Rich Girl Problems (2 page)

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T
he swoop train of Vera's black rhinestone-studded Louis Vuitton gown swayed in the autumn breeze as she quickly clicked her Eternal Borgezie Diamond Stilettos out of her Fifth Avenue apartment building and over to her black Phantom, where her driver awaited her. “Good evening, Mrs. Bennett.” He smiled as she glided into the backseat and he closed the door behind her.

“Good evening, Richard,” Vera said as she melted into the soft leather and stared out the window.

Half of my shit? Mine?

Vera sank into vision of Taj sitting across from her and her attorney at the arbitrator's table earlier today, while his cocky lawyer argued that Taj was entitled to half of her millions—millions that she'd broken her back to make. She'd slaved in the kitchen creating hair products while simultaneously building and branding three tri-state full-service spa and hair care salons, brick by brick.

“We feel this is only fair,” Taj's attorney had said, causing Vera to peer at them, cross her thick mahogany thighs, and be convinced that Taj was ridiculously stupid, in spite of his years of medical training. Specialized oncology studies. Researching cancer cures. Uncovering how to love her. How to make her scream his name and call him Daddy in the wee hours of the morning. Be her best friend. Her only child's father. Know her favorite foods. Favorite color. Deepest secrets. What made her cry, laugh, and think. In spite of all of this if that highfalutin' Negro—who sat there in his gray pinstripe and handmade William Fioravanti suit, looking finer than black china—thought for one minute that she would let him pimp-slap her by snatching half of her shit then he had to be the dumbest motherfucker alive.

Fuck. That.

And she couldn't bear another thought that told her to calm down and think this whole situation through. As far as Vera was concerned those were the same thoughts that kept her up most of the night and caused her to run her hands across Taj's cold and empty side of the bed, stroke between her thighs, and cry while moaning his name and mourning his absence.

“Richard, I need to make one stop before we pick up Jaise.”

“Where to?”

“Five-fifty-five Park Avenue.”

The evening midtown traffic whipped past Vera in streaks of blurred colors as Richard swayed in and out of the congestion of the traffic and within minutes, was parked in front of the building where Taj lived. Taj had owned this apartment since before they met, and after they married, he'd rented it out. He had moved back in a year ago, shortly after they'd separated.

“I'll only be a minute,” Vera said, as she eased out of the backseat and into the building. She nodded at the doorman, flashed a smile and waved the electronic key at security before catching the elevator to the penthouse suite.

The elevator doors opened and let her off in Taj's foyer. Vera's heart raced like a '57 Chevy and felt due to break through her chest cavity at any moment. She took in a deep breath and walked into the living room. Her eyes bounced from the fifty-inch plasma television on the wall, to the custom made glass case that housed Taj's collection of signed baseballs, to the original and signed Malik Whitaker paintings on the wall. Tears filled her eyes as she spotted a framed picture of her and Taj on the fireplace mantel.

You'd better not fuckin' cry!

You've loved this motherfucker for eleven years and he's reduced your relationship to half of yo' shit? You'd better not shed a tear.

Fuck. Him.

“Taj!” Vera called. “Taj, I need to speak to you right now!” She stormed into the kitchen.

Nothing.

The bathroom.

He was nowhere to be found.

“Where the fuck are you?” She hurried into his empty bedroom. Stopped and sniffed. “Imperial Majesty. Two dabs.”

Tears beat against the back of her eyes. “You have lost your fuckin' mind! Here I am feeling hurt and unsure so I come here to talk to you, and this is what I get? Some bitch's perfume running through here! Now I see clearly, motherfucker. Not only are you snatchin' my fuckin' bag, but you've also been up in here fuckin' some bitch!” She spun on her heels. Her eyes scanned the room in a whirlwind. “And this bitch has the audacity to wear the same perfume as I do!”

Vera's six-inch pencil heels beat against the bamboo floor like angry wind chimes as she rushed into the living room, placed her platinum clutch on an end table, and walked over to the fireplace. She grabbed the remote off the mantel and turned the fireplace on. Red, orange, and yellow embers sparked and sparkled over the logs. A growing fire ensued.

