Power Couple (11 page)

“It was hilarious,” Clayton offered.

“It really was,” Gina concurred. “Yancy claims that Becca had something to do with it. He's accusing her of working dark magic.”

“That silly girl doesn't know anything about witchcraft,” I said, shaking my head. “But it's a good thing we're not back in the days of the Salem witchcraft trials. If we were, Reverend Yancy Dunlap would see to it that Becca was burned at the stake.”

Clayton applied blush to my cheeks. “Hopefully, Becca will go home today. It's tense enough on set, but her hocus-pocus bullcrap is starting to make the remaining contestants nervous.”

I knew exactly who was being eliminated, and it wasn't Becca. It was the tatted skinhead. Angus could thank his swastika-covered mother for him not making it to the end.

At this stage in the competition, the amateur cooks were supposed to replicate any of my Southern meals of their choosing, but there was a twist. They had the task of elevating the meal by adding a side dish, made from secret ingredients stored in a mystery box. The producers had borrowed the idea for the twist from another cooking reality show. Cooking competitions stole ideas from each other all the time, and therefore our lack of originality didn't bother me.

What bothered me was that Josh's staff hadn't vetted Angus thoroughly. Having a hate monger on the show wasn't a good look. Maybe I could use Josh's oversight as a reason to wrangle the title of executive producer from him. I would instruct Ellie to schedule a conference between me and the network big brass as soon as possible. Once I had control of the show, and was able to instill my creative ideas, I'd be guaranteed to win that fucking elusive Emmy.

CHAPTER 15

W
hen I had conversed with Ralphie's foster mom, backstage, she was fine—personable and rather charming despite her bad grammar and boisterous laughter. Trenell Carter cracked jokes and discreetly whispered her appreciation for the new teeth I'd paid for. We talked about Southern cooking, and I was surprised to learn she prepared canned corn exactly as Grandma Eula Mae had—with lots of butter in a black skillet, thickening it with flour, and then adding a sweet and savory mixture of brown sugar, salt, and lots of black pepper. Delicious!

An hour later when the contestants were off set, the moms were brought in. A quick glance at Trenell and I was instantly concerned. Her eyes were squinted, and her lips were pressed together severely, giving her an unfriendly look. I wondered if she'd gotten into an argument with one of the other moms. But before I could determine what was wrong with her, the contestants were brought out, and there was a hum of excitement as mothers were reunited with their grown children.

Noticing Ralphie and Trenell locked in a warm embrace, I relaxed, figuring I'd been wrong about her emotional state. Five minutes into the segment, when the group of mothers was given the first dish to taste, Trenell suddenly jumped up and shouted, “What the fuck is this shit? Is y'all tryna poison me? I ain't saying any names, but I heard that a certain somebody was tryna keep me from par
ticipating in this lil' get-together tonight. You muthafuckas ain't gotta like me, but y'all taking shit too far if you think I'ma let you poison me and send me outta this bitch on a stretcher.”

Stunned by Trenell's outburst, there was a chorus of gasps from cast and crew. It was clear to me that she was intoxicated. Before leaving the hotel, she'd probably slipped a bottle inside her bag and had sneakily gotten wasted while backstage.

A few moments after her verbal outburst, possessed with the strength of ten men, Trenell lifted the sizeable table and angrily toppled it, sending plates of food and cutlery zooming in all directions. The mothers shouted in alarm, and their offspring raced across the room to protect them from the flying daggers and broken glass.

It was a mess. All I could do was close my eyes and ask Jesus to take the wheel.

As security rushed to restrain Trenell, the bawdy woman had the audacity to stoop down and grab a steak knife from the wreckage. While wielding the knife, her eyes darted from side to side like a cornered animal trying to decide which man to slice into first.

At that point, I heard a thump, and I'm sure it was Josh, passing out from the shock of it all.

Then Ralphie's skinny little white ass decided to get involved in the skirmish. “Y'all mufuckas bet not even think about laying a hand on my mama. I will fuck urbody up if any one of y'all lays a hand on her,” he ranted while balling his fists and biting down on his lip in a feral, intimidating way. Part of his unique identity was that he was a harmless-looking, skinny white dude who sounded black. But I'd never seen him take on the persona of a straight street thug. Bobbing his narrow shoulders and moving his body rhythmically, Ralphie was giving an impressive demonstration of an angry black man who'd been born and raised in the heart of the ghetto.

The chaos was unbelievable. So scandalous, I covered my eyes in shock and humiliation. I'd gone to bat for Ralphie and his heathen mother, and now this was how they repaid me. Disgusted, I walked off set and let Josh handle the bullshit.

