Rich Girl Problems (5 page)

“And, yes, I love him and I want him back.” Jaise cleared her throat.
I need a cigarette
. “But if he can't remove his ridiculous ass conditions and stop demanding that I abandon my son, then fuck him! My son doesn't need a father. I got this. When Jabril gets out of hand, I know how to deal with it.” She looked up at the doctor's door. “You see that motherfucker is still in there, so obviously he doesn't give a fuck about me, or she's in there sucking his dick! Now I need to go 'cause I need a cigarette and I need to leave here before I completely lose it!”

J
ournee, dressed in a midthigh, green, blue, and white plaid and pleated Catholic school skirt, a starched white cotton blouse with a loose plaid tie hanging around the unbuttoned collar, leaned against her husband Zachary's bedroom doorway and watched him drop the needle on the vintage record player, filling the room with the sounds of Sarah Vaughan. “I've been . . . waiting . . . on you,” he said, “wondering . . . what took you so long.”

“I was praying.”

“About . . . what?” he asked, his raspy voice sounding as if he'd lived one too many lifetimes.

That by the time I arrived you'd be dead.
“About so many different things, Granddaddy.”

“Different things—
like what
?”

How today is the four-year anniversary of the day the doctor told me you had three days to live. So I ran home, planned our wedding and your funeral, had Ralph Lauren hand make you a dual purpose suit, only for you to live four years past that diagnosis and continue to be the perverted and stubborn motherfucker your five ex-wives before me all said that you were. But, instead of being a rich and happy widow, I'm now a pissed Catholic schoolgirl every other Monday; an underage slut the last Thursday of the month; and every first Sunday, I'm an eighteen-year-old nun trying to find my way, all to the backdrop of Sarah Goddamn Vaughan and your fucked up, perverted, pedophile fantasies.

“Journee . . . did you . . . hear me?”

“I heard you, baby. I was only praying that you would be my granddaddy forever. And thinking about how much I've missed you since last night.”

“If you missed me . . . so much, then why are you . . . so late? Eight o'clock in the morning is when . . . you're supposed to be here. Not eight-twelve. Eight. I've stopped and started . . . this record three times. And I don't like waiting.”

Me either. And I've been waiting a lot longer than twelve minutes. I've been waiting for four fuckin' years.
“Oh, Granddaddy,” Journee whined. “Don't be upset. It'll only aggravate your heart.”

“Come . . . here.”

Journee hesitated. For a moment, she considered walking away and leaving him sitting in his wheelchair. She didn't. Instead, she pushed aside her feelings of disgust and found comfort in the thought that one day she'd be able to cremate his black ass and blow him away.

Her five-inch, black Mary Jane pumps tapped against the wood floor as she stepped over to him, stroked his cheeks and placed her hands on his feeble shoulders.

Her eyes swept over his wrinkled caramel skin, from his wide and flared nose invaded with oxygen tubes that snaked down the creases in his neck, to his sunken chest, connecting to the large steel tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair.

Journee ran her hands over his bald head and rested them back on his shoulders.

His quivering lips kissed her right arm. Then her left. He ran his hands over the wet spots his kisses left behind, clutched her wrists and snatched her down to his chest. His arms shook, but his hold was strong, evidence that once upon a time he was a strapping man who stood upright and didn't take kindly to anyone disobeying his orders. “Where the fuck were you?” he demanded. “And don't tell me you were praying!” He tightened his grip. “You were supposed to be here at eight o'clock and you're late.”

“I overslept, Zachary, baby. I was up late last night. Bridget and the cameras were here having a tour. You're hurting me.”

He let her go. “Did you . . . fuck one of them?” He squinted as he looked her over.

“What?”

“You heard me! Take your panties off!” he demanded.

“Zachary!”

“I need to smell 'em! Right . . . now.”

She looked into his wild and wide round eyes and knew that if she turned on her heels, there wouldn't be much he could do. But she opted not to. Instead, she smiled, slid her black lace panties from between her legs, down her thighs, and handed them to him.

He unfolded them, sniffed lightly and slowly licked the seat. Her salty flavor teased his tongue. “You've really been a good . . . girl . . . with this pussy?” He smiled.

