Power Couple (10 page)

“It's her word against yours. She threatened to sue us and she
was going to go to the press with the story. She said she has evidence that she was in that hotel with you. I had to do something to keep her quiet.”

“So, you offered a lying, scheming whore the opportunity to carry our child? That's ridiculous, Cori.”

“I doubled the original price for a surrogate and agreed to pay her tuition to nursing school after the baby's born. She wants to get out of the sex peddling business and lead a normal life.”

Maverick snorted. “Oh, yeah? She wants to lead a normal life on my dollar, huh?”

I caressed his arm. “Our dollar,” I corrected. “But we have so much, Mav, we won't even miss that little bit of money.”

He looked at me with suspicious eyes. “You're slick, Cori. You figured out a way to get exactly what you wanted. I hope you're happy now.”

“Maverick, sweetie, we both should be happy. We're having a son.”

“Whoopty-doo! We're having a fucking test tube baby, and everyone will be wondering if the kid is really mine. With the messed-up way it's coming into the world, I'll be wondering my damn self if the kid is actually mine.”

“We can get DNA testing later in the pregnancy, if you'd like.”

“Believe me, I insist on DNA testing.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

“I can't believe you trapped me into this shit. In vitro fertilization is for white folks. A virile brother like me has more than enough healthy sperm to make a kid the right way. I'm not happy about bringing a Frankenstein baby into the world. It's not a good look for me.”

“You should have thought about your image when you were mauling that escort and ramming her so hard you burst through the condom,” I countered with a hand on my hip.

CHAPTER 14

W
e were behind schedule and had to film three episodes in one day. It was grueling work, and watching the kids getting kicked off the show, one after another in the course of a day wasn't fun, either. One of the departed had been my girl, LaTasha, and her teary-eyed exit had been heart-wrenching.

What the audience would see was the prerecorded exit scene of each of the departing contestants, but what actually happened on set was loud sobbing and emotional outbursts that often escalated to anger, profanity, and even violence. When the dwarf had been booted off the show, he kicked one of the cameramen in the shins. That dwarf was a mean little son of a bitch.

Josh would have loved to showcase the contestants showing their asses, but he couldn't use the footage since the kids often blabbered about their mistreatment and other dirty little secrets of the show while in the midst of their tirades. For example, one of the contestants, Touki, the blue-eyed, blue-haired Asian girl, left the show screaming, “It's not fair! How could the judges be expected to properly critique my food when it's been left sitting on a tray for two hours while you assholes did like a zillion retakes?”

Sadly, Touki's words were true. The reason the judges took such tiny bites of the dishes set before them was due to the fact that while the crew made changes and shot retakes, most of the food was often cold and unpalatable by the time it reached the judges' table.

On the day that Maverick appeared on the show, he refused to chew or swallow the food. Off camera, he spat the food into a napkin, but when the camera was on him, he smiled charmingly as he launched into his critique, often praising the awful food that had been placed before him.

Down to our final five, I'd managed to keep my favorite, Ralphie, in the competition despite Josh's fear that an appearance by Ralphie's ghetto-fabulous foster mother would bring down the ratings. When I'd informed Josh that the foster mother had managed to get a set of dentures, he had no choice but to give up the idea of kicking Ralphie off the show. Little did Josh know that I had secretly arranged an emergency dental visit for the woman and had spent money out of my own pocket to get her teeth fixed.

But my motives hadn't been purely altruistic. A part of me wanted America to see what the network wanted to hide. It wasn't only poor little black kids getting rescued by good white people; there were heroes in the 'hood, too. There were black folks out there who opened their hearts and homes to unwanted white children.

After being flown to New York, the mothers of our five finalists were herded to a hotel in midtown Manhattan, away from the madness taking place on the Chelsea set. It was brought to my attention that Ralphie's foster mom was running up a hell of a tab at the hotel bar, and I made a mental note to give her a call and encourage her to arrive at tomorrow's taping sober.

I had to tape one-on-one pep talks with the final five that consisted of Ralphie, Michelangelo, Yancy, Becca, and Angus, the tattooed-covered asshole whom I was convinced was a white supremacist.

There were only three real contenders: Ralphie, Michelangelo, and unfortunately, Angus. But Angus with his neo-Nazi self would win over my dead body.

During the taping of my one-on-one with Michelangelo, I was
nearly moved to tears. Exhibiting his sensitive side, he spoke in a somber tone as he mentioned wanting to win the competition to honor his dad, a New York firefighter who had died tragically while trying to rescue victims during the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

“I thought you were from Ohio,” I said, looking down at my notes.

