Millionaire Wives Club (11 page)

Jabril sighed as he stood in the doorway and watched his mother act as if she were losing her mind. “You know I hate to see you cry, Ma.”

“What did I tell you to do?!”

“But you bring this on yourself. Why do you keep playing
yourself for these dudes? Screw him. So what if he has money if at the end of the day you feel like shit.”

“Mind your business, Jabril,” she said sternly as she wiped her tears again. “And don’t cuss at me.”

“Listen, you can put me on punishment, tell me to get out, whatever, it doesn’t even matter, but you need to turn some of that anger on yourself, word up. ’Cause you acting like you don’t even like you. This cat don’t even speak to me. He don’t even like me—”

“No, you don’t like him. Either you don’t want to be bothered or you’re in his face about some nonsense.”

“Yo, I’m not chillin’ with no dude that treats you like a jump-off! You can tolerate that, ’cause I ain’t. And when I see you ain’t handling him, you right I’ma be in his face!”

“I’m grown!” She stood to her feet.

“Being grown ain’t good enough if this is how you’re actin’!”

“Who are you talking to like that?!” was all Jaise could think to say. This was the last thing she had expected. “Don’t get slapped. I’m your mother.”

“Then be my mother! Allow me to stop dealing with your issues so I can chill out and be your kid!” He stormed out of the room, flew up the stairs, and slammed the door of his room behind him.

Jaise sat down and sipped her drink. What Jabril didn’t know or at least what life had not allowed him to experience yet is what it really meant to be broke—and broken—and humbled—and humiliated for love, and companionship, and lust. He didn’t know how it felt to be on a new love high, with the perfect man, doing what you considered to be perfect things, only to see it start crumbling before your eyes.

Jabril didn’t understand what it was to say to yourself and to everyone in your circle that you were done with foolishness and that you had learned so much from your first marriage, that the changes you had gone through were over. There was no way you’d
ever be that desperate, or weak, or confused again; and you really believed this was the new mantra for your life.

So you dated and you met a man who did not spot the invisible suitcase sitting on your shoulder with the travel tags that read
USED, ABUSED, MISHANDLED
, and
UNDER THE SURFACE FRAGILE
.

This man was someone you thought was perfect and kind and wonderful. So you ignored his comments about not wanting any children. Hell, you already had one, and you ignored the fact that the guy didn’t talk to your son. You knew plenty of women who separated their man and their children. It was your new normal. Your new rose-colored glasses.

And you believed it when he said you shouldn’t be called a couple, because he didn’t want the weight of a title. Certainly you could understand the reason that you should
act
together, but not really
be
together.

This also excused him for the times that other women called him and the days you didn’t hear from him, because technically you weren’t together. So again you accepted it, and the suitcase on your shoulder started to weigh down your neck, placing a choke hold on you.

More things happened. He cussed you, disrespected you, and it wasn’t that he didn’t like children; he just didn’t like your son. You revealed too many of your secrets and had shown him the contents of your emotional luggage too soon, because now he used it against you and said he couldn’t marry someone with so much unchecked shit. And you dealt with it because of course he was Mr. Right, right?

You became appreciative of his random acts of kindness. When he made love to you it was no longer a mutual thing; it was a favor, something he didn’t have to do for you. And all the while the suitcase was steadily getting heavier and weighing down your chest, pressing on your knees, until one day you couldn’t move, because you were shackled to a callaloo of old and new bullshit topped off with whatever slop he offered you.

Until today, and now you had no choice but to face his slapping you in the face. You hate that Jabril has been a witness to your being reduced to nothing, but this has suddenly become a matter of life or death. If you stay with Trenton you will be smothered and sucked lifeless, and if you leave you will be sore, open, packed with fresh wounds, but you will be alive, and you will survive. At least you hope so.

Jaise wiped the tears racing down her face and rose from the couch. She walked upstairs to Jabril’s room and stood in front of the closed door. For a moment she felt like this was his house and not hers.

