Rich Girl Problems (12 page)

The Next Day . . .

 

K
eep it classy.

Milan tapped the tip of her manicured index finger on the marble counter. “Run that past me again. He's not what?” She looked at the hotel clerk.

“Ma'am, just as I told you last night when you arrived and am telling you again, this morning, for the third time”—the clerk clenched her teeth—“there's no one here by the name of Kendu Malik.”

“Try Knott Harris, Kaareem Davis, or Carl Worthington.” Milan rattled off the aliases Kendu had been known to use when he traveled and wanted to avoid the ballyhoo of the press and the fans.

The clerk, a middle-aged black woman with mahogany skin and blond hair, pursed her lips and struggled to keep her attitude intact. She pushed her wire frames up the bridge of her broad nose and scanned the computer screen. “No one's here by any of those names.
Either
.”

“I need to speak to the manager. Now.”

“I
am
the manager.”

“Then get me the goddamn CEO, because I don't like your attitude, Shaquita. Apparently you don't know who I am.”

“My
name
is Helen. It doesn't matter who you are,
ma'am,
because your husband still isn't going to be here.”

Oh no this bitch didn't!
“I will have your job! Don't you ever speak to me like that, because hopping over this counter and beating your Poise-wearing ass will be just the stress reliever I need!”

“Ma'am—”

“And don't call me another motherfuckin' ‘ma'am,' Sophia! You're standing here trying to tell me that you haven't seen a six-three, two-hundred-fifty-pound, double-dipped in molasses football legend and number one ESPN commentator, that everybody in American seems to know, except your lopsided, wig-wearing ass! What the fuck, do you have cataracts?!”

The clerk arched one brow and then the other. “If you and those cameras do not step away from the counter and leave, I will call security and have you removed!”

“Call 'em. I'm not scared of security! Fuck security!”

“Milan,” came from behind her.

The rubber soles of Milan's sneakers squeaked as she spun around. There stood Kendu. The invisible drop kick that he'd imprinted deep in her chest, before he left, rose to the surface. Pressure filled her neck and her eyes grew wide. She quietly watched him cross the threshold and walk into the lobby, dressed in a navy blue Versace suit, a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons open, and a briefcase in his left hand.

He looked at the cameras and then back to Milan. Twice.

There was a rising buzz among the guests in the lobby, some who eased through with a simple, “What's going on?” but never staying long enough for an answer. And others who stopped and became a part of the action by snickering, whipping out their cell phones, snapping pictures, and recording. “You came a day early,” Kendu said, looking perplexed. “Let's go upstairs.” He walked toward Milan.

Despite the building crowd, all Milan could focus on was Kendu. She curled her lips and said sarcastically, “Go upstairs?! Where? To the rooftop? 'Cause according to Mable over there”—she pointed to the hotel clerk—“you don't have a room up in this here bitch! And
I'm
here a day early, motherfucker? No.
I'm
right on time. Yo' ass is here a day motherfuckin' late. Now where were you? And don't lie, because I've been calling you, and calling you, and calling you, for two goddamn days and you haven't answered any of my calls!”

“I lost my phone when I was at the convention. Now can we—”

“Stop lying! Because I went to that whack-ass convention center yesterday and guess what? There was no convention! I've been to your favorite restaurants and nobody has seen you! I've been all over this damn city, not to mention that I've been at this motherfuckin' counter, twice since last night, and guess what? You ain't been here either! Now where were you?”

“Milan—”

“Just spit it out!” She pointed in his face. “What ho are you fucking down here, 'cause your stringy-haired crazy white bitch is in New York strolling your black baby around and stalking our goddamn house!”

“What?!”

“Cut the stupid act! Now where the fuck were you?”

“Listen—”

Milan balled a fist and released a finger with every word, starting with her pinky. “Your statement needs to start with your exact location, then go to who's the bitch down here, and end with you explaining why I got some blond-haired, wet-dog-smelling whore showing up at my front fuckin' door, with some baby, saying to me that she was hoping that you had told me about the two of you! Now I need some answers! And don't lie, 'cause tricks are for kids and clearly I am not in a good fuckin' mood. So don't give me any bullshit!”

“Milan—”

“There you go again about to lie!” She pounded a right fist into her left palm. “Why don't you just tell the damn truth? 'Cause in a minute it's gon' be some slow singing and flower bringing! Now who are you
fuckkinnnnn
'?! Why couldn't I get you on the
phooooone
?! Why did you lie about the
conven-tioooon
? Why was there some crazy-ass white bitch at my front
dooooor
?! Who is that goddamn
babeeee?
Why does it look just like your
asssss
?! And why did Miss Celie over there say you didn't have a room in this
motherfuckerrrrr
?” Milan turned toward the clerk. Back to Kendu. “Or are you fuckin' that bitch? Is that it? What kind of Tiger Woods shit are you into? So you down here dusting off rude-ass old bitches now! You just a dick slangin' motherfucker! You ain't shit! I have asked you at least fifty goddamn times for explanation after explanation and you haven't said one damn word. Not one. Now. I'm asking you nicely—please stop fucking with me because in a minute it's going to be a deadly misunderstanding.”

