Power Couple (7 page)

I was through being nice to LaTasha. I'd provided her with
beauty products, hair equipment, and coffee. Now she wanted preferential treatment. I swear, give a bitch an inch…

I was on the verge of telling LaTasha to go kick rocks when Ellie walked in.

“Listen, you need to rejoin the other members of the cast,” I told LaTasha sharply.

“Why? It's so warm and welcoming in here. And I was having a good time,” LaTasha whined.

“You've worn out your welcome, now beat it,” Clayton said with bass in his voice.

LaTasha guzzled down her coffee and grudgingly headed for the door. Once she'd exited, Ellie gave me a look that I couldn't read.

“Bad news?” I asked softly.

“Not really.” Ellie's eyes shifted from Clayton to Gina.

“Do you two need privacy?” Gina asked.

“Yes, could you and Clayton excuse us for a few minutes,” I said in an apologetic tone.

After Gina and Clayton left us alone, I turned expectant eyes on Ellie. “Well?”

“I spent several hours wooing your surrogate. And after appealing to her womanhood, I told her that you feel awful that you can't carry your own child and that you'd feel much more comfortable with the situation if you and Maverick got to know her on a more intimate level. It wasn't easy, but I convinced her to forgo protocol and have sex with your husband,” Ellie announced, looking downward.

“Yes!” I squealed, pumping a fist into the air. I felt bad dragging Ellie into such a bizarre mess, but I had no choice. If my husband wanted to squander his seed around, then dammit, I wanted to get a baby out of it. There was no reason for him to know that Sophia was our hired human incubator and had already been paid a portion
of her fee to carry
our
child. I'd make him believe she was another bimbo from the escort agency. And when she turned up pregnant… Well, I'd cross that bridge later.

Feeling jubilant, I hugged Ellie. Having been witness to my jealous rages when the thots of the world so much as smiled at Maverick, Ellie gazed at me curiously. She had no idea why I was setting up my husband with the surrogate. Actually, it wasn't any of Ellie's business. She was paid to be my mouthpiece and to handle my business. I wasn't obligated to provide her with an explanation for my actions.

CHAPTER 9

“
I
smell burned onions.” I crinkled my nose as I ventured to Becca's workstation while TV cameras captured the moment.

“I had the flame up too high, and now I have to sauté them again,” Becca replied, her face flushed with embarrassment. Or perhaps her reddened complexion was the result of too much alcohol.

There was a lot to hate about a cooking competition show, but contestants particularly loathed having to discuss the components of their dishes while in the midst of cooking. It was distressing to try to appear knowledgeable and personable while keeping an eye on whatever they were preparing. And my cheeky comments didn't help to ease their discomfort.

“Are you using truffle oil?” I inquired in a horrified voice as she drizzled oil into the pan.

“Um, yes. I could have sworn I tasted truffle oil during the blind taste test,” she babbled nervously.

“Did you? Hmm,” I replied mysteriously, causing her to question her palate.

We were filming the cooking segment of the show, and as host, I was expected to criticize some of the contestants and praise others. It didn't matter how their food tasted; it was simply the luck of the draw.

I roamed over to my next victim, the Baptist preacher. After
learning that he was a troublemaker, it gave me wicked pleasure to see him struggling with the glaze for the carrots. Frowning, I stared at his pan. “There's an awful lot of sugar in there, and it's making your glaze sticky and thick. You may want to add another ingredient.”

“Should I add more butter?” he asked anxiously.

“You'll have to figure it out, but you're going to have to do it fast. Otherwise, you might be getting the boot tonight. You've been hanging on by a thread, but you're still here. Could it be that your congregation back home has been sending up prayers for you?”

“That's right, Cori. My congregants and I love the Lord, and we strongly believe in the power of prayer.”

“That's good, but you may need more than prayer to keep you from having to take that walk of shame, tonight,” I added spitefully. Church-going folks annoyed me with their hypocrisy. Always talking about prayer and loving the Lord, all while treating their fellow man like crap.

The preacher nodded miserably and then tossed in more butter, which was a bad move. He had more than enough butter in the pan. What the dumb fuck needed to do was add the tablespoon of lime juice that my recipe called for. If he studied my cookbooks as much as he gossiped, he'd be aware of that.

Hamming it up for the cameras, I stood next to the preacher and spoke in a theatrically hushed and solemn voice. “Reverend Dunlap has been in the bottom three twice. One wrong move tonight, and his luck will have finally run out. Will he be joining the cheerleader from Texas, Doralee Harper, who was the first to go?”

