Rich Girl Problems (6 page)

T
he invasion of 24, Faubourg perfume drifted through the salon as Journee stepped into the room and immediately zoomed in on Chaunci. The crisp menthol from the silver-tipped and ultrathin cigar she smoked eased into her chest and smoothly filled her lungs. She exhaled a cloudy veil and drifted into a twelve-year-old memory. . . .

“I just wanna get out of here—” Chaunci had said nervously.

“Would you relax?” Journee had replied.

“I can't.” She quivered.

“Listen to me.” Journee shook her by the shoulders. “Those niggahs think that we are so in love with their asses that we would never take them. Fuck that. And fuck them. I'm tired of sitting up in this trap while this motherfucker's high and shit. Listening to him lie about how he has a billionaire father who hates his mother and who won't have anything to do with him. How he's in the streets hungry and hustling while his father is rich enough to own the goddamn streets. Do you think I wanna keep listening to that bullshit? Hell no. And if he does have a billionaire father and I find his old ass, trust I'll know exactly what to do. But until then, I'm done. I don't know about you, but I didn't leave the strip club to chase lies, food stamps, and a hard dick.”

“Me either.”

“Exactly. And if it wasn't for you being the lookout and me driving the getaway car, their asses would've never pulled off that bank heist. Now, I've already washed and packed up the money. It's in the backpack by the bed. You ease into the other room, take it, and I'ma meet you at the train station.”

“Where are we going?”

“New York.”

“New York?! I don't know shit about New York!”

“Well, you will today. I'ma cook this shit up, skin pop those two bitches, and at the first nod, I'm out. Now go!”

 

“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Journee asked as her memory and the veil of cigar smoke evaporated.

Chaunci arched a brow. “We need to talk. Now.”

“I don't have shit to say to you.” Journee flicked ashes into the crystal ashtray that sat on the lava fireplace mantel. “So I couldn't imagine what the hell you have to say to me. Not unless you wish to discuss how you have to be the stupidest bitch in the world to have come here, knowing that what you did requires me to scalp your ass and drown you!”

Chaunci looked toward Mary, the house manager. “Are you going to ask your maid to leave or should I do it?”

Journee laughed snidely. “Prime time has really injected you with one big-ass set of camera balls. But camera ball bitches get their asses beat when they step into the street with that shit. So unless you want me to gank you, I suggest you understand this: You don't give orders around this motherfucker. I do. Understood?”

Chaunci responded by having a seat on the white chenille sofa.

Journee turned toward Mary. “Be a dear and give us a few moments alone.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Dupree.” Mary smiled nervously as she stepped over the threshold and closed the hand-carved double mahogany doors behind her.

Journee sat on the white Queen Anne chair adjacent to Chaunci. She took another pull off her cigar and released the smoke through the right corner of her glossy lips. “I'm giving you five minutes to speak and after that you'd better hope that I'm kind enough to let you live.”

Chaunci rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist. “The time that I need to speak depends on how long it takes you to understand what I have to say. So I suggest you get it the first go-round. On the air we'll pretend to be friends, but when the cameras go off, we don't deal with each other. Point blank. Period. And when the season ends, you are to exit stage left.”

Journee chuckled. “Fuck you. Fuck TV. Fuck that show. Fuck that fake-ass rep you're praying like hell that I don't blow! Did you forget that twelve years ago you took the money and never showed up at the station?”

“I waited for you at that station for hours.”

“Liar! You didn't wait at all!”

“I waited too damn long and when you didn't come, I left. Hell, I was scared! I was seventeen. On my own. And caught up in a bunch of dumb shit! And besides, once I found out where you were, I sent you your portion of the money!”

“Yeah, five years later and a quarter million dollars short!”

“It wasn't short!”

“Bullshit! You know it was short.” Journee stabbed an index finger into the air. “Your ass is lucky you're alive. Trust.”

“Look, I'm really trying to be diplomatic here.”