“Milan—”

“You know what; you know what.” She took two steps back from Kendu, lunged four steps forward, and shoved him in his chest. “I have to get the fuck out of here. 'Cause I can't listen to another one of your lies. I'm tired of your shit. I've been bitching about you since I was eight years old and it's time to make a motherfuckin' change. So I'm going to just leave you here with that old bitch who's obviously suckin' your dick! Because if I stay here a moment longer, they'll be drawing white chalk around your ass!”

“Milan—” Kendu reached for her hand and she snatched it away, stormed through the crowd of shocked picture-snapping and video-recording people in the lobby, and rushed into the limo that awaited her, with Bridget and Carl on her heels.

Tears knocked at the back of her eyes.
You'd better not cry.

“Take me to the airport,” Milan ordered the driver. “I need to get home.”

“Milan,” Bridget called, doing her best to hold back her smile. “Tell the camera how you feel right now.”

Silence. Instead of responding or busting Bridget in the mouth, which Milan desperately wanted to do, she turned toward the window and did her best to swallow the iron fist that had wedged its way into her throat and pushed tears through her eyes.

I
don't believe this....

Chaunci sat on her sofa in pure darkness. Lights off. Blinds closed.

Everything has been taken.

My dreams.

My plans.

My company.

My secrets . . .

She held her face in her hands.
I promised myself that I would go to hell before I'd ever step back into seven-inch glass slippers and pussy pop on a handstand, but I think I might need to reconsider things. After all, this is hell.

Knock . . . knock . . .

Startled, Chaunci looked from side to side in the darkness.

Knock . . . knock . . . “Chaunci!”

“That cannot be.” Chaunci hopped off the sofa and turned the light on.

Knock . . . knock . . . “Chaunci, are you there?”

“Milan!” Chaunci opened the door in disbelief. “What are you doing here at midnight?”

“I need a drink,” Milan slurred, holding a large brown paper bag in her hand. “And I need to tell you some shit.” She stumbled a bit as she walked in.

Chaunci closed the door behind Milan and she said, “Where are you coming from?”

“LA. With the exception of the stop I made at the liquor store.” Milan sat her bag on the marble coffee table.

“Why were you in the liquor store? You have a personal assistant. Why couldn't she go to the winery for you?”

“Bitch, fuck that bitch. And the rest of them personal assistant bitches. All they do is gather all your business,” she slurred, “and write a book about you. And I don't need that bitch writing a book about me and telling anydamnbody how I liked to go to the damn liquor sto'.” Milan flopped down on the sofa. “And besides, I'm from the Bronx and I can go into the goddamn liquor sto' and get my own shit if I want to!”

Chaunci looked astonished. “You are drunk as hell. And you need some coffee.”

Milan wagged an index finger. “Why would you say something like that? All I had was four shots of Cîroc on the plane. I have enough rumors being spread about me. Don't add to 'em. I am not . . . not . . . not . . . ummm . . . drunk. I just have a li'l preparty buzz on.”

Chaunci frowned. “Preparty? There's no party over here.”

“I brought the party with me.” Milan pulled two bottles of Merlot out of the bag, along with a corkscrew and two extremely long and bendable straws. She looked up at Chaunci. “Would you sit your ass down? You're making me nervous. And where have you been for four damn days? Do you know the whole world has been looking for you?”

“Yes,” Chaunci snapped. “I know that because everydamnbody keeps telling me that. Shit, I'm entitled to go somewhere without everyone knowing my every move. Damn. And for your information, I was in France.”

“France? Heifer, you were supposed to be with me at that miserable network party, meeting your new costar, Journee Dupree.”

Oh, please.
“So you met her. You like her?” Chaunci uncorked the two bottles of Merlot and handed Milan a straw.

Milan leaned back on the arm of the sofa. “Remember in high school how it was that one particular girl you always promised that you would beat her ass on the last day of school?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Journee would be that bitch for me.”

Me too.

Milan continued, “I can't stand her.”

Me either.

“And I want to punch her so hard in the throat,” Milan carried on, “that she would feel like I just put her in a choke hold.”

“Damn.” Chaunci fell out laughing.

“Let me tell you, I tried to be nice to that bitch and she tried to play me. That whore has the ghetto in her turned on extra high. And do you know who she's married to?”

Of course I do.
“Who?”

“Two-hundred-year-old Zachary Dupree. Now how the hell is she riding that brittle-ass dick?”

