Pure Paradise (22 page)

Milan stared at the headline: UNSCRUPULOUS EXECUTIVE STILL MISSING.

It is believed that Maxwell Torrance faked his death and absconded with billions. Among the wreckage of his light aircraft was luggage, his pilot’s license, and three other forms of identification. His remains have not been found.

With a shrug, she closed the newspaper. Maxwell’s disappearance no longer concerned her. The loss of Pure Paradise and her frozen bank accounts were not at the forefront of her thoughts anymore, either. She figured Maxwell had given in to his fetishism and wanted to live in blissful bondage, twenty-four-seven. However, his captors had to be paid and she imagined that he’d taken the extra five hundred million to ensure that he could afford to be flogged, flayed, and butt-fucked for the rest of his life. Milan had done her own investigating—Mistress Veronique and BodySlam were among the missing, but no one was looking for the odd pair.

Milan’s finances had been seized; those two co-conspirators weren’t even on the FBI’s radar.
Oh, well!
As unbelievable as it was, Milan felt no ill will toward anyone. Not Sumi, Royce, Veronique, BodySlam, or even the deceitful scoundrel, Maxwell Torrance.

Due to her own personal happiness, it was rather easy to forgive and forget.

She turned her attention to her mother who was getting a makeover by an award-winning celebrity makeup artist flown in from Los Angeles. Milan’s mother frowned at her image in the mirror.

“It’s too heavy. This makeup job looks like something a mortician would put on a corpse,” her mother complained. Grimacing, she swiped at her cheek. “And I don’t like the shade of this blush. It’s too bright.” She turned down her lips. “Can’t you find a color that looks more natural?”

Looking embarrassed by her mother’s bad manners, Sweetie rushed to her mother’s side. “I like it, Mommy. You look nice.”

Forcing her eyes away from the hand-beaded Chanel gown, Milan crossed her bedroom and approached the vanity chair where her mother sat. She studied her mother’s face closely. “You’re absolutely right, Mommy,” Milan agreed with her cross mother. She cast a glance at the makeup artist. “It’s too thick; much too heavy. Tone it down,” she instructed. “I don’t want my mother being an embarrassment at my wedding.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’d be a laughingstock if my own mother were sitting in the front pew, looking like a bar-hopping floozy.” Milan laughed. Her mother didn’t. She flinched, not finding Milan’s remark funny at all. So accustomed to disagreeing with Milan, her mother opened her mouth and then closed it again, unsure of what to say.

Milan waited patiently for her mother’s comeback. After a few moments, Milan smirked.
Gotcha!
What could her mother say? “
Never mind, don’t listen to Milan, Mr. Makeup Artist. Go right ahead and pile on the pancake makeup and don’t forget to throw
on some garish shades of blue and purple. Oh yeah, while you’re at it, give me some ruby-red lips and matching cheekbones to make good and sure that I look exactly like the town whore!
”

Despite her perfectly coiffed hairdo and flawless makeup, Milan felt like rolling on the floor in hilarity. Her mother was unaccustomed to her disfavored daughter agreeing with her. She didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a thing she could say. Milan marveled at her newly acquired ability to outsmart her cranky mother.

The makeup artist slathered her mother’s face with cold cream and used a tissue to undo her pinched, sour expression and to get rid of the foundation, blush, and eye shadow. Meanwhile, her mother twisted in her chair and groaned as if the removal of the makeup was causing her unbearable pain.

Her mother would never like her and, for the first time in Milan’s life, she truly didn’t care. It was a relief to no longer feel the sting of her mother’s barbs, jabs, and complaints. Milan sighed blissfully. Hilton’s love was like a coat of armor—a protective shield.

Was it really just a week ago that she had felt as if her world had crumbled when the FBI called and then shown up at her door?

On a day when most women would be a bundle of nerves, Milan possessed an uncanny, Zen-like calm. She and Hilton had agreed on a speedy marriage and, in less than an hour, she would follow the wedding party and walk down the aisle in a gorgeous Chanel wedding gown.

