Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  Milan turned to Bridget. “Don’t fuck with me right now, especially since I’m about two seconds off your ass any damn way! And if you don’t step the fuck back, I promise you it ain’t gon’ be pretty.”

  “My, my . . .” Bridget clutched invisible pearls. “Aren’t we touchy.”

  “I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Milan spoke outwardly to herself as she held back tears. “But this motherfucker’s an athlete.” She walked back into her dressing room and blindly snatched three pairs of jeans and three Prada blouses from their cedar hangers. She tossed them into her suitcase.

  “And above all I. Know. His. Ass.” She walked into her shoe closet, grabbed two pairs of heels, stormed toward the door—and a vision of the white woman and her brown baby danced before her. She turned around, put her heels down, grabbed the Vaseline off her dresser, and made a beeline for the sneaker rack, reaching for a pair of Air Max.

  She wiped away the tears she could no longer put on hold. “I knew when this bastard came waltzing in and interrupting my interview that he was up to some bullshit.”

  She wiped more tears. Closed her suitcase.

  “But we will get to the bottom of it. Today. And please”—she lifted her eyes toward the heavens—“please, when I confront this son of a bitch and ask him to tell me the truth. Please, oh please, don’t let this motherfucker lie and try to play me . . . because then, I’ll have to kill him!”

  She grabbed her suitcase, walked out of her room, down the stairs, and into her pristine garage, where her driver sat on a metal folding chair, his feet on the hood of her Bentley, leafing through a Hustler magazine. “Get your damn feet off my car!”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malik.” He jumped up and stood at attention, dropping the magazine to the concrete floor and kicking it out of sight.

  “I don’t have time for your triflin’-ass sorries! Just get your freaky ass behind the wheel and take me to the airport. Right fuckin’ now!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The driver took Milan’s suitcase from her hand, opened the car door, and before Milan could have a seat, Bridget and Carl rushed in.

  “What are you waiting on?!” Bridget yelled out the window to the driver. “Let’s go! We have a flight to catch!”

  CHAPTER 18

  JOURNEE

  “Well, well, well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise. Granddaddy, you’re out of your room.” Journee beamed as she walked over to where Zachary sat in his wheelchair and gently brushed his lips with a kiss. “It’s so good to see you in the gallery.”

  He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I . . . missed . . . you . . . this . . . afternoon,” he said slowly, as if he were running out of breath.

  “How sexy is that? My granddaddy missed me. I missed you too, my love.” She stroked his cheek as she looked at the man standing next to him, soaking in his smooth, caramel skin, copper eyes, broad shoulders, and muscle-bound body. “And whom do we have here?” She held out her hand. “I’m Journee. Granddaddy’s wife. And you are?”

  He accepted her gesture. “Xavier.”

  “Xavier?” Journee squinted. “Is this the Xavier you’re always talking about, Granddaddy?”

  He nodded as his lips turned up and into a smile. “Yes, my son.”

  Journee’s eyes grew bright with surprise. “You’re family! Your father has spoken so much about you over the years. Hoping and praying that he’d see you again.”

  “Well, the parole board certainty made that happen.”

  Parole? “How wonderful you must feel. Well, we’re glad to have you here.” She opened her arms and pulled him into her embrace. “It’s so great to finally meet you!” She squeezed him tighter. Pressing her nails into his back, she whispered, “What the fuck are you doing here?” She released him from her embrace. “Will you be staying for dinner at least before you leave? Our chef is a marvelous cook.”

  He’d better say no.

  “Of course I’ll be staying for dinner.”

  Motherfucker.

  “Journee,” Zachary said, “I invited him . . . to stay with us . . . for a while.”

  You did what? “Oh, really?” She softly clapped her hands and braided her fingers together.

  “Yes. He has . . . nowhere to go. I . . . haven’t seen him . . . since he was fifteen and his mother took him away. And like you said . . . he’s family and I really want to . . . spend as much time as I have left . . . with him.”

