The Rich Girls' Club (21 page)

O
ne month to Election Day.

United, the Rich Girls would persevere.

Relationships did fall apart. Deterioration was the natural order of every aspect of life. No one born and nothing built would last an eternity. If Brooks wanted to rebuild the friendship she’d torn down, she’d have to apologize.

Brooks’s situation with Morgan and Magnum made Hope analyze her own truth. The words Morgan had spoken from her heart gave Hope inspiration. Did she love Stanley enough to marry him? Or was she keeping him around solely for her convenience?

“How do you feel about our relationship?” she asked him.

He glanced around as if someone else was lying between them in his bed. “You talking to me?”

Hope propped a pillow behind her back, leaned against the headboard. His sarcasm was annoying the shit out of her but rather than leave, she stared at him instead.

“It’s just that you’ve never asked me that question. I feel it could be better…humph, a lot better, since you’ve asked.”

“Continue,” she said, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

Stanley pressed his back to the headboard, too, tilting his body to face hers. “You’re a wonderful woman. Any man would be proud to call you his own.”

The “but” dangling on the edge of his lips did not escape her. She patiently waited for him to continue.

“But honestly, Hope, you’re selfish. Make that inconsiderate.”

The one thing she wasn’t was controllable. Hope didn’t see value in doing things that would annoy her just to appease her man. She couldn’t be in two places at the same time. If she could, she still wouldn’t make more of a commitment to Stanley.

“You don’t need to explain. I agree. But aren’t we all at some point? Selfish, that is.”

“Yes, but yours comes with a no-refund, no-exchange, no-compromise tag attached. It’s like you have a take it or leave me attitude toward me. I’ve never treated you that way.”

True. He hadn’t. But giving someone your heart was no guarantee they’d do the same. That was a chance he’d taken. What did he want from her?

Hope asked, “If you could change some things about me, what would they be?”

He smiled as though she would do whatever he was about to suggest. That wasn’t true. But she was curious to hear what he had to say.

“I’m the man. Let me be the man. I lost five grand on that trip to Paris. Five grand. And you acted as though it was five dollars. No real apology. You just shoved your sorry-ass ‘I’m sorry’ down my throat and solidified it with a ‘take it or step’ undertone. That still pisses me off.”

Me too.
She was tired of hearing about it. But there was one way she’d never have to hear it again.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You ask me to tell you how I feel and I wish you could see how tight your lips are right now.”

She didn’t need a mirror. She knew he was right. She tried relaxing her mouth. Maybe Stanley didn’t have enough backbone for her. Hope loved power. Her cars had more horsepower than Stanley. He had the pickup of an American-manufactured two-door hatchback.

Tossing back the cover, Hope planted her feet on the floor.

“Where’re you going?”

This was the last time Stanley would see her naked. Hope eased into her cobalt blue halter dress and stepped into her thong. She picked up her purse, then wrote him a check for ten grand.

“Thank you for helping me to understand that I’m never going to love you the way you love me. But I appreciate you for encouraging me to step into my reality. We’re not equally yoked. Never have been. Never will be.”

Looking at his face, Hope felt sorry for him. He looked pitiful. Was that what she was sexing? Pity?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he protested. “Now you’re trying to emasculate me? Cut off my balls?”

That wasn’t her intention.

“Here, this should make up for your losses,” Hope said, handing him the check.

His eyes turned red. “I don’t need your damn money. Can’t you see I love you? Nobody’s going to love you the way I do,” Stanley said. He balled the check into his fist, snatched pieces from it like he was picking cotton, threw chunks to the floor.

Softly, Hope blew him a kiss. “That’s a chance I have to take,” she said, walking out.

Getting into her eight-million-dollar, black-on-black Maybach Exelero, she gunned her engine, and ripped out of the driveway. Did some powerful women, like some powerful men, intentionally cling to those less successful than themselves?

The time had come for her to move on from Stanley…but she could never move on from her girls.

T
he bottom line was, Chancelor made her happier than any man she’d ever dated. But was happiness enough for a woman to commit to marriage?

Sure, she could have a guy her age or an older man like the mayor. She smiled, shook her head. No, not like the mayor. But she could marry for prestige, companionship, or just to identify herself as a Mrs., or she could marry because society dictated and the bible documented that women should procreate.