She reached for Taj's gleaming gold-tipped baseball bat that hung on the wall, took it down, and tapped the tip against her right palm. “So you want half of my shit because you want to lie around, fuck some trick, and have me finance it! Did you really think I'd let you pimp me and that I'd let the shit go down quietly?” Vera reared the bat back and struck the center of Taj's glass case, sending a downpour of glass and baseballs to the floor. “Always collectin' some shit! Is that what I was? Is that what our child was? Part of your fuckin' collection?!” Vera yanked each ball from the floor and hurled them one by one into the fireplace. The fire crackled and hissed as it opened up and welcomed the balls in.

“Here I've been loving you!” She walked over to his collection of jazz albums. “And you took the love I have for you, laid it on the bed between you and some ho, and together y'all trying to screw me?! Oh, hell no!”

She sailed his albums like Frisbees into the fireplace. Immediately, they warped, melted, and married the flames. “You think you can just spit on my feelings, motherfucker!” Tears streamed. “And I gave you everything. Every fuckin' thing!” She knocked his paintings off the wall. “All of me! My time. My love. My emotions. My secrets.” She flung her tears into the air. “When we got married, I wrapped up all of me and left it at the fuckin' altar. I became one with you. With yo' ass. But that wasn't good enough for you. And to top the shit off, you expect me to accept some
son
you just found out about! How the fuck am I supposed to do that, Taj?! When I haven't even gotten over the death of
our
son! I don't want a replacement! . . . Oh my God! That's who you're fuckin' . . . that little bastard's mother?! Dion?!” Vera hesitated and a vision of Dion riding Taj's dick, Vera's favorite position, pillaged her mind. And no matter how she tried to shake the thought, the vision wouldn't let her go and forced her to stand there and in her mind's eye see Dion screaming Taj's name while he demanded to know his favorite thing: “Whose dick is this?”

The vision faded.

More tears streamed as Vera took Taj's collection of baseball cards and sent them to a charred grave.

“So I see, you just take everything that I've given you and present yourself as a full package to some dog-ass trick! I don't think so!” Vera ran over to Taj's tower of hip-hop CDs, took position, pulled the bat back, and aimed for a home run. “Hell no!” She shed more tears and wiped the sweat that had gathered on her forehead. “I promise you, you gon' learn today about fucking with me!” She picked up the bat and hammered his CD player.

Sweat rained down her temples and her eyes swelled as she raced into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned to the living room.

She slashed the brown leather sofa with hard and heavy strikes. “Here I thought we were best fuckin' friends. You were my man! My husband! And now there's some new bitch on the horizon?!” She moved over to the chaise lounge, lunged, and landed the knife deeply into the leather, freeing bursting bubbles of white foam. “You were supposed to be my man, motherfucker! Whether we were together or not! You didn't have the right to run off and fuck some slut! How could you do that shit to me, Taj?! Me? Vera? Really? For some side pussy? For money?!”

She walked over to his collection of African masks and Thomas Blackshear busts and sent them one by one to their burning grave.

“What happened to ‘I'm sorry, Vera?!' ” She stormed into the kitchen. “What happened to ‘What could we do to make this right'? Had me lying and shit on my show!” She reared the bat back and destroyed half of the cabinets, kitchen chairs, and two of the table legs, which caused the table to topple over and fall to the floor. “And now motherfuckers are leaking reports about me, thinking I'm crazy! And that I lied on the reunion, saying we were back together when we weren't! Where'd they get that from, Taj? How would they know the truth? 'Cause they got it from yo' ass!” She took the bat and swatted it across the counter. All of the appliances and the dishes bounced off the walls and smashed into the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony.

“You couldn't act like a fuckin' adult!” Vera moved on to the bedroom, swung the bat, and cracked the plasma television in half. She ripped down half of the electric blinds and broke the lamps. “You had to wage war!”

She gathered the Rolexes and his collection of gold coins from his dresser and tossed them into the fireplace.

