Rich Girl Problems (3 page)

“Hurry, Carl, over here!” I popped my fingers and pointed at my other cameramen. “And you, over there! You make sure you zoom in, goddamn it! And you pan around and get the guests' reactions!”

Vera took a step back, and judging by the look in her eyes, a thought danced before her. She looked into the distance and then back at the officers. “You came here to arrest me? Really?” She looked back into the distance and said to no one in particular, “So this punk motherfucker called the police on me?”

“Vera,” Jaise whispered. “Does this have anything to do with the conversation you had with Taj earlier this evening? Did you kill him?”

“Ma'am,” the lead officer spoke again, “I'm going to ask you one last time to place your hands behind your back.”

Vera shook her head. “Oh, that motherfucker will pay for this.” She handed Jaise her purse and her blue diamond earrings, necklace, and matching bangles. Afterward, she placed her hands behind her back and said, “Let's go.”

All I could do was smile. I promise you, I loved this dramatic whore!

Jaise looked over at the officers. “You have to be mistaken! And what the hell is your problem, coming up in here like this?! This is not proper conduct!”

“Ma'am,” the lead officer said to Jaise, “I'm going to ask you to be quiet and to take a step back.”

“Excuse you. You don't speak to a lady like that! Now my husband is Captain Bilal Asante and I demand that you get those cuffs off her!” She grabbed the officer roughly by the chin and snatched his face toward hers. She squeezed his cheeks. “Now you listen to me—Ahh!” She screamed as the officer quickly grabbed her arms, spun her around, and slapped cuffs on her wrists. “You're under arrest for disorderly conduct! And assault on an officer!”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I so love these whores!

“I didn't assault you!” Jaise wiggled and screamed. “I'm not some common damn criminal! Bridget, call my attorney and have him meet us at the station!”

Oh, hell no. This will make a much better episode if you two stay there over the weekend.
“Of course, Jaise. I'm on it. Carl,” I directed, “follow them.”

Once the iron gates closed behind them, I clapped my hands. “Perfect. Fuckin'. Scene. Fuckin' fabulous. Orgasmic!” I leaned in close to Milan, whose mouth was hung open in astonishment, and spoke in a low tone. “Now I need you to take it home! Here's your chance to outdo them. Look into the camera and own it. Swear that you called the police on her and had her arrested. Make up some shit. Anything. I got it! Say that Vera was the one writing bad checks.”

“Why would I say that?” Milan asked, and had the nerve to sound as if what I'd just suggested was beneath her. “I don't like her, but that's going a little too far.”

“And this is why you'll never have a spin off.”

“That's fine,” Milan said, as she patted the sides of her shoulder-length hair and spoke into the camera. “I would never lie on someone and wallow in their moment of distress. And, yes, as far as I'm concerned, those two bitches got what their greasy-ass hands called for. And I'm not surprised that Vera had a warrant. Look at her. Think about where she came from. The trash. And Jaise. I'm sure she'll do just fine in jail. It'll take her punk ass no time to become some dike's wife. However, I will not stand here and pour piss in an open wound. I simply won't do it.”

I clapped my hands and smiled as I turned around and looked toward the guests, who all were still in shock. “No worries, anyone!” I said, as I made my rounds. “No worries. Vera and Jaise will be fine. Please. Let's get back to having a good time. After all, I have a wonderful surprise for everyone!”

Some of the guests left, but most took my advice and carried on. I made eye contact with Danny and nodded, which was the cue he'd been waiting for.

“The moment we've all been anticipating has arrived,” Danny said, as he stood on the makeshift stage. “May I have everyone's attention please?”

The crowd grew silent and Milan paid particularly close attention. For a moment, I didn't think that she was breathing.

Danny continued, “As you know, everyone has been champing at the bit to see who the new Millionaire Wife is. Well, I'm here to tell you she's beautiful. Stunning. A mother. Rich. Very rich. The bride of oil tycoon Zachary Dupree—”

Milan looked perplexed. “I know damn well this is not some old whore with worms, Bridget. Isn't he like seventy . . . or eighty?”