Not a single reason for marriage could prevent her holy union from ending in divorce, or prevent her from becoming a single mom. In the end she’d have to give him half for having done what? That was the risk a rich girl would take if she married a poor man, and exactly why a woman with her wealth should never marry down.

Storm not only understood but also agreed with her parents’ views. But having money didn’t fulfill her the way loving Chancelor did. How could she have it all and be reassured it would all last forever, when most marriages ended in bitter divorce?

She loved Chancelor’s youthfulness, his sexy body, his willingness to be by her side. She trusted and respected Chancelor. She’d never stuck a dick up his ass. He wasn’t that type of man. At his age he had maturing to do but she loved his innocence, too. Working with her man on his personal development was one hundred percent better than trying to have patience for an older man that was opposed to trying new things.

“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” Chancelor asked, reclining in the passenger’s seat. “Are we headed to the airport? Are you taking me on another surprise trip to Italy? I know you didn’t buy me another car. Let me guess. A house! You bought me a house!”

Thanks, Chancelor.
Storm wasn’t focusing on the material gifts she’d generously given him, but what had he bought her?

“You’ll see in a moment,” Storm said. Exiting Sunset Boulevard she valet-parked at The Mondrian Hotel wishing she hadn’t planned an extravagant night. Cancelling it all would cost her the same. Storm decided to improve her attitude.

Chancelor sat up straight. Smiled. “Whoa, this is where we met!”

And it was the anniversary of when they’d met. She wouldn’t hold it against him for not remembering that. Most men were horrible at remembering details. Storm said, “Except we’re not going to the SkyBar.”

“Then where exactly are we going?” he asked, escorting her into the lobby.

Storm bypassed check-in. She’d reserved an apartment for them. “For the next twenty-four hours, my love, you are all mine.”

“Not if I’m lucky,” he said, entering the unit. “I want to be yours forever.”

Storm exhaled, then responded, “This used to be one of my favorite places to stay in Los Angeles when I don’t feel like staying at home.”

“Are you still confused about what you want? Do you want to marry me or not? If I leave again, I’m not coming back.”

Deciding to get married wasn’t that damn simple!

Sliding open the doors leading to the balcony, Storm looked out over LA. The lights illuminating the city were spectacular. Inhaling the fall breeze, she leaned back into Chancelor’s arms.

“I have a few surprises for you. Happy anniversary, baby.”

“Aw, dang.” He slapped himself on the head. “I didn’t get you anything. I’ll make it up to you tonight. I’m going to sex you crazy. You gon’ beg me to stop, woman.”

“Let’s take a shower,” Storm said.

Stepping under the water was like being in a rainforest. The aqua blue water flowed from the ceiling, showering them.

“This is crazy,” Chancelor said, kissing her.

“Stay here,” Storm said, exiting the shower.

She wrapped her body in an oversized white towel, went into the bedroom, dialed guest services. “Yes, you can send them up now. Thanks.”

“Okay, I didn’t mean for you to stay in the shower. Dry yourself off and go get in the bed.”

Moments later the three women she’d hired were there. Storm opened the door, invited them in, and instructed, “He’s in there,” pointing toward the room. “Give my man the best massage he’s ever had, then bring him to me.”

While the ladies were fulfilling their duties, Storm lounged on the plush silver sofa in the living room and phoned Morgan.

“Hey, Storm. How are you?” Morgan asked. Her voice was peaceful.

Election Day was two days away. “Are you joining us at Brooks’s headquarters on Tuesday?”

“No, I can’t do that. I appreciate her apologizing but our relationship will never be what it once was.”

“Nothing stays the same, but I understand how you feel.”

Morgan softly said, “No, you don’t. Because I don’t.”

“I hope you change your mind. The Rich Girls’ Club isn’t the same without you. We need you.”

“Take care,” Morgan said, ending the call.

“Excuse me, Ms. Dangerfield, Chancelor is ready for you. He asked that you come to him. We’re leaving now.”

“Thanks.” Storm said, entering the bedroom.

Chancelor was on one knee. His arms were opened wide. “Storm, will you please marry me?” Tears streamed down his face.

Her heart could’ve said “yes.” Her head was clear.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

She dried his tears with her lips. “Yes, I do.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Yes, I am,” she said.