She returned to the bedroom, opened up the closet, and found hanging on the back of the door the same suit that Taj had worn earlier that afternoon. She carried it to the living room and tossed it into the fire. “Fuck you and that suit!” She stormed back and forth from his bedroom to the living room, each time taking handfuls of his handmade Italian suits and custom made shoes, to be devoured by the fire. Once his closet was empty and the only things left were a few lonely hangers, she dusted her hands, took a step back, and stared at the built-in fish tank on the wall above Taj's king-size bed. Exotic and rare saltwater fish swam in a three-hundred-fifty-gallon tank that had been specially designed to look like the ocean floor.

“You wanted to wage war . . .” Vera picked up the bat, swung it back, gathered strength from what felt like the depths of her soul, and crashed the bat into the fish tank.

Nothing.

She regrouped. Wiped sweat from her brow and tears from her cheeks. Took a step back and went for a grand slam.

It still didn't crack.

Shit!

She lifted her arms again, and just as she decided that she would beat it until it opened up and let the bat in, the glass shattered and a surge of water rushed out of the tank like a tidal wave, drowning the bed below and sending the fish flopping to the floor. “Welcome to the battlefield, motherfucker!”

Vera lifted her swoop train as water inched beneath her feet. She closed the door behind herself, stepped back into the living room, and admired how she'd redecorated the place.

She couldn't help but smile and congratulate herself on soothing the part of her heart that she thought for sure had withered to shit and died at the arbitrator's table. Now all she needed was to find a way to appease the iron fist that had crept up on her and had wedged into her throat.

After a few more moments of admiration she walked over to the elevator, stepped in, and watched the apartment disappear behind the wood panel doors.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Jaise quipped as she entered the backseat and sat next to Vera. “Do you realize we are late as hell?”

“I know. I meant to call you. I had a stop to make.”

“What stop?” Jaise sniffed. Squinted. She lifted her eyes to the car's ceiling and then lowered them and landed them on Vera. “What. The. Fuck. Is. That. Smell?”

“What smell?” Vera frowned.

“You know what smell. And why are you sitting over there looking like a two-dollar tramp who just escaped from a tittie bar? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with your makeup?” Jaise curled her upper lip. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror? You look like Lauryn Hill's stylist fucked you up, and with the exception of that dress, which is I'm-in-the-building fabulous, you look casket ready.”

“Jaise, please. I stopped by Taj's before I came here.”

“What the hell were you doing with Taj?”

“I needed to stop by his place to have a li'l conversation with him.”

“And?”

“We had it. And now we have a li'l understanding.”

“Well, you need to stay away from any understanding that involves your makeup and hair looking this fucked up. This is not how we do things.”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“I'm not exaggerating. And what are those li'l nicks and scratches on your arm?” Jaise ran an index finger up Vera's right arm. “You been in a fight? Or did Taj slam you against the wall, yank your hair back, and do you real good? You know that make-up-break-up sex is the best. Did I ever tell you about that time . . .”

“Jaise, it was nothing like that.” Vera frowned, took out her compact, popped it open, and did everything she could not to reveal the shock she felt. All the sexy, bouncy curls in her hair lay limp on her bare shoulders. Her mascara resembled war marks. Her eye shadow had inched from her eyelids and was smeared across her eyebrows. Her lipstick ran a trail down her right cheek. One of her false lashes dangled for dear life and the other was simply missing. Tears filled her eyes.

“Exactly!” Jaise said. “Now do you see? You can't step onto the red carpet looking like who shot John, fucked up, and let his ass live.”

Silence.

Jaise carried on. “Can you imagine the looks on the faces of that countrified Chaunci and sleazy ghetto trickafied Milan if you stepped onto the red carpet looking like this? Oh no, honey.”

“Richard,” Vera called.

“Yes, Mrs. Bennett.”

“We need to make a detour.”

T
he evening sun gently bowed and made way for a crisp fall New York City night. Two six-foot-tall, robust, olive-skinned men, dressed in black top hats and tails, standing on opposite sides of a massive black-and-gold-trimmed iron fence, slowly pulled the immense gold handles and brought the ultraexclusive and private lawn party into full view.