Two Years Later

O
ne of the NFL’s biggest rivalries was in full swing as the hosting team, the Dallas Cowboys, squared off against the Philadelphia Eagles.

Milan still didn’t understand the game, but she recognized a touchdown when she saw one. Terrell Owens had just scored one and was breaking into a celebratory dance, flapping his arms like a bird, mocking the Eagles.

“T.O. better watch it,” Quantez cautioned, jumping out of his leather seat inside the lavish home theater.

“They gon’ flag him, Daddy?” Dominic asked gleefully.

“Yup, Dallas gon’ have to get a fifteen-yard penalty,” Diamante added.

“Nah, it’s cool. He can dance as long as his teammates don’t join in and act the fool with him,” Quantez advised his sons.

“Dang!” the boys said together, their faces scrunched in disappointment that T.O.’s shenanigans wouldn’t cause his team to lose some points.

Milan raised a brow. Her nephews seemed to understand all the intricacies of football.
Must have something to do with that Y chromosome,
she told herself. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get a handle on the game. Football was too complicated. None of the huddling, kicking, leaping, running, tackling, stumbling, or
fumbling made any sense. Hilton had tried to break it down, patiently trying to teach Milan the fundamentals of the sport, but her eyes would dim and her mind would shut down two minutes after he launched into a football tutorial, using expressions like
offensive and defensive sides of the ball, thirty-yard-line pass, seventy-six-yard return, kick returns,
and
punt returns.
Ugh! Football lessons made her temples throb. As far as Milan was concerned all the plays that preceded a touchdown were exercises in monotonous drudgery. The only exciting part of the game was watching a touchdown and viewing the scoreboard. Seeing the Eagles green helmet logo on top of the scoreboard signaled that the birds were winning.

In the midst of T.O. and the Cowboys giving each other high-fives, Hilton Dorsey appeared on the screen, handsome as ever and as physically fit and chiseled as the players. The NFL-issued sports attire looked good on Hilton.

“Hi, Uncle Hilton!” Diamante waved at the TV screen.

“He can’t hear you.” Dominic jabbed his younger brother with an elbow.

“Ow! Mommy, Dominic hit me!”

“All right, now. You two better watch it if you expect to get a slice of that gorgeous birthday cake,” Sweetie warned. Meanwhile Quantez, absorbed by the game, turned deaf ears to his squabbling sons.

Hilton Dorsey, seemingly unperturbed by the opposing team’s touchdown, kissed his index and middle fingers and then flashed a V.

“Can you believe that guy’s confidence?” asked the voice of a sports commentator. “We’re almost at the half; the Eagles are trailing badly; the coach has stopped the clock; he’s yelling at the players, practically having a meltdown, and Dorsey’s on the
sidelines preening for the cameras as ostentatiously as T.O. Putting up a victory sign just doesn’t seem appropriate. What do you make of that, Chuck? Is that wishful thinking or is Dorsey having a flashback of some kind? Seems like he’s reverting back to his days of glory when he was the star running back for the Bears.”

“I’m pretty baffled, Don. We know from his playing days that Hilton Dorsey is a confident—”

“You mean ‘cocky,’ don’t’cha?” Don chuckled.

“Yeah, Dorsey was known to tauntingly put his touchdown ball right in the center of the field on the opposing team’s logo,” Chuck reminisced with laughter. “That guy has always oozed cockiness.”

“Hold on, Chuck, Dorsey might have a good reason for his grandiose display. You know, he’s only been an assistant coach with the Eagles for two seasons and already there’s talk that he may be heading over to the New England Patriots—as head coach!” the other commentator stated, incredulous.

“If that happens, he’d be one of the youngest coaches in NFL history.”

“I’d say, that’s a darn good reason to start flashing a victory sign while your team is behind.”

“I just got word that Dorsey wasn’t flashing a victory sign.”

“No? Then what was he doing? You wanna role that tape back, Chuck?” the other commentator said sarcastically.