I didn't answer her; instead I looked over at the reporter who quietly stood next to Milan and hung on her every word.

“Without further ado,” Danny carried on, “it is my pleasure to introduce the newest member of the
Millionaire Wives Club,
Journee Dupree!”

“Wonderful!” I yelled as the crowd and I broke out in rambunctious applause. At six foot one, she wore fabulous python skin Prada heels with straps that snaked up her calf.

Journee didn't walk. She sauntered.

Back straight.

Head held high.

Pelvis thrusting.

Glowing maple skin. The exact color that I loved in my men.

She was fabulous and served everyone in the place Parisian runway. With hair flowing over her shoulders, she worked the stage in a sparkling cream Prada gown that stopped midway up her thigh and complimented every one of her size-six curves. She walked up to the mic and said, “You all are way too kind, but I thank you nonetheless. I'm sure that I will bring everything that you have ever dreamed of to reality TV.” She gave a small Miss America wave as I joined her on stage, and together we answered reporters' questions and posed for pictures. A few minutes into the sunlight of her superstardom, I leaned in and said, “Journee, I'd like to introduce you to Milan.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes slowly rising from Milan's stilettos to her mink lashes.

“But”—I lightly grabbed her forearm, stopping her midstep—“I must caution you before we walk over there, please don't think that you'll be holding any afternoon tea-esque conversation about the children, the husbands, Italy, Chanel.”

“Why not? There has to be an effort to be friendly.”

“Friendly?” I all but laughed. “With that girl? That expectation is awfully high, darling. And given the Milan I know, that will never happen. She is the epitome of unfriendly. She can be nasty. Very nasty . . . You know, Journee, if this were anyone else, I wouldn't tell them this, but I think you ought to know.”

“Know what?”

“When Milan found out you were the wife of Zachary Dupree, she classed you immediately as an old whore with worms.”

“She did what?”

“And then she laughed.”

“Laughed?”

“Cackled. Like trailer trash with too much time on her hands. So you see”—I looked her straight in the eyes—“Milan is a jealous, pussy-poppin' madwoman. Believe me. I've worked with her long enough to know. Don't misunderstand me though. I'm not saying not to be nice. I'm simply saying to watch yourself.”

We resumed our walk over toward Milan, and once we arrived Milan turned and smiled at Journee.

“Milan,” I said, “this is Journee Dupree.”

Journee held her hand out and Milan accepted her gesture.

How sweet.

“Journee, it's truly a pleasure,” Milan said, as her eyes darted back and forth between Journee and the camera pointed at them.

“Yes, it is,” Journee said. “I'm sure we're going to have a fabulous season.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Milan agreed.

Journee continued, “As long as everybody stays in their lane and I don't have to cuss a motherfucker out, then I'm sure we'll be fine.” She gave Milan a look that confirmed she had heard right. Then she looked from side to side. “Now where are the other ladies, Vera, Jaise, and Chaunci?”

Milan blinked. “Rewind. As long as who stays in their what? You won't have to what?”

Journee smiled. “Oh, forgive me. Did I say that too fast? What I said was: As. Long. As. You. Stay—”

“I heard what you said!” Milan said. “Now hear this! I don't know where you get off—”

“I watched the show,” Journee interjected. “Both seasons. And I already know you throw the rock and your girlfriend Chaunci hides your hands. But, just so you know, the day that your rock hits me, I'll be sure to make you choke on it.”

Boom!

“However,” Journee batted her lashes, “I don't believe in violence. So, I'm just letting you know the rules for us getting along famously. Now where are the other girls?”

“Chaunci didn't show up,” I said. “No worries though. My lawyers and I will be dealing with her by morning, and the other two are in jail.”

“Jail?!” Journee said in disbelief.

“Five-0 carted Vera and Jaise out of here a little over an hour ago. It was one of the greatest spectacles I'd ever seen! You were in the mansion awaiting your introduction at the time.”

