Money Never Sleeps

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  “And I don’t need drama, honey.” Chaunci shook her head. “So to hell with her.”

  “I’m going to give her a chance,” Jaise said. “She might turn out to be okay.”

  “Oh, puhlease.” Milan rolled her eyes. “You are so damn phony.”

  “I’m not phony.” Jaise looked Milan over. “I just don’t judge people.”

  “What?” Milan said, shocked. “You’ve been judging me since the day we met. And besides, your nonjudgmental ass is the one who called me to make amends and then in the same breath said we didn’t need to film with Al-Taniesha. That it wouldn’t be a good look.”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t!” Al-Taniesha spat. “That’s why I haven’t had any camera time today? I was wondering why no one showed up to my crib!”

  “I never said that,” Jaise insisted.

  “Oh, yeah, you did.” Milan frowned.

  “Look,” Jaise said. “What I am saying is this: I believe in giving people a chance, but if she’s hot trash, we sell her out to the tabloids.”

  “Well,” Chaunci said. “I’ll say this. If the bitch wasn’t coming, she could’ve sent a message to let us know!”

  “Excuse me,” said a woman. She had flawless mahogany-colored skin and exquisite makeup done to Cover Girl perfection. She held marble-black, bumblebee Chanels in one hand and a platinum clutch in the other. She batted her mink lashes and spoke with perfect diction. “Obviously, the gossiping whores were too busy being pimped by made-up bullshit to realize that this bitch arrived two hours ago.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulders and looked them over.

  They all paused and sized her up. She had perfect size-eighteen hips, perky round breasts, and presence that spoke volumes, and she was dressed like a million dollars. Her glove-fitted black knee-length Yves Saint Laurent dress was from a private collection, and her four-inch platinum-colored Christian Louboutin stilettos with sapphire heels were a limited edition. Everything about her said she was about her business.

  The women all stared at one another. Then, as if they’d telepathically communicated and come up with a plan, they looked at her and burst into pleasantries such as, “Hey, girl, it’s wonderful to finally meet you!”

  Bridget clapped her hands together. “Vera Bennett, meet your costars: Milan, Jaise, Chaunci, and Al-Taniesha.” She let her introduction linger in the air for a moment, then said, “Now welcome, Vera dear. Welcome to Millionaire Wives Club. The place where money never sleeps, reality is never what it seems, and love—” Bridget draped her arms over Lollipop and Al-Taniesha’s shoulders. “—is a whole ’nother story.”

  Lights …

  Vera

  Vera sat, thick thighs crossed, four-inch python pumps swinging from the tips of her well-manicured feet, as Miles Davis’s horn eased through the surround sound of her Upper East Side rooftop terrace. Behind her, the early morning sun glistened over the Manhattan skyline like an amber diamond as she watched the chef prepare a breakfast of turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and sliced fruit in the outdoor kitchen.

  Vera hoped that the cameraman, Carl, would pan out enough to provide a glimpse of her 5,000-square-foot penthouse, especially since she lived on New York City’s most exclusive street: Fifth Avenue.

  She knew that all eyes would be on her as the newest cast member on Millionaire Wives Club. And she welcomed it. Because two things were for sure: She loved a challenge, and she never ever brought a knife to a gunfight.

  Vera looked into the camera lens and scanned her reflection. Everything was in its place: hair, makeup, cleavage. She cleared her throat, batted her extended lashes, and eased her orange juice–filled flute to her lips, leaving the imprint of a glossy kiss along the rim. “I hope everyone’s doing well. Welcome to my home.”

  “Cut!” Bridget yelled, waving her arms. “Cut!” She shook her head.

  “Why?” Vera grimaced.

  “Vera, my dear,” Bridget said as stoically as she could. “Show the camera who you really are. You’ll be a natural at this, I’m sure. You just have to remember that everyone wants to get to know you and what you’re about. Especially your costars, who by the way have been all over New York digging up dirt and selling you out.”

  “Selling me out?” Vera said, taken aback. “They don’t even know me.”

  “You really think they need to know you?” Bridget squinted. “Wow. Okay.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Vera said, as if she were throwing in the towel.

