DeShaun refilled my glass and handed it to me. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I took another sip.
“And if I am?” He gently took the keys from my hand and set them down on the table. He backed me up against the counter top and began unbuttoning my blouse while gently kissing my neck.
“Hold on a sec. All I had to eat today was a burger for lunch. You have to feed me before you get all this.” I suggestively smoothed the palms of my hands down my pencil skirt. “You want this, you gotta pay for it. Wait, that doesn’t sound right.”
He kissed me again, this time on the lips. “A burger, huh?” Little DeShaun was now stabbing at my thigh. “Since when is Miss Savings Queen spending money going out to lunch?”
“First off,” I said, reaching for the half-empty glass of wine on the counter behind him and taking another sip. “It was only a burger. And second, I didn’t pay for it.”
He stopped kissing. “You walked out on a check? Oh, that’s tacky, even for you Mimi.”
“Who said I walked out? If you must know I went to lunch with a co-worker. He paid for it.”
“He?”
“Yup. Some tall, handsome bank teller who whisked me off my feet and carried me to lunch in his awaiting chariot.” I enjoyed teasing him about other guys as much as he teased me about other women. I think it even turned him on a bit, the same way it turned me on when he told me about the women at the parties he serviced. “He said his name was Prince something or other—Charming, I think.”
“Oh really? I thought the only dudes at the bank were that short stubby guy and the dude with the bad psoriasis who spits when he talks.”
I playfully smacked him on his shoulder. “Stop that. You know Scott has a lisp.”
“Did he spit all over your food when he said, ‘Passth the thsalt, pleath’?”
I laughed. “You are so ignorant. Did you know your momma raised an ig’nant son? And for the record, I didn’t go with Scott.”
“Who then?”
“Jeremy. You remember him, don’t you?”
“You mean the guy you hate?”
“I don’t hate him—not really. He actually turned out to be cool.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“But he doesn’t compare to you in the least, my Snookums.”
“Does he still have that big, pointy peanut head?”
“You mean like yours? Yup, he does.”
“HA! Funny. You seem to like this pointy head poking you.” He grabbed my waist and pulled me to him.
“That reminds me,” I said, in between his kisses. “I got your message at work. Sorry. I couldn’t pick up, but you would not believe who came into the bank today?”
“Who?”
“The President—”
“Obama?”
“No, you goof,” I said. “And would you let me finish? The president of the Maxum Corporation.”
“Who?”
“The makeup company.”
DeShaun shrugged.
“I only wear their lip gloss all the time.”
DeShaun shrugged again. “Hey, if they make you look like that, I’m down.”
I took another sip of wine. “They opened an account with us. Dude walked right in and basically, slapped down like a million bucks onto the counter and asked to open up an account. It was nothing to him. It was like he was ordering a cup of coffee.”
“Did you snatch up a couple hundred-dollar bills ’cuz I sure could use some new kicks.”
“I wish. He was with like ten bodyguards. Must be nice to have cash like that.” I polished off the rest of the wine in my glass and poured another one. “What was your other news?” I asked, drinking up the wine in two gulps. “You said you had two pieces of good news to tell me.”
“Well, it’s not million dollar news,” DeShaun said. “But Stiles is ready to offer me the managerial position.”
“Wow! That is good news. Congratulations!” I tried to muster up a little more enthusiasm but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking about old lady Pritcherd and all those other people who waltzed into my bank with all that money. As I poured another glass of wine, I felt him watching me.
“Am I interrupting your happy hour?”
“What? I took another sip. “I said, ‘Congratulations.’”
“Really? That’s all I get? You sounded more enthusiastic talking about dude who came into the bank with all that cash.”
“What are you talking about? I am happy for you.”
“I want you to be happy for us.”
“I am, baby. I really am. I’m happy for you, I’m happy for me, and I am especially happy for your big peanut head.” I reached up and rubbed his bald head.
He smushed his naked body against me. “Isn’t my big peanut head the reason you married me?”
