Rich Girl Problems (10 page)

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!”

“C
an 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.

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 ignored 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.”

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!”