Power Couple (8 page)

“That's low, even for you, Josh. You'd actually do that to him while he's going through a personal crisis?”

“I'd do it with a smile,” Josh retorted. “Locking himself in his room and refusing to communicate is not going to resolve the issue. He's being childish, and he's costing the network a ton of money by holding up production.”

“Well, if you knew how to talk to people, maybe he'd cooperate.”

“I'm not kissing Ralphie's ass or anyone else's,” Josh spat. “It was on the tip of my tongue to tell that little twerp that all he had to do was cook one more meal and then he'd be free to pack his bags. But of course, I couldn't do that. Giving him a heads-up about his doomed fate would take away the element of surprise.”

I hated the fact that the producers and not the judges had the final say in who stayed and who got sent home. I could intervene every now and then, but Josh was so hell-bent on getting rid of Ralphie, it wasn't likely I could save the poor kid.

“I can get through to him, Josh. I know I can. But you're going to have to bend the rules a bit and allow him to video chat with his family. Is his mom conscious? Is she able to talk?”

“Hell if I know—or care,” Josh said irritably.

“I need you to arrange for him to Skype with his family.”

“Does that heathen family of his even have Internet access?”

Running out of patience with Josh, I sighed in exasperation. “Everyone has a cell phone these days. Your attitude toward Ralphie's family seems downright racist.”

“I'm sick of you pulling the race card, Cori. I'll have you know, my ex-boyfriend was black.”

“Loving black dick doesn't mean you're not racist,” I retorted.

“You can be such a vile person sometimes, Cori.”

“I call it like I see it.”

“Whatever,” he said sullenly.

Winning even a small battle with Josh filled me with satisfaction. “I'll be at the hotel as soon as possible,” I said and then hung up.

It warmed my heart to think of the high ratings we'd get for tonight's show, and it was entirely possible that I'd be nominated for an Emmy after the performance I planned to give.

CHAPTER 11

A
lthough the show was technically unscripted, there were writers on the payroll who crafted plot lines, twisting and tweaking footage to create conflict. But the writers had nothing to do with the important scene that was about to be filmed between Ralphie and me. It had been created from my own brilliant mind.

Looking sensational in a Balmain jacket and a black-and-gold-toned beaded mini skirt, I arrived at the hotel and rode the elevator to the tenth floor with the camera crew trailing behind me.

Holding an iPad, I knocked on the door. “Ralphie, it's Cori. Can I speak with you?”

“Unless you have a plane ticket for me, go away,” he responded harshly.

I frowned.

“Don't worry, that part will be edited out,” one of the camera guys assured me.

“I have wonderful news for you, Ralphie. Your mom is doing much better.”

He opened the door and I eased inside with the cameras closely behind.

“I hope you're telling the truth,” he said, his voice raspy and his eyes red from crying.

“I wouldn't lie about something as serious as your mom's health. But you can see for yourself.” I tapped the screen of the iPad and
a few moments later his foster family appeared. A group of roughnecks were gathered around his foster mother's hospital bed.

“Mama!” Ralphie cried out excitedly. “Mama, I was so worried. They told me you were in a diabetic coma.”

It was weird as hell hearing a white boy sounding exactly like a black person from the 'hood.

“I wasn't in a coma. I had a seizure, but I'm doing much better, baby,” the woman in the hospital bed answered. “What's this I hear about you leaving the competition?”

“I got upset when they wouldn't let me speak with you.”

“I wasn't in any shape to talk while the doctors were working on me, but as you can see, I'm doing fine. You don't have to worry about me; I have the whole family by my side. I want you to get back in that kitchen and burn! Cook the way yo' mama taught you. I want everybody in America talking about the way my boy throws down.”

“I will, Mama. I promise, I'm gonna make you proud. I'm gonna win this thing…for you!”

“Now, that's my baby boy!”

Ralphie sniffled and wiped away tears of joy. The love I witnessed between Ralphie and his foster mother was strong and sincere. I was genuinely touched and had to dab at a tear trickling from my eye.

After Ralphie finished chatting with other family members, he disconnected from Skype and gave me a hug.

“Thank you, Cori.”

“Ralphie, I've watched you put your heart on the plate in every cook-off since the beginning of this competition.”

“I try.”

“Tonight, I want to see you try even harder. You need to put both your heart and your soul on the plate.”

“I will. I promise.”

“No more talk about going home?” I asked with a lifted brow.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I was feeling emotional about my mama, but now that I know she's okay, I'm going to give two hundred percent.”

“You've got stiff competition, Ralphie. Getting to the top five isn't easy, but if you use all the knowledge your foster mother shared with you, I'm sure you'll get there. With your talent, you could make it to the top two!”