“Yes, I keep telling you that, Granddaddy.” She lifted his hand, took his left index finger, rubbed it over her clit, and placed it against his lips. “All yours, baby.” She turned around and placed her ass in his face. He licked between the slit and smashed both cheeks together.

“Jiggle it,” he demanded.

She obeyed, jiggled her ass in his face as he pushed his tongue deeper between her slit, tossing her salad until she dripped stickiness across his lips. The heated wetness of his tongue swimming on the underside of her nectar caused her to close her eyes and envision him being forty years younger.

Tall. Robust. Sensual.

His lips, popped, pulled, and tugged, as he bit one cheek and then the other.

“Mmmmm, eat it up, baby,” Journee moaned. “I want that dick. That big dick, baby.” She hissed as she imagined he had a dick with immeasurable inches preparing to take her to a place beyond space, and just as she was ready to leap toward the sky, he spun her around and she looked into his face, her eyes dropping down to his diaper.

Dear God.

He roughly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the double D's he'd paid generously for. He licked one quarter-sized chocolate nipple and then the other. Journee eased one nipple into his mouth and he latched on with lollipop pulls and tugs.

He moaned, switched nipples, and Journee pushed her breast as deep as it would go into his throat. She closed her eyes again, slowly slid her fingers between her wetness and played in her pussy.

“That's it.” She sighed as she circled the tip of her index finger over her swelling and slippery slope. She could feel her juices gathering and sliding between her thighs like smooth cream. Electricity shot through her body as she imagined again that he was the man of her dreams.

Six feet.

The color of light and sweet coffee, with a cleft chin.

Broad shouldered.

He continued to suck, rotating from one nipple to the other, and she continued to twirl her pearl.

He panted.

Her heart raced as she envisioned her invisible man and his thick dick at the tip of her cherry preparing to burst through and free her fuckin' misery.

“Almost . . . Almost . . .” she whispered as he moaned and her fingers reached toward bringing her sweetness home.

Her flesh dripped.

He moaned.

Almost there . . .

She groaned.

Almost . . .

He shivered and let her nipples fall from his lips, but she continued to work her clit, washing it in her sea of wetness. Her heart thundered. Her stomach tightened and her fingers squeezed her clit, forcing her juices to explode and leave sweet and gummy remnants between her thighs.

She opened her eyes. Zach's sleeping head lolled back and there was a drizzle of drool easing out the side of his mouth and a light snore sounding as if it poured from his nose.

Dear God, please kill this motherfucker by midnight.

T
he afternoon sky was a perfect pale blue as Chaunci stood on the edge of the pier and stepped into the boat she'd chartered to take her up the St. Lawrence River to Millionaire's Row, a stretch of private New York islands.

Chaunci held the hand of the hat-tipping captain while he assisted her to her seat, a pilot style reclining white leather chair with a retractable sun visor.

She placed her Louis Vuitton signature tote in the chair next to her, crossed her legs, slid her marble brown Moss Lipow sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, and listened to a message on her cell phone. “This. Is. Bridget. Apparently you are confused by your current situation. This. Is. Not. The Chaunci Show. You don't get to disappear for an entire weekend without taping. No one's heard from you and this is unacceptable. Now unless you want me and my team of attorneys to sue your ass, then I suggest you call me back or this will not be pretty.”

Click.

Chaunci slid her cell phone back into her purse and stared at the reflecting sun rays in the water.

This was supposed to be a hit it and quit type of thing. One season. Two seasons tops. Just long enough to solidify my brand's place in the rat race, so that when people saw my name and my face they'd know everything I touched turned to gold. The Oprah effect . . . or something like that.... I never considered that things would turn left.

She looked up from the water and reclined her seat.

A series of headlines rushed into her mind.

Why am I always on the cover of some skanky tabloid? Why is everyone wrapped up in me, my eight-year-old daughter, and my fiancé, Emory's, life? Why would anyone give a damn if I'm a millionaire and Emory is a regular Joe with a cleaning business? That's my affair and should be no one else's concern....

Chaunci shook off her thoughts and sat up in her seat. She reached for her cell phone and checked her e-mail. She had four from Bridget and one from the network's president. She deleted all five without reading them and placed her phone back into her bag.

She reclined her seat.

