Power Couple (9 page)

CHAPTER 13

W
hen Maverick asked me to join him for a lavish, multi-course dinner at an Italian restaurant with a few of his cronies from the network, I had no idea I'd be sitting through a four-hour meal listening to endless talk about football. Kevin Berenbaum, one of the head honchos at Maverick's network, along with his lawyer and his management team, were trying to woo him into signing an exclusive deal that would lock him in for the next ten years. They wanted him to venture into covering other sports such as tennis, soccer, and golf, and to continue covering football.

Maverick didn't know shit about any sport other than football and basketball, but the execs didn't care; he was their golden boy. They figured that charismatic, handsome, and well-spoken Maverick could succeed at anything. Kevin offered him a salary that made my eyes nearly pop out of my head, but Maverick balked at the idea of taking on more responsibility.

“You guys are forgetting about my impending film career,” Maverick said. “My agent is in the midst of working a deal to get me the main part in an action flick. I've always wanted to be a superhero,” Maverick added with laughter, giving the impression that he wasn't serious about taking the role, but I was well aware that he had his heart set on being a film star.

It didn't matter that he couldn't act a lick…he simply wanted to
put on a stupid costume and show off his muscles as he performed amazing feats on the big screen.

“You don't want to get involved with Hollywood,” Kevin offered with a sage expression. “The film industry is a fickle business. One day you're the toast of Hollywood, walking red carpets and hobnobbing with A-listers, then the next thing you're on the D list and nobody will give you the time of day. You have a great career with us, Mav. An investigative journalist won't be taken seriously if he's dancing around like a fairy in tights and a cape. I'd hate to see you throw away a lifetime career to hobnob with those phonies in Tinseltown.”

“Yeah, but—”

Kevin cut Maverick off with the wave of his hand. “We plan to send you to Pamplona, Spain to not only cover the big sporting event but to also participate,” Kevin said, pouring Maverick a glass of expensive tequila.

“What's in Pamplona, Spain…soccer? I hate that boring-ass sport. Nah, I'm not feeling it, Kevin, man. Soccer puts me to sleep.”

“It's not soccer. We want to send you to Spain to run with the bulls. Strapped with a mic pack, you'll cover the story in an exciting, interactive way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll report the event while running with the bulls.”

“The hell if I will! I'm not running with any goddamn bulls. That's not even a real sport. What makes you think I'd do something that stupid, and risk getting gouged in the balls?”

At that point, one of Kevin's flunkies put a glass of red wine in front of Maverick, trying to improve his mood and loosen him up. He offered me a glass as well, but I shook my head. The strong tequila was enough for me.

Our final course arrived, and I must say, I was very impressed
with the way the chef had prepared a vegetarian version of every course that had been served for Maverick and me.

But Maverick, totally intoxicated, seemed more impressed with the two magnums of 2009 Bond Estates St Eden Napa Valley Red, and two bottles of 1942 Don Julio tequila that the network had spent a whopping $2,500 on.

Before the evening concluded, Maverick and Kevin were laughing together and shaking hands. “We have a deal, man,” Maverick slurred as he drunkenly pumped Kevin's hand up and down.

A good wife would have intervened on behalf of her intoxicated husband and told him to wait and discuss such an important matter with his agent. But I didn't want my husband gallivanting around Hollywood with A-listers. I didn't want to risk him being cast opposite a megastar like Angelina Jolie or Halle Berry. I understood New York celebrities and knew how to deal with them, but those Hollywood hoes were a totally different breed. They didn't abide by any established rules. They'd claim your man as soon as they shot a love scene with him. Then before you knew it, he'd hit you with divorce papers and marry his costar-side bitch. She'd tie him down for life by adopting a bunch of foreign kids and then get knocked up with triplets. Your man would end up with eight or nine kids—all at the same time.

No, honey. Maverick did not need to be making any new friends in Hollywood.

