand-carved double mahogany doors behind her.
Journee sat on the white Queen Anne chair adjacent to Chaunci. She took another pull off her cigar and released the smoke through the right corner of her glossy lips. “I’m giving you five minutes to speak and after that you’d better hope that I’m kind enough to let you live.”
Chaunci rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist. “The time that I need to speak depends on how long it takes you to understand what I have to say. So I suggest you get it the first go-round. On the air we’ll pretend to be friends, but when the cameras go off, we don’t deal with each other. Point blank. Period. And when the season ends, you are to exit stage left.”
Journee chuckled. “Fuck you. Fuck TV. Fuck that show. Fuck that fake-ass rep you’re praying like hell that I don’t blow! Did you forget that twelve years ago you took the money and never showed up at the station?”
“I waited for you at that station for hours.”
“Liar! You didn’t wait at all!”
“I waited too damn long and when you didn’t come, I left. Hell, I was scared! I was seventeen. On my own. And caught up in a bunch of dumb shit! And besides, once I found out where you were, I sent you your portion of the money!”
“Yeah, five years later and a quarter million dollars short!”
“It wasn’t short!”
“Bullshit! You know it was short.” Journee stabbed an index finger into the air. “Your ass is lucky you’re alive. Trust.”
“Look, I’m really trying to be diplomatic here.”
“Diplomatic? Bitch, you might get away with most of America believing that. But I know your thieving ass like the back of my damn hand and you can’t script me nor scam me into ever believing that your ass is diplomatic. And another thing: If you think that I’ll be pretending to like you and lying for you—”
Chaunci leaned forward. “Lying for me? This is not about you lying for me! This is about playing your position and understanding that if I go down, you’re going down with me, Mrs. Dupree. Now unless you want to be cell mates, I suggest you get your script together.”
“Cell mates? Bitch, kiss my ass. That shit doesn’t faze me.”
“Well, it should.”
“The statute of limitations says that it doesn’t.”
“Statute of limitations . . .” Chaunci slid back on the couch, crossed her legs, and swung them nervously. Then, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her in the chest, she lunged forward. “What the fuck?! There’s no statute of limitations on murder! Did you conveniently forget that those two junkie motherfuckers botched the robbery and dropped a body?!”
Journee hesitated and drifted back into her memory. . . .
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Journee screamed as she tapped her foot on the gas and positioned her hands on the steering wheel to take off. The guys, Xavier and Aaron, jumped in the car, but the security guard was on their heels and able to snatch Chaunci by the hem of her ski mask and yank her back into his chest.
Without blinking an eye, Aaron burned a hole in the side of the security guard’s head, and as his blood and brain matter splattered on the ground, he fell back onto the concrete with Chaunci’s black ski mask fisted in his hand.
“They didn’t botch the damn robbery! Your man saved your ass!” Journee reminded her.
“Look. It’s only the two of us left. Xavier is in prison for life and Aaron died of an overdose. As far as I’m concerned, there’s a special part of hell for a set of motherfuckers like that. They lied to us and convinced us to leave the strip club. I married Aaron’s ass and he didn’t have shit! And had he not died with a plastic dick stuck in his arm, God only knows what kind of mess I’d be in still, trying to get away from him. And I will not lose what I’ve worked hard for because yo’ ass is pissed off!”
“You didn’t work hard for shit! You robbed a bank and that’s what cut your ass a break!”
“Journee—”
Journee stood up and pointed in Chaunci’s face. “How about this: I don’t fuck with you and you don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m trying to help you understand—”
“I don’t need you to help me understand shit!” Journee charged toward the double doors and snatched them open. “Get out!”
CHAPTER 10
VERA
Twenty Four Hours Later . . .
10 a.m.
Taj—
Don’t even go there.
Vera sat in the VIP room of her exquisite Manhattan spa and hair care salon, doing her all to shake off her thoughts.
She lay across the sleek black leather chaise and soaked in her surroundings—from the candelabra chandelier to the soft pink walls, the white leather chair attached to the soapstone shampoo bowl, the black leather sofa lined with black and white leather pillows, and a mirrored Hollywood vanity where the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Beyoncé, Janet Jackson, and Rihanna, just to name a few, had all sat and adored the hairstyle Vera’s gifted hands had blessed them with.
She sighed. Looked at the clock.
10:02.
Maybe I should call him. . . .
She sat up.
Hell no, I shouldn’t.
A lump settled in Vera’s throat.
Don’t drop a tear.
You have to get it together.
She closed her eyes and did her best to soothe her thoughts. At least she didn’t have a client this morning and could have a few minutes to herself.
“Put the table over there.”
Vera was jarred by the unexpected voice she heard coming from the doorway. She looked toward the door and watched the camera crew and Jaise step into the room, directing an entire wait staff where to place a vintage folding table and chairs. Bridget, Carl, and two others from the camera crew also made their way into the room and began recording.