“You think?”

“I'm sure of it. Especially if you keep cooking the way you have so far.”

Ralphie brightened somewhat and I stared at him, angling my head in a way that ensured the camera would capture my best side. In a serious, melodramatic tone, I said, “But my belief in you won't mean a thing if you don't have faith in yourself.”

For added drama, I gripped his shoulders and gazed soulfully into his eyes. “Do you believe in yourself, Ralphie? Do you believe you can win this competition?”

He nodded. “I know I can. I'm not going anywhere, Cori. I'm gonna kick butt in that kitchen tonight!”

“That's the kind of confidence I like to hear,” I said and gave Ralphie a high-five.

I was proud of myself. Today, I'd done the writers' job for them. The footage of me comforting a distraught Ralphie and then convincing him of his greatness was an award-winning performance. I could feel the Emmy in my hand.

My job was done, and I gave the camera crew the thumbs-up, letting them know we had enough footage of my one-on-one with Ralphie. I would personally see to it that heads rolled if anyone dared to cut out even a millisecond of the segment of me successfully restoring Ralphie's faith in himself.

Although Josh was livid with Ralphie and wanted him gone, there had to be a way to convince him to keep the kid around a little longer. In my opinion, America would be quite entertained by Ralphie and his foster family.

Phone in hand and prepared to call Josh, I exited Ralphie's room. I was startled to see Michelangelo coming out of the room next door. He was wearing clingy briefs and my eyes inadvertently wandered down to his ample package, which couldn't be ignored. The man was fine as fuck. He was built like a damn gladiator and had the audacity to have the added bonus of a big dick. It didn't seem fair for one man to possess so many attributes.

Dressed in only his underwear, it was obvious he was slipping out of another contestant's room. I wondered whose bed he'd recently finished heating up. I thought about LaTasha, but quickly shook my head. She seemed a little too rough at the edges for a suave brother like Michelangelo. He was probably the kind of black man who only dealt with women outside of his race. He'd probably been running through all the white coochie on the show, as well as the Asian and Hispanic chicks. I reminded myself to get the tea from LaTasha since she seemed to know all the dirt on her fellow cast mates.

As Michelangelo swaggered toward me, I gave him a snide look. “Do you always roam the corridors in your underwear?”

“It's not the way it looks.”

“How is it?”

“My roommate was going through some sort of crisis. My man was flipping out, and so when Becca knocked on the door to find out about the commotion, I stepped outside the room to speak to her privately. That's when Ralphie locked me out. Becca was kind enough to let me chill in her room. Her roommate, LaTasha, didn't seem too thrilled about me being there, so I chilled in the suite
where the contestants mingle together. I was relieved when Josh called and said I was free to return to my room. Is Ralphie okay, now?”

I nodded and Michelangelo knocked on Ralphie's door.

I'd completely forgotten that Josh had said that Ralphie had locked his roommate out. Ralphie and Michelangelo was such an odd pair, I couldn't even picture them conversing, let alone rooming together.

As Michelangelo raised his fist to knock on the door again, Ralphie swung it open. “Sorry for acting like an ass,” Ralphie apologized.

“It's cool, man. Is everything okay on the home front?”

“Yeah, my mama's doing much better.”

I glanced at Michelangelo's tight butt as he entered the room, fanned my face, and then made my way toward the elevator. If contestants weren't off-limits, I would have found a way to sneak Michelangelo out the hotel and invite him out for drinks, simply for the opportunity to stare at him and drool.

CHAPTER 12

I
t was nerve-wracking having my husband on set. I found myself constantly worrying about his comfort level. Male diva that he was, I expected Maverick to drive everyone nuts with his over-the-top demands. But thanks to Azaria's constant flirting with him, he was content and on his best behavior. I wasn't the least bit worried about any hanky-panky between the two of them. Sure, my husband was going through a whore phase, but he didn't want any ol' whore—he was only interested in the rare type that enjoyed being bitten. Azaria didn't strike me as the type to let someone maul her.

While the contestants were filming individual confessionals, I used the downtime to hide out in my dressing room and make an important call to the fertility center. I was elated to find out that the transfer of my fertilized egg to Sophia's womb had gone well. Hopefully, I'd be able to personally thank her later tonight.

Coddling a bitch for nine long months didn't sit well with me, but I had to do what I had to do. After hanging up from the clinic, I got Sophia on the phone and asked how she was doing. She gave me a sarcastic laugh that I found annoying.

“Are you okay? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” I inquired with concern, despite the fact that she was pissing me off with her inappropriate laughter.

“No, nothing out of the ordinary happened. I simply did what I seem to be doing a lot lately.”