  Bridget looked concerned as her eyes met Vera’s. “I really like you, Vera.” She hunched her shoulders forward. “And I want to see you succeed on the show. But from where I’m standing, you’ll never make it if you’re underestimating rich, catty women who waste money and have too much time on their hands.”

  “One thing I know is how to handle a bitch.” Vera waved her hand dismissively. “And a bitch is a bitch, no matter her bank balance.”

  “Oh, no, my dear.” Bridget smirked. “I have to stop you there, because now you’re wrong. A rich bitch is a whole other level of bitchery. And since you’re richer than all of them, you need to remember that. These women will dig up dirt on you, pour piss on it, and auction it off to the highest bidder.”

  And money or no money I’ll bust a cap in their asses, Vera thought.

  “Well, Bridget,” Vera said, struggling to hold on to her perfect diction and not let the edginess of her Brooklyn accent slip between her lips. “I’m bigger than that.” She managed to say with perfect enunciation, “And I try my best not to behave that way.”

  “Oh, well, pardon me, Vicki Buchanan. Apparently I’m on the wrong soap opera; I could’ve sworn you were Alexis Carrington. So continue.” She snapped her fingers. “Roll tape, Carl.”

  “Funny, Bridget. And since you yelled ‘Cut,’ I completely forgot what I was saying.”

  “You were getting ready to tell us that you’re married to a world-renowned oncologist. And how he developed an 89.99-proof medication that will kill certain types of cancer without radiation and patented it for the next ten years, and how the zeros in your bank account defy infinity—”

  “That’s not all I was going to say.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Bridget yawned and patted her lips. “You were also going to tell us about your seven-year-old daughter, Skyy, and your snow-white Maltese puppy, Fluffy.”

  This bitch. “And what’s the problem with any of that? I didn’t sign up to show my ass.”

  “Of course you did,” Bridget said. “But I understand you being hesitant and not wanting to address your costars because you’re intimidated by them.”

  “What?” Vera said, taken aback. “Who told you that?”

  “Well.” Bridget tapped the center of her lips with her index finger. “That has to be the case. Otherwise, why wouldn’t you want to address their—how do I say it—?” She snapped her fingers. “Talking greasy about you?”

  “Greasy? They don’t know me well enough to say anything greasy about me.”

  “And while you’re believing that lie, they’re off feeding the tabloids.” Bridget reached for her briefcase and eased out Star, a weekly gossip paper. She took a seat in a director’s chair and leafed through a few pages. “I guess this is no big deal.”

  “What’s no big deal?” Vera asked.

  “Ummm, nothing.” Bridget’s eyes continued to scan the paper. “Abandoned in the trash.”

  “Bridget, what are you reading?”

  “If you insist on knowing—” Bridget pointed to the paper. “—let’s start with this page.”

  “Yeah, let’s.” Vera cocked her neck.

  “Well, on page six, it reads: ‘Jaise Asante, of Millionaire Wives Club, declares that her newest costar, Vera Bennett, is nothing more than a hot-comb-front-porch-hair-braiding-beautician from down the hall.’ ”

  “Oh, no, that bitch didn’t.” Vera sat up at attention.

  “Yeah, she did.” Bridget rattled the page.

  Vera spat, “I
own three very lucrative salons: one in Brooklyn, one in Manhattan, and one in Milburn, New Jersey. What does Jaise have? An online business selling a buncha rusty shit that wouldn’t even make it on Antiques Roadshow!”

  “Pretty much,” Bridget agreed.

  Vera continued, “And I make my own hair products.”

  “Oh, wait.” Bridget’s index finger scrolled the page. “Jaise is quoted here as saying that your hair products are nothing more than a dressed-up can of sulfur 8.”

  “Really?” Vera said, completely taken aback. “This trick likes to chat? Then we need to talk about how her dumb ass is so busy running around wiping up her son’s shit that word has it she better watch her husband before the cleanup woman runs off with him.” Vera snapped her fingers in a z-formation. “Next.”

