Rich Girl Problems (11 page)

“W
ell, 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.”

“T
here'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....

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.

“Here, Rowanda, take this money and buy us some food. I won't tell nobody else that you smoked up all your money. I won't say nothing. I know I be too fresh, I know I'm bad, but I'm sorry. You forgive me? Now, please, can I stay?”

“You gotta go.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause I'ma damn fiend, girl.”

“So? Ain't everybody 'cept the social worker and the teacher a fiend?”

“No, they is not. And look, I ain't got shit and I can't give you shit! And they is not gon' let me keep you.”

“I ain't goin'. ”

The social worker placed a hand on Vera's shoulder.

“Get offa me!”

Rowanda snatched Vera off the floor and carried her outside to the social worker's car. “You gettin' yo' ass outta here! You not gon' stay here like this! Told you I ain't got shit and you tryna hold on. Open the damn door!” She screamed at the social worker, who nervously snatched it open.

“Mommy, please! Rowanda, please. I'ma be good!”

Rowanda peeled Vera off her, quickly placed her in the back seat, and slammed the door.

“Why is you doing this?!” Vera cried as she thrashed around in the back seat desperately trying to get out.

“ 'Cause I'm your damn mother!” she spat as she stood there, watching the social worker hop into the driver's seat and ride off into the distance.

 

Vera did her best to blink away her memory. She swallowed and tried to see her mother for who she was today. It was a struggle. “Leave the shit alone,” she spat. “Now either you want some damn wine,” Vera snatched two glasses from the cabinet. “Or you don't.” She filled only one. “But all this mother-daughter confessions session shit you're trying to have with me is not about to happen. Now I'm warning you, drink up or take your ass back to bed!”

“I'm warning you to watch your damn mouth and don't speak to me like that!”

“Speak to you like what?” Vera frowned. “Let's not pretend here. The only reason you even show up here every year—this damn time—is to make yourself feel better and to bask in my success. What the fuck do you want? Fame? Fortune? A standing ovation? Yeah, that's it.” Vera clapped her hands. “Job well done, Rowanda. You did a wonderful job of gettin' high, helping me into foster care, and giving me a boatload of goddamn trust issues. Wonder-fucking-full!”

“I did my best!”

“Then you need to up your damn standards!”

“I'm trying to tell you—”

“I don't need you trying to tell me shit! When I needed you, you gave me away!”

“I made sure that Cookie was able to raise you!”

“I wasn't her child! Like you said, you're my
damn
mother! You should've raised me! Instead, all you did was get high and whore your ass in the street! And now that you're clean—off of my dime—and you live out in the suburbs of Chicago with your husband, mega pastor Doctor Reverend, you think you can come and tell me about my husband? Never. Because you and I both know that the only damn man you've ever consistently been with is a glass dick!”

Whap!!!!

Rowanda slapped Vera so hard that her ears rang and her neck twisted to the left. She fell into the counter, knocking the wine bottle and the glasses over. Vera lifted her eyes and peered at her mother as she pressed a palm against her burning cheek.

Rowanda pointed a finger in Vera's face. “Don't you
ever
speak to me like that again! Or I will knock your damn head off! And yes, I'm your damn mother and no, I didn't raise you! And yes, I was a damn junkie and a whore! But I made sure that you lived with someone who could love you and give you more than I could. I couldn't have you going from dope house to dope house! That's not a life for a little girl! Why can't you understand that?!”

Silence.

“I've been sober for six damn years and every year we do this same damn dance! You want me to come and when I get here you constantly bring up my past. You don't take me around your friends—you keep me here and I stay here hoping and praying that if I please you and do what you want me to do, that you'll accept me. But enough of that shit.”

Silence.

Rowanda continued, “Don't you think I know what I've done and who I am?! Trust me. I have a lot of shit that I deal with every day! Half of it you can't even begin to imagine! And if I had to do it all over again yes, I would have gotten off drugs and raised my own babies! But I couldn't do that then! And I need you to understand that!”

Tears poured down Vera's cheeks as she pressed her back against the counter and slid to the floor. “I'm sorry.” She cried. “I never meant to hurt you or take it out on you. I'm just . . . just so confused and hurt. And I want to move on, but it's soooo hard. It's so hard. I want to accept you as my mother and the woman you are today, but I don't know how.”

“Just give me a chance to be your mother and you be my daughter. Be my baby girl for once.” She kneeled before Vera and pulled her head into her chest.”

“I feel like I'm losing everything.”

“But you don't have to, baby. I'm here. I love you and I ain't goin' nowhere.”

“But Taj—”

“He loves you too. All you have to do is go and get him.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

Vera stared off into the distance, then brought her eyes back to meet Rowanda's. “I just can't.” She rose from the floor and brushed invisible dust from her robe. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I guess we've had one helluva night.”

“Vera—”

“Rowanda, please. I don't wanna talk about it. The only thing I can promise right now is that I'm going to do my best to get things right between us. That's it.”

“And Taj?”

“I'm divorcing him.”