“Then say yes.”

A few hours ago, perhaps, she could’ve accepted his non-ring proposal. Now that he’d brought to her attention just how little he’d contributed to their relationship, she felt sobered. Besides, who was she fooling? If she had to think this hard about making a lifetime commitment, she wasn’t ready. Neither was Chancelor. Storm realized being with him didn’t fulfill her the same as being with the girls. Maybe after the election was over she could entertain him. But right now she had to be where she was needed most.

“I have to make an emergency run. I’ll send a driver to take you home.”

T
his was the day she had planned. Tuned in to the election, Morgan lounged on her chaise in the clubroom. Storm was where she should’ve been, too, at Brooks’s side. But where was Hope?

Morgan placed her hand on her stomach. There was nothing growing inside her. Not anymore. She’d made the right decision.

The last time she’d seen Magnum, he was in their bedroom. She needed time to think, so she went to the clubroom.

The Bloody Mary and mimosa bar was stocked. Although she was the only one in the west wing, her new chef had catered for four, set up, then left. Morgan missed her girls. Her only regret was not acknowledging her own faults when Brooks and Magnum had confessed and apologized to her.

Sipping on a spicy Bloody Mary and feasting on shrimp cocktail, she wondered what made her that way. Stubborn. Unwilling to apologize when she knew she was wrong. Seeing herself as the victim when she was also the culprit. She would not be alone if she’d remained an active partner in the plan. She should’ve given Goodman the tape but according to the polls Brooks was in the lead anyway. The margin just wasn’t wide enough for comfort.

“Why can’t I let go and forgive?” she asked herself.

The sun had set. The polls had officially closed. Morgan was glued to her chaise. She’d be there until the final votes were counted and reported. She had to know if her best friend would be relocating to Sacramento.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack
. The sound grew closer.

“Yoo-hoo! Are you back here?”

Morgan glanced toward the doorway.

“Get up. Let’s go,” Hope said, sashaying into the room. “I’m not accepting no for an answer. Get up right now.”

Hope didn’t have to ask twice. Fifteen minutes to freshen up and Morgan was kissing her husband good-bye.

“Baby, I’m leaving with Hope. I’ll call you later.”

“Give Brooks my blessings. Let her know I voted for her,” he said. “Thanks, Hope.” Magnum resumed watching the news.

Funny how the people that loved her, truly loved her. Morgan would never allow sex to destroy her marriage or friendships again.

“Girl, let’s go,” Hope said, tugging her along. “We can miss the final results.” Revving up her engine, Hope ripped out of the driveway.

“Why did you come to get me?” Morgan asked.

“Because when one friend drops the ball, another friend, if they’re a true friend, doesn’t ask why. They don’t point to the problem. They don’t tell their friend what to do. They simply pick it up.”

Their ride to Brooks’s campaign headquarters was quiet. Morgan reflected on the past year. Breaking the silence, Morgan asked, “So did you give Bailey the footage?”

“No, I didn’t. Things fell apart. But everything is in divine order.”

“So you mean Brooks is beating him fair and square?” Morgan asked.

Hope nodded as she parked her car. “Let’s go.”

Hurrying inside, the room was filled with balloons inside of a net strapped to the ceiling. Wall-to-wall familiar and not-so-familiar faces filled the room. Eyes were glued to the big screen. The women from the Beverly Hills club were sprinkled throughout the crowd.

The moment seemed surreal for Morgan. She had actually orchestrated a plan that worked. Hope maneuvered their way to the front of the room. There was Brooks shaking hands and giving hugs.

Their eyes met. Morgan took the first steps to greet her best friend. She held Brooks tight. “I’m so sor—”

“Sssh,” Brooks whispered. “I love you, too.”

Side-by-side, the Rich Girls—Morgan Childs, Hope Andrews, Storm Dangerfield, and Brooks Kennedy—stood united. Morgan was thankful for each of her girls.

The room became quiet. Everyone listened for the final announcement.

“The governor-elect for the state of California is…” Morgan held her breath. The Rich Girls interlocked fingers. “…Brooks Kennedy!”

As Brooks stood behind the podium to speak to the press and the crowd, Morgan proudly stood one step behind her best friend.