Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “We have a history.”

  “A history? Don’t tell me you two were lady lovers?”

  Journee arched a brow. “We were what?”

  “Lady lovers. Lesbos, I mean lesbians. I could so see Chaunci as a mad dike. She is definitely suppressing something.”

  “A woman is certainly a special sexual treat. But Chaunci and I have never been lovers. Believe me.”

  A special treat? How gross. Now I know that I’ll have to throw away that plate and glass she’s using when she leaves. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” Jaise said. “I was just asking.” She took a few bites of her chicken tempura, sipped her wine, and then looked back over to Journee. “Do you mind if I ask you something about yourself?”

  “What’s that?”

  “How’d you meet Zachary?”

  “On stage.”

  Did she just admit that she was a ho? “Stage?” Jaise did her best to sound baffled. “What were you? An actress?”

  “Not at all. I stripped, and it was a wonderful entry level position. Got me a lot of places, gathered me a lot of things, and made my most valuable asset priceless. Google me. You’ll see that not only was I a headlining stripper, I was the type of chick that when I walked into the club, every bitch in the place evaluated who the fuck I was.”

  Oh, this bitch is extra. “A stripper. And you’re proud of it?”

  Journee looked slightly put off. “Why wouldn’t I be proud? It’s how I made my money and still make money. I actually own two gentlemen’s clubs. One in Atlanta and the other in Miami, and they do quite well.”

  Have mercy, now this bitch is a pimp? Damn. “Gentlemen’s clubs? With strippers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh my.”

  “You have a problem with strippers?”

  “To each his own, honey. I just think it’s a little unladylike. Unsanitary. And disgraceful. For my life, anyway. I just wasn’t raised like that.”

  “Well, I was raised with the belief that every woman has the ability to be rich.” Journee sipped more wine. “Unfortunately, most won’t allow their pussies to lead them to it.”

  This bitch and her mama are both nasty.

  Journee gathered her hair and flipped it over her right shoulder. “Now me, I was born with the balls to do it. My mother always said that pussy offered equal opportunity employment. I could’ve easily lay on my ass all day, gathered fucked up credit, cellulite, back fat, bills, and babies, but I choose to use what God gave me and made it happen.”

  I can’t believe this disgraceful ho, bringing God into her mess. She is definitely going to bust hell so wide open that the earth will feel the fire splashing. Jaise shrugged. “Like I said, to each his own. I guess.” This bitch is low down. Straight gutter. I’ll be needing a minister and some holy oil up in here when she leaves.

  “It’s legal. And there are a lot worse things one could be doing. Maybe you’d see it differently if you came to one of the clubs.”

  “A strip club?”

  “Yes, girl! I’d love for you, and hell even the rest of the girls, to come to one of the clubs and hang out. We’d have a great time. We always have celebrities in the house.” Journee snapped her fingers. “Perhaps we should all do a girls’ trip.”

  “A girls’ trip?”

  “Yeah, we can hit my Miami spot. I guarantee we’ll have a ball.”

  Bitch, you will never turn me out. Have me suckin’ pussy and gyrating my ass on stage. Never. “That sounds like fun.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  Tramp, please, you will never have an orgy with me. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. A ho spot, I mean a strip club, a gentlemen’s club, isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” And it never will be, bitch. “But I’m all for trying new things.”

  Journee shrugged. “Whatever. The choice is yours.” She ate a piece of chicken. “Jaise, this food is absolutely delectable. Who’s your chef?”

  “Chef?” Jaise said, “I made this.”

  “You did what?” Journee paused midbite and looked at Jaise, surprised. “You made this?” She swallowed. “All of this?” She pointed to the food around the room, her eyes skipping from the dessert table overflowing with pastries to the dining table filled with enough food to feed an army.

  “Yes,” Jaise said. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

  Journee curled the right corner of her top lip. “You really don’t have a chef?”

  Why the hell is she curling her lip? Jaise leaned forward. “No. I don’t.”

