Bad and Bougie (Feeling Some Type of Way Book 2)

by Vera Roberts

  “Geez, how much property does your family own, baby?”

  “Too many to name and care about,” Ian shrugs, “this is a special situation but I can’t get into details until after the transactions are complete. We’re almost done and hopefully I won’t have to worry about this ever again for the rest of my life.”

  “I guess your family wants to keep this for generational wealth?” I ask.

  Ian lets out a sigh. “That’s one reason.”

  The way Ian said it made me believe there were more reasons but after learning about some stuff I can’t un-learn, it was best I didn’t ask what he meant. I decided to turn it back to the most important subject – us. “I’ll miss you terribly.”

  “I’ll miss you more,” he kisses my temple, “but I’ll be back soon. Everyone knows how to reach me in case of emergency. And plus, this will give you a chance to meet Frank, my new assistant.”

  I’ve been so caught up in the whirlwind of the last several weeks, I totally forgot that Ian finally hired a new personal assistant. “Frank is short for Franklin?”

  “Yes,” he answers slowly, and chuckles at my jealousy, “He’s a great guy. I think you’ll appreciate him. He’s sharp, well-rounded, and he likes trap music.”

  I already love him. “Gay?”

  “Very much.”

  “Attracted to you?”

  “He’s very committed to his new husband,” Ian offers, “they just celebrated their six-month anniversary.”

  “Well, then,” I sat up and straddled my man’s waist, “we should celebrate your new hire.”

  Ian reached up and cupped my breasts. “You’re also getting a bodyguard.”

  The news doesn’t faze me. After the last encounter with Todd in New York, I think it’s a pretty brilliant idea. I never told Ian what happened because I didn’t want to add more fuel to whatever was going on. Still, the thoughts of the family feuding didn’t sit well with me. I have a feeling it’s far from finished. “What’s his name?”

  “Courtney,” Ian answers.

  “Courtney?” I reply. “That’s a pretty feminine name for a bodyguard. Is it a woman?”

  “Of course,” Ian smiles. “Remember when I told you I wasn’t misogynistic?”

  He has a point there. I guess the thought of me being alone with another muscular man was enough for Ian to say, ‘Ah, hayle nah…’ “When do I meet her?”

  “Tomorrow. She’ll accompany you on the flight. She reports directly to me. She’ll listen to you and be the second set of eyes. She’ll be the Kevin Costner to your Whitney Houston, without the love story.”

  My eyes crinkle just a tad. Okay, I know who Whitney is… “Who’s Kevin Costner?”

  Ian looks at me as if I have something growing out of my head and he’s trying to figure out how to kill it. “Have you ever seen The Bodyguard?”

  “No,” I shake my head, “is that a movie?”

  Ian narrows his eyes and sucks his teeth as if he’s trying to get the last of the popcorn kernel out. “Okay, you were born in ’94…” He murmurs as he shakes his head. “Remember when we watched Hidden Figures? He was the boss.”

  “Oh, okay!” I remember. I liked him. “And he did a movie with Whitney Houston?”

  “That’ll be another movie date.” He briefly sat up to kiss my tummy before helping me take my shirt off. “I’m going to be gone for six weeks and I have nothing but energy to burn all night. We’ll talk about movies when I get back…”

  Twelve

  Courtney may be a feminine name but my bodyguard looks like she could crack skulls with her thighs.

  Courtney Brown sounds like an unassuming name and for good reason. One would think she’s some sweet girl with mousy-brown hair, an even mousier demeanor, and probably watches The New Girl episodes on repeat on Netflix while simultaneously curating her #rad playlist.

  This Courtney Brown, however, looks like she could compete with Brie of Tarth for most badass femme fatale.

  She’s over six feet tall, has muscles pretty much everywhere, and has a fade better than any man’s. But her face is beat to the gods and she has the winged eyeliner just right. Her voice is strong, not deep, and her smile can bright up the darkest sky.

