Power Couple (20 page)

CHAPTER 31

I
t took over two hours for Michelangelo to arrive at my apartment. When I opened the door for him, he wrapped me in an embrace so tight, you would have thought we'd been separated for months.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here, but it's hell for a black man to get a cab in New York. I couldn't even get an Uber.”

“Aw, I'm sorry you had to go through that. Instead of asking you to come to me, I should have picked you up.”

“No, I'm good; I'm not complaining. I was so happy for the invitation, I was on the verge of jacking somebody's car if one more cab had whizzed past me.” He laughed, displaying his pretty white teeth. “You look pretty,” he added in a soft voice, his eyes bright with appreciation as he admired me in my sheer black negligee.

Thinking back to the beginning of the competition, I recalled how I thought Michelangelo was an egotistical, aspiring actor, using my show for exposure. Now that I knew him on a more personal level, I realized I couldn't have been more wrong about him.

It was a shame that Yancy was going to win, despite the fact that Michelangelo was the better cook. I wondered if it would be kinder to warn him in advance so that he would be emotionally prepared for the loss. I was about to tell him, but suddenly changed my mind. There was no point in giving him the sort of bad news that could potentially ruin the decadent evening I had planned for us.

Ready to get our night started, I moved my mouth over his, catching his bottom lip and gently sucking on it. I felt him growing hard and my nipples tightened with anticipation. The tingling sensation between my thighs prompted me to slide my hands around his waist, pressing my body closer as I rocked against his erection. His head went back and a low groan escaped his throat.

“Let me love you, baby.” His voice was husky with longing, and I wasn't sure if he was asking if he could fuck me in the foyer or if he was literally asking me to accept his love.

Revved up, I yearned to taste him. I ran my tongue against the corded muscles of his neck. He tasted lightly of salt and male musk. He lowered his head and his teeth scraped my rigid nipple, sending an electrical charge through me.

His hands slipped under the hem of my short nighty, rubbing my thighs and then sliding around to my ass. “I need you,” he murmured.

“Not yet. I have a treat for you,” I said, slowly sinking down to my knees.

He caught me by the wrist and pulled me upright. “Wait. Cori. There's something I need to know.”

“Yes?”

“What are we doing? Is this real? Are you feeling me the way I'm feeling you…or are you just having fun?”

“We're both having fun, aren't we?”

“Wow. It's like that? Okay, I get it.” He had such a devastated look on his face, my gaze strayed toward the floor.

“You were well aware that I was a married woman when we started messing around. What else did you expect from me besides a good time?” My voice was verging on shrill.

“I don't know. I figured your marriage was falling apart…or something.”

“Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. “People in stable marriages usually don't cheat on their spouses. And the way you were crying that day in your dressing room, I thought…” He paused and shook his head. “Look, what do I know? Forgive me for thinking we had something a little deeper than fun.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled, unable to look him in the eyes.

He tucked his finger under my chin, gently urging me to look at him. “Listen, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but I should go.”

“Don't leave, Michelangelo. Stay with me, please.”

“I can't. “

“Why can't you?”

“First of all, I'm dead wrong for being in another man's home.”

“It's okay.”

He gave me a look.

“Really. It's okay. I didn't mention it before, but you should know that my husband and I have an open marriage. We don't publicize our arrangement, but I'm confiding in you because I want you to feel comfortable about being here.”

He shook his head. “I don't feel comfortable, and I really want to leave. I got the reality check I needed, and now that everything's in perspective, it's best for me to go back to the hotel and get some rest. Tomorrow's the finale—that's what I need to be focused on.” He gave me a weak smile and then kissed me on the cheek.

I couldn't believe he kissed me on the fucking cheek. He turned to leave, and I felt a sudden rush of desperation. I grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back to me.

“Let me go, Cori. It's for the best.” He wrenched himself free, opened the door and left.

What the fuck just happened?
I looked around in bewilderment and caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length,
art-deco mirror.
I felt ridiculous. I was dressed in heels and sexy attire, yet my man had walked out on me. I furiously kicked off the stilettos and stomped to the kitchen.

Yanking open the fridge, I grabbed a chilled bottle of organic wine that I had planned on pouring for the two of us. I filled a wineglass and guzzled it down and then quickly poured another. I tried to sip more slowly, but ended up emptying the second glass in only a few gulps.

I was feeling all alone and slightly intoxicated when I heard my phone ringing from the living room. Thinking it was Michelangelo, my mood instantly elevated and I raced out of the kitchen. When I reached the living room and glanced at the screen, my spirit sank when I saw my husband's name.

