Rich Girl Problems (9 page)

“W
here the hell have you been?” Chaunci felt a sudden yank on her left forearm, as she involuntarily spun around in the middle of the busy New York sidewalk and found herself facing her fiancé, Emory. She studied the deep lines and creases of disappointment in his caramel face and the sinking ship in his marble brown eyes.

I can't deal with this right now.

“I asked you a question.” He tightened his grip. “Where the hell have you been and where the hell are you going?”

She sighed. “Listen, I know you're upset—”

“Oh, you know this!”

“Yes.” She clenched her teeth, taking quick peeks at the camera. “But I need you to let go of my arm.” She snatched her arm away. “And go back to your office or your apartment. I will meet you later. Now is not the time.”

“You've been gone for four days, six goddamn hours, and thirty-five and a half fuckin' minutes without so much as a word to me. But you're on every goddamn blog and tabloid stepping off a plane, with a smile yay wide and a headline that says you were in South Africa having an affair with your daughter's father.”

“Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds? I was nowhere near South Africa. I was in France. I needed a break. Period.” She quickly peeked at the camera. “I need to go. I will call you later.”

“You're not going any damn where until you talk to me!”

“I can't—”

Before Chaunci could finish her sentence, Emory took his left hand and pushed the camera by the lens so hard that he caused Isaac, the cameraman, to stumble backward off the curb and slam back first into the passenger side of a cab waiting at the light.

“Vous pute!”
The taxi driver yelled in his Haitian accent.
“Bonii Vous!”

“I'm so sorry,” Chaunci said to the driver as she extended a helping hand to Isaac. “Are you okay? Let me help you. I'm so sorry. I am.” Once Isaac appeared to be okay, she whipped back around to Emory. “Are you trying to get me fuckin' sued?! I have enough goddamn financial problems without you assaulting him!”

“I don't give a damn about him! I'm sick of those fuckin' cameras and this goddamn television show! We're supposed to be getting married in three months! You didn't even have the decency to tell me you were leaving the goddamn country and that you'd be gone for four days! I didn't know if you were dead, injured, or what the hell was going on! And now I come up here to your office to talk to you and you're rushing out of the building going God knows where again! What is really going on?!”

“I told you I would talk to you later! I have to go!”

He snatched her forearm again. “You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on here! Who is he?”

She snatched away. “What?” She blinked as if she were doing her best to remain on earth.

“Who the hell is he?!”

Chaunci laughed in disbelief. “You think this is about me cheating on you! You have completely lost it! This is about me being sick and tired of being smothered by every goddamn body! This is about me needing to take care of my business! My business that I bust my goddamn ass for and now it's been stolen from me! I can't believe that you would think that I was really off cheating on you!”

I can't deal with this.

She continued, “You know what, I don't have time to deal with your narrow-ass thinking. I'm not some child. I have business that I need to attend to. And I will not have you further embarrass and humiliate me in the middle of the goddamn street because you're over here having a pissing contest with an invisible dick!”

“Chaunci—”

She didn't respond. She walked over to her silver Phantom and instead of waiting for her driver to open the door for her, she snatched the back door by the handle, got in, and slammed her hand on the lock, leaving Emory in the middle of the concrete and Isaac leaning against the cab.

 

“We've been looking all over the world for you for four days now!” Lawrence, Chaunci's attorney, said the moment his secretary escorted her into his conference room, where he sat at an oblong table with Samuel, Chaunci's financial advisor.

“Where have you been?” Samuel wiped invisible sweat from his brow.

Lawrence interjected, “Who leaves town and doesn't tell their lawyer or their financial advisor where they're going? Your lawyer or your financial advisor . . . ? Are you kidding me?!”

“Do I look like I came here for you two to interrogate me?” Chaunci said sternly. “I'm here to question yo' asses! And I want to know why
the fuck
I'm paying you two a salary every month and I walk into my office today and some motherfucker's got his two-thousand-dollar designer loafers parked beneath my desk telling me that he owns fifty-one percent of my company?! How did you let this happen?!” She pounded her fist on his desk.

“How did
we
let this happen?!” Samuel exploded. “Oh no, this one's on you. We tried our best to find you and couldn't! And we both told you when you released that last two percent of your company, retaining only forty-nine percent ownership, that you were gambling, which is why
I
watched that stock like a hawk every second of the day!”

“Well, apparently time skipped out on your ass—”

“No, you did.”

“The plan was to release it for only a short while, enough to make payroll for the next two months, turn over a profit, and buy it back!”