  Journee placed her white linen napkin over her mouth and did her best to hide her snicker. She failed. “Is money a little tight? I know you’re separated. Can you no longer afford one?”

  Is this bitch crazy? “First of all, I don’t need a chef. I got this. See, that’s the problem with these slores today. They’re too busy clapping their ass cheeks, sliding upside down on a pole, and marrying the first scrotum who throws a dollar bill their way, instead of learning how to be ladies and take care of themselves.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m simply making a point. That the true way to a man’s heart is not twerking an overworked vaginal canal. It’s food. But then you wouldn’t know that being as though your man is so old he has to be fed Ensure through an IV drip.” Take that, bitch! “Now, I need you to excuse me for a moment.”

  Jaise huffed as she rose from the table with the camera following closely behind her. She walked into the kitchen, slid the double pocket doors closed, paced, and then turned to face the camera. “Let me tell y’all something; when it comes to my food, my cigarettes, my child, and my man, I don’t play. I will snatch a blind bitch if that heifer sees fit to come at any of those four things! I just don’t believe this.”

  She resumed her pacing. “And this skeezer sits at my dinner table, with her slutty ass, channeling all kind of STD’s into the air, I’m sure—I may have to get an exterminator in here when she leaves—and she has the nerve to laugh because I cook my own food? Bitch, you and your mama are both whores. You probably don’t even know who your daddy is. And you want to put me down because I like to cook? Who does that? I’ll tell you who. A strippin’-ass ho! That’s who! Why should I have a chef when I can burn with the best of ’em?”

  Jaise fanned her face. “Dear God, I have a lot going on and the last thing that heifer needs to do is try me.” Jaise took a deep breath. “Woosaah, let me relax, go back in there, and be the bigger person.”

  Jaise slid the pocket doors open and as she entered the hallway, approaching the dining room, she heard Journee say, “You are really handsome. I mean you were fine on TV, but seeing you in person is a whole other level of finery.”

  What the . . . !? Jaise stepped into her dining room and there stood Jabril smiling at Journee. Standing six feet, bare chested, rippled eight-pack gleaming, white Calvin Klein boxing shorts barely fitted on his hips, and his left hand stuck in his waistband, giving quick snippets of his hard dick.

  “Jabril!” Jaise peered at him. “Go back downstairs to your room.”

  Journee smiled. “Oh, your room is in the basement? Your mother didn’t show me that part of the house.”

  Jabril blushed. “I could show you.”

  “No. The fuck. You can’t,” Jaise said, tight lipped, never taking her eyes off Journee. “Now I said get back to your room, Jabril.”

  Jabril shook his head and looked toward Journee. “Maybe another time. Another place.”

  Journee smiled, but didn’t answer. Once he left the room, Jaise walked into Journee’s personal space, pointed her finger, and scolded, “You skanky-ass, strippin’-ass slut! I should slap your damn face! You don’t come in my house and throw your ass at my son! Your low level ass has insulted me and now you’re trying to sink your infected fangs into my baby!”

  Journee blinked, hard, obviously caught off guard. She picked up the empty wine bottle, hit it on the edge of the table, and cracked it in half. Pricks of glass scattered across the room. She held
up the broken and jagged bottle edge. “Bitch, you just put your life in danger! You don’t run up on me like that! I don’t know what the fuck you smoked in that kitchen, but don’t you ever step to me crazy! Fuck around and get your throat sliced! Wake up in your grave with me standing over it and spittin’ on that motherfucker!”

  Jaise took a step back. “You have lost your mind! Let me explain something to you—”

  “You can’t explain a motherfuckin’ thing to me, bitch. You don’t even have your mind together. I’m not Vera, I’m not Milan, and I’m definitely not Chaunci! And as far as your son, he’s nothing more than a baby with a big, hard dick. Standing up here and his damn breath reeks of your tittie! With his broke ass!”

  “You—”

  “And instead of being worried about who your son is fuckin’, you’d better be worried about who’s fuckin’ yo’ husband. ’Cause obviously the way to his heart wasn’t through your fuckin’ meals. Otherwise, he’d be here for your feast.”