I started to ignore his ass since he'd taken his good sweet time to contact me. But curiosity got the best of me and I picked up. There was loud music and the sound of a crowd.

“Maverick?”

No response.

“Mav, are you there?”

“Hey. Uh, is this Cori?”

“Of course, it's Cori. Who do you think it is? You called me—and I must say that it's about time.”

“Oh, I think I butt-dialed you by mistake.”

I ignored the fact that he hadn't intended to call and forged ahead with a conversation. “How's the interview going with the soccer dude?”

“Fine. We still have to get some footage of some of the locals giving their opinions of that crazy mishap, and then we'll wrap up shortly afterward.”

“I'm glad to hear that everything's going great, sweetheart. So, you'll be home Friday?”

“Hello? Hello? Cori, I can barely hear you. I'm at a club…um…working. We're in the middle of a shot that portrays the wild way the Brazilians celebrate after a soccer game.”

“Oh, okay.” I was about to say something sweet like, “Hurry home; I miss you,” when I heard a female voice in the background.

“You're always on the phone, Maverick. Hang up so you can dance with me, baby,” said a bitch with a Portuguese accent.

“Uh, that's my tour guide; I have to go, babe.”

The line went dead and I was once again, all alone while my husband was out there slinging dick and having the time of his life.

Attempting to drown my sorrow, I poured more wine and then padded off to the bedroom with my wineglass filled to the brim.

I needed advice. Needed to hear words of wisdom. I clicked on Grandma Eula Mae's recording. But her conversation was focused on running her restaurant and the motel she owned. I fast-forwarded, hoping to get to some more juicy stories about her love life, but all she talked about was her businesses and the high cost of sending her twins to private school.

Searching for guidance, I popped in another cassette, and sped to the middle of the tape. I heard my grandmother telling anecdotes about the civil rights leaders she'd hosted when they visited Philadelphia. Stories I'd heard a million times before.

Exasperated, I groaned and turned off the tape player.

My fans viewed me as someone who had her shit together. Someone who was fortunate enough to be the adored wife of a dashingly handsome, world-renowned sports figure. And I, a celebrated television personality, was considered a success story in my own right. But the Mavcor image was bullshit. The clock was ticking on my relationship with my husband. He clearly was no longer interested in even keeping up the pretense of living in wedded bliss. If the new baby failed to make a difference, then I was going to have to
make a decision about whether or not to continue keeping our failing marriage on life support.

• • •

En route to the studio, I read an email from Josh, informing me that he wanted to get in front of all the promotion that was required of the winner. The TV appearances on all the major morning shows couldn't be done until after the finale aired and the winner was publicly announced. But he wanted to get started on the print promo right away. The media campaign, he said, would be more successful if I were featured alongside the winner, giving the impression that I was personally mentoring him and guiding him in a direction that would ensure his emergence as a culinary giant.

Bullshit.

Near the end of the long email, he wrote that it wouldn't be a good look for the show if our latest cooking champion succumbed to the fate of others before him, and ended up doing nothing more than posting recipes on his blog and demonstrating how to prepare a dish on YouTube.

Ugh.
I had an instant headache after reading Josh's email. The idea of being linked with the Baptist preacher was sickening. Poor Michelangelo had no clue that he didn't stand a chance of winning. Hopefully, his uncanny good looks would get him noticed by food show producers at other networks. He deserved to show off his cooking skills. Perhaps he'd end up becoming more famous than Yancy. It wasn't out of the question for the runner-up to outshine the winner of a competition show.

CHAPTER 32

W
e were back at the old warehouse to film the finale, and despite the bleak environment of the makeshift dressing room, my beauty team had me looking amazing.

My makeup was flawless. Clayton had done his thing, giving me smoky eyes and eyebrows so snatched they looked sculpted by the gods. He switched up my usual neutral-colored lipstick with a combination of burgundy lip liner and bold dark-plum lipstick that screamed,
“Kiss me!”

My hair was laid! With her flat-iron wizardry, Gina gave me a coiffure that was light and airy, yet substantive with lots of body. I looked extra pretty with ever so subtle gold highlights in my dark hair. Viewers would be trying to guess what was different about me, but they'd never figure it out. All they'd know was that I looked extra gorgeous at the finale.

Robin dressed me in a blue Carolina Herrera pants suit and platinum heels. The ruffle at the hem of the jacket added a hint of whimsy that was a change in my usual look.

Michelangelo should have been busy prepping his meal, but I looked so good, he couldn't stop stealing glances at me as I filmed my intro.