The reverend was an emotional wreck by the time I left his station and sauntered over to Ralphie, who my favorite contestant this season. I wanted so badly to pull him aside and tell him that he would never make it to the final four if his black foster mother
didn't lose some weight and do something about her four missing front teeth. But the rules prohibited me from giving the kid a heads-up on the social aspect of the competition.

“How's it going, Ralphie?” I inquired in a somber tone that was meant to distress him.

“It's going well, Cori,” he said confidently as he sliced shiitake mushrooms. “My meatloaf is in the oven, and my biscuits are going in next.”

I scrutinized his glazed carrots that were simmering in a pan, and tasted them. “Mmm. Tastes exactly like mine. Maybe better,” I added. “But I'm curious, what are you going to do with the shiitake mushrooms you're slicing?”

“They'll be added to the gravy.”

“So, you tasted mushrooms in my gravy?”

“No, but I wanted to add a component that would give your gravy a little more flair.” He smiled impishly.

“That's a brash move, and I hope it pans out for you, Ralphie.”

“I'm sure it will!”

Ralphie was self-assured, not boastful, and I liked that about him. It was a shame that Josh considered him an embarrassment to white people and wanted him gone.

I meandered over to handsome Michelangelo while he was rhythmically moving to music in his head as he reached for a whisk. The director decided he wanted a different take of him grabbing the whisk, and he wanted more dance moves involved. The shot took about forty minutes, and by the time they got it right, I'd forgotten the clever line I'd planned for the hot hunk. The only thing that came to mind was, “Do you always dance when you cook?”

“I do a lot of different things when I cook,” he responded in a tone that sounded suggestive, to say the least.

At a loss for words, I fanned my face and said, “Whew, it's getting
hot in here.” There were chuckles from the crew and the other contestants, and Josh gave me the thumbs-up signal. He liked the sexual innuendoes and playful bantering.

“I see you're working on the gravy. May I have a taste?”

“Suuure.”

The way he stretched out that one word, seemed to make it ooze with sex. Instead of focusing on his gravy, my gaze was fixed on his luscious lips, and I had to force myself to tear my eyes away. Of course the camera caught it all—my seemingly girlish infatuation and his sensuality and charm.

The way the competitors, the cast, and crew all applauded when the take was finished, you would have thought that Michelangelo and I had successfully completed a torrid sex scene.

After I'd collected myself, I decided that the scene with Michelangelo needed to be reshot. As an accomplished chef, I didn't want to come off looking like a love-struck schoolgirl. I didn't want to personally deal with Josh, and so I texted Ellie and told her to let him know that I wasn't satisfied and wanted to redo the scene with Michelangelo.

I continued my rounds in the kitchen, treating some of the contestants nice and being downright vicious to others—like Lionel. As usual, he was wearing those yellow suspenders that he thought were cool and quirky, but I detested.

Lionel's biscuits tasted amazing, but I told him he'd put too much salt in them. I also informed him that his meatloaf was so dry, and that it was hard to get down. Pretending to choke, I coughed exaggeratedly until one of the contestants handed me a bottle of water.

Looking distraught, Lionel turned several shades of red, which pleased me immensely. The bastard said my food should be banned from TV and I was going to do everything in my power to send him packing.

• • •

Josh refused to reshoot my critique with Michelangelo and I refused to vote Ralphie off the show. Following the script, Azaria Fierro wrinkled her nose when she tasted Ralphie's gravy, and said that the shiitake mushrooms gave it a strange, bitter taste. The other judge, Norris Buckley, criticized Ralphie's biscuits, claiming they'd been left in the oven too long, and that the texture wasn't quite right.

Their critique was utter bullshit. Ralphie's food was cooked to perfection, and I was willing to go to bat for him. I'd never claimed to be a perfect human being; Lord knew I had my faults, but I'd always had a soft spot for the underdog. Since it was
my
show, my vote vetoed both Azaria's and Norris's, and I was able to keep Ralphie safe for the time being.

The preacher's prayers were answered, and he was saved. Lionel and his suspenders, however, were sent home.

Surprisingly, we wrapped up at a decent hour. Leaving the studio at seven-thirty in the evening seemed early compared to most nights. In a hurry to get home, I asked the driver to take the quickest route to my apartment.

I'd informed Maverick in a text that Katya was booked and I had set him up with someone else. I told him that the woman I'd arranged for him to fuck wasn't into chicks, so there wouldn't be a threesome. I was rushing to get home so that I could speak with him face-to-face before he went to meet Sophia at the hotel.

He'd have to meet all the escort bitches in hotels from now on. No more hoes in our apartment—that was my new rule.

When I arrived home, Maverick was relaxing in boxers and drinking a beer. He was watching a tape of himself interviewing a rookie football player.