“And that could've worked had I not wasted time looking for you. Grant Preston started buying your stock, little by little, and then he became more aggressive. By Friday morning, he owned forty-eight percent and by the time I realized that you were off on the moon, and I went to snatch back the remaining two percent, it was gone and Mr. Grant Preston the third was the new hostile CEO of Morgan Enterprises.”

“Where the hell did he come from?” Chaunci massaged her temples. She could feel a migraine stabbing her at the back of the neck.

“He's come from a long line of old money. WASP,” Lawrence added. “His father, Grant Preston the second, is
the
Grant Preston of G. A. Preston Banking Incorporated. The Grant who has ruined your life is a thirty-year-old Oxford business graduate. The only son out of six children. He's very persistent and is known for going after what he wants. He also has a very impressive ré-sumé of taking over failing companies, putting them back on top, and selling them for a profit. It's made him an extremely wealthy man, independent of his family's bottomless fortune. Think Mitt Romney. But much younger, much easier to look at, and a Democrat.”

“He cannot have my company! I want him out! Gone! Set up a meeting with him and make him an offer so that I can buy him out.”

“I tried it. And given the state of your affairs and the amount of debt you're in, believe me, you can't afford it.”

“Then you need to find me some money, Samuel!”

“It won't make a difference. He made it clear that he wasn't budging.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Play nice with your new boss or sell him your portion of the company.”

“H
erbert,” Jaise said to her blond-haired, brown-eyed butler. “Tell the wait staff to take the desserts into the dining room and arrange them on the buffet. I should be done with the rosemary potatoes, chicken tempura, and caviar by then.”

“Yes, ma'am. And when you're done, shall I dress the table for lunch?”

“That will do. Thank you. And use the Gucci china, please. It didn't get much use this morning.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Herbert said, backing out of the room.

Jaise looked into the camera, then down at her butcher block cutting board. She began separating a bulb of garlic and speaking to the associate producer. “So, Renee, you asked me why I invited Journee over here.” She looked back into the camera as she chopped a clove. “Well, for starters, she is the wife of Mr.
Number Three
on the
Forbes
list.” She let her statement dangle in the air and tilted her head for emphasis. “And secondly, I was
not
going to waste my food. No, ma'am. I don't believe in that.” She sprinkled garlic into her steaming pot of okra and asparagus. “I had entirely too much food left to toss it in the trash because Vera's inconsiderate
ass
was served with a restraining order. And she has taken to bed and is refusing all calls.”

Jaise sucked her teeth as she removed her potatoes from the oven. “A restraining order? How low budget is that?! I love Vera like a sister. But obviously you can take the rich bitch out of the hood, but you can't take the hood . . . You know the rest. I tell Vera all the time to let that hood rat shit go. Just let it go. Choose a different behavior. You have access to the finer things; why are you running around here like your name is Al-Taniesha, La-La, Tah-Tah, or Peaches? That's my best girlfriend though, honey. Don't get it twisted. But the good Lord knows we have some work to do.

“Now, back to Journee.” Jaise opened a jar of caviar and began topping the potatoes with spoonfuls. “I figured that since I had that most unfortunate incident the night of the network's party and wasn't able to meet Journee, I would invite her over here.” She reached for her cigarette case, slid a thin brown cigarette into the left corner of her mouth, and lit it.

“Tell the camera what you expect when Journee arrives,” Renee requested.

“I don't know what to expect. Especially since I've made a few phone calls and have heard some things about Ms. Journee.” She blew out the smoke and removed her chicken tempura from the deep fryer.

“What did you hear?”

Jaise squinted. “Why would you ask me something like that, Renee? I know Bridget told you that I don't believe in gossip.” She turned down the fire under her vegetables. “Gossip makes the Chanel body crème crawl off my skin. And yes, I heard that Zachary Dupree plucked Journee off some dick-sucking street corner, or was it a stripper's stage? Hell, same thing. Gave her money, diamonds, that private New York islet they live on. And what has she done for him in return? Nothing. Oh wait, she's done something. She's spent nearly all of his money. Because he used to be number one on the
Forbes
list, but after he married her, he dropped two slots. For that alone, Journee should be sent to the special part of hell reserved for hos who've been turned into ungrateful housewives.

“And no, I would never sell my lady treats for money, but I definitely smoke too many cigarettes and I'm certain that somewhere, in some third-world country, that's a sin. Which is exactly why I will not sit up here with you, on national TV nonetheless, and be messy. I don't do that. And please don't ask me to compromise my values.”