With the cameras pointed at me, I said, “Tonight our two finalists are going to draw from their own repertoire of delicious Southern cuisine and create a three-course meal that will be judged by me
alone. They'll get help from our very own Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley, but they'll only have ninety minutes to work their magic, and the clock has already started ticking.”

I waved my hand toward the kitchen stations where the two finalists, Azaria, and Norris were frantically prepping their food. “As you can see, Michelangelo, Yancy, and our celebrity judges are hard at work. The winning chef will be featured in
Bon Appétit
magazine. But that's not all. He'll also be featured in a starring role in my next
Cookin' with Cori
DVD release. That's right, the lucky winner will join me in my kitchen, but there's a twist,” I said with eyes widened with theatrical mystery. “During the first part of the DVD, viewers will be receiving step-by-step instructions in preparing good home-style food from me. But in the second part, I'll become the student and learn some of the cooking techniques used by tonight's champion. Now, isn't that exciting?”

The cameras zoomed in on me for a close-up, and then followed as I moseyed over to Yancy's station. He and Norris were both working up a sweat as they bumped into each other, dropped kitchen equipment, and basically seemed out of sync.

“So what are you whipping up for us tonight, Yancy?” I asked, keeping a safe distance from the abundance of male perspiration that sprinkled the air as the two men raced around the kitchen. I wasn't sure if sweat had dripped onto his ingredients, and I told myself to be extra-careful and taste only an itty-bitty portion of Yancy's sweat-tainted food.

“Well, Cori, I'm starting off with Fried Chicken Livers Wrapped in Bacon, and then for the main course, I'm fixing Braised Ox Tails over Dirty Rice.”

“That sounds awesome, and what's for dessert?”

“For dessert, I'll be treating you to Grandma's Summertime Peach Ice Cream!” Yancy rubbed his big belly and licked his lips.

“Is that peach ice cream a dish that your own grandmother actually made?”

“Yes, indeed; it's a family secret. The ice cream has been a cherished recipe in my family for many generations. But I'll be happy to share it with you, Cori, after I win this here contest,” he said, giving me a knowing wink.

“No one can say that you don't possess confidence,” I said with my fake TV smile plastered on my face.

“Well, I'm a man of faith, and my faith got me to the finale, and I'm sure it will see me through to victory.”

“Lots of luck to you, Yancy,” I said although I didn't mean it.

“Yep,” he responded with his chest poked out as if he'd already been declared the winner. Yancy was more smug than usual. He sounded so fucking sure of himself, I wondered if Josh had pulled him aside and told him that he'd already been selected as the winner.

“Okay, let's find out what Michelangelo is up to,” I said to the cameras as I made my way to Michelangelo's station.

Azaria and Michelangelo were working at a less frantic pace and were perfectly coordinated as they chopped, peeled, sliced, and diced.

Bent over an onion that he was chopping, Michelangelo looked up at me with one eye squinted after getting squirted with onion juice. With a narrowed eye, he looked even more handsome…if that was possible. He dabbed at his face with the sleeve of his chef's jacket and sent a warm smile in my direction. If he was carrying a grudge from last night, it didn't show.

“What's on the menu, Michelangelo?”

“I decided on a seafood theme. For an appetizer, I'm making Crab Bisque soup. My entrée will be Blackened Shrimp and Cheese Grits with Sautéed Mustard Greens. For dessert, I'll be serving Key Lime Pie with Almond Crumb Crust.”

“Mmm. That sounds fantastic, but it seems pretty ambitious considering the time crunch.” I looked at the red digital clock on the wall. “Time is ticking; do you think you'll have all of your dishes completed in time?”

“The shrimp and grits won't take long at all. It's the Key Lime Pie that's a big risk for me.”

“Well, as they say, no risk no gain. Good luck, Michelangelo,” I chortled, giving the cameras my most winning smile.

“Thanks, Cori,” he replied as he quickly sharpened a knife and resumed chopping an onion.

The energy level was high and the lights seemed extra bright. The combination of anxiety and bright lights were giving me a headache and causing my makeup to run. It was almost time to taste the appetizers, and the moment the director called, “Cut,” I rushed to my dressing room to rest for a moment and take something for my headache.

My team followed behind me. Inside my designated dressing room, as Gina began fussing with my hair, my phone pinged. I glanced at the screen and frowned when I saw an email from Josh with an attachment.

Robin told me to stand still as she steamed wrinkles out of my slacks. While Clayton touched up my face, I tried to review the notes Josh had emailed me regarding my critique of the finalists.

“Do you think the bigwigs are gonna let Michelangelo win?” Robin asked me.

“I don't know. I doubt it,” I said, glancing at the notes.