“Why aren't you dressed? Sophia is probably at the hotel by now.”

“I'm not going.”

“Why not?”

“I'm comfortable with Katya; I'd rather wait until she can fit me into her schedule.”

I was stunned. “You're willing to be put on the waiting list of a sleazy hooker who barely speaks English?”

He took a swig of beer. “It's not like I'm hard up for sex. Why're you so eager for me to get with another woman? Seems strange, especially since you're not participating.”

“I never really enjoyed that girl-on-girl mess. I only did it for you.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate it. We usually do threesomes on special occasions, and I'm finding it weird as hell that out of the clear blue, you're suddenly hiring escorts like you're ordering takeout. First, Katya, and now this chick, Sophia. What's going on, Cori?”

I swallowed guiltily. “Well…I'm going to be so busy with the show for the next few months, I wanted to make sure that you don't feel neglected. Is it a crime for a woman to want to keep her husband sexually satisfied?” I caressed the back of his neck. “Sweetie, I'm a member in good standing with the Chasity Martin escort service. If you cancel at the last moment, I could lose my membership altogether.”

“So what! There're lots of escort services in New York. Besides, it's not as if we hire escorts more than a few times a year.”

“But…I thought you wanted to see Katya again.”

“I do, but I was hoping you'd be able to make arrangements with her outside of the agency. Pay her under the table.”

“I could make that proposal to her, but I don't have any way of communicating with her other than through the agency. After I make contact with her again, I'll be sure to get her personal information. In the meantime, if you want me to keep my gold membership with Chasity Martin, then be a good boy and go meet Sophia.”

“What does Sophia look like? Is she hot like Katya?”

I hesitated. “I wouldn't refer to her as hot, but she's attractive. She looks more like the housewife type.”

“Why'd you pick a boring housewife?”

I shrugged. “Change of pace. If you're not feeling Sophia, then make it a quickie…or tell her that all you want to do is talk,” I said with forced laughter as my insides twisted with anxiety. If Maverick didn't take his ass to the hotel and pump some dick into Sophia, my plan would be totally screwed.

CHAPTER 10

T
here wasn't a married woman in the world, besides me, who could get a peaceful night's sleep while her husband was across town in a hotel fucking another woman. But I honestly wasn't concerned about a plain-Jane like Sophia stealing my man. My only concern was Katya, with her freaky self. But since I had no intention of ever using her services again, there was no reason to waste another thought on that bitch. With a contented smile, I plumped my pillow and waited for sleep to overtake me.

For some unknown reason, my mind was filled with memories of Grandma Eula Mae. I could clearly hear her voice in my head, divulging secrets about her scandalous past. No one in my family was aware that she'd left a box of cassette tapes in the attic. Voice recordings that she'd begun when she first noticed she was becoming forgetful. She'd wanted her family to understand what her life was like back in the old days.

Despite enjoying the benefits that her immoral lifestyle had provided, my mom and Aunt Chloe considered their mother's past to be an embarrassment. Had they known of the existence of the tapes, they would have destroyed them. They had rewritten Grandma Eula Mae's history, telling their acquaintances that their mother had accrued her sizeable income from her restaurant, hotel, and by making good investments.

According to the fairy tale they'd invented, Grandma Eula Mae
hadn't started out selling dinners in her whorehouse; they pretended that she had sold dinners from her modest home. According to their story, a well-to-do client who loved my grandmother's soul food gave her the down payment to open her restaurant.

Grandma Eula Mae's tapes contained so much wisdom, it was if she were guiding me from the afterlife. It was a passage from one of the tapes that was enabling me to rest so peacefully tonight.

• • •

In many cases, my earnings came from not only the customers, but also
their wives. It sounds crazy, but I've counseled more enraged white women than I can count. In a fit a jealousy, angry white women have come to the colored section of town to fetch their husbands.

Not wanting to lose the husband's business and not wanting the irate wife to cause a commotion in my establishment, I have taken many a surly wife aside and educated her on the ways of men.

I remember how I had to hold my temper when Marge Tasker slapped me dead across my face after I told her I was helping to hold her marriage together by providing whores for her husband. I came close to whooping her ass, but I realized if I beat on that cracker, I'd have to do some hard time.

She was huffing and puffing like she was the one who had been slapped, and after she calmed down, I explained the true nature of men to that simple-minded woman. I told her that it was a man's nature to have perverted urgings. I assured her that her husband's strong sex drive had nothing to do with a lack of love for her. I asked if she wanted him jumping on top of her two and three times a night and doing unspeakably filthy things to her. Looking horrified, Marge shook her head.