  “Oh, my.” Bridget pressed her hand into the base of her neck. “I didn’t mean to get you so worked up. I’m sure Jaise meant no harm. She really is a nice woman. Now, Milan, on the other hand, her quote—” Bridget rattled the paper. “—is really below the belt.”

  “Milan? That gold-diggin’ whore-ass bird? And wait, didn’t she kill somebody?”

  “Well,” Bridget smiled. “She didn’t exactly put a gun to dear ole Evan’s head, but I believe that when Evan found out Milan was sleeping with her husband it pushed her out to sea.”

  “Exactly. A murderous, gold-diggin’ whore-ass bird and this bitch had something to say about me? Puhlease.” She waved her hand, her eleven-karat solitaire gleaming.

  Bridget went on to read, “Milan says here that she was contacted by your former boyfriend, Bryce, and that he told her you were a crack baby who still suffered from tremors, and were raised by a loudmouthed barmaid and her country-ass boyfriend of 30-plus years. But never mind any of this.” Bridget closed the paper. “We both know you’re above the drama. So go on, finish welcoming us to your home.” She arched one brow. “Would you like to talk about the square footage now?”

  Vera moved to the edge of her seat and slid her shoes completely onto her feet; as she stood up, she spotted her husband, Taj, from the corner of one eye. Taj stood on the threshold of their French doors, his rich chocolate skin complemented by his freshly twisted dreads, and his white lab coat and scrubs lay perfectly over his athletic frame. His calming presence was the only reason Vera didn’t rise from her chair, grab her Hermés bag, and charge out the door to sling a bitch.

  “Tell me something,” Bridget said, recapturing Vera’s attention. “Before your father hooked up with your then-teenage mother, was he already hooked up with your grandmother? Just asking. Chaunci’s quoted as saying that. Her source was a cousin of yours named Biggie who said you left him in the projects.”

  Vera bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood that only kicked in whenever her level of pisstivity rose above ten.

  Shit was just beginning and already was too much. Taj had warned her that this cast didn’t seem like the type of crew she could swing with for long. Nevertheless, she’d insisted that reality TV was the last piece of rich-bitch candy she needed. She’d promised Taj it would be like filming a summerlong infomercial.

  But her childhood wasn’t what she wanted to advertise.

  It wasn’t that she was ashamed of who she was or where she’d come from. It had more to do with her having already moved past having a drug-addicted mother. Who, by the way, had been sober for the last five years. And so what if her dead father was a pimp. Was that her fault?

  And Bryce, her ex-boyfriend, was it her problem that he felt jilted? Or that her cousin, Biggie, couldn’t understand that she didn’t want junkies around her daughter?

  Who could blame her for that?

  And as far as the barmaid and her country-ass boyfriend, they’d saved her life by picking her up from social services when she was nine and rearing her as if she were their own biological child.

  So if these TV bitches wanted to give interviews to tabloids without even knowing the real deal, then fuck them. They weren’t her friends. She’d had the same three friends since childhood and she didn’t need even one of these bitches.

  Vera looked directly into the camera and said, “Let me tell you something: I don’t know why those li’l cartoon puppies, Bryce and Biggie, are running around telling my business or why these media whores are buying into it, but this just lets me know who I have to handle.

  “So trust that I will be stepping to Millionaire Wives Club, stiletto to stiletto, and welcoming them to the life and times of the new bitch, Vera Bennett.” Vera’s Brooklyn accent had completely taken over. “I don’t tolerate bullshit. Now, if they’re looking to get it crunked, then I’m their woman, because I’ll strut into their personal space and sting them to their faces.”

  “Was any of what they said true?” Bridget shrugged. “Just asking.”

  Vera paused. “I am the epitome of rags to riches.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can rock with the best and the worst of them.” She paused again. “I was born in the trash and raised in the gutters of Brooklyn. And not in a swanky brownstone either, but the piss-filled hallways of hell: Lincoln Projects. A newborn junkie is what I was, courtesy of Rowanda, my mother, a teenage dope fiend. So, yeah.” She nodded. “I was a drug baby. And from the time I was nine, my shero, Cookie Turner, raised me and loved me, and she didn’t give a damn that her brother was a pimp and had me with his bottom bitch’s daughter.