  Courtney is also trained in mixed-martial arts, knows how to fire at least ten different types of guns, and is a softie for boy bands, namely The Backstreet Boys. I’m more of a *NSYNC girl but hey, I can’t knock her for good music.

  We’re on a private plane heading to New York to shoot Dolce’s video and will be there for about two days before I head back. Ian already left for Europe this morning and ugh.boo.hiss, I almost wanted to cry when his plane taxied out before ours did. It didn’t help Sydney was also on the same plane but I guess they must travel together.

  I’m trying to control my jealousy at bay but it’s tough when your man is traveling with his “muse” that he once slept with. They’re both in committed relationships so I should be secure in that, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong! I know Ian would never hurt me but gosh, couldn’t Sydney get stuffy-ass Gerald to accompany her? That would make more sense.

  The good news in this is I have my partner-in-crime, Helen, traveling with me for the occasion so I’m not lonely. Emma is too busy setting up her shop and Adrienne is too busy playing housewife to come, so I brought one of my best gals with me. This is going to be an entertaining trip.

  “Girl, you are a better woman than me,” Helen begins as she flips through a magazine, “sending your man on a private jet around the world with a woman he once fucked? Man, you deserve sainthood for that!”

  “I trust Ian.” Do I? To an extent, I’ll shamefully admit. I don’t trust him as much as I would like to or need to, for that matter. I’m working on it. “And he wouldn’t ruin our relationship over some ass now.”

  “It’s not some ass,” Helen mentions, “it’s ass he’s had before. He already knows how she feels like.”

  “Okay, bitch, are you trying to make me feel bad?” I ask.

  Helen shakes her head and puts away her magazine. “I just want to see where your head is, that’s all. If you need advice, just let me know.”

  “Advice?” I ask and now the questioning makes more sense. Helen and Noah have been together for a while but I guess they have an understanding? “Does Noah cheat on you?”

  “Honey, all athletes do!” Helen dismisses the revelation like it’s nothing. Yeah, because out-of-wedlock children and STI’s are just so damn common in all relationships, you know? “All wealthy men do. I’m merely asking if you’re okay that Ian might.”

  “We’ve established the no infidelity rule already.” I state to her.

  “That’s cute!” Helen smiles.

  “No, it’s in writing,” I reply, “we legitimately have a no-infidelity clause in our prenup prenup.”

  “Your what what?”

  I softly shake my head and wonder if this is a conversation I’m seriously entertaining at thirty thousand feet in the air. “Ian and I are having some sort of contract that establishes what’s going to happen during the course of our relationship. I’m getting a monthly allowance and there are some rules that both of us need to abide by. Our lawyers are currently looking it over.”

  “You have your own lawyer that’s separate from his, right?”

  “Of course I do, I’m not stupid!” I stick my tongue out and she laughs. “No, but it’s something we both need, I guess. I’m not going to argue with it because I’m not quite sure if I completely understand why the hell we need one but I won’t be against it.”

  “Good for you!” Helen nods as if she cheers me like a person on the sidelines when they watch the runners past them in a marathon. “I personally couldn’t do that.”

  “Prenup?”

  “What’s the point? He’s going to do whatever he wants, anyway.” Helen shrugs. “I might as well have everything of his.”

  It’s really none of my business but Helen’s been dropping hints left and right. “Are there problems
between you and Noah?”

  “Us? Oh, hell, no!” She vehemently shakes her head. “He ain’t gon’ anywhere. I’m rehearsing for an upcoming reality show I might star in.”

  I can already see Helen flipping over tables, wagging her finger, and have every other word bleeped out. “What show is this?”

  “Real Housewives of San Francisco,” she beams, “I think I might be a good fit!”

  “They’re making a San Francisco version?” How many damn Real Housewives shows does one need and watch? “What’s so interesting about that?”

  “Nothing really but it’s just an idea. If I can’t get on or the show doesn’t pan out, me and Noah are going to shop for our own show.” She smiles. “We’re both excited about it!”