After I informed her that there was a nasty, animalistic side of men that a clean-living woman like herself should never have to experience, she began to get the point. With curiosity getting the best of her, Marge
and many other white women, paid good money for me to let them in on
menfolk's dirty secrets. I entertained them with naughty tales. Not one to betray the confidentiality of my clientele, I never named names. I simply told them that there was a great deal of cunt-eating, dick-sucking, butt-fucking, titty-slapping, and other forms of perversity that went on within the confines of my establishment.

After the women gasped and turned deep shades of red, I'd ask if they'd put up with such immorality in their bedrooms, and of course they wholeheartedly rejected the idea of engaging in anything other than missionary sex once or twice a week.

I convinced them to let the whores do the dirty work while they led clean lives. And to this day, I am convinced that whores save marriages. When menfolk feel the need to splash their ejaculation into a woman's face, they don't want to have to look at that woman across the breakfast table the next morning.

Women who try to curtail their husband's nasty habits are asking for trouble. A wise woman would turn a blind eye to her spouse's extramarital shenanigans and be thankful that he's not forcing his angry pecker between her lips or trying to shove it inside that very private and restricted back entrance that the Lord did not design for penile penetration.

Imagining poor Sophia enduring Maverick's depravity instead of me, I turned on my side and contentedly drifted to sleep. I awakened briefly when Maverick came home and slid into bed beside me. I felt him brush aside the hair that had fallen into my face, kissing me softly on the cheek. As he placed an arm over me, I snuggled close to his warm body. We lay together, entwined and at peace.

It was a good thing Sophia's husband was deployed in Afghanistan. Otherwise, how would she explain the teeth marks that I was certain now marred her body?

• • •

I woke up at five and tiptoed around the dim bedroom, trying not to awaken Maverick as I got ready for work. In case he wanted to share the sordid details of his evening with Sophia, which I wasn't interested in hearing, it was best to get out of the condo before he woke.

Dressed in tights, an oversized, shapeless top, and a pair of flip-flops with my pink Birkin bag looped over my arm, I looked like a homeless person who'd stolen rich lady's handbag. But I didn't care. As long as my team did their jobs and made sure that I was camera-ready in time for my segment, I could look a hot mess when I walked out of my apartment.

Prepared to dart out of the bedroom, I pulled a turban over my head to hide my tousled hair, but to my dismay, Maverick sat up and grinned at me.

“That housewife you hooked me up with was a feisty little freak,” he announced.

I plastered on a tight smile. “Glad you liked her.”

“I'd like to get with her again.”

“It was a one-time deal, Mav.”

“No. You and I have a new arrangement, now. I have needs that you don't want to fulfill, so I should be able to have a prostitute whenever I want. I prefer Katya, but if her schedule is still full, then I want you to book Sophia, again,” Maverick said, as if it was perfectly normal for a wife to set up fuck sessions for her husband.

“I'll see if Katya's free, but don't get used to this, Mav. You can have one more session with Katya, and then we have to resume our original agreement: you can have new pussy twice a year, during Carnival and on your birthday. You've already exceeded your limit.”

“I was hoping we could raise the limit to, uh, maybe six times a year.”

“I don't think so. You're getting carried away!”

“Only kidding,” he said and flashed that cute smile of his, which made me sigh in relief. I planned to make up a story about Katya being deported back to Russia, and of course, after I put my plan in motion regarding Sophia's unplanned pregnancy, he'd be scared straight. Out of fear and contrition, he'd keep his dick in his pants. At least for a while.

I walked over to a jewelry box where I kept some of my less-expensive pieces. I perused my collection and my eyes settled on a pair of diamond studs that I'd never worn and never planned to. I believe they'd been inside a swag bag from some stupid event I'd attended. I slipped the small box inside my Birkin bag.

“I'll see you tonight,” I said and kissed Maverick on the cheek.

“You'll be seeing me a lot sooner than that.”

I gave him a curious look.

“You forgot?”

“Forgot what?”

“Don't you remember that your boy, Josh is paying me a lot of money to make an appearance on your show.”

“Oh, right.” I'd been juggling so many important life situations, I'd completely forgotten that Josh had come up with the idea of including Maverick at the judge's table as guest-judge. Josh felt it was a great idea to have the man who enjoyed my food on a regular basis on the show, weighing in on the decision of which contestant had best replicated my dishes.

I dreaded having Maverick on the show. If Josh thought I was a diva, he was going to find out today who the true diva was in this marriage. After he saw the array of outlandish demands listed on Maverick's backstage rider, he'd think of me as being down-to-earth and a joy to work with.