  “Now, I’m all for giving motherfuckers a chance, but I will bring the ruckus and I don’t need anybody injecting me with camera balls to do it! And you can bet your life on that.”

  “Cut!” Bridget yelled. “Cut! Now that’s what I’m talking about.” She shot Vera a high five. “That was beautiful, Vera. Ab-so-lute-ly beautiful.”

  Jaise

  Clusters of multicolored balloons and silly string floated through the foyer of Jaise’s Brooklyn Heights brownstone as she stood in narrow four-inch pencil heels and leaned from one aching foot to the next. She tried desperately to keep a smile on her glistening MAC-covered lips as she held an overflowing tray of Mickey Mouse cupcakes that attracted a rambunctious group of children who waved their hands and chanted, “Gimme cupcakes!”

  “Okay, sweeties, but first let’s get back to the party.” It was Jaise’s attempt to gently shoo the children away, but they didn’t move and she was forced to stand there or risk dropping the treats.

  Her eyes scanned her living room, where she’d brought a Disney ball to life. Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Princess Tiana, and Donald Duck danced about and played with the children, who were all dressed in Disney costumes. There were antique popcorn stands around the room, a cotton candy booth, and an area for face painting. There was also a live band, three clowns, and two magicians. Needless to say no one—not even the staff she’d hired for the party—noticed that there was a ring of excited children around her, forcing her to wonder when all this had become her responsibility.

  Her son was grown.

  Nineteen.

  She was supposed to be done with giving birthday parties, not be the host of her year-old grandson’s shindig. Hell, she wasn’t even supposed to have a grandchild, let alone be his goddamn surrogate daddy. She was only thirty-seven, and her son, Jabril, should have been a college freshman at Morehouse who came home for summers and holidays, and at most they were supposed to argue about his major and graduating on time.

  Not babies.

  Not how he spent little to no time with his son.

  Not how his baby’s mama, Christina, needed to stay off Jaise’s phone crying and complaining about his ass.

  This plight belonged to the low-grade down the street. The irresponsible mother who had kids with different daddies and dumped her children on other people. Children who were abused and expected to be fucked-up.

  Not Jabril.

  Not when she’d prayed endlessly that what she went through with men—his father kicking her ass, cheating men making her cry, disap
pointment causing her to scream, and humiliation causing her to ache and lie in bed for days—didn’t affect him.

  Not when she knew for sure that when the worst things happened to her he was too young to understand. And when he became old enough to understand, she put him in his place by telling him, “I’m the mother and you better mind your business.”

  And especially not when she’d specifically told him, “You do what the fuck I say to do. Not what you want to do!” She meant take his ass to college, graduate, get a damn job paying at least six figures, then get married, and then have babies. He was supposed to become the man she envisioned, because she surely didn’t rear her only child to be a fuckin’ mess.

  But he was.

  He liked hood rats. Not good girls.

  He didn’t make it to college … because he barely graduated from high school.

  He lied.

  He treated his girlfriend like shit.

  He cheated on her. Cussed at her.

  He was a horrible father.

  He was lazy.

  He couldn’t keep a job.

  He didn’t want a job.

  He wanted to be a rapper.

  He couldn’t rap.

  He could sing.

  He hated singing.

  And no matter what she said he always did the opposite. To think she’d once believed in fairy tales and had held her breath until she’d met a six-foot-three, honey-colored, fine-ass Superman, who wanted his own baby and for a brief moment—a split second of insanity—she wanted to give it to him.

  But the longer she stood with her feet aching, her patience wearing thin, and a sudden realization that motherhood was something she’d already fucked up once and had no need to try again, she figured screw Superman and his futuristic baby. She was done.

  “Are you gon’ give the kids cupcakes, or are you gon’ eat ’em?”

  Jaise glared into the eyes of the cameraman, but before she could figure out if the curt, raspy voice belonged to him, Al-Taniesha walked over and stood behind the chanting children. “I know you got an attitude,” she spat at Jaise. “And no, my sister shouldn’t have dropped her five kids at the door and left, but I don’t appreciate you making them beg you for cupcakes.”