Kevin's lawyer pushed papers in front of Maverick and with my encouragement, my inebriated husband signed his name, unwittingly agreeing to forget about becoming a film star, and staying his ass at the TV station in New York.

When we exited the restaurant, a horde of paparazzi were swarming outside the venue. Obviously, someone had tipped them off as to where Maverick and I were dining.

Having gotten what he wanted, Kevin Berenbaum didn't hang around. He dashed inside his waiting limo with his lawyer. His management team scattered in different directions, leaving me alone to guide my staggering husband to our car. The short walk to the car seemed like a long distance while in the midst of being hounded by the media with their ridiculous questions and asinine comments.

One photographer remarked, “Looks like you had too much booze, Maverick. Are you dealing with alcohol issues?”

Before I could formulate a sarcastic reply in my head, another photographer asked, “Are you planning on checking into rehab, Maverick?”

Maverick muttered something unintelligible, exposing himself to be as drunk as a damn skunk. Infuriated, I clutched Maverick's arm possessively and spoke for him. “My husband does not have a drinking problem. We were out celebrating a special life event and he overindulged. But what man wouldn't allow himself to have a good time after discovering he has fathered a son?” I flashed a victorious smile.

The uproar from the paparazzi was deafening as they asked a million more questions. “Are you pregnant, Cori? It's been reported that you're using a surrogate; is that true?”

“I don't have anything else to say at this time, but my husband and I will make an official statement after he sleeps it off.” I laughed gaily and allowed the photographers to take a few more pictures of me as the driver helped Maverick into the car. “What I can say is that my husband and I have wanted a child for a very long time, and we're particularly happy that we're having a boy—a son to carry on the Brown last name as well as his father's sports legacy.”

In the backseat of the car, Maverick was already snoozing. And that was fine with me. With Maverick dead to the word, I had an opportunity to call my assistant and speak openly.

Ellie picked up on the first ring. “How'd it go?” she asked.

“Perfect. The tip you gave the paparazzi worked out better than I imagined. The media will probably run with the Mavcor baby story in less than an hour, and my darling husband will wake up in the morning to the amazing news that he's going to be a father.”

• • •

Hung over and grouchy, Maverick was taking longer than usual to get dressed for work. Luckily, I didn't have to film today and was looking forward to lounging around and having the apartment to myself. But the way he was slow-poking around and bothering me with a bunch of questions, was beginning to steal my joy.

Seeming not to know his ass from a hole in the ground, he kept asking me one question after another. First, he wanted to know if I'd seen his newest watch, a TAG Heuer Aquaracer.

“You left it on the hall table,” I told him.

Then he asked me to make him a cup of coffee.

Damn!
I got up and plodded to the kitchen. I wasn't his goddamn personal maid, and it felt like he was taking full advantage of the fact that I had the day off, trying to work me like a mule.

My network was trying something new this season. They were taking the kids on a field trip to Harlem, where they'd be filmed cooking in various home kitchens of the local residents. Having the kids compete outside of the normal environment at the studio and in unfamiliar houses seemed like a disastrous undertaking to me, but Josh thought it would give the show an intriguing new twist.

Josh had tried to get me involved in the bullshit, but I refused, and when he attempted to throw his weight around and insisted I join the cast and crew, I lost my temper and cursed him out. I wasn't about to sit up in some funky kitchen shooting the breeze and swapping recipes with some ol' bitch who probably cooked with old chicken grease she kept stored in a coffee can next to the stove.

After my tantrum, Josh saw things my way. With the magic of television, I didn't have to step foot into one kitchen in Harlem. I would be filmed later, sampling replicas of the food, prepared by our in-house chefs. And by plugging in voice-overs, it would seem as if I had appeared in the same segments as the contestants.

“Cori, my head is killing me and my stomach is upset,” Maverick called out from his private bathroom.

“Take an aspirin or something.” I was back in bed, propped up with luxurious pillows and secretly reading what the bloggers had to say about our pregnancy, and I didn't want to be disturbed anymore.

“I checked the medicine cabinet, but I don't see any in here.”