“No. No. Not there,” Jaise said. “In the center of the room. I told you, yellow floral linen.” She huffed. “I guess white will have to do.”
Vera sat up.
She must be crazy.
Vera looked over at Jaise as the wait staff covered the table with crisp white linen and then moved on to set the table with platinum silverware, Gucci china, and champagne glasses.
Jaise walked back to the door. “Let’s go!” She popped her fingers, as more staff filled the room. “Put the food here. Please don’t drop it.”
Vera watched platinum trays covered with matching domes being placed on the table. The sweet smell of honey glaze, cinnamon, nutmeg, strawberries, freshly baked bread, and vanilla icing filled the room. “Umm, excuse you.” Vera looked over at Jaise. “I think you’re at the wrong address because the last time I heard anything from you, you said we were through—”
“Not now, bitch. Don’t piss me off and make me order everything back out the door. Let me finish getting this set up and then you can talk shit.”
Well, damn. Vera’s eyes scanned the table as the staff removed the domes and revealed piping hot cinnamon and raisin biscuits, blueberry muffins, banana bread, freshly baked scones, strawberry and cheese crepes, sweet potato cake pops, chocolate chip pancakes, freshly made whipped apple butter, and lemon, pineapple, cheese, and apple fritters.
“Put the mimosa over there,” Jaise continued.
The trick has been up since midnight smoking cigarettes and kneading dough. Every dish on that damn table represents a problem. She will be here all damn morning. I can already tell.
Finally the room was set up and looked more like a southern café than a high-end salon.
Jaise smiled at the staff and clapped. “This is beautiful.” She pointed to the well-dressed table. “You can leave now. I’ll call you when I need you to return.”
Jaise quickly took a seat and immediately started eating. She looked over to Vera, who remained on the chaise. “Didn’t I warn you not to piss me off!?” Jaise kicked her heels off under the table and stretched her toes apart. “I have been up since midnight, cooking all this shit for you. Now come on over here and eat. Because as you can see, I am starving and I have got to feed this size sixteen, honey. Let Milan and that other skinny bitch, Chaunci, starve. Chaunci, claims she went on a diet and lost fifty pounds, but I know she got her stomach chopped up.”
“Hence the reason she looks anorexic,” Vera added and looked over and into the camera.
“Exactly. But me, I’m a grown-ass woman who likes to eat. And yo’ li’l chubby ass know you like to eat too. Now come on; what are you waiting on?”
Vera looked over to Jaise. “I lost weight. I’m now a fabulous size twelve, heifer. And that’s not chubby.”
“You say fabulous. Everybody else says plus size. Now come on over here.”
Vera shook her head. As much as she wanted to be by herself, she was happy to see her friend. They hadn’t spoken in two days—too long. And the last time Vera had heard anything from Jaise was by way of a voice mail....
“I want all of my shit back. Everything. The Stuart Weitzman limited edition clutch and the matching heels I gave you for your birthday. The pink diamond and platinum Tiffany bangles I gave you for Mother’s Day. And the Judith Leiber and platinum Pandora friendship charm I gave you just because. I will send my courier to come and collect my shit. I’m done with you. Don’t call me again, bitch. I don’t do hood rats; I don’t do jail cells; and I already told Bridget,
do not expect me to film with you. . . .”
Yet here she sat, bare feet and a mouth full of freshly baked strawberry and cheese crepes. Vera walked over to the table and sat down. She sipped a glass of mimosa and looked down at a piping hot plate of fritters. “You are so wrong for this!” Vera reached for the plate. “You know apple fritters are my favorite. And you had the nerve to put extra honey glaze on them! I should fight you!”
“Would you just eat?” Jaise reached for a blueberry muffin and loaded it with butter. “Now”—Jaise took a bite—“should I pour my heart out first or do you want to proceed?”
“Well, I—”
“Vera, wouldn’t you think that I should go first, being as though I’m obviously stressed the hell out?” She pointed to the food. “You are not the only rich bitch with problems.” Jaise’s eyes turned teary.
Vera grabbed a napkin and dabbed Jaise’s tears. “I’m listening.”
“Just when I didn’t think that things could sink any lower, Bilal is fucking the therapist.”
Vera dropped the napkin. “Say what? The therapist? What therapist and when did they start fucking?”
“Right in the middle of our couple’s counseling session.”
“What—”
“Something told me from the moment I walked into the room that that ho would be a problem.”
“I can’t—”
“Not once during the entire session could I get a word in edgewise. Nothing but Bilal this and Bilal that. And I’m looking at her like, what the fuck, bitch!”
“Jaise—”
“Seriously, who does that?!” Jaise said.
Rich Girl Problems Page 6