“Well, I believe in miracles and my money is on our boy,” Robin said as she smoothed out my jacket.

“My money's on Yancy,” Gina remarked. “You heard what Josh said the other day. He thinks the preacher will resonate more with the viewers.”

“Although I can't stand Yancy, I'm not trying to throw good money away. I'm betting on the preacher because I don't trust that Josh is gonna do the right thing,” Clayton remarked.

I looked up from my phone. “I can't believe you guys are betting on the winner of the show. You may need to think about getting help for your gambling addiction.”

“We're not the only ones with a gambling problem. A lot of people bet on the winner,” Gina informed.

“Who else is involved?” I inquired.

Gina shrugged. “Everyone who works here.”

“Who's everyone?”

“The entire crew, the producer's assistants, interns, the chefs who work behind the scenes, the cleaning people, secretaries, pretty much everybody. Except you and Josh…and the other big dogs,” Clayton informed.

“Interesting,” I said, returning to my notes.

“Give us a hint, Cori,” Clayton pressed. “What did Josh say in those notes? Is Yancy still tapped to win?”

“I won't know until I taste the food.”

Clayton wore a knowing smile. “Come on, Cori. You can tell us. We know the show is rigged.”

I smiled mysteriously and resumed reading. According to my notes, I was supposed to heap praises on Michelangelo's Crab Bisque appetizer, telling him it was super creamy with perfect density. Surprisingly, Josh wanted me to complain that Yancy's chicken livers were overcooked and drenched in greasy bacon fat, making them tough and greasy.

Hmm. I wondered if the producers had had a change of heart and were going with Michelangelo, after all. But as I continued reading, I realized they hadn't changed their minds. After Yancy's appetizer critique, I was instructed to speak in complimentary
terms regarding his entrée and dessert. Josh wanted me to tell Yancy that his ox tails were well-seasoned and that the broth was flavorful. His ice cream was to be described as a mouthful of yumminess that was beautifully presented and pleasing to the eyes.
Oh, what a crock of shit!

As far as my critique of Michelangelo's entrée, I was expected to go in! Josh wanted me to speak to him in a scolding tone when I informed him of how disappointed I was in his presentation. I was instructed to make a face when I tasted his blackened shrimp and tell him that he went overboard with seasoning and should have streamlined the flavor profile. I was also supposed to complain that his cheese grits were mushy and heap on more criticism by telling him that the least successful thing on his plate was the mustard greens, which were overpowered by the onions and garlic.

I continued reading the note and came to the conclusion that Josh was the cruelest and most sadistic fucking bitch I'd ever known. He didn't simply want Michelangelo to be defeated; he wanted to annihilate the guy. I shook my head as I read his remarks regarding Michelangelo's Key Lime Pie dessert: Say something about the overwhelming acidity of the limes and mention that the crust lacked crunch.

For God's sake!
It was an outrage that the critique was written without the benefit of me or anyone else tasting either finalist's food. It was downright criminal, yet I was helpless to do anything about it.

But after this season, which was bound to be a huge success with all the drama that went down with some of the wacky contestants, I planned to renegotiate my contract and demand producer credit. Whether the show was nominated for an Emmy or not, I wanted full producer credit and lots more money. I didn't want to be placated with a mere vanity credit, either. I planned to be an actively
involved producer with my hands in everything from casting to selecting recipes.

In the meantime, I had to suck it up and do as I was told. I observed my reflection in the mirror and then thanked my beauty team. I told them I needed a few moments of privacy before I went back on set.

After Clayton, Robin, and Gina gathered their tools and left the dressing room, I looked in the mirror again and sighed. I was ashamed of the woman I had become. In a matter of minutes, I was going to look Michelangelo in the eyes and tell him that his delicious food sucked. If he believed me, my words had the potential of destroying his confidence and ruining his future in the culinary field.

What price fame? I couldn't stoop any lower in my marriage, and now I was throwing away any semblance of self-respect and pride I had in my career. If my mother and I were close, which we weren't, I would ask her for advice. Being the success-driven woman that she was, she'd probably tell me to suck it up and do what I had to do to get ahead.

Then I thought about Grandma Eula Mae. If she were still here, what would she think about my career decisions? There was no doubt in my mind that my grandmother, after taking all that shit off the police commissioner for so long, would tell me to stand up for myself and to protect the integrity of my show.

Sorry, Grandma Eula Mae, but I don't have your gumption, and I don't have a choice in the matter.

I popped an Advil. Chin up and determined to persevere, I walked out of the dressing room of the warehouse and returned to the lion's den.