“Nope.” I kissed his nose. “I married you for your smoking hot body. I also married you for your sexy smile.” I planted another kiss on his lips. “I definitely didn’t marry you for your money.”
He took a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I unbuttoned my blouse and slinked up to him, wrapping my arms around his bare waist. “Oh c’mon, you didn’t marry me for my money either. We’re both broke.”
“That’s different. I’m broke so I don’t have any money and I’m just a waiter. You’re only broke because you refuse to ask for money from your rich-ass parents. You could have it if you wanted it.”
“So? Either way it’s broke,” I said. “How would it look for their grown married daughter, asking for money?”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m not doing a good job taking care of you?”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other. Stop putting words into my mouth. I’m simply saying that I refuse to go back to my parents with my tail tucked between my legs and ask them—the people who didn’t want me to marry you in the first place—for money.”
“Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? Your parents wanted you to marry Mr. Money Dude with a shit load of money. Maybe Mr. President-Money-Bags-the-one-who-apparently-shut-the-whole-bank-down-so-you-couldn’t-talk-to-your-broke-ass-husband-for-two-seconds is single.”
“Knock it off.”
“You could always go back and see if you can get another lunch out of Mr. Peanut Head Teller Dude while you’re at it. See if he can spring for something a little more high-class than a burnt burger.”
“Yeah, maybe I will.” I stormed out of the kitchen.
That should’ve been the end of it. I should’ve stomped out of the house, ran upstairs, did anything other than say what escaped my lips. If I had, we could’ve been having make-up sex within the hour. But, in the heat of the moment, I wasn’t thinking. I turned and stood in the kitchen doorway. Before I controlled it, I spewed out, “I’ll bring you back a doggie bag of our scraps.”
DeShaun had never placed hands on me and I never thought he ever would, but right then and there, I understood that those were some serious “check yourself” words. And while I never condoned violence against a woman for any reason, I had to admit I wouldn’t have been surprised if he would’ve come at me. He didn’t, and I was thankful for that.
DeShaun
“What has gotten into you tonight, D?” M.J., one of the bartenders, and DeShaun’s best friend asked. “You’ve been stomping around here like a bitch who caught her man cheating. And old man Stiles is on your ass too? You’d better act right; you know that old, Italian dude is looking for a reason to fire one of our black asses. I ain’t tryin’ to be the one tonight.”
Tonight, it was a full house at the restaurant and there was much money to be made, but DeShaun was in no mood. Two nights ago, after the argument with Naomi, he couldn’t think about anything else except her throwing his lack of finances in his face. That pissed him off.
DeShaun shoved past M.J. “Man, I don’t have time for this. I don’t care if he does fire me. He’d be doing me a favor by getting rid of me.”
M.J. raised
his brow. “Oh really? How much of a favor will it be when you get your lights shut off and your raggedy car repossessed?”
DeShaun shot him a warning look. “Watch it, man. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m only trying to tell you that firing you won’t affect those rich, white folk.” M.J. nodded toward the outside patio, where guests chatted with one another while sipping champagne. “Look at ’em, so happy with all their money. You’re merely a skid mark in their designer drawers. And look at the missus. Your black ass ain’t even good enough to spit shine her Red Bottoms. You can probably use your bald shiny head to buff her kitchen floors. Hey, if you’re lucky, you might be able to call yourself Bojangles and dance the jig at one her parties. Call her up and see if you can—”
“Do you ever run out of jokes?” DeShaun cut his eyes. If his boy didn’t tone it down tonight, they would probably come to blows by the end of the night. But he didn’t want to lose the business over some stupid fight. Stiles, his manager at the restaurant, was still pissed that the Herjavecs didn’t contact him for their party. He didn’t want to blow this gig, or his job for that matter, if the other party didn’t work out for whatever reason.
M.J. raised his hands in the air. “C’mon, man, you know how I do. I like to bust your chops.”