“Diplomatic? Bitch, you might get away with most of America believing that. But I know your thieving ass like the back of my damn hand and you can't script me nor scam me into ever believing that your ass is diplomatic. And another thing: If you think that I'll be pretending to like you and lying for you—”

Chaunci leaned forward. “Lying for me? This is not about you lying for me! This is about playing your position and understanding that if I go down, you're going down with me, Mrs. Dupree. Now unless you want to be cell mates, I suggest you get your script together.”

“Cell mates? Bitch, kiss my ass. That shit doesn't faze me.”

“Well, it should.”

“The statute of limitations says that it doesn't.”

“Statute of limitations . . .” Chaunci slid back on the couch, crossed her legs, and swung them nervously. Then, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her in the chest, she lunged forward. “What the fuck?! There's no statute of limitations on murder! Did you conveniently forget that those two junkie motherfuckers botched the robbery and dropped a body?!”

Journee hesitated and drifted back into her memory. . . .

“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Journee screamed as she tapped her foot on the gas and positioned her hands on the steering wheel to take off. The guys, Xavier and Aaron, jumped in the car, but the security guard was on their heels and able to snatch Chaunci by the hem of her ski mask and yank her back into his chest.

Without blinking an eye, Aaron burned a hole in the side of the security guard's head, and as his blood and brain matter splattered on the ground, he fell back onto the concrete with Chaunci's black ski mask fisted in his hand.

“They didn't botch the damn robbery! Your man saved your ass!” Journee reminded her.

“Look. It's only the two of us left. Xavier is in prison for life and Aaron died of an overdose. As far as I'm concerned, there's a special part of hell for a set of motherfuckers like that. They lied to us and convinced us to leave the strip club. I married Aaron's ass and he didn't have shit! And had he not died with a plastic dick stuck in his arm, God only knows what kind of mess I'd be in still, trying to get away from him. And I
will not
lose what I've worked hard for because yo' ass is pissed off!”

“You didn't work hard for shit! You robbed a bank and that's what cut your ass a break!”

“Journee—”

Journee stood up and pointed in Chaunci's face. “How about this: I don't fuck with you and you don't fuck with me.”

“I'm trying to help you understand—”

“I don't need you to help me understand shit!” Journee charged toward the double doors and snatched them open. “Get out!”

Twenty Four Hours Later . . .

 

10
a.m.

Taj—

Don't even go there.

Vera sat in the VIP room of her exquisite Manhattan spa and hair care salon, doing her all to shake off her thoughts.

She lay across the sleek black leather chaise and soaked in her surroundings—from the candelabra chandelier to the soft pink walls, the white leather chair attached to the soapstone shampoo bowl, the black leather sofa lined with black and white leather pillows, and a mirrored Hollywood vanity where the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Beyoncé, Janet Jackson, and Rihanna, just to name a few, had all sat and adored the hairstyle Vera's gifted hands had blessed them with.

She sighed. Looked at the clock.

10:02.

Maybe I should call him. . . .

She sat up.

Hell no, I shouldn't.

A lump settled in Vera's throat.

Don't drop a tear.

You have to get it together.

She closed her eyes and did her best to soothe her thoughts. At least she didn't have a client this morning and could have a few minutes to herself.

“Put the table over there.”

Vera was jarred by the unexpected voice she heard coming from the doorway. She looked toward the door and watched the camera crew and Jaise step into the room, directing an entire wait staff where to place a vintage folding table and chairs. Bridget, Carl, and two others from the camera crew also made their way into the room and began recording.

“No. No. Not there,” Jaise said. “In the center of the room. I told you, yellow floral linen.” She huffed. “I guess white will have to do.”

Vera sat up.

She must be crazy.

Vera looked over at Jaise as the wait staff covered the table with crisp white linen and then moved on to set the table with platinum silverware, Gucci china, and champagne glasses.

Jaise walked back to the door. “Let's go!” She popped her fingers, as more staff filled the room. “Put the food here. Please don't drop it.”

Vera watched platinum trays covered with matching domes being placed on the table. The sweet smell of honey glaze, cinnamon, nutmeg, strawberries, freshly baked bread, and vanilla icing filled the room. “Umm, excuse you.” Vera looked over at Jaise. “I think you're at the wrong address because the last time I heard anything from you, you said we were through—”

“Not now, bitch. Don't piss me off and make me order everything back out the door. Let me finish getting this set up and then you can talk shit.”