To think I was pissed about Idris saying our daughter, Kobi, couldn't be a part of the show this season. I hated giving in, but I knew he was right. Reality TV was ruining her life. Our daughter had a horrible school year. Her grades were bad; she was teased and bullied. We pulled her out of one school, placed her in a more exclusive school, where all the New York A-list celebrities sent their children, and she cried that she missed her friends.

I couldn't win.

She sighed again.

Thank God that Idris put his foot down and decided against her being on the show. And I'm glad I let her go and spend the summer with him and his wife . . . that bitch . . . and her kid . . . in South Africa. Kobi needed that. I needed that.

And fuck Bridget.

Yes, I escaped this weekend. I damn sure did. I chartered a jet and flew to the south of France. Auvergne. A remote and quaint village where no one knew my name, knew my fame, or knew anything about this damn reality show. All the locals knew about me was that I was a foreigner there to visit. They wished me a good time, recommended the best wine, and after that they all left. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. I was able to sit in my villa, put my feet up, look out the eighteenth-century window at the green rolling hills, and pretend that all that mattered in the world was my moment and me.

And no, I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Hell, the tabloids seemed to pull the most private moments of my life out of thin air. I needed to steal some quiet time for me.

I swear I hated going back home. Because as soon as the jet landed there were reporters at the hangar snapping pictures, salivating, and screaming that they'd heard I was in South Africa having a secret affair with Idris. Stupid. Dumb. Ridiculous. Nonsense.

I kept my composure though, smiled, and merely said, “All you need to know is that I had a wonderful time. And, no, I was not in South Africa. ”

But I was back in the good ole US of A. The home of the free, the brave, and the do whatever the hell they wanted to do to the rich and famous. Why? Because these people, these fans, and these reporters all felt entitled to my life and my business, with the fucked up philosophy that I signed up for this. And, yeah, maybe I did, but not to this extent.

Every day I had to defend what I'd worked hard for—my money, my empire, and my reputation—because someone felt they had a right to tear apart my life based on the fact that they saw me on TV every Thursday night.

I'm not some low-grade with no skills and no money of her own. I didn't get upgraded by a hard dick. I worked hard. I don't need this goddamn show. I got this. I run my own company. I have my own staff. I sign my own checks and I get to say what I'll tolerate, which is the exact reason why I'm going to see this resurrected bitch and let her know that just because she returned from the dead in a ball gown and some fly-ass stilettos doesn't make her beloved. And she will not be haunting my life.

“We're here,” the captain said as he extended his hand to help Chaunci onto the private island's dock.

“Thank you.” She flashed him a quick smile. “I'll only be a minute.”

She clicked her heels up the cobble stone pathway and stepped onto the veranda of the French chateau and rang the bell. A few seconds later, a short and matronly white woman answered the door. “Good morning; may I help you?”

Chaunci pushed past her, charged into the grand foyer, and said, “Tell that bitch that I said to get down here right now!”

M
ilan's hazel eyes danced as she sat on the carpeted floor in her son's Thomas and Friends train-themed nursery and watched him coo and burst into wet giggles. He bounced in his jumper and each time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, laughter shook his body, his dimples sank into his milk chocolate cheeks, and the ebony coils in his wild afro spun into a tizzy.

“That's Mommy's baby!” Milan laughed as she pointed to the mirror on the jumper's toy deck. “Yes, yes, that handsome face is Mommy's man. I just love you. I just—”

“Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind!” Bridget shook her head. “What is going on here? Why are we lost in drool and giggle land? This is unacceptable!”

Milan tossed a snide look over at Bridget, who now stood slicing a hand across her throat, a signal for Carl to cut off the camera. “Gather your things, Carl.” She dusted her hands. “We're done here!”

“What's the problem
now,
Bridget?” Milan rose from the floor, slamming a hard hand up on her hip.

“You can't be serious.” Bridget paced. “You simply can't be. Because I know damn well that you've been warned not to play with my money. I told you that. The network executives have told you that. And what do you do?” She stormed toward the doorway. “You bring us into the goddamn nursery as if your baby has the Midas touch for ratings or saving your dead-ass career!”

“You are
waaaay
out of line—!”

“And so are you! And if you have plans to stay on the
Millionaire Wives Club,
then I suggest you get the nanny in here so she can help you get your thoughts in order!” Bridget stormed down the stairs and into the foyer with Carl lugging his camera equipment behind her.