DeShaun looked into the crowd and singled out Jenn amongst all the partygoers. She was grinding on some dude who was a friend of the Herjavecs. DeShaun only knew the guy as Liam and that he owned several fabric factories overseas. Liam’s hands rubbed up and down Jenn’s thighs. She was getting into it too. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his waist as she threw her head back.
DeShaun spotted Mr. Herjavec at the other end of the grounds, talking to a few of his business colleagues. It was hard to believe that he didn’t catch his wife on the dance floor, moving like the featured dancer at the strip club.
“You will never be in their rich world,” M.J. said. “You could maybe be their personal server or butler, but that’s it. Maybe you should change your name to Jeffrey. What about Benson?”
“Seriously,” DeShaun warned. “Knock that shit off.”
DeShaun was tired of talking about how much money everyone else had and how much money he didn’t have. When he and Naomi had that huge blow out, he was ready to grab a bag and walk out the front door for good. He didn’t remember ever being that angry at his wife. He would never hit her, but after that scraps comment she threw at him, he was closer than ever before. Naomi had apologized as soon as the words left her lips. They had even made love that night, but something was different. He saw it in her eyes as she laid underneath him during their lovemaking. When he ran his fingertips down her thigh, her body tensed up. He wasn’t certain, but he believed she even faked it that night. When he had rolled off her after reaching his climax, Naomi hopped out of the bed, asked if he wanted a glass of water and disappeared down the steps before he even gave an answer.
Granted, sex with his wife wasn’t always fireworks and explosions. Not one married couple he knew could say sex with their spouse was, but he and Naomi, at the very least, always left each other satisfied. That evening he was fulfilled—physically at least, but was she?
DeShaun looked out at the sea of porcelain white faces in the restaurant. He had never noticed before, but those old school folks with money seemed to have paler skin, as if a sun-kissed complexion indicated less prestige and power. On the contrary, the younger affluent crowd—meaning age fifty and younger—seemed to not mind a little tint to their complexions. Mrs. Herjavec was part of the tanned crowd but mostly because of her Armenian heritage, although DeShaun heard her talking about hitting the tanning salon a few times.
This evening, Mr. Herjavec was in rare form during his wife’s party. He made rounds with several different men and women throughout the crowd. Although DeShaun couldn’t hear what they were saying, Mr. Herjavec’s actions suggested business. First, he’d start off by walking up to a couple. He would shake hands with the men and kiss the women on the cheek. Then the small talk started. DeShaun imagined them talking about vacationing at the Hamptons or visiting a local winery, the shit white folks did. Then Mr. Herjavec would start in on business. DeShaun could tell because every time Mr. Herjavec talked business, he used his hands a lot. By the end of the conversation, business cards were exchanged, they’d shake hands once again and off he’d go to another couple. It was like that every single time. That was probably why Mr. Herjavec never noticed his wife drunkenly blowing kisses at DeShaun.
As Mr. Herjavec exchanged business cards with the gentleman, Mrs. Herjavec sauntered up behind her husband and put her arms around his waist. She planted a kiss on his cheek. Without missing a syllable, Mr. Herjavec bent down and placed a gratuitous sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, no doubt for show. He then took hold of her arm and gently pushed her to the side. Mrs. Herjavec smiled politely to the couple and headed off, probably in search of another drink.
“Can a lady get a glass of champagne around here?” Countess Vargas, one of the richest women on the East Coast, was standing dangerously close to DeShaun. She leaned in and whispered, “It gets sooooo hot in here. What does a girl need to do to help cool her off?”
DeShaun handed her a glass of champagne from his tray. “Is this good?”
Countess Vargas reached up and patted down her silver-colored bouffant wig. “This is splendid.”