  “I can’t believe I invited you—”

  “That’s right; you invited me! I didn’t call you seeking your friendship. I don’t want your damn son. I have a husband. A very rich one. Don’t play me.”

  “You need to leave!” Jaise snatched the front door open.

  “Bitch, please! I’ve been tossed out of better places! You up in this old-ass motherfucker tryin’ to be the black Paula Deen. Bitch, you’d better get into it! This ain’t the Food Network. Ain’t nobody checkin’ for you, boo! You supposed to be flossin’ and you up in this antiquated motherfucker cracking eggs and frying chicken and shit! Silly-ass beyotch!” Journee swerved her neck as she stormed out the door and Jaise slammed it behind her.

  Jaise spun around toward Renee. “I can’t believe you just stood there while that ghetto whore just tried to kill me! You and your film crew need to get the fuck out too! I will not film with you or Journee’s ass ever again! As a matter of fact, let me get Bridget on the phone. I want both of you off the show!”

  CHAPTER 16

  JOURNEE

  “Can you tell the camera what just happened?”

  Journee dropped the jagged half of the bottle she’d held on Jaise’s brick portal as she clicked her heels down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. The bottle exploded and scattered into shards and broken bits of green glass.

  She slid on her round-eyed Chanel sunglasses, stormed to the nearest corner, and looked up the street, toward the direction she expected her driver to come.

  What did he just ask me?

  She turned toward the camera, which was zoomed in on her, and frowned. “What type of question was that?” she asked Bryan, the cameraman. “You saw what just happened. The bitch was almost on her way to the coroner’s office.” She lit her cigar, eased it between her KissKiss-Gold-and-Diamonds-covered lips, gracing the cool cream tip with a hard, much needed pull.

  She blew a serpent of smoke into the air. “Trust me. She’s lucky. The old me would’ve murdered her ass and let the police investigation find out what the fuck her problem was.”

  Journee flipped her hair over her shoulders. “She’d better be thankful I’ve changed. ’Cause in my stripping days, I would’ve flanked her down to the white meat. Running up on me is never a good move. You can talk all day, but once you get in my face and threaten to put your hands on me . . . oh, baby, you have officially walked your ass into the Twilight Zone.”

  A black Lincoln town car pulled up and parked in front of them. Journee nodded, as her driver exited the car, walked around and opened the back door for her. “Did you enjoy your late lunch, Mrs. Dupree?”

  “Don’t even ask.” Journee eased into the backseat and sank into the smooth leather. Once Journee reached the pier, she stepped into her gleaming white and regal boat, and headed home to Millionaires’ Row.

  Thirty minutes later, Journee happily accepted the extended hand of her boat chauffeur, who helped her out of the boat and onto the dock.

  She sauntered up the wooden planks, headed up the walkway.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Dupree,” Mary, the house manager, said as she held the front door open.

  “Afternoon, Mary. I need a shot of Hennessy right away.” Journee stepped out of her heels and walked barefoot into her living room.

  Immediately she halted under the curved archway, stopping short of a slight stumble.

  She released a quiet gasp.

  Relax.

  Regroup.

  And whatever you do, do not take out your thirty-two and shoot his ass.

  CHAPTER 17

  MILAN

  A month ago . . . at an ESPN charity event.

  “Kendu.,”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Who is that?”

  Kendu turned his head from one side of the crowded ballroom to the next. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The blonde lurking in the corner who’s been watching you all damn night.”

  Kendu stared at the woman and then turned back to Milan. “I don’t know who she is. Maybe she’s a fan of yours.”

  “Of mine?” she said. “My fans don’t stalk me. But she has clearly been following your every move—”

  “Are you serious right now? Really. Truly. Serious? You know how many people are in here. She could be looking at the dude standing behind me. Why does it have to be me? And I don’t appreciate you accusing me all the time. ”

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything. ”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Why are you overreacting?”