An eighteenth-century Manhattan mansion served as the backdrop, with glittering white lights wrapped around four colossal columns that lined the veranda.

On the left of the sprawling and verdant garden was an all-glass, L-shaped bar that glowed with a hue of blue. To the right were white-linen-covered chairs and matching round tables; mini white trees with crystals dangling from their branches served as the centerpieces.

Glowing white lanterns hung from white painted bamboo poles that separated the buffet station, the dance floor, and the makeshift stage where Jonathan Butler and his jazz band performed.

There were white-gloved butlers serving champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The guests—A-list celebrities, politicians, and Fortune 500 bigwigs—were all dressed in white.

And then there were the bitches, center of the red carpet and posing for pictures that were sure to hit the Internet at any moment and appear on the front pages of every fashion and gossip magazine across the nation by morning.

“Ladies! Ladies!” A
Page Six
reporter's voice rang out among the crowd. “Where's Chaunci?”

Everyone turned toward Milan, given that these two were the best of friends. “She'll be arriving at any moment.” Milan smiled. “She's just running a little late. Which I'm sure my costars, Jaise and Vera, can certainly understand, being that they just showed up ten minutes ago. Isn't that so, girlfriends?”

Jaise flashed a quick peek of her pearly white teeth. “We're not late. We're fashionably on time.”

“Speaking of fashion,” a
Life & Style
reporter jumped in, “what are you wearing?”

Each was adorned in an exquisite gown and limited edition stilettos; the designers “Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Yves Saint Laurent,” eased from their full, glossy lips and into the air with glee.

“Ladies!” an
Elle
reporter yelled. “How do you respond to the criticism of reality TV? Tell us, what can we expect from this season?”

Hesitating, their glances bounced from one to the other. Their eyes told that they had no idea what to expect. Hell, I knew better than anyone that the wonderment of what would happen from one season to the next had mind-fucked them with no orgasmic reward since the first episode.

After all, season one was about their struggle to play nice and hide the knives they'd tucked away in their expensive clutches. Season two was about stepping over and pretending the unexpected skeletons that had fallen at their feet didn't exist. And, well . . . herein lies season three....

“Ladies! Come on, give us something!”

After an awkward silence, Jaise smiled and took a step forward. Her platinum rhinestone-studded Louis Vuitton gown glimmered into the night. She looked toward the reporters and said, “You can expect us to spend more quality time together. Build a solid, sisterlike bond. We're truly dedicated to showing that reality TV isn't just about catfights and drama. There's substance. There's friendship. And we have it.”

Impressive.
A smile ran across my face. Apparently she was jockeying for the peacemaker's spot.
How interesting.

The paparazzi carried on. “Ladies! Who's the new girl?”

“Excuse me,” Dominique, the cast's publicist, interrupted. “Thank you, everyone, but that will be all for the evening. We must get to the party.”

The two olive-skinned men assumed their positions and closed the iron gate, leaving a lonely choir of screaming fans and overzealous reporters to shoot questions and snap pictures behind us.

The cast walked to the end of the red carpet and into the center of the party. The emcee, Danny, with overly bright blond highlights in his gelled back hair, was clearly uncomfortable in men's clothing, hence the reason he was dressed like nineteen-eighty-fuckin'-five in a velvet lime green bolero tuxedo jacket trimmed with black stitching, matching ultra-tight tuxedo pants, lime green patent leather shoes, and a humongous rope chain and blinging crucifix hanging around his neck and highlighting his hairy chest. Nasty. Obviously, he had hope that
Miami Vice
was making a comeback. Danny gave short speeches about each cast member, thanking them for being number one the last two seasons.

Thankfully, the guests overlooked Danny's disgusting-ass appearance and serenaded the cast with a gracious round of applause.

Once the fanfare ended, Vera and Jaise headed to the powder room, while Carl and I stood next to Milan. “So, Milan,” I said.

“Yes?” She turned toward me.

“Where's Chaunci?”

“I don't know,” she said without hesitation. “Did you call her?”