“I was told that Dorsey was flashing a V for Vivianne, his year-old daughter. Little Vivianne Dorsey is celebrating her birthday today, back in Philadelphia with Dorsey’s beautiful wife, Milan.”

Beautiful!
Milan hoped her mother was watching the game, and then gave her mom a mental brush-off.
Oh, who cares what she thinks?
she finally resolved.

Milan beamed down at her daughter, who was squirming on her lap, screaming for her father. Milan stood, hoisted Vivianne on her hip, and adjusted her daughter’s birthday tiara as she hurried over to the mounted, extra-large TV screen. “Give Daddy a kiss!” Milan cooed.

A close-up of Hilton Dorsey’s handsome face filled the screen. Held in her mother’s embrace, Vivianne leaned forward, reaching out with both arms. She pressed her tiny palms of the screen and kissed her father’s image. Abruptly, the shot cut to a commercial. Vivianne wailed.

Milan rocked her on her hip, showering her little girl with kisses. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy had to go talk to the players. He’ll be right back,” Milan explained. “Let’s go un-wrap your presents, okay?”

“Marrying Hilton has made you more famous than when you were operating Pure Paradise. The local media covers you and Hilton like you’re Philly’s version of that couple from England—that Spice Girl and her soccer-playing husband.”

“Posh…Victoria and David Beckman,” Milan offered.

Sweetie nodded. “Yeah, those two. Now your name is starting to get mentioned on national television, too,” Sweetie gushed, proud of her younger sister.

It was true. Milan and Hilton were media darlings and were treated like celebrities wherever they went.

“And Hilton is such a loving parent. You go, girl; you’re soon to be the wife of the Patriot’s coach.”

“We haven’t heard anything yet, but our fingers are crossed,” Milan said modestly.

Frowning, Quantez shook his head as if the news caused him great distress. “I’m an Eagles fan. Philly all the way.” He thumped
a fist against his chest. “Will me and the boys be able to keep our seats at The Linc if Hilton goes with the Patriots?”

Milan didn’t have a clue, but with Quantez, Sweetie, and their sons staring questioningly, she gave a reassuring smile. “I’m sure Hilton will be able to work something out.”

“Yes!” Dominic gave his brother a knuckle bump and then offered his balled fist to little Vivianne.

Grinning, Vivianne squirmed out of her mother’s arms. Standing on fat, wobbly legs, she reached out her tiny balled hand and touched her cousin’s fist.

“Go, Vivianne.” Sweetie clapped her hands. “Come on, Quantez, it’s time to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the birthday girl.”

Wasting no time, the boys sprinted out of the theater.

Vivianne tried to run behind her cousins. “You’re gonna fall and hurt yourself, Vivianne.” Milan caught her daughter’s hand and slowed her down as they exited the room together.

Grudgingly, Quantez rose from the comfortable reclining seat. He froze as the Dallas cheerleading squad ran out on the field. With their tummies bare, rocking blue and white star-encrusted tops, white bootie shorts, and boots, the squad launched into a sultry routine.

“I don’t know why you staring at those tiny little asses. Those half-naked heifers ain’t got nothing on me—so let’s go.” Sweetie propped a hand on her well-padded hip.

“You know you got it going on. That’s why we’re still married. Don’t nobody have nothing on you, baby.” Quantez smiled sheepishly, craning his neck to get another glimpse of the cheerleaders’ hot moves. “We’re gonna have to get a media room installed if your sister moves,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the screen.

“How we gon’ pay for it?” Sweetie waited a few seconds for Quantez’s response.

He shrugged.

“You can watch those sluts dance right on the plasma TV in our bedroom, where I can keep my eyes on you,” Sweetie teased. “Come on now, Quantez.” She reached for her husband’s hand. “You can finish watching the game in the kitchen. You know Milan and Hilton have TVs all over this mini-mansion.”

After Vivianne blew out her candle and opened her gifts, Quantez made a bee-line back to the home theater and Sweetie pulled Milan aside. “Girl, don’t you worry about Hilton being out on the road with all those cheerleading sluts hanging all over him and throwing their pussies all up in his face?”