  Don’t worry, you two will be together forever, in hell. “Anything to make my Granddaddy happy.” Journee looked over to Xavier and smiled. “Welcome home, son.” She opened her arms, pulled him back into her embrace, and whispered, “I want you out of here tonight.” She took a step back. “I’ll go and tell the chef to whip up something extra special!”

  An hour later, the family enjoyed a feast of buttery lobster tails, linguini and prawns covered in garlic and Alfredo sauce, freshly baked bread, crisp spinach salad topped with crumbled blue cheese, and a bottle of uncorked 1907 Shipwrecked champagne.

  “I’d like to make a toast.” Xavier lightly tapped his butter knife on the side of his flute. “To my father and his beautiful bride. Thank you for welcoming me into your home. Given everything that I’ve been through, I really appreciate you two. I hope you know that I’m here in your lives to stay. And, Journee, I’m sure out of everything you’ve ever imagined, you never thought you’d have a son who was older than you.”

  Was that supposed to be a joke? Journee smirked as she tapped Zachary on the knee. “Granddaddy.”

  “Huh? What?” He yanked his neck up and smacked his dry lips. “Yeah, yeah. Son, you were . . . going to make . . . a toast?”

  “He already did,” Journee said.

  “Beautiful, son.” Zachary yawned and raised his glass a wobbly inch off the table. “I want to make a toast.... Here’s to . . .” He tilted his head to the side, and while they waited to see what he would say, Zachary released a light snore from between his lips.

  Xavier looked confused while Journee removed the glass from Zachary’s hand and scolded a snickering maid via a hard glance.

  “I do believe it’s time,” she said to a sleeping Zachary, “for you to call it a night.”

  “Does he usually fall asleep like that?” Xavier asked. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “No. Your daddy’s usually asleep by seven.”

  “Damn. And what is that smell all of a sudden?” He frowned and looked around.

  “Well, it looks like,” Journee said matter-of-factly, “your dear ole daddy needs his diaper changed. Why don’t you handle that, son? Because I’ve had enough for the evening and I’m going to bed.”

  Journee sauntered out of the dining room and into the elevator. She stepped out on the third floor and walked over to the west wing, where her bedroom suite was located.

  She made her way into her bedroom, leaned against the door, and took three deep breaths.

  What the fuck?! What the fuck?! What the fuck?!

  Okay . . .

  Regroup . . .

  Think this through.

  Pay him off. And if he’s the same grimy motherfucker he’s always been, he’ll take the money and you’ll never see him again.

  That’s it.

  She took another deep breath and stepped into her en suite. Her spalike bathroom was lined with clear blue tiles, a black soapstone floor, and a massive river rock shower.

  I can’t believe that bastard is back to haunt me.

  Stop worrying . . .

  Besides, Zachary has already made me the sole beneficiary in his will.

  A smile ran across Journee’s face as she held her head back, and the rainspout washed warm streams of water all over her body, slicking her jet black hair to her head and running over her hard, chocolate nipples. She felt her mind easing into a memory of Xavier licking and nibbling on her nipples before he would . . .

  Stop it!

  She held her head up, wiped the excess water from her face with the back of her hands
, turned the shower off, and stepped out. She walked into her bedroom and a slither of fright ran through her.

  “Don’t be scared, baby,” Xavier said as he lay in the center of her bed, completely naked, his hard and thick ten-inch-dick standing at military attention. He followed her eyes as they gazed over the tip. He stroked it.

  Her mouth watered.

  Damn, that’s a pretty dick.

  Don’t fall for it.

  She dabbed the corners of her mouth with an index finger.

  “Did you really think that I would leave just like that?” He gripped his sack and Journee bit her bottom lip. Visions of his beautiful member sailing its way into her sticky sea and pounding through it flooded her mind. Her pussy pumped and her clit swelled.

  Stop it!

  “What are you doing?” She sat on the leopard chaise adjacent to her bed. She slowly crossed her legs and reached for her cigar that sat in the ashtray on her end table. She lit it. “What are you doing here?” She took a pull and immediately blew out the smoke.