That buck-wild bitch, Trenell, had played me. She'd pretended to be nice and friendly backstage, knowing all the while that she intended to get wasted before taping began. Overindulging in alcohol was the reason the bum-bitch had been stricken with diabetes in the first place. Had I known her appearance on the show would come to this, I would have never allowed her to communicate with Ralphie when she was lying up in the hospital at death's door. Had I foreseen this calamity, I would have never put those teeth in her mouth. She'd be gumming food for the rest of her disgraceful life.

I should have listened to Josh and kept Trenell's trashy ass off my show. None of this would have happened if I had used my powers of persuasion to convince Ralphie to let us hire a respectable actress to play the role of his foster mom.

Now the entire episode would have to be scrapped. I was furious. In that moment, I made up my mind to stop protecting Ralphie from his inevitable fate. Despite his culinary ability, he was now facing elimination, and I could no longer help him. After the pandemonium and commotion that both he and his hell-raising foster mother had caused, he deserved to be gripped up by the scruff of his neck and tossed out the door.

Times like this, I needed Ellie's calming voice to help me get through this disaster. Unfortunately, Ellie was busy accompanying Sophia on a shopping trip for maternity clothes. Sophia said she tended to show early in her pregnancies and she needed a more comfortable wardrobe. Sophia, with her cheap taste, had jumped at the opportunity to purchase discounted items at a maternity
outlet in New Jersey, so I had no problem granting her wish. But her timing sucked; I needed Ellie here with me.

• • •

With production at a standstill, I sat in my dressing room waiting for the producers to do damage control. I had no idea how any amount of editing could salvage the scene, and I imagined that the entire segment would have to be reshot—minus Trenell.

I scrolled through my messages, and saw that there was one from Maverick requesting that I set up a date with Katya for tonight.
Fuck you, Maverick!
He was in for a big surprise when I informed him that Katya was no longer available to him. I planned to tell him that she was booked up, forever as the exclusive date of an Arabian billionaire.

Maverick would be distraught, but I would assure him that I was doing everything in my power to find him another hooker who was willing to be gnawed on.

I kicked off my heels, again and relaxed on my pink couch. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine life as a parent. There'd be so much positive media coverage, both our careers would benefit. While envisioning the Brown family gracing the cover of multiple magazines, there was a soft rap on my door. It was much too light and too tentative a knock for it to be Josh, bothering me with an
I told you so
lecture regarding Trenell Carter.

“Come in,” I said, sitting up. I was beyond surprised when Michelangelo entered my dressing room. For some reason, I felt exposed, and I tugged on the hem of my dress, covering my knees as if they were intimate body parts. He was so hot-looking, my nipples went rigid, and I self-consciously folded my arms across my chest to conceal them.

“Sorry to bother you, Cori. I know your private dressing room is off limits to us, but I'm kind of desperate and was hoping you
could help me out. I tried to speak to Josh, but he's running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

“I bet he is,” I replied. “What's the problem besides all the chaos out there?”

“The producers are sending our moms back to the hotel, but with everything that's happened, my mother doesn't feel safe being in the room next to Ralphie's foster mother. Would you ask someone from management to please switch her to a different room on another floor?”

“Sure. I'll have my assistant make the arrangements,” I volunteered. I pointed to my desk. “Write your mother's room number and other pertinent information on the notepad on my desk. I'll make sure she gets a different room.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Cori.”

He strode over to my desk and my eyes followed him, lingering on his broad back and then sliding down to his ass. As he bent his torso to write the information, I found myself wondering what he looked like beneath his clothes. Then I grimaced, instantly ashamed of myself for lusting after a contestant. I had a fine-ass husband at home—a sports icon—who possessed a gorgeous, athletic body, and had recently signed a multimillion-dollar contract, ensuring that we'd continue living our luxurious lifestyle for another ten years. There was absolutely no reason for me to yearn for an amateur cook who was trying to win meager prize money in order to jumpstart a career that most likely would never get off the ground.

But then again, with Michelangelo's looks, I could see a career for him as a returning guest-chef or judge on any of the numerous cooking shows that dominated national TV.

Not wanting him to catch me gawking at his muscular physique, I quickly averted my gaze when he finished writing on the notepad and turned to face me.

“Ralphie's mom was doing the most. I wonder what that was about.” Michelangelo made a face, which made him look adorably handsome.