“I don't call. You all are to be where I tell you to be when I tell you to be there.”

“Well, obviously she isn't here, now is she? And instead of being so focused on Chaunci, why don't you ask those two phony tricks?” She pointed in the direction Vera and Jaise had gone. “Ask them why they showed up two hours late. Unless of course you three arranged that grand entrance.”

“Me?” I said. “This is reality TV, darling. I would never arrange anything.” I gave her a wide grin. “So, no, that fierce entrance had nothing to do with me, but I loved every minute of it. Those two know how to arrive. Wouldn't you agree?” I put up a hand for a high five, but instead of her hand greeting mine, she sneered.

Slut.

“No, I don't agree and I especially didn't appreciate being herded back into my limo and made to sit there like a child until the teacher's fame whores arrived.” She surveyed me from head to stilettos. “And it's my expectation that that will not happen again or you will be minus a reality star.”

My, my, she seems confused.
“Or I'll be minus a what?” I blinked. “You wouldn't be threatening to quit so early in the season, would you? After all, this is only the first episode. At least allow me to record you for two or three more shows so that when I sue your ass you won't be completely broke.” I nodded at the butler and he handed me a glass of champagne.

Silence.

Thought so.

“I'll tell you this,” Milan said, clearly changing her sarcastic direction. “If Vera and Jaise say something offensive tonight, it will be a situation.” She twisted her lips and her face confirmed that she was looking for a reason to set shit off.

Oh, please.

She continued, “And being that this is a nice place, I would hate to tear it up. Now answer this question, Bridget. Who's the new girl? I've heard reports that whoever she is, she's getting paid more than us.”

“How ridiculous!” I assured her. “You, Chaunci, Vera, and Jaise are the highest paid reality stars on any network. Period. Trust me. What the new girl gets paid is the least of your worries.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” Milan eyed me suspiciously.

“It means you'll have to wait and see who she is. She'll be introduced soon enough.”

She sighed. “As long as she knows her place and understands there's a pecking order around here, then I have no problem welcoming her to our team. Otherwise, I'll turn her ass into fodder for the tabloids and toss her to the side with those two other phony bitches.”

“Speaking of phony bitches,” I mumbled, and nodded my head toward Jaise and Vera. “Look who's coming our way.”

Jaise and Vera approached, each with a glass of champagne.

“So, Bridget,” Jaise said in a playful British accent, “do spill the tea, dahling. Who's the new chick?”

Vera sipped and then said, “I've been meaning to mention that a very reliable source called me this morning and said it was Kim Kardashian.” She paused, obviously for effect.

“What? Are you serious?” Milan said, put off.

“Ohhellno.” Jaise quickly dropped her fake British accent. “Whatthefuck? Let me explain something here. I don't do ghetto and I don't do Beverly Hills trashy.” She dropped her voice an octave, leaned in, and attempted to whisper to me, “Seriously, Bridget, Vera, and I have already made allowances for the hood-rich and classless mismatched within this cast and now you really expect us to run around town with the most passed around blow-up doll in America? I don't think so.”

“Hood-rich? Allowances? And classless mismatched!” Milan gasped. “If anybody is mismatched here, it's your son and his multitude of baby mamas! So the last thing you need is to make any allowances for me or Chaunci!”

“Oh, Milan, please,” Jaise said flippantly. “Who would stoop so low as to talk about a twenty-year-old child? Now if I spoke about your hundred-pound, six-month-old with the crooked-ass eye, you'd have a problem with that. So I suggest you leave my baby the hell alone!”

“You know what, Jaise? I'm going to just ignore you before I end up beatin' your ass.” Milan guzzled her champagne.

“Suits me. Anywho, Bridget, will you just tell us who she is?”

“No.” I smiled. “But I will say this: That speech you gave on the red carpet about friendship and you all being like sisters was absolutely wonderful. So elegant and so graceful.”

Jaise smiled as she looked toward Carl, who had the camera pointed her way. “I meant what I said. Someone has to be the bigger person here. And I truly believe that Boom Kiki and her gang learn best by example.” She smiled at Milan. “By the way, Boom Kiki, where is your gang?”