  “It’s obvious I want to fuck you.”

  “You know what the hell I mean! Why are you here—and don’t give me any bullshit about you wanting to get closer to your damn daddy.”

  “Touchy. Touchy. You wouldn’t happen to be taking advantage of my dear ole damn daddy, would you? You seem so in love with Granddaddy.” He laughed.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Well, I’m here for lots of reasons. For one, the last time I saw you, you were running down the street after you’d stolen my money. You and some other bitch.”

  “I didn’t steal your money.”

  “Who did?”

  “That other bitch.”

  “Oh, your costar?”

  Journee arched a brow. “How do you know about that?”

  “I’ve been in prison, not lost at sea. I also know that while I was living on Cell Block D and eatin’ prison fuckin’ slop for ten damn years, you two thieving bitches grew a set of golden goddamn balls and decided to become reality stars. I couldn’t believe it. I’m sitting in my cell and all of a sudden you’re on the evening news being announced as not only the new star of the Millionaire Wives Club, but as the wife of Zachary Dupree. My damn daddy.”

  “So what do you want? Money? How much—ten?—twenty million? If so, we fuck, and before the sun goes up, you find another place to stay. And before the week is up, I’ll get the money to you.”

  He stroked his dick. “If you think that any number in the millions and some pussy will get rid of me that easily, you’re dreaming. I’m entitled to all of it. But I won’t be selfish. We’ll start with the pussy and then you can sign your clubs over to me by the end of the week.”

  “My clubs?”

  “You heard me. And when Pop’s stankin’ ass kicks the bucket, we’ll settle up on the rest. Which will be half of everything.”

  Journee took one last pull of her cigar and blew smoke into the air. She mashed the head into the ashtray, walked over to the bed, and straddled him. Easing down on his long and never-ending dick, she moaned as the thickness more than filled her and the length reached parts of her she’d though for sure had died. She gathered herself and looked him in the eyes. “I’m fucking you because I want to, but the only thing you will get half of is this damn nut. I don’t split my money with anybody.”

  He gripped her behind and pressed his fingertips into her cheeks. “Hmm,” he moaned. “This fat pussy is tight. Damn, Granddaddy ain’t fucking you at all, huh, baby?”

  She bucked her hips, swinging her breasts and bouncing them in his face, brushing against his lips.

  He squeezed her behind before placing his hands around her waist and lifting her slightly off his dick. “Look at that shit.” They both looked down at the remnants of her enjoyment. He flipped her over, tossed her legs over his left shoulder and said, “If you don’t agree to half, then I’ll just have to tell dear ole Dad about us.”

  “Tell him.” She wrestled her way back on top. “Because then I’ll be sure to mention that me marrying him was your idea to begin with. And then I’ll have to give all the details of all the nights you told me just what to do and what to say to get his attention.” She slid a breast into his mouth and he sucked and bounced her nipple on and off his tongue.

  Giving her breast one last lick, he said, “You wouldn’t do that because you know that then neither one of us would get a thing.”

  “It’s a chance I’d be willing to take.”

  “Are you sure?” He turned her over and pulled her ass into his shaft, pounding her with deep thrusts, rendering her speechless. Her mouth hung open and all that would escape were moans and groans and “Dear God” babbles. He knew he’d hit her spot. And he was the only one who could hit it . . . like this. “I asked you a question,” he said, feeling her back curling beneath his chest.

  The truth was, she wasn’t sure. Actually, she was sure. Sure she didn’t want to lose the money she’d worked so hard for, and yeah, maybe . . . maybe Xavier appearing here was an unwanted surprise, but then again, maybe she could promise to give him half and in the end find a way to kill his ass.

  “Whatever you want, baby.” She shivered.

  “Half.” His back arched.

  “Yes!” she screamed, coating his lifeline with icing.

  “That’s my girl.” He gifted her with a string of pearls. “That’s my girl.”