I laughed to myself imagining befuddled staffers running around attempting to find Maverick's favorite pumpkin seeds that were
seasoned with soy sauce and a sprinkling of exotic spices. The healthy snacks that Maverick enjoyed were special-ordered from a Zen center in Detroit and prepared by Buddhist monks. If Josh's gofers had waited until the last minute, they would never find any of Mav's food requests. Maverick would respond by pitching a bitch. Displaying the aggression he used to exhibit on the football field, he was likely to topple tables, kick shit, and maybe punch somebody if he didn't get his way. A part of me wanted my husband to reveal his spoiled-brat ways, which was the complete opposite of his golden boy persona. Maybe if he exposed his true nature, everyone would stop insinuating that I was so lucky to be married to a football icon.

“I'll see you at around noon, babe,” Maverick said.

I waved and left the bedroom.

It was bad timing for Maverick to be on the set today. I had so much to deal with, and his presence would stifle me. Sophia was scheduled to have the embryo implanted in her uterus today, and I needed to make sure she kept her appointment at the fertility clinic. Her pregnancy would seal the deal on my marriage for the next eighteen years. Maverick cared too much about our brand to even think about walking out on me and our child.

Sitting in the backseat of the Town Car as my driver cruised along the streets of New York, I sent Ellie a text, instructing her to accompany Sophia to the clinic today.
I want Sophia to feel special, so use a car service. When the procedure is finished, see to it that she stays on bedrest for the remainder of the day. Treat her like fucking royalty. Rub her feet, order takeout, and spoon-feed the bitch if necessary.

When I arrived at the Chelsea studio, I was informed by an androgynous-looking person from the production staff that there would be a delay in filming today.

“Are you sure?” I asked, not knowing whether I was talking to a man or woman.

“Yes, Josh told me to let you know.”

“Damn,” I murmured. I had planned to surprise Sophia with a visit after work—woo her with the diamond studs that were much too small and cheesy for me. I couldn't accomplish that if I was stuck filming late into the night.

“What's the cause of the delay?” I asked.

“One of the kids had a meltdown at the hotel.”

A part of me was relieved that a contestant was showing their ass and holding up production. The fact that someone was having a meltdown meant that once again, Ralphie would be spared from getting the ax. I didn't care what Josh wanted; I was going to insist that the troublemaking contestant be kicked off the show no matter how good or bad his or her food was.

“Who's having a meltdown?”

“That skinny kid, Ralphie.”

“Ralphie?” I couldn't imagine impish, self-confident Ralphie having a meltdown. “What happened?”

“No idea,” the staffer replied. “I heard he's threatening to walk. Josh is at the hotel trying to convince him to at least finish filming today.”

Most of the emotional breakdowns among the cast were caused by too much drinking or heated arguments between cast mates. Ralphie didn't drink and he got along with everyone, so I was perplexed as to what the problem could be. Although I was genuinely concerned about him, there was no way I was going to miss out on an opportunity to show myself in a favorable light. I gazed around the large room and noticed one of the cameramen laughing and goofing off during the delay. “Are there any cameras at the hotel?” I asked the androgynous staffer.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Okay, thanks.” I pulled out my phone as I rushed toward my dressing room. I called Gina, who was no doubt using this free
time to take a cigarette break. I told her to round up the rest of my glam squad and to get to my dressing room ASAP.

Next, I called Josh. “Whatever is going on with Ralphie, I'm sure I can fix it. Give me ninety minutes to get myself together. Have the camera crew meet me at the hotel. Filming me talking Ralphie down from the ledge, so to speak, will make good TV. Don't you think?”

“It would make excellent TV if that scrawny piece of white trash would open the damn door to his room and allow someone to reason with him.”

“What exactly is going on?”

“We got a call late last night. His foster mother had some sort of diabetes crisis and was hospitalized. From the kindness of my heart, I personally informed Ralphie, and I also assured him that we'd keep him updated on her progress. But that little ingrate insisted on leaving the show to be by his so-called mother's side,” Josh said with undisguised revulsion.

“If the kids were allowed even minimal contact with their family, maybe we wouldn't be having this issue,” I said.

“Rules are rules and he's being irrational. He locked his roommate out of the room and he's having a meltdown because he can't afford to buy a plane ticket home—not with the twenty-dollar daily stipend the show pays the talent.” Josh sounded cocky and insensitive.

“But I thought we paid for the contestants' flights back home.”

“We do. But only after they've completed their contractual obligations.”

“I'm confused. You don't even want Ralphie on the show, so why are you forcing him to stay?”

“He's free to leave after I get the footage of his shocked face when the judges vote him off tonight.”