“Jabril.” She cracked the door open, but he didn’t answer. “Bril.” She pushed the door open wider and found him with earphones on, nodding his head and scribbling on a notepad. He didn’t notice she was in his room until she walked over to him and pushed the left earphone off of his ear and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Wondering why you in my room.”

“Alright now, calm down the mannishness.”

“Wassup, Ma?”

“Look, I’m not perfect, right.”

“Right.”

“That was a statement.”

“Oh, my fault.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, I’m trying to deal with issues that I have.”

“Just stop chasing this dude, Ma, and you’ll be straight.”

“How do you even know it’s about him? I could just be feeling this way.”

“Ma, the only time you bug out like this is because of Trenton. And I’m just fed up with you being in tears.”

“I know.”

“So what he do? He cheated on you?”

Jaise didn’t answer.

“That means yes. I hope you know he didn’t just start doing his thing.”

Jaise sat silently for a moment. Was it that obvious? “You stop worrying about me,” Jaise said. “You just make sure you know how to treat the girls, you understand? If you don’t like a female, leave her alone. Don’t lead her on, sleep with her, and make her think that one day you’ll be with her only. It’s better that she know the truth than believe a lie. Treat women like ladies. We like to be loved, taken care of, and appreciated. Remember that.”

“I know all of this, Ma.”

“Well, I’m just reminding you. You treat them the way you would want a man to treat me, understand?”

“Yeah, Ma, I got this. How you think I stay so popular with the honeys?”

Jaise laughed. “Boy, please. Now I’m going downstairs to pack up Trenton’s shit. The Salvation Army will be here in a few days.”

“Yeah right.” Jabril twisted his lips. “You won’t be giving his things away.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, Ma, if you believe it so do I,” he said as his phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said to Jaise, while pointing to the phone, “Brilly-Bril need to get this.”

“I can take a hint,” Jaise said as she walked to Jabril’s door. She watched him spit game on the phone before she walked out quietly.

A
fter a day spent taping frivolous conversations and pretending that she was buying real estate in the Fijis and a car that she never left the lot with, Chaunci needed a break. A nine-inch Zulu-warrior Mandingo-dingaling of a break.

There was no way she could contend with another night of not having her erotic soul rocked. She needed an orgasmic high like a weed head needed a joint. So she decided to take Edmon up on his standing invitation for her to use the keys he’d given her last year to his place.

Chaunci stepped out of a taxi, stiletto heels first. The rain splattered against the rhinestone ankle straps as she entered the lobby and sauntered up to the elevator to Edmon’s penthouse suite.

Quietly she crept into his minimally designed, Asian-themed space, where everything was immaculate and in its place. His bleached hardwood floors were so clean that you could eat off them.

Chaunci knew if she had her timing right Edmon would be in the shower, as he always was at the same time every night. He had a stringent routine—from his early five a.m. rise to his six a.m. run
through Central Park, his noon lunch, four p.m. workout, seven p.m. dinner with instrumental jazz in the background, his nightly chapter reading of a Baldwin classic, and then before he retired for the night his ten p.m. shower.

The only difference in his schedule tonight would be Chaunci joining him under the rain spout.

Careful not to scare him, Chaunci called his name. “Edmon.”

She could hear him sigh, a grateful sigh, but a sigh nonetheless. “You’re late,” he said as she watched his silhouette behind the frosted glass. “Three days and a wasted pair of front-row Sade and Hill St. Soul tickets late.”

Damn
, Chaunci thought, she’d forgotten about the concert. “Baby,” she said as he opened the shower door, “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Chaunci could tell by the look on his face that at the same time he loved and he hated her nonchalance. It drove him crazy.

Chaunci dropped her trench coat, with nothing underneath, to the floor and stepped into the shower. Immediately Edmon lifted her by her waist and pressed her back against the steamy flagstone. The way he sucked her nipples let her know that he missed them. She closed her eyes, and as Edmon entered her, Idris filled her mind. Imagining Idris made Edmon’s touches electric; actually it made his touches disappear and melt into a lovemaking memory where Idris knocked her creamy walls down as if he were fighting for his life or dying to make life, depending on how one looked at the river of cum they exchanged with each other. Prepared to call Idris’s name, Chaunci opened her eyes as Edmon gripped his massive hands into her back and whispered, “I love you.”