  A reality show? I can’t imagine having cameras everywhere 24/7. I know the Kardashians and other celebrities do it all of the time, but man, how does one separate real from fiction? At what point do you wake up one morning and decide you don’t want everything documented? “Why?” I’m oddly curious. “Don’t you two value your privacy?”

  “Of course we do! The cameras won’t be allowed in our bedroom, but everything else is up for grabs!” Helen replies. “Besides, it’ll be nice for everyone to see how it’s really like being with an athlete behind the scenes.”

  Oddly enough, I understand Ian’s intensely private persona. He’ll show off his cars – an Aston Martin, Jaguar, and Mercedes in addition to the favored Bentley – and post pics he took with celebrities. But in terms of us, he barely mentions us.

  Not that I want him to start mentioning me, by the way. After he tagged me in the now-infamous Bentley photo, my likes went from twenty thousand to just a little under eighty. Yes, eighty thousand people want to know why I’m taking pictures of my food.

  While we’ve been seen together, neither of us ever confirmed our relationship other than linking our private Facebook accounts together. And honestly, I don’t think we actually need to do more than that. I like the privacy we have. It makes our relationship that much more special and intimate.

  I casually flip through his IG and find a new favorite photo of his – a candid of him and Gerald during a family gathering. They were at the family compound and were laughing about how competitive they are with each other in sports, sharing old stories on how Ian couldn’t shoot a basketball if his life depended on it. Ian’s smile was big and wide, showing all of his teeth as Gerald laughed with him.

  I caught them in the rare moment and snapped the photo on Emma’s super expensive Fiji camera. Days later, Ian posted the photo because he liked it so much. “You have a real eye for capturing the right moment, Domi,” Ian said to me.

  The memory fades into the background as I flip through more photos. It was a family gathering and it was the first time I was at the Ferguson estate in Pasadena. Spread over five acres with an Olympic-sized pool, two guest homes, a mansion that contains six bedrooms, and seven bathrooms, two full-sized kitchens, and the biggest damn front and back yards I’ve ever seen, Ian treated me like I’d always belonged there.

  We weren’t even a couple yet – we barely just met a month prior – and he already invited me to his family’s home. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but now I can say it was probably the start of something – he wanted to see how I was around his family before he introduced me to more of his world.

  Bae could be a sneaky thing when he wants to be.

  “So, what’s up with you and Michelle?” Helen asks.

  Helen’s question jars me out of my Ian daze and I turn to her. “Me and Michelle?” I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

  “She told me you two were beefing and I wanted to get your take on it.” Not-so coincidentally, Helen sips her Earl Grey tea.

  The news of me and Michelle beefing is news to me. “What beef? I haven’t spoken to her since the wedding!”

  “She mentioned something about some sort of encounter you had with a family friend and that’s why she’s not talking to you.”

  “Hmm…” I pull out my phone again and pretend to scroll through my calendar. “I’m trying to remember if I put it on the calendar to care about that irrelevancy or not?”

  “No, for real, Sister!” Helen playfully chides me. “What happened?”

  “I have no clue! I have no idea what she’s talking about!” I’m more disturbed that Michelle didn’t come to me about any problems and we could’ve worked this out like woman-to-woman.

  “She mentioned you made a move on one of their friends while you were in New York. She did say she hasn’t had a chance to talk to you about it yet but she’s going to.”

  The revelation jolts me back into reality. Everything is clear and makes perfect sense. Todd.

  It also makes sense why Michelle wanted me to stay as far away from Ian as much as possible. I thought she was just looking out for my best interest but her warnings had another agenda – she personally knew about what happened with Matt and how his downfall was linked to the Fergusons.

  Lifestyles of the rich and heinous.

  So, of course, Todd probably told Diana what happened – or at least what he wished what happened – who then in turn, told every single one of her socialite friends, including Michelle’s mother, who couldn’t wait to spill it all to Michelle.

  Unbelievable.

  “So, what’s the tea, Sister?” Helen asks. “Did anything happen between you two?”

  “Todd made a move on me, I turned him down, and he proceeded to kiss me. He didn’t go further because one of Ian’s friends saw what happened and rescued me.” I explained. “I do not want that man when I have one of my own.”