“I have no idea what was going on with her, but we lost an entire day of filming due to her shenanigans,” I said, feeling suddenly world-weary as I envisioned all the extra time I would have to devote to the show instead of being home trying to fix my marriage. My facial expression must have betrayed my emotional exhaustion because Michelangelo gazed at me with concern in his eyes.

“Is everything okay, Cori?”

I plastered on a smile and nodded.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded again, but this time my bottom lip trembled the way it tended to do whenever I tried to fight back tears. For some odd reason, the concern that was evident in Michelangelo's voice was bringing out weird emotions in me. I couldn't remember the last time Maverick had genuinely inquired about my well-being. It made me sad that another man was more concerned than my own husband.

Thinking about the condition of my marriage was heartbreaking. Sure, Grandma Eula Mae had always said that a woman should look the other way when her man's catting around with a whore, but she'd never said that the wife should get involved and personally manage her husband's hookups.

Naively, I'd thought that being open-minded about my husband's activities outside our marriage would strengthen our relationship. But I was losing him, anyway. His heart simply wasn't in it anymore, and I could feel his love slipping away.

I tried to contain my emotions, but a strangled cry escaped my lips. Coming to my aid, Michelangelo traversed the room swiftly, reaching me in only three strides. He sat down next to me. “What's wrong, Cori?” he asked worriedly.

I had been trying to be strong for so long, it had only been a matter of time before my emotions overwhelmed me. I burst into tears and Michelangelo gathered me inside his strong arms. With my face buried against his chest, I allowed myself to have a long overdue cry. As I sobbed, he patted my back, caressed my hair, and murmured consolingly.

I hadn't realized how utterly lonely I was—how badly I craved affection until I looked up at his face and saw unmistakable desire burning in his eyes. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to mine, kissing me gently…cautiously, as if he expected to be pushed away. The sensible part of my brain was waving a red flag and screaming for me to pull away, to slap his face, and curse him out for taking such liberties with me.

But instead of upholding my dignity, I looped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Moaning, I parted my lips invitingly. He cupped my face as our tongues danced together. His lips then moved to my neck, making a path of kisses down to my chest, causing me to tremble.

It was a moment of madness where body ruled over mind. My heart knocked so loudly in my chest, I was mortified by the sound that seemed to announce how deprived I'd been of genuine affection.

I'd never stepped outside my marriage before. Not ever! Everything in me screamed for me to put a stop to this madness. But Michelangelo's kiss was so achingly sweet, I clung to him, drinking in the taste of him, and urgently kissing him back.

His hands roamed over my body, and the warmth of his touch caused me to squirm and moan softly.

Suddenly, the doorknob made a clinking sound, and I realized I hadn't locked it. Panic seized me. Michelangelo and I abruptly pulled away from each other as the door opened to a crack. I was incensed that someone had entered my dressing room without my express permission.

Self-consciously, I smoothed out the front of my rumpled dress and was completely stunned to discover that my panties had been lowered. They were hanging below my knees. How the fuck had that happened? I glowered at Michelangelo, close to slapping the shit out of him.

In the split-seconds before the door opened fully, I desperately tried to pull up my panties, but I wasn't quick enough.

Standing in the doorway with a hand over his mouth and his eyes bulging in astonishment was Ralphie.

“Haven't you ever heard of knocking? What the fuck do you want?” I yelled angrily as I yanked my panties over my hips. I couldn't believe that I—someone who'd always been super vigilant about preserving my good image—had been caught with my fucking panties down. I could have strangled that goddamn Ralphie for barging in on me.

Michelangelo sprang to his feet. Adjusting his clothing, he hurried toward the door. “I'll give you your privacy, Cori. I, uh, I'll talk to you later.”

I didn't even bother to respond to Michelangelo. I wanted to stab him in the eyeballs repeatedly for causing the horrible dilemma I was in. If the sexy, fucking bastard hadn't used his magical fingers on me to stroke my flesh and slide my panties down, I wouldn't be in such a God-awful position.

“I…I…I'm sorry, Cori. But I need your help,” Ralphie stammered. “They're tryna throw my mama off the show, and I wondered if you could put in a good word and do something to help her.”

Not even God could save his disgraceful mother. But needing Ralphie's loyalty and silence, I decided to string him along.

“It won't be easy to get any sympathy for her after that stunt she pulled on set with cameras rolling. It was obscene.”

“She had a slipup, but it wasn't her fault. One of the other moms—
Angus's mother—went out of her way to make my mom feel like an outcast. She turned her nose up at her and treated her like dirt. My mom is a super-nice person when you get to know her. But she was feeling insecure. That's why she started drinking backstage. She needed liquid courage to get through the taping.”