“Hold it!” Milan said. “To hell with the other girls; let's get back to our situation at hand. Let me inform you how things work around here. There is a pecking order and you—”

“Pecking order? Really?” Journee chuckled. “How cute. Do tell; is that your rendition of shade? Girl, please. Your kind is not for me. I have my own league; real bitches do real things.”

“I don't know who the fuck you think you are!” Milan said.

“Journee Dupree, bride of billionaire Zachary Dupree. And that worm is richer than both you and your pet unicorn, Chaunci, put together. So you two sad, desperate, and pathetic thots better run along. ” She flicked her wrist.

Dear God, I was about to drool.

Milan pointed in Journee's direction, yet looked into the camera, “Somebody better get this bitch. Because she's obviously new to this and Bridget forgot to tell this hoe the rules. Rule number one: don't come for me. Rule number two: don't break rule number one. 'Cause if you do, you'll end up tagged and body bagged.”

“Hilarious!” Journee's platinum and diamond bangles clanked as she clapped her hands. “You tried it. But clearly you're doing all of that talking to punk out of getting your ass beat. ”

Milan took two short breaths and did her best to collect herself. “You know what? Let me leave here before I forget all of my anger management techniques.” She tucked her clutch beneath her arm and stormed away.

I smiled as I handed Journee a glass of rosé. “You know, Journee, the viewers will love you. So welcome, my dear, to the
Millionaire Wives Club
. Where bitches reign supreme. Ratings rule everything. And love . . . is a whole other story on another goddamn channel.”

Three Days Later

 

V
era slowly opened her eyes and realized that since Friday she'd watched three sunrises slither through the tiny barred window in the cell she shared with seven women. One who had a full beard, mustache, and pissed standing up and leaning over the toilet like a man. Another who dug into her wrists and sliced her skin with her fingernails; two who cried all weekend; one who hid in the corner, dripped snot and moaned through meth withdrawal.

Jaise side-eyed everydamnbody. She had been threatened with not one, but four beat downs and a coma. Then there was the fan, who screamed for two hours straight about how much she loved the show but hated both of their raggedy asses.

Dear God.

The smooth mulberry silk of Vera's cocktail gown was stained and ruined with indentations and snags from the rough concrete bench where she sat next to Jaise, who whispered in a panic, “I have got to get the fuck out of here or go crazy.” Tears filled her eyes. “I haven't slept in three days! The bitch over there told me she wanted to smell my panties. I've got sores on my ass and I just can't. I can't help you anymore, Vera!”

“Help me?” Vera said, taken aback.

“I can't do this with you. You're in this ghetto shit a little too deep for me. I never expected to go to jail behind trying to save your ass. I need to—”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Vera squinted as she pushed her face into Jaise's and said in a low yet stern tone, “Let me get your ass together real quick. It's your own fault that you're in this motherfucker in the first place. You're married to a damn cop, so you knew better than to put your hands on one. Then you do it the same weekend that your husband is away at a law enforcement retreat, where he can't be reached, and now we have to sit here all goddamn weekend. You want to blame this shit on me? Here's what I need you to do: turn yo' ass the other way before I forget that you're one of my best friends and clothesline the shit outta you!”

“Trouble in TV land?” the fan yelled. “Y'all bitches finally see in each other what the fuck I see when I watch y'all on TV!”

Jaise jumped up. “You know what—!”

“Bennett, Asante!” the correction officer yelled into the cell. “Step to the front. Time to go!”

“Thank God!” they said simultaneously as they rushed toward the electronic door and watched it slide back.

“Bye, bitches!” the fan screamed. “Better hope I don't see your asses on the schreetz”. The electronic door slammed and reduced her voice to a muffle.

The officer escorted Vera and Jaise to the processing clerk, who shoved a plastic bag with their belongings into their hands and asked them to step on the opposite side of an electronic door that slid closed behind them.

“My shoes are not in here,” Vera said as she rummaged through her bag and looked over to Jaise, who pounded on the door demanding to get the processing clerk's attention.