  “I told Michelle that’s what I thought what happened but she didn’t want to listen to me.” Helen shrugged. “Why in the hell would you want that pair of old balls anyway when you have a Ferguson?”

  “That’s what I’m saying!” I shake my head. I thought Michelle and I were cool but I guess not.

  I don’t know what makes me angrier: the fact Todd lied, Michelle instantly believed pulled back plastic gossip, or the fact I didn’t tell Ian when it all happened. Had I told Ian, Todd wouldn’t have dared to spread that false rumor.

  Oooh, I’m so angry but I don’t have time. I’m about to shoot Dolce’s video and I need to be focused on that instead.

  I’ll deal with Todd later.

  ~~~~

  “Are you ready, Sister?” The director, Bobby Whalen, asks me.

  I’m wearing a black bikini with matching thong. My heels are black Fendis with mini mink fur pom-poms attached to them. I’m actually anti-fur but the stylist chose these heels and I have to say, they do look rather cute on me.

  My hair is wet look with a skin-tight long ebony wig on me. My makeup is a natural as possible with nudes, in case I do get close-ups.

  I had to study Dolce’s “Muse” song all last week so I could mouth it just right. We’re going to do as many takes as possible from different angles and setting and boy, I just hope I don’t fall on my ass. That’ll be hella embarrassing.

  That being said, I’m ready for my close-up. “Let’s do this!” I smile.

  The music starts and I begin slowly dragging my feet. I grab the pole and softly squat down, giving the camera a fistful of my ass before I drag myself back up and twirl around, facing the camera. I slowly climb onto the pole, twirling around, and spread my legs just a bit, but not obscene.

  I flip myself upside down and hang onto the pole as I stare into the camera. I smile and mouth the lyrics, ‘I’m the realest nigga you’ll ever meet’ before I grab onto my left leg, hold it against my face and do an inverted split while I twirl around the pole.

  I grab both legs and slowly twirl around the pole, my body being the only thing holding me. My legs are wide open and all of me is shown to everyone, yet I don’t feel embarrassed by it. Instead, I feel empowered and sexy.

  I slide down and gyrate against the pole. My gyrations aren’t not very pronounced and they don’t need to b
e. I’m giving enough sexy to show I mean business but not too much where one would think I’m advertising my rates.

  I climb back onto the pole and flip myself upside down. I spread my legs and hold them steady against the pole, becoming one with it, and do the splits. I hear the collective gasps coming from everyone watching. It’s a new move I’ve worked on all week and it took me forever to perfect it. I’m glad my hard work didn’t go to waste.

  I adjust myself so I’m hanging upside and I slowly slide back down the pole. My legs are open and straightened, doing soft bicycle kicks. It’s a move I learned from many other pole dancers, the art of seduction.

  The biggest difference between pole dancers and strippers, other than the obvious, is that pole dancers primarily use their legs as attention grabs. Once I know you’re paying attention to what my legs are doing, you really don’t care about anything else; you just want to see what other move I’m going to do with the girls. I feel every man’s attention on me and I know I got him hook, line, and sinker.

  I lift myself back to a horizontal position and twirl around the pole until I land on the ground. From there, I do a fetal position that rolls into a split, head-first. I wink into the camera and lick my lips as the song finishes. I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and a bit nervous. I hope the dance wasn’t too sexy for TV, but I also hope it wouldn’t be too obscene for Ian. I just hope he likes it.

  “Well…” An assistant helps me up and I walk over to Bobby, who’s looking like he’d just seen God. “What do you think?”

  “Love God Herself,” he starts clapping and everyone joins in. I’m so embarrassed but also feeling good that the first take was a success. Now I have to do this a few more times and we’re done.

  Let’s hope I knock the other times out of the park the same.

  ~~~~~

  “How’s my angel, doing?”

  FaceTime is such a wonderful invention. Hearing Ian over the phone is one thing but to see him talk to me is another. Gosh, can he get more beautiful even though he’s like, three thousand miles away?