Countess Vargas had diamonds the size of chandeliers hanging from her earlobes and wore a diamond detailed necklace that was equally as stunning. Her husband, Count Vargas, had died years ago, leaving her more money than she knew what to do with. The latest conquest to her boy toy collection was a young kid named Esteban Molina, who, if you didn’t know, spoke like he only came to the U.S. a week ago. He had actually been in the U.S. for over twelve years. He and DeShaun used to work private parties together a few years back, but that was way before the Countess decided to deal with Esteban on a one-on-one basis. DeShaun had seen Esteban at four or five parties with the Countess, which was a record for her. Most guys didn’t last two or three. Rumor had it Esteban was handpicked by the Countess because of his lack of English-speaking skills, which meant for the Countess, she wouldn’t have to put up with any backtalk. The poor kid had no idea what he was getting into when he hooked up with her. If Esteban thought he was getting an old lady who preferred a quiet game of chess, he was sadly mistaken. The Countess had a libido that would put any twenty-five-year-old to shame.
The Countess took a sip of wine. “Perfect.” She reached around and grabbed DeShaun’s backside. DeShaun jumped, almost knocking over the remaining glasses on his tray. “In fact, you’re perfect.”
“You have to stop doing that,” DeShaun whispered. “Your boyfriend is right over there.” DeShaun felt weird referring to any man as the Countess’s boyfriend, especially one so young.
The Countess looked over. She extended a veiney, ghostly white manicured hand in the air and waved to Esteban, who stood alone at the other end of the room, looking completely uncomfortable amongst the crowd around him. Esteban may have no longer been a waiter, but he definitely wasn’t accepted into this crowd. People with any hint of color rarely were.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “He enjoys watching me with other men.”
Like he had a choice.
DeShaun studied the Countess. She had to have been closing in on eighty and was not very attractive either. On some occasions, she could even be classified as downright revolting with her stale cigar and brandy breath. The Countess was skeletal thin and insisted on wearing the boldest reds in lip and nail color to contrast her pale complexion. Her completely gray hair was always pulled back into a puffed-up bun that made her receding hairline even more prevalent. Even though her husband left the Countess close to one billion dollars, the talk was that she had already blown through a good portion of it before she turned seventy, buying men, jewels and toys like it was going out of fashion.
“If you ever change your mind,
you know where to find me.” The Countess reached down and grabbed DeShaun’s package. The remaining champagne glasses toppled over on the tray, making a loud, clinking noise. Everyone in the party turned.
When Jenn looked over, she saw DeShaun. Immediately, her expression brightened. She waved her arm high in the air to get his attention.
“Looks like her highness is beckoning you,” M.J. said. “She probably wants you to blow on her soup to cool it off. Must be nice to be white.”
“Nah. They’re exactly like us.”
“Are you crazy, man?” M.J. said. “They’d be exactly like us if they had bad credit, had on the lesser side of ten bucks in the bank and were standing here in this penguin getup, running around like Kunta Kinte, with a tray in their hands. When that day happens, then you can say some shit like that.”
DeShaun sighed, tired of listening to his boy’s rantings. He grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray M.J. was holding and headed off in Jenn’s direction. When he reached her, she instantly grabbed him and gave him a small peck on his lips.
“What was that for?” DeShaun asked, surprised. Mr. Herjavec was less than thirty feet away, talking to another couple.
“We’re celebrating the graduation of my son, Berti’s stepson. With his stepdaddy’s money and influence, Kyle has finally managed to eke his way out of college after seven years. What a proud Momma I am,” she said with a slight slur. “That’s much better than his broke deadbeat father could have done.”
“Uh, congratulations,” DeShaun said.
“The party is more for us than for him. Do you know how much yearly tuition is at Harvard?”
DeShaun shook his head.
“Too much. And he even had the nerve to graduate with an art history major. What in the world does he plan to do with that?”
DeShaun shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mrs. Herjavec said, leaning closer. “If he plans to sponge off Mommy and Daddy, he’d better think again. The upkeep on this face and body is expensive. If Kyle wants to mooch, he’d better find himself a sugar momma. Am I right or am I right?”
Champagne Life Page 5