Well, damn.
Vera's eyes scanned the table as the staff removed the domes and revealed piping hot cinnamon and raisin biscuits, blueberry muffins, banana bread, freshly baked scones, strawberry and cheese crepes, sweet potato cake pops, chocolate chip pancakes, freshly made whipped apple butter, and lemon, pineapple, cheese, and apple fritters.

“Put the mimosa over there,” Jaise continued.

The trick has been up since midnight smoking cigarettes and kneading dough. Every dish on that damn table represents a problem. She will be here all damn morning. I can already tell.

Finally the room was set up and looked more like a southern café than a high-end salon.

Jaise smiled at the staff and clapped. “This is beautiful.” She pointed to the well-dressed table. “You can leave now. I'll call you when I need you to return.”

Jaise quickly took a seat and immediately started eating. She looked over to Vera, who remained on the chaise. “Didn't I warn you not to piss me off!?” Jaise kicked her heels off under the table and stretched her toes apart. “I have been up since midnight, cooking all this shit for you. Now come on over here and eat. Because as you can see, I am starving and I have got to feed this size sixteen, honey. Let Milan and that other skinny bitch, Chaunci, starve. Chaunci, claims she went on a diet and lost fifty pounds, but I know she got her stomach chopped up.”

“Hence the reason she looks anorexic,” Vera added and looked over and into the camera.

“Exactly. But me, I'm a grown-ass woman who likes to eat. And yo' li'l chubby ass know you like to eat too. Now come on; what are you waiting on?”

Vera looked over to Jaise. “I lost weight. I'm now a fabulous size twelve, heifer. And that's not chubby.”

“You say fabulous. Everybody else says plus size. Now come on over here.”

Vera shook her head. As much as she wanted to be by herself, she was happy to see her friend. They hadn't spoken in two days—too long. And the last time Vera had heard anything from Jaise was by way of a voice mail....

“I want all of my shit back. Everything. The Stuart Weitzman limited edition clutch and the matching heels I gave you for your birthday. The pink diamond and platinum Tiffany bangles I gave you for Mother's Day. And the Judith Leiber and platinum Pandora friendship charm I gave you just because. I will send my courier to come and collect my shit. I'm done with you. Don't call me again, bitch. I don't do hood rats; I don't do jail cells; and I already told Bridget, do not expect me to film with you. . . .”

Yet here she sat, bare feet and a mouth full of freshly baked strawberry and cheese crepes. Vera walked over to the table and sat down. She sipped a glass of mimosa and looked down at a piping hot plate of fritters. “You are so wrong for this!” Vera reached for the plate. “You know apple fritters are my favorite. And you had the nerve to put extra honey glaze on them! I should fight you!”

“Would you just eat?” Jaise reached for a blueberry muffin and loaded it with butter. “Now”—Jaise took a bite—“should I pour my heart out first or do you want to proceed?”

“Well, I—”

“Vera, wouldn't you think that I should go first, being as though I'm obviously stressed the hell out?” She pointed to the food. “You are not the only rich bitch with problems.” Jaise's eyes turned teary.

Vera grabbed a napkin and dabbed Jaise's tears. “I'm listening.”

“Just when I didn't think that things could sink any lower, Bilal is fucking the therapist.”

Vera dropped the napkin. “Say what? The therapist? What therapist and when did they start fucking?”

“Right in the middle of our couple's counseling session.”

“What—”

“Something told me from the moment I walked into the room that that ho would be a problem.”

“I can't—”

“Not once during the entire session could I get a word in edgewise. Nothing but Bilal this and Bilal that. And I'm looking at her like, what the fuck, bitch!”

“Jaise—”

“Seriously, who does that?!” Jaise said.