“Half of my shit is missing!” Jaise screamed. “And where the hell are my shoes?!”

“You know what,” Vera spun around and yelled at Jaise, “If you get arrested again you'll be in there by your damn self! Fuck the shoes!” She stormed out of the precinct with Jaise pissed off, yet following behind. They walked directly into an unexpected mob of reporters, a smiling Bridget, and television cameras.

“Over here, baby girl.” Vera's Aunt Cookie grabbed her hand, while Jaise's driver rushed to her, tossed his blazer over her head, and made a mad dash for the car.

Jaise and her driver peeled off and one of the
Millionaire Wives Club
vans rushed behind them.

Aunt Cookie, however, posed for pictures and strolled her size-sixteen hips through the mob of paparazzi over to her pristine '74 candy-apple-red-and-white ragtop Eldorado. Vera yanked the handle, got in, and slammed the door. The paparazzi flashed their cameras into the purple-tinted window.

“Make that the last time you slam my damn door,” Cookie said as she slid the key into the ignition and started the engine. The hydraulics made the entire car bounce and raise three feet off the ground. The black velvet dice that hung around the rearview mirror swayed from side to side as Cookie reached for a cigarette in her ashtray, lit it, and took a pull.

Vera did all she could not to stare in the direction of the reporters, but she needed something to focus on, especially since she knew it was only a matter of time before her aunt went on a rampage about her being in jail. She settled for a snag in her dress.

Cookie placed the car in drive and took off for the West Side Highway.

One . . .

Vera flipped down the visor and took a deep breath as she spotted Bridget and one of the cameramen following behind them in a dark blue van. She quickly flipped the visor back up and took a quick peek at Cookie, who turned off the first exit and a few seconds later was double parked in the street.

Two . . .

Cookie took a long and deliberate pull of her cigarette, blew a small stream of smoke from the side of her ruby red lips, and ran an index finger across the slicked edges of her lace front.

She mashed her cigarette in the ashtray, leaned back in her seat and snorted. “I have half a mind to take my hand and back smack, sumo-flex, and clothesline the shit outta you!”

“Aunt Cookie—”

“Shut up! Now tell me, who in the hell gets arrested on a Friday? A Friday, Vera? How goddamn slow can you be? Must be that damn crack and dope fiend shit ya mama was smokin' comin' back to haunt you! 'Cause, yeah, I raised you, but you didn't get this dumb shit from me! I don't know what you workin' wit'!”

“Aunt Cookie—”

“Didn't I tell you to shut up?! Now answer me this. What have I always told you? Huh? What?”

“Not to get arrested.”

“Hell no!” Cookie mushed Vera on the side of her forehead. “Now say some dumb shit like that again and see what I do to you! You know I have always told you that if you gotta bust ass, then bust ass Monday through Thursday! But what did you do?”

Vera hesitated. “I—”

“You went and got your ass locked up on a ma'fuckin' Friday! Leaving me with that spoiled ass, pain in the ass daughter of yours! And you know my weekends are tied up. After I raised you, me and kids got a goddamn time limit. Called an hour. Now I love Skyy, but she talks too damn much. You don't know how many times I wanted to yell ‘Shut the fuck up!' But I didn't. I was close. But I said a damn prayer and Jesus helped me get through the goddamn weekend! ‘Aunt Cookie this. Aunt Cookie that.' I promise you, Vera, I wanted to slap the vocabulary outta her ass. Children in my day didn't talk that damn much! I swear it's that private school you got her in. All this damn money you got done messed her up. She needs a broke ass-beatin'. That's what she needs! Too damn grown!”

“Aunt Cookie, she's just seven.”

“I don't give a damn! When I was seven, I knew how to shut the hell up. And don't interrupt me again. Now. Make this your last time I have to come and get your crazy ass out of jail on a Monday morning. Are we clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, where are we going?”

“I need to make a stop—and I also need to use your cell phone.”