Grudgingly, I got out of bed, again. I checked the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and tossed it to him. I whirled around to leave, but Maverick struck up a conversation, holding me captive.

“I can't believe Kevin went out of his way to keep me at the network for the next ten years. Hell, for the kind of money he offered, he didn't need to get me drunk with expensive wine and tequila.” Maverick chuckled and fixed his lips in a crooked smile that I detested. He only smiled like that when he was feeling cocky and full of himself.

“Kevin's a smart man. He came out of pocket to keep that Hollywood producer from stealing you.”

“As badly as I wanted to play a superhero, I'm not foolish enough to turn down millions of dollars to appease my ego. But then again, maybe I should have squeezed an extra ten million out of Kevin. After all the blood, sweat, and tears I left on the football field—”

The blare of my cell phone cut him off, thank God. Any minute, he was going to start quoting his football stats. Happy to escape having to stand there and watch Maverick slap aftershave on his face while he bragged about his former career, I hurried out of
his bathroom and went to retrieve my phone from the nightstand.

Expecting it to be Ellie, I was surprised to discover it was the concierge of our building calling.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brown,” the concierge said. “A package has arrived for Mr. Brown. It was hand delivered. I'd bring it up personally, but I'm unable to leave the front desk at the moment. If you'd like, I can bring it up when I get a break. Or I can put it aside until either you or Mr. Brown comes downstairs.”

“Is the package light enough for me to carry?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then, I'll be right down to pick it up.” My curiosity had gotten the best of me and I wanted to see what was in the package. I hoped that bitch, Katya didn't have the gall to send my husband a present. It was bad enough that they'd started seeing each other on a regular basis. Since I booked the hotels where they rendezvoused, I was well aware of their numerous hookups.

Wearing a plush robe and slippers, I dashed to the elevator and rode down to the lobby. When the doors opened, the concierge was standing there and handed me the package. During the ride back up, I ripped open the stylish wrapping and was impressed by the beautiful wooden box of Cohiba Luxury Selection Cigars.

I didn't know much about cigars, but I'd heard that a box of Cohibas cost around $4,000, and I doubted if Katya would spend that kind of money on a gift for a trick.

Beyond curious, I open the enclosed card and smiled with relief when I read:
Congrats, I know you're going to be a great father. Best
Wishes, Kevin Berenbaum.
I doubted if Kevin had personally written the note, but it was a classy gesture.

In my head, I went over the pregnancy story I planned to tell Maverick, but as I exited the elevator, I was startled to find him standing outside our apartment, wearing only his briefs. I froze and
briefly pondered the situation. I thought about stashing the cigars under my robe to buy myself more time, but the box was too big to conceal.

“Why'd you run out the apartment without saying anything? I didn't know what happened. I thought you'd been kidnapped or something.” Maverick searched my face, waiting for me to explain why I'd suddenly gone down to the lobby in a bathrobe.

He ushered me inside the apartment and then noticed the package. “What's that?”

Caught like a motherfucker, there was nothing I could do except hand him the box. “It's a gift from Kevin.”

“I signed the contract, so why's he still kissing my ass? Damn, I should have held out for more money.” Maverick gazed at the insignia on the outside of the luxurious box and whistled. “Cohiba cigars—Luxury Selection! These are the shit!” He opened the box and ran a finger over the collection of luxury cigars. After perusing the gift card, he looked up at me, confused. “Kevin's congratulating me on becoming a father. What's that about?” Maverick handed me the card and I scanned it, pretending to be reading the message for the first time.

“It's all over the Internet, honey.”

“What is?”

“The news that we're going to be parents.”

“Don't tell me you went behind my back after I told you I wasn't feeling that in-vitro bullshit?”

Fast on my feet, I began blurting out the story that I'd come up with. “I didn't have a choice, Mav. That hooker, Sophia was pissed that you bit up her thighs. She said the condom broke and you gave her an STD and—”

“That's a lie! The condom didn't break, and I don't have any STDs.”