“Yes, that's where we relocated after my dad's death. My mom was originally from Cleveland, and she wanted to be close to her family after losing my pop. I was only nine years old at the time,” he said, looking down and pausing in an effort to compose himself. “One of my fondest memories,” he continued, “is going to the fire station with my pop and helping him prepare his famous, spicy chili for the other firefighters. Hanging out with my pop at the fire station was how I developed my love of cooking. My dad was an American hero,” Michelangelo said, wiping away a tear. “If I win this competition, I'm going to open a restaurant called The Fire Station to honor his memory. His chili and some of his other favorite dishes will be included on the menu.”

I had officially gone from rooting for Ralphie to wanting Michelangelo to win. No doubt, he'd be an audience favorite based on his looks and sex appeal, but after viewing his emotionally charged one-on-one session, I was sure the producers of the show as well as the viewers at home would root for him based on his unexpected display of sensitivity.

• • •

“We started out with twenty amateur cooks and now we're looking at the final five,” I said in an enthusiastic voice and widening my eyes in a way that I hoped would add the twinkle that my audience had come to adore. “Woo-hoo, final five,” I yelled, pumping my fist in the air.

The kids cheered along with me and pumped their fists.

“All of you should be extremely proud of yourselves, and I know the last thing any of you want is to go home.”

On cue, the kids shook their heads, agreeing that they didn't want to go home.

“Well, contestants, it's time to put your best foot forward. In young people's terms, it's time to turn up because it just got real here at Cori's kitchen!”

After I delivered my spiel, one of the producers told me that the moms had arrived and were hidden off camera. Their arrival would be a surprise to the kids. With my segment complete, I went backstage to greet them.

The only two black women in the group were as different as night and day. There was Ralphie's foster mom with her cheap clothes and obviously fake Louis Vuitton bag. Michelangelo's mom, on the other hand, was an elegant and stylish woman with good bone structure and beautiful salt-and-pepper hair. She had the exact reddish-brown complexion as her son.

I looked the women over and couldn't believe Josh had been worrying about Ralphie's foster mother when he should have been more concerned about Angus's mom. Angus's mom had an unkempt look and thinning, dirty blonde hair. Even worse, she was covered with tattoos, like her son. And one of the tattoos was a swastika. Being Jewish, Josh, I was sure, was not pleased about the tattoo.

Confirming my suspicion, Josh sent his assistant in and had Angus's mom hustled off to makeup to get the offensive symbol covered.

I excused myself, telling the moms I'd meet with them individually in a short while. I bumped into Josh in the corridor, and I could tell by his frazzled appearance that having a Nazi supporter on the show had upset him.

But I had no mercy on Josh. I gave him a smirk and couldn't help rubbing it in his face. “I told you Angus was a white supremacist, but you were so concerned that a black woman would be an embarrassment to the show, you welcomed someone who's sporting a big-ass swastika,” I taunted.

“Please, Cori. I can't do this with you right now. I have a show to run, and I don't have time to eat crow,” he said as he pushed past me.

Feeling smug, I returned to the room where the moms had gathered and listened briefly while one of the producers explained to them that they were going to be doing a blind taste test and would not be informed which dish had been prepared by their kid.

With the moms being briefed and with Angus's mother being made presentable for TV, I had time for a quick break. Before entering my dressing room, I listened and laughed as Josh barked orders at the crew. He was such a temperamental diva, taking his frustrations out on the innocent production team.

Eager to slip off my heels and give my feet a break, I pushed open the door. To my surprise, my dressing room was decorated with balloons and party streamers. Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley crept up behind me.

“Congrats, new Mommy,” Azaria said, smiling and holding a beautifully decorated box. I had a thing for nicely presented presents, and even though I loathed the woman, I gladly accepted the gift.

“We realize it's a bit early, but we wanted to do something special for you,” Norris said.

“Thanks, guys,” I muttered as I carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside the Nordstrom box were Burberry cashmere and cotton rompers, an assortment of adorable boy-themed infant sleepwear by other top designers, and a plush, stuffed bunny that Azaria said was identical to one that Kate and William's little prince was given when he was born. I had no idea where she'd gotten that informa
tion, but I was impressed with the quality of the stuffed animal.