 

The rubber soles of Vera's forest green prison slippers slapped against the bamboo floor of Taj's private medical practice as she walked in and slammed the all-glass entrance door hard enough to make the pane shake.

The people in the lobby—patients and two secretaries, one standing and the other sitting behind the desk answering the phone—all froze. Bridget all but lost her balance as she and Carl rushed in behind Vera, who stormed past the secretaries and down the hall into Taj's office.

Where the hell is he?

Vera's eyes scanned the black-and-white framed family photos that hung on the walls and surrounded Taj's medical degree and license. She whipped toward the door where Taj's secretary, Miranda, stood.

“Mrs. Bennett.” Miranda's voice quivered. “Dr. Bennett is in a meeting with some of the other doctors and nurses. Please—”

“Miranda.” Vera popped her lips and cocked her neck to the right. “I advise you to get the fuck out of my way.”

Miranda stepped back.

Vera pushed past her, charged down the carpeted hall, and stopped at the closed double doors of the conference room. She placed her hands on the nickel-plated handles, twisted them, and swung both doors open.

All heads turned and seemed stuck Vera's way. The only one looking the opposite way was Taj, who pointed to a Power-Point of a cancerous cell. “So you see,” he said as he turned around and locked eyes with Vera.

“Oh. No. The fuck. You didn't,” Vera said. “You had my motherfuckin' ass locked up!”

“Can everyone please excuse us?” Taj said, and his staff gathered their things to leave.

“Oh, you don't have to go no-motherfuckin'-where, 'cause I won't be here long!”

The staff gave one another uncomfortable grins and glances.

“Vera,” Taj called, and she hesitated. “Stop. It.”

They locked eyes once more and after a few seconds of loaded silence, Vera screamed, “Don't ‘Vera me,' motherfucker! You have lost your rabbit-ass mind! Now we can do a whole lot of shit to each other, but jail? Really? Oh, you have taken it to a whole other level! You had five-0 roll up on me—and then they cuff me on
national
TV? Seriously?” She glances at the camera and then back over to Taj.

“Vera,” Taj said, loosening his tie as a road map of thumping veins webbed their way up his thick neck, “I need you to step into my office.”

“Oh, what? You're embarrassed? I don't give a damn! You should've thought about that before you called the po-po on me!”

“Listen, you need to stop. Now, I will leave here in a few minutes and meet you at our house.”

“Our house? We don't have a house!”

“I will meet you at your house.”

“Really? How the hell are you going to get there?” She pointed to the picture window where a tow truck had raised Taj's silver Lamborghini Veneno onto the flatbed.

“What the fuck?!” Taj rushed over to Vera and yanked her by the forearm with one hand and with the other hand pushed Carl and the camera pointed at them out of the way. He charged out the back door and into the parking lot.

Aunt Cookie rolled down her tinted car window. “Keep it clean, Taj. Let her arm go. 'Cause I don't wanna have to put no sauce on you.” She pointed a hand like a gun and blew at the invisible tip.

Still clutching Vera by the forearm, Taj ignored Cookie and instead ran over to the tow truck driver. A burly black woman with an attitude, her blond hair dyed the wrong shade for her maple complexion; she jiggled keys and walked toward the driver's side of the tow truck. “That's my damn car! Take it off your truck right now!”

The driver ignored him as she got into the truck and slammed the door in his face.

“Vera, get my damn car!” Taj demanded.

Vera snatched away. “Do you have amnesia? That's my goddamn car! Motherfucker's in my name!”

“It was a gift for my birthday. Now get my shit off that damn truck!”

“Hell no. That's my shit—and I'm selling the motherfucker. You better get yo' pretty cop-callin' ass a cab, get on the goddamn bus, or hitchhike! Punk, snitchin'-ass beyotch! Better make sure that's the last time you call the po-po on me!” She turned on her heels and slid back into Cookie's car. The tow truck pulled out of the parking lot, Cookie popped the hydraulics and screeched out behind it, leaving Taj and the camera crew engulfed in a cloud of fumes.