  “I’m not overreacting, Milan. I just know you, and I don’t want to hear about some random blonde all damn night. I’m trying to have a good time with my wife and take my career to the next level. Now, unless she can help me do that, I don’t give a fuck who she is.”

  Two weeks ago . . . in Central Park.

  “Shelly,” Milan said to her nanny, “do you see that white woman over there?”

  “The one bouncing the baby on her lap?”

  “Yes. She’s been following us through the park.”

  “Mrs. Malik.” Shelly smiled, the look in her eyes clearly dismissing Milan’s suspicions. “I don’t think she’s following us. She just might be a fan. You are famous.”

  Today . . .

  There she is again.

  Milan drew in a deep breath as she spotted Bridget and the camera crew parking.

  Damn.

  Relax.

  You can handle this.

  Milan’s hips swayed as she crossed the street and stood before the woman, whose red, blotchy hands were wrapped around the handles of an umbrella stroller. Milan’s eyes dropped to the cooing baby, and without blinking, she looked up at the woman and smiled. “Why are you following me?”

  “I’m not following you,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “And actually, I was thinking of asking you why you’ve been following me.”

  What, bitch? Milan peeked over at Bridget and the camera pointed her way. “Listen.” She turned back to the woman. “I’m not following you. And you know that. Now, it seems that you might be a fan, which is fine. If you want to take a picture with me or want me to give you an autograph, I have no problem doing that, but I need you to stop following me.”

  “I’m not following you. And I am definitely no fan of yours.”

  “Then what the fuck—” Breathe. “Look. Just leave me alone, and the next time I see you outside my home, I’ll be calling the police.”

  “This is a public street.”

  Milan said, her South Bronx accent in full effect, “But when I beat yo’ ass on this public street for stalking me, that will be a very private affair.” She peeked at Bridget and wished she could wipe the smirk off her face.

  Milan proceeded to cross the street—stopping midway when she heard the woman call Kendu’s name. “What did you say?” Milan spun round and furrowed her brow, as a car screeched and swerved around her.

  “Stupid ass!” the driver roared out his window, flipping her the bird. Milan igno
red him as she yelled at the woman, “Repeat that!”

  “I said I need to speak to you about Kendu.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Milan stormed back across the street and stood a few steps closer to the woman than she’d been before. “What about Kendu?”

  The woman tightened her grip on the stroller. “I’ve been waiting for him to tell you about us.”

  “Us?” Milan blinked. Squinted. Lowered her eyes to the baby. Brown skin. Curly hair. Kendu’s Egyptian-shaped eyes.

  Immediately Milan’s breathing felt stifled. She looked up at the woman and without thinking twice, she yanked this bitch by her hair, forcing her to let go of the stroller, and then followed up with a snatch to the throat. “I will fuckin’ kill you and Kendu!” Immediately security stepped in and pulled the two women apart.

  “You stepped in too damn soon!” Bridget said. “I hate that the network forces security to travel with us!”

  “Are you fuckin’ insane?!” Milan screamed at security as she clawed in the air, watching the woman grab the stroller and run away. “Get the fuck off me!” she yelled at security. “I’ll see you again, bitch!” she screamed as the woman continued to run down the street. “I’ll see you again and whenever I do, I’m going to kick your motherfuckin’ ass!” She pushed the security guard in the chest. “Get off me! I don’t believe this shit! You don’t grab me when I’m trying to snatch that bitch!”

  “Exactly!” Bridget agreed. “Carl, you come with me. The rest of you go after her! Find out who she is and have that information on my desk in an hour!”

  “I tell you what,” Milan said to no one in particular as she charged into the house. “I. Know. This. Much. Fuck a three-day wait, I’m going to LA today! Rightthefucknow!” She rushed into her master suite, continued into her dressing room, picked up her Louis Vuitton suitcase, and slammed it on her bed. “And I’ll try not to kill this motherfucker. But one of us has got to go. And it ain’t gon’ be me!”

  Bridget smiled. “So we’re going to LA? Let me inform the network.”