“I don't think she is.”

“That's probably what the hell her problem is. She needs some dick. That's a whole other category of pitiful women.” Milan pointed into the air and shook an index finger with every word. “Those. Who. Need. To. Be. Fucked.”

Chaunci chuckled as she slid her straw into her bottle. “Now you didn't come over here to talk about Journee, so wassup?”

“First, let me make a toast.” Milan held her bottle in the air and Chaunci followed suit. “To men. Fuck. Each. And. Every. One. Of. Them. All of 'em!”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause they ain't shit. They ain't worth shit. And the richer they are, the bigger pieces of shit they are!”

They clinked their bottles.

“Now would you like to tell me what that was about?” Chaunci sipped.

“Kendu's a cheatin' motherfucker,” Milan said casually. “That's what that was about.”

It took everything in Chaunci not to spit out her drink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What happened?”

“Well, starting a little over a month ago, I began seeing this white chick everywhere I went. The park, The Met Gala, et cetera, et cetera. But of course Kendu claimed he didn't know who she was.”

“Did you?”

“Hell no. So to make a long and fucked up story short and fucked up, I caught this chick standing across the street from my house yesterday morning, so I confronted her.”

“You did?” Chaunci's eyes grew wide.

“Hell yes.” Milan cocked her neck for emphasis. “And I tried to beat that ass too.”

“Milan—”

“And how about she had a black baby with her.” Tears welled in Milan's eyes.

“A baby . . . ? Well . . . maybe she was the nanny.”

“She wasn't the damn nanny. And after, she asked me if Kendu had told me about them—”

“Them?!”

“Yes, them! I knew then that she was the mama and my husband was the damn daddy!” Milan took a swig and tears streamed down her cheeks. She flung the tears away with the back of a hand.

Chaunci's mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as the drop kick I wanted to lay in his damn chest when I ran up on him in LA.” She flung more tears away. “I've had it! It's over. We're done. And that damn surprise birthday party I've been planning for him . . .”

“What about it?”

“I'm changing the motherfucker to a divorce party.”

“Milan, I think you might be overreacting a bit. Did you ask him to explain?”

“Explain? I flew out to LA and tried to give this motherfucker a chance to explain.”

“And?”

“He told lie after lie after lie. And then when his lies weren't working, he asked me to come back to his hotel room.”

“Did you go?”

“Hell no! He didn't have a room up in that bitch! He was lying about that too! I am finished with him!”

“I think you should've at least heard him out.”

Milan looked at Chaunci in shock. “Did you forget that you're my friend?! You're on my side! And you know you don't like his ass! You never have and you never will. You're the one who told me not to marry him in the first place!”

“I'm not taking his side. I just know you. The sober you. And this is your marriage.”

“Fuck that marriage.”

“Milan—”

“Look at me!” Milan demanded, and Chaunci observed Milan's hazel eyes drooping, the lids half-mast, and her bottom lip glazed with slicked saliva. Milan continued, “Does this look like the face of woman who doesn't mean what she says? No more of that forgiving shit.” She belched. “I'm serious. Me and Kendu are done.” She sipped and found herself sucking air through her straw. She turned the bottle upside down, causing the straw to slip to the floor and a single drop of Merlot to splash on the table.

She looked over at the coffee table, where Chaunci's bottle sat. “You're not going to drink that. I'll finish it for you.” Milan picked up the bottle, and after a few sips, said, “Now, what's going on with you? Did you tell me where you were for four days? Did I tell you that the whole world was looking for you?”

“Yes, you told me that. And, yes, I told you that I was in France.”

“Oh, okay. So what'd you do in France? And why are you looking like somebody stole your damn bike?”

Chaunci chuckled. “You are officially crazy as hell. My company,” she shrugged, fighting back tears, “was taken from me.”

Milan held her head up straight as if she were trying to get her thoughts together. “Say that again.”

“My company was taken from me. Stolen.”

“What do you mean?” Milan squinted. “Somebody stole the whole damn building? Oh my God. Only a crackhead would do some shit like that. And I betchu that ass was a man too. Don't worry; someone had to see 'im. Did you contact security?”

Chaunci wiped her eyes. “Milan, please. Not the whole damn building. The company.”

“So somebody stole the whole twenty-seventh floor? Now that's fucked up.”

Chaunci sighed. “You know what, it's a long story. One you'll understand when you're sober. Just know that I can't eat, can't sleep, and for the first time in many years, I feel lost.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Don't cry.” Milan pulled Chaunci into her bosom. “Don't. It'll be okay. 'Cause only a motherfuckin' crackhead man would steal a goddamn floor out of a building and think his ass'll get away with it. I promise you we'll find him! 'Cause it ain't too many places in this tight-ass borough that he can hide that shit.”