“I don't understand.” Sophia and her cryptic messages were starting to bug the shit out of me.

“Last night, I spread my legs for your pervert husband, and this morning I spread them for the doctor who inserted you guys' baby inside me. I'd say that all of it is out of the ordinary, don't you think?”

I flinched when she referred to Maverick as a pervert, but since she was successfully carrying our child, I figured I could overlook her attack on my husband's character. “So, everything went okay?” I asked, although I was already aware that the procedure had gone perfectly fine.

“As well as can be expected,” she said with a sigh. “The doctor wants me to stay off my feet for a couple weeks, but I can't take that kind of time off work. I have bills to pay.”

She was hinting for more money. I couldn't believe she had the gall to try and swindle me.

“You were paid a large sum up front and you'll get the remaining balance when the baby's born.”

“The money you paid me is being used as a down payment on a home. I didn't expect to be laid up for two weeks, but since that's what the doctor ordered for the safety of
your
child, I hoped to be compensated. But if you want to risk a miscarriage, then so be it.”

Sophia had seemed so sweet when I'd initially met her, but she was now showing her bitch colors. But I sucked it up. “I'll pay you two thousand dollars for the time you miss from work.”

She made a huffy sound as if she thought she deserved more money. Then she said, “The doctor was concerned about the bite marks on my inner thighs.”

Is this bitch trying to blackmail me?
“What did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything. But when he insisted on giving me a tetanus shot, I allowed it.”

“Could that be harmful to the baby?”

“No, he assured me the baby will be fine. But I'm not so sure if I'm okay.”

“I'm sure you'll survive a few little love bites.”

“Yeah, physically. But who knows the degree of emotional damage your husband has caused me?”

I pretended not to notice the threat that was clear in her voice. Sophia was a sneaky bitch, and I'd have to be mindful to stay several steps ahead of her until she delivered. After she popped the baby out, I planned to give her my entire ass to kiss.

• • •

There was a twist of the door handle followed by a sharp, authoritative knock.

I was tickled that Josh had tried to barge in, as usual, but was thwarted by the double locks on my dressing room door.
Ha, ha, bitch!

“Cori! I need you on set right now,” he yelled from the other side of the door.

I wasn't due to film for at least two hours. “Why?”

“Open the door so we can speak privately.” He sounded flustered.

Geez!
What has Maverick done?
I assumed someone had forgotten to stock my husband's dressing room with bottled rain water or perhaps he hadn't been provided with the exclusive brand of organic kale chips he'd requested. No doubt, Maverick was showing his ass, and Josh wanted me to calm him down. I sighed as I made a mental note to never, ever invite my spouse to my show again.

Reluctantly, I opened the door, and Josh charged in, red-faced and clearly agitated. He was clutching sheets of paper.

“What's wrong?”

“We have a situation with one of the kids.”

Thankful that Maverick wasn't acting up, I exhaled. “Don't tell me Ralphie is having another meltdown.”

“No, this time it's Michelangelo.”

“Really? He's usually so cool and calm. What's the problem?”

Josh shook his head grimly and took a seat in my pink cushioned chair that was reserved solely for me. I gave him a forbidding look that he chose to ignore. “Michelangelo had a mishap with a blender, and tomato sauce exploded all over his face and his clothes. The cameras didn't get the full incident, and we've asked him to do a retake, but he refuses. Says he's here to cook and not to play the role of a buffoon.”

“I can't blame Michelangelo for not wanting to reenact an unflattering scene.”

“I reminded him that he signed a contract stating that he'd follow the rules of the show, but he's threatening to walk out if we force him to make a fool of himself. Says he doesn't care if we sue him.”

“And you want me to try and convince the guy otherwise?”

Josh nodded. “Remind him of this highlighted part of his contract.” He handed me the papers and I perused them, shaking my head.

“Look, I already dealt with Ralphie this morning; I don't have the energy to put out any more fires. Don't you have people on payroll who're supposed to indulge the kids when they get huffy?”

“The contestants have tremendous respect for you, Cori. They want to
be
you. Now, use your influence and get Michelangelo to repeat the tomato sauce fiasco. Convince him that being covered in sauce is food art.”

“This is low, even for you, Josh.”

“It'll be good for ratings.”

“It'll be terrible for Michelangelo's credibility as a chef.”

“Who cares about his credibility?”

“He does!”

“Oh, fuck him! He's not that great of a chef.”

“I disagree.”

“Well, he's definitely not on the list to win the show.”

“Who is?”

Josh gave me a snide look. “I can't divulge the show's secrets with you.”

“Why not?”

“Look what happened to the Texas cheerleader after I told you she was a top contestant. You went over my head and got rid of her.”