  CHAPTER 19

  VERA

  “There’s nothing like vinyl, baby. ”

  Vera could hear Taj’s voice as she carefully placed the needle on the record player. John Coltrane’s “In a Sentimental Mood” filled the surround sound as she lay back on the white quilted leather chaise in her bedroom, her mind’s eye traveling back in time to gray summer skies and train rides uptown to a snug jazz and poetry club, where the backdrop was small bistro tables, a makeshift stage, and a cello.

  Vera would always swear to Taj that one day she would muster up the nerve to get on stage and spit out the one poem she’d ever written in her life....

  There’s no more emotional war

  between my mind

  and my thighs....

  Finally,

  They can all come together.

  And while she laughed, Taj would say, “That’s beautiful, baby.”

  Her mind continued to drift. She could clearly see them at the reggae spot they used to hit in downtown Brooklyn where they would dance the night away.

  Then there were the nights at home. In this very room. Where they would share secrets and make love until the moonlight met the sunlight and promise each other forever. Never thinking that their forever had an expiration date marked “yesterday.”

  Vera opened her eyes and wiped away the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. “I’m not doing this shit.” She walked onto her rooftop terrace.

  A rainbow of dancing lights twinkled from the New York City skyline as tears flowed harder than they ever had before.

  “Vera.” Poured from behind her.

  She quickly wiped her face, gathered a smile, and turned around.

  Her mother, Rowanda, a paper bag brown, five foot even petite woman, with salt and pepper hair styled into a short and cropped bob, stood there. Rowanda squinted as she looked into Vera’s dark eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just needed some air.” She brushed past her mother and rushed back into her bedroom. “Did the music wake you?”

  Rowanda hesitated. “Vera, how long are you going to do this?”

  “Do what?” Vera snatched the needle off the record player, causing a screeching sound to slice through the air. She looked up at her mother, who’d come to stand across from her by turntable. “What are you talking about?”

  “How long are you going to act like nothing’s wrong? Like you don’t care.”

  “Just leave it alone.” She shot her mother a hard glare. “Now, let’s talk about something else.” She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Would
you like a glass of wine?”

  “No. I wanna talk about what’s going on with you. I’ve been here for a week and every night you’re crying yourself to sleep. If you miss your husband, call him.”

  “Didn’t I tell you nothing was wrong? And did I ask you for any advice?” Vera slammed the refrigerator shut and roughly sat the wine bottle on the lava countertop.

  “You didn’t have to ask me. I know you.”

  “You don’t know shit about me!”

  “You better watch your mouth!”

  “I’m grown.”

  “But I’m still your damn mother!”

  Vera paused and, as she slowly drank Rowanda in, an unwanted twenty–five-year-old memory danced before her.

  Rowanda stood, rail thin, wearing sagging jeans and a worn and baggy blue t-shirt, the collar stretched out of shape, hanging off the right shoulder and highlighting the protruding collarbone. Rowanda snorted and licked the white crust around her dry lips. She looked down at a nine-year-old Vera, who lay asleep on a bare mattress and snatched her up. “Here she go,” she said to a woman who stood behind her.

  “What is you doin’, Rowanda?” Vera stumbled to the floor, half asleep.

  “See this lady,” Rowanda said, “This is a social worker. She came to take you. You gotta go.”

  Vera fell silent as she looked around the room. “Rowanda, I don’t wanna go with her.”

  “You got to.”

  “Why?” Tears filled her eyes. “I told you I was sorry about telling the teacher you get high or that I be home by myself all the time. I said I was sorry! Gimme another chance. I’ma be good! I promise. And I won’t fight no more and I’ll try real hard not to cuss.”

  “Be quiet Vera,” Rowanda said. “You ain’t that bad. Matter a fact, you ain’t done nothin’. Now get up! This has to do with me and not you.”

  “Look, though.” Vera pushed out of Rowanda’s arms, ran past the social worker and over to small dresser where she yanked a rusted coffee can that she kept pennies in. “Here take these!” She turned to her mother and, as she took a step, she tripped over her own feet, causing the pennies to rain all over the wood floor. Tears fell from Vera’s eyes as she scurried around the room, picking up the pennies.