Vera agreed, “Therapy should be back and forth communication—”

“Not with this bitch. She twisted my words around, and everything I said, she assigned it a double meaning. Had Bilal looking at me like I was fifty shades of fucked up! His big ass sitting there with his arms folded across his chest, sneering at me like I'm the damn problem and that trick has suddenly helped him see the light!”

“Jaise—”

“I swear I couldn't say a word. I had to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Leave, bitch. And Bilal's high yellow ass didn't even come behind me. I knew then that he was about to lay his dick on her couch. That fuckin' dick eater!”

Vera's mouth dropped open. This was insane. She looked over at the tray of blueberry muffins and they were all gone.

“That skinny bitch,” Jaise carried on, reaching for the banana bread. “And if there's anything I hate more than Bridget”—Jaise looked directly into the camera—“it's a skinny bitch.”

“Jaise—”

“Don't worry about me though. Because I know Jesus. And I have taken the time out to get to know myself.” She sipped her mimosa. “I don't do negativity. I went out and purchased me a few self-help books, watched a few episodes of
Super Soul Sunday,
got my chakras aligned, and I'm living my life like it's golden. Doing me. Fuck therapy. And most of all, fuck Bilal.”

“Really?”

“Hell, yes. I've signed myself up for Zumba class. I'm going to lose some of this weight. I did me a profile on eHarmony. I'm going to get me a little boy toy who doesn't talk the hell back. I'll be starting yoga next week—Wednesday. I'm taking back my life. Next week Thursday I'm getting me a colonic. And I'm flushing the shit down the toilet and the toxins away.” She reached for a pineapple fritter. “Now what's going on with you?”

“I—”

Jaise pounded a fist on the table. “Hold up. Wait a minute! Why is there a viral video of you having Taj's car towed? Why are you in everybody's Facebook status? And why is the number one hashtag on Twitter, ‘You better get yo' ass on the bus?' Now, Vera. I'm only telling you this because I love you and we're the best of friends, but you'd better get your damn mind right, because that shit you pulled on Taj was dead wrong. Unnecessary and so un-lady like. You tore his place up and now you had his car towed? Maybe you need therapy. Just don't go see the bitch that I did.” Jaise's eyes welled with tears again. “Because if you do, her skinny ass will be licking around the head of his dick. I promise you that. Now what are you going to do? Give your man away to the enemy or be his damn wife?”

“I—”

“You need to stop being so damn selfish and let him be a man. Men need to express themselves too. You can't always shut them up and overtalk them. And back to what you did at his office parking lot. My God. I was so embarrassed. You were incredibly ghetto. Real hood and projectish. Showed exactly where you were from. And your aunt—”

“Wait a damn minute now, Jaise. Your food isn't that damn good where I'm going to sit here and let you talk about my aunt.”

“Look, I love Aunt Cookie too, but let's face the truth. She is too old to be that ratchet. And the last time I saw Aunt Cookie, she had on a pink pleather catsuit, platform heels, and feather earrings. My God. The devil is a liar.”

“Jaise, I think we'd better move on. Now, as far as Taj is concerned, I'm not pushing him away. I had to check that ass. He'd lost his damn mind and I had to help him put a LoJack on it. Because I'm a good woman and if he doesn't get his act together, then he will lose out on me. So you worry about Bilal and your dick-sucking therapist and let me contend with my husband and my business.”

“Excuse me, Vera.”

Vera looked over to the doorway where her assistant, DeAndre, and an unfamiliar man with frizzy brown hair and emerald green eyes stood.
DeAndre knows I don't do walk-ins.

“DeAndre, can the gentleman wait in the lobby until after we speak?” Vera asked.

“I tried to tell him that, but he insisted on following me.”

The man stepped into the room and handed Vera an envelope. “Vera Bennett.”

“Yes.”

“You have just been served.” He quickly exited the room and walked swiftly down the hallway. One of the cameramen flew after him as Vera stood in complete shock. A few moments later, she pulled a stapled packet of paper from the envelope and scanned the pages. “Oh, my God.” Her heart raced. “Here this motherfucker goes again!” Vera snatched her Louis Vuitton bag and rushed out of the room, leaving a stunned Jaise sitting there with a mouth full of cheese crepes.