“Mrs. Asante.” Herbert stepped into the kitchen. “Mrs. Dupree has arrived. I seated her in the front parlor.”

“Wonderful.” Jaise smiled and tossed her cigarette into the brick fireplace. “Just in time.” She turned off her stove. “The food is ready for you to bring out to the dining room table.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Jaise untied her apron and laid it on the counter in her butler's pantry. She brushed invisible wrinkles from her sleeveless pink blouse and navy pencil skirt, stepped out of her mink slippers and into her navy heels. She took a quick peek in her powder room's mirror, straightened her two-strand pearl necklace, and hurried into her grand parlor.

Jaise beamed with pride as she walked in and observed Journee admiring her hand-painted Annie Lee and Leroy Campbell paintings, her camel-colored chenille sofa with nail heads outlining the arms, the matching love seat, the black baby grand piano, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined an entire wall.

Yes, bitch, you're not the only one living fabulously.
“Hey, girlfriend.” Jaise walked over to Journee. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Journee, wearing a white and cap sleeve Chanel dress and six-inch signature Louis Vuittons, walked over to Jaise and air kissed her on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for inviting me. You have a beautiful home. This brownstone is marvelous.”

“Girl, this old thing.” Jaise waived her hand. “It is beautiful, though. It used to be an old jazz club and hotel. As a matter of fact, that is the exact piano they used to play.”

“Really? That's so fascinating.”

“Yes, dear. The likes of Sarah Vaughan, Billie Holiday, and Bessie Smith have performed here.”

“That must be so inspirational. You sing too, don't you?”

Jaise hesitated. Thoughts of the last time she sang for Bilal flooded her mind. “Not in a long time.” A moment of awkward silence filled the air. “Let's not get stuck on that. Allow me to give you a tour.”

Jaise led Journee through the two adjacent parlors, one used as a formal living room and the other used as a library, which showcased signed and first edition two-hundred-year-old slave narratives. She showed Journee around her five-star kitchen, her butler's pantry, and family room. They worked their way up the back stairs, which were located in the kitchen. Their first stop was the second floor, where there were three bedrooms and an office, each with its own en suite.

They moved on to the third floor, which housed the massive master suite, set up like a one-bedroom apartment, including a small kitchen, a full spa bath, a theater room, a rooftop terrace, and a hundred-year-old canopy bed that once belonged to Dorothy Dandridge.

“What a lovely place you have here,” Journee said, as they walked down the front stairs to the first floor's foyer.

“You're too kind.” Jaise smiled as they entered the dining room and took a seat at the table.

“Your antiques are breathtaking.”

“Thank you,” Jaise said, as the butler fixed their plates and they began to eat. “I appreciate that. I've wanted to get you over here so we could chat and get to know one another. So”—Jaise sipped her glass of white wine—“do tell. What do you think of the other girls? You've met everyone, right?”

“I haven't met Vera.” Journey sipped her wine.

“You will love Vera. She's a little programish. A little projectish. A little rough around the edges. But I love her.” Jaise stuck her fork in a piece of potato. “Now what did you think of Milan?”

“Well—”

“Don't befriend her. She's a bottom scraper.”

“What?”

“A dick devourer. A vigilante for another woman's man. Keep her away from Zachary, honey, or she'll have that old and limp dick stiff and stuffed in her mouth. She damn near Mack-trucked Kendu with her vulva, trying to get him away from Evan.”

Journee chuckled. “Well, it's not as if Kendu is a saint. So Milan surely didn't get a prize.”

“Did you know Milan before the show?”

“No. Only Kendu.”

A smile ran across Jaise's face as she slowly chewed her rosemary and caviar potato. She swallowed. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Journee picked up a forkful of okra. “Take it from me, Milan and Kendu's marriage is not as it seems. Can you say forest?”

“Forest, girl,” Jaise said in amazement. “Now how do you know that? Because every time I've ever seen Kendu, he acts as if he can't get enough of her ass.”

Journee removed her white linen napkin from her lap and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Let's just say, quite a few years ago, Kendu and I had a few late nights and early mornings.”

“Girl, stop!” Jaise's eyes shifted in excitement. “Say what now? Late nights and early mornings? Oh my!” She laughed in disbelief.