After they’d made love in the shower they lay in the bed and Chaunci said, excited, “Edmon, I finally got the Jay-Z and Beyoncé interview I’ve been wanting, and do you know I’ll be the first magazine to publish their wedding pictures?”

“Didn’t they get married a couple of years ago?” he said, unimpressed.

“About a year, give or take, but they don’t grant this type of interview.”

“Okay, baby, that’s nice. I’m glad you were able to play with that.”

Chaunci was taken aback. “Play with that? Do you remember how bad I wanted to do this interview?”

“Don’t insult me, of course I remember.”

“I’m not the one being insulting. But then again, why should I expect you to have any regard for what I’m doing—”

“To avoid a disagreement,” Edmon said, “let’s drop this and talk about something else?”

“No, whenever it comes to my magazine you always want to change the subject. Damn, everyone doesn’t want to own Viacom or have fifty percent of the stock in American Express. Believe it or not some people have other goals.”

“And I respect that. Otherwise I would not have given you the money to finance your magazine. Let’s not forget that.”

“I didn’t forget that, but apparently you were okay with investing money even though you think that
Nubian Diva
is frivolous.”

“I never said that. I just think that there are enough glamour, beauty, and how-to-braid-hair magazines. Black women need something else to do other than read another piece of paper, editorial, or whatever you wish to call it, on how to spend all your baby daddy’s money on designer brands instead of saving it for generations to come.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.
Nubian Diva
offers women a helluva lot more than designer digs. We discuss finance,” she said as if she were counting on her fingers, “men, children, things that matter to all women, not just materialism.”

“If you say so,” he said dismissively.

“Do you even read the magazine?”

“I glance through it.”

“Have you ever read anything I’ve written?” “I read the article you did on me.”

“I can’t believe that you would invest in something you don’t even care about.”

“Listen, you’re pushing me. I did it so that you could experience success. Okay, there I said it. Can we drop this now?”

“Wow,” Chaunci said more to herself than to Edmon, “I don’t believe this.”

“Why are you so sensitive? I really don’t want to argue, so have you made up your mind where you want to spend our honeymoon?”

“I’ve been so busy getting high off of success that I haven’t had the time to give it much thought,” Chaunci said as she twisted her chocolate diamond engagement ring around her finger.

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“What would possibly make you think that I would ever have second thoughts?” she said sarcastically. “Why, I like being your little lady.”

“You seemed pissed,” Edmon said. “Are you?”

“Not at all, I’m just reveling in our time together.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Chaunci simply turned her back and let her silence answer the question. She didn’t exactly know what the shit meant. All she knew was that she’d met Edmon when she was a struggling freelance writer, working part-time at a law firm, with a baby, no daddy, stacks of bills all over the place, and student loans doing a job on her credit rating. Nevertheless, she was determined to follow her dreams of writing full-time. While freelancing she was asked to write a story about Edmon Montehugh, the most eligible black man at the time.

She’d had a tough time landing the interview, but she knew if she nailed the story it would do wonders for her résumé, so after much persistence she nailed it and they clicked. The story was wonderful, but it was more than that, it was their chemistry. Edmon felt like a breath of fresh air. Finally Chaunci was able to speak to a man who didn’t complain about his ex-wife, children’s
mother or mothers, his life, the white man, or Mexicans taking all of the jobs away. He was intelligent, a gentleman, and he handled his business.

Chaunci took the chance and told him about her dreams to own a magazine, and within two weeks he had given her the money to make it happen. Then a month later he unexpectedly proposed and Chaunci instantly said yes.

An hour later when Chaunci turned back to Edmon, he was knocked out asleep with a coating of slob on the side of his mouth. Chaunci eased out of the bed, put her trench coat on, and carried her stilettos in her hand as she walked out of the apartment.