Although Azaria and I would never be BFF's, I appreciated the gesture. Some of the gossip bloggers had been insinuating that Maverick and I had selected in vitro fertilization to produce a “designer baby” with athletic ability, a specific body type, and precise hair and eye color. The accusations were ridiculous. Our son would no doubt inherit his father's athleticism, and with us both possessing brown hair and brown eyes, why would we make our baby's physical traits different than ours? The media could be so ridiculous at times.

But, still, their attacks hurt, and with Maverick acting sullen and barely speaking to me, I was in need of a little pampering. I thanked Azaria and Norris profusely and then ushered them out. I appreciated their thoughtfulness, but I still wanted to get out of my heels and relax in private before returning to the set.

My marital problems troubled me. Maverick had increased the amount of time he was whoring around with Katya, and it worried me that he might be getting emotionally attached to her. If the media caught on to his indiscretion, our image would be destroyed. And God forbid if he had actually caught feelings for the prostitute and decided to leave me. Everything in my spirit balked at the idea of having to raise our child as a single parent.

On one of her tapes, Grandma Eula Mae had said that a man would share more of his soul with a whore than with his own wife. She said that lots of men had fallen in love with her girls and were willing to forsake their families, their careers, and their reputations to bask in the joy of licking whore-pussy for the rest of their lives.

Imagining the shame of such a betrayal, I cringed. Still, I knew my husband like the back of my hand, and he wasn't like those men back in Grandma Eula Mae's day. For starters, his network would be mortified if he broke up with me and tried to pass off a
hooker as wife material. Furthermore, Maverick was much too image-conscious to allow a broken-English-speaking, cheap slut destroy our lives. I was certain that his network had an ethical expectation of Maverick, and had put a morals clause in his contract, prohibiting him from engaging in disreputable conduct.

But I had to take some kind of action to improve our relationship. Maybe if I allowed him to bite me a little, he'd leave Katya alone. On second thought, no, I couldn't have that. Pain was not a turn-on for me and being left with bruises covering my body was out of the question.

Maybe if I found him a new prostitute who enjoyed being bitten, I could keep him away from Katya. There were plenty of sick bitches out there, who'd do most anything for money, including going along with Maverick's twisted fetish.

One thing was for sure, Katya had to go.

I called the agency and lodged a complaint against Katya with the manager. I told her that I forbade Katya to be allowed to hook up with my husband ever again, and went so far as to threaten a lawsuit against the agency if they sent that bitch out on another date with my husband.

Although it was hard to get the words out, I swallowed my pride and divulged my husband's predilection for biting. I agreed to pay double if they could find another girl who'd go along with his twisted desires. The manager assured me that she'd find someone suitable for my husband and that she'd be very discreet.

• • •

Clayton, Robin, and Gina came to my dressing room to touch me up before I went in front of the camera, again. The moment they opened the door, I could sense the chaos that was occurring outside my peaceful environment.

The three of them made a big fuss over the presents that Azaria and Norris had given me and began rattling tissue paper as they opened the gift boxes.

“Look at this cute little Burberry romper,” Gina exclaimed, taking it out of the box and holding it up.

Feeling cranky over the behavior of Maverick and his whore, I was snappish toward Gina. “Please don't touch the baby's things. I didn't give you guys permission to go through those gifts.”

“Sorry,” Gina muttered.

Not wanting to get yelled at, Clayton and Robin quickly replaced the lids on boxes they were about to investigate, and the two of them exchanged a glance that I clearly read as:
Someone must be on her period!

It irritated me when people used their eyes to talk about me right in my face, but I let it go—this time! But if I ever caught Clayton and Robin doing it again, I'd be interviewing a new makeup artist and wardrobe supervisor.

“What's going on out there?” I asked.

“The kids were being filmed as they prepared to cook. They were running around grabbing ingredients from the panty, and someone spilled olive oil on the floor. The preacher slid in it. He ripped his pants and his chef's jacket was streaked with oil. Josh has halted production until the preacher cleans up and changes his clothes.”

“Hmph. The way Josh thrives on drama, I'm surprised he didn't leave the slip scene in,” I replied. “Hell, I'm shocked that he didn't make the good reverend do multiple takes of sliding in oil.”

“Well, with the moms scheduled to be on set, Josh wanted it to appear that everything was running smoothly,” Robin offered.

I sucked my teeth. “Josh is such a phony. He made Michelangelo retake the red sauce explosion over and over, but he's choos
ing to edit out the klutzy preacher wallowing around on the floor in oil.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I wish I'd seen it.”