“She deserved to go. Josh, I really wish there was more integrity on the show. The people you select can't cook and I resent them using my name to gain entry into the culinary field where I'm well respected.”

Josh looked at me pityingly. “What does it matter, Cori? No one cares about the winners of cooking competition shows after the first few weeks. Their cookbooks don't sell. They blow through their prize money on restaurants that have no clientele, and then they go back to oblivion, where they came from.”

“Well, I'd like my winners to become household names—even if that means mentoring them personally. Don't you think it would make good press if we did some follow-up on the winners?”

Frustrated, Josh let out a groan. “Can we discuss this at a more convenient time? Right now we have a camera crew waiting to shoot a red sauce explosion.”

“So, you want me to convince a self-respecting young man to make a fool of himself for ratings? You're asking me to help you ruin the image of someone who doesn't stand a chance of winning, despite his incredible culinary skills?” I shook my head. “I don't know how you sleep at night.”

“You won't feel that way when you win your first Emmy.”

After speaking the magic word,
Emmy,
Josh rose from my pink chair, looking confident that I'd do his bidding. I wanted to smack the smug look off his face. But picturing an Emmy in my hand, I followed him out of my dressing room.

I approached a tomato-sauce-covered Michelangelo, who stood seething inside his workstation. All the other contestants had been hustled off set and were sequestered behind the scenes.

Michelangelo had wiped the messy sauce from his face, but his apron and clothes were dripping red sauce. “Mike,” I said, taking the liberty of shortening his long, pretentious name. “I understand why you feel that reenacting your blender disaster would be demeaning, but I see it as an opportunity for you to stand out from the rest of the pack.”

“I refuse to be filmed, looking like a bumbling idiot,” he said firmly.

I glanced down at the papers in my hand. “If you recall, when you agreed to appear on the show, you signed a strict contract that gave away all rights to how you'd be represented on the show.”

“I didn't think the producers would deliberately try to make me look like a fool.”

“This is what you agreed to,” I said, and then read the highlighted paragraph aloud.
“The rights granted to Producer also include, but are not limited to, the rights to edit, cut, rearrange, adapt, dub, revise, modify, fictionalize, or otherwise alter the Material, and I waive the exercise of any ‘moral rights.' I understand that my appearance, depiction, and portrayal in connection with the series may be disparaging, defamatory, embarrassing, or of an otherwise unfavorable nature, may expose me to public ridicule, humiliation, or condemnation, and may portray me in a false light.”

“I was so excited about being on the show, I barely read the contract.”

“I hate to say it, but ignorance is not an excuse. Listen, it's your call. You can quit and the network will sue you. You'll be throwing away any chance of getting on the fast track of becoming a celebrated chef. But if you're smart, you'll embrace your blunder.”

“How do I embrace an embarrassing tomato sauce explosion?”

“I don't know. Use your assets. You're a good-looking guy, so do something sexy. Lick the sauce off your fingers and say something clever. Listen, you have a real shot at winning this thing, Mike. Don't quit.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” I assured him with an earnest expression.

“I trust you, Cori. So, all right, I'll do it,” he conceded.

There was no time for Michelangelo to whip up another batch of homemade tomato sauce for the retake, and so he was instructed to pour a jar of Ragu into his blender. The cameramen moved in close, and I backed far, far away when he loosened the top of the blender and turned it on, full-speed.

“Oh, crap,” he exploded as he was splattered with tomato sauce. Then he broke into a grin and swiped his face. He licked his finger and uttered, “Mmm, my sauce is too tasty to waste!”

“And…cut,” the director yelled, and the crew applauded.

“Mark my word, that expression is going to trend on the day this show airs,” Josh said with a big smile. “Hashtag,
My sauce is too tasty to waste
is going to take over social media.”

Once again, I'd saved the day. I passed Maverick in the corridor as I made my way back to my dressing room. He grasped my wrist and whispered in my ear, “I used an alias and contacted Chasity Martin Escort service. They assured me that Katya is available tonight. I booked an appointment with her. Are you cool with that?”

“I suppose,” I said reluctantly. “But not at our apartment, Mav.”

“Not a problem. I already set it up to meet her at a hotel.”

“Okay.”

“You're the best, baby,” he exclaimed, pulling me toward him and planting a big, sloppy kiss on my lips.

Onlookers gawked at us with admiration and uttered, “Aw, what a cute couple.”

They had no idea that my husband was showing appreciation for the fact that I'd given him permission to fuck a bitch outside of our so-called perfect marriage.”

Somehow, I had played myself and had ended up in an open marriage. A wide-open marriage! But I was determined to slam that door shut once I had our baby in my arms.