“Of course not!” Milan was appalled that Sweetie would even suggest such a thing.

“I’m just saying…”

“You don’t worry about Quantez straying, do you?”

“No! But Quantez ain’t traveling the country with a bunch of hoes coming at him from every direction. Seriously, you need to keep some type of tabs on your man. Hilton might not be playing football anymore, but he’s still the finest thing out there on the field. And his pockets damn sure ain’t hurting.” Sweetie’s eyes traveled over Milan’s lavish surroundings to emphasize her point. “Plenty of bitches out there would love to be standing in your shoes. I read an article about how those money-hungry heifers be waiting for the teams in the hotel lobby, knowing that most men can’t turn down freely offered pussy when their wife and kids are home and they got a big ol’ empty bed up there in the hotel room.”

Milan chuckled. “You read too many gossip columns.”

“You can keep your head buried in the sand if you want to…
I’m just trying to school you, keep you on your toes.”

“Thank you, big sis.” Milan kissed Sweetie on the cheek and laughed.

“I don’t know why you’re not taking this seriously. There are some foul-ass bitches out there, just waiting to snatch up your man. Why do you think them girls break their necks to get on that cheerleading squad? Do you really think they believe that cheerleading is a career that could lead to something? Hell, no,” Sweetie’s voice rose. Though the children had all followed Quantez into the theater, Milan still looked around warily, making sure Vivianne wasn’t in earshot of Sweetie’s profanity.

“Them heifers are hitting the gym and keeping their bodies in shape so they can show off their half-naked selves in order to latch onto somebody else’s man!” Sweetie poked out her lips and rolled her eyes as if a slew of cheerleaders were persistently propositioning Quantez.

“I hear you, Sweetie. But I can’t help it if I’m content and unconcerned about cheerleaders or any other women stealing my man.”

Sweetie shook her head, sympathetically. “All right, then. Don’t come crying to me when the shit hits the fan. Like I said, you and Vivianne need to be right by Hilton’s side at all times.”

“Listen to the pot calling the kettle black.”

Sweetie scowled, uncomprehending.

“You sit home and watch TV all day. I don’t see you sticking by Quantez’s side while he’s toiling in his restaurant.”

“That’s different. Me and Quantez been together for so long, he ain’t thinking about no other woman. Besides, his work doesn’t require him to travel out of town accompanied by a pack of big-titty, flat-tummy, booty-shorts-wearing bimbos.”

Milan fell out laughing. Sweetie did, too.

“Seriously, Milan. Let them bitches know that you ain’t the one! It’s not like you’re still running your business. You have plenty of spare time. Mommy even said you being dumb to let Hilton spend so much time away from home unattended.”

Milan bristled at the personal affront. The mention of her mother and the admission that she and Sweetie still found reason to talk about her behind her back was a stinging indictment that nothing she did would ever please either one of them.

But Milan let it go, let the anger melt away as she calmed herself with the memory of the first time she noticed a heifer flirting with Hilton. At that time, she was so offended, so outraged, she wanted to kick ass; to sue the bitch and the league. The bitch had tried to ride her husband’s jock right in her face. Milan was so furious, she threatened to call a lawyer and bring a lawsuit against the entire NFL.

Hilton had tried to appease her, tried to reason with her. “Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? Don’t let them win, Milan. I know you’re bigger than that. How can you be jealous over a bunch of desperate women?”

Milan wasn’t trying to hear it. That dick was hers and she didn’t want another bitch to even think about sniffing, touching, or tasting it.

“Does your dick get hard when a half-naked bitch pushes her big titties in your face? Be honest.”

“Sometimes,” he had admitted, looking guilty.

And that was when Hilton and Milan made a decision that would keep their marriage safe and sound.

The recollection was sweet. Smiling, she took Sweetie’s hand. “Let’s go check the score. Lord, I hope the Eagles will get it together in the second half.”