“You know what, Bridget?” Milan charged into the foyer. “You have the right idea—get the fuck out! This is my house and the only bitch allowed to act crazy up in here is me! And then you cussed and carried on in front of
my baby
! Oh, hell no! Understand this. You might sign my checks, but I help create yours, so as far as I'm concerned, we're on equal footing and you don't own me. This is my damn life and that's what people want to see! Or is this
not
reality TV?!”

Bridget's eyes narrowed as she snatched a packet of papers from her purse and shoved them into Milan's arms. “That script is your damn life. You had a choice of being a down-low lesbian, having an affair with some young buck, popping a Molly, or having a goddamned drinking problem! Instead, you indulged in a bunch of bullshit, as if someone wants to see you play the impeccable mommy and the stellar fuckin' wife! Clearly, you've forgotten what low level you came from! You were once Kendu's mistress. Had the hottest story line on the damn show and now you've turned into this?!”

“I never agreed to be scripted!”

“It's simple then; if you don't want to be scripted, you're fired! And
yes
, this is reality TV. Not some Tyler Perry sitcom! It's not okay to be boring as fuck! And to think I had Kim Kardashian and God lined up!” Bridget shook her head. “No one on this show wants to see you play with your baby!”

“Then fuck them!”

“Excuse me.” Alana, Milan's assistant, wrung her hands and said nervously, “I'm really sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to let you know, Mrs. Malik, that the driver is waiting and your flight to Miami leaves in an hour.”

“Flight!” Bridget screamed. “To Miami?!”

Milan turned toward her assistant. “Thank you, Alana. Now please excuse us.” Alana nodded as she scurried out of the foyer.

“What
the hell
are you going to Miami for?!” Bridget questioned.

“To be a fuckin' stellar wife and fuck my husband!”

Bridget laughed emphatically and then said into the air, “Sister Mary Frances, this ho is out of control!”

“Ho? Don't let my boring ass slap the shit out of you!”

“Do it. Then at least we'd be able to record some action! Now I tell you what.” Bridget stabbed an index finger toward Milan. “If you get your ass on that damn flight go to Miami, when you come back you will be replaced! And I mean that! Because I have had it with you! This isn't Burger King and you
will not
have it your way. This is the
Millionaire Wives Club,
the
hottest
reality show there is, and I run this! And I will have you replaced in five minutes flat! Trust me, there are a lot of rich bitches dying to suck on this candy! Now what I suggest you do is cancel that damn flight and get to planning a party. Invite every rich bastard you know and by the time the night ends, somebody better get to fightin', and I mean it! Or your ass is finished!” Bridget turned to Carl. “Let's go! I need to call in a few replacement wives for an interview.” Bridget shot Milan one last look before shoving her purse strap up her arm and slamming the door behind her.

Milan stood completely still as her eyes jumped around the room, landing on her Louis Vuitton suitcase. Instantly, her skin felt electrified as the hackles on the back of her neck stiffened. She walked into the family room, stepped over to the fireplace mantel, and in one swift motion sent the candles and the family pictures that decorated it flying into the air. The candles rolled across the room as the silver frames crashed and sent shards of glass to the bamboo floor.

“Fuckin' bitch!” Milan screamed at an invisible Bridget. “I can't stand your ass! You don't ever tell me what to do! Do you know how many women are trying to be me? And you're trying to script me! You must be crazy. To hell with the
Millionaire Wives Club
! How about this: I quit! I'm done with this shit. I got my man and my child and I don't give a damn about anything or anybody else—”

“Mrs. Malik,” Alana peeked into the foyer and said anxiously.

“WHAT?!”

“I just wanted to remind you that the driver is waiting and your flight leaves in a half hour.”

Milan froze.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

She rushed up the stairs, kissed her baby, left instructions with the nanny, and quickly returned to the foyer, where she picked up her suitcase and opened the front door. Just as she placed one red bottom on the walkway, she sucked in a hard breath and shoved it out.

Shit.

She turned back toward the door and walked into the house. Dropping her suitcase to the floor, she grimaced at her assistant. “Cancel my flight and get me the best party planner in New York on the phone!”