“Boom Kiki?!” Milan snapped. “Boom Kiki would be the ass who stayed with a man for seven years who used her as a punching bag. Oh wait, that would be you. So Boom Kiki must be the one whose fiend-ass mama tossed her in a garbage bag.” She looked over to Vera.

I swear the look Vera gave Milan, with one eyebrow arched and the other dipped low, made me want to clutch my pearls and piss in my pants. I looked at Carl and mouthed, “Zoom in.”

Vera dusted invisible wrinkles from her midthigh, strapless, royal blue, hourglass-fitted cocktail gown that hugged her double D's and wide hips like expensive paint. “Obviously, since the last time we saw one another was at the reunion, you've gotten a few things fucked up. So here's what you need to remember. I'm not the one. And unless you want me to slap the shit out of you, you'll shut the fuck up! 'Cause unlike Jaise”—she looked into the camera—“for me this season is not about getting along and showing more togetherness. For me, this season is about giving it to whoever brings it, whenever and wherever they bring it—”

“Pardon me,” Jaise interrupted. “You two might want to put that on pause; there's a reporter coming this way. So smile, ladies.”

Click!

Flash!

“You ladies look fantastic!” the reporter complimented. “Do tell. When did you decide to mend your friendship? Last we left off, you three were definitely at odds.”

“Well . . .” Jaise smiled. “I think we've all grown up a bit, and given that most of us here are mothers and so many women look up to us, we thought that we'd be a little more tolerant of one another. And once we did that, the friendship just seemed to fall in place.”

“Isn't that interesting?” The reporter pointed his digital recorder toward her. “So then you're not upset that Milan tweeted a blind item this morning to guess which of her costars was no longer allowed in Bloomingdale's because she'd written one too many bad checks? And when one of her followers tweeted your name, Jaise, Milan responded with a smiley face. That doesn't concern you at all?”

Jaise's eyes looked as if she'd entered another zone. “Bitch, you did what?!”

“Is that your statement?” The reporter beamed.

Jaise quickly whipped back around toward him. “Umm, no.” She smiled. “Here's my statement: What happened on Twitter is of no moment to me. Milan already explained that someone hacked her account. So that's water under the bridge. Isn't that right, girlfriend?”

“That's exactly correct.” Milan smiled.

“Great! Can I get a picture of you two together?”

“Of course,” Jaise said, and she and Milan posed with arms slid around the back of one another's waists.

“Thank you, ladies.” The reporter nodded as he walked away.

Jaise practically broke a heel stepping out of their embrace. “Ugh, I think I need a bath.” She flicked invisible dirt from her shoulders.

“Fuck you!” Milan said.

Jaise whipped around. “You have absolutely no class. I wouldn't fuck you with somebody else's dildo.”

“Ladies,” a voice poured over their shoulders.

“Yes.” They all turned around, wearing Barbie doll smiles, only to greet two uniformed NYPD officers.

The lead officer took a step forward. “Which one of you ladies is Vera Bennett?”

Vera smiled. “I'm Vera Bennett. May I help you with something?”

“Ma'am,” the lead officer said, “you're under arrest. For criminal mischief and trespassing. I need you to place your hands behind your back.”

Shut. The. Front. Fuckin'. Door. “Oh, my!” I gulped down the rest of my champagne in one shot.

Jaise looked panicked while Milan looked to be in shock.

My heart raced and my inner thighs tightened. I smiled at Vera and said, “That's it, Vera! Bring it home!” I shivered in excitement. Dear God! I swear Vera knew how to take shit to new heights every fuckin' time! And to think I couldn't wait to introduce them to the new girl and get their reactions! But this topped it all!
Thank you, Jesus. This right here . . . is cum worthy!
I shivered again, had a moment of silence, and then did my best to collect myself, as every reporter in the place, along with some I knew for sure were not on the guest list—but had somehow eased their way in—hurried over and began flashing their cameras and shouting questions, while everyone else was virtually on pause.