Jaise's mouth fell open as she waved her hand to Jesus. “Journee, you are giving me so much life right now!” She fanned her face. “Working me over!” Jaise placed her hand over her heart. “And all this time this bitch has been walking around here like she is married to the president. Wow.” Jaise gulped the rest of her wine in one shot. “Now what do you think of Chaunci?”

“I think Chaunci is a slum bitch.”

I'm about to fall out of my chair.
“A what?”
I so love this girl!
“A slum ho. A liar.”

“I take it you don't care for her?”

“Not at all. She's nothing more than a thirsty bird.”

“Wow. Now that's really trashy.”

“Definitely trashy.”

“So it's safe to assume that you knew her before the show?”

“We have a history.”

“A history? Don't tell me you two were lady lovers?”

Journee arched a brow. “We were what?”

“Lady lovers. Lesbos, I mean lesbians. I could so see Chaunci as a mad dike. She is definitely suppressing something.”

“A woman is certainly a special sexual treat. But Chaunci and I have never been lovers. Believe me.”

A special treat? How gross
.
Now I know that I'll have to throw away that plate and glass she's using when she leaves.
“I hope I didn't offend you,” Jaise said. “I was just asking.” She took a few bites of her chicken tempura, sipped her wine, and then looked back over to Journee. “Do you mind if I ask you something about yourself?”

“What's that?”

“How'd you meet Zachary?”

“On stage.”

Did she just admit that she was a ho?
“Stage?” Jaise did her best to sound baffled. “What were you? An actress?”

“Not at all. I stripped, and it was a wonderful entry level position. Got me a lot of places, gathered me a lot of things, and made my most valuable asset priceless. Google me. You'll see that not only was I a headlining stripper, I was the type of chick that when I walked into the club, every bitch in the place evaluated who the fuck I was.”

Oh, this bitch is extra.
“A stripper. And you're proud of it?”

Journee looked slightly put off. “Why wouldn't I be proud? It's how I made my money and still make money. I actually own two gentlemen's clubs. One in Atlanta and the other in Miami, and they do quite well.”

Have mercy, now this bitch is a pimp? Damn.
“Gentlemen's clubs? With strippers?”

“Of course.”

“Oh my.”

“You have a problem with strippers?”

“To each his own, honey. I just think it's a little unladylike. Unsanitary. And disgraceful. For my life, anyway. I just wasn't raised like that.”

“Well, I was raised with the belief that every woman has the ability to be rich.” Journee sipped more wine. “Unfortunately, most won't allow their pussies to lead them to it.”

This bitch and her mama are both nasty.

Journee gathered her hair and flipped it over her right shoulder. “Now me, I was born with the balls to do it. My mother always said that pussy offered equal opportunity employment. I could've easily lay on my ass all day, gathered fucked up credit, cellulite, back fat, bills, and babies, but I choose to use what God gave me and made it happen.”

I can't believe this disgraceful ho, bringing God into her mess. She is definitely going to bust hell so wide open that the earth will feel the fire splashing.
Jaise shrugged. “Like I said, to each his own. I guess.”
This bitch is low down. Straight gutter. I'll be needing a minister and some holy oil up in here when she leaves.

“It's legal. And there are a lot worse things one could be doing. Maybe you'd see it differently if you came to one of the clubs.”

“A strip club?”

“Yes, girl! I'd love for you, and hell even the rest of the girls, to come to one of the clubs and hang out. We'd have a great time. We always have celebrities in the house.” Journee snapped her fingers. “Perhaps we should all do a girls' trip.”

“A girls' trip?”

“Yeah, we can hit my Miami spot. I guarantee we'll have a ball.”

Bitch, you will never turn me out. Have me suckin' pussy and gyrating my ass on stage. Never.
“That sounds like fun.”

“So you'll go?”

Tramp, please, you will never have an orgy with me.
“I'll have to get back to you on that. A ho spot, I mean a strip club,
a gentlemen's club
, isn't exactly on my bucket list.”
And it never will be, bitch
. “But I'm all for trying new things.”

Journee shrugged. “Whatever. The choice is yours.” She ate a piece of chicken. “Jaise, this food is absolutely delectable. Who's your chef?”

“Chef?” Jaise said, “I made this.”

“You did what?” Journee paused midbite and looked at Jaise, surprised. “You made this?” She swallowed. “All of this?” She pointed to the food around the room, her eyes skipping from the dessert table overflowing with pastries to the dining table filled with enough food to feed an army.

“Yes,” Jaise said. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

Journee curled the right corner of her top lip. “You
really
don't have a chef?”